by Joel Goldman
Samantha sighed, pursing her lips, realizing the trap she'd walked into. "No, she isn't."
"Who was the other person?"
"Trent Hackett," she said, forcing Mason to drag it out of her.
"What violent crime did you suspect he committed?"
"He tampered with the elevator in the Cable Depot, causing it to crash. He was the building manager and had access to the elevator controls."
"Who was Trent Hackett's intended victim?" Mason asked, boring in as Judge Pistone sat upright in the still courtroom.
Samantha said, "You were. We suspected that Trent was trying to prevent you from investigating the defendant's claim that he had raped her."
"Arthur and Carol Hackett didn't believe Jordan's claim against her brother and they're both alive. Gina Davenport believed it and she's dead. I believed it and Trent Hackett tried to kill me. That's what you thought, isn't it, Detective Greer?"
"Yes," Samantha answered, glaring at Mason, forgetting their past.
"No further questions."
Chapter 24
Blues on Broadway was a throwback to piano bars and gin joints that flourished during Kansas City's jazz heyday, before night clubs and restaurants became mini-theme parks for corporations more concerned with demographics than getting down with the sound. A rectangular bar struck from mahogany stood in the middle of the floor. An ebony grand piano on a low riser with room to add a trio, plus black-leather-lined booths bathed in blue shadows tossed from pinpoint spots buried in the ceiling, said this was a place to kick back and listen.
It was early Saturday morning and the last paying customers had tumbled out the door. Mickey was tending bar for Mason and Harry, who were perched on stools listening to Blues pick riffs off the piano. The notes clung together, fell apart, and found each other again, like subatomic particles.
"Putting Dr. Gina's murder on Trent was the smart play," Mickey said. "I mean Pistone was going to bind her over no matter what you did," he told Mason.
"Pistone did the only thing he could do—order Jordan to stand trial and let the jury decide. Blaming Trent was a chump's play," Mason said, "but it was the only one I had."
"I don't get why it was a chump's play," Mickey said. "It fits with the evidence and gives the jury a way out."
Harry tapped his empty bottle on the bar and Mickey replaced it with another cold one. "It's like this," Harry explained. "Blaming Trent for killing Gina gives Jordan another motive for killing Trent, not that she needed one. First her brother raped her, then he killed the one person who believed her story and was going to do something about it."
"Then all we have to do is figure out who killed Trent," Mickey said. "Why is everyone acting like the dog died?"
"Because," Blues said, running his knuckles across the keys, "I'm betting on one killer, not two. The murders are tied together by the killer's rage. Throwing Gina through the window and slam-dunking Trent into the computer monitor takes a whole lot of poison. So far, Jordan is the only one that fits that description."
"So, where do we start?" Mickey asked.
No one answered. Harry nursed his beer. Blues tapped out a string of chords, not finding the melody he wanted. Mason leafed through Dr. Gina's book, The Way You Do the Things You Do, stopping at the chapter about her daughter's suicide, reading the opening paragraph twice.
"Gina's daughter, Emily, was born in St. Louis," he said, looking up from the book.
"And I was born under a lucky star," Mickey said. "So what?"
"She was born in the same hospital as Jordan, only a week earlier. Gina says her hard labor was a sign of things to come," Mason said. "Take a look," he told Harry, sliding the open book in front of him.
"I take your word for it," Harry said, finishing his beer, Mason feeling stupid, forgetting about Harry's eyesight.
Mickey picked up the book. "I don't," he said, reading the chapter to himself.
Mason said, "Jordan and Emily were best friends. Both of them end up pregnant and living at Sanctuary. Emily killed herself before her baby was born. Jordan says Centurion sold her baby. Somebody hooks Abby up with Gina Davenport, implying that Gina knows what happened to the baby Abby gave up for adoption. The dates in Centurion's baby ledger match up with the birth dates of Abby's and Jordan's daughters."
Harry said, "What's the connection to the murders?"
"I don't know," Mason said. "But if we're looking for someone else to tie to both murders, we might as well start at the beginning and it looks like the beginning is at a hospital in St. Louis."
