Deadlocked (31 page)

"And you don't think your lawyer is being straight with you," Blues said.

"Let's just say that I'd like a second opinion," Mason said.

"What else?" Blues asked.

"This case goes back to King's murder trial. Something happened in that jury room. If we don't find Janet Hook and Andrea Bracco, we'll never know what it was. Andrea Bracco disappeared the day after the trial." Mason handed Blues the piece of paper with Shawana James's address. "This is the address for Shawana James, Janet Hook's sister. When Samantha talked to her, Shawna practically denied even having a sister. Maybe you'll have better luck."

"What are you going to do?" Blues asked him.

"I'm going to ask Whitney's mother if she knows where her son is."

Blues drained the last of his beer as the waiter cleared their table. "You're chasing too many shadows, Lou."

"I don't have much choice," Mason said. "The shadows are chasing me too. At least there's some good news. Nick is going to recover and Mary Kowalczyk is okay."

"Because of her damn fish?" Blues asked. "All that means is that her fish are missing too. She's still disappeared and Nick wants you to sue Whitney King before Whitney kills him. Which might work out since the cops are rooming with Nick at the hospital and Whitney is in the wind. On top of that, you're chasing a priest that's walking on the dark side while you bird dog your own lawyer who's supposed to defend you when the grand jury indicts you for first degree murder on Monday. I don't know why you get out of bed in the morning."

Mason shook his head. "Sure you do. To see what happens next."

Chapter 43

Johnson County used to be referred to as Kansas City's bedroom, the state line an artificial stripe separating the two in a rapidly growing region that blurred geopolitical identity into a massive metropolitan statistical area. With more people and square miles in its thirty-eight cities, towns, and villages than the city had within its borders, Johnson County had moved out of that metaphorical house to become Kansas City's rival and sometime partner. Mason preferred the city to the suburbs, unable to shake the sensation that he was drowning in vanilla whenever he found himself surrounded by strip malls and office parks.

Golden Years called its locations campuses, each facility euphemized as communities. Mason had been told that Whitney's mother lived in both the nursing home and the psychiatric hospital on the Johnson County campus in Lenexa, Kansas. He doubted the she lived in both unless she kept one as her vacation home.

Golden Year's Johnson County operation had grown from the original single-wing nursing home depicted in the photograph of the groundbreaking to a campus offering everything from town houses sold as condos, to assisted living apartments and inpatient care with twenty-four-hour private nursing. Mason turned in the entrance on the south side of Eighty-seventh Street Parkway, slowing for a small flock of geese that had chosen to walk across the driveway rather than fly to the pond on the other side of the road.

The campus was laid out in a horseshoe configuration. To his left was a cluster of attached town houses, all painted the same subdued shade of taupe and connected by walkways and parking lots. A four-story, two-wing assisted living apartment building wrapped around the back of the horseshoe. The taupe stucco motif was carried through this building and onto the long-term care unit on his right.

He parked his car in front of the apartment building, getting out and surveying the grounds. The grass was mowed with a precision that would withstand inspection by a drill sergeant measuring the length of each blade. Shade came from well-pruned maples, oaks, and cottonwoods that provided optimal light for the annuals and perennials accenting the taupe walls and green lawns with riots of color. A sign between the apartments and the long-term care facility pointed down a tree-lined sidewalk toward the Golden Year Psychiatric and Alzheimer's Treatment Center.

Another sign directed all visitors to the information center inside the apartment building where Mason found an attractive brunette sitting at a desk in the lobby reading
Cosmopolitan.
Brochures describing Golden Years were displayed in a rack on one corner of her desk; the rack was engraved in gold with the words "Information Center." It wasn't much of a center, but the brochures didn't offer much information, relying on sunny pictures of healthy elderly people flashing happy smiles and good bridgework.

To his right was a lobby furnished in brightly upholstered furniture, pastel and floral fabric the order of the day. A large screen television was parked in one corner. It was tuned to a local station broadcasting a golf tournament. A weather alert ran across the bottom of the screen advising that the National Severe Storms Forecast Center had upgraded its earlier severe thunderstorm warning by adding a tornado watch for the next three hours. A blue-haired woman and a bald-headed man sat in front of the television ignoring the golf and the weather alert, preferring the card game they were playing.

