Cold Truth

by Joel Goldman

  "Yeah," Mason said. "It's really heartwarming. I'll pass the message on and Jordan will call him if she feels the need."

  "Tell you what, Mason," Centurion said. "I'm hungry. Why don't you and me meet somewhere for lunch?"

  Mason took Centurion's question for an invitation he shouldn't refuse. "Sure. How about the Sidewalk Café on the Plaza?"

  "Mason, look out the window, man. It's raining. What's the matter with you?"

  "Don't worry, Centurion. You won't melt. I'll see you there in an hour."

  ***

  The Sidewalk Café was on 47th Street in the heart of the Plaza. There were inside and outdoor sections, the outside covered with a heavy-duty plastic awning that was supposed to keep customers dry. The outdoor section was deserted. Even with the awning, rain blew across the tables. The hostess, inside and dry, ignored Mason as he sat at a wet table, his windbreaker zippered to his chin.

  Mason wasn't hungry and didn't care about the rain. He preferred being out in the open with Centurion Johnson than in a dark booth of a quiet bar where a dead man could be mistaken for someone sleeping off a drunk.

  Centurion's Mercedes glided to a stop at the curb in front of the café. The passenger window retreated, Centurion shaking his head at Mason, who couldn't see past Centurion to the driver. Centurion motioned Mason to join him, Mason leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs, picking up a menu that had been left on the table before the rain began.

  "Shit," Centurion said, shoving the car door open and slamming it shut. He kicked Mason's feet away from an empty chair and sat down. "You are starting to annoy me, Mason."

  "Hey, you invited me to lunch. What are you going to have?" he asked, sliding the menu to Centurion.

  "I lost my appetite," Centurion answered, flinging the menu to the ground. "That bitch of yours took something that belongs to me."

  Mason sat up. "Let's get something straight. Her name is Jordan. A bitch is a female dog. While you're probably more familiar with them as sexual partners, don't confuse them with my client."

  Centurion dimmed his glare and turned up his high-wattage smile. "I guess I was all wrong about you, Mason. You just ain't gonna back down, is you?"

  "Nope. Not until you treat me like one of your corporate donors and talk like a high school graduate. Thug-speak is lost on me."

  "Fine. Let me put it this way," Centurion said. "Your client left Sanctuary in a hurry. In her haste, she took something that belongs to me, not her. I'm certain it was an innocent mistake. I'd appreciate your assistance in returning it to me."

  "Much better, CJ. What would this item be?"

  "You talk to her. I'm certain you can convince her to tell you. You can also assure her that if she returns this item to me today, there will be no questions asked and I'll consider the matter closed."

  "That's very generous of you. If she doesn't have this item or is unable to return it to you by your deadline, what should I tell her?"

  Centurion's happy grin morphed into a snarl. "You tell that bitch she better stay away from windows."

  "That's a little over the top, don't you think? You're in the running for humanitarian of the year at the same time as you're threatening to throw my client out a window. If she does take a fall, I tell the cops about our little chat, which I might have to do anyway since you're threatening to kill her the same way Gina Davenport was killed. What little item did Jordan take from you?"

  Centurion took a deep breath, a full wind-up before throwing his next pitch. "There are a lot of windows in this town, Mason."

  "Great. I get a threat too. What? Are you running a special?"

  Centurion opened his jacket, letting Mason see the butt of his gun. "Mason, what do I have to do to convince you that I'm serious as a motherfuckin' heart attack? That bitch," he said, but Mason raised his hand, stopping him. "Your client," he continued as Mason nodded, "made a bad decision. I'm willing to give her and you a free pass, but she's got to put it right."

  "Look, Centurion. You're not going to shoot me in the middle of the Country Club Plaza in front of a restaurant full of witnesses. You've got a problem. Maybe I can help. I've got a problem, maybe you can help me."

  Centurion laughed, this time with genuine amusement. "Damn, Mason. You just been playing me this whole time. You want to make a deal, we'll make a deal. What do you want?"

