Hate Crime (24 page)

I might, Ben thought silently. “Is religion important to you, Johnny?”

“Hell, yes. I sang in the church choir, you know. Even taught a Sunday school class. The Bible specifically speaks out against homosexuality. A hundred years ago, no one would’ve questioned it.”

“Yeah,” Christina said. “And schools were segregated. And women weren’t allowed to vote. And children went to work at the age of eight.” Having been down this road before, Christina knew it was a dead end. “Look, Johnny, we don’t have a lot of time, and we didn’t come here for a socioreligious debate. I just wanted your approval to add another lawyer to the case. And to ask you if you remember seeing anyone else at Remote Control the night you confronted Tony Barovick. Maybe someone who left the bar about the same time you did? Or Tony did?”

“There was another guy. He was hanging around the bar for a long time. I remember because . . . well, we talked about going after him. What he does is almost as disgusting as what Tony Barovick did.”

“What’s his name?”

“Probably not his real name. But everyone at Remote Control called him Charlie the Chicken.”

“Do you know where Mr. Chicken lives?”

“Nah. Why?”

Christina craned her neck. Talking into a phone receiver for so long made it stiffen up. “Just following every possible lead. If there’s anything else . . .”

“Look—” Johnny said, before she hung up the phone. “I know what the score is. I know you two don’t like me. You think I’m an ignorant putz. But I’m telling you—I did not kill that guy. Brett did not kill that guy. He was alive when we left him. I promise you. I
promise
.” His eyes began to well up again. “I’ll pay the price for what I did, but please don’t let them kill me for something I didn’t do. Please.
Please.
”

“I just don’t get it,” Ben said as they emerged from the detention center. “How Ellen could raise a kid like that.”

“She’s only his stepmother,” Christina replied. “Maybe the damage was done before she was involved.”

Just as she had during the flight out of Tulsa, Christina continued to bring Ben up to speed on the case as she led him across the parking lot to their temporary offices in Kevin Mahoney’s suite. “I’ve got angles on all the prosecution witnesses,” she explained, “and I think I can deal with, if not totally defuse, most of them. But what I don’t have is a real defense. An alternate explanation. Kevin didn’t have one, either.”

“Any theories?”

“You know what Mike said. There may be a connection between his murder and ours—and it may have something to do with drugs.”

“That’s not much to go on.”

“Agreed. Without concrete evidence, the jury will just think we’re grasping at straws, trying to complicate an open-and-shut case. I’ve asked Vicki to go over the arrest records for—”

“Excuse me!”

Across the parking lot, Ben saw a young black man waving at them. “Could I speak with you?”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “but I’m really pressed for time and—”

“Don’t mean to interrupt,” the man said, as he caught up to them. “But it’s the lady I want to talk to. Are you Christina McCall?”

She nodded.

“You’re handling the Christensen case?”

“We both are,” she answered.

“I’m Roger Hartnell,” he said. “I—I knew Tony Barovick. Well.”

Christina remembered reading about him in one of Loving’s reports. “Do you know something about what happened to him?”

“No, sorry—I didn’t mean to mislead you. I haven’t come as a friend of Tony’s. I came in my capacity as regional director of ANGER.”

“You’re the creeps who redecorated our elevator lobby.”

“We’re not responsible for that. Our press release merely said that we sympathized with those who did it.”

Ben frowned. “So you’re not here to help us with this case?”

“No, sir. I’m here to ask you to drop it.”

Ben took Christina by the arm. “I’m sorry, but we don’t have time for—”

“Listen to me. What you’re doing is wrong.”

“Sure,” Christina replied. “We should just let the posse string Johnny up.”

“I don’t mean that he should have no representation. Let the court appoint someone, if necessary. But when it comes from attorneys of your stature—it seems like an endorsement.”

“It’s how the legal system works. Now if you’ll excuse me—”

“Please just give me one minute. You don’t understand everything that—”

“I’m sorry,” Ben said, “I think I do understand your position. And I admire you for trying to combat hate and prejudice—up to a point. But we have a job to do—”

Ben was cut off by a sudden crack of thunder—except the skies were clear. It was a gunshot.

