by Joel Goldman
"Whitney King. He knows Mary hired me to get a pardon for her son."
Holding up one hand, reaching for the door with the other, Samantha said, "Do you have any idea how crazy that is? A jury found King innocent. Getting a pardon for someone who was just executed for two brutal murders from a governor who denied him clemency and is running for reelection isn't exactly something Whitney King would lose any sleep over. Besides, he's probably a big campaign contributor and the governor cares a whole lot more about money from the living than he does pardons for the dead."
"I'll tell you what's crazy, Sam," Mason said, grabbing the handle on the door. "The jurors in King's case take a vow of silence and then start turning up dead."
"What are you talking about?" she said, sharpening her question.
"I'm talking about four out of twelve jurors who are dead. Two of them in accidents that probably weren't, and two of them shot in the face, including Sonni Efron. I haven't tracked down the rest of the jury yet."
"You may be certifiable this time, Lou, if you want me to believe that Whitney King fixed the jury in his murder trial fifteen years ago, then turned around and started killing the jurors to keep them quiet."
Mason smiled. Samantha's scenario fleshed out his own ill-formed suspicions. "Doesn't sound so crazy when you say it out loud."
"It's stupid!" Samantha said. "In the first place, the kid was seventeen at the time. How's he going to fix anything, including his lunch? In the second place, why kill the jurors after all these years if they've kept quiet. And, if they haven't, once he kills one or two of them, the rest are going to fall all over each other talking so we'll protect them. None of which has a damn thing to do with your client, I might add."
"Sure it does," Mason said. "If Mary and Nick are out of the picture, I've got no reason to stir things up. It all stays quiet."
"So now you're telling me that Nick Byrnes is missing too?"
The door opened before Mason could answer. Phil, the voice from upstairs, handed Samantha a cordless phone. He was a few inches shy of Mason's six feet, soft in the middle, losing his hair. He was wearing an open terrycloth robe over boxer shorts and house slippers.
"It's for you," he said. Samantha took the phone, walking into her front yard, cupping her hand over the mouthpiece. Phil turned to Mason, "Phone rings more in the middle of the night than it did with my ex-wife, and she was a doctor, but at least no one knocked on the door."
"Sweet dreams," Mason told him as Phil trudged up the stairs, scratching his backside, the back of his robe bobbing like a tail.
Samantha cut small circles in the yard, Mason not able to hear her end of the conversation, moon shadows dancing through a red oak, splashing at her feet. Her call finished, she tucked the phone under one arm, chewing her lip, eyes narrowed, like she couldn't decide what to do with Mason. Thank him or smack him.
"We found your client," she said, arms folded over her chest again.
Mason crossed the short distance to Samantha, his shadow enveloping hers, his pulse jumping, knowing that cops didn't call each other with good news in the middle of the night.
"Where is she?" Mason asked.
"Not Mary. Nick. He's in the hospital."
"What happened?"
"Whitney King shot him."
Chapter 19
Nick Byrnes was at St. Joseph Hospital in south Kansas City, twenty miles and a lifetime from Samantha Greer's house. The light and siren on Samantha's car brushed aside what little traffic there was at that hour. Mason followed Samantha south on I-29, merging into I-35, crossing the Paseo Bridge over the Missouri River, all night gamblers still hitting on sixteen at the riverboat casino docked next to the bridge.
They picked up the Bruce R. Watkins Memorial Freeway on the east side of downtown, cresting a hill with a panoramic view of the skyline to the west and the Channel 5 television tower farther south, an exoskeleton patriotically illuminated in red, white, and blue that dominated midtown. Mason replayed what little Samantha had told him about the shooting.
"Looks like self-defense," she had said. "There's at least one witness who vouches for King, says Nick came after King with a gun. King tried to take it away from him and it went off."
"How many times?" Mason had asked, the question rising in his throat like bile. He couldn't forgive himself for letting Nick race out of his office, threatening King. Mason didn't take the threat seriously. He knew better, but blamed Blues anyway for inciting the boy.
