Cruel Justice (2 page)

Sandstrom winced. “Her father’s a doctor?”

“Cardiologist.”

“Rich?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.”

And you’re going to keep her happy on a cop’s salary? For the first time Sandstrom’s heart went out to the poor schmuck. This marriage was even more doomed than he had realized.

“Julia keeps buying all those home pregnancy test kits. She does about three a night, just to be sure. So far, no luck.”

Sandstrom tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry, pal. You’ve still got lots of time.”

Mike shrugged. “I suppose.” He sank down into his seat. “I sure would like to have a kid, though. Our kid.”

The police radio crackled. Sandstrom picked up the handset and exchanged a few words with the dispatcher. To Mike’s inexperienced ears, it all sounded like unintelligible squawks and static.

“We’re on our way.” Sandstrom snapped the handset back into place, then bore down on the accelerator.

“What’s up?” Mike asked.

“Sounds like a one-eighty-seven.”

That meant homicide. “Seriously? Who took out who?”

Sandstrom whipped around a corner, almost taking the car up on two wheels. “No one seems to know yet. On both counts.”

“Where did it happen?”

“Utica Greens Country Club.”

“Really!” Mike’s eyes glistened. “What was the weapon, a polo mallet?”

“You’re close. A golf club.”

“A golf club? How—”

Mike didn’t have a chance to complete his inquiry. Sandstrom soared through the main gates, parked in the front lot beside another patrol car, then jumped out of the car. “Ever seen a murder before, Morelli?”

Mike hedged. “Well, I’ve seen pictures.”

Sandstrom clapped him on the back. “Brace yourself. It isn’t the same.”

They were greeted by another police officer, a man only slightly older than Mike. He pointed toward a small building at the crest of a hill near the first tee of the golf course. “It’s a caddyshack,” Patrolman Tompkins explained. “The victim is still inside. I haven’t moved her. I was the first to arrive. Homicide hasn’t made the scene yet.”

As they mounted the hill Mike saw something move about fifty feet away, on the pillared porch behind the main country-club building. The moonlight glinted, and he had a fleeting impression of blonde hair.

“Look over there,” Mike said, pointing. “See? A woman, I think. Moving away from us. Fast. I think she’s wearing a white dress.”

Tompkins squinted. “I don’t see anyone.”

Sandstrom grinned. “He’s been fantasizing about his gorgeous wife all night. Now he’s having visions.”

“I saw someone,” Mike insisted. He ran into the shadows, trying to find a trace of the figure he had briefly glimpsed. But by the time he arrived, there was no one there. After running all over the general area, he returned to the other officers just outside the caddyshack.

“No gorgeous woman in white?” Sandstrom asked.

“No,” Mike replied. “A phantom of delight.”

“More literary lingo—la-di-da.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Tompkins told Mike. “We’ve already got a suspect.”

Sandstrom and Mike followed Tompkins into the caddyshack. A black teenage boy cowered near the front door. His face was streaked with tears. He seemed terrified.

“That’s the suspect,” Tompkins explained.

Mike’s eyes crisscrossed the room. “Yeah, so where’s the—”

The question caught in his throat. The north corner of the room held all the answers.

Blood was everywhere.

Sandstrom was right. It wasn’t like the pictures. Not in the least.

“Oh, my God,” Mike mouthed. His words seemed to evaporate before they were spoken. He felt his gorge rising. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”

He stood there, transfixed, repeating himself until Sandstrom finally led him away to a bathroom where he could be sick.

“Hey, take it easy,” Sandstrom said gently. ‘Try to forget about it.”

Even as he hunched there over the porcelain throne, Mike knew he would never forget what he had seen in that caddy-shack. No matter how long he lived, no matter how many corpses he saw.

Never.

Gnats swarmed around her head and the thick clotted blood on her neck. Even in death, she stood erect, pinioned against the wall, as if crucified for unimaginable sins.

H
AROLD RUTHERFORD MET HIS
wife, Rachel, at the front door of the elegant main foyer of the Utica Greens Country Club. Sweat dripped from his brow, and a golf club was cocked over his shoulder.

“Where’s Abie?” he asked.

“I sent him in to have his picture taken,” Rachel said. “Isn’t that why we’re here?”