  "I'll tell you what I don't want. I don't want to jack up your deal with Sanctuary. If you can soothe the guilty consciences of the power elite by selling them shares in Sanctuary, more power to you. If you do those kids some good, even more power to you. If there's something extra on the side for you, well, my friend, this is America—the land of opportunity. I only want one thing—to get my client acquitted. And I need your help to do that."

  "I ain't confessin', if that's what you got in mind," Centurion said.

  "I wouldn't expect that, especially if you were guilty. I need to know more about Gina Davenport. The foundation she set up in memory of her daughter was a big contributor to Sanctuary. How did you hook up with her in the first place? What's the story on her daughter's suicide? How does her husband and his coke habit fit in? Who supplies him? I don't care if you're in or out of the business, Centurion. Just give me something to work with and I'll get you back whatever Jordan took."

  "You're asking a lot, Mason."

  "A lot is at stake for Jordan. I get the impression a lot is at stake for you too."

  The wind picked up, slapping them with pellets of rain. Centurion turned his collar up. "Come on," he said to Mason. "We'll go for a ride." Mason kept his seat. "I said, let's go for a fuckin' ride. I'm not going to kill you. Leastways, not today."

  Mason followed Centurion to the Mercedes, sliding into the backseat after him. The driver was a young black man Mason didn't recognize. Centurion tapped him on the shoulder, and the driver pulled away from the curb heading east on 47th Street.

  "Gina Davenport was one of the first people I signed up. She really dug the concept, especially the part about the kids working on the farm. She volunteered her time doing counseling. When Emily got all fucked up, she put her out there."

  "What was Emily's problem?"

  "Shit, man. I don't know nothing about psychology except what I learned on the street and in the joint. These kids—they all got too much of everything or not enough of anything. After that, it's all a bunch of social-worker bullshit, if you ask me. That Terry Nix can rattle off more diagnostic bullshit than you can imagine, and insurance will reimburse for every last one of them."

  "Emily killed herself. That can't be good for business."

  "Emily got high and thought she could fly. That's what happened with Emily. She was blowin' coke and shooting up when she got to Sanctuary. She sneaked some shit in and we didn't catch it."

  "Was anyone with her when she died?"

  "Yeah. Now that you mention it. Your client was," Centurion said. "Damn. I'd forgotten all about that. Your client was Emily's roommate. Ain't that a bitch."

  "Yeah," Mason said. "A real bitch. Take me back to my car. I'll get you what you want."

  Chapter 18

  Mason took a quick inventory when he got back in his car. He still had his watch, wallet, fingers, toes, and eyeteeth. Centurion had tried to take him for everything he had, and Mason was pleased he didn't leave anything behind. He was scamming Centurion at the same time. The trick was to sort through the lies and figure out which ones contained clues—intentional or accidental—and which ones were just lies.

  Centurion continued denying that he was involved with drugs even though Mason knew he was lying. In a trial, Mason always assumed the opposition would find out the bad facts and tell them to the jury. That was the only way he could prepare for disaster. He applied the same rule now, concluding that Centurion knew what he himself knew.

  Which led to Mason's lie that he wouldn't cause trouble for Centurion. That was a lie Centurion could never afford to believe. Mason was glad he'd moved Jordan.

  Centurio
n wouldn't wait long before doing whatever he could to protect himself from Mason.

  That reality exposed Centurion's next lie—that he wouldn't kill Mason. A promise limited to that day. Mason believed him. Centurion wouldn't kill Mason today. Tomorrow was another story.

  Centurion would wait until he knew whether Mason's promise to return whatever Jordan had taken from him was a lie. If Mason delivered, Centurion would take him out to make certain he didn't talk out of school. If he didn't deliver, Centurion would have one more reason to do the same thing. Mason wouldn't decide how to play that card until he knew what Jordan had and why it was so important to Centurion. He doubted that Jordan had stolen drugs from Centurion. Unless it was a huge quantity, it wasn't worth Centurion's trouble to get it back, especially with Mason's help. That would ensure Centurion's exposure as a drug dealer.