"Here's something else I don't get," Mickey said, putting the book down. "Dr. Gina writes about Emily committing suicide, but leaves out the part about Emily being pregnant. I wonder why she'd do that."
"I'll add it to my list of things that don't make sense about this case," Mason said. "In the meantime, we've got to take everyone back to when they were in diapers. Harry, can you get one of your buddies in the department to run a check on Robert Davenport? Find out if he's ever been busted for buying or dealing dope. Maybe he was hooked up with Centurion."
"I've still got a few favors coming," Harry said. "Might even be easier on the weekend. Less chance Samantha might catch someone bird-dogging her case."
"Great," Mason said. "Mickey, take another look at those IRS reports for Sanctuary. Follow the money. We're missing something, let's find it."
"No problem. You want me to check out Emily's Fund at the same time?"
"Good call. Start fresh with everything and everybody," Mason told him. "Blues, take a look at Centurion. I want to know how he got into the baby business and if he's still in the drug business."
"Samantha's got him on good behavior for the time being. I start poking around, he may come after you again," Blues said.
"Then don't get caught poking around," Mason said, grinning at his friend.
"I'll tiptoe," Blues said. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to St. Louis."
Abby and Mason had rocketed through the official dates that marked the first stage of a new relationship, cruising into the what-are-we-doing-tonight stage that assumed they would be together that night and every night. They hadn't talked about it or negotiated terms, they'd just let it happen, each catching the other staring with bemused satisfaction, sharing a quick smile, a dip of the head, or a knowing wink.
He left her a message Saturday morning explaining why he wasn't available that night, that he was going for a run and would call her later. When he got back from Loose Park, she was waiting on his front step with an overnight bag, scratching Tuffy behind the ears.
"Don't tell me I'm not going, or that I'll be in the way, or that it will be too dangerous or too boring. I'm going," Abby said.
"Do I look lucky or stupid?" Mason asked her, wiping sweat from his face with his T-shirt.
"Stupid if you give me any trouble. Lucky if you pick a good hotel."
"How about the Ritz in Clayton?"
"Umm," she said, standing up. "It's good to be lucky, but lucky and loaded is most unusual." She rubbed her hand on his chest, balling his sweaty T-shirt in her fingers.
"You'll have to settle for lucky. I've got a coupon for a free weekend at a Marriott Courtyard. Continental breakfast included. Still interested?"
"Definitely" she said, kissing him. "I love Continental breakfasts. The oatmeal buffet is very romantic."
"I'll get you extra brown sugar. I've got one stop to make before we go," he said.
"I hope it's the shower."
"Okay, two stops. The second one is at Robert Davenport's studio and that's a solo appearance. He's tough enough to get anything out of without having to explain why you are there. I want him focused on me, not you."
"Are you patronizing me or flattering me?" she asked, twisting his T-shirt again with playful annoyance.
"You already ruled out stupid," Mason answered.
Mason found Robert in his studio, stretched out on a futon, nodding his head to a beat only he could hear.
Mason watched him paint imaginary strokes with imaginary brushes, his eyelids fluttering. An empty needle lay on the floor next to the futon, explaining why Robert could hear music without sound, paint without brushes, and see with his eyes closed.
Mason squatted at Robert's side. "Hey, Robert. You got company, man."
Robert opened his eyes, squinting and grimacing as if Mason was a bad dream. "Go way," Robert mumbled. "No assholes today."
Mason grabbed him, pulling him up. Robert was all rubber arms and legs, like a doped-up, life-sized Gumby doll. Mason tried propping him up on a stool, but had to catch him before he fell over. Hoisting Robert again, Mason dumped him back on the futon, letting the high pass, using the time to look around the studio.
Robert had described himself as a decent artist. Mason thumbed through the canvasses stacked around the studio, finding nothing that stirred him, including the nudes. Robert painted the women without facial features, exaggerating their breasts and genitalia. Mason couldn't tell whether the paintings were unfinished or a reflection of Robert's inner psyche.
