Deadlocked (29 page)

Something else struck him about his conversation with the woman as he walked to his car. She was certain that Claire had told Mason whatever it was the two of them were keeping secret, and she was equally certain that Claire had vilified her in the telling. That Claire hadn't done so didn't surprise him. That wasn't Claire's style.

Nonetheless, the woman's comment raised two possibilities. The first was that Claire's secret was so awful that Mason was better off not knowing, perhaps meaning that Claire had done the right thing in keeping silent. The second was that Claire's secret was tainted by uncertainty, putting it in the category of things better left unsaid.

Weighing the two possibilities, it wasn't hard for Mason to conjure the easy outlines of what might have happened. His father and the woman, whatever her name was, had had an affair. His mother must have found out, leading to an argument in his parents' car in the middle of a summer downpour. His father lost control and that was that.

It made for a sordid, pathetic rendering of wasted lives, except that he didn't buy it. In the first place, Claire would not have kept it from him. Whatever shame the story bore would have been tempered with the passage of time. When he was old enough, she would have told him a sanitized version, turning it into an apocryphal lesson. In the second place, the investigating officer wouldn't have labeled the crash intentional. There had to be something more that Claire couldn't bring herself to tell him.

The heat was building, the day thickening. A crew of Hispanic men was working the yard of the house where he had parked, mowing the lawn, trimming the shrubs, and laying down fresh mulch mixed with manure in the flower beds that ringed the house. They had stopped for a break, cigarettes dangling from their lips, sweat dripping from their brown faces and necks. The blend of sweat, engine exhaust, cut grass, and manure gave the air a fetid, decayed taste.

He reached his car, opened the door, and turned back toward the house. He scanned the windows on Judith Bartholow's house for a glimpse of the woman, not finding her face pressed to the glass, betting she was watching him from the shadows. He passed on the temptation to wave good-bye to her and slipped into the driver's seat as his cell phone rang.

"Mr. Mason?" the caller said, his voice feathery and familiar, but not quite right.

"Yes," Mason answered, juggling his memory, finding a partial match. "Nick? Is that you?"

"Yeah, it's me. I don't sound so good, huh?"

"Good? You sound great, kid," Mason lied. "When are they going to let you go home?"

"I just got out of the ICU last night. The doctor says I've got to stay a few more days, at least until I can go to the john by myself," Nick said.

"Well at least you're moving in the right direction. I'll come by and see you. What room are you in?"

"That's why I was calling," Nick said. "Can you come right away? It's pretty important. I'm in 619."

The last time Nick had asked to see him was to hire him. "Why? Do you have another case for me?"

"No. The cops are here. They told me I don't need a lawyer, but I'm not so sure."

Mason shook his head. The day before, Whitney King had announced that he wasn't pressing charges against Nick. That let the cops and Ortiz off the hook since prosecuting Nick would have been a public relations nightmare. On the other hand, they could live with turning Nick into a witness against Mason, using the shooting to establish a motive for Mason to kill Sandra Connelly. King shot Mason's client. Mason shot King's lawyer. It smelled of a certain schoolyard even-Steven symmetry.

"Is one of the cops a woman?" Mason asked.

"Yeah. How'd you know?" Nick asked.

"Never mind. Just put her on," Mason said.

Mason heard voices in the background, then Samantha Greer saying, "Lou, don't get excited."

"Not another word, Sam. Get out of that kid's hospital room until I get there."

"Lou, let me explain," she said.

"Out! Now! And put Nick back on," Mason said.

"Hey, Mr. Mason," Nick said. "You really pissed her off, man. That was cool."

"She'll get over it. Don't talk to anyone not wearing a stethoscope until I get there. I'm only a few minutes from the hospital. By the way, how did you get my cell phone number?" Mason asked, pretty certain he hadn't given it to Nick.

"I called your office," Nick said.

"On Saturday morning?" Mason asked. "There's no one there on Saturday mornings. In fact, if I'm not there, no one is there. Who did you talk to?"

