Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (2 page)

Café Allegro had a golden, glittering ambience that said prepare to be pampered, but don't look at the prices. Mason surveyed the room, noting one table of dark-suited men with fierce posture, before finding his own party gathered at a table for ten on the opposite side of the room. He did a quick head count.

Claire and Harry sat next to one another, arms interlocked with wineglasses touching, lost for the moment in a private celebration of their long relationship. Harry was a barrel-built bulldog, with a squat neck, butcher's hands, and bristle-cut hair. Neither he nor Claire was handsome alone, but together they shined.

Harry had retired from the Kansas City police department after twenty-nine years, the last twenty as a homicide detective. He could have put in his thirty, but that would have meant spending his last year listening to the whispers that forgot a dirty cop but didn't forgive Harry for bringing him down.

Claire dabbed a napkin at the corner of Harry's eye, her own expression shifting from wistfully romantic to tight-mouthed concern. Harry took her hand, easing it to the table.

Rachel Firestone, her red hair flashing like a beacon, and her partner, Candace, were laughing at something Mickey Shanahan said while Mickey waved his hands in protest that it was all true. Mickey was a twenty-something PR wannabe who rented the office down the hall from Mason's, paying his rent by bartending for Blues until Mason hired him as his legal assistant. Tina Esposito, Mickey's girlfriend, gave him a playful shove, convicting him of his latest scam. Mason had told Mickey about Jordan Hackett, Mickey's eyes lighting up with the PR angles.

Blues leaned back in his chair, his muscled frame wrapped in black, catching Mason's eye with a quick nod and wry smile. "It's your world, man," Blues's look said. "I'm just living in it."

Blues's date, a long-legged model whose name Mason couldn't remember but whose body he couldn't forget, sat next to another woman Mason didn't recognize. She was shorter than the model, with chin-length auburn hair, lively eyes, and a smile that danced with the rhythm of the table. The last empty seat, between the woman and Claire, was for Mason. "Shadow," Mason said, "take a hike."

Claire rose in greeting as the others hailed Mason with mock applause at his late arrival. She grabbed him by the shoulders, propelling him toward his empty seat. Mason used the momentum to circle the table first, greeting his friends with a succession of handshakes and kisses, finishing with a hand outstretched to the one person at the table he'd yet to meet.

"My nephew," Claire announced. "Abby Lieberman," she added as if no further introduction was required.

"Hey," he said, taking Abby's hand, covering it with both of his as he sat down.

"Hey, you," Abby said, waiting for Lou to release her hand. Mason held on, studying her fine features, offering his smile in trade for her hand until Abby's grin widened. "Okay. I'll lend it to you until the salad is served," she said of her hand. "But that's my best offer unless you plan on feeding me."

Mason was unprepared for Abby's effect on him. Maybe it was the warmth in her hand after the withering chill of watching Dr. Gina die over and over on videotape. Maybe it was the hint of promise in the sassy way she played along, flirting without being coy, interested without taking him seriously. Whatever it was, Rachel ruptured the moment.

"Let her go or get a room, Lou," she said.

Mason loved the crinkles in Abby's cheeks as he let go of her hand and she joined in the laughter. Her laugh was full-bodied, unembarrassed. She was a woman, Mason decided, who enjoyed herself.

Forcing himself to turn away, he said, "Happy birthday, Harry. I could use the party."

"Tough day?" Harry asked. "You should try turning sixty."

"New case. Murder. An ugly one," Mason answered.

In most crowds, Mason knew his announcement would have brought gasps. In this group, it brought understanding. Harry and Blues, both ex-homicide cops, had their Ph.D.s in killers from the University of the Street. Claire had seen the fallout in the lives of too many of her clients for whom violence arrived more easily than the rising sun. Rachel Firestone reported it all for the
Kansas City Star.

"Can you talk about it?" Blues asked.

Before Mason could shake his head and explain that it was too soon, Mickey blurted out the answer.

"Talk about it? Are you kidding? It's the Gina Davenport murder. We're representing a patient who . . ."

"Mickey!" Mason said, cutting him off.

"Sorry, Boss," Mickey said, subdued by Mason's blast. "I just figured we're family, that's all." Tina rubbed Mickey's back, soothing him.

