Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 2

JONES PASSED THE FILES and documents and photographs back to the woman in the gray coat. “Look, I’m sympathetic. I know this must’ve been horrible for you. But we can’t help you.”

The woman didn’t budge. “Why not? What happened to us was wrong. Very wrong.”

“I don’t dispute that. But you have to understand—every wrong does not have a legal remedy. There’s only so much the courts can do.”

“What these people did was unconscionable. They should be made accountable.” She paused. “I’ve done a lot of reading about this. We could sue for wrongful death.”

“And you would lose. You’ve got a causation hole big enough to fly a 747 through.”

The woman did not relent. Obviously, this was important to her. “We could get some experts—”

“Do you have any idea how much it costs to hire an expert witness, ma’am? Because I do. As the office manager for this firm, I have to. They’re expensive. You Wouldn’t believe how expensive. And that would just be the tip of the iceberg. A case like this would cost thousands to try. Hundreds of thousands. Do you have that kind of money?”

For the first time, the woman hesitated. “No. But I thought perhaps some sort of contingency fee arrangement—”

“Meaning we would have to pay all the bills up front. Let me tell you something, ma’am, speaking as the man most intimately aware of this firm’s feeble financial status. We can’t afford your case. Perhaps some other firm.”

“I’ve tried other firms. They all say the same thing. They won’t take the case because they don’t think they can make any money off it. The reason I came here is that I heard Mr. Kincaid was a lawyer who actually cared about something other than the thickness of his wallet.”

“I’m sorry,” Jones said insistently. “It’s simply impossible.”

“How can you know that? At least let me talk to him.”

“Mr. Kincaid is very busy. As the office manager, it’s my job to screen potential clients.”

“All I need is ten minutes of his time.”

“I’m sorry, no.” Jones rose, obviously suggesting that she should do the same.

The woman in gray gathered her materials and grudgingly prepared to leave. “Could you at least explain why you’re hustling me out the door like this? Are you so certain Mr. Kincaid wouldn’t be interested?”

Jones shook his head. “I’m certain he would.”

Jones almost had the woman out of the office when Fate intervened to spoil his plan. Ben Kincaid walked through the front door.

Ben glanced at the woman he didn’t know, then over to Jones. “Well, we’re back.”

Christina came in a few steps behind him. “And back triumphant, I might add.”

Jones beamed. “You won? Excellent.”

“We were fortunate,” Ben said. “Had a good day. The client was very happy.”

“So happy he paid you on the spot?”

Ben tilted his head to one side. “Well … no. Actually, there’s a bit of a problem with that.”

Jones slapped his hand against his forehead. “Dear God,” he murmured, “don’t let this mean what I think it means.”

“Seems our friend Mr. Coe has had a turn of bad business luck.…”

Jones pinched the bridge of his nose. “I knew it. I just knew it.”

“His profits are way down,” Christina explained. “His store hasn’t recovered from the loss of those Pez dispensers.”

“Let me guess,” Jones said. “He can’t pay you.”

“Not in cash,” Ben said. “But he did give me a lovely near-mint-condition copy of Aquaman #18.”

“Why would we want that?”

“Are you kidding? That’s the one where Aquaman marries Mera the merwoman.”

Jones shook his head. “I can’t take it. I just can’t take it anymore.”

The woman in gray stepped forward. She had large doe eyes, vivid blue and unblinking. “Are you Ben Kincaid?”

Ben extended his hand. “Guilty as charged.”

“I’m Cecily Elkins. I’d like to talk to you about a possible lawsuit.”

“Would you be the plaintiff?”

“One of them. I believe it would be a class action suit.”

“Really?” Ben raised his eyebrows. “Cool. Did you talk to my office manager?”

A tiny frown spoiled her face. “Yes. He assured me you wouldn’t want to talk to me.”

“Nonsense. Of course I want to talk to you.”

Jones tried to step between them. “Boss—if I may—I think this is a mistake—”

“Don’t be such a wet blanket, Jones. We’re just going to chat. Why don’t you put on some coffee?”

Jones drew himself up indignantly. “I do not do coffee. I’m the office manager.”

“Fine. Then go manage something.” He pointed toward his private office at the end of the hallway. “Ms. Elkins, would you join me?”

Ben escorted the woman down the hall. Christina started after them, but Jones grabbed her arm. “I want it recorded for posterity that I tried to prevent her from talking to him. That I was against this from the get-go.”

Christina shrugged off his hand. “Jones, why are you getting so worked up? It’s just another case.”

“Yeah, just another case,” he echoed grimly. “But it could well be our last.”

Half an hour later, Ben had scanned all the papers the woman had brought with her, and worse, had seen all the photographs. He’d heard the woman’s story, at least in miniature. It had been one of the most emotionally wrenching half-hours of his life.

“I’m beginning to understand why my office manager didn’t want me to talk to you.”

“I understand the difficulties,” Cecily said. “But I think it’s important. We can’t let something like this happen.”

“I agree,” Ben said, “but you have to realize that the odds against us are staggering.”

“I’m not going to back off just because it won’t be easy.”

“There are other concerns as well. Important ones. I’ve spent most of my career working in the criminal courts. Sure, I’ve done some civil work along the way, but with a case of this magnitude … you might be better off with a different firm. A bigger firm.”