"Some guy named Mickey. I told him it was important and he gave me your cell phone number. Hey, you aren't mad I called you on your cell, are you?"

Mason smiled for the first time in days. "Not a bit. I'm glad you did. I'm on my way."

Mary was alive. Nick was out of ICU. And Mickey Shanahan was back. Three solid hits, even if none of them was out of the park. He was behind, but at least he had some base runners. It was enough that he was willing to wait to ask Claire about Judith Bartholow's mother.

He still didn't know where Mary was, whether she was okay or why she had disappeared. Nick was out of the ICU but, judging from the weakness in his voice, still at the beginning of a long road back. Mickey could have just dropped by for his paycheck and would be gone before Mason saw him, or he might be back for good. If he was, Abby might not be far behind. Mason decided to find out.

Mickey answered on the second ring. "Lou Mason and Associates," he said.

"Since when do I have any associates?" Mason asked, not able to keep the pleasure from his voice.

"From what I've been reading, boss, I wouldn't be too picky. You should be grateful somebody wants to associate with you at all."

"I am grateful, Mickey. Are you back or just passing through?"

"Back, if you've got room for me."

"Room I've got," Mason said. "Cash paying clients whose fees pay your salary—well, that's another story."

"Don't worry about it, boss. I'd rather you owe me than cheat me out of it."

"What about Abby? I don't suppose she..." Mason said, unable to finish the question, feeling Mickey's answer in the sigh on the other end of the call.

"Sorry, Lou," Mickey said. "The primary is in ten days and things are pretty crazy. They can always find someone else to get coffee. Abby is tough to replace."

"That I know," Mason said, Mickey not arguing. "Listen, the kid who called you is our client, Nick Byrnes. I'm on the way to the hospital to see him. Stick around the office. I'll be there in an hour or so."

Mason rounded the corner on the sixth floor of the hospital, and headed down the corridor for the general surgery patients. He swept past the nurses' station, building up a head of steam for Samantha Greer. Mickey's return had pumped him up. It wasn't only that Mickey would help. It was that Mickey had given up something important to come back. Though Mason had had good reasons to let Mary's and Nick's case slide the last few days, he was determined to come back to them.

It was the right thing to do and, he realized, it was the one thing he could do to help his own case without getting too much in Dixon Smith's way. There was another side benefit. Working Mary's and Nick's case would give him cover for checking up on his lawyer.

Samantha was waiting for Mason outside Nick's door. She was wearing bone-colored slacks and a matching short-sleeve jacket over a black top. Her hair was pulled back and her makeup was thin. She was all cop, the butt of her gun sticking out from the shoulder rig under her jacket. Her partner, Al Kolatch, was sitting in a chair, leaning back against the wall, tapping his feet on the floor.

"Over here," she said to Mason, pointing to an empty room across the hall, taking Mason by the arm, not giving him any chance to argue.

She closed the door, waiting for the slow moving hinge to seal them in. There were two beds, both stripped, a bulletin board above each, a forgotten get-well card pinned to one. Mason crossed the room to the window that looked north from the hospital. Samantha stood behind him.

Traffic on I-435 streaked past beneath them, glass and distance muting any sound. Treetops stretched beyond the highway, shading subdivisions. Thick white clouds with towering superstructures promising thunder and lightning hung on the horizon. Kansas City's summer weather had a predictable pattern. Heat and humidity built up to the breaking point, erupting in violence, cooled by rain that stoked the process for another round. The same could be said for this case, the cycle stretching back fifteen years to the night Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes were murdered.

"This is complete bullshit. You know that," Mason finally said, forcing his voice to a low, hospital quiet octave.

"You don't know what you're talking about," Samantha told him.

"Never a bad bet, but not this time," Mason said, ratcheting up to street volume. "Whitney King shoots my client, and then graciously promises that he won't press charges against Nick. You and Ortiz aren't satisfied with that. No. You've got to jump on Nick the minute he's out of intensive care so you can turn him into a witness against me. I can't believe you were ever on my side. Ever!"

Samantha, arms folded over her chest, listened to Mason rant, chewing her lower lip. "Are you finished?" she asked.