A corner of the studio was partitioned with a desk on the other side. Mason sat in the swivel desk chair, and began a methodical search of the drawers, finding nothing more interesting than class schedules. The bottom drawer was for files that hung on metal rails on the sides of the drawer, though Robert's files were laid flat, stacked one on top of another. When Mason lifted them out, he discovered why the files weren't hung from the sides. The drawer had a false bottom. Mason found a letter opener and pried the bottom panel out of the drawer.
The hidden space was Robert's combination medicine cabinet and safety deposit box, concealing a small bag of cocaine, three smaller bags of a darker powder Mason guessed to be heroin, and three syringes. Mason found a letter-size envelope underneath the drugs. He opened the envelope, pulling out four photographs that jolted him like one of Robert's needles.
The photographs were fish-eyed images of Gina Davenport and Max Coyle locked in naked embraces that gave new meaning to his client's nickname, Mad Max. The date of the photographs—August 15—was superimposed in the corner of each frame, confirming that Max was the boyfriend Gina had broken up with two weeks before she was killed. Mason guessed that Robert hid the camera in the ceiling above their bed as an insurance policy against the day Gina decided to dump him.
The first time Mason and Robert talked, Robert denied knowing whom Gina had been seeing. Mason wasn't surprised that Robert lied, though he did wonder what Robert intended to do with the photographs now that his wife was dead. He doubted that Robert had shown them to the police. If he had, the cops would have questioned Max and Max would have called Mason. Mason kept the photographs, but put the drugs back. Robert was curled on his side, his knees to his chest, moaning as the heroin slowly released him. Mason didn't say good-bye.
The pictures of Max and Gina reaffirmed Mason's confidence in the capacity of people to be stupid. It wasn't that people would lie, cheat, and steal. He depended on that to make a living. It was that some people would get up in the morning, make a list of the dumbest things they could do, and spend the rest of the day checking them off after completing each one. Max, Gina, and Robert were at the head of the class.
When the people were strangers, Mason found their behavior puzzling, amusing, and intriguing. When the people were his friends—as Max was—he found it sad. Max was also his client, which made his discovery of the photographs more complicated. He had represented Max only in Max's lawsuit against David Evans. Technically, there was nothing about that representation that required Mason to suppress evidence that would make Max a suspect in Gina's murder.
That was a lawyer's distinction Max would not appreciate. As far as Max was concerned, Mason was his lawyer, charged with keeping his secrets secret. He wouldn't understand when Mason told him the pictures made him a suspect in Gina's murder and that he'd better get another lawyer. Mason called Max on his cell phone, finding him playing in a charity golf tournament to raise money for kids with leukemia. He told Mason to meet him at the halfway house between the ninth and tenth holes.
Mason had played golf enough times to know that his talents lay elsewhere and to be grateful that his law practice wasn't cultivated on the links. His backswing was so twisted that it positioned his club for self-colonoscopy, producing shots that put everyone on the course in harm's way.
The tournament was being played at a course built to sell the million-dollar homes that surrounded it in what the developers called a lifestyle community. Calling it a mere subdivision devalued the experience. Putting a guardhouse at the entrance of the private street that led past homes to the golf course reminded the residents that the rich were different.
Max was waiting in his golf cart parked outside the halfway house, signing autographs and posing for pictures, beaming from beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat as each photo was snapped. Mason doubted Max would be as eager to see the photographs in the envelope tucked under his arm.
Paula Sutton, the acerbic host of KWIN's morning show, intercepted Mason with the beer cart she was driving before he reached Max.
"Hey, stranger," she said. "You missed the tee-off, but you can still get a cold beer."
"I'll pass," Mason said. "How'd you get stuck playing bartender instead of golf?"
"Highest and best use," she answered. "The station is a big sponsor of the tournament. The Hacketts are keeping a low profile after everything that's happened, but Arthur ordered the rest of us to show the flag. You don't strike me as a country-clubber. What are you doing here?"
