Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (24 page)

"How about the Ritz in Clayton?"

"Umm," she said, standing up. "It's good to be lucky, but lucky and loaded is most unusual." She rubbed her hand on his chest, balling his sweaty T-shirt in her fingers.

"You'll have to settle for lucky. I've got a coupon for a free weekend at a Marriott Courtyard. Continental breakfast included. Still interested?"

"Definitely" she said, kissing him. "I love Continental breakfasts. The oatmeal buffet is very romantic."

"I'll get you extra brown sugar. I've got one stop to make before we go," he said.

"I hope it's the shower."

"Okay, two stops. The second one is at Robert Davenport's studio and that's a solo appearance. He's tough enough to get anything out of without having to explain why you are there. I want him focused on me, not you."

"Are you patronizing me or flattering me?" she asked, twisting his T-shirt again with playful annoyance.

"You already ruled out stupid," Mason answered.

Mason found Robert in his studio, stretched out on a futon, nodding his head to a beat only he could hear. Mason watched him paint imaginary strokes with imaginary brushes, his eyelids fluttering. An empty needle lay on the floor next to the futon, explaining why Robert could hear music without sound, paint without brushes, and see with his eyes closed.

Mason squatted at Robert's side. "Hey, Robert. You got company, man."

Robert opened his eyes, squinting and grimacing as if Mason was a bad dream. "Go way," Robert mumbled. "No assholes today."

Mason grabbed him, pulling him up. Robert was all rubber arms and legs, like a doped-up, life-sized Gumby doll. Mason tried propping him up on a stool, but had to catch him before he fell over. Hoisting Robert again, Mason dumped him back on the futon, letting the high pass, using the time to look around the studio.

Robert had described himself as a decent artist. Mason thumbed through the canvasses stacked around the studio, finding nothing that stirred him, including the nudes. Robert painted the women without facial features, exaggerating their breasts and genitalia. Mason couldn't tell whether the paintings were unfinished or a reflection of Robert's inner psyche.

A corner of the studio was partitioned with a desk on the other side. Mason sat in the swivel desk chair, and began a methodical search of the drawers, finding nothing more interesting than class schedules. The bottom drawer was for files that hung on metal rails on the sides of the drawer, though Robert's files were laid flat, stacked one on top of another. When Mason lifted them out, he discovered why the files weren't hung from the sides. The drawer had a false bottom. Mason found a letter opener and pried the bottom panel out of the drawer.

The hidden space was Robert's combination medicine cabinet and safety deposit box, concealing a small bag of cocaine, three smaller bags of a darker powder Mason guessed to be heroin, and three syringes. Mason found a letter-size envelope underneath the drugs. He opened the envelope, pulling out four photographs that jolted him like one of Robert's needles.

The photographs were fish-eyed images of Gina Davenport and Max Coyle locked in naked embraces that gave new meaning to his client's nickname, Mad Max. The date of the photographs—August 15—was superimposed in the corner of each frame, confirming that Max was the boyfriend Gina had broken up with two weeks before she was killed. Mason guessed that Robert hid the camera in the ceiling above their bed as an insurance policy against the day Gina decided to dump him.

The first time Mason and Robert talked, Robert denied knowing whom Gina had been seeing. Mason wasn't surprised that Robert lied, though he did wonder what Robert intended to do with the photographs now that his wife was dead. He doubted that Robert had shown them to the police. If he had, the cops would have questioned Max and Max would have called Mason. Mason kept the photographs, but put the drugs back. Robert was curled on his side, his knees to his chest, moaning as the heroin slowly released him. Mason didn't say good-bye.

The pictures of Max and Gina reaffirmed Mason's confidence in the capacity of people to be stupid. It wasn't that people would lie, cheat, and steal. He depended on that to make a living. It was that some people would get up in the morning, make a list of the dumbest things they could do, and spend the rest of the day checking them off after completing each one. Max, Gina, and Robert were at the head of the class.

