Blind Justice

42

“HAVE I TOLD YOU recently how sick I am of this case?” Mike asked.

“Aw, what a whiner,” Ben replied. He glanced at Mike’s desk. “At least you’re not reading Shakespeare any more. Tell me what you’ve discovered about the suicide note since the trial.”

“No surprises. Our experts are convinced it’s genuine. The handwriting matches, plus the note makes reference to financial matters Margot couldn’t have known about. Probably no one could have, other than Lombardi. And we’ve checked with Quinn Reynolds. It’s all accurate. Bottom line—it must have happened just as Margot said it did.”

“Amazing. How could anyone have guessed?”

“I don’t know,” Mike said. “How did you guess?”

“I didn’t. Not really. Jones was the one who had the revelation. Despite my telling him not to on repeated occasions, he snuck out to the scene of the crime, as he likes to say, and visited with Spud while he was on duty. Jones picked up on it pretty quickly—the drinking, the nearsightedness. Maybe it was the stress of the trial, but for whatever reason, Spud was hitting the bottle heavily and couldn’t see well at all.”

“And that led you to Margot.”

“Very good, shamus. You’ve been back to crime school.” Ben stretched out in his chair. “I realized then we were looking for someone Spud mistook for one of the three suspects—but which one? Reynolds and Langdell both admitted they went to Lombardi’s apartment; only DeCarlo denied it. That suggested that the person in question had passed him—or herself off as DeCarlo. I saw Margot on my way back into the courtroom and I began to remember—the dark sunglasses, the discrepancy over her hair color. That’s when I figured it out.”

“You had a lot of guts, Ben, calling her to the stand on a wild hunch like that. And no hard evidence.”

“Yeah. But, of course, it wasn’t as if I had a lot of other alternatives. I was very lucky.”

“Chance favors the prepared mind.”

“Is that Shakespeare?”

“No. But it should be.”

“Have you got everything you need?” Mike asked.

“I think so.” Ben scanned the papers spread across the table in Mike’s office. “Requisition forms, invoices, declassified FBI reports, the works.”

“Let’s just hope everything goes according to plan.”

“It will,” Ben said. I hope, he thought silently.

At that moment, Abshire bounced into the office, his thumb tucked behind his suspenders. “What the hell is this?” He bent over the table and ran his fingers through Ben’s papers. “These are confidential FBI documents. How did you get this stuff?”

“Through the Freedom of Information Act, mostly,” Ben said, not looking him in the eye.

“Like hell,” Abshire replied. “FIA requests take a month, minimum, even assuming you know what to ask for.” He whirled around. “Cards-on-the-table time, boys. You did this, didn’t you, Morelli?”

“As a matter of fact,” Mike said, “I did.”

Abshire approached him, gritting his teeth. “When are you going to figure out which side you’re on, Morelli? I specifically said I wanted no cooperation—”

“The case is over, Abshire. You lost. Give it up.”

Abshire’s fists balled up. “Goddamn it, this benevolent attitude of yours is probably the reason we lost the case. May I remind you that a second murder remains unsolved?”

Mike glanced at Ben out of the corner of his eye. “It won’t be unsolved for long.”

“Oh, is that right? I guess you and your old college buddy have got that one all worked out too, huh? Goddamn it, when are you going to get it through your thick fucking head that I’m in charge of this investigation!”

“You were in charge of the murder case,” Mike said. “It’s over.”

“It’s over when I say it’s over! Goddamn it, I hate it when you local peons start telling federal officers how the game is played. I make the rules, and I’ll tell you—”

Without saying a word, Mike stepped forward, grabbed Abshire’s tie and tightened the Windsor knot until Abshire started to choke. “Let me tell you what the rules are, Mr. Federal Officer. I toed the line when there was a pending investigation and prosecution, because I took an oath to defend, obey, and serve the federal government, even when it’s represented by pricks like you. But the trial is over now, and the feds are packing their bags and praise God getting the hell out of Tulsa.”

Abshire started to speak, but Mike tightened the knot until the agent’s tongue came sputtering out of his mouth. “Now, my friend, Mr. Kincaid, may be an attorney, but regardless of who his client is, he tries very hard to learn the truth and do the right thing, two motivations which you could never be accused of having. Mr. Kincaid needed a few FBI documents to complete his investigation, so I got them for him. And frankly, if you don’t like it, we’ll see how well trained you federal assholes really are.”

