by Joel Goldman
"Must be tough paying your phone bill without having a bank account," Mason said, "and I bet it's even harder to get a mailing address for a park bench."
Earl Luke spat, scooting backward to his grocery cart, dumping the bag in with the rest of his things, clutching the sweatshirt.
"Where did you get the phone, Earl Luke?"
"I didn't steal it and you can't prove I did. I found it and it's mine. Possession is the law, Mr. Lawyer!"
"I don't care if you did," Mason told him. "Like you said, a man's got to take care of business, right?"
Earl Luke cocked his head, squinting at Mason, knowing Mason was playing him, not sure for what and why. "I got my business and it's my own business, so you just stay out of it."
"You get any good tips from the psychic hotline, Earl Luke?" Mason asked.
Earl Luke stopped fumbling with the bungee cord harnessing the grocery cart to the park bench. "How'd you know 'bout somethin' like that?"
"Maybe I'm psychic," Mason said. "Too bad the phone service was cut off. I hear the more time you give the psychic, the better they do." Earl Luke's eyes dilated from slits to saucers as he listened to Mason. "Tell you what I'll do," Mason continued. "I'll buy that phone from you. You take the money, buy a phone card, and tell your psychic to give it to you straight."
"How much?" Earl Luke asked.
Mason took cash out of his wallet, letting it dangle from his fingers. "Fifty bucks," he said, watching Earl Luke wet his lips and ease his grip on the sweatshirt. "Just one other thing. Tell me how you got the phone."
Earl Luke handed Mason the phone, grabbing the cash with a pickpocket's swiftness. "Dumpster behind the Depot."
"Show me," Mason said, flashing another twenty-dollar bill.
Earl Luke snapped up the twenty and led Mason to the grassy north side of the Cable Depot, where there was less than a hundred feet from the building to the edge of the bluff overlooking the interstate highway that wrapped around the downtown. Mason could hear the pounding roar of passing traffic.
Earl Luke pointed to a Dumpster set hard against the north face of the building beneath a trash chute bolted to the brick wall. There was no sun on this side of the building. Mason craned his neck upward, catching the cool early evening breeze under his chin, tracing the trash chute to a small door on the top floor, buried in the brick, hidden even more by the advancing dusk. He followed it back down to the Dumpster, sitting on a concrete pad partially obscuring another door, this one a steel door inlaid in the concrete.
"Give me a hand," Mason said, the two of them shoving the Dumpster off the trapdoor. "That's an odd place to put a door," Mason said, kneeling and rubbing his hand across the burnished lock, fingering the passkey in his pocket, wondering if it would open the door and what he would find if it did.
"You got to be the strangest lawyer I ever did see," Earl Luke said. "You buy a phone off of me we both know don't work. You give me another sawbuck to show you a trash can you coulda found on your own. Now you got the look of a second-story man I once knowed jus' before he get caught."
Mason kept his head down, not wanting Earl Luke to see him smile. He felt like a second-story man, taunted by the mystery of what was hidden on the other side of the trapdoor, juiced by the prospect of slipping in under the radar of the straight and narrow, wondering what his life would be like if he gave sway to the part of him that got off on tempting trouble.
It was, he understood, what Dr. Gina meant by the title of her book, The Way You Do the Things You Do. The impulse to step off the path, to break the rules was sometimes irresistible. It put Max Coyle and Gina Davenport in a photo album of dirty pictures. It put Robert Davenport at the naked breast of a student model, then left him dead with a dirty needle in his arm. It put Terry Nix in the black-market baby business. And it was about to put Mason on the wrong side of the line, a place he was willing to go alone but not with Earl Luke as his witness. He left the passkey in his pocket and stood up, brushing his pants clean.
"It's probably nothing," Mason said, not convincing either one of them. "Thanks," he said, adding, "I don't suppose you saw who put the phone in the Dumpster."
"Now how am I gonna see that?" Earl Luke asked. "Any fool can see that trash chute comin' out of the radio station up there. How am I gonna see who opens that little-bitty door?"
"How do you know the trash chute is in the radio station?"
