Extreme Justice Page 8

  Jones felt his head getting light. He’d been daydreaming about this chat all day, and now that it was finally here, it was slipping away from him. He couldn’t bear to blow it now. But he knew that as soon as she learned his profile was a portfolio of lies, she’d snap off her modem in a heartbeat.

  FINGERS>No, nothing like that. I just didn’t mention—I don’t work alone.

  PAULA1>You don’t?

  FINGERS>Not exactly. I work with another private investigator. And with a lawyer. Sometimes we work on cases together.

  PAULA1>That makes sense. I suppose they refer investigations to you. And you refer clients to them.

  FINGERS>Yes, that’s it. Exactly.

  PAULA1>But you’re still your own boss. That would be so wonderful! (swooning) Self-employment—that’s my dream. I’m a librarian, and unless I come into a fortune and buy my own library, I’m always going to be working for someone else.

  FINGERS>You’re a librarian!

  PAULA1>Very boring.

  FINGERS>I love librarians. They’re my favorite people.

  PAULA1>Really! :)

  FINGERS>Yes. Always have been. Always will be.

  PAULA1>You must love books, too. I know you’re very well read. That was what first caught my attention.

  FINGERS>But how did you know?

  PAULA1>Because you quoted both Lao-Tzu and Lord Byron when you were chatting with those morons on the Wild Side.

  FINGERS>You noticed?

  PAULA1>Of course I noticed. I noticed everything.

  After that, there was no stopping them. They spent the next hour discussing their favorite books, poets, films. Paula favored Emily Dickinson and, after a brief childhood flirtation with Rod McKuen, W. H. Auden. Jones preferred Walt Whitman and, nowadays, W. S. Merwin. It seemed they had read all the same books, and loved or hated them in precise correspondence. They agreed on everything.

  Around two A.M. Jones decided to take the plunge.

  FINGERS>Paula … I want you to know how much I’ve really really enjoyed talking to you.

  Almost a minute elapsed before her answer appeared. Jones felt the panic rippling up his back, felt the burning sensation under his collar. Had he pushed too hard? Gotten too forward too fast? His fingers trembled as he waited for her response.

  PAULA1>I’ve really enjoyed talking to you too, Fingers.

  He rapid-fired his response.

  FINGERS>My friends call me Jones.

  PAULA1>Oh! (touched and humbled) Thank you for trusting me with your true name. Thank you very much.

  FINGERS>(confession)I was so worried when you didn’t log on at twelve.

  PAULA1>I’m sorry, Jones. I got here as soon as I could. The most amazing thing happened to me tonight. You see, I was at this jazz club on the North Side …

  Chapter 12

  BEN PARKED HIS van across from his boardinghouse and stumbled across the street. It was after one in the morning and he was bushed. It had been an incredibly long night, despite the fact that the musicians had never actually played a note. But the police detained everyone in the club until well after midnight. Only after they had interrogated everyone and had secured all the names and addresses did they finally begin releasing people.

  Ben had done his best to convince his mother to spend the night in Tulsa, but she declined. Places to go; people to meet. At times she could be as stubborn as—well, as he was, he supposed.

  He tiptoed up the front porch steps and opened the screen door. Of course, the thing squeaked as if it hadn’t been lubricated since Prohibition, despite the fact that he had oiled it himself barely a month before. Ever since he had moved into this house, he had been Mrs. Marmelstein’s unofficial financial adviser and handyman—even though he was about the least handy person on God’s green earth. But she needed someone. With her husband gone and the insistent tendrils of senility tightening around her, she needed someone to maintain the property, to pay the bills and, on more than one occasion, to make undocumented contributions to the petty cash box.

  He jammed his key into the lock and crept into his room. It was dark and quiet. Lonely. But what did he expect? It wasn’t as if anyone would be waiting for him. He lived alone.

  Well, not totally alone. Giselle leaped off the sofa and inserted her claws firmly into his shoulder.

