Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 22

HE CRUSHED THE newspaper between his hands. Excellent! And here he’d thought this was going to be hard!

He strolled out on the patio, relishing the fresh morning air. He should have known he could count on the press to reveal every little secret. Even the ones that were likely to get someone killed.

He’d thought he was going to have to do some intense work. He’d expected to spend days trolling the North Side, watching O’Brien Park, cruising Memorial Drive or some of the other hot youth hangouts.

And now none of that was necessary. Now he had everything he needed handed to him on a silver platter.

He unwadded the paper, smoothing out the creases, anxious to read it all again.

NO ARREST IN JAZZLAND SLAYING, the banner headline shouted. He skipped the first few paragraphs, detailing the police department’s “ongoing investigation” and recapping the sensational account of the corpse “plummeting to the stage in front of hundreds of spectators.”

Eyewitness accounts were quoted liberally: “I was on the front row when it happened. The corpse came flying out. Blood splattered everywhere, all over me. I just started screaming, clawing to get away. I totally lost it.”

None of this interested him in the least. What sustained his attention, what brought forth his beaming smile was a small paragraph toward the end: “Police are also investigating the report of one youth in attendance who claims that a workman delivering a rug may have been wearing a disguise. Although the police said they wanted to follow all possible leads, they warned that the witness in question, Tyrone Jackson, 21, a club regular and associate of the owner, had a history of criminal activity and may not be reliable.”

He closed the paper again and hugged it close to his breast. He couldn’t ask for much better than that. Talk about sweet music! This was a Coltrane original, a Gershwin rhapsody, and a B. B. King solo all set out in newsprint.

He fell into the patio chair. This certainly simplified things, didn’t it? All he had to do was keep an eye on the club and wait for the brat to show his ugly black face.

His hands skittered across the glass-topped patio table and began stroking the shiny silver serrated blade. He didn’t like loose ends, but when he had one, he knew what to do about it. He turned to his polished silver, his treasured weapon. The razor-sharp knife he liked to call Mr. Entertainment.

And why Mr. Entertainment, you might ask?

A glow settled over his contented face. Because it could bring smiles to the faces of so many people.