Cold Truth

by Joel Goldman

  "I don't know what you mean," she said.

  Mason took her by the arm, pulling her to her feet, a red welt rising beneath her right eye, the imprint of the slap he'd witnessed from outside the Depot. "Don't play me, Carol," Mason said.

  Carol jerked her head back like she'd been struck again, breaking away from Mason, her back to him. "You don't know anything!"

  Mason said. "I know a lot, but not all of it. I know that you and Arthur were living in St. Louis at the same time as the Davenports and David Evans. I know that Arthur was selling ads for a radio station and you were working for the city in the Vital Records department. I know Gina Davenport couldn't get pregnant and couldn't adopt because her husband was an addict."

  Carol turned around, her mouth open. "We were young. We had a child. We needed the extra money," she said, giving the long-rehearsed answer to the question Mason had yet to ask.

  "Nothing wrong with that," Mason said. "Selling advertising was tough, I'll bet, and the city couldn't have paid much. Is that why you did it? For the money?"

  "Did what?" she asked, arms folded over her chest. "I didn't do anything."

  "If you don't count forging Emily Davenport's birth certificate," Mason said, Carol going pale. "You wouldn't have done it on your own. Evans must have put you up to it. How did he get to you? Was it money or sex or both?"

  "Please, Mr. Mason. My husband!" she said.

  "Evans isn't going to kill your husband. If he does, he knows the cops will open the trunk before I do. Besides, crocodile tears aren't your strong suit. Arthur must have hit you pretty hard tonight," Mason added, taking a guess.

  Carol covered her cheek with her hand. "How could you . . ."

  "How could I know?" Mason asked. "What matters is that I do know, and I know that you went to see Evans last night. You're starting to look like an accomplice to the murders of Gina Davenport and your son."

  "No!" Carol said. "It was Arthur!"

  "Try again. If your husband were the killer, you and Evans would have turned him in so the two of you could have lived happily ever after. Instead, Evans cold-cocked Arthur until he could get rid of him someplace else. You probably screamed because he got blood on your clothes."

  "He's my husband," she hissed.

  "And Trent was your son and Jordan is your daughter," Mason said.

  Carol deflated, staggering backward against a pillar supporting the ceiling, Mason's words hitting harder than her husband had. "I never wanted children," she said softly. "It's terrible to say, but I didn't want them. I thought I was done after Trent was born, but Arthur insisted we adopt Jordan."

  "All you wanted was David Evans. How did you hook up with him?"

  Carol nodded her head, shaking with the confession. "He was the lawyer that took care of Jordan's adoption."

  "He take his fee in favors?" Mason asked.

  "It wasn't like that," she answered.

  "It never is."

  Carol said, "He told me Abby Lieberman was the baby's mother, but she didn't want the baby, that the Davenports did but couldn't adopt because of some technicalities. He made it seem like the birth certificate was a small thing, that it was an easy way to get everyone what they wanted."

  "Jumping your lawyer's bones while your husband was home with the kids seem like a small thing too?"

  "It must be nice to always have such a finely tuned moral center, Mr. Mason. I wasn't so fortunate. I got over David and did my job as a wife and mother," she said, squaring her shoulders and straightening her clothes, ironing out her guilt with a sharp crease.

  "Don't tempt me," Mason said. "You did your job so well that when Trent raped Jordan, you and your husband swept it under the psychiatric rug."

  Carol squeezed a bitter glare from narrow eyes. "What would you do, Mr. Mason? You make it sound so simple. One child accuses, the other denies. It happens a dozen times a day with children, a hundred times a week, a thousand times a year. Which one would you pick? What would you do?"

  "I would have had her examined by a doctor. I would have asked the hard questions. I would have tried to find out the truth. Did you do that?" he asked, Carol not answering, Mason boring in. "No, you called Jordan a liar and let her brother call her a slut until she went crazy. Then you called Gina Davenport."

  "That was Arthur's idea."

  "You couldn't tell Arthur he'd picked a therapist who committed a felony to get her own baby because he would find out what you had done. Is that why he hit you tonight? Did you finally tell him?"