"On account of I know that the radio station is up there and on account of I saw that woman what got throw'd out her window on the south side of the building. So, the radio station has to be on this side."
"You're right," Mason said, remembering the view from Arthur Hackett's window north to the downtown airport. Mason turned around, a small plane gliding in for a landing, puffs of smoke bursting from the runway as the wheels touched down. He looked back at the trash chute, finding the small door cut into the wall directly below Arthur Hackett's window.
Earl Luke watched Mason for a few more minutes, clearing his throat, shuffling his feet, baiting the air with the hope for more easy money. "Anything else you want to see?" he finally asked Mason.
Mason gazed eight stories up, not hearing Earl Luke, wondering about a father's grief and the reasons it ran so deep.
David Evans's office was locked, no light under the door, no answer to Mason's knock, Mason drawing the line at breaking into Evans's office. Outside, blue violet dusk chased the last patches of daylight, lacing the evening air with a sharp chill, making good the weatherman's forecast of an early frost. Mason sat on Earl Luke's bench watching tenants spin out of the Cable Depot's revolving door, their day finished, collars gathered around chins, cursing the unexpected cold. Earl Luke was gone, having taken his grocery cart and Mason's money out for the evening.
Mason was glad that he'd thrown a barn jacket and a ball cap in his car when he heard the forecast that morning. He was used to Kansas City's multiple-personality weather, with days that dawned bright and sunny, then descended into raw nights. He rolled his collar up and pulled his cap down, becoming invisible to those passing by, arguing with himself about the door behind the Depot, knowing the argument was more about when than if.
He tabled his internal debate when David Evans and Paula Sutton squeezed through the revolving door, setting a quick pace as they headed south, Paula trying without success to smooth the wrinkles in her clothes, Evans teasing her and the fabric with playful strokes. She gave him a shove, not resisting when he locked his arm over hers, pulling her to him as they continued on, their dance reminding Mason that a locked door with no light beneath it and no answer to his knock didn't mean that no one was home.
Remembering that Evans lived a few blocks away in Quality Hill, Mason followed them, telling himself that the door behind the Depot wasn't going anywhere. Mason liked catching a witness out of his element, away from the comfortable trappings of home turf. Evans's house was certainly his home turf, but it wasn't Paula Sutton's.
Mason gave them a good head start before following at an unobtrusive distance, lingering in doorways when they stopped at a deli, then a liquor store. Evans's townhouse was the middle unit in a row of restored, orange-brick row houses. Mason waited until the lights came on before retreating to the deli for his own dinner.
A pastrami on rye with dark mustard and darker ale gave him no great insights into the relationship between Paula Sutton and David Evans. There was nothing sinister, or even wrong, about a relationship they made no effort to hide, though Mason guessed that Paula's open resentment of Gina Davenport made for interesting pillow talk.
He called Abby, telling her he was working late, relieved when she said that she was as well, promising to call tomorrow. He wasn't ready to tell her about Emily, and he wasn't anxious to undermine their relationship by holding back. He hoped another day would bring more answers.
Realizing he had to ask questions to get answers, he retraced his route to David Evans's front door, this time drawing a response to his knocking. Evans opened the doo
r, his shirt half-buttoned and hanging out over his pants, Sinatra playing in the background.
"Mason, what do you want?" Evans asked, glancing over his shoulder.
"Sinatra?" Mason asked in return. "I never figured you for a Sinatra guy, David. I would have guessed the Backstreet Boys."
"Who is it?" Paula asked from inside the house, appearing behind Evans wearing a man's bathrobe. "Oh, shit!" she said, answering her own question.
"Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol," Mason said. "If you'll just step outside for our cameras, we'll present you with the grand-prize check."
"Can it, Mason," Evans said. "You want to talk to me, make an appointment during regular business hours."
Mason shouldered past Evans before he could close the door. "We're in the service business, David. There are no regular business hours."
Evans was built lower to the ground than Mason, with a squared midsection, once solid, now soft. Mason felt Evans's muscles tense beneath the fat as he blocked Mason from getting past the entry hall.
