by Joel Goldman
Blues lay on top of Sandra, shielding her. Kelly returned fire as the Escalade made the corner turn and disappeared.
“You okay?” she asked Mason.
“Yeah,” he said, shaking as he stood. “That Escalade—I’d swear it’s the same one from the highway on the way back from the lake.”
“Stay here.”
Kelly made a wide circle, flashing her badge and motioning bystanders who’d rushed onto the street to back up, protecting the crime scene. When the first police officers arrived, she handed the scene off to them and joined Mason, who was leaning against a tree, his heart slowing to a normal rhythm.
“You recognized the car. I recognized the shooter. It was Jimmie Camaya.”
“The guy gets around. Who was he after? You or me?”
Her eyes were red, her jaw clenched. “Do you have a preference?”
“Yeah,” he said, taking her in his arms. “Me. It’s not even close.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, taking his hand. “I didn’t mean that. This case is tough enough. If Camaya is involved, it’s only going to get uglier.”
“Boogeymen and ghosts.”
“Yeah, and I didn’t hit either one of them.”
A tall, beefy, barrel-chested man wearing an olive gabardine suit, his shirt damp around the collar, interrupted them. His face was large, round, and uneven, like a pumpkin.
“Lou, what are you doing in this mess?”
Mason smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn, Harry! Am I glad to see you! It’s a long story. I’ll let her tell you. Sheriff Kelly Holt, say hello to Detective Harry Ryman.”
“Kansas City Police Department, ma’am,” Harry said.
“Kelly Holt,” she replied. “Pope County Sheriff.”
“Harry’s like family,” Mason explained.
“What he means is, his aunt Claire and me been together long enough to be family. So what’s this about?”
Kelly gave him a quick rundown on the murders of Richard Sullivan and Harlan Christenson and her ID of Jimmie Camaya. Harry took notes, then turned to Mason.
“Your aunt is worried about you—you know that, don’t you?”
“I do.”
“And this cluster isn’t going to help any. You get yourself killed and I’ll never hear the end of it.”
Mason laughed. “I’ll do my best to keep you out of the doghouse.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Harry pointed to Mason’s Acura. The car was peppered with bullet holes. “It’s evidence. We’ll have to tow it in. I’ll let you know when you can have it back.”
Blues and Sandra joined them. Harry and Blues barely acknowledged each other.
“Evening, Detective Ryman,” Blues said.
“I should have known you’d be in the middle of this mess, Bluestone,” Harry said.
“Lou and his friends stopped in for dinner. That’s all.”
“There’s no such thing as ‘that’s all’ with you. You were trouble when you were on the force, and nothing’s changed.” Turning to Mason, he added, “I’ll get someone to take you home.”
“Save it, Ryman,” Blues said. “I’ve got him.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
“Let’s caravan to Sandra’s,” Blues said after Harry left. “Make sure she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Makes sense,” Kelly said.
“Anyone want to know what I think?” Sandra asked. They looked at her. “I think it’s a hell of a good idea.”
Mason rode with Kelly while Blues took Sandra home. “What’s the history between Harry and Blues, besides bad?”
“Blues blames Harry for getting him kicked out of the police department and Harry thinks Blues should be in jail.”
“Who’s right?”
“I wasn’t there, and I’m not picking sides.”
Kelly parked in front of Mason’s house, Blues nosing in behind her. The front door was open, the blue porch light off.
“You leave the door open?” Blues asked him.
“No.”
“Are you strapped?” Kelly asked Blues.
He raised his shirt, showing her the holster on his hip.
“I’ll take the back,” Kelly said.
Blues nodded his agreement. “You wait here,” he told Mason.
“And do what if Camaya pays me another visit while you’re inside?”
“Fair point. Stay behind me and keep your mouth shut.”
The deadbolt on the door was splintered. Blues eased the door the rest of the way open, crouching as he stepped inside, sweeping his gun through each room on the first floor, meeting Kelly in the kitchen. Tuffy stood next to her, wagging her tail.