  "He knew about the birth certificate from the start, except I told him someone else in the office had done it and that I wasn't supposed to know about it. That's why he picked Gina. He was worried Jordan would tell her therapist about the rape and that the therapist would have to report it to the social services people. He said we could use the information about Gina's baby to keep her quiet, but we didn't have to because Jordan didn't tell Gina about Trent."

  "Not until just before Gina was killed," Mason said. "By then, Arthur was using the information to pressure Gina on her contract. Did Arthur know about you and David?"

  "Not until tonight," she answered, fingering the welt on her face.

  "It must have made for interesting dinner conversation when Arthur hired Gina to do the radio show. What a small world it is, he must have told you. I hired Jordan's shrink. Her lawyer is David Evans. Remember him, honey? He's the lawyer that helped us with Jordan's adoption. After all those years, you still had a thing for Evans and you hooked up with him again."

  Carol looked away, another silent admission. Mason said, "Things really got complicated when Arthur used the information about Emily to pressure Gina on her contract. Evans couldn't have liked that."

  Carol shook her head. "No, he didn't. He told me to get Arthur to back off or he'd tell Arthur about us and about what I had done."

  "Some boyfriend," Mason said. "Didn't you know he was screwing Paula Sutton too?"

  "I'm not proud of myself," Carol said.

  "That's a relief," Mason answered.

  "We were afraid Jordan was guilty. Then she confessed and we thought it would be over soon. When Trent was killed, we couldn't imagine who else could have done it."

  "Innocence can be inconvenient," Mason said.

  "Arthur knew you suspected him and was afraid you would find out about the phone call to Abby Lieberman."

  "And you were afraid I would find out about you," Mason said.

  Carol said, "After we saw the news last night about Sanctuary and the police said it had nothing to do with Jordan, Arthur knew you would keep pushing until you found out what he'd done."

  "So Arthur went to see Paula Sutton to make sure she stayed quiet."

  Carol looked at the Mercedes, covering her hand with her heart as the car shook from the struggle inside the trunk. Mason ignored the muffled sounds, keeping the pressure on her. "Why did you go see Evans last night?"

  "Gina accused David of stealing from her and from Sanctuary. She fired him and convinced Sanctuary to fire him too. David told me Gina had embezzled the money and he was going to sue Sanctuary if the board didn't reinstate him. Arthur was trying to work it out."

  "You told Evans what Arthur had done so Evans could use that against Arthur, level the blackmail playing field," Mason said. "Did Evans tell you to set up the meeting tonight at the radio station so the two of them could make a deal?"

  "Yes," Carol said, fresh tears icing her makeup. "The studio is automated on Saturday night. The program

  ming is all syndicated. No one else would be there."

  "The negotiations must not have gone well."

  "They started screaming at each other. David threatened Arthur and told him about us. Arthur hit me and accused David of killing Gina to cover up his theft. David had a gun. Then all of this happened," she said, waving her hand.

  The Mercedes roared to life, its tires squealing and burning against the polished cement floor as Evans gunned the car into reverse aiming at them. Mason do
ve out of the car's path as it fishtailed, the rear bumper catapulting Carol against the wall, the Mercedes careening up the drive, the garage door slowly rising, the roof of the car clipping the bottom of the door as Evans swerved into the night.

  Carol lay crumpled against the wall, her arms and legs askew like a rag doll, eyes open, lips barely moving, mouthing Mason's name. He leaned over, his ear to her mouth.

  "Trent," she managed. "David blamed you. He said he would get even," she added, the soft puff of her last breath dying against Mason's cheek.

  Earl Luke called to Mason. "Is it safe to come out now?"

  "Not hardly," Mason said.

  Chapter 40

  Mason sat on the floor, his back against the wall, staring at the spot where Carol Hackett died, Blues, Harry, and Mickey standing in front of him, a protective wedge. Carol's mangled body was gone, but Mason could still see her lying there, another deadly image hung on permanent display in his mental gallery, her last words a blot against his soul. Evans had pushed down the backseat of the Mercedes, climbing over Arthur Hackett, slipping into the front seat. Mason hadn't killed Carol and couldn't have saved her, but that didn't end it. The books didn't balance.