Mike loosened his grip just enough that Abshire could speak, barely. “What are you saying?” Abshire whispered hoarsely.

Mike smiled. “Cards-on-the-table time? I’m saying that if I find out you so much as lodged a complaint against me, I’m gonna flatten your miserable little face. Got it?”

Abshire nodded his head.

“Good.” Mike dragged him to the door, still gripping his tie. “Be seeing you.” He shoved Abshire out the office door and closed it after him.

Ben wagged his head back and forth. “You shouldn’t have done that, Mike.”

“I know,” Mike said. He grinned from ear to ear. “But, damn, it felt good.”

Mike glanced at his watch. “He’s late.” He pounded his fists together.

“Keep your machismo in check, pal. He’ll be here.”

“Then where is he?”

“Maybe he thought we were meeting at the federal building. You know how easily these guys are confused.”

“Possible. I’ll go next door and take a look around.”

With Mike’s absence, the office seemed quiet, almost dead. It was way after hours. Everyone else had gone home; the night shift worked out of a different building. Ben looked over his notes, preparing what he would say. He had to get this right. If he made stupid mistakes, he wouldn’t accomplish anything.

After two or three minutes passed, Ben heard someone walking down the outside hallway. “So did you find—” He looked up, startled. It wasn’t Mike.

“All right,” Stanford said. “I’m here. What did Morelli want, anyway?”

“Well…actually, I was the one who wanted to talk to you.”

Stanford peered through his half glasses. “What about?”

“I…think we should wait until Mike gets back.”

“Why? Surely you can say whatever you have to say without hiding behind him.”

Ben felt the burn creeping up his neck. “We can start now if you like.”

“Very good,” Stanford said. “Shoot.”

“Number one. Someone tapped my phone.”

“Indeed? Who would want to do such a thing?”

“You,” Ben said simply.

“Is that a fact?” Stanford’s eyebrows rose slightly. “What makes you think so?”

“A friend of mine named Loving. He’s the one who detected the tap in the first place. He later found the blue box on a transmission pole down the block from my office.”

“Oh, well,” Stanford chuckled. “That proves I did it.”

Ben slid a piece of paper across the table. “This is a copy of your application for a warrant to tap my phone. I gather you tried every judge in the Northern District, and they all said no. You didn’t have probable cause, and even if you did, it would’ve been a clear violation of attorney-client privilege to allow you to tap the opposing attorney’s phone while a criminal proceeding was in progress.”

“So I got turned down. So what?”

“So you did it anyway. Without authorization.”

“Suppose I did. Just speaking hypothetically. What do you care? You got your client off the hook.”

“I think the phone tap was just one renegade act in a longstanding renegade operation, orchestrated by you. At first I suspected Abshire, but then I remembered what Mike told me—that Abshire wasn’t authorized to go to the bathroom without your okay. You used Abshire, your hotheaded underling, to create a smokescreen, a camouflage. The person really pulling the strings was always you.”

“Mr. Kincaid, where do you get these farfetched ideas?”

“I’ve done some checking, using the Freedom of Information Act and some FBI records Mike managed to obtain. You haven’t had authorization for half the things you’ve done since this operation began.”

Ben slid more documents across the table. “You started this investigation almost three years ago, on your own initiative, based upon evidence, flimsy at best, that Tulsa was the drop site for a major drug-smuggling operation. After two years and the expenditure of tons of FBI money, your investigation was getting nowhere. Just when it looked as if the money would dry up and your operation would be shut down by your superiors, some new evidence providentially appeared linking Lombardi and DeCarlo to the Cali drug cartel. Evidence that you obtained from an unnamed informant who was never verified, I might add.

“Even then, the paperwork indicates the FBI denied authorization for some special operation you wanted to mount. I’m reading between the lines a bit here, but it appears you wanted to supply arms and ammunition to certain people in a certain South American country in exchange for information about drug smuggling. The FBI said no, so you borrowed some pals from the Department of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms and hired a few soldier-of-fortune types to staff your operation.”

“That’s an awful lot of reading between the lines,” Stanford said, smiling pleasantly.

