by Joel Goldman
"I need a good bottle of wine for tonight. You have anything in the Blues on Broadway wine cellar?"
"Since when is the closet in my office a wine cellar?"
"I can't tell my date I got the wine out of your closet, can I?"
"You can't even tell her what color it is. How are you going to tell her where you got it?"
"I'll be there in five minutes. Pick a good one and give me one of those things to get the cork out."
Abby lived in a loft in the Crossroads District in the shadow of Union Station. Ten years ago, the neighborhood was dominated by run-down warehouses and cheap dives. Now it was a mix of lofts and businesses, art galleries and restaurants. The area was still rough around the edges, with a strip joint and residential hotels one step removed from flophouses hanging on to the old days.
Abby's loft was on the top floor of a four-story building. She had taped a message to the front door, telling him to come in and take the stairs to the roof. The loft was a vast open space surrounded by sandblasted brick walls, the high ceiling supported by brick columns. Black and white photographs and sculptures made of woven fabric hung on the walls, softening the brick's coarse mortar. Simple furniture heavy with pillows rested on throw rugs like an oasis on the hardwood floors. Music drifted along air currents stirred by broad-limbed ceiling fans. He listened for a moment to be certain. It was Oscar Peterson on the piano. God is good, Mason thought.
A wrought-iron spiral staircase near the center of one wall led to a platform and an open door to the roof. Outside, Abby was leaning against a waist-high limestone rail at the building's edge, watching the early evening foot traffic below. She was wearing jeans, her white denim shirt untucked, sleeves half rolled up.
"Hey," Mason said.
Abby turned, stretching her arms out along the low wall, shimmering in the trailing light left as the sun sank behind her, a burnt orange pearl slipping into an indigo sea.
"Hey, you," she said.
"Nice roof."
"It's just something to keep over my head. Nothing special," Abby said.
Mason grinned. "We're being very cool, aren't we?"
"The coolest."
"I brought wine," he said.
"What color?" she asked.
"The one in between red and white," he said joining her at the rail, holding the bottle up to catch the last rays of sun. "I'm no expert, but I think it's called pink."
"Pink is a very good color," she said.
He handed her the bottle, keeping both their hands around its neck, taking her other hand in his, drawing her close. "I thought I'd try both hands this time."
"Don't let go," she said, and kissed him.
"Not a chance," he said, wrapping his arm around her, taking his turn to kiss her.
Abby slipped her hand behind his neck, pulling him to her, both lowering the bottle of wine until it dangled from their joined hands, inches from the ground, releasing it, laughing when it landed upright.
"Who knew they sold that stuff in plastic bottles," Mason said.
"Only at the really good convenience stores," she said, Mason stroking her cheek, brushing her hair back, smiling like he had a secret.
"What?" she asked.
"Nothing," Mason said. "I was just thinking that magic and miracles aren't often found on rooftops."
"You said it was a nice roof."
"That I did," he said, kissing her again, feeling her warmth and the soft comfort of her body against his.
"It's gone," she said as the sun disappeared. "Think we should eat dinner?"
"I'd hate to disappoint the cook."
"I'd hate to disappoint the rotisserie chicken I bought at Costco. I promised the butcher I'd give it a good home," she said.
"We could give the chicken a reprieve," he said, gathering her in his arms again, his cell phone ringing, Mason ignoring it until Abby plucked it off the clip on his belt.
"The client is job one," she said, handing him the phone and kissing the tip of his nose.
"Mason!" Centurion Johnson said. "That bitch of yours done cleaned out her room, split, and stole my god-damn Mercedes!"
Chapter 13
"I'm going with you," Abby told Mason.
"Bad idea. I don't even know where I'm going."
"Of course you do. You're going to find Jordan and I'm going with you."
Mason picked up the bottle of wine. "It would be better if you chilled this until I came back."
"I'll let it turn to vinegar first. Don't patronize me, Lou. If it will make you feel any better, I don't want to lose three hundred thousand dollars on a hunch and a prayer that Jordan may be my daughter."
