Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (23 page)

Hackett shook his head. "There was no reason. It wasn't true."

"Why do you think Jordan made such an accusation against her brother?"

"I don't know. They didn't get along. She was always very dramatic. She's been . . . difficult," he added, searching for the word.

"So your daughter is a disturbed liar who makes up dramatic stories about crimes. Is that what you are telling the court?"

Ortiz interrupted, "Objection. Mr. Mason is badgering the witness. Why, I don't know, but it's still badgering."

"I get the point, Mr. Mason. Move on," Judge Pistone said.

"You didn't think Gina Davenport would make good on her threat to stop treating Jordan, did you?"

"No, I didn't. Her own daughter had killed herself. She was a therapist, for God's sake. I couldn't imagine she would do that."

"But you took the chance with your daughter's mental health to save a few bucks for your radio station and you were wrong," Mason said. "Did you tell your son that Dr. Davenport also threatened to turn him in to the police for raping your daughter?" Arthur hesitated, looking to the judge, the prosecutor, and his wife for a way out. "Answer the question, Mr. Hackett," Mason said.

Arthur took a breath and said, "Yes."

"Was that before or after Gina Davenport reported that one of the windows in her office was cracked and needed to be replaced?"

"After," Hackett said in a whisper.

"And your son, who managed the Cable Depot for you, didn't bother to fix the window, did he?"

"That's not true. He said it could wait."

"You took out a life insurance policy on Gina Davenport a few months ago. Have you submitted a claim?"

Arthur slumped back in the witness chair like a fighter on the ropes. "Yes," he answered in a voice so low Judge Pistone ordered him to speak up and repeat his answer. "Yes, I turned in a claim," Arthur said.

"You understand that you can't collect on that policy if you killed Gina Davenport, don't you?"

"I didn't kill her, Mr. Mason," Hackett answered.

"How much will you collect if your daughter is convicted of killing Gina Davenport?" Arthur Hackett didn't answer, and Mason let his silence hang like the accusation it was. "Tell us how much, Mr. Hackett. It's my last question," Mason said.

"Five million dollars," Arthur said.

As Arthur Hackett stepped down from the witness stand, he met his daughter's trembling gaze. His testimony was a spear thrown at her heart. He had confirmed what she had always believed—that he had chosen his natural-born son and his hard-earned money over his adopted daughter. Carol Hackett rose as he passed through the gate separating the lawyers and judge from the spectators. They made their way down the aisle, weaving slightly as they leaned on one another before disappearing into the hall.

Judge Pistone declared a recess, departing without any indication whether Mason's questions had undermined the judge's confidence in the prosecution's case. Jordan laid her head on the counsel table, clasping her hands behind her neck, swatting away Mason's hand.

***

Samantha Greer testified about the homicide investigation, including the physical evidence recovered from the murder scene, concluding with Jordan's surprise visit to police headquarters to confess. Ortiz kept his questions short and Samantha's answers followed suit, giving her testimony precision and credibility.

"Do innocent people confess to crimes, Detective Greer?" Mason asked her, rising from his seat. It was the first time he'd cross-examined Samantha. During their time together, his cases and hers had not intersected, as if the love gods were giving them a demilitarized zone for their relationship.

"Sometimes, Mr. Mason," she said, allowing a hint of a smile to escape the corner of her mouth, sensing the charade they were playing. "It happens."

Mason stood at one side of the lectern the lawyers used for questioning, leaning his elbow on the edge. "You've been doing this a long time, Detective. Why do innocent people confess to crimes they didn't commit?"

"There can be many reasons," she answered. "Some people want attention, some are mentally handicapped."

"Some people are coerced into confessing, true?" Mason asked.

"Not by me, Counselor."

"Of course not. I didn't mean to imply that you would, but someone in a position of trust or authority could coerce an innocent person to confess. That's happened, hasn't it?"

"I suppose it has," she admitted.

