by Joel Goldman
Mason and Tuffy compromised on morning exercise, settling on a walk in Loose Park. In spite of their easy pace, he was dripping and she was panting when they headed for home.
A neighbor from across the street stood at the end of her driveway, dressed in her bathrobe, the morning paper clutched under her arm, glaring at Mason as he and the dog made their way up the block toward her. Her last name was Irwin. Her first name was something or other. She and her husband had two small children she had forbidden to enter Mason's yard and she had eagerly offered her opinion to the press that it was terrible to live so close to a killer. Her uncombed hair looked like snakes in flight, highlighting the fierceness in her pinched face and burning eyes as she waited with crossed arms for Mason to reach her.
"Mr. Mason," she said, stepping onto the sidewalk.
"Good morning, Mrs. Irwin," he answered. Mason wasn't much for formality, especially with his neighbors, but she had chosen the language and he went along rather than call her "something or other."
"What are you going to do?"
Tuffy sniffed at the woman's feet and circled back to Mason's side. Mason held on to her collar. "About what?"
"About all of this?" she answered. "About all of us. I'm afraid to let my children out of the house. We want you to sell your house, move away, and leave us alone!"
Mason sighed, looking up and down the street. "Who, exactly, is the we you are talking about?"
She wrapped her hand around the end of the rolled newspaper, taking a defensive step back. "Why, all of us," she stammered. "The whole block would be better off without. . without all of this."
"And what if I'm innocent, Mrs. Irwin?" he asked her. "What then? If I let you run me out of the house I've lived in all of my life and I'm innocent, what will you tell your kids? Who should they be afraid of then?"
She sputtered for a moment, backing up more, turning away. "I'm calling a lawyer today!"
"Let me know if you need a referral," Mason said.
Judith Bartholow lived in Leawood, a suburb that hugged the Kansas side of the state line with Missouri. Originally conceived as an exclusive enclave with restrictive covenants in deeds that would have prevented Mason or any other Jew or any African American from buying a house, it had grown into a prosperous municipality with demographics that made retailers foam at the mouth. The restrictive covenants were in the city's dustbin, though there still wasn't much color in the cul-de-sac.
An hour after Mason's chat with his neighbor, he turned onto Judith's block, cruising past large Country French and Tudor spreads with well-manicured lawns all being watered with carefully choreographed sprinkler systems. He wanted to get a feel for her before he decided what to do. Seeing where she lived was the best he could come up with on a Saturday morning, except maybe summoning the nerve to knock at her door.
He imagined her sitting at her kitchen table, having breakfast, opening the door when he knocked. She would greet him with open arms, apologizing for lost time, making up for it with answers to his questions. He knew it never happened that way and wouldn't this time, assuming he knocked at all.
Her subdivision was fairly new, carved out of a farmstead owned by one of the city's blue chip families that cashed in on the insatiable demand of people who wanted to live large. Built close to I-435, it was a magnet for the wealthy and those who thought they should be.
He parked in front of the house next to Judith's two-story beige Country French stone and stucco, its front windows catching the morning sun, bouncing the light back like diamonds. Multicolored summer flowers bloomed along the precisely landscaped perimeter shaded by mature trees the developer had been careful to preserve when the house was built.
Mason had a view of the driveway and three-car garage on the side of the house. The garage was open and empty except for a fleet of bicycles that occupied one of the three bays. A Mercedes SUV was parked in the driveway where a blonde, athletic-looking woman who he guessed was near his age was loading kids into the middle row of seats. Golf clubs, swim toys, and tennis rackets were loaded into the rear.
Mason double-checked the address Harry had given him. He had the right house, but he doubted that Judith Bartholow was the right woman. The woman he was looking for had some connection to his parents. That's why she had visited their grave and that's why she had to be older than the soccer mom he was spying on.
