Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (3 page)

He parked his car in the wide circle drive, walking onto the veranda that wrapped around three sides of the house. A continuous message engraved on the railing in platinum paint read
The New Century Investment Fund Veranda.
A freshly painted red barn was emblazoned with the logo of the Commercial Bank Group. Next to it was a machine shed, according to the boldly painted billboard on one wall naming it the
USA Telecom Machine Shed.
The Mid-America Business Network had paid to have its name embossed on the tractor that was parked next to the shed.

The kaleidoscope of advertising reminded Mason of Centurion Johnson's successful fund-raising campaign for Sanctuary. Pronouncing himself a survivor of the streets, not a victim, Centurion sold Sanctuary with the fervor of a Sunday morning television evangelist. The land was donated, the buildings erected and furnished, and the doors opened to the miscast and maladjusted. Sanctuary provided refuge for young people fleeing abuse, both parental and substance, and a haven for the emotionally brittle. The permanent ads for the contributing sponsors were a constant reminder of the harsh reality of the real world. Follow the money.

Centurion told his sponsors that Sanctuary was no kick-back-meditate-blame-the-old-folks hideout for troubled kids. Not on his watch, he told them. It was a working farmstead. These kids work, clear the land, plant the crops, care for the livestock. Sure, he promised, they would get professional counseling. But they'd also get blisters and backaches from a hard day's work. Nothing like sweat and strain to clear your brain, he told one cheering audience of businessmen who responded by throwing money at him like it was confetti.

Sanctuary was the model for successful partnerships between the business and social service communities, a not-for-profit that made a return on its sponsors' investment by giving them a visible stake in its success. When Mason saw a Mercedes 500 SL parked in the open garage with a vanity plate that read
Centurion,
he recognized another harsh reality. If crime doesn't pay, good works surely do.

"You must be Lou Mason," a voice said from behind him.

"That I am," Mason said, turning around to a man dressed in denim and tie-dye, his graying hair pulled back in a short ponytail held in place by a leather strap. His round face was sun-lined, open, and friendly. His body was soft, and shaking his hand felt like squeezing a small feather pillow.

"I'm Terry Nix. We spoke yesterday."

Sanctuary did not allow visitors without an appointment cleared in advance by the Executive Director. That was Nix. The policy prevented disruption of the work and therapy schedule, according to the web site. Mason had jumped through the hoops to meet Jordan Hackett, but he didn't like someone else controlling access to his client.

"Mr. Nix," Mason said, "I never know when I'm going to need to see Jordan. I assume you'll waive your appointment policy under these circumstances."

"Call me Terry," Nix said, giving Mason a pat on the back. "We're in the problem-solving business here. I think we can handle that one. Let's go inside."

Nix ushered Mason through the Phillips Pharmaceutical front hall, where a young woman, heavily pregnant, asked Mason to sign in and clip a guest badge to his shirt. They continued past the Kilbridge Foundation family room, down the S&J Railroad stairs, to the Hammond Industries Executive Director's Office. A secretary, also young and pregnant, sat at a desk outside the office, struggling with a word processing manual.

Nix's name was on the door too, though on an easily replaced magnetic strip. Nix sat on the edge of his desk, Mason standing, looking over Nix's shoulder at the framed diploma awarding Nix a master's degree in social work and family counseling from St. Louis University.

Plaques and certificates from grateful donors professing their admiration for Sanctuary's noble work flanked Nix's diploma. The one on the end caught Mason's eye. The certificate read
For Outstanding Service.
The donor was Emily's Fund, a name unfamiliar to Mason until he saw the signature at the bottom—Gina Davenport.

Mason gave up believing in coincidences when he gave up believing in the tooth fairy. He decided to save this one for later. "Where's Jordan?" Mason asked.

Nix looked at his watch. "She's digging postholes for a new stretch of fence. She should be back in about ten minutes."

The Hacketts had shown Mason a recent picture of their daughter. She had long, straight, light brown hair and an angular, unremarkable face. She looked past the camera like she wasn't listening when the photographer told her to say cheese. Her lips were closed in a flat seam. The camera overlooked the anger that forced her from her parents' home, giving no sense that she was a woman who could dig postholes.

