Free Deadly Justice by William Bernhardt Page B

time?”
    “He says the air-conditioning in his room doesn’t work and he’s in a twist about it. Can you imagine?”
    The ingrate, Ben thought. After all, it was only ninety-five degrees yesterday. “Did you call Jack Abel?” Abel was a local handyman Ben used whenever possible to keep Mrs. Marmelstein’s repair costs down.
    “No. Mr. Perry was so aggravating I decided to call a professional.”
    Ben groaned. “Who’d you call?”
    “Air. Professionals. They’re professionals, you know.”
    Yeah, and they bill like professionals, too. Oh, well, Ben thought, what’s done is done. I’ll find some money to pay them somewhere.
    “I suppose this is the shape of things to come,” she said sadly. “Now that you have this big important corporate job, you won’t have time to look after my unimportant little problems.”
    “That’s not true. It’s just that I had to stay at the office so late—”
    “Save your excuses. I’m sure I seem very insignificant next to those cigar-chomping fat cats at Apollo. From now on you’ll spend your days whizzing around in corporate jets and cavorting with well-endowed floozies.”
    “Well,” Ben said, “I don’t want anything to do with corporate jets.”
    “If I see you at all in the future, it’ll probably be in the company of your police buddy—”
    Ben’s ears pricked up. “Police buddy?”
    “He’ll be tramping through my garden, dragging the nasty element into this nice neighborhood.”
    Ben was certain Mrs. Marmelstein was the only person in town who would describe this low-rent district on the North Side as nice . “What brings my police buddy to mind?”
    She shrugged her shoulders lightly. “He’s outside.”
    “Mike? Mike is here?” He rushed past her and started down the stairs.
    She sniffed again. “Soon you won’t be able to tell the people who belong here from the pimps and the pushers.”
    Ben bounded down the stairs and opened the torn screen door. Mike glared at him, looking very impatient.
    “About time, Kincaid. I thought I was going to have to get a search warrant.”
    Over Mike’s shoulder, Ben saw four other men, two in plain clothes, two in uniform. There were two police cars parked on the street; a red beacon swirled around, casting an eerie glow on the faces of the police officers.
    “I take it you aren’t all here to escort me to work,” Ben said.
    Mike shook his head. “We found your corpse.”
    “Hamel?”
    “That’s the one.”
    “And he’s dead?”
    “Very.”
    “Boy, that was fast. You guys must be great detectives.”
    “I wish we could take credit for this, but we can’t. Someone else discovered the body. We received an anonymous phone tip.”
    “Well, however it happened, that’s great news.”
    “Don’t be so sure.”
    Ben’s enthusiasm clotted in his throat. Why did Mike have such a grim expression on his face?
    “Where did you find the body?” Ben asked slowly.
    “In the alley behind this boardinghouse,” Mike replied. He pointed toward the back. “You know. Where you park your car.”
    “Behind this house?” Ben found himself repeating the words, but not assimilating their meaning. “How did it get there ?”
    Mike exchanged a look with the police officers on either side of him, then turned back to Ben. “Well, the popular opinion is that he arrived in your car, given the copious quantities of his blood and hair we found there.”
    Ben felt a sudden tightening in his stomach.
    The large man standing to Mike’s left stepped forward. “Mr. Kincaid, I’m Chief Blackwell, Chief of Police here in Tulsa. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

13
    B EN GAZED AT THE imposing figure of Chief Blackwell. He was a thick, strong man. The muscles in his neck and shoulders tensed as he spoke.
    “A—a few questions—?” Ben stuttered.
    “Just a few harmless inquiries,” Blackwell said nonchalantly. “You can imagine how we might be somewhat curious.”
    “I want to see the body first,” Ben