Rough Justice

the attention the police would give it tonight. She opened the apartment door and walked out, torn. Conflicted.

'Good-bye,' Judy called after her, but Bennie was too upset to answer.

* * *

Blinking against the flurries, Bennie stood in the snowstorm outside Judy's building and looked up at the associate's apartment. Warm light spilled out of the large, uncurtained window but Carrier wasn't in sight. Bennie's emotions wrenched her chest. She was tempted to go up and retract what she'd said but she couldn't. She couldn't sanction what Carrier was doing, it was dangerous and wrong, but she wouldn't thwart it, not yet anyway. Bennie looked up at the snowy sky, which was brightening. It had to be close to dawn, almost morning. The jury would be back in deliberations soon. Carrier didn't have time to stop the verdict even if she tried.

Snow fell on Bennie's face and thick knit hat. So Carrier had found a notebook of Eb Darning's with numbers in it, and had learned something about Eb and street money. And Bennie's old friend Bean had told her that Eb worked at City Hall for cash. Was it connected? Was Darning's notebook a record of cash payments? Money for votes? The answer would be at the heart of the city.

City Hall.

Bennie turned from the building, jammed her hands in her pockets, and began the trek. If she could figure out what was going on, maybe she could protect Carrier. She trudged down the street in deep drifts. Every step felt heavy but it wasn't the snow. Bennie was thinking about DiNunzio. What's in your veins, ice? It had hit home. Bennie had been feeling more responsible for Steere than for her two associates. Where was her loyalty to them?

Bennie tucked her head into her chest against the driving snow. She was responsible for the associates as well. She was the one who had accepted the Steere representation without a second thought; she'd seen financial viability and a dramatic opening for her law firm. Bennie had never dreamed it would turn out like this, with one associate terrified for her life and another near death.

She kept her head down and turned north into the storm. If there was a way out of this, Bennie had to find it. That was part of being the boss, too.

46

Marta dug through the sand like a terrier as soon as her shovel hit something. It was hard, whatever it was, and it wasn't a clamshell. It rang when the shovel struck it, a metallic ding. Marta shoveled in a fever. Sand flew until a tan spot appeared at the bottom of the hole. It was camouflaged, barely visible in the morning sunlight. Something was there. What was it?

Marta fell to her knees, dropping the shovel beside the deep hole and uprooted erosion fencing. She clawed with her gloves and shoved the wet sand to either side of the hole. The sun shone cold on her back but she still had time. It wasn't too late. It wasn't over. She had found it!

Marta's heart raced with excitement and exertion. She dug and dug, perspiring in her heavy coat. The patch of tan metal widened in the wet sand. She clawed faster. Her fingers raked the sand in five deep ridges. Underneath it was a metal box of some kind. It existed.

The hole began to widen. The circle of tan metal grew. Five inches, then eight, then ten. Marta burrowed around the box. The top was smooth metal, like a strongbox. Sunlight winked on the water covering the box in a thin layer. Marta rooted in the sand until she exposed the thick lid of the box. She heard herself laughing, giddy with relief and delight. What was it? It was good. It was something. It was it! What Alix Locke had been looking for. What Eb Darning had died for. What Elliot Steere had killed for. It was almost hers!

Marta cleared the perimeter of the box and tried to wrench it out of the sand and snow, but it was stuck in the sand. She tore off her gloves and rammed her fingers between box and sand. Her fingers were bloody but she didn't care. She flattened her hand between the box and the sand and wedged her fingers straight down, deeper and deeper. Her fingertips drove to the bottom of the box and she yanked with all the strength she had left. The box came free in her hands.

Marta fell backward onto her butt and scrambled to sit upright. It was a locked strongbox about the size of a legal pad, six inches thick and apparently watertight. Marta sat on the frigid beach with the box on her snowpants, momentarily stumped by the large Master padlock, of heavy gray metal. She'd have to break it to get inside.

Marta struggled to her feet with the box and looked around. The beach was deserted and the storm had passed. The wind had died down and the snow had formed a thick, icy crust. But the sun was high. It was morning. How long before somebody found Bogosian's body? How long before they came after her? What was in this fucking box?

Marta shook it and something inside jostled. Not rattled, not clanged, just jostled. Shifted. It made almost no sound. Was it paper? Was it money? What was it? She had to get inside. She thought about looking for a key, but that would take too long. She didn't want to search Steere's office again or the Piratical. There had to be a better way.

Christopher's pickup truck. The back of the truck was full of evil tools. One would break the padlock. Marta tucked the box under her arm and ran up the beach. She picked up her pace to a sprint like a star receiver, the box in the crook of her arm. She could bust the padlock with a hammer. Saw it off. File the fucking thing down.

Marta's heart lifted as she dashed across the snow, her boots crunching through the hardened top layer. An ocean breeze blew sweet and clear. A slight wind gusted at her back. So the box was locked. So what? She giggled as she ran. Her breath came easily as she scooted past Steere's house. Her coat was soaked but it felt light on her shoulders. She wasn't even tired. She'd blow the box wide open. She'd melt the thing in the forge. She'd chew her way in.

She hit the dune running, up, up, up and over the crest, then down again, almost falling. The box felt secure under her arms and she kept running, down the glistening white valley between the dunes. There were no footsteps in the snow except Marta's. She ran up the dune and caught sight of Christopher's pickup, parked by the snow- covered curb.

She half ran, half skidded into the truck, fumbled for the keys, and nestled inside the driver's seat with the strongbox on her lap. She twisted around and thrust her hand into one of the tool chests. Out came a hammer with a spike at the top. The nail set! Rock and roll!

Marta set the strongbox between her padded knees, held it steady, and brought the nail set down against the padlock. The box slipped. She tried it again and hit the padlock, but it remained intact. She hit it again and made solid contact. Clang! The padlock stayed locked. Fuck!

She tossed the nail set aside and went fishing again in the tool chest. She found a saw with a fine-tooth edge, held the box still on top of her leg, and applied the saw to the lock. Marta had never used a saw in her life and it