by Joel Goldman
"It's almost as old as the building. They call it a drum elevator because the steel rope that pulls it up and down the shaft wraps around a drum in the basement where the controls are. It's not too complicated. There's a power switch that turns it on and off and an emergency release that turns it into an express. We called in an elevator expert to figure out why the system failed."
"Let me know, will you," Mason said. "How did you get Jordan Hackett to confess? Didn't she tell you I was representing her?"
"We're open twenty-fours a day. She came in, told the desk sergeant she killed Dr. Gina, and asked who she needed to talk to. I read her the Miranda spiel in front of two witnesses and she wrote it down."
"Wrote what down?"
"Dr. Gina and Jordan's father were having some tough contract negotiations. Gina wanted out so she could sign a better deal with a national radio syndication outfit from New York. Her father said no way. Gina said either she walks or Jordan finds a new shrink. Arthur Hackett called her bluff and Gina fired Jordan."
Mason sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the hospital bed. "Let me guess. Gina gave Jordan the bad news on Friday. Jordan freaks, throws something at the window, cracks it, and comes back Monday night to fire Dr. Gina."
"Bingo," Samantha said. "Watch your gown, big boy. There's a cool breeze blowing."
"Don't get excited," he said. "I'm not that glad to see you. I've just got to pee. Her story doesn't hold up. Why come back Monday night? She had the weekend to cool off. She wouldn't have known that Davenport was in her office. She was stuck out in the country with no car and she didn't have a key to get into the building."
Mason eased off the bed, wobbling enough that Samantha took his arm. "You okay, cowboy?"
"Peachy. Find my pants. I'm going home," he said as he staggered into the bathroom, his hospital gown flapping behind him.
"Nice butt," Samantha said as he closed the bathroom door. She handed him his pants when he came out. "Jordan says she called Dr. Gina and arranged to meet her that night. She borrowed a car and Gina let her in the building. They argued about Gina dropping her as a patient. Jordan ended the argument the old-fashioned way."
"I don't buy it," Mason said, pulling on his pants, his back to Samantha, who was staring out the window. Though they used to be lovers and could still tease each other, their days of watching each other get dressed were over.
"Why not? Not all your clients are innocent."
Mason winced as he put on his shirt, the pain in his ribs still fresh. "I talked to Jordan yesterday. We made an appointment for today. I told her not to talk to the cops again without me. Something happened and I'm going to find out what it was. How about giving me a lift back to my car."
"Not necessary. I called Harry a little while ago. Blues and Mickey picked up your car. Harry is waiting outside. He'll take you home. I've got other cases to solve. This one is over."
Harry drove an eight-year-old Suburban. He didn't need the space. He just liked driving a car that was as broad-shouldered as he was. Mason grunted at the effort of hoisting himself into the front passenger seat, but waved off Harry's offer of a boost.
"Damn," Mason said. "I feel like I've been kicked by a horse with all four feet."
Harry said, "Don't go to bed. You'll just freeze up and we'll have to chisel the spasms out of your muscles." He pulled a tissue from a box on the floor and wiped his eyes, then squinted at the stoplight that had just turned green. He waited until the driver behind him honked twice.
"I'm going," Harry muttered, wiping his eyes again.
"Your eyes okay?" Mason asked.
"They're fine," Harry answered. "Just these damn allergies."
Harry was not normally talkative, except about old cases he'd handled. Some baseball pitchers could recite every pitch they ever threw in a game, adding location, speed, and spin to the name of the opposing batter, the balls and strikes, and who won the battle. Harry was like that with cases he'd investigated, especially murder cases. Outside of that, he wasn't much for small talk. Mason often wondered what Harry and his Aunt Claire talked about. She must have tapped into Harry's other dimension. Mason envied them. They had been together as long as he could remember. Though they'd never married, they were as tightly bound as any couple he'd ever known.