Mason did a double take. "I wouldn't have pegged you for a mercenary."
"I'm not. I'm giving you a reason I'm going with you that you can justify without giving me a bunch of crap about being an emotional female who will get in the way."
"You're good at this public relations stuff," he said.
"I'm the best. Let's get going."
Mason called Jordan's parents, counting it as his first break when Carol Hackett answered. If Arthur knew that his daughter was missing, he'd call the cops and Jordan would be back in jail. Mason wasn't certain she didn't belong there. He wasn't certain of anything, including her innocence. That's why he had to find her. Carol Hackett hadn't heard from Jordan. Mason didn't tell Carol that Jordan had disappeared, and Carol didn't ask the reason for his call. Sometimes, Mason realized, denial came in handy.
Mason and Abby sat in Mason's TR-6 at the curb in front of Abby's building, Mason realizing how little he knew about his client, who her friends were, where she liked to hang out, anything that would help him find her.
Abby said, "Any chance Jordan just took Centurion's Mercedes for a joy ride or that she went shopping with a girlfriend?"
"Centurion said she cleaned out her room. Didn't even leave a toothbrush. Doesn't sound like she was planning on coming back."
"If she's running away, that Mercedes is going to be easy to find," Abby said. "Did Centurion report the car as stolen?"
"Not yet," Mason said. "My guess is that Centurion doesn't want the cops crawling all over it. A car like that with an owner like Centurion may have a few secrets of its own."
"So where do we go? I don't think she's going to drive by and wave while we sit here," Abby said.
"The last time she skipped out, she went to Gina Davenport's office looking for a diary she'd given to Gina. Maybe she went back to get something else."
The Cable Depot was five minutes from Abby's loft. Mason took his time, circling the streets within several blocks of the Depot.
"Looking for a good parking space?" Abby asked.
"We're looking for Centurion's Mercedes. It has a vanity plate with his name on it. Last time, Jordan parked somewhere around here."
"We've taken the tour three times," Abby said a short while later. "The car isn't here."
Mason edged the nose of the TR-6 down an alley behind a row of apartment buildings two blocks south of the Cable Depot. The Mercedes was wedged between two buildings, blocking a side alley. Mason climbed out of his car, peered through the tinted windows, jiggled the locked doors and trunk, and called Mickey Shanahan.
"I lost the keys to my Mercedes," Mason told Mickey.
"Boss, you don't own a Mercedes."
"If I did and I lost the keys, could you unlock it for me?"
"Piece of cake. Where's this Mercedes you don't own and can't find the keys for?"
Mason told him. "Bring Blues. Tell him there may be some dirty laundry in the car. Take it somewhere we can get a closer look at it."
Abby said, "Tell me you aren't stealing that car."
"I'm not stealing that car," Mason said. "According to Centurion, it's already been stolen. I'm just helping him get it back."
Abby laughed, leaving out the humor. "If Centurion buys that story, I'm hiring you to do my PR."
Earl Luke Fisher was camped out on the park bench across the street from
the Cable Depot, a grocery cart crammed with stuffed black trash bags screening him from the street. Though Mason had watched the Channel 6 videotape enough times that he could pick Fisher out of a hobo convention, he asked to be polite.
"You Earl Luke Fisher?" Mason asked.
Earl Luke was stretched out on the bench, using a filthy bedroll as a pillow, the green neck of a bottle sticking out of a brown bag nestled under one arm like the favorite stuffed animal a child took to bed. Mason and Abby caught their breath; Earl Luke reeked like warm garbage on a hot day. If begging didn't work out, he could rent himself out as a breeding ground for bluebottle flies.
"Mebbe," Earl Luke muttered.
"I saw you on TV," Mason said.
Earl Luke sat up, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, ignoring Mason. "Pretty lady," he said to Abby, giving her a jack-o'-lantern smile showcasing his few remaining teeth. "I was on TV, you know."
"I've got a videotape of it. Any time you want to watch it, you give me a call," Mason told him, handing him a business card. "How long have you been here tonight?"
