by Joel Goldman
"Why not. A dose of quarter-pounder breath will make you irresistible," Samantha said.
Samantha watched Mason devour a burger, fries, another burger, and a drink large enough for a diving board, as they sat in her Crown Victoria.
"If my car turns up, tell them to take it to George's Body Shop at 35th and Troost," Mason said between bites.
"We don't deliver," Samantha told him. "You're welcome to tour the city lot during normal office hours."
Mason wiped his mouth with his sleeve, adding another stain. "I pay my taxes," he said. "What kind of service is that?"
"Pay more taxes, you get better service," she said. "Why are you trying so hard not to tell me about what happened? I'm on your side."
"I told you what happened. You told me I was a moron. That doesn't encourage class participation. Besides, you've already decided that my client is guilty. The only evidence you're interested in is the evidence against her, and there's damn little of that."
"There was enough evidence to arrest her. There is enough evidence to bind her over for trial, and if I do my job, there will be enough evidence to convict her. That doesn't mean you have to run around playing knight-errant tempting the fates—and me—with your life. I don't like finding you on the floor in a pool of blood every time I open the door to an elevator or crack house."
"It's not about you and me, Sam. We're both doing our jobs," Mason said. "That's all."
"No, Lou," she said, holding the steering wheel like it was a life preserver. "It is about us even if there isn't any us anymore. I don't want to find your body behind one of those doors. Don't make that part of my job."
Samantha reminded Mason of the difficulty he'd had letting go of his ex-wife, Kate. Mason didn't stop loving Kate because she stopped loving him. If anything, it made him love her more and want her more. It was a long time before he could think about her without feeling the hole in his heart. Self-pity filled the hole for a while, giving way to a dull emptiness, not healing until he met Abby. Mason hadn't understood the depth of Samantha's feelings for him when he let their relationship wither. After Kate, it was easier than a straight-ahead breakup, but it was cowardly, and he wasn't proud of himself.
"I'll do my best," he said.
"So, how's your new?" she asked him.
"Her name is Abby," Mason answered. "She's fine."
"That's nice," Samantha said, shifting the Crown Vic out of neutral.
It was mid-afternoon when Mason walked into Daphne's, followed by Samantha. Mickey, Claire, Harry, Blues, and Rachel Firestone were sitting at the dining room table, each poring over pages of the ledger. Daphne was circling the table, pouring lemonade.
"Oh, Dear Lord!" Daphne said when she saw Mason, blood-soaked and ragged. The pitcher slipped from her hand, shattering when it hit the hardwood floor.
Rachel bolted from her chair, grabbing Mason by the shoulders. "You're all right?" she asked.
Mickey slapped the table with an I-told-you-so thump. Blues and Harry permitted themselves small grins, while Claire waited quietly, her eyes filling. Mason walked to her side, putting his hand on her shoulder as he leaned over and kissed her on the cheek, whispering in her ear.
"I'm fine," he assured his aunt, squeezing the hand she placed over his.
Mickey and Rachel retrieved paper towels from the kitchen and began soaking up the lemonade. Daphne covered her mouth, regaining her composure.
"Samantha," she said. "Welcome back. I'm so pleased to see you again, especially with Lou," she added.
"It's good to see you again too, Daphne," Samantha said. "But this is a business call. I'm just dropping Lou off and picking up some papers. This looks like what I came for," she said, gathering the pages of the ledger from the table. "Is this it?" she asked Mason.
"That's it."
Looking at the people around the table, she said, "Looks like my list just got a little longer."
Mason didn't answer. Abby and Jordan were standing in the entry hall at the bottom of the stairs. Jordan backed away from Samantha, edging behind Blues. Abby took Mason's face in her hands.
"I'm sorry," Abby said, and kissed him softly, not caring about the crowd.
Daphne flushed and said, "Oh, my, I didn't realize," and took refuge in the kitchen.
Samantha cleared her throat, drawing Mason's attention. "I guess I better add another name," she said to him, and left.
"What list is she talking about?" Abby asked after Samantha drove away.