Mason was certain that Samantha had briefed Harry as a professional courtesy, even though Harry was retired. Mason expected Harry to cross-examine him on the way home, but Harry didn't say a word. Mason appreciated the quiet ride. He would eventually use Harry as a sounding board to test different murder scenarios. At the moment, he was still digesting what Samantha had told him and wasn't ready to talk. Still, he wondered about Harry's allergies, especially since he couldn't remember the last time Harry had even sneezed.
Harry pulled in the driveway behind Mason's TR-6. Blues and Mickey had dropped it off but not waited around. As Mason got out of the car, Harry turned to him.
"One other thing," Harry said, as if they'd been talking the whole time.
"What's that?"
"Sam told me they checked that elevator the night Davenport was killed. There was nothing wrong with it. The certificate of inspection had been renewed a month ago."
Mason leaned against the open door, one foot on the ground, the other on the running board. "You think I should sue the elevator inspector?" Harry just looked at him. "No," Mason answered for him. "You think someone sabotaged the elevator because they knew I was in it? Did Samantha tell you that?"
"Something to think about," Harry said. "Remember what I told you. Don't go to bed."
Mason thought about Harry's advice as he stood under a hot shower. If his adventure in the elevator had been a murder attempt, Harry's warning about not going to bed was good advice. He'd better stay awake.
And he'd better take Trent Hackett more seriously.
Trent was the building manager, so he had access to the elevator control room and, probably, enough knowledge to make it happen. He gave Mason the key to Davenport's office and could count on Mason taking a ride. Since the elevator didn't stop on any other floors, Trent knew that no one else would be at risk. If Mason stayed off the elevator, Trent could fix it before anyone discovered what he'd done. Plus, Trent scored high on the freak-ometer.
It was then that Mason remembered the video camera on the elevator. If he had escaped a murder attempt, the killer had to have known he was on the elevator. He called Samantha.
"What about the camera on the elevator?" he asked, skipping hello. "Where's the video?"
"Gone," she answered. "The monitor and the VCR is in the control room. There was no tape. Watch your back, Lou."
If Trent had tried to kill Mason, there was a good chance Jordan was innocent or Trent was guilty of something else that he was afraid Mason would uncover. The Hacketts were starting to look like a nuclear family in the midst of a runaway meltdown.
Chapter 8
Mason liked privacy. He liked shutting out the rest of the world when he prepared for trial or wrestled with the devil. All of which meant he hated jails and the claustrophobic cubicles reserved for prisoners to meet with their lawyers. Mason took the jailers at their word that his conversations with his clients were not recorded, but in a crowded corner of his heart he made room for distrust of cops, jailers, and prosecutors. It was enough to keep his jailhouse office hours short and meetings with his clients shorter.
He worried about innocent clients who were guilty of nothing except bad luck. He worried about clients who were innocent of the charge that landed them in jail, but were guilty of other offenses. He worried about clients who were guilty as charged. For each of these clients, he had cards to play, deals to make. Mason knew what to do with them. But a client who confessed to a crime Mason believed in his gut she hadn't committed was the client he worried about the most.
Jordan Hackett had spent the night in jail, long enough to drain her reservoir of anger and refill it with the sullen realization that she would spend the rest of her life
wearing government-issued clothes and eating with a spoon she had to turn in after every meal. Her brown hair was grimy and she was wearing a dirt tattoo around her neck. She must have come straight from digging fence posts to surrender, Mason decided. He knew that took a lot of nerve, but not as much as taking her first prison shower. They'd let her stink for a few days, but force her to wash before her first court appearance.
They sat across from one another at a metal table scarred with initials and bolted to the floor. Jordan looked past Mason to the small window in the door, big enough for the eyes and nose of the deputy sheriff on the other side. She looked at her feet, clad in paper slippers, her heels sticking out past the outer edge of one-size-fits-all. She stuck her hands in her armpits, covering them with the billowing sleeves of her orange jumpsuit. She looked everywhere but at Mason, who watched and waited.
"What?" she said at last. "Is this the silent treatment from my lawyer? I don't have to go to jail for that. I can get it at home."