Rutherford pressed his lips together in that subtle and thoroughly annoying way he had of expressing irritation. “I wanted us to have our picture taken together.”

“The group portrait was scheduled for ten. You’re fifteen minutes late,” Rachel said sharply. “And you’re a mess.” She had a few ways of expressing irritation herself.

Rutherford checked his watch. “I was in a board meeting.”

Rachel’s eyes conveyed her disbelief. “You’ve been outside.”

“We decided to take in nine holes while we talked.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re late.”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “Well, I couldn’t just leave.”

“Why not?”

He cast his eyes skyward. “You don’t understand.”

“Hal, Western civilization wouldn’t crumble because you left a country-club board meeting a few minutes early.”

“I have responsibilities. …”

“You have a responsibility to your son! Your family! You talk a good talk; babbling to your buddies about what a devoted father you are, and you insist that we come in for these family portraits, so you can have something showy to hang on your wall, but when it comes right down to it, you put everything else before your family.”

“That isn’t true.”

“It is. Sometimes I think you never wanted—”

He cut her off with a harsh glare. “I can’t believe you would say that. I love my son.”

“Does he know that?”

The question took him aback. “Well … what a stupid question. Of course he does.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Rutherford answered her. “He knows. I’m sure.”

Royce waited patiently for the boy to enter the country-club ballroom. He passed the time by thumbing through the Polaroids he’d snapped so far that morning. No. No. Definitely not. Too old. Too fair. Just not right.

The sound of the heavy wooden door closing reverberated through the cavernous room. Quickly, Royce put the Polaroids back in his satchel and stepped behind his portrait camera.

“You must be Abie,” Royce said, glancing at his master list. “Abie Rutherford.”

“Yeah.” Royce judged the boy to be about nine or ten. He had dark hair, dark features. His locks swooped wildly across his head and dangled down onto his forehead. He was wearing a loose Polo T-shirt and a Drillers baseball cap.

He was lovely.

Royce pressed his hand over his mouth, concealing his smile.

This was the one.

“I thought we were going to have a family portrait,” Royce said as the boy positioned himself on the stool.

“We were s’posed to,” the boy said sullenly. “My dad didn’t show up.”

“That’s a shame.” Royce fidgeted with the camera settings. “Will your father be wanting the economy ten-pic pack, the standard-size twenty-five assorted pack, or the super-deluxe combo sixty-pic pack?”

The boy shrugged. “My dad prob’ly won’t buy any of them.”

Royce huddled down over the lens and focused. “Looks like you’re a Drillers fan.”

“So?”

“Does your dad take you to the ball games?”

Abie’s fake camera smile disappeared. “No.”

“Why not?”

Abie didn’t answer.

“Come on, you can tell me. Who am I going to tell? I’m just a photographer.”

Abie considered. “My dad never takes me anywhere. He says ball games are for ordinary people. Drones, he calls them.” He folded his arms unhappily. “I think he hates me.”

Royce nodded sympathetically. “And your mom?”

“She doesn’t hate me. She’s always arguing with my dad. I hate it when they argue.”

“Poor thing.” Royce walked around the camera, smiled, then pressed his hand against Abie’s cheek. “All right now, tilt your head to the side. A little more. That’s it.”

Royce reached down and adjusted Abie’s clothes, running his hands down the boy’s arms and legs. “There you are. What a perfect child. A photographer’s dream.”

Royce pressed his eye to the viewfinder and started clicking. He took twice as many pictures as normal. He couldn’t be too careful; he wanted to make sure he had a flattering photo for his friend’s scrutiny.

“You really are a delightful subject,” Royce remarked. “Have you ever thought about becoming a professional model?”

“A model?” Abie’s face wrinkled. “What kind of dumb job is that? I’m going to be a baseball player.”

“Of course.” Royce finished the roll of film in the camera, then surreptitiously took a shot with each of his two Polaroids. “There now. That’ll do it.”

The boy hopped off the stool. “Can I go now?”

“Of course you can.” Royce reached out and patted Abie on the head. “Have a nice day, sweet boy.”

As soon as he finished for the day, Royce packed up his equipment and drove directly to his friend’s apartment, a separate room behind a house on the North Side.

