Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (14 page)

"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 mean 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?"

Samantha said, "I think we both know, Lou. Jordan claims Trent raped her when she was thirteen. She's been carrying that around with her for eight years, until tonight. I'll give you until tomorrow morning to bring her in for questioning. If she's not in my office at eight A.M., I'll find her. Don't make me do that."

Blues drove Centurion's Mercedes to George's Body Shop near 35th and Troost. George's mortgage included favors owed to Blues ever since Blues helped him restructure his business debt with lenders that didn't charge broken legs as late fees.

Troost Avenue had squandered the cachet of being an avenue of burned-out storefronts and payday loan drive-throughs. Further south, Troost skirted the edges of two colleges and an internationally renowned research institute, testaments to the hope that daily squared off against urban decay. But in the core, Troost divided the city between the East Side and everything else.

East Side
was one of the city's most convenient euphemisms. It was shorthand for high crime and low property values. It was a comfortable way of saying ghetto. It even implied, in its geographic neutrality, a sort of blamelessness for the rest of the city that had too long ignored it. Of course, people would say with knowing nods when another innocent died in a drive-by shooting, or a crack house was shut down only to be replaced by another down the block—that's what happens on the East Side. Since they were convinced that there was nothing they could do about it, they didn't.

George's Body Shop was a single-story dusty red brick garage with a parking lot ringed in chain link and razor wire. George worked alone, except for a rotweiller, also named George, that patrolled the grounds.

When Mason and Abby arrived, the two-legged George was reassembling the door panels on the Mercedes. The four-legged George was practicing his hall-of-fame snarl, Blues clicking his tongue at the dog, calming the animal, while Mickey surveyed the garage for high ground in case the dog hadn't been fed.

"What did you find?" Mason asked Blues.

"Found the keys under the visor, for starters. The front passenger door had a nine-millimeter automatic hidden behind a spring-loaded panel. Same setup in the glove box. Driver's side had Centurion's stash. A little coke and some crystal meth. Back doors rigged the same way, except they were empty. I'd say Centurion was still a homeboy at heart."

"Did you put everything back?" Mason asked.

"Just like we found it," Blues said.

"Was there anything that looked like it might have belonged to Jordan? Clothes, cosmetics—anything?"

Mickey answered. "Not a thing, Boss. I thought this was Centurion's ride."

"It is," Mason said. "Centurion told me that Jordan stole the car and took off with everything she owned. If she stopped at the Cable Depot to kill her brother, I doubt she carried her worldly possessions on her back."

"What do you want to do with the car?" Blues asked.

"That's easy," Mason said. "Give it back to its rightful owner. Maybe we'll even get a reward."

"How do you want to do that?" Blues asked.

"I'll drive the Mercedes. You and Mickey follow us."

"Us?" Blues asked, keeping his reaction on an even keel regardless of what he was thinking, his one-word question leaving no doubt that he thought Mason was out of his mind.

Mason said, "Don't bother. She's got better answers than either of us have questions."

"Hey, George," Blues said to the body shop owner. "Lou's taking your dog for a ride."

"Don't let him stick his head out the window. Gets dirt in his eyes," George said.

"You expect me to put that psychopathic animal in the backseat of the Mercedes?" Mason said. "You're nuts."

"That dog was a canine cop," Blues said. "He got a little out of hand and George took him in. Calmed him down. Made him a good pet. People don't know the dog get the wrong idea. Figure the dog is gonna rip their throat out they so much as say
Here, boy.
That's what you want Centurion thinking when you drive up to his house with his car full of guns and drugs. Only thing you want on his mind is to get that fucking dog out of his car and off of his property and you and Abby along with it."

"That's swell," Mason said. "How do I keep the dog from biting my hand off before we get there?"

"Simple," Blues said. "Don't pet him. You'll need a ride home. That's why Mickey and I will be behind you. If Centurion gets feisty and the dog's asleep, we'll know it."

"How will you know if we need help?" Abby asked, speaking up for the first time since they arrived.

"We'll use cell phones," Blues said. "Call me when you get there and keep the phone on."

"I was hoping for a secret decoder ring, but that will do," Abby said. "Here, boy, c'mon, George," she added with a sharp whistle, crouching to meet the dog head-on as he trotted over to her. The dog sniffed Abby as she rubbed him behind the ears and under the chin. "You're a good boy," she told the dog. "Don't forget to eat the bad guys, okay? Let's go for a ride."