"I don't think it's her Christmas list," Blues answered. "Where the hell have you been and whose blood are you wearing?" he asked Mason.
Mason described the car-jacking and the dogfight. "Detective Greer thinks that if Centurion was willing to kill me because I kept a copy of the ledger, anyone who knows about it could be at risk."
"Since when did Sam become Detective Greer?" Mickey asked.
Rachel answered, "Since Daphne welcomed her and Lou home and Abby kissed and made up with Lou."
"Oh, my," Daphne said again. "I'll make some more lemonade."
"By the way," Mason said, aiming his cross-examination at Mickey. "What are Abby, Claire, and Rachel doing here?"
"Hey," Abby snapped. "Don't blame Mickey. Blame yourself for getting car-jacked and shot at instead of answering your phone. I got worried when I couldn't find you or Jordan, so I called Rachel and Claire. They guessed you would bring Jordan here. Apparently, you're something of a regular," she added with a sharp edge.
"Abby's right," Claire said. "You disappeared without a trace after you told Mickey you were going home and going to bed."
"This is a helluva story," Rachel said.
"Well, you can't write it yet," Mason told her. "Not without painting a bull's-eye on everyone's backs."
"Samantha is a good cop," Harry said. "Let her handle it."
"That would make sense except for one thing," Mason said. "Sam has a different agenda. She thinks Jordan killed Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. She may look at Centurion for the car-jacking, but she won't try to tie them together and consider someone else in the murders unless I can convince her it's all connected. The ledger is the only link and we don't know what it means. Terry Nix said it was a list of donors, but that's public information and this ledger is in code."
"Question is," Blues said, "what did they donate?"
"Or buy," Harry suggested. "Centurion was one of the biggest drug dealers in the region until we took him down. He would have gone away for the rest of his natural life if he hadn't rolled over on the people he was buying from. I'd say that he's still dealing and that ledger is a list of his preferred customers."
Mason said, "I admit that's the logical choice. But why risk the sweet deal he's got with Sanctuary to sell dope? He's paying himself a salary of three hundred and fifty thousand bucks, driving a Mercedes, and living large in the country."
"Then if he's not selling drugs, what is he selling?" Abby asked.
"Babies," Jordan said from the corner of the dining room.
They had ignored Jordan, almost forgetting that she was there. She captured their attention with a single word that none of them had considered.
"What are you saying?" Abby asked her.
"It's a list of illegal adoptions. Centurion sells babies."
"How do you know that?" Mason asked.
Jordan looked at them, hugging herself as she abandoned her corner. "Because he sold my baby girl. I want her back and I'll do anything I have to do to find her. That's why I took the ledger. Centurion is the one who should be worried, not us."
"Mickey," Mason said. "Did you make an extra copy of that ledger?"
"You know I did, Boss."
"Pass it out," Mason told him.
Chapter 22
Mason chased Jordan's ghosts and demons as he prepared for her preliminary hearing. He didn't trust Centurion to let matters lie, and convinced Jordan to remain at Daphne's. Mickey, Harry, and Blues continued their rotation. Abby found excuses to drop by, but didn't ask J
ordan for a DNA sample, settling instead for Jordan's face-splitting smile each time Abby walked in the room. At Samantha Greer's direction, a patrol car cruised the neighborhood every couple of hours. It was, she told Mason, the best she could do.
Mason found Centurion's ledger easy to understand and hard to decipher. He assumed that the initials shown on each entry were those of the adoptive parents; that the date shown was the date of the adoption; and that the amount listed was the purchase price for the baby. Either the letter P or B followed each entry, citations he couldn't interpret.
Abby broke that code at Mason's house Monday evening where she and Mason were observing the oneweek anniversary of Gina Davenport's murder. Tuffy was stretched out between them as they sat on the living room floor, rotating her head from one lap to the other, displaying a politician's loyalty to whoever did the better job of scratching behind her ears.
Abby sat up, plunking Tuffy's head on the floor. "P is for pink and B is for blue. Girls are pink and boys are blue," she announced. Tuffy stuck out her tongue, cuffed Abby on the thigh with her paw, and abandoned her for Mason. "I wish we could identify the adoptive parents," she said.