When the people were strangers, Mason found their behavior puzzling, amusing, and intriguing. When the people were his friends—as Max was—he found it sad. Max was also his client, which made his discovery of the photographs more complicated. He had represented Max only in Max's lawsuit against David Evans. Technically, there was nothing about that representation that required Mason to suppress evidence that would make Max a suspect in Gina's murder.

That was a lawyer's distinction Max would not appreciate. As far as Max was concerned, Mason was his lawyer, charged with keeping his secrets secret. He wouldn't understand when Mason told him the pictures made him a suspect in Gina's murder and that he'd better get another lawyer. Mason called Max on his cell phone, finding him playing in a charity golf tournament to raise money for kids with leukemia. He told Mason to meet him at the halfway house between the ninth and tenth holes.

Mason had played golf enough times to know that his talents lay elsewhere and to be grateful that his law practice wasn't cultivated on the links. His backswing was so twisted that it positioned his club for self-colonoscopy, producing shots that put everyone on the course in harm's way.

The tournament was being played at a course built to sell the million-dollar homes that surrounded it in what the developers called a lifestyle community. Calling it a mere subdivision devalued the experience. Putting a guardhouse at the entrance of the private street that led past homes to the golf course reminded the residents that the rich were different.

Max was waiting in his golf cart parked outside the halfway house, signing autographs and posing for pictures, beaming from beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat as each photo was snapped. Mason doubted Max would be as eager to see the photographs in the envelope tucked under his arm.

Paula Sutton, the acerbic host of KWIN's morning show, intercepted Mason with the beer cart she was driving before he reached Max.

"Hey, stranger," she said. "You missed the tee-off, but you can still get a cold beer."

"I'll pass," Mason said. "How'd you get stuck playing bartender instead of golf?"

"Highest and best use," she answered. "The station is a big sponsor of the tournament. The Hacketts are keeping a low profile after everything that's happened, but Arthur ordered the rest of us to show the flag. You don't strike me as a country-clubber. What are you doing here?"

"I'm going to audit Max's scorecard," Mason joked, knowing she would see him talking with Max. "Tell me something," he said, changing the subject. "When we talked at the radio station, you said that Gina Davenport ducked under her morality bar like she was doing the limbo. What did you mean? That dance may have gotten her killed."

Paula flashed a sly smile, giving Mason a fleeting image of her doing the limbo while the crowd chanted, "How low can you go?" She patted the empty passenger seat. "Climb aboard," she said.

Mason waved at Max as they passed him, mouthing that he'd be right back. Paula stopped in a grove of apple trees on a hill overlooking the green at the end of a long fairway. She got out of the cart, plucked two apples, tossing one to Mason and taking a bite out of hers. A foursome was working its way toward them.

"A good-looking woman offers me an apple in the middle of a twenty-first-century Garden of Eden," Mason said. "Pretty tempting."

"You like forbidden fruit?" she asked, taking another bite and wiping the juice from her mouth with the back of her hand.

"As long as it doesn't come from a poisonous tree," he said. "Tell me about Gina."

Paula tossed the half-eaten apple on the ground. "All business," she said, disappointed at Mason's answer. "What a waste. Gina slept around, but I bet you figured that out already."

"How long had you known her?" Mason asked.

"Since she was on the air, five or six years, I guess."

"What did you know about her daughter, Emily?" Mason asked.

Paula blanched, caught off guard by Mason's question, relieved by the shouted orders for cold beer from the golfers who had reached the green. She delivered four cans to the golfers, regaining her composure when she returned to the cart.

"I better get you back to Max before he tries to add up his score by himself. Since you settled his case, he can't add anything less than six figures."

"Does that mean you'll tell me about Gina sleeping around, but not about her daughter?"

Paula took a breath. "There's not much to tell. I'd met Emily a few times. She was a head case. Gina had plenty of advice for everyone else. None of it worked with her own kid."

Paula pushed the cart's gas pedal to the floor, flying down the hill and taking a turn so sharply Mason had to hold on to keep from being thrown out. After wanting to take him for a ride, Paula couldn't wait to get him out of her cart. Mason wanted to know why and took a shot at one of the missing links in the case.

"Did you ever hear Gina mention a woman named Abby Lieberman?" he asked.

