Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (28 page)

Mason still had the passkey Trent Hackett gave him, but he knew he couldn't simply walk into KWIN, flash his American Bar Association membership card, and start rifling through desk drawers. He'd have to make peace, or at least reach a truce, with Arthur Hackett.

Hackett was seated behind his desk gazing out the window to the north, his back to the door, watching private planes land at the downtown airport, when a secretary brought Mason into his office. He slowly swiveled his chair around to face Mason as the secretary closed the door, leaving them alone, shocking Mason with his deteriorated appearance. His face was gray, skin hanging loose from his cheeks, his eyes flat as if nothing he saw was worth the view. He'd lost enough weight that his clothes sagged, covering him like hand-me-downs. Hackett raised a limp hand from his lap, gesturing Mason to have a seat.

"Thank you for seeing me," Mason said. "I know this is a difficult time for you and your wife."

"Do you?" Arthur asked. "How would you know such a thing, Mr. Mason? Have you buried one of your children? Have you condemned another?" Each question was cut with a dull knife, the sharp edge worn from the many times he'd asked them of himself, trying to fathom how such horror fell to him.

"No, sir," Mason answered, caught in the quicksand of Hackett's grief. "I won't presume to know what you're going through, though I am sorry you have to go through it."

Arthur drew a deep breath. "That's more honesty than I'm accustomed to. My home is crawling with people trying to make my wife and me feel better. I'm in no mind to work, but at least I can be left alone here."

"Then why did you see me?" Mason asked.

"There's no understanding something like this, Mason. There's no way of reconciling to it. Carol and I weren't perfect parents. Hell, we weren't even good parents. Trent was our failure. Jordan was a mystery, bad genes, bad parents. Who knows? They were ours to take care of and we failed them. I was hoping that you found something that would make sense out all of this, maybe let my wife and me off the hook a little bit."

"I'm trying, Arthur," Mason said, steeling himself to Arthur's excruciating confession, knowing he couldn't give the absolution Arthur needed. "I was wondering if Jordan's cell phone ever turned up. Someone used it to make a call that could be important."

Arthur shook his head. "You asked me about that once before. I took a look around and didn't find it, though it should have been easy enough to find. Jordan bought a hot pink faceplate for the phone. It practically glowed in the dark."

"Did the bills come to you?" Mason asked. "I'd like to see the last one." Arthur pursed his lips, drumming his fingers on his desk.

"I can subpoena it from the cellular company, but that's a lot of trouble if you've got the bill," Mason said. He waited to ask Hackett why he was holding back.

"You don't have to do that," Hackett said. "It's too late to be embarrassed for Jordan anyway. I got the bill the other day," he said, removing it from a folder on his desk and handing it to Mason. "It was over a thousand dollars, most of it to one of those psychic hotlines. Why she bothered with that rubbish, I don't know. I canceled the account."

Mason studied the bill. He found the entry for the call made to Abby's phone and her return call to Jordan's phone. The other calls were made to the psychic hotline. "Did you ask the cell phone company if they could find out who placed the calls?"

"They said there was no way to know unless the calls were recorded. Does any of that help you?"

"I don't know," Mason said. "I heard that Max Coyle was involved with Gina. Do you know anything about that?"

"There are no secrets in a place like this, Mason. They were both grownups. A lot of people screw around if they get the chance. I heard that you and Max discussed his relationship with Gina at the golf tournament," he added with a pleased grunt.

"What about Paula Sutton?" Mason asked, ignoring Hackett's jab. "Who was she screwing around with?"

"Ask her. She'll tell you. She isn't the shy type."

"I thought there were no secrets in a place like this," Mason said.

"There aren't. I just don't have time for all of them. Is that all?"

"One last question. Have you heard anyone at the station ever mention someone named Abby Lieberman?"

"No," Arthur said without hesitation. "Should I have?"

"I hope not."

On his way out, Mason walked past the broadcast studio where Paula Sutton was doing her morning show. He stopped and watched through the glass wall dividing the studio from the interior corridor, listening to the broadcast piped over the intercom. Paula listened while her caller denounced public education as a government thought-control plot. She noticed Mason as her caller finished his tirade, answering Mason's pantomimed request that she call him with dead air, her caller hanging up in frustration as the program engineer cut to a commercial.

Max Coyle lumbered down the hallway, dipping his shoulder and knocking Mason to his knees as he passed, not saying a word. When Mason got up, Paula had slipped out of the studio through another door. He made it to the street without being steamrolled again, certain that Max wouldn't be doing any testimonials on his behalf.

Mickey was waiting for him when he got to the office, shooting Nerf Balls at the basketball goal above the door. Mason caught the ball as he crossed the threshold.

"Goaltending," Mickey said.

"My goal," Mason answered. "I can tend it whenever I want. Are we still in business?"

"You bet. I've figured out the great thing about the practice of law. When times are good, people can afford to fight. When times are bad, people can't afford not to fight. And criminals don't pay any attention to the economy. You'll never go out of business."

"I love this country," Mason said. "How's the not-forprofit world compare?"