“Get down!” he shouted. He grabbed Christina and pushed her behind a low retaining wall.

Another shot followed. Where was it coming from? Ben scanned the horizon, while simultaneously scrambling for cover behind a parked car.

“Get out of the way!” he shouted at Roger, a moment too late. A bullet caught the man in the right leg. He tumbled to the ground.

“Ben,” Christina asked, clinging to the pavement, “have you got your cell phone?”

“Left it in my bag,” he said bitterly. He tried to pull Roger to safety, but another shot fired; the bullet bounced off the sidewalk just inches from Ben’s hand. He gave it another try and this time managed to pull Hartnell behind the car. The three of them huddled there, pinned in place.

“Any idea where the shooter is?” Christina asked, huddling close.

“Somewhere in the parking lot. Not far. Not far enough.” Another shot rang out. Ben raised his head just enough to see movement about four rows of cars away. Their sniper was even closer than he’d imagined.

“Give me your briefcase,” Ben said.

“Why?” She didn’t comply. “Don’t do anything stupid, Ben.”

“Hartnell is bleeding to death.”

“We’re just off a busy street in downtown Chicago. Someone will call for help.”

“Maybe. But help won’t be able to get to him as long as there’s a killer trying to pick off anyone who comes close. Give me the briefcase.”

With profound reluctance, Christina passed him the hard-shelled attaché case. Ben took it to the front of the car, aimed himself toward the next row, and dove.

Just after he appeared in the open space between rows, another shot rang out, but by that time Ben had already scrambled behind another sedan. Still not close enough to do anything.

His heart was pounding so intensely it was hard to think. “Here goes nothing,” Ben muttered, then dove again.

This time the sniper was ready for him. The shot came much sooner. Ben heard the shrill whine, then felt it rip through his suit jacket.

“Damn!” He rolled behind the next row of cars, patting himself down, making sure he was still intact. His right side stung. He pulled up his shirt and saw that he was bleeding. Just a scrape, but that was way too close. If he tried that stunt again, the sniper was bound to get him.

He knew it wasn’t safe to peer over the top of the cars, so he crouched down and looked beneath. Sure enough, one double row away, he spotted a pair of sneakers: blue-striped Nikes.

Mustering all his strength, he threw the briefcase forward, aiming for where he knew the sniper had to be. He heard a grunt, followed by a sudden clatter. A quick check under the cars told him the sniper’s weapon had fallen to the ground.

This was his chance. Ben raced forward, barreling around the cars. He poured on speed, whipped around the line of parked cars . . .

The sniper was gone. The gun lying on the pavement was the only evidence that he had ever been there.

Ben scoured the parking lot, trying to get a lead on him, but found nothing. He collected the gun and returned to Christina.

“I think we’re clear,” he told her. “Let’s get help.” He ran up the steps and through the front doors of the office building—then froze.

The lobby had been trashed. Shattered glass was everywhere. The information counter had been destroyed, hammered to bits. Phones had been ripped out of the walls. Tiles broken. Lights ruined. Elevator doors destroyed.

But what most commanded Ben’s attention was the display in the center of the room, hovering where the information counter used to be. A tableau dangling from the ceiling, two figures hanged in effigy, obviously constructed from department store mannequins, so crude that they didn’t really resemble anyone. But one was branded with Greek fraternity letters.

And the other had a red-dyed mop on its head for hair.

LIVE BY THE SWORD; DIE BY THE SWORD
read the placard dangling from the feet of the figure that was supposed to be Johnny. The one hanging beneath the representation of Christina read:
YOU’RE NEXT
.

The owner of the mail-order revolver purchased under an assumed name watched Ben Kincaid and his friends scurry about from a safe distance. Everything had gone as planned, except that the lawyer turned out to be considerably braver than word on the street suggested. No matter. The point had been made. They’d be looking over their shoulders constantly now, wondering if this was the magic moment when the sniper would reappear and give them the drilling they had barely escaped.

And with good cause. Because the sniper
would
return—sooner than they expected.

30

H
urry!
Charlie thought as the bus driver dawdled in the turn lane.