“What are you doing here?” his friend asked, anything but friendly. “Haven’t I told you never to come here?”

“I couldn’t wait,” Royce said enthusiastically. “And I knew you wouldn’t want me to, either. I have something you’re going to love.”

“I’ll be surprised. You haven’t come up with anything suitable for weeks.”

“How quickly you forget. I found the kid that—” Royce stopped, immediately realizing his mistake.

“Yes, you were responsible for that, weren’t you?” His friend’s eyes became two small beads buried deeply beneath a heavy brow. “Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”

Royce reached for his satchel. He was so nervous he dropped it while fumbling with the buckle. “Wasn’t my fault,” he mumbled. “I always do the best I can for you. Fat lot I get in return.”

“I got you this gig for the country-club photo directory, didn’t I?”

“Right, right.” Royce pulled out one of the Polaroids. “Take a look at this.”

His friend snatched the photo from Royce’s hands. There was a sudden intake of breath. “You took this picture at the country club?”

“Yes. This morning.”

His friend frowned. That was a bit close to home. “Who is it?”

“You don’t know?”

“You think I have time to keep up with everyone’s kids? What’s his name?”

“On the flip side.”

His friend turned over the photo and reacted first with surprise, then, gradually, with delight. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

Royce was relieved. “Then … he’s the one?”

“Oh, yes,” his friend said breathlessly. “He’s the one. He’s the one I want.”

T
HE INSTANT BEN PUSHED
open his office door, three men with briefcases sprang to their feet.

“Mr. Kincaid!” they shouted in unison.

Bill collectors, Ben thought unhappily. He could spot ’em anywhere. Why did everyone expect Ben to pay his bills on time? None of his clients did. “Sorry, gents, I’m on my way to an important meeting.”

The three men flung invoices in his path, but Ben sidestepped them and rushed to Jones’s desk in the center of the lobby.

“Jones,” he said sotto voce, “please tell me I have an important meeting this morning.”

Jones, Ben’s office assistant, pushed a thick expanding file across his desk. “Even better. You’re due in court. The Johnson case, remember? Continued from last week. Judge Hart awaits.”

“Right, right. Of course I remember,” Ben bluffed. “This is the public inebriation case, right?”

“Close. Solicitation.”

Ben thumbed hurriedly through the file, “Well, that’s what I meant. Where’s Christina?”

“Excuse me, sir. I must insist.” One member of the briefcase brigade tapped Ben on the shoulder. “My name is Scott Scofield, and I represent the Arctic Breath Air Company. I’m concerned—”

“You’re the one who installed the air conditioner.”

“Well, my company did. Certainly I was not personally involved in the installation of your unit.” Scofield adjusted his tie. “At any rate, your payments are woefully behind schedule.”

Ben pointed toward the machine in question. “This pathetic bucket of bolts you sold me hasn’t worked since day one!”

“Perhaps you should consider our extended care package for your unit. Of course, I’m not at liberty to offer it to you while your account is in arrears, but once everything is in order, and assuming you have not made any unauthorized alterations to the unit or attempted to repair it yourself, you could take advantage of our long-term maintenance service. This particular unit …”

Scofield droned on. Ben waited patiently for the man to take a breath. He wasn’t going to permit him to slide by with the standard salesman snappy patter. This was serious business. The temperature in Tulsa was over a hundred, and had been for almost a month. August in Tulsa was never a picnic, but this summer had been a record-breaking sweatfest. As a rule, Ben was not fond of summer, and he liked it even less when the air conditioner in his apartment worked only sporadically and the clunker in his office didn’t work at all.

Ben detected a momentary break in Scofield’s spiel and seized the opportunity. “Look, at the moment I don’t have a penny, and even if I did,
this unit
is a flat-out dud—”

“The debt must be paid, sir.”

“Look around, pal. You’re in a closet of an office on a block full of pawnshops and bars in the worst part of downtown Tulsa. My staff is on half-salary and my assistant is typing on the back of old pleadings because he can’t afford typing paper! Do you think I have money to throw at faulty air conditioners?”

“Your financial status is no concern of mine, I’m sure.”

“Thanks for your compassion.”

“If you do not remedy this deficit immediately, we will be forced to turn your account over to a collection agency—”