"I don't know why they call it not-for-profit," Mickey answered. "As far as I can tell, everyone is making a killing."

"What did you find out about Sanctuary?"

"Nothing new. Centurion and Terry Nix are living large, but they're smart enough to do it up front. It's all in the reports. Emily's Fund is another story."

"Tell me the story," Mason said, opening his dry-erase board, hoping the crisscrossed lines would lead him to an answer instead of another dead end.

"Emily's Fund reported making donations to about a dozen other charities. All of them had to file the same annual report listing their contributions. The only one that matches up is Sanctuary. The others reported getting about half of what Emily's Fund says it gave them."

"What's the total difference between the two amounts?"

"More than two million bucks over the last couple of years," Mickey said. "Emily's Fund has a fiscal year that ends June 30, and that's when it makes a lot of its contributions. Almost a million of the discrepancy was from contributions made on June 30."

"Wouldn't somebody notice the discrepancy?" Mason asked.

"Doubtful," Mickey answered. "From what I found out, these charities rarely get audited by anybody, especially if the charity's directors are the same people playing with the dough. Plus, anyone looking at the report for one charity probably wouldn't cross-check it against the reports of another charity, especially if the first charity's books balanced."

"Gina Davenport and David Evans were the only directors of Emily's Fund, right?" Mason asked.

"Kind of convenient," Mickey answered.

"Did Gina Davenport sign the reports?"

"In front of a notary," Mickey said, "swearing they were accurate."

Mason picked up Gina's book, her picture staring back at him from the cover. "So that's the way you did the things you did, Dr. Gina," Mason said. "Did that get you killed?"

Late that afternoon, Mason returned to the Cable Depot, this time to talk to David Evans about Gina Davenport's recipe for cooking the books of Emily's Fund. Earl Luke Fisher was sprawled out on his park bench across from the building entrance, his head propped on an oil-stained canvas bag, the rest of his worldly possessions crammed into a grocery cart lashed to the back of the bench with a candy-striped bungee cord. The autumnal sun, low-angled and gentle, painted him gold to match the leaves pooled beneath the bench. He called out as Mason parked his car.

"Hey, Mason!"

Mason gave him a waist-high salute as he made for the front door.

"Come here, Mason!" Earl Luke shouted, sitting up on his bench. "What's the matter? You too good for Earl Luke? Do I gotta make a damn appointment?"

Earl Luke stood, eclipsing the sun at his back, his shadow rippling on the pavement, aiming at Mason, who looked at his watch and shrugged. It was close to dinner, and he guessed Earl Luke's meal plan was a little short.

"How you doing, Earl Luke?" Mason asked, crossing the street.

"I'm fit to spit," Earl Luke answered, closing one eye and slapping his hand over his heart, as if to prove the point.

"Something on your mind?" Mason asked.

"Always got something on my mind," Earl Luke said. "It ain't free, though."

Mason had put money into worse lost causes than Earl Luke, and didn't mind doing it again. He liked Earl Luke's approach, turning panhandling into retail at the street level. He said, "You've got to ask for the sale to make the sale."

"I'm asking, I'm asking," Earl Luke said, rubbing his hands on a denim shirt that could have been a palette for a dirt painter. "That prosecutor fella come see me again and give me a subpoena for court this Friday. Give me a check for forty bucks too."

"That's a witness fee," Mason explained. "The subpoena isn't valid without the check."

"Well, forty bucks is nothing to sneeze at, 'cept I can't cash no check seein's as how I ain't exactly got a local bank account, if you get my meaning."

"You'll have to take that up with the prosecutor," Mason said. "Maybe they'll give you cash."

"The hell with that and the hell with them!" Earl Luke said. "I'm taking up a collection to head south for the winter. Thought you might like to get me started. If I can get a stake, I'd leave today, let that prosecutor cash his own damn check. Might do your client some good if I was to be a long way from that courtroom come Friday."

Mason stepped back, not interested in Earl Luke's offer to become a tampered witness regardless of the price. "Can't help you," Mason told him. "You're under subpoena to appear in court. You better show up or the prosecutor will send the sheriff to make sure you do. Besides," Mason lied, "I'm not worried about your testimony."

"It's a goddamn conspiracy, is what it is!" Earl Luke said. "You damn lawyers are all in it together," he added, snatching up his canvas bag, spilling its contents on the ground, scrambling to shove the coarse stuffing of his vagrant life back in the bag.

Mason counted a screwdriver, a short length of thin rope, a flattened roll of duct tape, a rusty bottle opener, a butane lighter, a yellowed copy of
People
magazine, and a wadded sweatshirt among Earl Luke's inventory. Something hard tumbled out of the folds of the sweatshirt, skidding across the pavement, Earl Luke diving to recover it, Mason catching a glimpse.

"Is that a cell phone?" Mason asked. The flash of a pink faceplate had caught his eye.

"What if it is?" Earl Luke asked, crouched on the ground, hiding the phone under the sweatshirt. "I got business to tend to. Man's entitled to a telephone."

"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.