Mason tightened in response, an involuntary primal reflex, as he realized he had pushed Evans too far. A man could do many things in defense of his home, including kill an invader, and Evans was ready to defend. Mason eased back, opening a demilitarized zone between him and Evans, keeping his hands loose at his sides, risking a glance at Paula holding the robe tightly around her.
"Get out," Evans told him, leaving no room for other choices.
"Maybe this isn't a good time after all," Mason said.
"I'll just talk to the IRS about the Form 990 reports you filed for Emily's Fund. I'm sure they'll call you for an appointment during regular business hours."
Evans didn't blink or breathe for a moment, then he found his smile. "Damn, Mason. Next time someone tells you to follow the money, run the other direction," he said, clamping his hand on Mason's arm. "Come on in if that's all you want to talk about," he added as Paula took her cue and disappeared into the bedroom.
Evans led Mason into the kitchen. The wine he'd purchased at the liquor store sat on the kitchen table unopened alongside the still-wrapped carryout from the deli. Mason had interrupted the appetizer, not the entree. The kitchen was a narrow rectangle that opened into a living room where Paula had left her shoes and skirt on the floor. She slipped out of the bedroom still wearing Evans's robe, gathered her things, and punched the off button on the stereo, cutting Sinatra off in mid-croon. Firing a defiant look at Mason, she retreated again.
"Your charity reported contributions it didn't make. How come?" Mason asked.
Evans opened the refrigerator and tossed a can of beer to Mason. "You look like a beer guy to me," Evans told him. "Emily's Fund wasn't my charity, it was Gina's, and I didn't sign the reports. Gina did. I checked the books after she was killed and figured out what she had done, though I couldn't tell you why she did it."
Mason popped the lid on his beer. "I'm supposed to believe you didn't know that Emily's Fund only gave away half the money it said it did."
"I don't care what you believe," Evans said. "Don't forget, I'm the one who told you to check them out. You've seen the reports or you wouldn't be here. Gina signed them. I'll be right back." Evans retrieved his briefcase from the entry hall closet. "I signed these," he said, taking a folder out of the briefcase.
Mason leafed through the pages. "Amended reports," he said.
"That's right," Evans said. "Only these have the real numbers. I mailed the originals to the IRS yesterday. These are copies. Keep them, I've got another set at the office."
Paula returned from the bedroom wearing her own clothes. Evans handed her a beer, but Paula shook it off, lighting a cigarette instead, tapping her lighter on the kitchen counter as she drew down on the burning tobacco. Mason read through the amended reports again, searching for a reason not to feel like a fool.
"Go figure," was all Mason could muster.
He stuck his hand in the pocket of his barn jacket, his fingers closing around the cell phone he bought from Earl Luke, playing a hunch, taking it out, and putting it on the counter, watching Paula Sutton gag on her smoke when he spun the pink faceplate toward her.
Recovering quickly, she stubbed her cigarette out in the sink. "I'm going home. Call me," she said, then told Mason, "Him, not you."
"Don't leave me out," Mason said. "You can call me on my cell phone."
Chapter 30
Evans gave Mason the universal shrug all men use when they don't understand a woman's behavior, Mason responding with the knowing nod, meaning that he knew what Evans meant even if he didn't understand Paula's behavior any better than Evans did. Except that Mason's nod was a lie. He understood Paula's reaction to his house call and Jordan's phone.
Paula started getting an allergic reaction to Mason at the golf tournament when Mason first mentioned Abby Lieberman's name. Since then, Paula had avoided Mason, losing her libido entirely when Mason showed up at Evans's house, an effect Mason hoped was an isolated incident in his relations with women. When she saw Jordan's phone, she nearly swallowed her cigarette. Mason reached the easy and obvious conclusion that Paula had used Jordan's phone to call Abby Lieberman, putting her on a collision course with Gina Davenport.