An elevator bank was on his left. The floor was carpeted and the walls were painted in muted tones that made the furniture the dominant visual effect. It was comfortable, a cut above bland institutional and, Mason guessed, just the kind of place that made the tenants feel at home though it would drive him nuts.

There was an office behind the information center desk with a bank of video monitors displaying scenes from around the grounds and the lobbies of the other buildings. The technology was good but there was no one watching the monitors. The woman behind the desk was wearing jeans and a snug fitting bright purple tank top. She didn't look like security was part of her job description.

The magazine lay open on her desk. From his upside down vantage point Mason deciphered the title of the article she was reading.

" 'Ten Ways to Make Your Man Come Back for More,' " he read out loud. "What's number one?"

She looked to be in her thirties with the ready smile and practiced eye of someone who quickly evaluated a prospect. Her blue eyes took their time with him.

"Don't you want the whole list?" she asked.

"I was hoping number one would be good enough that you wouldn't need the other nine."

"Keep him happy but hungry," she read, closing the magazine, standing, and extending her hand. "Welcome to Golden Years. My name is Adrienne."

"It's a pleasure to be here," he said, shaking hers with his. His name hadn't opened many doors lately so he didn't offer it.

She held his hand for an instant longer than necessary, letting him go when he gave a gentle tug. "That's what our residents tell us all the time. What can I show you today? Town houses, apartments, or long-term care?"

"Don't forget the psychiatric hospital," Mason teased her.

"Oh, I'm a pretty good judge of people," she said. "You don't look crazy to me."

"Don't bet on it, Adrienne. I do a pretty good crazy."

"In that case," she said. "I may have to show you the room with the padded walls."

"As tempting as that sounds, I'm here to see someone but I'm not certain which facility she's in."

"That's too bad. I'm not allowed to give out any information about our residents. They're very big on privacy here."

Mason gave her the easy smile, the one with soft light and high voltage. "What's your last name, Adrienne?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Rubinkowski. And don't tell me that's a pretty name. I can't do anything about the privacy policy."

"I don't want you to break the rules," he told her.

An elderly man wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, Bermuda shorts, black socks pulled up over his calves, and shiny black loafers, and carrying a newspaper tucked under his arm walked in, stopping at the desk next to Mason. He dropped the newspaper on her copy of
Cosmopolitan.
It was the
Kansas City Star
and Mason's picture as he left the courthouse the day before was on the front page above the fold.

"Put this in the recycling for me, honey," the man said, patting Mason on the arm. "Forget it, sonny. Medicare don't cover her and she don't come with the apartment," he added and left.

Adrienne's mouth widened as she looked at Mason's picture and reached for the phone on her desk.

"It's okay," he told her. "You don't have to call anyone," he said, covering her hand with his. "I just want a room number."

She looked at the newspaper again and then at Mason, shrinking from him. "It's you, isn't it? I saw it on the news. They said you killed that woman."

"It's a lousy picture," he said, trying to keep it light, "but I didn't kill her. She was my friend. I was set up. That's why I'm here. I need your help, Adrienne."

A tremor rippled along her arm as she tightened her grip on the phone, looking down at the keypad. Mason felt her shake as he held onto her. "I'm supposed to call if you show up here," she said. "He didn't think you would, but he said to call. Just in case."

Mason let go of her hand, tipping her chin up so he could look her in the eye. "Adrienne, who are you supposed to call?"

"You really didn't do it?" she asked, her eyes moist, "because I am a good judge of people and you don't look the type."

Mason shook his head. "I didn't do it, Adrienne. Help me out. Who are you supposed to call?"

She took Mason's wrist, lowering his hand, letting her fingers slide across his. She opened her desk drawer and handed Mason a business card. It was turned upside down. Mason flipped it over.

"That's who," Adrienne said. "Dixon Smith."

Chapter 44

"Call him," Mason told her.

"But I thought..." she began.