"Once. In the chest. It's bad, but St. Joe's trauma docs are good. He's got a chance."
Mason had a lot more questions, but they would have to wait. They covered the twenty miles in fifteen minutes, their cars racing in tandem. Mason was a step behind Samantha as they passed through the ER on their way to the surgery waiting area. A uniformed cop picked them up, whispering an update to Samantha, glancing warily at Mason.
Samantha's partner, Al Kolatch, was already there, sitting with an elderly couple Mason guessed were Nick's grandparents. The woman rested her head on the man's shoulder, both of them white haired and slight, his arm around her. Both sets of eyes were red, the woman's face crumpled, the man's face hard. Kolatch fidgeted with his notepad, stirring a cup of coffee, forcing himself to stay in his chair. Comforting the unconsolable was not one of his strengths.
Samantha joined Kolatch, shaking hands with the man; the woman lifted her head for a moment, no strength for more questions. She motioned Kolatch to the other side of the waiting room, their conversation an exchange of murmurs and nods out of Mason's earshot. Samantha took Kolatch's place with the couple, coaxing a few more answers out of them while Kolatch briefed Mason.
"Your boy's in bad shape," Kolatch began.
"So I'm told," Mason said. "What went down?"
Kolatch looked at his notepad. "About eight o'clock last night, your client assaulted a Mr. Whitney King in the parking lot of his office building in the Holmes Corporate Centre just off I-435."
Mason knew the area. I-435 was the beltway around Kansas City. Holmes Corporate Centre was only a couple of miles east of the hospital. Office towers with an outer skin that reflected like mirrors.
"I know where it is," he told Kolatch. "What do you mean my client assaulted King?"
"Assault, Counselor. Threatening bodily harm. It's a Class B felony. Only since your client had a gun and threatened to kill Mr. King, it's assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder. Both of which are Class A felonies. That's what I mean."
"That doesn't tell me what happened," Mason said. "Did Nick say anything? Was there an argument? Or am I supposed to believe Nick just walked up to King, stuck a gun under his nose, and King took the gun away and shot Nick?"
"Sorry, Counselor. Your client did better than that," Kolatch said without any sign of regret. "He was screaming at King about King killing his parents, that he wasn't going to let King get away with murder any more, crap like that. Same kind of threats it turns out he had been making by e-mail, only this time he delivered in person. King grabbed for the gun, it went off. End of story."
"King tell you about the e-mail?" Mason asked, remembering the copies Sandra Connelly had given him.
"Nope. His lawyer did. Good-looking gal, too, but I'm guessing she'd cut your nuts off for sport. King called her before we got to the scene. She was waiting for us downtown when we brought King in."
"Did you charge him?"
"With what? Self-defense is the law, Counselor. It isn't against the law."
Mason looked past Kolatch to Samantha. "Are those people Nick's grandparents?"
Kolatch nodded. "Martin and Esther Byrnes. Nice folks.
Don't seem right, though. Having their son and daughter-inlaw murdered, then their grandson pulls a stunt like this. Some kids got no gratitude."
Mason wanted to assault Kolatch for his charitable disposition. "You don't cut any slack for a kid who's sleeping in the backseat of the car while his parents are beaten to death outside the car, then grows up knowing that the g
uy who did it is walking around everyday laughing in his beer about getting away with murder?"
"Whitney King was acquitted. That means he was innocent," Kolatch said.
"No, that means he wasn't found guilty. That's all it means," Mason answered. "How long has Nick been in surgery?"
"About four hours. One of the docs came out a while ago, said they'd be done pretty soon one way or the other."
"Where'd you learn your bedside manner, Kolatch?" Mason asked. "A meatpacking plant?"
"Wise guy," Kolatch said. "Sam told me."
"Yeah. She told me there was a witness. Who was it?"
"Can't beat this one," Kolatch said. "A priest. Name of Father Steve Ramsey."
Mason did a double take; his hand on Kolatch's shoulder, betting against an outbreak of priests in Kansas City named Father Steve. "Short guy, kind of heavy? Smells like an ashtray." Mason asked. "Tell me the name again?"