Mason threw up his hands. "Yeah. I'm finished and so are you and your partner. You're not talking to my client."

"I don't want to talk to him," she said.

Mason looked at her, hands on his hips, squinting as if he wasn't certain who she was. "You don't want to talk to him," he repeated, Samantha nodding. "Then want do you want to do?"

"Protect him."

"From whom?" Mason asked.

"Whitney King."

Chapter 41

Mason narrowed his eyes and jammed his hands into his pants pocket. He studied Samantha, looking for signs that she was casting bait, reeling him in. She was wearing a cop's dead flat stare. Mason knew the look. It didn't mean she wasn't bluffing, but it meant he was rolling for high stakes if he took the chance she was.

"What happened?" he asked.

"We got a tip," she said, barely moving her mouth.

"Not good enough," Mason said.

"We don't need your permission to put a guard on your client," she reminded Mason.

"True enough," he conceded. "But if his life really is in danger, he's got a right to know the details. He doesn't have to talk to you, but you've got to talk to him, which means you've got to talk to me. Now would be a good time to start."

Samantha heaved a sigh, hands on her hips. "Okay," she said. "We got an anonymous threat on the TIPS Hotline. The caller didn't stay on long enough for a trace. The voice is disguised, probably using an electronic device you can get

from a hundred Web sites."

"Male or female?" Mason asked.

"Couldn't tell for sure. Best guess is male."

"What did he say?"

"Kept it short and simple," she said, consulting a notepad she pulled from her inside jacket pocket. "The exact quote is 'Be careful. The Byrnes boy is next and last.' Not too original, but it makes the point."

"You must get the whack jobs leaving you messages on that phone line. What makes this a credible threat?"

"We do get all kinds of whack jobs," Samantha said. "It's not unusual in high-profile cases like this for us to get a raft of death threats and confessions. After a while, we can even recognize some of the callers' voices, they call in so often. But this message is different."

"Why?" Mason asked.

"It's the part about being the next and the last. Like killing Nick would be related to the murders of his parents and the jurors."

"What makes you think King made the call after he gave his cousin's speech today?"

"What cousin are you talking about?" she asked.

"You know," Mason said. "Rodney King, the hero of the LA police brutality riots. After the cops beat the crap out of him and he sued the city for a bazillion bucks, he said can't we all just get along? That was Whitney's pitch this morning after he testified to the grand jury. He said he forgave Nick and was ready to move on."

"That's your problem, Lou. You believe everything you hear."

"Which makes you my opposite since you haven't believed anything I've told you in this case, including that King is guilty and I'm innocent."

Samantha boosted herself onto one of the unmade beds. "You live in an upside down world," she said. "Whitney King is acquitted of murder and you want me to believe that not only is he guilty but that he's spent the last fifteen years knocking off the jurors who set him free. Then, you're found next to the dead body of King's lawyer holding your gun which just happens to be the murder weapon, and you admit that you shot Sandra Connelly, and you want me to believe that you're innocent."

"Look who's talking. You get an anonymous death threat against my client and that's enough for you to indict Whitney King. Welcome to my world."

"It's not just the phone call," Samantha said.

"What else?"

She took a deep breath. "We've been running down what happened to the jurors. It's got some people in the department nervous. Nobody likes the odds that all those deaths are unrelated. It would make that jury the unluckiest group of people in history."

"Can you tie King to any of the killings?"

"Eight murders spread out over ten years, some of them committed in different cities. The bullets recovered from the shootings all came from different guns. That's a lot of loose ends to tie up, but we're working on it."

"What about the last two jurors? Have you found either of them?" Mason asked.

"We're looking," she answered.

"But not in the right places," Mason said.

Samantha rolled her eyes. "Janet Hook was twenty-four at the time of King's trial. She was a single black woman who had dropped out of high school. Serving on that jury was the longest job she'd ever had. We found her sister, Shawana James."

"And I'm guessing Shawana doesn't know where Janet is, right?"

"Right or she's not saying."

"You got an address for Shawana?" Mason asked.