by Joel Goldman
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."
Chapter 14
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 o
f 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."
"And I'm not going to introduce you, Centurion. She's a dog lover, not a corporate sponsor. I need to know something else. The cops found cocaine in Gina Davenport's office after she was killed. Her husband buys in bulk. There may be a connection. I'd like to find out where the husband gets his."
"Can't help you with that, Mason. My dopin' days is behind me. I got no part of that shit no more, and that's the truth."
Abby took her hand off the dog's head. George stood, flared, and growled.
Centurion said, "Cut that shit out, girl." He pulled a gun from beneath his shirt and pointed it at the dog. "I don't like dogs, but I do like pretty women, so I won't kill your dog." He turned to Mason, tapping his gun in the air for emphasis, ignoring the sound of Blues revving his engine as he crept up the driveway. "You find that bitch, Mason. We both need her. But you stay out of my business, hear?"
Mason put his hand over the muzzle of Centurion's gun. "I don't like guns, but I do like dogs, so I won't let George kill you. I'll find my client, but you stay out of my case. Hear?"
Blues pulled up, stepping out of the SUV, the engine still running. Centurion laughed. "You are one nut-busting motherfucker, Mason. I give you that. You shoulda done time. Coulda busted nuts with cons in the yard like a fuckin' lifer. Man, you are something else," he added, turning his back and walking up the stairs, adding over his shoulder, "Bring that bitch back here now. Don't forget."
Mason and Abby climbed into the backseat of the SUV, the dog lying between them, Blues completing the circle in the drive, aiming for the darkness.
"You believe him?" Blues asked.
"About Jordan, yeah. Not about the drugs. He won't be happy if he figures out we searched his car. Will he be able to tell George took it apart?"
"Could be. George didn't leave any marks, but Centurion might have some way to tell if those panels have been opened."
"What will he do if he figures out you found his guns and drugs?" Abby asked. She was holding her middle with one arm, the other wrapped around the dog's neck. Both arms were trembling, vibrating the rest of her. The dog nuzzled her lap. She smiled at Mason, letting go long enough to wipe her eyes. He reached across the dog, taking her hand.
"God, Lou," she said. "The guns, the drugs, the playground macho bullshit. I thought you were a nice Jewish boy, a lawyer like my mother always wanted me to bring home."
"He is," Blue said from the front seat, watching them in the rearview mirror. "He just keeps bad company- until now."
"Thank you, Blues. But what will Centurion do?" Abby asked.
Mason answered. "Depends on what I do. If I leave it alone, he'll leave me alone."
"Will you leave it alone?" Abby asked.
Mason didn't answer.
Chapter 15
The Meltdown was a bar on the western edge of the 39th Street strip, covering a corner at the intersection with State Line Road, the street separating Missouri and Kansas. The University of Kansas Medical Center was on the other side of State Line, ensuring a steady flow of sleep-deprived medical students across its threshold. The neo-docs in their white jackets and stethoscopes mingled with the street traffic the bar attracted with its reputation for showcasing local hard-rock bands.
Mason and Abby stood inside the door to the bar, their eyes adjusting to the weak light and heavy smoke. It was close to midnight and people were jammed hip-to-pelvis across the crowded floor, jostling to the music.
"Herd dancing," Mason said. "My favorite."
"Be thankful the herd is not in mating season," Abby shouted over the lead guitarist, who was having an affair with his distortion pedal, slamming the crowd with punishing chords as he wailed into the mike.
They pushed into the crowd, weaving and twisting between people as they got closer to the stage. Jordan was sharing a table with two other girls next to a stack of speakers, ignoring each other and the music. Mason guessed each was a girlfriend of one of the boys in the band. They'd heard the music too many times to pay attention anymore.
Jordan looked up as Mason broke through a wall of people, bolting from her table, knocking her chair over, darting around the speakers. Mason would have yelled for her to stop, but realized she couldn't hear him and wouldn't stop if she had.
He vaulted Jordan's chair, trusting Abby to keep up. The bar was small and the stage made it smaller, leaving a narrow passage behind leading to a back door that was still closing when Mason reached it. He banged into the door, skidding to a stop in the alley behind the bar where Blues was waiting, his arms wrapped around Jordan. The more she thrashed, the tighter Blues held her until she wore herself out.
"Okay," she wheezed. "Okay. Let me go."
Mason nodded and Blues opened his arms. "We need to talk," Mason told her.
"I'm not going back to Sanctuary," Jordan said. "You can't make me."
"You didn't complain in court today when Centurion offered to take you back there. What happened?" Mason asked.
"I changed my mind."
"People out on bail on a murder charge don't get to change their minds," Mason told her. "And they don't get to steal cars either."
"I didn't steal anything."
"How did you get back to town?" Mason asked.
"I borrowed Centurion's car. I was going to call him tomorrow and tell him where I left it."
Mason said to Abby and Blues, "Pull the car around. We'll catch up to you."
"Aren't you afraid I'll run away again?" Jordan asked.
"Right now, I'm your best and only friend. You want to run, run. Next time, I'll let the cops find you and you'll get a real public defender buried under a stack of hopeless hard cases who needs directions to the courthouse."
Jordan scuffed the pavement with the toe of her shoe. "I'm not going back," she said again.
"Tell me why."
"Everything I tell you is confidential, isn't it? That's why you made the others leave."
"That's right."
The alley was as poorly lighted as the bar, the only illumination coming from a black-light bug zapper and a bare yellow bulb mounted above the bar's back door. The light favored neither of them, bringing out the purple and yellow stains
of Mason's fading black eye and the washed-out, hollow cheeks that flattened Jordan's face.
"I saw something I shouldn't have seen," she said.
"What?"
"Cocaine. A lot of cocaine."
"Where?"
"In Centurion's apartment. He's got the third floor of the house."
"What were you doing in his apartment?" Mason asked, not wanting to hear the answer.
"He said I owed him for getting me out of jail. I didn't know what to do. He said he wanted to take a shower first. I was looking for his car keys and I found the cocaine in a drawer, probably six bags. I grabbed the keys and split."
"How did you have time to pack all your clothes? Centurion said you took everything with you."
"I didn't have much. Everything fit in my backpack. Centurion had it brought to his apartment, like I was moving in with him."
"Does Centurion know you found the drugs?"
"I don't know. I wasn't going to wait around to find out. So I split."
"Why did you leave the Mercedes on Quality Hill?"
"No reason. I had to leave it somewhere. I called my ex-boyfriend-he's the drummer-and he picked me up."
"Aren't you leaving something out?" Mason asked her.
"Like what?" she asked, looking around but not at him.
"Like going into the Cable Depot. Someone saw you."
"So what. My father owns the building and I've got a key. Is that a crime?"
"Jordan," Mason said. "Look at me. I know about Trent. The police want to talk to you. Tell me what happened."
Blues pulled his SUV up to the mouth of the alley and Abby got out, walking slowly toward them. Mason stepped closer to Jordan, his hand on her chin, guiding her eyes to his. "Tell me," he said.
Jordan held Mason's wrist, keeping his hand on her face to collect the pieces as she crumbled. Her lips quivered, then parted. Her eyes pooled, then overflowed, as she began to shake. Mason pulled her head to his shoulder, his arms around her, as she dissolved.
"He raped me," she said, sobbing. "He raped me and they let him and they said I was a liar and a whore and I'm not and they let him."