“I’ve been to all the big firms,” she explained. “In Tulsa and in Oklahoma City. They all said no, because—”

“I know why they said no.” Ben gingerly laid the photos down on his desk

“If you’ll agree to take us on, I’ll help in any way I can. I’ll do anything you want.”

“I know.”

“So?” She leaned forward eagerly. “Will you do it?”

Ben drew in a deep breath, then slowly released it. It seemed like an eternity before he answered, both to Cecily and to Ben himself. “I want to meet the other parents.”

He had waited long enough. The lights in the house had been out for more than an hour now. There had been no sounds, no movement, not the slightest indication that anyone was awake. True, it might be safer to wait another hour or so; it was only eleven o"clock. But he was ready now, and when he was ready, he was ready. It was difficult to explain. It was a tingling at the base of his spine, an itching at the back of his eyeballs. A sixth sense, if you will. It was like that passage in the Bible, in Ecclesiastes: There was a time for everything.

This was the time to kill.

Quietly, using maximum stealth, he crept out of the alleyway between houses toward the front door of a large two-story Tudor-style home. He kept to the shadows; only his piercing green eyes shone in the darkness. He tiptoed up the steps to the front door.

Which was locked. As he had known it would be. He had learned some time ago that the key to success in this world was advance research. He had planned this outing well, well enough to know that the door would be locked. He also knew how to get around that.

From an inside coat pocket he withdrew a palm-size glass cutter. He attached the suction cup to the window panel on the left side of the door, close to the lock. He extended the string to its full length, then carefully drew a circle with the diamond stylus. He repeated the motion, again and again, cutting a smooth, round section of glass. When that was finished, he grasped the handle on the suction cup and removed the circular section of glass.

Voilà! Smooth as a baby’s bottom.

He reached through the new opening in the glass and slid out the chain lock. He gave the doorknob a little twist, popping open the lock.

There was still the matter of the dead bolt. Reaching inside his coat once more, he removed a stainless steel lock pick. He had acquired this baby during his last trip to D.C. He loved it. It resembled a Swiss army knife, except the various blades were all picks designed for a variety of different locks. He chose the two most appropriate for this door and started to work.

Two minutes later, he was inside. The lights were out, but moonlight streamed through the bay windows, making it easy to find his way around. He located the staircase almost immediately. As he knew, all the bedrooms were upstairs.

There were three people in the house, not counting himself: Harvey, Harvey’s wife, and their fifteen-year-old son, the junior high track star. At the top of the stairs, he quietly crossed over to the first bedroom, carefully creeping, to use Sandburg’s phrase, on tiny cat feet. He soundlessly pushed open the door.

The boy was asleep in bed, on top of the covers, wearing nothing but a ratty pair of gym shorts. He had no grudge against this boy, and there was nothing the boy could tell him. Unfortunately, the kid was young and strong, and if he awoke during the subsequent proceedings, there was a tremendous possibility that he could create problems. It was an unacceptable risk.

The man reached into his overcoat pocket and this time withdrew a Sig Sauer .357. He walked to the edge of the bed, aimed it at the boy’s head, and fired.

Bang-bang, he thought, adding the sounds his silencer-equipped gun did not. You’re dead.

The boy twitched spasmodically as the bullet hit his skull, like a laboratory frog touched by an electrode. After that, he settled down, never to move again.

The man stood for a moment, admiring his handiwork. There was very little blood, since the boy had died immediately. The only suggestion of how he had met his demise came from the almost perfectly round red circle in the center of his forehead. It was a rather attractive addition, in its own way. Ornamental. Like something that might be required by an Eastern religion or something.

But enough ruminating. He had more work to do. He turned and moved rapidly out of the boy’s bedroom.

Too rapidly, as it happened. His right leg caught on a metal trash can, knocking it over. It clattered down on the hardwood floor. Not a huge noise, but in this absolutely tranquil house, it seemed deafening.

He heard a rustling sound at the other end of the hallway, in the other bedroom. Someone was awake, which was unfortunate.

He raced down the hallway, caution to the wind. It didn’t matter whether they heard him now; they knew he was coming. He flung open the bedroom door, his gun raised and poised, ready to go.

There was a woman sitting in the bed, slightly upright, her head resting against several large pillows. She had dark hair and a hard set to her jaw. Her eyes were open.

The man knew that she was Harvey’s wife. He also knew that she was an invalid, that she could only move slowly, and barely that. She wasn’t going anywhere.

He approached the bed, keeping his gun pointed at her brain. He didn’t stop until he stood directly in front of her at the foot of the bed.

“Where’s Harvey?” he said, gun still at the ready.

The woman stared back at him with cold eyes. “He’s out of town.”

He could still see the slight depression on the other side of the bed. A hand to the sheets told him they were still warm. “Tell me where he is.”

“Cincinnati,” she replied. “He’s staying at a hotel. I can’t think of the name. Saint Something or other.”

He shot her in the kneecap. After the initial shock subsided and her cries of pain diminished enough that he could be heard, he aimed his gun at her other kneecap and asked her again. “Where’s Harvey?”

Needless to say, she told him.