Nix asked, "Why does Jordan need a lawyer?"

"Terry," Mason answered, "you know that's confidential."

"Hey, man. I'm her counselor. I need to know these things to do my job."

"Then you ask her. If she wants you to know, she'll tell you," he said, echoing Claire's admonition about Abby. "I thought Gina Davenport was Jordan's therapist."

"All of our residents are assigned an on-site counselor. I'm Jordan's. Some of our residents also see a private therapist, but most can't afford it."

"Her parents say that she lives here because she's too violent to stay at home. Are they right?" Mason asked.

"Lou," Nix answered, "you know that's confidential."

Mason smiled. "And if I tell you that I need to know so I can represent her, I'll bet you'll tell me to ask her."

It was Nix's turn to smile. "Same drill, man."

Mason suspected that Nix was one of those touchyfeely types who made every roadblock, turndown, and obstacle feel like a damn shame he couldn't do anything about and wouldn't if he could. It was a soft-soap style of aggression that was too slippery to get a grip on.

"Are you and I going to get along on this, Terry?" Mason asked.

"Absolutely, man," Nix answered with a grin that said "not likely."

"Any reason we won't?"

"Depends on what you're after. We do a good job here. Messed-up kids get a safe place to work, live, and get better. Most of them can't handle more of the real world than a hard day's work. Lawyers jack up the karma. That's a bad thing, Lou. Nothing personal."

"Maybe I should talk to Centurion about the karma," Mason said.

"Talk to me, baby," Centurion Johnson said with a deep laugh from behind Mason. "I love karma."

Centurion stood just inside Nix's office, his shoulders blocking the frame, his head barely clearing the top of the door. His father was African-American, his mother East Asian, giving him a dark-skinned mix of racial features that defied easy characterization. Life on the street and time in the prison yard had given him a powerful, heavily muscled build that combined with his natural salesmanship to make him a force of nature.

Mason shook hands with Centurion, watching his own hand disappear in the process. Centurion's grip was solid and reassuring. His oversized grin was comforting. He looked like he was ready for the back nine, wearing bone-colored chinos and a washed-out pink polo shirt that strained against his chest and biceps. Mason tried to picture him selling dope and busting heads, but couldn't summon the image.

"Lou Mason," he said as Centurion released his grip on his hand.

"Centurion Johnson," the big man replied, drawing out his name like a ring announcer, making fun of himself. "If you was my lawyer back in the day, I might never have done time. But if I never done time, I might never have straightened myself out. I woulda kept on dealin' and stealin' till some stone-cold motherfucker capped me with a nine. Then old Terry here be out of a job 'cause nobody gonna hire his sorry ass. Terry, I tell him, this ain't Haight Ashbury. It's fuckin' Missouri, man. Get over it. But these kids relate to him, you know what I'm sayin'? And without Terry, these kids wouldn't have nobody to straighten them out. And this gig is all about them kids, man."

Listening to him, Mason understood Centurion's talent. He played to his audience, picking the stereotype he guessed was expected. He chose a mix of street jive, humor, and humility to make Mason feel like one of his homeys. Mason bet Centurion did a killer Colin Powell for the Chamber of Commerce and a knockout Shug Knight for the brothers. Mason had represented enough street punks and boardroom con artists to withstand Centurion's charm.

"If they clean their plates and take out the trash, do you let them drive the Mercedes on Saturday night?" Mason asked.

Centurion laughed again, an easy chuckle. "You know somethin', Mason? I didn't want that car 'cause I was afraid people like you might get the wrong idea about me. But the dealer, see, he sponsored the garage and said to me, CJ—he's one of those white boys calls everybody by their initials—I can't put the Mercedes logo on the outside of the garage and let you put a Ford Escort inside the garage. How's that going to look? Well, we needed a garage and that was that."

"No sacrifice too great," Mason said.

Centurion kept his smile. "Mason, why are you busting my chops on such a beautiful morning? My man Terry is doing his job. I'm doing my job. We're taking care of these kids. You're wantin' us to cut you some slack with Jordan Hackett. Didn't your momma tell you about getting more bees with honey than vinegar?"