  “Gaaah!” He tried to stifle himself, remembering that it was, after all, after one, and most sane people were in bed.

  He took her firmly in his hands and air-lifted her off his shoulder. Well, what’s a little blood between master and cat, he thought. He thought again. Giselle was his master—er, mistress.

  “Why can’t cats sleep at night?” he wondered aloud. Giselle wasn’t around to hear. She had scampered into the kitchen and made agonized mewling noises.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” He followed her into the kitchen. He took a can of Feline’s Fancy off the shelf, pried it open, and scooped the contents into her bowl.

  She attacked her food ravenously. Ben grinned. Joey had been fascinated by the cat; he could watch her for hours. Maybe it was because he, at three feet, was more or less at her level. Some days, his nephew would follow Giselle all over the apartment, playing chase, sticking his hands in her water bowl …

  Ben sighed. He wondered if Giselle missed Joey, too.

  Probably not, actually. He could go only so far with this self-indulgent line of thought. Even in his most desperate hour, it would be hard to pretend that Giselle’s affections ran much deeper than her food dish.

  He walked back into the living room and flopped down on the sofa. And what about his own affections? Where did they run? Or where were they running from?

  One thing was certain. He’d had it with virtually everyone he knew surmising that they knew better than he who he was and what he should be doing—implying that he was wasting his life, that his interest in music was occasioned only by his retreat from the law. He had always loved music, always wanted to pursue a career in it. He had the time and the money now; that was all. It didn’t really have anything to do with … the other.

  The other. What a bust that had been. Just when it appeared he was actually going to have some success, it all blew up in his face. Reality came along and gave him a bracing lesson in the true meaning of success. And the meaning of justice, too. Was it any wonder he didn’t care to practice law anymore?

  And yet …

  His mind drifted back to the early days. Law school, and just after. He had always told himself that his decision to go into law had nothing to do with money, nothing to do with career, nothing to do with choosing the profession his father most despised. He wanted to make a difference. He wanted to help other people.

  To help other people. Well, well, well.

  He certainly had the opportunity tonight, hadn’t he? Earl needed a lawyer—needed a lawyer even worse than he probably realized. But Ben had kept his lips shut tight. Hadn’t spoken a word.

  Well, it wasn’t as if he was morally obligated to practice law for the rest of his life, right? Just because a man has a degree doesn’t mean he has to use it every time some hard-luck story drops into his lap, right? He was entitled to pursue his dreams, too, right?

  Right?

  He pounded a fist into his pillow. There would be no answers tonight. It was too late and he was too tired. All he wanted was rest. All he wanted was to close his eyes and—

  He felt something fuzzy tickling the underside of his nose. His eyes shot open.

  It was Giselle. The feeding finished, she was now burrowing a space for herself inside his arms, pressing her furry face against his cheek.

  He gave her a little squeeze and closed his eyes. Perhaps her affections ran a tiny bit deeper than the food dish, anyway.

  Chapter 13

  Damn it all to hell!

  That wasn’t the way it was supposed to work! He slammed the van door shut, cursing under his breath. He had planned it all so carefully. He had worked everything out, every little detail. Only to have the
whole thing fall apart at the last moment.

  He opened the back of the van and pulled out the rug. Not a disaster, true. But not what he had planned. Circumstances had conspired against him. And he had almost been spotted twice. That was something he couldn’t allow. If anyone had seen him who could identify him—well, that would change the whole fabric of reality as he knew it.

  He scrutinized the rug carefully. Despite the fact that Lily had been dead before she hit the rug, there were bloodstains on it, and he was certain there would be other bits of trace evidence as well. The rug would have to be burned. Fortunately, there was an incinerator in the basement that would be just perfect for that chore.

  He lugged the heavy wool object inside and down the hall toward the basement. He would have to keep his brain busy, try to keep his mind off all the earlier events of the night. If he continued obsessing over it, he would only become angry.