Mason said, "Why did you do it?"
Jordan tightened her grip on herself. "It's all in my confession. I thought you would have read it." She finally looked at him. "What happened to your eye?"
"I ran into a door," he said. "I'm not talking about the murder. I'm talking about the confession. Why did you do it without talking to me?"
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings," she answered, tucking her chin to her chest, giving a cigarette butt on the floor her undivided attention.
"Cut the crap, Jordan. We made a deal yesterday. You don't talk to the cops without me. What happened?"
She stood, paced, sat back down. Assumed the position again. "After you left, I had my session with Terry. I told him what was going on. He told me I had to clear the decks if I was going to deal with my issues. Confessing was the way to do that, the way to get everything straight in my mind."
"Did he tell you what a great psychotherapy program they have in prison?"
She grabbed the edges of the table, whitening her knuckles before taking a breath and relaxing her grip. "Centurion says it was involuntary manslaughter at the worst. He says I may even get off with careless homicide and that I'll get probation."
"Did Centurion tell you that there's no such crime as careless homicide? Did he tell you that waiting three days after you had your argument with Gina Davenport to kill her is a textbook example of premeditation and a short course in first-degree murder? Did he tell you that you could get life without parole or death by lethal injection, depending on what the jury had for breakfast? Did he tell you that you should talk to a real lawyer, not some jailhouse lawyer like him, before you throw your life away?"
Jordan's cheeks hollowed with instant aging, her eyes bleeding tears. "Centurion said you would talk me out of it so you could drag the case out and plea-bargain after you collected your fee from my parents. He said this was better. He said it would come out the same and be over a lot faster."
"Jordan, yesterday you were digging postholes and making plans to sneak off with me for pizza and beer.
You were full of enough piss and vinegar to sterilize a swamp. You told me you were innocent, then you confessed. What gives?"
She wiped her nose with her sleeve. "Why are you so mad at me? What difference does it make to you?"
It was Mason's turn to stand. "Call me crazy, Jordan, but it pisses me off when a dope-dealing scam artist like Centurion Johnson and a snake-oil Dr. Feel Good like Terry Nix manipulate a screwed-up kid into confessing to a murder she didn't commit."
"Centurion isn't a dope dealer-at least, not anymore," she said. "And Terry helps me a lot. Besides, I did it."
"Why? Because Dr. Gina told you to get another therapist? Terry Nix was treating you too. You said he was helping you. Was he doing such a bad job that you had to kill Gina? Or was killing Gina part of Terry's clear-the-decks therapy?"
"You don't understand anything!"
Mason planted both hands on the table and leaned over her. "You're right. Help me understand."
Jordan pushed her chair back. "It's all in my confession. Dr. Gina used me to bargain with my father on her contract. My father used me. He said he was just calling Gina's bluff-like I was a poker chip in their fucking card game!" She bent over, her head in her lap, sobbing on folded arms. "Everyone uses me. It has to end."
She trembled, Mason placing a hand on her shoulder, Jordan jerking away like his touch was electrified, Mason letting her cry.
"What's your brother Trent have to do with all of this?" Mason asked when she lifted her head.
"Nothing," she said.
Mason picked up the legal pad he'd brought with him. He hadn't made any notes. "I'm not like the others," he said. "I'm not your brother or your parents. I'm not Centurion and I'm not Terry. I only want one thing from you."
"What?"
"The truth. Call me when you're ready."
Mason already had one conversation with Arthur Hackett that morning. Hackett had called as Mason was leaving for the county jail. Mason didn't need the phone. He could have opened his window and heard Hackett yelling from the Cable Depot. Mason let Arthur rant and promised a report after his meeting with Jordan.
Mason was more than a little jumpy as he rode the elevator to KWIN's offices, certain that his reaction was normal, doubting that Dr. Gina or her brethren had much experience with people who jumped off the roofs of elevators and lived to be spooked by the next ride. He thought about taking the stairs, telling himself that he could use the exercise, but he opted for the get-backon-the-horse approach, not realizing he'd been holding his breath until he stepped out onto the eighth floor. Fresh crime-scene tape blocked the entrance to Dr. Gina's office, confirming Samantha's suspicion that Mason's elevator ride had not been an accident.