"Father Steve Ramsey," Kolatch said. "Hey, you know the guy. Am I right?"
"You've got a keen mind, detective," Mason answered. "Sam told me."
A doctor pushed open the door, pulling his surgical cap off his head, wadding it in his hands, his face as long as War and Peace, pulling up a chair next to the Byrneses. Samantha threw her arm around Esther Byrnes, layering it on top of Martin's. Mason sidestepped Kolatch, getting as close to the grandparents as he could without Samantha or Kolatch hustling him away.
"He's going to make it," the doctor said. Esther erupted in tears as Martin clamped down harder. "But we don't know how fully he will recover. The bullet fragmented and part of it is pressing up against his spinal cord. We can't get it out, at least not yet. It's too risky until he's a little stronger."
"Are you telling us he's going to be a cripple?" Martin Byrnes asked.
The doctor took a deep breath. "Your grandson is paralyzed and on a ventilator so he can breathe. The next forty-eight hours are critical. If we can keep him stable, go back in and get the rest of the bullet out, and if the cord is only bruised, he'll be okay. If not," he paused. "We've got some very good rehabilitation people. Advances are being made every day. I'm sorry," the doctor added, patting them both on the shoulder as he left.
Samantha motioned Mason out into the hall. "They don't want to talk to you," she told him.
"The grandparents?" Mason asked. "They don't even know who I am."
"I told them. They think this is all your fault."
"My fault?" Mason asked. "Whose gun was it? The grandfather's?"
"He kept it locked up. Nick found the key. Doesn't change anything for them. They said Nick hadn't been able to find a lawyer to take his case until he ran into you at Kowalczyk's execution. They were hoping the statute of limitations would run out and Nick would finally let it go. Then you told him what a great case he had."
"He does have a great case," Mason insisted.
"Save it, Lou. I'm not your audience. They said Nick came to see you yesterday. When he came home, he was really upset but wouldn't tell his grandparents why. What hap
pened?"
"Sorry, Sam. You know that's privileged."
"Bullshit, Lou! Nick told his grandparents someone else was there besides the two of you. Who was it? Blues? Because if it was anybody not on your payroll, there is no privilege."
Mason knew she was right. The attorney-client privilege only applied to communications between him and Nick. If someone else was present who wasn't part of Mason's legal team, there was no privilege. Still, Mason wasn't going to incriminate his own client. He'd make Samantha work for that.
"Take it up with the judge," Mason told her.
"That kid is lying in there hooked up to a breathing machine with a bullet stuck against his spinal cord," Samantha hissed. "Talk to me!"
"Why? So you can charge him with a couple of felonies, and send him off to a prison hospital for rehabilitation with the rest of the disabled inmates. I'll pass," Mason told her. "Sorry I woke you."
Chapter 20
Mason added Blues to the list of people he woke up in the middle of the night. Only Blues wasn't asleep. He answered on the third ring, an Oscar Peterson CD playing in the background and a woman saying, "C'mon on, baby."
"Mary Kowalczyk is missing," Mason told him.
"She's not over here," Blues said.
Mason one-upped Blues with his own punch line. "Nick Byrnes went after Whitney King with a gun he stole from his grandfather. King shot him. Nick's going to live, but there's a good chance he'll be paralyzed."
"Why you bothering me up with all the good news?" Blues asked.
"Samantha Greer wants to talk to you about what Nick said when you dropped in on us yesterday. She thinks you'll tell her that Nick threatened to kill King. The prosecutor is going to give King the self-defense merit badge, charge Nick with a couple of felonies, and send him to the crippled kid's prison for rehab. That conversation isn't privileged unless you're working for me. I just thought you'd like to know."
"I hear you," Blues said, hanging up.
Mason hoped Blues would get off the sidelines. He knew Blues believed that Ryan Kowalczyk was guilty. Any regrets Blues may have had about Kowalczyk's execution focused on doubts about the system, not about Kowalczyk. Mason counted on Mary's disappearance to change Blues's calculus.