"That might help Jordan find her daughter, but it won't help me defend her," Mason said. "Maybe I've run down this blind alley long enough. I've got to get back to the murder, the physical evidence—anything to poke holes in the prosecutor's case."
"The entries in the ledger go back over twenty years," Abby said as if she hadn't heard him. "That's a long time." She handed Mason the ledger, pointing to the earliest entries.
"You're right," Mason said. "Plus some of these entries were made while Centurion was a guest of the State. I don't get that, but it still doesn't help me."
Abby nestled into Mason's shoulder, forcing Tuffy to share his lap with her. "What if," Abby said, hesitating to finish her question.
"What if what?" Mason asked. Abby's scent had become imprinted on him, as had the fine line from her chin to her neck and the way she absently brushed her hair behind her ear. She fit against him and he against her like pottery shards dug up and reunited, belonging, not clinging. "What?" he asked again, running his hand down her arm.
"What if the dates in the ledger aren't the dates of the adoptions. What if they are the dates the babies were born."
"So what?"
"So," she said, taking his hand, kissing the tip of his finger, and guiding it to an entry on the first page. "That's the date my baby and Jordan were born. Plus, it's a P— pink for girl."
Mason draped his arm across Abby, holding her. "You're trying too hard," he whispered.
"Maybe not hard enough," she said. "Call Jordan. Ask her when her baby was born."
"Okay," Mason said, sighing as he got up. He retrieved the cordless phone from the kitchen and came back to the living room as he spoke with Jordan. Abby was pacing. Tuffy was watching. He thanked Jordan and checked the date in the ledger. "It's a match, including the letter P," he said. "But that doesn't mean your baby, or Jordan, or her baby are in this book. Your baby and Jordan were born in St. Louis. Centurion does business in Kansas City. He doesn't have a St. Louis branch."
"Then why does he have a ledger with both those dates in it? And who dragged me into this mess in the first place?" A small ceiling spotlight meant for a painting long since removed splashed her face, casting her shadow against the empty wall where she stood. "Why would somebody do that?"
Mason went to her, blocking the light, dwarfing the shadow. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm beginning to think we better find out."
The next afternoon, Mason attended Trent Hackett's funeral, forcing his unwelcome condolences on Arthur and Carol Hackett. As he waited his turn in the throng that surrounded the family before the service, Mason overheard one woman remark to another how poised Carol Hackett was in the face of such an unspeakable tragedy that would only get worse if the rumors of the daughter's guilt proved true.
The Hacketts chose cremation, reminding Mason of Trent's hellfire greeting card. He hadn't figured Trent for a prophet, though he doubted Trent had seen his own future in the flames.
He sat with Jordan and Abby, one row behind the family section. Parents and daughter did not speak, though Jordan looked at them with such longing and despair that Mason thought she would vaporize if they touched. Arthur Hackett, his hard arrogance splintered, sheltered his wife with his burly arm, not able to make room for Jordan in his grief.
Jordan sat between Mason and Abby, her head bowed, her long hair obscuring her face from the unrelenting stares of mourning voyeurs, her tears falling onto her lap and disappearing into the dark fabric of her dress. When the minister began his eulogy, she grasped Abby's hand, interlocking their fingers, anchoring her to the pew. The minister spoke of family love, community sorrow, and God's forgiveness, none of which, Mason knew, would bind the Hacketts' wounds. Instead, he was reminded of his Aunt Claire's more earthbound philosophy—take care with the people you love because some things can't be fixed.
Samantha Greer watched from the rear of the church, waiting until afterward to talk to Mason as Abby ushered Jordan through the crowd.
"Centurion's lawyer invited me to Sanctuary," she told him as they stood outside. Mourners swept past them, anxious to escape the unspeakable grief of parents burying a murdered child.
"For dinner or just dessert?" Mason asked.
"Appetizers, plus a tour of the house," she said.
"Hoping you won't seek a search warrant," Mason said. "When are you going?"
"I went this morning. The lawyer answered all my questions. Centurion shined his smile on me and gave the tour."