“Feel free to stop me anytime I go wrong.” Ben continued. “During the following year, your little cadre stirred up a lot of dust but precious little hard evidence. Nothing like the bombshell you needed to promote yourself from a mid-level paper-pushing post to a position of senior authority. To your credit, you did eventually turn up a drug-running operation, though rather a small one, which you still haven’t managed to link to Lombardi or DeCarlo. And of course, you didn’t find that operation through any investigation of your own. You found it by tapping my phone and having someone follow me around. Christina and I led you to the drop site in the Creek forest; you nabbed the bad guys and took all the credit. And shot a little boy in the process.” He glanced at Stanford. “How am I doing?”

Stanford leaned back, his arms folded across his chest. “Go on.”

“Of course, you totally blew it the night Lombardi died—you missed the delivery. You raced to Lombardi’s apartment, warrant in hand, hoping to find some drugs. They were never delivered. I don’t know why—maybe the supplier got wind that the FBI was in town, or maybe Lombardi died before he completed some essential prerequisite. You saved your butt by arresting Christina for murder. The evidence was slim, but you worked double-time making it stick, all to lend some validity to your precious investigation. You even resorted to breaking into her apartment. You, or your accomplice, must’ve been there before DeCarlo’s blond goon showed up. But he was looking for information, and Christina and I arrived before he had a chance to find anything. You were there to hide a packet of cocaine where you knew she wouldn’t find it, but the police would.”

Stanford’s eyes became dark. “You can’t prove any of this.”

“You might be surprised.”

“And suppose it’s true. What’s the charge going to be? Overzealous performance of my job? They’ll probably give me a good-conduct medal.”

“There’s more. There was a reason Lombardi was so scared, so convinced the FBI was closing in on him. Someone was blackmailing him.”

“And I suppose you’re going to blame that on me, too?”

Ben pushed another document across the table. “We subpoenaed the MUD phone records for Lombardi’s apartment. It appears someone from your office called him twice the night he died. Shortly after the last phone call, he killed himself.”

Stanford’s upper lip curled. “That doesn’t prove anything,” he snapped.

“It doesn’t have to. Lombardi explains it all in his suicide note. During the first phone call the blackmailer told him the FBI had all the evidence they needed, and that he’d be locked away in prison till he was an old man if he didn’t come across with half a million bucks. Problem was, Lombardi didn’t have that much money; in fact, he didn’t have a tenth that much money, and he was heavily in debt to DeCarlo. Too many generous contributions from the boss at usurious interest rates.

“During the second phone call, the blackmailer pushed even harder; he said if Lombardi couldn’t pay, he’d have to provide him with information, which of course was what the blackmailer really wanted all along. He demanded evidence linking DeCarlo to the drug cartel, not realizing Lombardi was even more afraid of DeCarlo than he was of prison. No wonder Lombardi seemed tense the last day of the Simmons trial—his entire world was crumbling all around him. He was trapped, poor schmuck. He had a choice between his two worst fears, prison or DeCarlo, and he saw no escape. So he killed himself.”

“I don’t have to listen to this work of fiction,” Stanford said.

“It wasn’t a coincidence that the blackmailer called that night. He wanted to get to Lombardi before he was taken into custody, before he was surrounded by lawyers and judges or eliminated by a DeCarlo hit man. It was the blackmailer’s last chance to extort information.”

“I ‘m leaving.” Stanford pushed himself out of his chair.

“I think you’d better stay,” Ben said. “You see, Lombardi killed himself, but before he did, he told someone he was being blackmailed. His associate—Lennie.”

“So?”

“After Lennie read about Lombardi’s death in the newspapers, he realized he had some hot information on his hands. He didn’t know who the blackmailer was, but he knew his identity could be traced through the phone records for Lombardi’s apartment. So he used his information in the natural way—for Lennie. He tried to sell it. Unfortunately, he tried to sell it to the FBI, which unbeknownst to him was the home of the blackmailer himself.”

Stanford’s eyes narrowed. He eased himself back into his chair, not saying a word.

“When you found out Lennie was offering information about Lombardi’s death, you knew you had to shut him up but quick. Problem was, you didn’t know where he was.” Ben’s voice softened. “But you eventually found him. By listening in on my phone conversation with him. And then you went to his motel room and killed him. Of course, you shot him four times in the head, just to confuse things and to cast additional suspicion on Christina.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re accusing me of?” Stanford said. “Do you have any idea what this…crap could do to my career? And you haven’t even got any proof!”

