“Well, I’d prob’ly rather win than lose, if that’s what you mean. I don’t much cotton to losin’.”
“Especially to a woman, right?”
Hemingway’s eyes darted away. “I don’t know what in the Sam Hill that’s got to do with anything.”
Ben took a few steps toward the witness. “Mr. Hemingway, you put that freshwater tank in Fannie’s truck, didn’t you?”
His voice swelled. “I sure as—” He glanced at the judge, then checked himself. “I mean, I certainly did not.”
“You’re under oath.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“And you’re stating under oath that you did not put that tank in Fannie’s truck?”
“You got it, shyster. Hell, I’ve never had one of those tanks in my life. Never even seen one till I found Exhibit A in her truck.”
“And you wouldn’t want to damage Fannie’s reputation as a fisherwoman?”
“Couldn’t care less about that.”
“Hmm.” Ben took a step back. “Mr. Hemingway, when was the last time you actually won a fishing tournament?”
“It’s been …” His eyes floated to the tops of their sockets. “Well, it’s been a while.”
“A while … meaning years?”
“Yes.”
“How many years?”
“I don’t rightly recall.”
“You must have some idea.”
“Five years, eight months, and thirteen days, okay?” He was leaning slightly forward now, balancing on his fingertips.
“What tournament was that? That you won, I mean. Five years ago.”
“That was the Beaver Invitational, for your information. Damn tough tournament, too.”
“I see.” The neurons were firing in Ben’s brain, but he hadn’t yet pieced everything together. Beaver. Beaver. That place rang a bell, and not just because it was the cow-chip-throwing capital of the world. There was something he had read in the witness files …
He glanced to the back of the courtroom and saw a red ponytail bouncing above the pews. Christina was already digging in the files, way ahead of him.
A few moments later, she returned with a newspaper article they had obtained during discovery from the prosecution. The accompanying photo showed Hemingway holding an impressive bass. The sun was setting in the background, casting a rosy hue over the lake.
Ben handed the article to Hemingway. “Is this the tournament?”
Hemingway glanced at the picture. A smile of recollected pride crossed his lips. “Yes. I won that tournament. That was before she hit the circuit.”
“Nice-looking fish you caught there.”
“Aw, she was a beauty.”
“Nice gloss. Good color.”
“Yeah.”
“Thing is … don’t fish start to get kind of … well, groady, after they’ve been out in the sun for a while?” Ben was hardly an expert, but once Christina had dragged him out on a fishing expedition in Arkansas.
“Well,” Hemingway answered, “the coat tends to dry up. Scales flake off. They rot, like anything else.”
“But, Mr. Hemingway, that fish looks beautiful. You said so yourself.”
“The picture was prob’ly taken just after I caught him.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Musta been.”
“No.” Ben pointed to a line in the article. “Paper says you caught him at twelve-forty P.M.”
“Well then, this was prob’ly right after that.”
Ben pointed to the photograph. “Look in the background. The sun is setting.”
“Well … yesss.”
“This was during the summertime in Oklahoma. Sun sets, what? About eight-thirty? Nine?”
“Yesss …”
“So this photo was taken seven or eight hours after you caught the fish. But he looks like you just dragged him out of the water.”
Hemingway shifted his weight. “Well, you know, them photographers are real talented.”
“You’re suggesting trick photography? Maybe some airbrush work? I don’t think so, Mr. Hemingway. I think you bought him.”
“I did not buy him!”
“You must’ve.”
“I didn’t!”
“You must’ve caught some other fish and then substituted the fish you bought just before this picture was taken.”
“I did no such thing!”
“Your denials are futile, Mr. Hemingway. The photo speaks for itself.”
His fists were balling up. “It’s a lie.”
“Face it, sir. You cheated.”
His voice rose. “I did not!”
“The evidence is right in front of you. Stop denying it.”
“I did not cheat!”
“Then how did the fish stay fresh all afternoon?”
He sprang to his feet. “Because I kept it in my—”
Hemingway stopped suddenly and froze. He looked both ways at once, mouth gaping, then slowly dropped to his chair.
Ben eased away from the witness stand, his eyes dancing. “Is the word you’re searching for by any chance … tank?”
Chapter 2
BEN DIDN’T MAKE IT back to his office until later that afternoon. It was a downtown cubbyhole on a street full of pawnshops and loan offices (GET THE CASH YOU NEED QUICK—NO QUESTIONS ASKED). The yellow brick of most of the buildings harkened back to an era when these offices formed Tulsa’s line of demarcation between the prosperous white oil barons to the south and the equally prosperous Black Wall Street to the north.
Ben pushed open the door and stepped inside. For once the office seemed relatively peaceful. No bill collectors blocking the entrance, no strapped clients explaining why they couldn’t pay, no disgruntled opponents seeking revenge.
Jones, Ben’s office assistant, sat at a desk in the center of the lobby area, one hand clutching a phone receiver and the other tickling the keyboard of his computer.
Jones covered the mouthpiece when he saw Ben enter. “Congratulations, Boss.”
“You heard?”
Jones nodded. “Fannie told all. She’s in your office waiting for you.” He smiled. “Said you carved up the prosecution’s main witness on cross.”
“She’s exaggerating.”
“No doubt.”
“Who’s on the line?”
Jones pointed at the computer screen. “I found another small New England college on the Net this morning. They have several graduate programs in nursing.”
Ben’s interest was immediate. “Really?”
“Relax, Boss. Just because they have a program doesn’t mean your sister is in it. I’m trying to bully my way into the admissions records.”
Ben crossed his fingers. After a few moments he heard a voice buzzing on the other end of the line. Jones replied, not in Oklahoman, but in a clipped British accent. “Jolly good, old chap. Are you certain about that?” After a few more such exchanges, Jones hung up the phone.
“Ronald Colman?” Ben asked.
Jones grinned. “A tony British accent can occasionally charm some answers out of these New England universities.”
“And?”
Jones shook his head. “Sorry, Boss. She isn’t there.”
Ben tried not to let his disappointment show. “Well, keep trying.” He started toward his office.
“Boss—”
He stopped. “Yeah?”
“Not that it’s any of my business, but—”
“But you’re going to butt in anyway.”
“Don’t you think it’s time you gave up this search? Your sister obviously doesn’t want to be found.”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“She told you she was enrolling in a graduate-level nursing program in Connecticut. But we’ve searched every Connecticut college on the map and she isn’t there.”
“She might’ve gotten her states confused.”
“Get a reality check, Boss. She fled. Vanished. After dumping her baby on you.” Jones clicked the mouse on the computer. “How old is Joey now?”