"Waste of time?"
"Not for them. If I get a warrant to search or arrest, they'll say they have nothing to hide and are cooperating fully, using my visit as proof. Centurion knows we're watching him, so he'll be on his best behavior for a while. That takes some heat off of you."
"Any sign of my car? The rented Camry I'm driving is bad for my self-image."
"I'll let you know when your car hits the top of my give-a-shit list," Samantha said.
"That's not a charitable attitude," he said, enjoying the comfortable give-and-take that had first drawn them together. "What did you find out about my friends from the crack house?"
"I don't think they'll be missed since no one has claimed Tyrone's body and no one has filed a missing person's report on Richie. They had loose connections to Centurion from his days in the drug trade, but we haven't found evidence of any current contacts."
She wouldn't tell him anything else about her investigation, except to promise that she'd tell him what he needed to know when he needed to know it. Mason knew that wouldn't be until after Jordan's preliminary hearing.
"Your client is guilty," Samantha told him when Mason pressed her for more information. "Centurion's business—whether it's troubled kids, illegal drugs, or Babies-R-Us—has nothing to do with Gina Davenport's murder."
"You don't know that," Mason said, though he was less certain than she. He considered telling her about the entries in the baby ledger, but decided to wait until he had something more concrete to trade.
Samantha switched from ex-girlfriend to cop. "The investigation is ongoing and that's all you're getting out of me, so give it a rest. Besides, Jordan is about to become one of your best repeat clients. Tomorrow, we're charging her with killing her brother. The funeral is the only reason we waited. Bring her in by nine A.M. and tell her to bring a toothbrush. Judge Pistone will revoke her bail before you can say Your Honor."
"You can't be serious," Mason said, never doubting that she was.
"You know me better. Earl Luke Fisher puts her in the building for both Trent's and Gina's murders. Her fingerprints are all over her brother's office, including the computer monitor. She's got a motive, and the similarities to the Davenport murder make it an easy call."
"What similarities?"
"She threw one victim out the window and another through the computer screen. They're b
oth windows, just different kinds."
Mason couldn't give it a rest, but he couldn't prove the connection between Centurion's drug and baby business and the murders. Worse, he had no evidence that would convince Judge Pistone not to bind Jordan over for trial on the charge that she murdered Gina Davenport.
He considered calling Terry Nix to testify at the preliminary hearing that he had convinced Jordan to make a false confession. That, he realized, would force Nix to also testify that Jordan claimed Trent had raped her, setting up the motive for Trent's murder. Even if Nix's testimony caused Judge Pistone to doubt Jordan's confession, it would blow a hole in his defense of Jordan in the murder of her brother. Mason was caught in a vicious cross-rough and couldn't see his way out.
Abby escorted Jordan to Harry's car. He pulled out behind Mickey, Blues following, completing the three-car caravan. Mason watched them go before asking Abby to come to Daphne's that evening, wondering how to tell Jordan to pack her bag.
He told Jordan the only way he could—straight. She reacted the only way she knew—violently. They were alone in the den at Daphne's, a room crowded with overstuffed furniture, soft light, and thick carpet. Jordan hurled a Tiffany lamp, snapping the cord from the wall, slamming it into the fireplace mantel.
"I didn't kill the little bastard," she said, her breath heaving through clenched teeth. "I goddamn wish I did, but I'm not going to jail for something I didn't do!" Blues rushed into the room, trailed by Abby, who slipped past him before he sealed the doorway with his body. Mason held Abby back.
Jordan had confessed to killing Gina with near serenity compared to her attack on the lamp. Mason preferred spontaneous, volcanic denials to studied confessions, though he knew that neither guaranteed honesty. It was the contrast that struck him most, though he didn't have time to sort out its meaning as Jordan cast about for another missile.
"I can't make it sound like something it isn't," Mason told her, encouraged for the moment that her hands were balled in fists instead of wrapped around another antique. "The judge is going to revoke your bail. You're in a bad spot, but you're just going to have to gut it out. Gina's case will go to trial first. If we win, the judge may let you out on bail."