"I'm going to audit Max's scorecard," Mason joked, knowing she would see him talking with Max. "Tell me something," he said, changing the subject. "When we talked at the radio station, you said that Gina Davenport ducked under her morality bar like she was doing the limbo. What did you mean? That dance may have gotten her killed."
Paula flashed a sly smile, giving Mason a fleeting image of her doing the limbo while the crowd chanted, "How low can you go?" She patted the empty passenger seat. "Climb aboard," she said.
Mason waved at Max as they passed him, mouthing that he'd be right back. Paula stopped in a grove of apple trees on a hill overlooking the green at the end of a long fairway. She got out of the cart, plucked two apples, tossing one to Mason and taking a bite out of hers. A foursome was working its way toward them.
"A good-looking woman offers me an apple in the middle of a twenty-first-century Garden of Eden," Mason said. "Pretty tempting."
"You like forbidden fruit?" she asked, taking another bite and wiping the juice from her mouth with the back of her hand.
"As long as it doesn't come from a poisonous tree," he said. "Tell me about Gina."
Paula tossed the half-eaten apple on the ground. "All business," she said, disappointed at Mason's answer. "What a waste. Gina slept around, but I bet you figured that out already."
"How long had you known her?" Mason asked.
"Since she was on the air, five or six years, I guess."
"What did you know about her daughter, Emily?" Mason asked.
Paula blanched, caught off guard by Mason's question, relieved by the shouted orders for cold beer from the golfers who had reached the green. She delivered four cans to the golfers, regaining her composure when she returned to the cart.
"I better get you back to Max before he tries to add up his score by himself. Since you settled his case, he can't add anything less than six figures."
"Does that mean you'll tell me about Gina sleeping around, but not about her daughter?"
Paula took a breath. "There's not much to tell. I'd met Emily a few times. She was a head case. Gina had plenty of advice for everyone else. None of it worked with her own kid."
Paula pushed the cart's gas pedal to the floor, flying down the hill and taking a turn so sharply Mason had to hold on to keep from being thrown out. After wanting to take him for a ride, Paula couldn't wait to get him out of her cart. Mason wanted to know why and took a shot at one
of the missing links in the case.
"Did you ever hear Gina mention a woman named Abby Lieberman?" he asked.
They were back at the halfway house where the driver of another golf cart appeared from around a tree, causing Paula to veer hard to her left as the cart skidded to a stop. "Shit!" she said as the beer cooler bounced off the back of the cart, spilling cans and bottles.
Max pulled up on his cart, laughing. "Christ, Paula. We're giving the stuff away, not throwing it away," he said, until he saw how Paula was trembling. "Hey, girl— are you okay?"
Paula waved off his concern. "Yeah, I'm great. I need a cigarette," she said, leaving Mason and Max to clean up her mess.
"What was that all about?" Max asked Mason.
"She's not a fan of the game, I guess," Mason answered. "We need to talk, Max."
"So talk, Lou."
Mason looked around, spying an empty gazebo near the halfway house. "Privately," Mason said, leading the way, waiting until they were out of earshot. The gazebo was barely big enough for the wooden table and four chairs underneath its pitched roof. Mason felt himself shrink in Max's shadow, sensing the intimidation opposing linemen or wrestlers must have felt the instant before Max earned his nickname.
"Sit down, Max," Mason said, hoping to contain him, but knowing better than to dance around the subject. "Were you and Gina Davenport screwing around?"
Max laughed, banging his ham-sized hand on the table. "Are you kidding me? Is that what you came out here to ask me? Why the hell would a classy, uptown woman like Gina take a tumble with me?"
"I don't know, Max. You tell me, because her husband says she broke off an affair with someone just before she was killed. The cops would want to talk with the boyfriend."
"Lou," he said, his face darkening, "you got something to say, say it."
Mason tapped the envelope on the table. "I'm not saying anything, Max. I'm asking."
Max bit his lower lip and tugged at his chin as he eyed the envelope. "You're my lawyer, right? Anything I tell you is confidential, right?"