  Mason gave Centurion credit for perhaps telling the biggest lie, implying that Jordan was somehow involved in Emily's death. The beauty of that lie was not just in the similarity between the deaths of mother and daughter. The real power of it lay in the desire to believe it. That Jordan could have thrown Gina Davenport out the window to her death was infinitely more believable if she had done the same thing to Gina's daughter, Emily. Though more horrible, it was easier to accept, making a perverse sort of sense.

  The lie carried a more subtle threat. Even if Centurion decided not to kill Mason, he could sign Jordan's death warrant by whispering to the police that they should reopen the investigation into Emily Davenport's suicide. No doubt, Centurion would help the cops find their way to Jordan. A triple-murderer was assured of a reservation on death row.

  That, Mason realized, was the real message Centurion delivered in the car. He knew that Mason wouldn't toady to him out of fear for his own safety. Mason's track record was proof of that. Threatening to tie Jordan to Emily's death was a brilliant stroke aimed at Mason's soft underbelly—his client.

  Mason could defend Jordan against the charge that she had killed Dr. Gina. The hill got steeper with Trent's murder, but the slope went vertical with Emily's. No one, Mason included, could expect to win an acquittal on three murder charges tied so closely together.

  Mason reordered his thoughts, listing two questions at the top. What was Jordan Hackett's relationship with Emily Davenport? And what did Jordan take from Centurion Johnson?

  Harry, Mickey, and Blues were sitting around the dining room table at Daphne's when Mason returned. The rain had dwindled to a mist Mason shook from his coat and stamped from his shoes onto the Oriental rug in the entry hall. Mickey and Blues were studying a rough sketch Mickey had made of the exterior of the Victorian B&B. Harry was gazing out the window. Mason wanted to ask him about his eyesight, but waited for a private moment.

  Daphne carried a tray of steaming mugs into the dining room, setting them onto the table. She was glowing with more than the warmth billowing from the cups.

  "Lou," she said. "This is all very exciting." Daphne was petite, almost pocket-sized, vain enough to color the gray from her hair and dress for success on a Saturday afternoon. Mason guessed she was as old as Claire and Harry, though she resisted the visible hallmarks of her years with greater success. "Plus, Harry is going to fix the lock on the back door, aren't you, dear?"

  Harry blended a smile with a wince as he picked up his mug. He was devoted to Claire and embarrassed at Daphne's attention. "Yes, ma'am," he said, taking a sip.

  "We're each taking eight-hour shifts," Blues said. "Mickey is on till midnight, then me, then Harry. How long will this go on?"

  Mason shrugged. "I don't know. Centurion Johnson says Jordan took something that belongs to him. He wants it back in a serious way. If I can take care of that, we might be able to step down to Def-Con Three."

  "Did he say what it was?" Blues asked.

  "Nope. He just sent me on a scavenger hunt," Mason said. "Daphne, do you have a computer hooked up to the Internet?"

  "It's in my study," she said. "I don't normally let guests use it because I don't want people going to those awful web sites. Someone did that once and I got nothing but e-mails about barnyard sex for a month."

  "Mickey," Mason said. "Go on-line, but leave Old McDonald alone. Private foundations have to file an annual report. I want the annual reports called Form 990 for Sanctuary for each year since it was formed. If you find anything interesting, see where it takes you. Where's Jordan?"

  "She's in her room, dear," Daphne said.

  Jordan's bedroom continued the Victorian theme with vanilla chintz curtains, a four-poster, canopied bed, and overstuffed furniture covered in muted floral fabric. It was a grandmother's room guaranteed to chafe a restless twenty-one-year-old.

  "This place sucks and Daphne sucks," Jordan said. "I want to go back to Abby's loft." She was slouched in a wing-backed chair, her feet up on the bed, leafing through a magazine.

  "Abby would like that," Mason said.

  Jordan perked up. "She would? Really? Why can't we then?"

  "We can as soon as we take care of some business. We might even be able to go back tonight."

  "Great. Let's do it. This place is for people who've been dead thirty years and don't know it."

  Mason sat down on the edge of the bed, slid his hand under Jordan's shoes, and dropped her feet to the floor. "I need a couple of things from you."