Did he not understand that this was a matter of life and death? Of course, he didn’t. You’re not thinking rationally, he told himself. But who would expect him to think rationally at a time like this? His stomach was in knots and his hands were trembling. He’d been a basket case since he saw what he saw—who he saw—when he got on the bus.

Think it through, Charlie. Having seen me get on this bus, it would be no trick to find out where it’s going. Follow it, make sure no one gets off. Or head for downtown. Anyone with a car could move faster than this bus. And therefore . . .

He gazed out the window, searching in all directions for the face he most dreaded. There were no more stops before the bus arrived at the downtown terminal. He had considered creating a disturbance, forcing the driver to stop the bus so he could get off. But in the long run, what would that get him? Where would he go? What would he do? He’d been found once. He could be found again. He had to get off the city bus and onto one that would take him far, far away.

It was the Chicken’s last stand. All those days of servicing Chicago’s high-society dames were done. They’d have to find someone else to fill the slot in their leather-bound Filofaxes between getting their hair done and making the society tea. His illustrious career was drawing to a close. Maybe he’d even go back home, go back to being just plain old Charlie.

It was hard to imagine, after all this time. Could he possibly return to his former life? Did he want to? Would his parents accept him? It might sound all sweet and bucolic, but he suspected he would soon miss life in the big city. The glamorous world of palatial mansions and Henredon furniture and . . . and . . .

And the Tarzan suit. Most of all, he would miss the Tarzan suit.

When they arrived at the terminal, Charlie stepped cautiously off the bus. He scanned the parking lot, the station—everything and everyone. He was so close. If he could just get out of town—surely that would bring this horror story to an end.

He went inside the station and got in line for a ticket. He didn’t have that much money, given the paltry share the escort service let him keep, but he had enough to get somewhere. Anywhere.

After purchasing his ticket, he took a seat in one of the clamshell chairs near the ticket booth. These seats must’ve been designed to discourage loitering, because they were as uncomfortable as anything he’d ever experienced. He had almost half an hour before his bus left. If he spent it here, he might incur permanent spinal injury.

He wandered over to the vending machines, bought himself a Coke and a Snickers bar. Comfort foods for the underprivileged, he told himself. And they tasted good going down, too. Maybe it was just the sugar rush, but his mood was definitely improving.

Any minute now, he’d see his bus roll up outside the front door and hear the caller tell them all to get on board. Best to take a quick bathroom break while he had a chance. He detoured into the men’s room, went to the urinal, took care of business, zipped up, turned around.

Surprise.

“Hello there. Long time no see.”

Charlie was so stunned he couldn’t think straight. He stuttered like an idiot. “W—w—what are you doing in here?”

“Looking for you, Charlie.”

He glanced at the door. A broom had been wedged through the handle. No one else could get in. No one could help him. He tried to edge away, but the obstruction in his path wasn’t budging.

“Look, I’m leaving town. I haven’t spoken to anyone and I don’t plan to. Keep the money. You can trust me.”

“My experience with trusting others has not been very good.”

Charlie could feel himself failing. His knees were wobbling so badly he could barely stand. “Just let me get on the bus. I promise I’ll be out of your life forever.”

“So you say. But what happens when you’ve been drinking too much at the local tavern, desperately trying to elevate the sex drive of some rich bitch in her late seventies? Perhaps you talk too much, say something you shouldn’t. What happens if the rich bitch trade dries up and you find yourself short of cash? Would blackmail occur to you?”

“I wouldn’t do that. I wouldn’t.”

“Unfortunately, I can’t take that risk.”

Backed up against the urinal, porcelain jammed into his back, Charlie had nowhere to go. “If you try anything, I’ll scream!”

A second later, the butt of a gun cracked his jaw with such explosive force that he was stunned. His legs disappeared; he crumpled to the floor and lay there, his shattered jaw pressed against the foul-smelling tile. His head felt as if it were on fire; all he could see was white. He couldn’t move his mouth. Or anything else.

A perfectly aimed kick caved in his abdomen, smashing several ribs. Pain rippled through him like a river. Then he felt hot breath beside his cheek. “Just a tip, Charlie. If you’re going to scream, just do it. Don’t give the killer a warning.”