“I found the dog hiding behind the firewood on the patio,” she said.
Mason scratched her behind the ears. “Your German shepherd ancestors would be very embarrassed.”
They checked the bedrooms and the basement and found no one lurking behind shower curtains or behind closed doors. All they found was a mess. Everything soft was sliced open. Everything solid was broken.
The wreckage was systematic, purposeful. The photographs of Tobiah and Hinda lay on the dining room floor amidst the shattered glass that had covered them. Tobiah had a scratch beneath his right eye. Hinda was fine. Their candlesticks lay close by, unharmed. Someone wanted something. Mason didn’t have a clue what it was.
“Call it in,” Kelly said to Blues.
Harry Ryman was there minutes later. “Your aunt isn’t going to like this. She loves this house. That’s why she gave it to you. And she’s more than partial to you. I’ll have a couple of uniforms out front.”
“That’s not necessary. I can’t sleep here tonight anyway. I’ll stay with Blues.”
“Then get out of here and let me do my job.” He shot Blues a hard look. “Anything happens to him, Bluestone …” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
When they got to Blues’s house, Mason flopped in an easy chair with Tuffy curled at his feet. He tried to make sense of a day in which he’d lost his job, his car, his home, and his possessions and nearly lost his life—all for reasons he couldn’t fathom. He thought of his great-grandparents and their escape from the pogroms. They had lost everything they had held dear, except for a pair of candlesticks. Yet they recovered, starting a new life in a new world. He still had their candlesticks, but he wondered if he had their courage. Kelly and Blues were in the kitchen, deciding his future.
“What will he do now?” Kelly asked.
“Only thing he can do. Start over.”
Mason spent the night flip-flopping between half-fetal and half-pretzel positions in Blues’s easy chair. When he woke up, Kelly was asleep in the kitchen, folded onto the butcher-block table.
The sun made a cameo appearance on the eastern horizon before bowing out to the vagaries of a Kansas City summer that breeds thunderstorms faster than time-lapse photography. By the time they gathered at the breakfast table, a fleet of towering thunderheads had formed in the distant southwest sky, readying for an assault on the city. The hum of the window-unit air conditioner bolted in above the kitchen sink added a strained chorus to an already tense morning.
“I still say one of us should be with him at all times. We’ll take twelve-hour shifts,” Kelly said.
Red-eyed and wrinkled, she slid a half pint of milk across the table. Blues stirred a tall glass of iced coffee, declining the milk and the suggestion.
“If Jimmie Camaya is hunting our boy, and he’s half as good as you say, it isn’t going to do any good to walk Lou across the street even if both of us hold his hands. Besides, you’re a sheriff who’s a long way from home.”
Kelly pushed away from the table and threw the game plan back to Blues. “What do you suggest? Call Camaya and tell him to meet us on Main Street at high noon?”
“No. Not yet, anyway. Lou needs to take a trip.”
Mason pulled an orange into two sections as juice squirted on his T-shirt.
“Wrong,” he
said. “Drive-by shootings are the summer’s top team sport. Besides, if this guy was Camaya, he was probably after Kelly to finish off his last job. I’m just an unemployed lawyer. Nobody’s mad at me except MasterCard.”
“And the people who trashed your house were just an overzealous cleaning crew,” Kelly said.
“Random chance. Odds are the same as winning the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes—just my lucky day.”
“We’ll put that on your tombstone,” Blues said. “Somebody’s decided to reestablish the pecking order with you at the bottom.”
“Look, I’ve lost my job, my car, and my La-Z-Boy recliner. I’m not going to be run out of town.”
“So, Counselor, what are you going to do?” Kelly asked. “Print résumés and go door-to-door? Be sure and tell the receptionist that the guy who’s shooting at you is really aiming for someone else.”
“I’m going to go home, shower, and change. Then I’m going to the office and get some answers from Scott. You could do one thing for me that I would appreciate.”
