Ben spoke between bites. He really was famished. “Won a lawsuit. Well, settled it in a manner very favorable to my client. And … I got a new case.”
“Anything interesting?”
“Oh, yeah. Very.” Ben gave Mike a thumbnail sketch of the suit.
Mike peered at him intently. “You seem to have some reservations.”
“Jones thinks it’s going to bankrupt us. Christina thinks it’s unwinnable.”
“So you took it anyway.”
“Yeah. Stupid, huh?”
“Extremely. And extremely predictable.”
Ben grabbed his beer and leaned back against the sofa. “I kept telling the parents all the difficulties with their suit, explaining that courts aren’t equipped to handle this kind of injury. But I also kept thinking, jeez Louise, if lawyers and courts can’t help parents who have been through this kind of pain, what the hell good are we?”
“That’s what the rest of us have been wondering for years.”
“I kept telling myself there had to be something I could do. Unfortunately, now I have to figure out what that is.”
“You’ve got your work cut out for you. As soon as you file the Complaint, you’ll have the big boys from Raven, Tucker & Tubb crawling all over you.”
“Don’t I know it.”
Mike took another man-size bite of pizza, then washed it down with his Bud Light. “So,” he said nonchalantly. “Heard anything from your sister?”
Ah, Ben thought to himself. So that’s what this is about. “No. Not since she grabbed Joey and split for the East Coast.”
“Some kind of big-time nursing program?”
“Yeah. Something like that.” Ben bit down on his lower lip. What was it Mike wanted to know?
“I don’t suppose she calls.”
“Julia? No way.”
“Not that I’m interested. I’ve put Julia totally behind me. I’ve moved on.”
Sure, you have, Ben thought silently. That’s why you still wear your wedding ring.
Mike changed the subject slightly. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard from Joey, either?”
“She doesn’t let him drop by for visits, if that’s what you mean.”
Mike propped his feet up on the coffee table. “That must be tough for you. I mean, you raised that kid on your own for what? About six months?”
“About that, yeah.”
“And then she swoops in one day and takes him away. Man, I don’t know what I’d"a done if she’d tried something like that on me. I wonder.”
Ben wondered, too. Especially since he was almost positive Mike was Joey’s father. He’d never mentioned it to Mike, since he’d never gotten any confirmation from Julia. But he felt certain just the same.
Mike slapped Ben on the back. “Well, it’s just as well. You and I, bachelors, free as the breeze—we don’t have any business raising kids.”
“Probably true,” Ben said halfheartedly.
“Personally, I wouldn’t want to be tied down, locked into the ol" family straitjacket. It may look good from the outside, but it’s really just a trap. Starts with a baby. Next thing you know, you’ve got a houseful of rugrats, in-laws, sky-high bills, and a mortgage to boot, all roping you in. Velvet handcuffs.”
Ben raised an eyebrow. “Is this a new personal philosophy you’re working on?
“Nothin" new about it. I’ve always felt this way.”
Always? Ben wondered. Always since he and Julia got divorced, anyway.
“Last thing a man in my position needs is a toddler running around the house. Hell, I wouldn’t take that kid if he were my own flesh and blood.”
Ben’s lips parted. Did he know? Was this some kind of game he was playing? Or was he really as blind as he seemed?
The phone rang. Ben crossed the room and snatched it up. “Yeah?”
Ben listened to the man on the other end, then he covered the mouthpiece and spoke to Mike. “It’s for you. Sergeant Tomlinson.”
Mike waved a hand in the air. “Aww, tell "em I’m dining out.”
Ben dutifully repeated the message. “He still wants to talk to you.”
“Please remind the good sergeant that I’m off-duty.”
Ben did, but it didn’t make any difference. “There’s been a murder. Three of them, actually.”
“Three?” Mike threw down the crust of his pizza. “Damn. Tell him I’m not home.”
“Wait. There’s more.” Ben listened for another ten seconds or so. “He says, if you’ve just eaten, you might as well bring a barf bag to the crime scene.”
“What?”
“He says you’ve never seen anything like this before in your life. Never.”
Mike closed his eyes, inhaled, and pushed himself off the sofa. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter 5
TRYING HIS BEST TO maintain a stoic demeanor, Mike lifted the sheet off the corpse on the right-hand side of the bed.
“Sweet Mary, Mother of God,” he whispered, without even realizing it.
He turned abruptly, fighting back the gorge rising in his throat. “I need to make a phone call,” he said curtly, pushing his way out of the room.
“Sure,” Sergeant Tomlinson said, pointing the way.
Mike walked into the hallway and didn’t stop until he found a place where he could be alone for a moment. He passed though all the crime technicians working the scene—the hair and fiber men, the print dusters, the camera-persons, the body-fluid experts, the kids from the coroner’s office. He avoided eye contact. He knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Tomlinson, with that dodge about making a phone call. But he had a professional reputation as a “tough guy” to maintain, and he couldn’t very well do that by vomiting all over the crime scene.
When he had fully recovered, Mike casually strolled back into the bedroom. For once, he removed his stained and tattered overcoat and slung it over a chair. It was incredibly hot in here. Or so it seemed to him, anyway. He was burning up.
“What the hell happened to this poor schmuck?” Mike asked.
Tomlinson shook his head. “The medical examiner can’t tell us with certainty. Not till he gets the stiff back to his OR, anyway. But he appears to have been pummeled by some kind of blunt instrument. I’m thinking maybe a baseball bat.”
Mike nodded grimly, trying to block out the chilling mental image of this man, bound and gagged, being used for batting practice. Actually, he thought the baseball bat guess wasn’t quite right, but it wasn’t far wrong, either. “How many times was he hit?”
“Can’t say yet. But I can see at least a dozen different points of impact.”
Yes, Mike thought. But given the overall destruction to the body, the number was probably twice that. Maybe more. “How many times was the wife hit?”
“If you mean by the baseball bat, none.” Tomlinson walked unexpressively to the other side of the bed, then lifted the sheet covering the other corpse. “She’s been shot. Twice.”
“But not hit?”
“Not that we can see. The medical examiner will be able to tell us for sure.”
“What kind of gun?”
“We haven’t extracted the bullets yet, so I can’t say for sure. Looks like some kind of high-powered pistol, though.”
Mike turned away. What the hell was this world coming to, anyway? It was enough to make a man vote Republican. “And the boy?”
“He was also shot. Once. In the center of the forehead.”
“That’s pretty damned efficient. Are we talking about a professional here?”
For the first time, Tomlinson hesitated just a beat. “I don’t like to speculate in advance of the evidence, sir, but … that seems to me a distinct possibility.”
“A hit man?”
“Or perhaps just a freelance serial killer. Or maybe just someone who’s a damn good shot. But definitely someone … who’s done this sort of thing before.”