  David Evans had killed Gina to get even with her for exposing his theft, and tried to kill Mason to get even with him for Max Coyle's lawsuit, using the passkey Trent Hackett had given him to get into the elevator control room. Trent, Mason realized, must have figured that out and put the screws to Evans. Evans killed Trent, rationalizing that murder as another debt owed to Mason.

  ***

  Soon after Samantha Greer and her forensic crew arrived, Mason called Abby, telling her what had happened, promising to come over as soon as Samantha let him go. Abby, her voice brittle and sad, said okay, Mason feeling her slipping away, the violence that surrounded him and stained her too much to absorb.

  It was nearly one in the morning, cold air pouring down the basement drive from the open door forcing Mason to his feet, the flashing red glare from a squad car parked at the entrance washing the walls. Samantha, combing her hair with her fingers, her eyes hollow with fatigue, her jaw set, was running the show, listening to the latest reports from her people, saving him for the last.

  "We missed him at the airport," she said to Mason.

  "Evans?"

  "No, the tooth fairy," she said. "He dumped the Mer-cedes at one of those private parking lots a couple of miles from the terminal. Security guard was monitoring the police band, heard the APB, and called it in."

  "What about Arthur Hackett?" Mason asked.

  "Dead," Samantha said. "Evans took a shuttle to Terminal A. A sales clerk ID'd him, said he bought a travel bag and some clothes."

  Mason said, "He'd have a better chance of getting through airport security if he had luggage, but I'm still surprised he'd try. He'd be arrested the minute he got off the plane."

  "He didn't try," Samantha said. "He took another shuttle to Terminal B and bought a ticket for Oakland, but he never got on the plane. Instead, he rented a car. It was a pretty sloppy effort to cover his trail, but it bought him some time. The rental car has one of those GPS systems, lets us track him by satellite. He just crossed into Iowa, probably heading for Canada. Highway patrol should have him in custody soon."

  "What about Jordan?" Mason asked.

  "Ortiz says she'll be ready to go by nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Check that," Samantha said, looking at her watch. "Make that nine o'clock this morning."

  "Thanks," Mason said.

  Samantha shook her head. "Don't thank me, Lou. Just do me a favor. Hang up your spurs. Let somebody else play cowboy. This isn't for you. You're not good enough or lucky enough to keep this up."

  Mason breathed deeply, Samantha giving voice to his own fears. "I'm thinking about taking some time off," Mason said.

  "Take it with your new. What's her name? Abby?" Mason nodded, knowing that Samantha knew her name. "Yeah, take it with her. Get him out of here," she said to Harry.

  Time off with Abby. It was a simple antidote, Mason thought, driving to her loft, windows down, the chill air a brisk reminder he was alive. He'd dived into the dark water again, scraping the bottom before coming out on the other side, weary, not exhilarated. Samantha was right. He had been more lucky than good and luck was too thin a hedge against death, particularly when he had more to lose than ever before.

  Mason had used the law not just to save Jordan and the other desperate clients who had come before her.

  He had used it as an excuse to dive into the dark water, playing blindman's bluff with demons. He resolved to stay out of the water, unless it came with a beach, a cold drink in a tall glass with a floating umbrella, and Abby. It was time for time off.

  He practiced the closing argument he would make for Abby, beginning with his love for her, of which he was certain. He would tell her that a couple of weeks on the beach wouldn't erase the memories of the last month, but it would give them time for a proper beginning. He would promise to change his law practice, give up criminal defense work—embrace the ambulance chase, he would add with a smirk she wouldn't be able to resist.

  He hadn't called to say he was on the way, hoping she was asleep, not wanting to wake her. Now he wanted her awake, as wide-eyed with his vision of their future as was he. Taking the stairs two at a time, he raced to the fourth floor, fumbling with the key she had given him, calling her name.

  "Abby! Start packing!" he boomed, swinging her door open. David Evans was waiting for him, twisting Abby's arm behind her back, a knife to her throat, the dark water swallowing him again.