  How the hell was he supposed to know Earl would come back so soon? He was supposed to be outside for half an hour at least. And that idiot piano player had of course sent Earl right backstage.

  He had been forced to act fast. He had intended to plant the corpse in Earl’s office, but there was no time. He had to hide it somewhere quick, and that light fixture was the first half-decent hiding place he saw. He had expected it to be days before anyone made the discovery. How was he to know that that selfsame idiot piano player would knock the damn thing down before the band had played a note?

  After that, the whole scheme began falling down around him. All he could do now was stay out of the way and hope for the best. He didn’t know what would happen, what the police would do. Given how stupid they usually were, they might end up trying to pin it on the piano player!

  Still, there was the matter of the smile. He smiled himself, remembering that one delicious detail. He had at least had the sense to take care of that. As soon as the police ran that through their computers … well, that would change the whole face of the investigation. That would swing things back where he wanted them.

  Yes. It might work out after all. He dragged the rug down the rickety wooden steps to the basement. The rug seemed much heavier now, even heavier than it had been with a body wrapped inside. He supposed he was just tired. It had been a hard day’s night, all right. And there was still work to be done.

  And one more loose end to be attended to. He felt certain the piano player hadn’t looked at him closely enough to even identify his disguise, much less his actual appearance. But that kid in the men’s room was another matter. He had gotten a good look at him—a good look after he had removed the wig and beard. Worse, he’d misplaced a little something that belonged to him, something he had to retrieve, because someone out there just might be smart enough to trace it back to him. And if that happened, all his plans would come tumbling down like a sorry house of cards.

  He opened the heavy metal door, stoked the flames for a few moments, then shoved the rug into the incinerator. The kid might’ve talked to the cops already. But for some reason he didn’t think so. He didn’t look like a kid who’d spent his life on the right side of the law, and people living on the wrong side tended not to be too chatty when the cops came calling.

  If the kid hadn’t talked yet, he had to make sure he never did. And if the kid had talked, he had to make sure he didn’t have a chance to testify.

  No question about it. The kid had to go the way of Lily Campbell. There was simply too much at stake to leave him breathing.

  He grinned. Maybe he should’ve kept the rug after all.

  He stared into the incinerator, watching the bright orange flames lick at the now charred rug. Well, he probably wouldn’t need it—not this time around. No frame-up necessary here. Just a quick simple kill. The kind he did best.

  He continued to stare, mesmerized by the flames. No rug necessary, he thought again. But the smile … that would be a nice touch. Yes … the more he thought about it, the more he liked it. There would definitely be a smile.

  He gently touched the knife still strapped to his waist. After all, the world needed more smiles. Smiles make the world go ’round. Right?

  Two

  Remember When the Music

  Chapter 14

  BEN FILLED YET another Hefty bag full of trash, tied it off, carried it to the back alley, then started back for more. The pile of trash bags spilled out the top of the bin. And they were barely getting started.

  They’d only been at it a few hours, but he was already exhausted. In the aftermath of the previous night’s excitement, not to mention the forced incarceration of more than a hundred patrons, the club was a wreck. The police had taped off the stage area and posted an officer to keep everyone out and off. But the rest of the place was a disaster area.

  The police had ordered Earl to keep the club closed for several days, until they finished their examination of the crime scene. Still, Earl hoped to be ready to reopen as soon as the police would allow it. Diane had enlisted every person remotely associated with the club to help her clean up the joint. Even with all hands working full-time to put the place back in shape, though, Ben knew it would take days.

  He rounded a corner and found two men crouched down near the floor. One of them was Scat; the other he didn’t recognize.

  “Ben!” Scat pushed himself up. “I see you’re hard at work.”

  “Well, there’s a lot to be done.” Ben glanced awkwardly at the other man, the one he didn’t know. Scat took the hint.

  “Ben, I want you to meet someone special.”

  Ben smiled at the stranger and extended his hand. He was a tall man, about Scat’s age and in good shape. His hair was close cropped and was just beginning to show traces of gray.