He was about to give up when an older woman came running out of the garage carrying another tennis racket, handing it to the younger woman who rewarded her with a kiss on the cheek before gunning the Mercedes down the driveway and past Mason like he was invisible. The older woman stood in the driveway, looking directly at Mason and not at the SUV disappearing behind him. She covered her heart with her hand, her shoulders drooping as she turned and quickly went back inside.
Nothing about the woman was familiar to Mason, though she acted as if she had recognized him. All he could tell was that she had dark hair, a slender frame, and a family. She could be anyone, but she wasn't, not if she had visited his parents' grave more often in the last two weeks than Mason had in the last two years.
The garage had room for another car that wasn't there. Mason assumed that the younger woman's husband was not at home, leaving the older woman alone in the house. He sat in his car debating whether to leave or knock on her door; the issue settled when he realized he was massaging the scar over his heart. The ache he felt wouldn't go away that easily.
The older woman opened the door almost the instant he knocked, as if she had watched him walk from his car to the house. Mason looked over her shoulder into the wide entry hall, a spiral staircase leading upstairs, the marble floor gleaming beneath a shiny brass chandelier. There was a long, low table along the wall behind her, a plant set in a clear glass vase, smooth stones like the one on his parents' grave lining the bottom.
The woman's oval face was troubled, her cheeks drawn; her deep brown eyes stretched open, darting glances to the street. She was taller than she'd looked from a distance, though half a foot shorter than Mason, and old enough to have known his parents. She was wearing khaki slacks and a white blouse open at the neck; a simple gold chain was her only jewelry. Her hair was too dark to be natural at her age, but apart from that concession to vanity, she'd trusted the years to treat her fairly and she wasn't disappointed. Even without makeup on a Saturday morning, he sensed a woman who'd turned heads in her youth. She straightened when she saw him, adding backbone to his instant image of her, though it wasn't enough to shake off her anxiety.
"My name is Lou Mason."
The light went out of her eyes for an instant, the color in her face fading along with it. She started to close the door without a word.
"Please don't," Mason said. "I'd just like to talk with you for a few minutes."
"I know who you are. I watch the news and I've seen your picture in the newspaper," she said. "I should call the police."
"I do think you know who I am, but not because of that. You saw me in my car when you were on the driveway. I had the feeling you recognized me then even though I've never seen you before."
"I told you," she said. "I saw you on television."
"It's been hard not to," Mason said. "If that was all, you wouldn't have been waiting at the door when I knocked. You would have called the police if you were frightened or you wouldn't have opened the door in the first place. But you opened the door so quickly you must have watched me come up the walk. I think you were waiting for me."
"You're mistaken. I was on my way upstairs when you knocked. That's all," she said, edging back.
"My parents, John and Linda Mason, were killed in a car accident forty years ago. You visited their graves and left a rock on their headstone like the ones in that vase. I'd like to know why."
The woman glanced over her shoulder, then back to Mason. "I don't know anything about that," she said.
Mason ignored her denial. "When a Jew visits someone's grave, they leave a stone behind to show that they remember
the person who died. Sheffield Cemetery is a long drive from here. That's a lot of remembering after forty years."
The woman dipped her head. "I don't even own a car," she said, her denial weakening.
"The Mercedes you drove to the cemetery is registered in Judith Bartholow's name, but you don't look like the SUV type. Is Judith your daughter?"
"Leave me and my family alone," she said, closing the door. Mason propped it open with his hand.
"Please," he said. "I was only three years old when they were killed. It was a car wreck, but I know that it was more than that. You must have been close to them. You must know what really happened."
She studied him, giving nothing away, offering less. "I'm not what you think," she said harshly.
"You don't know what I think," he said.
"Oh, but I can imagine after what Claire must have told you all these years."
"She hasn't told me anything, not even your name, not even that you exist," Mason said.
The woman's eyes filled, her chest swelling as she twisted the chain around her neck.
"Then leave it that way. I don't exist," she said, closing the door.