"Some people confess because they're scared or exhausted, or they black out and think they might have committed the crime and not remembered. Isn't that right, Detective?" Mason asked, setting aside their past, pushing her to lay the foundation for his attack on Jordan's confession.

"I can't speculate about all the reasons, but none of those things happened here," Samantha said, taking off her gloves to jab back. "The defendant walked into police headquarters voluntarily, in complete control of her mental faculties, and announced her desire to confess. She was informed of her rights, declined to have an attorney present, and she confessed."

"What about children?" Mason asked, ignoring Samantha's devastating answer. "Why do kids confess to crimes they didn't commit?"

"I don't know," Samantha said, dismissing the question.

Mason picked up a manila file he had placed on the lectern. "Do you remember giving a lecture on confessions at the police academy last year?" Mason asked her. Harry had given a lecture on the same program before he retired, and gave Mason a copy of Samantha's paper. Mason had set Samantha up, and she had obliged by playing the role of the tough cop, too certain of the defendant's guilt to consider other possibilities. Normally, he relished these moments as much as Ortiz enjoyed his videotapes. This time was different.

"Yes," she answered, losing the glow from her performance.

"You wrote—and I quote—
Be careful with a child's confession. More than anything else, kids just want to go home. They'll admit to almost anything because they figure their parents will make it all go away.
Did I read that correctly, Detective?"

"You did."

"Isn't that what Jordan Hackett wanted, to go home? Did you consider the possibility that she confessed so her parents would take her back and make it all go away?"

"The defendant isn't a child. She's an adult."

"Who grew up with parents who called her damaged goods and a liar until they threw her out of the house. Since when does being an adult make that any easier to take?"

Samantha edged forward in the witness stand. "People like that commit murder all the time, Counselor. They become violent, like the defendant."

"Jordan Hackett isn't the only member of her family you suspected of committing a violent crime, is she, Detective?"

Samantha sighed, pursing her lips, realizing the trap she'd walked into. "No, she isn't."

"Who was the other person?"

"Trent Hackett," she said, forcing Mason to drag it out of her.

"What violent crime did you suspect he committed?"

"He tampered with the elevator in the Cable Depot, causing it to crash. He was the building manager and had access to the elevator controls."

"Who was Trent Hackett's intended victim?" Mason asked, boring in as Judge Pistone sat upright in the still courtroom.

Samantha said, "You were. We suspected that Trent was trying to prevent you from investigating the defendant's claim that he had raped her."

"Arthur and Carol Hackett didn't believe Jordan's claim against her brother and they're both alive. Gina Davenport believed it and she's dead. I believed it and Trent Hackett tried to kill me. That's what you thought, isn't it, Detective Greer?"

"Yes," Samantha answered, glaring at Mason, forgetting their past.

"No further questions."

Blues on Broadway was a throwback to piano bars and gin joints that flourished during Kansas City's jazz heyday, before night clubs and restaurants became mini-theme parks for corporations more concerned with demographics than getting down with the sound. A rectangular bar struck from mahogany stood in the middle of the floor. An ebony grand piano on a low riser with room to add a trio, plus black-leather-lined booths bathed in blue shadows tossed from pinpoint spots buried in the ceiling, said this was a place to kick back and listen.

It was early Saturday morning and the last paying customers had tumbled out the door. Mickey was tending bar for Mason and Harry, who were perched on stools listening to Blues pick riffs off the piano. The notes clung together, fell apart, and found each other again, like subatomic particles.

"Putting Dr. Gina's murder on Trent was the smart play," Mickey said. "I mean Pistone was going to bind her over no matter what you did," he told Mason.

"Pistone did the only thing he could do—order Jordan to stand trial and let the jury decide. Blaming Trent was a chump's play," Mason said, "but it was the only one I had."

"I don't get why it was a chump's play," Mickey said. "It fits with the evidence and gives the jury a way out."