Mason sighed, regretting Mickey's hurt feelings, especially since Mickey was right. They were family, at least all of Mason's family. And Mickey's too. He knew they would help him if the shadow in the window turned deadly. Claire would remind him of the glorious burden of representing the accused. Harry would pull strings to find out what the prosecutor wouldn't tell Mason. Blues would knock the heads of those in need of head-knocking. Rachel would keep everything off the record unless he told her otherwise. That's what families did, Mason told himself. So Mason would tell them—just not tonight. Not before he had a better sense of what he had gotten into.

"I've been hired by the parents, but they aren't really my clients. They're just paying the bills. I'm meeting the client tomorrow. Unless the cops make an arrest, it stays quiet."

"Sure thing," Mickey said.

Mason looked around the table. He couldn't have ruined the party more thoroughly if he'd mooned the waiter. It wasn't the subject of murder or his rebuke of Mickey that doused everyone's mood. It was Abby. The light drained from her eyes and she couldn't meet his, glancing away, bent slightly as if she'd taken a punch.

She gathered herself and fished through her purse for a pager Mason was certain had not gone off. "Claire," Abby said, "it was lovely of you to include me, but my answering service has paged me. Client emergency. I'm sorry. Happy birthday, Harry," she said.

Mason watched her until she disappeared.

"Never give the hand back, Lou," Rachel said. "You've got to keep something to hold onto."

"Sage advice," Blues said.

"Okay, people," Mason said. "I know you aren't the support group for the perpetually single and relationship impaired, but what the hell just happened?"

"I invited her to dinner to fill out the table. Besides, you need to meet someone new," Claire explained.

"I'm not talking about that," Mason said. "You've fixed me up with every Matzo Ball Queen since Moses parted the Red Sea, but I still don't know what happened. I'm off to the fastest start since Secretariat won the Triple Crown until Mickey mentions Gina Davenport's murder. Next thing I know, I'm sitting between my aunt and an empty chair."

Claire said, "If she wants you to know, she'll tell you."

Tuffy was sleeping on her pillow in the otherwise empty living room when he got home. The German shepherd-collie-mixed-breed anti-watch dog opened one eye, yawned, and rolled over.

Mason walked around the sparsely furnished first floor of the house Claire had given him and his ex-wife, Kate, as a wedding present. Empty rooms and a sleeping dog were all that remained of that relationship. His great-grandparents stared down at him from their framed photographs on the dining room wall, a room they shared with his rowing machine.

"Yes, Abby is a nice Jewish girl," Mason said to his unsmiling ancestors. "And, yes, I blew it again," he added with an indulgent note of self-pity. "Okay," he told them. "Maybe I didn't blow it. I'll call her and tell her that defending people accused of murder doesn't have to ruin a party."

Yet Mason didn't believe that Abby's reaction had been to his job. She had to be connected to the case in some way that made Dr. Gina's death and Mason's involvement too personal for her. His first guess was that Abby was also Dr. Gina's patient, perhaps even making her a suspect. Neither possibility fit with her incendiary impact on Mason, though either would explain Claire's insistence on keeping him in the dark. Maybe, he thought, Abby and Dr. Gina were close friends and she couldn't hold hands with someone who was defending her friend's accused killer. The only thing Mason was certain of was his need to find the quickest way over the top of the wall that had risen between him and Abby Lieberman.

Mason's phone rang, spawning the instant fantasy that the caller was Abby. He picked up the phone in the kitchen.

"Hello," he said, kicking off his shoes.

"It's Sherri Thomas, Channel 6 News."

Mason sat down and rubbed his tired feet. "What can I do for you, Sherri?"

"Sorry to bother you at home. I hope I'm not calling too late."

The clock on the stove read 9:45 P.M. Mason knew that Sherri wasn't sorry about the bother or the time. The ten o'clock news was coming up and she was on deadline, trying to resurrect her reputation as a serious journalist. Her unprofessional broadcast of Dr. Gina's death would have cost her job except for the spike in her station's ratings. She apologized on the air and promised to follow the murder of Gina Davenport wherever it led, underscoring her commitment to hard-hitting reporting from the streets of Kansas City.