Chapter 40
Claire had taught Mason an important lesson in the practice of law the first time a judge nearly held him in contempt for continuing to argue after the judge had ruled against him. There was, she said, a time to talk and a time to walk. He knew what time it was. If he knocked on the woman's door again, she would probably call the police.
It was also time to have another talk with his aunt. She had hidden the truth about his parents and hidden the existence of at least one person who obviously knew the secret she was determined to keep. Claire didn't respond well to demands, though she never hesitated to make them. Mason didn't expect this time to be any different.
Something else struck him about his conversation with the woman as he walked to his car. She was certain that Claire had told Mason whatever it was the two of them were keeping secret, and she was equally certain that Claire had vilified her in the telling. That Claire hadn't done so didn't surprise him. That wasn't Claire's style.
Nonetheless, the woman's comment raised two possibilities. The first was that Claire's secret was so awful that Mason was better off not knowing, perhaps meaning that Claire had done the right thing in keeping silent. The second was that Claire's secret was tainted by uncertainty, putting it in the category of things better left unsaid.
Weighing the two possibilities, it wasn't hard for Mason to conjure the easy outlines of what might have happened. His father and the woman, whatever her name was, had had an affair. His mother must have found out, leading to an argument in his parents' car in the middle of a summer downpour. His father lost control and that was that.
It made for a sordid, pathetic rendering of wasted lives, except that he didn't buy it. In the first place, Claire would not have kept it from him. Whatever shame the story bore would have been tempered with the passage of time. When he was old enough, she would have told him a sanitized version, turning it into an apocryphal lesson. In the second place, the investigating officer wouldn't have labeled the crash intentional. There had to be something more that Claire couldn't bring herself to tell him.
The heat was building, the day thickening. A crew of Hispanic men was working the yard of the house where he had parked, mowing the lawn, trimming the shrubs, and laying down fresh mulch mixed with manure in the flower beds that ringed the house. They had stopped for a break, cigarettes dangling from their lips, sweat dripping from their brown faces and necks. The blend of sweat, engine exhaust, cut grass, and manure gave the air a fetid, decayed taste.
He reached his car, opened the door, and turned back toward the house. He scanned the windows on Judith Bartholow's house for a glimpse of the woman, not finding her face pressed to the glass, betting she was watching him from the shadows. He passed on the temptation to wave good-bye to her and slipped into the driver's seat as his cell phone rang.
"Mr. Mason?" the caller said, his voice feathery and familiar, but not quite right.
"Yes," Mason answered, juggling his memory, finding a partial match. "Nick? Is that you?"
"Yeah, it's me. I don't sound so good, huh?"
"Good? You sound great, kid," Mason lied. "When are they going to let you go home?"
"I just got out of the ICU last night. The doctor says I've got to stay a few more days, at least until I can go to the john by myself," Nick said.
"Well at least you're moving in the right direction. I'll come by and see you. What room are you in?"
"That's why I was calling," Nick said. "Can you come right away? It's pretty important. I'm in 619."
The last time Nick had asked to see him was to hire him. "Why? Do you have another case for me?"
"No. The cops are here. They told me I don't need a lawyer, but I'm not so sure."
Mason shook his head. The day before, Whitney King had announced that he wasn't pressing charges against Nick. That let the cops and Ortiz off the hook since prosecuting Nick would have been a public relations nightmare. On the other hand, they could live with turning Nick into a witness against Mason, using the shooting to establish a motive for Mason to kill Sandra Connelly. King shot Mason's client. Mason shot King's lawyer. It smelled of a certain schoolyard even-Steven symmetry.
"Is one of the cops a woman?" Mason asked.
"Yeah. How'd you know?" Nick asked.
"Never mind. Just put her on," Mason said.
Mason heard voices in the background, then Samantha Greer saying, "Lou, don't get excited."
"Not another word, Sam. Get out of that kid's hospital room until I get there."
"Lou, let me explain," she said.
"Out! Now! And put Nick back on," Mason said.
"Hey, Mr. Mason," Nick said. "You really pissed her off, man. That was cool."