Harry tapped his empty bottle on the bar and Mickey replaced it with another cold one. "It's like this," Harry explained. "Blaming Trent for killing Gina gives Jordan another motive for killing Trent, not that she needed one. First her brother raped her, then he killed the one person who believed her story and was going to do something about it."

"Then all we have to do is figure out who killed Trent," Mickey said. "Why is everyone acting like the dog died?"

"Because," Blues said, running his knuckles across the keys, "I'm betting on one killer, not two. The murders are tied together by the killer's rage. Throwing Gina through the window and slam-dunking Trent into the computer monitor takes a whole lot of poison. So far, Jordan is the only one that fits that description."

"So, where do we start?" Mickey asked.

No one answered. Harry nursed his beer. Blues tapped out a string of chords, not finding the melody he wanted. Mason leafed through Dr. Gina's book,
The Way You Do the Things You Do,
stopping at the chapter about her daughter's suicide, reading the opening paragraph twice.

"Gina's daughter, Emily, was born in St. Louis," he said, looking up from the book.

"And I was born under a lucky star," Mickey said. "So what?"

"She was born in the same hospital as Jordan, only a week earlier. Gina says her hard labor was a sign of things to come," Mason said. "Take a look," he told Harry, sliding the open book in front of him.

"I take your word for it," Harry said, finishing his beer, Mason feeling stupid, forgetting about Harry's eyesight.

Mickey picked up the book. "I don't," he said, reading the chapter to himself.

Mason said, "Jordan and Emily were best friends. Both of them end up pregnant and living at Sanctuary. Emily killed herself before her baby was born. Jordan says Centurion sold her baby. Somebody hooks Abby up with Gina Davenport, implying that Gina knows what happened to the baby Abby gave up for adoption. The dates in Centurion's baby ledger match up with the birth dates of Abby's and Jordan's daughters."

Harry said, "What's the connection to the murders?"

"I don't know," Mason said. "But if we're looking for someone else to tie to both murders, we might as well start at the beginning and it looks like the beginning is at a hospital in St. Louis."

"Here's something else I don't get," Mickey said, putting the book down. "Dr. Gina writes about Emily committing suicide, but leaves out the part about Emily being pregnant. I wonder why she'd do that."

"I'll add it to my list of things that don't make sense about this case," Mason said. "In the meantime, we've got to take everyone back to when they were in diapers. Harry, can you get one of your buddies in the department to run a check on Robert Davenport? Find out if he's ever been busted for buying or dealing dope. Maybe he was hooked up with Centurion."

"I've still got a few favors coming," Harry said. "Might even be easier on the weekend. Less chance Samantha might catch someone bird-dogging her case."

"Great," Mason said. "Mickey, take another look at those IRS reports for Sanctuary. Follow the money. We're missing something, let's find it."

"No problem. You want me to check out Emily's Fund at the same time?"

"Good call. Start fresh with everything and everybody," Mason told him. "Blues, take a look at Centurion. I want to know how he got into the baby business and if he's still in the drug business."

"Samantha's got him on good behavior for the time being. I start poking around, he may come after you again," Blues said.

"Then don't get caught poking around," Mason said, grinning at his friend.

"I'll tiptoe," Blues said. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to St. Louis."

Abby and Mason had rocketed through the official dates that marked the first stage of a new relationship, cruising into the what-are-we-doing-tonight stage that assumed they would be together that night and every night. They hadn't talked about it or negotiated terms, they'd just let it happen, each catching the other staring with bemused satisfaction, sharing a quick smile, a dip of the head, or a knowing wink.

He left her a message Saturday morning explaining why he wasn't available that night, that he was going for a run and would call her later. When he got back from Loose Park, she was waiting on his front step with an overnight bag, scratching Tuffy behind the ears.

"Don't tell me I'm not going, or that I'll be in the way, or that it will be too dangerous or too boring. I'm going," Abby said.

"Do I look lucky or stupid?" Mason asked her, wiping sweat from his face with his T-shirt.

"Stupid if you give me any trouble. Lucky if you pick a good hotel."