They were back at the halfway house where the driver of another golf cart appeared from around a tree, causing Paula to veer hard to her left as the cart skidded to a stop. "Shit!" she said as the beer cooler bounced off the back of the cart, spilling cans and bottles.

Max pulled up on his cart, laughing. "Christ, Paula. We're giving the stuff away, not throwing it away," he said, until he saw how Paula was trembling. "Hey, girl— are you okay?"

Paula waved off his concern. "Yeah, I'm great. I need a cigarette," she said, leaving Mason and Max to clean up her mess.

"What was that all about?" Max asked Mason.

"She's not a fan of the game, I guess," Mason answered. "We need to talk, Max."

"So talk, Lou."

Mason looked around, spying an empty gazebo near the halfway house. "Privately," Mason said, leading the way, waiting until they were out of earshot. The gazebo was barely big enough for the wooden table and four chairs underneath its pitched roof. Mason felt himself shrink in Max's shadow, sensing the intimidation opposing linemen or wrestlers must have felt the instant before Max earned his nickname.

"Sit down, Max," Mason said, hoping to contain him, but knowing better than to dance around the subject. "Were you and Gina Davenport screwing around?"

Max laughed, banging his ham-sized hand on the table. "Are you kidding me? Is that what you came out here to ask me? Why the hell would a classy, uptown woman like Gina take a tumble with me?"

"I don't know, Max. You tell me, because her husband says she broke off an affair with someone just before she was killed. The cops would want to talk with the boyfriend."

"Lou," he said, his face darkening, "you got something to say, say it."

Mason tapped the envelope on the table. "I'm not saying anything, Max. I'm asking."

Max bit his lower lip and tugged at his chin as he eyed the envelope. "You're my lawyer, right? Anything I tell you is confidential, right?"

Mason shook his head. "Not on this, Max. Jordan Hackett is my client. If you and Gina were having an affair, you need another lawyer. I'll be glad to give you a name."

Max nodded, his huge head looming over Mason like a boulder. "That envelope," Max said. "Pictures?"

Mason said, "Yeah."

Max nodded again, taking shallow breaths, then a deep one as his chest and neck expanded, popping his veins. He burst out of his chair, snarling, overturning the table with one hand like it was made of air, grabbing Mason by the collar with the other, and throwing him onto the grass like a bag of dirty laundry.

Mason landed on his back, stunned and breathless, opening his eyes to find Max towering over him, the envelope in his hands. "I may need another lawyer, Lou, but you're going to need a doctor. I'll be glad to give you a name."

History, geography, and Interstate 70 connect Kansas City and St. Louis in a perpetual rivalry. Both claim, rightly, to have been jumping-off points for the country's westward expansion. Each sits on a border, orbiting the state like moons competing for the gravitational pull of the capital that, not accidentally, is located dead center in the middle of Missouri. St. Louis, its residents often sniff, is an Eastern city—
read sophisticated
—while Kansas City, they note from the view looking down their noses, is a Western city—
read not sophisticated.
Kansas-Citians, not above trash talk or cheap shots, still remind their St. Louis brethren of the 1985 World Series, and wonder aloud why a city's movers and shakers rank one another according to the high school they attended.

The highway is a 250-mile concrete tether connecting the cities, a four-hour-drive, long enough for Mason and Abby to exhaust the possible explanations for Paula Sutton's nervous reaction to Mason's questions about Emily Davenport and her near accident when he asked about Abby.

"Are you certain you never ran across Paula before?" Mason asked for the tenth time.

"I'm certain," Abby answered with diminished patience. "I've never heard of the woman, never met the woman, never even listened to her damn show!"

"Okay, I'm convinced," Mason said. "But Paula knows enough about you that she wasn't happy to hear your name. Or Emily's, for that matter."

Abby said, "At least it's easy to understand Max's reaction to the pictures. Gina broke up with him. He doesn't take rejection well, especially when he finds out someone was watching over his shoulder. Plus, he's got a reputation for violence and he's so big, he could have sneezed at Gina and knocked her out that window. I don't blame him for not wanting the police to find out they were involved."