Nighttime in the city is never completely dark. There's always light from somebody or something. Everything from porch lights to searchlights casts a glow that obscures the stars.

Nighttime in the country is swallow-you-whole dark. No trace of anything ahead or behind, everything invisible until stumbled upon. Add a wall of trees flanking a narrow, winding, unlit gravel road and the night becomes a turnpike into the belly of the beast.

Mason swallowed, feeling the claustrophobic grip of the darkness even as the Mercedes's headlights shot in front of them, picking out the curves ahead. The headlights on Blues's SUV danced behind him, glancing off Mason's rearview mirror in blinding flashes. The dog sat on his haunches, his nose pressed against the glass, sharing a guttural growl with the unseen.

"Is it much farther?" Abby asked.

"Another mile, maybe, on this road and we should run right into Sanctuary."

"How do you know Centurion will be there?"

"I don't, but I'm betting he wants to be surrounded by a lot of friends and witnesses until this car turns up." Mason called Blues. "We're almost there," he said, then slipped the cell phone into a clip on his belt.

"Wouldn't it be simpler to call and make certain he's home?"

"Simpler, yes. Better, no. I want him surprised, grateful, and a little worried. That's the best combination for getting information from someone who wouldn't tell the truth unless he could leverage it."

"If Centurion is such a bad guy, how did he manage to raise all the money for Sanctuary?"

"He's very good at what he does and he figured out that it's easy to hide in plain sight when you let people see what they want to see."

"The Emperor may not be happy if you tell him he's not wearing any clothes."

"I'm not going to tell him," Mason said, slowing down for another twist in the road. "There it is," he said as the headlights illuminated the
Welcome Home to Sanctuary
sign and its glittering list of corporate sponsors.

The crunch of gravel was replaced by the quiet of concrete as Mason drove up the long driveway to the main house. A series of motion-sensitive lights popped on, leading him to the front circle drive. Centurion Johnson, silhouetted by an arc of lamps, was waiting on the veranda, larger in shadow than in life.

"Wait here," Mason told Abby as he killed the engine and stepped out of the car. Blues was stopped a hundred yards back, his high beams spotlighting Mason's stage.

"Damn, Mason!" Centurion said. "Not only are you a nut-busting lawyer, but you're a fucking repo man too!"

Mason tossed Centurion the keys. "I got lucky, that's all."

"Where'd that bitch leave it?" Centurion asked.

"Over on Quality Hill. It was unlocked and the key was in it. I thought I'd save you the trip into town to pick it up."

"You find anything in it?" Centurion asked, keeping his distance from the car.

Mason shook his head. "Not a thing. Jordan must have dropped her stuff off somewhere. You have any idea where she might have gone?"

Centurion's grin matched the sliver of moon hanging in the sky. "No fucking clue, man. I mean that," he said, bouncing down the stairs past Mason, opening the driver's door where the dog was now sitting, its ears flat and lips curled.

Centurion jumped back, slamming the door. "Shit! What the fuck is that? Get that fucking dog outta my car!"

Mason opened the door again. "Oh, that dog? That's just George. Abby, bring George over here to meet Centurion."

Abby got out, followed by the dog, Centurion retreating another step, the dog lowering its head, keeping its eyes fixed on Centurion, its growl idling like a rough engine. Abby put her hand on the dog's head and it relaxed, sitting at her side.

Mason said, "Centurion, I've got to find Jordan tonight. Who did she hang with? Where did she like to go? I need some help."

"I figured you want to know, so I asked Terry Nix. He said she used to have a boyfriend that played in a band, the Deadly Deed. They had a regular gig on Friday nights at a bar called Meltdown on 39th Street. Terry checked. They're playing tonight. That's the best I got."

Mason believed him. Mason had solved Centurion's biggest problem by returning his car. Centurion had promised Judge Pistone he would be responsible for Jordan, and he couldn't afford the loss of credibility if she disappeared. That would be bad for the corporate sponsor business. If Mason could solve that problem for him as easily as he found the Mercedes, they would both sleep better.

"Thanks. We'll check it out."

"Who's your ride?" Centurion asked, motioning to the SUV.

"Friend of mine," Mason said.

"Shit!" Centurion answered. "I'll bet it's that Indian brother of yours, Blues. Damn, Mason. What you think I am, you bring that big, ugly thug and that big, ugly dog out here in the middle of the night? The only nice person you brought is this fine-looking woman you ain't even introduced me to yet."