“What? Pick up your dry cleaning?” Kelly asked.
“That too. I left my briefcase in my car. Can you find out where the cops towed it?”
“What’s in the briefcase?” Kelly and Blues asked in unison.
“C’mon, guys. Pens, paper. Stuff from the office. Nobody would try to kill me for that.”
“What’s in the briefcase, Lou?” they repeated.
Mason raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Copies of the memos on O’Malley and his billing records. Nothing somebody couldn’t get with a lot less trouble than shooting up a neighborhood and pillaging my house.”
“Buddy of mine handles impounded vehicles. I’ll check it out. Kelly, take Clarence Darrow home, and I’ll call you there.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Two uniformed cops parked in the driveway of Mason’s house greeted them.
“Any more company?” Kelly asked them.
“Just a nosy neighbor from across the street,” one of them said.
“Good. Who’s that?” Kelly asked, pointing to a man getting out of a sedan parked across the street.
“I’m Nelson Sloane,” the man said, waving at them. “Senior casualty adjuster for the American Casualty Insurance Company. You must be Mr. Mason.” He handed Mason his card. “Well, Mr. Mason, I’ve seen worse. Vandals can’t hold a candle to a good old-fashioned hurricane.”
He looked up at Mason from thick black-framed glasses. A pencil rested above his right ear, a clipboard clenched under his left arm.
“How’d you find out about this? I haven’t turned in a claim yet.”
Sloane consulted his clipboard. “Telephone report of the claim came in last night about eleven. Source was a Mr. Bluestone. I asked him how he knew to call us and he said he’s your landlord and you asked him to find your insurance information in your office and make the call for you. The police let me have a look at your car this morning. It’s totaled. A few bullet holes can be hammered out and painted over, but your car looked like someone used it for target practice. Let’s have a look inside. I’m sure we can agree on a figure for your household contents.”
Kelly turned to the uniforms. “When he’s done with the adjuster, take him downtown.”
“Where are you going?” Mason asked.
“Public health department. I’m going to have a look at Sullivan’s records.”
Mason led Sloane inside, going room to room, wide-eyed at the destruction. No piece of furniture had been spared. Shattered stereo equipment and televisions lay on the floor. Cabinets and drawers were emptied and upended. Even his dishes had been broken.
The bedroom he’d converted to a study was a shambles. The only item untouched was his computer.
The lining of his suits and sport jackets had been sliced open. The rest of his clothes were scattered all over the floor of his bedroom. It reminded him of when he was sixteen.
“No regard, no regard,” Sloane said, taking notes on his clipboard. “I’ll wait for you at my car.”
Mason sifted through the piles until he found a pair of Dockers and a polo shirt in good enough condition to wear. Thirty minutes later, he was showered, shaved, dressed, and ready for Nelson Sloane.
Sloane laid out the claim form on the hood of his car and handed Mason a check.
“That’s for your Acura. Kelly Blue Book says that’s all we can pay.”
Mason looked at the check. “Ten thousand dollars? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“The car was eight years old and, even without the bullet holes, in poor condition.”
Mason glared at Sloane, but the adjuster was unmoved. “I’m afraid things aren’t as simple with the damage to your personal property.”
“Let me down gently. It’s been a bad day already.”
“Well, sir. It’s classic good news and bad news.” Sloane rocked back on the balls of his feet, a comedian dying for his straight man to deliver the setup.
Mason sighed. “Okay, Sloane. Give it to me. Both barrels.”
“I put your loss at fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Mason. But you’re only covered for twenty-five thousand. You should have increased your policy limits instead of trying to skimp. Never pays to skimp on insurance, Mr. Mason. No, sir, it never pays.”
“That’s it?”
Sloane stuttered. “Umm, well … actually, you are entitled to a hundred dollars a week for temporary living expenses for five weeks. Brings the total to twenty-five thousand five hundred. I can give you a check right now and we’ll have everything picked up and sold for salvage. Gives the company a chance to get some of its money back, if you know what I mean.”
