Belinda finished wrapping his chest and pulled down his shirt. “Can’t say I feel sorry for you. Your client is pond scum, Ben.”
Ben tucked in his shirt. “C’mon, Belinda, you’re a lawyer. You know the process doesn’t work unless both sides are represented.”
“True. But that doesn’t mean you have to represent every dirtbag on earth.”
“No one competent would represent this dirtbag. It was either me or a probate attorney who doesn’t know abstracts from arraignments.”
“Still—”
“If we’re not going to give the man a fair trial, we might as well not give him a trial at all. Is that what you want? Conviction without a fair trial?”
“In the case of Donald Vick, I won’t shed any tears.”
“Then you need to ask yourself if the ASP members are the only fascists around here.”
Belinda frowned. She packed up her first-aid kit, then placed it on her desk.
Ben reached out and took her wrist. “Belinda, I’m desperate.”
She tried to shrug him away.
Ben turned her head with his finger and made her look at him. “I need your help. I can’t do this alone.”
Her movements slowed; her face showed her confusion. Ben noticed, however, that she did not remove his hand. “I’m not going to help you get a murderer off the hook.”
“I’m not asking you to. I just want you to help me investigate. You were planning to investigate the case anyway; you told me so. We might as well do it together.”
“I’m not sure that’s wise. We’re not on the same side.”
“We both want the same thing. The truth.” He looked at her pointedly. “Isn’t that right?”
Belinda thought for a long time before answering. “I suppose if I accompanied you, people might be more willing to talk.”
Ben quietly released his breath. “That’s the spirit.”
“But I warn you, if we uncover any evidence that incriminates your client, I’m going straight to the DA with it.”
“Understood.” He leaned back in the chair, careful not to strain any sensitive muscles.
Belinda rubbed her hands together. “Let me take care of a few emergencies, then we can get started. If you’re up to it.”
“I will be. Just give me a minute to pull myself together.”
“Fine. Anything else I can do for you?”
Ben tried to open his swollen eye. “Well … you could uncancel our dinner date. …”
16.
BELINDA AGREED TO DRIVE Ben back to the campsite so he could change clothes and collect some supplies. During the drive over, Ben saw Christina from the road; she was in the middle of the lake fishing. She must’ve left Mary Sue’s early to launch another assault on the local fish stock.
She had seen him, too, not that it made any difference. She glanced up briefly, then returned her attention to the fish.
Ben crawled into his tent, changed clothes, and retrieved enough supplies to get him through the day. On his way out, a sudden burst of wind whipped across the campsite. The gust was so strong it made Ben lean to one side.
“Is a tornado approaching?” he asked Belinda.
“I don’t think so.”
The wind intensified, blowing dirt and debris into their faces. Ben heard a steady, rhythmic chopping noise. It seemed to be coming from the sky.
“Up there!” Belinda shouted, pointing just over their heads. “It’s a helicopter!”
“More than that,” Ben added. “It’s a police helicopter.”
“Why is it flying so low?”
Ben squinted into the sun. “I think it’s coming in for a landing.”
“Why would a police helicopter be landing here?”
“Guess I should’ve paid those parking tickets.”
They watched as the helicopter descended into a large clearing near the lake. The aircraft touched down and the whirring blades slowed. The insistent chopping noise gradually faded. Just as the copter was almost still, Ben heard a loud internal crash, followed by the sound of metal grinding against metal. Finally the helicopter coughed and sputtered to silence.
“I think that chopper is due for an overhaul,” Belinda commented. “Any idea who the pilot is?”
“Well,” Ben said as he ran toward it, “I only know one guy who’s certified to fly these buggies. …”
The tall, dark-haired man who clambered out of the cockpit was wearing an unseasonably heavy overcoat and flight goggles. A cross between Sam Spade and Junior Birdman. Undeniably, it was Homicide Detective Mike Morelli. Ben’s friend. And ex-brother-in-law. To the extent the two descriptions weren’t mutually exclusive.
“Damn, damn, damn.”
“Mike! What are you doing here? Is something wrong?”
“Yeah. I think my copter blew a fuse.”
“I don’t mean—I mean, is there an emergency?”
“Well, I heard a rumor that you were in a spot of trouble. So I took a leave of absence. And here we are.”
“We?”
As if on cue, Jones and Loving crawled out of the back of the helicopter.
“Jones!” Ben cried.
“In the flesh.”
Ben gestured toward Belinda. “Belinda, this is Jones. Back at my Tulsa office, he’s my secretary.”
“Executive assistant,” Jones corrected. “Say cheese.” He pointed a black, hand-held video camera at Ben’s face. “I’ve been trying out this minicam I got for Christmas. I recorded the whole flight down here.”
“If you’re going to continue filming,” Ben said, “let me give you a tip. You’re shooting into the sun.”
“Details, details.”
“Also, the lens cap is on.” Loving jumped out of the backseat. “Belinda, this is Loving, my investigator.”
She extended her hand. “Ben, why is it none of your staff members have first names?”
“Don’t ask me. They came that way. Loving, say hello to Belinda Hamilton.”
“Hell-o!” Loving eyed Belinda appreciatively. “I dropped everything and flew out with Morelli as soon as I heard you were in trouble, Skipper. Although you look like you’re doing just fine to me.”
Ben turned his attention back to Mike, who had opened the cowling above and behind the passenger area and was tinkering around with the engine. “How’d you get a helicopter? You didn’t steal it from the traffic division, did you?”
“Of course not. After ten years of devoted service the department put her up for auction. Five of my cop buddies and I pooled our bucks and bought her.”
“But—why?”
“To fly, of course. I’ve had my copter certification for years, but in the past I’ve always had to go out to Allied Helicopter or Riverside Airport and rent one just to get in some fly time. Now I have my own Hiller 12SL4.”
“You know, Mike, I humored you when you bought the Trans Am. I remained silent when you bought all that hang-gliding equipment. But a helicopter?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Shouldn’t you at least remove the police-department seals? Since it’s no longer in official service?”
Mike shrugged. “I haven’t been able to bring myself to do it. They look really cool, don’t you think? And it makes it much easier to get a parking space.”
“Don’t you have to file a flight plan, or maintain radio contact with a control tower?”
“Not out here. I just stick to the VFR—Visual Flight Rules—cruise at about fifteen hundred feet, and keep my eyes open.” He grinned. “It’s easy. Want to go for a ride?”
“No thanks. I don’t fly in reputable airplanes, much less that bucket of bolts.”
“Portia could use a bit of work here and there, but she’s not a bucket of bolts,” Mike protested. “That landing did sound bad, though. I think I need to replace her engine block.”