Earl Luke wiped his face with his hands, trying to focus on something so unimportant to him as the time. He pulled the bottle of wine from the paper bag, measuring how much remained with his fingers.
"A while," he said. "Since before dark. This is my spot," he added, making it clear that was explanation enough.
"Did you see a woman go into that building? A young woman with brown hair, probably wearing jeans and a T-shirt."
Earl Luke took a long pull on his bottle and flashed his horror-show gums at Abby.
"It's very important, Mr. Fisher," Abby said. "I'd really appreciate any help you can give me."
Earl Luke lit up with a glow he wouldn't find in the wine bottle. "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "I seen that girl a while ago."
"Has she come back out?" Abby asked.
"Don't know," Earl Luke said. "My eyes ain't what they used to be. The VA, they used to gimme glasses, but I quit going over there. They was always talking to me 'bout getting into some goddamn program or 'nother. Shit, I say to those goddamn bureaucrats! I ain't never comin' back to your goddamn hospital, I tole 'em, and by God, I ain't been back neither."
"Thank you, Earl Luke," Abby told him, Mason crossing the street. "You've been a great help."
Mason had kept the key Trent Hackett had given him. "I thought you were going to take Earl Luke home," he said to Abby as he unlocked the front door to the Cable Depot.
Abby said, "There's no room at the inn. I'm already booked."
"Will you hold the reservation for a late arrival?"
"Well…" she said with a sly smile, drawing out her answer. "Unless I get a better offer." Mason stared at Abby, wide-eyed and hopeful. "It's okay, Lou. You don't have to win all the banter battles," she told him.
"I surrender," he said.
"Careful," she answered. "You haven't heard my terms."
Gina Davenport's office was empty, the latest round of crime-scene tape gone. KWIN's offices were unlocked.
"Let's have a look," Mason said.
Abby followed him through the vacant lobby, down the hall to Arthur Hackett's office, nearly colliding with Max Coyle, carrying a tall Starbuck's cup in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.
"Lou!" Coyle said, "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Jordan. Have you seen her?"
"Nope. I was just wrapping up some promos."
"Anyone else here?" Mason asked him.
"Just me. The nighttime programming is all syndicated and runs on automation. Isn't Jordan supposed to be out at the joint in the country for the whacked-out kids, what's it called?"
"Sanctuary," Mason said.
"Right. So if she's supposed to be there, why are you looking for her in here?"
"I need the exercise, Max. Do me a favor, forget I asked."
Max nodded. "No problem, Lou. You gonna introduce me?" he asked, beaming down on Abby, Abby beaming back up.
"I'm Abby Lieberman," she said. "I saw you when you won the heavyweight belt."
"You know him?" Mason asked.
"You were more fun as a wrestler than you were as a football player. I like your show."
"Watch out, Lou. She likes wrestlers," Max told him. "I'm outta here."
Mason and Abby finished a quick tour of KWIN, checking Gina's office again in case Jordan had slipped past them.
"The Hacketts' son, Trent, is the building manager," Mason said. "Let's see if he's working late. Maybe he's seen Jordan."
Light showed along the bottom of the door to Trent's office. They stood outside the door listening to grinding rap music blaring inside. There was no reply when Mason knocked on the door.
"Trent, open up! It's Lou Mason," he said, knocking harder.
Abby reached in front of Mason, turning the doorknob. "See how easy this is," she said as she pushed the door open and screamed.
Trent Hackett was slumped over his desk, his head punched halfway through his computer monitor, blood pooling on the desk from his slashed throat, running down his dangling arm, dripping onto the floor.
Samantha Greer told Mason and Abby to wait outside while detectives and forensics swarmed over the scene. One uniformed cop stretched yellow crime-scene tape across the revolving door while another cop set up barricades blocking traffic on 6th Street. Sirens summoned people living on Quality Hill a few blocks south, the crowd gathering in Earl Luke's park across the street.