  Mason saw Evans, saw the knife, blocked them out, focusing only on Abby, his eyes promising her everything would be okay, hers not believing him, Evans slicing Abby's neck with the tip of the knife, drawing a trickle of blood, breaking Mason's silent promise.

  "Paybacks are hell," Evans said.

  "I'll kill you," Mason said.

  "Sure you will," Evans answered. "She'll be just as dead. You'll have to live with that. I won't have to spend ten years on death row waiting to get the needle. We're even."

  "All because of Max's lawsuit?" Mason asked.

  "You don't get all the credit, Lou, but you did put me on the road to ruin. I could settle cheap with the other clients who complained. Especially since I was taking the money out of Emily's Fund and Sanctuary."

  "I don't settle cheap," Mason said.

  "You pushed too hard, cost too much money. Plus the bad publicity was a killer. The money to settle Max's case was too much to get past Gina. She caught me. I killed her. I didn't think I could do it, but I did."

  "Trent figured you for the elevator since you had a passkey. Instead of telling the cops, he tried to cash in and you killed him." Mason knew he was right, and didn't care whether Evans confessed. He was buying time, blood running down Abby's neck like sand running out of an hourglass.

  "That's one kid no one was going to miss. He was like you in a way. He just kept pushing until I couldn't take it anymore."

  "You cut Centurion in on the skim from Sanctuary," Mason said. "That's why he agreed to kill me."

  "With Trent gone, I needed someone else to take the blame. Centurion owed me."

  "Carol with the car and Arthur with the gun. Back on your own."

  "Necessity," Evans said.

  "Why aren't you in Iowa?"

  Evans laughed, pressing his knife against Abby's throat. "Why the hell would I be in Iowa? There's nobody there I have to kill." Mason didn't answer, but Evans caught on. "Oh, I get it! The rental car. I was counting on the GPS to keep the cops busy. I picked up a hitchhiker near the airport. Gave him the car and he dropped me off at a hotel and I caught their courtesy shuttle downtown."

  Abby's phone rang, all three of them jumping at the noise, Mason glad to see that Evans wasn't as cool as he pretended. The phone was on a small table ten feet from Mason, three from Evans and Abby.

  "If she doesn't answer, whoever is calling will get suspicious."

 
; "I don't care if they get religious," Evans said. "She doesn't answer the phone."

  Mason couldn't remember how many times Abby's phone would ring before the answering machine picked up the call. "You're having too much fun now," Mason told him. "You can't screw it up by not letting her answer. You don't want to die. You want to get away so you can gloat over my dead body."

  Evans licked his lips, his eyes flashing from the phone to Mason. "Okay. There's a speaker button. Use that," he told Mason, then to Abby, "Play it cool or you die after hello."

  Mason crossed to the phone, punching the speaker button, Abby answering, her voice dry. "Yes," she said, Mason loving her more for her greeting. Abby always answered by saying "It's Abby," even when he'd called her earlier that evening. She was sending a message that something was different, a little thing that could make a difference if the caller knew her well enough.

  "Miss Lieberman? It's Detective Samantha Greer. I'm sorry to bother you so late and I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I'm looking for Lou Mason. Is he there?"

  Evans shook his head, Abby answering, "No, Detective. He left a while ago. I'm afraid we had a fight."

  "I'm sorry to hear that," Samantha said. "And I'm sorry I bothered you."

  "You should be," Abby said, summoning a low-grade outrage, continuing before Evans could cut her off. "We fought about you. He said he was still in love with you and I threw him out. I thought he'd be with you by now."

  Samantha didn't answer at first, Evans edging toward the phone, pushing Abby in front of him. Samantha finally went on. "Then I'm doubly sorry. I didn't mean for that to happen. I'll leave you alone now."

  Evans kept his knife on Abby, reaching around her to disconnect the call. Mason took his chance, pivoting inside on Evans, grabbing Evans's knife hand, jamming his shoulder into Evans's chin, taking both of them to the floor, knocking Abby free. Mason rolled, Evans plunging the knife, catching Mason's bicep, then his chest, Mason grunting, scrambling away. Then Evans was on him, Mason blocking the knife with his forearm, blood spurting from his wounds.