  “You remember when Earl and I were talking about Professor Hoodoo?”

  Ben nodded. “The greatest jazzman who ever played these parts.”

  “That’s the man. Well, this here is the Professor’s brother. Grady Armstrong.”

  “Really.” Ben shook his hand vigorously. “Are you a musician, too?” Armstrong shrugged. “That’s what everyone asks. No, I’m just a regular guy. Got me a boring, perfectly ordinary job with an oil company. I’m afraid George got all the talent in the family.”

  “What brings you here today?”

  “Well, I heard about poor Lily. I’d met her once—you probably know she and my brother were quite close at one time. I just wanted to pay my respects. I called up Scat and asked him to bring me out here. I had hoped to say a word of comfort to Earl—I know he loved Lily, too. But I guess I missed him. So Scat here drafts me into the cleanup brigade.”

  Scat chuckled, then slapped the man on the back. “The more the merrier, that’s what I always say.”

  Armstrong smiled. “Well, I should be going. But do give Earl my regards. And, Scat—if this anniversary concert ever happens, would you give me a call? I’d—well, I’d kind of like to be here.”

  “It’s a promise,” Scat said. “If the concert does happen, it’ll be a tribute. A tribute to the beautiful Cajun Lily. And of course, your brother.”

  “That’s very kind of you.”

  Scat shook his head. “Wasn’t meant to be kind. It’s just a fact. I carry a little piece of the Professor inside of me, you know. Every time I play, I’m playing for him.”

  Scat escorted Armstrong to the front door, and Ben resumed his cleaning efforts. He moved to the area just below the stage, where he saw Gordo furiously working with a rag and a spray bottle of 409.

  “Tell you what,” Gordo said as Ben approached. “You scrub for a while and I’ll collect the trash.”

  “What, just when I’m getting good at it?”

  “C’mon, man, this spray stuff is toxic. The fumes are gettin’ me high, and it ain’t a good high, either.”

  “All right.” Ben handed Gordo the trash bags. “I’m tired of bending and stooping, anyway. I’m working my way to a premature death.”

  “Death is a sweet maiden,” Gordo replied. He bent over an
d scooped up the remains of some nachos.

  Now that was a bizarre remark, Ben thought. Was that some sort of jazzman motto, he wondered? Or something more.

  Denny came up behind Ben, feinting about with a broom. He was moving lots of dust and debris around, but Ben noticed that relatively little of it ended up in the dustpan. “How’s it coming?” Ben asked.

  “It’s disgusting,” Denny said. “All this dust and dirt and crap. Man, I need a gas mask.”

  Ben tried to appear sympathetic, but it took some doing.

  “Coming to the poker game tomorrow night, Ben?”

  Ben knew that Earl and the rest of the band played poker every Wednesday night, but he’d never joined them. “You’re still going to play?”

  “Yeah. You got a problem with that?”

  “I don’t know.” Ben looked down at the floor. “It just seems … disrespectful, somehow.”

  “We asked Earl, and he said the show must go on.”

  “He did?”

  “Yeah. But he said we should dedicate the game to that Lily babe.”

  “A memorial poker game?”

  “Exactly.” Denny propped the broom against a table. “I need a rest, man. I signed on as a musician, not a chambermaid.”

  Theoretically, Ben thought, since Denny was the youngest of them, he ought to have the most energy. That did not appear to be the case, however.

  “I guess Earl forgot to include ‘cleaning up after murders’ in the job description,” Ben offered.

  “No kidding.” Denny collapsed into a chair, then winced. “My poor little body is sore all over. Sunburn.”

  Ben did a double take. “Sunburn? In April?”

  “And what of it? You know it’s been hot out.”

  “I know it’s been hot, yeah, but I didn’t know it’s been hot enough to give you a sunburn.”

  Denny shrugged. “Depends on what you’ve been wearing.”

  Ben decided not to pursue this undoubtedly interesting line of thought. “Anyone know where Earl is?”