"Sorry," he said to both of them. "You've got a great place here."

"That we do," Centurion said. "And we keep it great 'cause we stay focused and disciplined. Ain't that right, Terry?"

"Focused and disciplined," Terry repeated.

"So everybody makes an appointment in advance to see a resident. Ain't that right, Terry?" Centurion asked.

"Everybody," Terry answered.

"Everybody but you, Mason," Centurion said. "'Cause you got the balls to bust my chops and the good sense to stop before I lose my sense of humor. Terry, you make sure Mason here gets what he needs. And Mason, you be careful. That Jordan is a handful."

***

Nix told Mason to wait for Jordan outside the machine shed. While he stood in the shade, a pickup truck carrying a load of teenagers in the cab and the truck bed skidded to a stop next to the barn. The kids scrambled out, wiping dust and sweat from their faces, and headed for the house. He could hear them joking and poking one another with the ease of summer camp friendships.

A few minutes later, Jordan drove up on a four-wheel ATV pulling a small flatbed trailer loaded with tools. She killed the engine and looked up at him.

"You Lou Mason?"

"That's me."

"My parents hired you, right?"

"Right."

She stepped off the ATV and began unloading the tools, putting them away in the shed without further comment. Mason watched her work, impressed with her economy and intensity. She was of average height, slender but strong enough to sling a shovel, pick, sledgehammer, and posthole digger over her shoulder one at a time like they were Wiffle-ball bats. Finished, she stood in front of him, hands on hips, narrow chin jutting out like a dare, breath a beat above steady. Her face and neck glistened with sweat.

"I didn't kill her, okay," she said.

"Okay," Mason answered.

He guessed that she'd been working since sunup and, judging from the layer of grime she wore, it had been hard, physical work. Still, she hadn't swung the sledgehammer enough times to pound out the rage he saw in her. It was in the knotted muscles of her shoulders and neck. It was in the impatient tapping of her gloved fingers against her hips. It was in the sharp crease of her eyes as she sized him up.

"We done here?" she asked him.

"Just a few more things."

"What?"

"Your parents are paying me, but you're my client. Do you want me to represent you?"

"Do I need a lawyer?"

"The cops took your fingerprints and they took samples from your clothes and hair. Maybe they're doing that with all of Dr. Gina's patients. But if they find your fingerprints, your hair, or your fibers on the broken window or the body and you don't have a good explanation or an alibi for the night of the murder, you need a lawyer."

Jordan yanked off her work gloves and stuffed them in her belt. "Fine. I need a lawyer. What else?"

"Are you always this much fun?"

She cocked her head, split a small grin, and dialed back her force field a notch. "Yeah," she said. "I'm a barrel of laughs."

"Where were you Monday night around ten o'clock?"

"Here. In my room. Lights-out is at ten."

"Does Terry do a bed check?"

"Whenever he gets a chance," she answered.

Mason filed away her double entendre for future reference. "When was the last time you saw Gina Davenport?"

Jordan straightened, her elbows stiff against her sides. "My last appointment was Friday, before the holiday. You can check her appointment book."

"The cops will do that for me. How did you get to her office?"

"Terry usually took me. Once in a while, Centurion would do it."

"What about your family?"

"What about them?"

"They ever take you?"

Jordan folded her arms in front of her. "Look, let's not talk about my family unless it's about where they were at ten o'clock on Monday night."

Mason couldn't tell if she was just venting or was serious. "Why should I ask your parents if they have an alibi?"

"Forget it," she said. "My brother and my parents have alibis for everything."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"Oh, yes. Brother Trent, the fair-haired son. He's the real master of the alibi. Be sure to ask him."

A stream of kids poured out the front door of the house hurrying to their next projects, slapping hands and touching fists with one another like a football team taking the field. Two girls, one black, one Hispanic, walked past them into the machine shed, giving Jordan a cautious "Hey, girl" while pretending not to notice Mason. They emerged with a chain saw and heavy-duty shears. Jordan looked past Mason to the veranda, nodding her head, Mason following her gaze, Centurion and Terry Nix responding with friendly waves, Jordan putting on her work gloves.