“Wrong,” Ben said. “Lombardi identified you in his suicide note. By name.”

It started before Ben knew what was happening. Stanford threw himself across the table. He hit Ben mid-chest, tipping him backward. His chair crashed down on the floor, dropping Ben and Stanford with a thud.

Ben felt the impact of Stanford’s elbows jabbing into his ribs. He tried to pull away, but Stanford was squarely on top of him. Stanford raised his fist and brought it down hard. It caught Ben on the side of his face, jarring his teeth together, making him bite his tongue. A sickening queasiness spread through his body.

Stanford raised his fist again. Before he connected, Ben shoved him backward as hard as he could. Stanford teetered, just enough to allow Ben to squirm out from under him. Ben rolled under the table and scrambled out the other side. Stanford leaped over the table and positioned himself between Ben and the door, blocking his exit.

“Help!” Ben shouted. “Somebody get in here!”

Stanford smiled malevolently. “That’s the down side of working after hours. You’re on your own, Kincaid.”

Ben grabbed a chair and held it between them like a lion tamer.

“That’s pathetic,” Stanford said. He jabbed his thumb against his chest. “I’m FBI, man. I’m a trained killer. Do you really think you’re going to stop me with a chair?”

He knocked the chair away with a single swipe of his arm. Ben’s wrists twisted painfully; he had to drop it. As soon as the chair fell, Stanford tackled him, knocking him to the floor. In the space of a second, Ben tried to remember something Christina had told him once: use your hands to break the fall, roll on your arms, don’t hurt your back. He tried to cushion his fall, but after he landed, Stanford fell on of him, crushing the breath from his lungs. He felt sick, disoriented; his vision was obscured by flashing white lights.

For a moment, the pressure eased. Ben gasped, trying to catch his breath. Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his side. He opened his eyes, tried to focus. Stanford was standing over him, kicking him in the ribs.

“Take this, you sorry bleeding-heart sack of shit. Christ, even Lennie put up more of a fight.” He pulled his boot back and kicked Ben again, this time even harder.

Ben cried out in pain. He felt something inside his chest snap. His ribs felt as if they were on fire.

He clutched his side, but it didn’t help. He was breathing rapidly; he couldn’t catch his breath. He could taste blood trickling into his mouth. Another moment passed, then he felt the boot slam into his ribs again, in the same soft spot as before.

Ben screamed in agony. The pain was excruciating, blinding. He tried to move, to think, to do something—but he couldn’t. He was absolutely helpless. Tears flooded his eyes. He saw a blurred image of Stanford, pulling his foot back for another killing blow.

Then he heard a blessed sound outside the door. “What the hell?”

It was Mike. Ben had a vague impression of Mike running down the hallway and throwing himself against Stanford. They began to struggle.

Ben clenched his teeth and tried to push himself up. He pressed against Mike’s desk, pulling himself up the side by inches.

Stanford and Mike rolled on the floor, exchanging blows. Ben saw several sharp punches fall into Mike’s stomach, then several more into Mike’s jaw. Mike pushed Stanford back, and they both went careening into the wooden coat rack. The rack tumbled over, spilling Mike’s suit jacket, his overcoat…and his gun holster, gun intact.

Stanford and Mike both saw it at the same time. Mike reached out, but Stanford jabbed him in the solar plexus. Mike winced, retracted involuntarily. Stanford got the gun.

Stanford pulled himself onto his knees, pointing the gun at Mike’s heart. “Thought you could take me, huh?” Stanford said, breathing heavily. “Thought you were going to nail me to your self-righteous cross. Well, think again.” He stretched out his arm and aimed. Mike closed his eyes.

Ben grabbed the book on Mike’s desk and slammed it against the side of Stanford’s head. Before Stanford could regain his balance, Ben hit him again, this time in his face. Mike sprang forward and grabbed Stanford’s wrist, pounding it against the desk, loosening his grip on the gun. Mike kicked the gun away, then brought his fist directly into Stanford’s face. Stanford fell backward onto the carpet, unconscious.

Mike slowly pulled himself to his feet. A steady flow of blood trickled from the side of his mouth. “What the hell did you hit him with?”

Ben looked. “The Complete Works of William Shakespeare,” he said, gasping.

“Another triumph for the Bard,” Mike announced jubilantly.

It was the last sound Ben heard before he passed out.