He winked at Mason, who resisted the urge to yank Sloane’s eyelids down over his chin.
“Does that mean I get my premiums back too?” Sloane squinted at Mason, trying to decide if he was serious. “Forget it. I’ll keep my clothes, the pictures of my great-grandparents, their candlesticks, and my computer. You can have the rest.”
“Splendid, Mr. Mason. Splendid indeed!”
Sloane showed Mason where to sign, handing him checks for his car and his personal property as Anna Karelson strolled down her driveway and joined them.
“My goodness, Lou. What happened? Where’s Tuffy?”
She was wearing flowered capri pants and a halter top brimming over from a firmer time in her life. Her frosted hair was piled on top of her head. She’d been lying out in the sun but was one of those people who splotched instead of tanned. Mason felt a sudden sympathy for her husband, Jack.
“It was some crazy kids, Anna. They trashed the place. Tuffy and I are staying with a friend of mine. Anything new with you and Jack?” he asked to change the subject.
“The SOB still wants me to take him back. He just wants that damn TR6.”
Mason lusted for the car as much as Jack, but she’d ignored his hints in their previous conversations that he’d be happy to take the car off her hands.
“Why don’t you sell it?”
“Can I do that?”
“The car is titled in both of your names. You can do anything you want with it.”
“But I wouldn’t even know what to ask for it.”
Mason knew what he was doing, and he was only mildly ashamed of himself.
“Let my adjuster tell you. Sloane, what’s the Blue Book value on a low-mileage 1976 TR6 in excellent condition?”
Sloane consulted his book. “Ten thousand dollars.”
“Anna, you’ve let this car come between you and your husband. If you have any hope at all of reconciliation, you have to find out if he wants you more than the car.”
She looked at him with the pleading eyes of one who was lost and was about to be found. “Yes, that makes sense.”
“I need a car. Normally, I’d spend a lot of time researching in Consumer Reports and haggling with dealers. But I don’t have time for all that. Anna, we can help each other.”
Fifteen minutes later, Mason had en
dorsed his check for ten thousand dollars to Anna, she had signed the title to the TR6 over to Mason, and Sloane had sold Mason a policy on his new car. He was halfway to Sullivan & Christenson’s office, top down, wind in his hair, when he realized that he’d forgotten his police escort and that he hadn’t heard from Blues.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Mason felt weirdly self-conscious riding the elevator up to the office he’d been thrown out of the day before. There weren’t many places he had been thrown out of, especially ones that he wanted to leave anyway.
Yesterday, he had been angry and embarrassed. Today, he was angry and scared. He half hoped to be met by a welcome-back committee of former partners, led by Scott saying it had all been a mistake. It reminded him of kids who fantasized about their divorced parents getting remarried. His fantasy dissolved when a security guard wouldn’t let him off the elevator. He rode back down and walked outside looking for a can to kick.
Mason needed to talk to Scott. He still believed in the rule of reason, and he still trusted in the loyalty of friends, even when the friend had cut him off at the knees. He’d been trained to be a creative problem solver, but his training was for a different game, and he was running out of patience.
It was only eleven a.m. If Scott stuck to his routine, he’d spend the noon hour in the pool at the Mid-America Club, a couple of blocks from the office. Mason decided to wait for him there.
The Mid-America Club was a venerable Kansas City institution, which meant that it hadn’t been decorated since Eisenhower was president and didn’t accept Jews, blacks, and women as members until it didn’t have a choice.
Scott was the lone lunch-hour swimmer. His normal stroke was powerful, controlled, and precise, but today he was beating the water. Mason waited for him to surface at the shallow end. Five laps later, Scott stopped, pulled his goggles above his eyebrows, and shook his head at Mason.
“What do you want, Lou?” He sounded tired, as though he’d been worn down by something tougher than a mile swim.