The better questions were why Paula would go to such trouble and how she knew to make the connection in the first place. Walking back to his car, Mason put his money on jealousy and passion. Paula's jealousy of Gina's success gave her reason to ferret out Gina's weak spots and use them to discredit Gina or just to ruin her day. The worst motive he could ascribe to Paula was the desire to stir up trouble for Gina.
Gina must have known from the beginning that Abby was Emily's birth mother, and confided the truth to Evans, relying on him to keep her secrets confidential. Evans must have been the kind of man who liked to impress a woman by sharing juicy tidbits, his knowledge evidence of his power, his power the best aphrodisiac he had to offer.
Accepting all that, Mason still couldn't make the link from Paula's phone call to the murders of Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. The case was becoming a maddening collection of circles and false starts, none of which overcame the evidence against Jordan. By the time Mason reached his car, he was practicing his speech to Jordan about the wisdom of taking a plea that would give her a chance at a new life after most of her old life had been wasted in prison.
Forgetting the allure of the trapdoor behind the Cable Depot, Mason revved the engine of his rented Camry, banging his palm on the steering wheel, frustrated at his inability to make Jordan's case come together. Whenever he misplaced an important document in his office, he invariably found it on top of a stack of papers after he'd turned his office upside down looking for it. He usually made a bigger mess because he couldn't see what was in plain sight. As he sat in his rental car, missing his TR-6, all he saw was the mess.
Mason stopped at Blues on Broadway, taking comfort in the quiet of a slow night. Only a couple of tables were occupied. Fred, the regular bartender, waved a dish towel at Mason when he sat down at the bar. Fred was tall and thin, sometimes banging his head on the glasses hung in the rack above the bar. He had a round face like a sucker on the end of a long stick. For a bartender, he didn't say much, preferring to pour and serve.
"What'll you have, Lou?" Fred asked.
"Whatever you've got on draft," Mason answered. "You seen Blues tonight?"
"He called a while ago, didn't know if he'd make it in. You want something to eat? Connie is in the kitchen."
Blues on Broadway wasn't known for its food, the Reuben sandwich being the specialty of Connie, the short-order cook, who was married to Fred. Connie was also known for her temper, having threatened more than once to add an offending customer's fingers to the chowder she made on Fridays. Mason was hungry, but didn't want another sandwich. "Tell Connie to surprise me. Anything but a Reuben. She's got to be able to make something else."
Mason moved to a booth, nursing his beer, almost complaining when Connie shoved a Reuben under his chin, think
ing better of it when he saw the hard set to her jaw. Mason looked past her to Fred, who ducked, not wanting to confess he'd told Connie what Mason had said. Connie was so short she needed a step stool to kiss her husband, but Fred valued his fingers too much to risk his wife's temper.
"Smells great, Connie. Thanks," Mason said.
"Leave a decent tip," she told him.
Mason had finished half the sandwich when Samantha Greer slid into the seat across from him. She rubbed her hands together, pressing them against her cheeks. "Boy, it's too early to be this cold already," she said.
"Frigid Canadian front," Mason said. "I heard it on the news."
"I once dated a Canadian with a frigid front," Samantha said.
Mason did a finger drum roll on the table. "Dynamite material. You should try open-mike night at a comedy club."
"Who puckered your backside?" she asked him. "Never mind, I don't want to know. I've got some news that will pick up your spirits."
"What? Patrick Ortiz resigned as prosecuting attorney to write legal thrillers and dropped the charges against my client as a going-away gift to me?"
"You know, Lou, your fantasies used to be a lot more fun."
"Yeah, but the rubber suit gave me a rash. What's up?"
"We found your car. I wanted to tell you myself. You didn't answer at home or the office or on your cell phone. I don't have what's-her-name's phone number, so I tried here. Glad I caught you," she said, not concealing the light in her eyes.
"Her name is Abby. Her number is in the book. You found my TR-6?" Mason asked, pushing the Reuben out of the way, reaching across the table for Samantha's hand, an instinctive gesture.
"Well, I didn't personally find it," she said, tentatively resting her other hand on top of Mason's, gently rubbing her finger between his. "A patrolman doing a routine check of abandoned buildings found it stashed in a vacant garage on the East Side."