“Yeah?”
“I’ve learned that by the book isn’t good enough anymore.” His eyes became hooded. “That following the rules isn’t always sufficient. Oh, I’m not talking about becoming a vigilante or anything: I’m just saying…I think sometimes we hide behind our professionalism, our badges, our licenses, our procedures—”
“Our Rules of Professional Conduct,” Ben added.
“Yeah. May be. We hide behind those things because they protect us from moral debate, from the really tough questions. It’s easier to read a rule than to consider individual cases—specific people in specific situations.
“But that’s wrong,” Mike said firmly. “People are more important than rules. I won’t make that mistake again.” He half smiled. “You think you can forgive me?”
“Mike, pals are for thick and thin—no matter what happens. That’s why they’re called pals.”
Mike clasped Ben’s arm firmly. “Thanks, pal.”
“Don’t mention it. Incidentally, pal, you’re hurting my arm.”
44
BEN SLIPPED INTO THE Oneok Building at about 7:45 and rode the elevator to the tenth floor. He might be slow, but he wasn’t stupid; if the security guard didn’t take names until eight, the intelligent burglar slipped in just before. He ducked into the bathroom, hid in a stall and read back issues of Stereo Review for two hours. He had a story planned out in the event someone came in to clean the bathroom, but the contingency never arose.
At eleven o’clock, when he was reasonably certain everyone was gone, Ben slipped out of the men’s room and crossed the hallway to Swayze & Reynolds. Keeping an eye out for security, he used his copied key to open the front door. He passed through the ornate lobby and into Reynolds’s office.
He found Polly in her usual place, trapped in a cage much too small, barely alive. Her coat had lost its sheen; the colors of her wings and the brightness of her eyes had faded. Worst of all, the pile of feathers at the bottom of the cage had doubled in size. Ben could see exposed patches of flesh where the feathers had been yanked out.
As quietly as possible, Ben removed the cage from the stand and carried it out of the office. He rode the elevator to the ground floor.
He stopped at the security guard’s station. “I’ve got a medical emergency,” he said. “This parrot’s dying.”
The security guard scrutinized him with evident suspicion.
“I was working in Reynolds’s office,” Ben added, “when she started croaking.”
“Working this late?” the guard asked.
“Of course. Why else would I be up there? Look, if Mr. Reynolds’s prize parrot dies, he is not going to be happy.”
The guard shrugged. “So what do you want me to do, call an ambulance or something?”
“Never mind,” Ben said. “I’ve got a car.” He brushed past the guard and walked out onto the street.
Whew! Managed to bluff his way through that one. Reynolds, of course, would be furious the next morning when he found his parrot missing. Even if he thought to ask the night security guard, though, Ben didn’t think the guy could describe him well enough for Reynolds to make an ID. And if he did, that was fine, too. Ben would sic Clayton Langdell and his entire organization on Reynolds. Maybe the ASPCA and a few others, too, just for good measure.
Ben crossed the street and walked about halfway down Fifth Street. After a few seconds, he heard the low plaintive wail of a hoot owl. He walked toward the sound.
“Pssst.” Ben followed the voice into a side alley.
In the soft moonlight,, he could just make out Wolf’s face. He looked good; his appearance had improved a hundred percent since he had been released from St. John’s. His right arm, the one that caught the first bullet, was still in a sling, but otherwise he almost seemed like his former self.
“Here,” Ben said, passing him the cage. “Take care of her.”
“Sure.” With his free arm, Wolf opened the cage and gently drew Polly out. Polly cooed quietly, then nestled against his shoulder. “Ma says I have to spend less time in the forest and more time in school.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay. She says I can still search for traps, and I can start keeping my birds at home. I’m building a shed in the backyard. The landlord doesn’t like it, but he hasn’t said anything. Everyone seems to be bending over backward to be nice to me. Since I got shot and all.”
“Milk it for all it’s worth,” Ben advised. “It won’t last forever.”
“Yeah, I ’spect you’re right.”
“And pay attention in school. You need to make good grades so you can grow up to be the world’s greatest veterinarian.”
“Aw, I hate school. The other kids never like me.”
“Nonsense. You should be very popular. How many kids can brag about being shot by the FBI?”
“Hmmm.” This was apparently a prospect Wolf hadn’t contemplated. “Well, I’d better go.”
“Okay. See you around.”
Wolf started out of the alley.
“Oh-Wolf.”
Wolf turned. “Yeah?”
“I’ve been meaning to ask you. Do you know anything about chickens?”
45
THERE WAS SOMETHING WRONG with Ben’s office, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on what. For starters, Jones’s card table had been replaced by a desk, a real desk, with drawers and everything. What’s more, there were two other real desks, one on either side of Jones’s.
That was different, sure, but Ben sensed there was more. He stood in the middle of the lobby trying to figure out what had changed.
And then he realized.
“What’s wrong, Boss?” Jones asked.
Ben frowned. “I hate to admit it,” he said, “but I miss the chickens.”
Jones sighed. “Yeah. Me, too. Especially Barbara.”
“Well, I’m sure Wolf will provide them with a loving home.”
“Yeah, I guess. Hey, what’s in the sack?”
“Sack?” Ben held his groceries away from Jones’s eyesight. “Oh, nothing in particular.”
“Uh-huh.” Jones pulled down the side of the sack. It contained a large quantity of Feline’s Fancy. “Giving in, are we?”
Ben yanked the sack away and put it in a closet. “I just thought I should have a little on hand. For special occasions.”
“Right. That’s why you bought the king-size twelve-pack. Don’t feel bad, Boss. Cats have broken better men than you. Oh, that reminds me. Clayton Langdell called. He wants to set up a meeting.”
“He still wants me to represent him?”
“Apparently so.”
The light dawned: Langdell wasn’t a suspect trying to buy him off. He really did want to hire Ben because he thought he was a decent lawyer. “Did he mention anything in particular?”
“He said he checked you out during the trial and was very impressed. Oh, he also said he liked the way you handled that reporter on television. He wants to consult you regarding their new public relations campaign.”
“Oh, swell. A new career teaching lobbyists how to bully reporters.”
“At least it’s work, Boss. Things could be—”
“Don’t say it!” Ben said, cutting him off. He glanced at the pleading Jones was typing. He had the carbon in backward; the second copy was a blue smear. Oh, well. If this Langdell business paid off, maybe he could spring for a photocopier. “By the way, Jones, I’ve been meaning to thank you for all the work you put in on the Lombardi financial records.”