"It's okay. I don't want you to get in any trouble. Dixon Smith is my lawyer," he told her. Adrienne's eyes widened in disbelief until Mason picked up the newspaper, found Smith's quote that his client, Lou Mason, was cooperating with the grand jury process and showed it to her.

"I don't understand. Mr. Parker told me that Mr. Smith was his lawyer," Adrienne said.

"You mean Damon Parker who owns Golden Years?" Mason asked, Adrienne nodding. "Dixon told me all about that," Mason reassured her. "A lawyer needs more than one client, you know." He picked up the phone and handed it to her. "You better call him," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Positive. But you probably shouldn't tell him that you told me you were supposed to call him. He might consider that to be covered by attorney-client privilege. I'll square it with him later. Lawyer to lawyer."

"You can do that?" she asked.

"Sure. Especially since he represents me too. I don't want you to get caught in the middle. Tell you what," Mason said. "Is there another extension I can use while you call him? I've got a call to make too."

"Of course. There's one right over there," she said, pointing to a phone in the office behind her.

Mason looked at her phone. It had lights for three incoming lines, the buttons for each line marked one, two and three, none of which were lit. She hadn't selected a line yet and Mason bet she would pick line one when she made the call. He walked into the office, keeping eye contact to delay the start of her call. He picked up the receiver for the office phone, gave her a quick wave and turned his back, hoping his timing was good. He pressed the button for line one at the same instant she did, joining her call without her knowledge, listening to the electronic tones as she dialed. He hoped she was too distracted to notice that neither of the other two lines was in use.

"Dixon Smith," his lawyer said when he answered the phone, his tone flat, disinterested.

"Mr. Smith. It's Adrienne Rubinkowski from Golden Years. You said to call if that man, Lou Mason, came here."

"Yes, I did, Adrienne," Smith said. Mason squeezed the phone when he heard Smith's voice quicken. "Is he there now?"

"Yes he is."

"Where?"

"Using a phone in the office."

"What did he want? What did he say?"

"He said he wanted to see someone but wasn't certain which unit she was in. I did just what you told me. I said I couldn't give out that information for privacy reasons."

"And you can't," Smith said. "That's the law. Did he say who he wanted to see?"

"No, he didn't. Do you want me to ask him?"

"Yes. That's very important. I need to know who it is. Tell him you'll call and ask if the person wants to see him. Then call me back. Got it?"

"Got it," Adrienne said.

"Good girl," Smith said. "I'll tell Mr. Parker what a great job you're doing."

"Thanks," she said, hanging up.

Mason punched the button for line two, keeping his back to Adrienne a moment longer, watching the video monitors, his head buzzing. His suspicions of Smith had been confirmed. The wild card was Smith's comment that he needed to know who Mason wanted to see. The only person on Mason's list was Victoria King. He wondered who else Smith was talking about as he returned to Adrienne's desk, still smiling.

"Everything go okay?" he asked her.

"Fine," she said, smoothing her jeans.

"You see," he said. "I told you it would be all right. See you around."

"Mr. Mason," she said, stammering.

"Please, call me, Lou."

"Okay, Lou" she said, still flustered. "If you'll just tell me who you want to see, I'll call them and ask if I can give you that information," she said, picking up the phone again, twisting the cord through her fingers.

"You know what?" he said. "Turns out she's not even here. She's at Lakewood Gardens. That's why I made that call. I don't know how I screwed that up. Sorry to have bothered you."

Mason left her looking stricken, hoping she didn't lose her job when she called Smith back with the bad news. He'd come to Golden Years to see Victoria King. He drove away wondering who else was there and why Dixon Smith didn't want him to talk to them.

***

There was a mammoth strip mall on the north side of Eighty-seventh Street Parkway directly across from Golden Years. A Wal-Mart Super Center anchored the west end, a Home Depot matching it on the east. In between, the center boasted a sandwich shop, video store, dry cleaner, liquor store, sports bar, Chinese restaurant, veterinarian, Lasik surgery center, cosmetic dentist, tanning salon, office supply store, and half a dozen other businesses. A bank, a Mexican restaurant, a pizza joint, and a Starbucks occupied pads scattered across the parking lot. Collectively, the retailers offered everything needed for survival in the suburbs, including duct tape.