Arthur and Carol Hackett didn't have to say a word. Her bloodshot eyes and bloodless lips, his fiery eyes and puckered mouth, fixed in fury, condemned Mason as he crossed their threshold. They let him in and unloaded, questioning him at the same time, each oblivious to what the other was saying.
"How could you do this?" Carol asked.
"Mason, I'm not paying you to send my daughter to jail for the rest of her life! What in the hell am I paying you for?" added Arthur.
Mason suspected they'd spent their entire lives talking without listening to one another. He was certain they'd never heard much that Jordan had to say and probably tuned out Trent in self-defense.
"One at a time," Mason told them. "First, I didn't do anything to Jordan. She did it to herself, though she had help from your friends at Sanctuary. Second, you were paying me to keep your daughter out of jail, only now you're paying me to get her out. We're on the same side here, so let's focus on that for now."
Carol Hackett stalked out of the room, repeating the problem-solving approach she took at their last meeting. Arthur didn't bother apologizing for her this time. Mason was learning the family music. It was a classical piece composed of blame conducted with fingers pointed at everyone else.
Mason asked, "Was Gina Davenport trying to get out of her contract with you?"
"What if she was? What's that got to do with any of this?" Arthur asked.
"It's the story line in Jordan's confession, that's all," Mason said. "Dr. Gina threatened to cut off Jordan's treatment if you didn't let her out of her contract. You didn't think the good doctor was that bad, but she was. Last Friday, Gina told Jordan good-bye and why. Jordan didn't take it well and threw a brass paperweight at the window, leaving a nice long crack. After spending the weekend thinking it over-what the prosecutor calls premeditating-she called Dr. Gina and arranged to meet her Monday night so she could throw Gina out the window."
Arthur Hackett stood behind his desk chair, shielding himself from Mason's explanation. He folded his arms over the back of the chair, pulling it toward him, backing up until he slumped against the credenza along the wall.
"My God," he whispered, the enormity of Mason's description beginning to take hold. "I didn't think she would do
it."
"Do what?" Mason asked.
"Both of them. Everything," Arthur said. "Gina had lost her own daughter. The poor girl killed herself. I never dreamt she would abandon Jordan over money. That's what it was all about-just money."
"And your daughter?"
Arthur shook his head. "Jordan has a temper," he said. "That's a little like saying a volcano makes smoke. But I always believed she could control herself if she wanted to."
Mason asked, "Is Jordan adopted?"
Arthur Hackett came out of his slump, raising his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"
"There may be another angle to this. Was she adopted?"
Arthur pushed his desk chair away and stared out the window for a moment. "Yes. Trent's birth was very difficult. Carol couldn't have more children afterward. She didn't want another baby, but I did. We were living in St. Louis at the time. I was selling advertising for radio, just getting started in this business. Some young girl got herself pregnant and we adopted her baby." He shook his head, "We didn't know anything about the mother," he added as if that was a curse.
"You didn't like that?" Mason asked.
Hackett squared his shoulders. He was shorter than Mason, but broader, more full than fit, but powerful enough to throw Gina Davenport through the window.
"I like to know what I'm getting, that's all," Hackett said. "When Jordan started having so many problems, all I could think about was the mother-was she like that?"
"Did you ever try to find Jordan's birth mother?"
"No. We asked Gina if we should look for the mother in case she had a history of psychological problems. Gina said it wouldn't matter, that we had to deal with Jordan, not her mother."
"Do you have Gina's home phone number?"
"Of course, but don't expect much help from Robert-that's her husband."
"Why not?" Mason asked, though he was more interested in whether the number matched the one Abby had called.
"He's a painter, teaches at the Kansas City Art Institute."
"That's okay with me," Mason said. "I never got past paint-by-numbers."