"She'll get over it. Don't talk to anyone not wearing a stethoscope until I get there. I'm only a few minutes from the hospital. By the way, how did you get my cell phone number?" Mason asked, pretty certain he hadn't given it to Nick.
"I called your office," Nick said.
"On Saturday morning?" Mason asked. "There's no one there on Saturday mornings. In fact, if I'm not there, no one is there. Who did you talk to?"
"Some guy named Mickey. I told him it was important and he gave me your cell phone number. Hey, you aren't mad I called you on your cell, are you?"
Mason smiled for the first time in days. "Not a bit. I'm glad you did. I'm on my way."
Mary was alive. Nick was out of ICU. And Mickey Shanahan was back. Three solid hits, even if none of them was out of the park. He was behind, but at least he had some base runners. It was enough that he was willing to wait to ask Claire about Judith Bartholow's mother.
He still didn't know where Mary was, whether she was okay or why she had disappeared. Nick was out of the ICU but, judging from the weakness in his voice, still at the beginning of a long road back. Mickey could have just dropped by for his paycheck and would be gone before Mason saw him, or he might be back for good. If he was, Abby might not be far behind. Mason decided to find out.
Mickey answered on the second ring. "Lou Mason and Associates," he said.
"Since when do I have any associates?" Mason asked, not able to keep the pleasure from his voice.
"From what I've been reading, boss, I wouldn't be too picky. You should be grateful somebody wants to associate with you at all."
"I am grateful, Mickey. Are you back or just passing through?"
"Back, if you've got room for me."
"Room I've got," Mason said. "Cash paying clients whose fees pay your salary-well, that's another story."
"Don't worry about it, boss. I'd rather you owe me than cheat me out of it."
"What about Abby? I don't suppose she…" Mason said, unable to finish the question, feeling Mickey's answer in the sigh on the other end of the call.
"Sorry, Lou," Mickey said. "The primary is in ten days and things
are pretty crazy. They can always find someone else to get coffee. Abby is tough to replace."
"That I know," Mason said, Mickey not arguing. "Listen, the kid who called you is our client, Nick Byrnes. I'm on the way to the hospital to see him. Stick around the office. I'll be there in an hour or so."
Mason rounded the corner on the sixth floor of the hospital, and headed down the corridor for the general surgery patients. He swept past the nurses' station, building up a head of steam for Samantha Greer. Mickey's return had pumped him up. It wasn't only that Mickey would help. It was that Mickey had given up something important to come back. Though Mason had had good reasons to let Mary's and Nick's case slide the last few days, he was determined to come back to them.
It was the right thing to do and, he realized, it was the one thing he could do to help his own case without getting too much in Dixon Smith's way. There was another side benefit. Working Mary's and Nick's case would give him cover for checking up on his lawyer.
Samantha was waiting for Mason outside Nick's door. She was wearing bone-colored slacks and a matching short-sleeve jacket over a black top. Her hair was pulled back and her makeup was thin. She was all cop, the butt of her gun sticking out from the shoulder rig under her jacket. Her partner, Al Kolatch, was sitting in a chair, leaning back against the wall, tapping his feet on the floor.
"Over here," she said to Mason, pointing to an empty room across the hall, taking Mason by the arm, not giving him any chance to argue.
She closed the door, waiting for the slow moving hinge to seal them in. There were two beds, both stripped, a bulletin board above each, a forgotten get-well card pinned to one. Mason crossed the room to the window that looked north from the hospital. Samantha stood behind him.
Traffic on I-435 streaked past beneath them, glass and distance muting any sound. Treetops stretched beyond the highway, shading subdivisions. Thick white clouds with towering superstructures promising thunder and lightning hung on the horizon. Kansas City's summer weather had a predictable pattern. Heat and humidity built up to the breaking point, erupting in violence, cooled by rain that stoked the process for another round. The same could be said for this case, the cycle stretching back fifteen years to the night Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes were murdered.