Half an hour after the cops arrived, Arthur Hackett shoved his way through the crowd and demanded to be let inside. Mason had listened when Samantha called him, asking him to come down, but not telling him about his son, preferring to tell him in person. She wanted to spare him the intolerable ride downtown and gauge firsthand his reaction to his son's murder.
"That's my building!" Hackett said when a cop tried to turn him away. The officer relented when Hackett produced identification.
Mason was glad that Hackett had not noticed him. There would be plenty of time for that confrontation. Hackett would demand answers Mason couldn't give even if he knew what they were. He had already had a similar conversation with Samantha.
"Lou, what were you and Ms. Lieberman doing here?"
Mason caught the undertone of Samantha's question, calling him by his first name, a soft concession to past intimacy, calling Abby by her last name, a stiff reminder that their relationship hadn't ended as easily as they pretended.
"I stopped by to return the key Trent gave me the other day. You remember he said it would cost me twenty-five dollars if I didn't."
Samantha nodded. "I'll disregard the bullshit for now, Lou. You get your story straight and we'll talk tomorrow. Any reason I should ask your client where she spent her evening?"
"None that I can think of," Mason said. Except, he thought, that Trent Hackett raped Jordan eight years ago, spawning a simmering rage that she may have vented by killing her therapist and her brother. "Don't forget she is my client and accidentally show up at Sanctuary to talk with her when I'm not around."
"That would be against the rules, Counselor. Same as obstructing justice. Wait outside."
Mason was good at doing what he was told when he had no choice, especially when he was buying time. He crossed the street to the park looking for Earl Luke. He wanted to question him further before the cops got to him. Earl Luke was holding forth in front of a small group, including David Evans. Evans handed Earl Luke a five-dollar bill, peeling away, bumping into Mason.
"Trolling for another piece of business?" he asked Mason.
"Nope. Just enjoying the crisp night air. What brings you downtown to a murder scene on a Friday night? No movies left at Blockbuster?"
Evans smiled. "Okay, I was out of line. Sorry. I live on Quality Hill. I was sitting on my deck and heard the sirens so I thought I'd take a look. People here look out for one another. We're a neighborhood watch area."
"Yeah," Mason said. "With a bum for a night watchman."
"You m
ean Earl Luke? He's harmless, except for a smell that will bleach your teeth. I give him a few bucks now and then. I know he spends it on booze, but it makes me feel better."
"Kind of like your work for Emily's Fund, huh?" Mason couldn't rinse the hostility out of his question, and Evans made him regret it.
"You don't give up, do you, Mason? You're like a dog that keeps gnawing a bone even after sucking out all the marrow. Private foundations like Emily's Fund file annual reports with the IRS called Form 990. The form covers all income, expenses, and disbursements. You can download the forms for Emily's Fund from the Internet. Knock yourself out, but leave me alone."
Abby took Mason's hand, leading him away. "You don't make friends easily," she teased him.
"David Evans is a lawyer who also claims to be a money manager. A hot market makes guys like him look smart and lets them suck in unsophisticated clients. Your hero, Max Coyle, was one of them. Evans put Max into high-risk stuff, promising it was guaranteed, and churned the account until Max went bust. I sued Evans and he settled a couple of weeks ago. I don't think I'm on his Christmas list."
Samantha Greer cut through the crowd, stopping in front of Mason and Abby. Mason started to release Abby's hand, but she pulled his fingers back into her palm. Samantha cleared her throat, making certain they knew she was pretending not to notice or care.
"Where's your client, Lou? I need to talk to her."
"Why?"
"For starters, her brother has been murdered."
"I'd rather tell her about that," he said.
"You can have the honors. I want to know where she's been since she left the courthouse today."
"I'll talk to her and let you know."
Samantha pointed her balled fist and forefinger at Lou. "Don't do this, Lou. Your client has already confessed to one murder."
"A confession she made under pressure and which she has recanted. That doesn't make her a suspect in this murder."
"Maybe not, but her father does," Samantha said.
Mason knew what was coming, but he had to make Samantha say it. "How's that?"