Blues had warned Mason about putting Nick in harm's way. Mason hoped Blues would realize he'd given the boy a shove of his own. He knew that Blues wouldn't make any concession speeches or humble apologies. He'd just show up.
Mason caught a few hours' sleep when he got home, stopped at the office to see if it was still there, and tried Mary's house again. It was still empty, the morning paper on the driveway. Mason took it inside, letting himself out the back. He walked the block, knocking on neighbors' doors, asking if anyone had seen Mary.
One man said he saw her leave the house around nine o'clock the morning before, watching her from his garage. He lived across the street and two houses closer to the corner, the route Mary would have taken to the bus stop. She was carrying a purse, the man said, nothing more. The man invited Mason in. Mason gagged on the odor of expired kitty litter; half a dozen cats lounged on the furniture, fur balls rolling across the floor like mini-tumbleweeds. The man didn't notice, giving Mason a yellow-toothed grin, glad for the company.
Mason called the bus company and worked his way through a bureaucratic minefield, finally reaching someone who claimed to know the names of the bus drivers and their routes.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mason," the woman said. "We don't give out that information."
Mason hated bureaucrats almost as much as he hated having a tooth pulled slowly. He struggled with people who were trained to say no with more conviction than a captured spy reciting name, rank, and serial number.
"Tell me your name," Mason said.
"Why is that important?" she asked.
"Because I'm a lawyer investigating my client's disappearance and I want to spell your name correctly on the subpoena when I sue the bus company for obstructing my investigation and putting my client's life in danger."
"You don't scare me," the woman said.
"Good for you. I'll tell you what," Mason said, not up for the battle. "You can keep your name a secret. Just give me the bus driver's name. He might have been the last person to see my client alive and that scares me."
The woman hesitated, measuring her victory in how long she made Mason wait. "Gaylon Dickensheets," she said, breaking her convent vow of silence.
"Is that you or the driver?" Mason asked, pushing his luck.
"Stick to scary. Funny doesn't work for you. He gets off at four. Game over," the woman said.
Mason returned to the hospital early in the afternoon, feeling slightly hung over, a throbbing at the base of his skull and a buzz in his ears from lack of sleep. A crowd had gathered outside the hospital, a ring of television and radio news minivans hugging the perimeter. The shooting had made the local news. Each station carried footage of Whitney King leaving the police
station accompanied by Sandra Connelly who kept repeating that King had no comment. Mason had expected the press to show up at the hospital, but he didn't expect the crowd.
Walking toward the entrance from the parking lot, he realized the crowd wasn't there because of the shooting. They worked at the hospital, many of them wearing surgical greens, nurse's uniforms, and white coats. They were milling around waiting for something to happen, reporters sharing in their impatience, the afternoon heat making them restless.
A caravan of sedans pulled up as Mason reached the curb, all heads turning to the cars. U.S. Senate candidate Josh Seeley popped out of the lead car, working the crowd as if he had four hands, shaking and back-slapping his way to a lectern decked in Stars and Stripes bunting near the entrance. Mason had a brief view as the crowd parted for the candidate. The doctors and nurses greeted Seeley with the sedated enthusiasm reserved for someone they knew would promise to respect them in the morning even if he wouldn't call again until the next election.
Abby and Mickey poured out of the second car. Abby reached the lectern seconds before Seeley, tap-testing the microphone, ducking out of view as the candidate raised his hands to quiet the crowd. Mickey stood off to the far side, counting votes, Mason guessed.
Mason held his ground, separated from Abby by the street that passed between the hospital and the parking lot, watching as she scanned the crowd, waiting for her head-tohead search to find him. She seemed to hold her breath when she saw him, brushing invisible lint off her suit before regaining her composure, making her way to his side of the street.
Mason watched her-smiling at everyone, her chin up, her eyes radiating confidence, her dark hair swept back- feeling the same jolt he had the first time he saw her. And the second time and every time since. She owned him. When she left town without telling him, it was like she had opened his chest again. He was running on fumes, one client down, another missing. Knowing she was back, but not for him, left him raw.