Mason had watched Sherri's apology, certain that her only regret was being caught reveling in tragedy. He had no interest in giving her career a boost.

"Not a problem," Mason said. "I'm staying up to watch the news. The Daily Show doesn't start until ten."

"They told me you were a smart-ass," Sherri said.

"Really. Who are they? Or are your smart-ass sources confidential?"

"I'm running a story at ten that the police are investigating possible ties between the Hackett family and the murder of Dr. Gina Davenport. Care to comment?"

"Why would I have any comment?" Mason asked.

"Because my sources—and they are confidential, whether they're assholes or otherwise—say that you are representing the family."

Mason didn't give her credit for intrepid reporting. Arthur Hackett had called the general manager at Channel 6 to request a copy of the videotape for Mason. Mason had talked to Ted Phillips, the cameraman, when he picked up the tape. He was a well-known criminal defense attorney who snagged his share of high-profile murder cases. It wasn't tough to put together.

"If that's true, you know I don't have any comment.

If it weren't true, I'd just be making something up. So what do you really want?"

"I'm going to stay on this story like white on rice, Lou. Help me out and you'll get more good coverage than you know what to do with. Besides, you can't give all your stories to Rachel Firestone. There's no payoff with her."

Mason wasn't interested in the spotlight, though his clients too often dragged him into its glare. Rachel had covered Mason's involvement in the collapse of Sullivan & Christenson, his one-time law firm, and in the Dream Casino case. They became close friends, turning their relationship into fodder for local media gossip, especially since Rachel was gay. If their relationship compromised her reporting, she left the reporting to someone else. Mason didn't know how that would work out in the Davenport case, but he doubted that Rachel would bring Sherri Thomas in off the bench. Sherri's crass pitch for his business was a step removed from a street solicitation—a small step.

"Like white on rice?" Mason asked. "Who writes your material? Never mind. I don't discuss my clients or people who aren't my clients. Keep your payoff for somebody who needs it. I don't."

Sherri laughed. "You've got to try harder than that to shame me, Lou. I make the news. You can either be the lead or the punch line, but you can't ignore me."

"Sure I can," Mason told her. "That's what the remote control is for. See you in the funny pages."

Sanctuary was secreted off the interstate, off the back roads, in an unincorporated patch of Jackson County in the general direction of St. Louis. The locals called their piece of the action Eastern Jack. Downtown Kansas City was also in Jackson County, but Eastern Jack was a different world. Defined more by the blue collars of Independence and Raytown than the white collars of downtown, Eastern Jack made no pretense of its lack of pretension.

The unincorporated areas outside these smaller cities harbored woods, meadows, and streams that shut out concrete and high-rises, giving nature its own reservation in the civilized world. The natural defenses against the urban onslaught underscored the safety of Sanctuary, touting isolation as security.

"East of the sun and west of the moon, two stars to the right and on till morning." Mason recited the poem from memory unable to name the poet or finish the verse, as he navigated his TR-6 along the convoluted route he'd downloaded from Sanctuary's web site. It was a top-down morning, the sun soothing, not yet hot. Morning fog painted deer tracks with vapor trails. Moist earth, wild grasses, and unseen animals perfumed the air with a musk scent.

Mason had spent his whole life in the city. He wasn't a Boy Scout and couldn't find moss on the north side of a tree. The drive reminded him of Kelly Holt's log cabin sanctuary in the Ozark woods. She was the last woman who'd made him feel the way Abby had. Kelly's sanctuary had proved anything but, and his relationship with her had died in its ashes. Mason hoped the past was not prologue.

He was surprised that it took less than forty-five minutes to reach Sanctuary from the urban comforts of his office. It was set on the ridge of a broad gentle rise, and Mason immediately understood why Centurion Johnson had chosen the location. The road he'd been on emerged from the woods into a freshly cut meadow of several acres that surrounded a large white three-story plantation-style house, complete with a widow's walk around the roof. The natural elevation gave the house an imposing setting, making it appear larger than it was while giving its occupants a commanding view of the countryside. Mason guessed that Centurion could see the downtown skyline twenty miles to the west from the widow's walk.