  Jordan nodded, still slouched in the chair. "What do you want? I don't have any money and I saw how you and Abby look at each other, so I know you don't want to sleep with me," she said with the first sign of humor since he'd met her.

  "Tell me about Emily Davenport."

  Jordan shuddered at the mention of Emily's name. Her body convulsed so quickly—eyes snapping, veins popping, muscles tensing—that Mason thought she might have a seizure. She shook her shoulders and arms like an athlete loosening up, got up from her chair, and rubbed her arms with her hands to warm up from the sudden chill Mason had given her.

  Breathing deeply, she said, "That's a name I haven't heard in a while."

  "Centurion says you two were roommates at Sanctuary."

  Jordan's color drained. "You talked to Centurion?"

  "Yeah. We met for lunch on the Plaza and went for a ride in his Mercedes. He's not such a bad guy once you get to know him."

  "He's a pig!"

  "True, but for a pig, he's not bad once you get to know him."

  "Do you joke about everything?" Jordan asked.

  "Sometimes it helps keep the conversation moving until people are ready to talk about the tough stuff."

  "Like Emily?"

  Mason said, "Like Emily. Centurion said Emily got high and thought she could fly right out the window. Is that the way it happened?"

  Jordan's chin found her chest. "If that's what Centurion said."

  "What do you say?" Mason asked.

  Jordan did a slow turn, running her hands over the chintz curtains, crumpling them, releasing them, and then smoothing the wrinkles from the fabric. She pulled the blackout shade down, gave it a yank, and held on as it rolled back up. She leaned her palms against the window, pressing her fingertips hard against the glass, making both Mason and the window quiver.

  Mason said, "Talk to me, Jordan."

  "We were best friends," she whispered, the words slipping out so softly Mason stepped closer to catch them.

  "Was Centurion telling the truth?" he asked.

  He looked over her shoulder, out the window into the rain that had returned, pinging against the window. An oak tree soared past the window, its branches scraping the house. Jordan craned her neck, searching for the treetop or a way out. The wood frame smelled of the dampness harbored in its pores.

  "Emily was high. That part's true. She was also eight months pregnant. She wanted an abortion, but Terry Nix talked her out of it until it was too late. I don't know if that's why she jumped or if she was just too fucked up to know what she was doing."

  "Did you try to stop her?"

  Jordan gripped the window frame with both
hands, rattling it, stopping when it didn't give way. She looked again for the crown of the oak tree.

  "It was late summer, like today, only it was a beautiful night," she began. "That's why we had the window open. It was bigger than this one. You could sit in the opening, practically stretching your legs out. Emily was leaning her back against the frame with her feet against the other side." Jordan smiled at the memory, Mason seeing her reflection in the glass. "It was like she was inside a picture frame. I told her she looked like a painting. She said, yeah, call me a portrait of an unwed mother. Then she started singing this weird song, like a twisted nursery rhyme. Hush, little baby, we're gonna die. Momma and baby, we can't fly. I told her to cut it out, that it wasn't funny. Terry came in our room. She got this cold look, like she was going to do it. I tried to grab her. Terry said I shoved her, but I didn't. I know I didn't. I couldn't have," she said, balling her fists against the pane.

  "I believe you," he said, sensing that it was she who lacked faith, not him. "I'm sorry," he added, regretting that was all he had to offer.

  "Me too." Jordan ran her hands through her hair, turned, and dipped past Mason, circling to the other side of the bed. "Well, thanks for that trip down memory lane. You said there were two things you wanted to talk about."

  Mason was glad to change the subject. "Centurion said you took something that belongs to him when you left Sanctuary. He wants it back."

  "Can we get out of here if I give it back to him? Can I go back to Abby's?"

  "I hope so."

  Jordan opened the closet door and picked up her backpack. She unzipped a compartment on the front, pulled out a slender leather-bound ledger, and handed it to Mason. The pages were filled with a series of initials separated by slashes, followed by dates and dollar amounts ranging from $10,000 to $100,000 and either the letter P or B in parentheses.

  "What is it?" Mason asked.

  "Nothing. It doesn't matter. Give it back to him."