Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (6 page)

"Nothing. I didn't know what to do. Claire and I worked together on a fund-raiser last year. I called her after Gina was murdered. If there was a connection between Gina and my daughter and someone murdered Gina, my daughter could be in danger too. I asked Claire to help me find my daughter and she invited me to dinner."

"She was fixing us up. I'm surprised she didn't do it before."

"She tried. I was with someone," Abby said.

"Timing is everything. Why do you think Jordan may be your daughter?"

Abby looked at her hands for an answer, then straight at Mason. "In my business, I go with my gut. I size up people and problems for a living. I couldn't attribute the anonymous phone call I got to a bad joke. The woman who called me knew I had given up my daughter for adoption. She wanted me to think that Gina Davenport knew where my daughter was and she wanted me to call Gina. Gina's reaction didn't make sense to me unless she did know something. Then Gina was killed and a girl the same age as my daughter was named a suspect. It's all I have to work with."

"Have you told the police?"

Abby bit her lower lip. "Yes. The detective was very polite, but I think I just made her more suspicious of Jordan."

"The phone call and Davenport's murder were certainly a jolt, but I still don't understand why my involvement upset you so much."

Abby blushed, her eyes pooling again. "You said you were defending someone who might be charged with Gina Davenport's murder. My feelings about my daughter were so close to the surface after all these years, I guess I overreacted the same way Gina overreacted to my phone call."

"Is that all?"

"No," she answered, dipping her head before looking at him again. "Love at first sight hasn't been kind to me."

Mason reached across the table, wrapping his hand around hers. "Why don't we start with dinner and see how that goes before we worry about dessert."

Mason stood outside the Cable Depot at eleven P.M., forty-nine hours after Gina Davenport's murder. The eighth-floor window was boarded up, facing south above 6th Street, the building flanked by Jefferson on the west and Washington on the east—dead presidents immortalized in side streets. The bloody stains and chalk outline marking the spot where Gina died were still faintly visible under the lights along 6th.

Mason had watched Sherri Thomas's continuing coverage of the murder on the ten o'clock news. While Mason and Abby were having dinner, her cameraman had filmed a Depot janitor as he scrubbed the pavement. Sherri caught Arthur Hackett in an ambush interview, asking him if his daughter had confessed to the murder. Arthur took the bait, shoving both Sherri and the cameraman.

"Great," Mason said to the television. "I can represent the daughter on a murder charge and the father on assault and battery."

His dinner with Abby had not been the romantic watershed he'd hoped for even though their attraction for one another was more than passing, each sensing something in the other that was missing in their lives. That was plain in the way they touched, their hands molding together like a matched set.

Abby's involvement with Gina Davenport and Jordan held them back, sending each of them home alone. Abby knew of nothing that tied her to them beyond the phone call she had received. Mason realized he'd have to uncover the connection regardless of the consequences, setting aside his personal feelings for his client's life.

They didn't talk of any of this over dinner. It was there as they danced around intimacy, reaching out and retreating while they stumbled over the superficial details of their daily lives. Abby didn't have to ask him to find out whether Jordan was her daughter. She just put it on the table. Mason almost asked the waiter to box it up so he could take it home and chew on it tomorrow, knowing that he would do what he could.

The cops needed a motive for Jordan to kill Dr. Gina. Mason supposed that Jordan's rage could be tied to her adoption and that she could have somehow blamed her therapist for keeping her from her birth mother. Mason would be happy if that lame theory was the high point of the prosecutor's case. Yet someone had gone to a lot of trouble to connect Abby and Gina Davenport. Abby wouldn't have guessed that Jordan was the next link in the chain until Gina was murdered.

Mason and Abby promised to see each other again— soon, they both added in the same breath. Mason knew it would have to wait until he had a better handle on this case. He had to know whether his client's relationship with Abby—if there was one—would help Jordan or put her on death row.

Mason didn't wait to find out. That's why he was standing outside the Cable Depot at eleven o'clock, flipping the passkey in his hand like a coin.

"Heads I win, tails I win," Mason said, betting against the odds.

The revolving door at the front entrance and the single door to his right were both locked. Mason found the dead bolt at the base of the single door, the bolt giving way with a sharp metallic snap when he tried the passkey, no security guard asking him to state his business.

The lobby was small, made smaller by dim after-hours lighting, a rectangular passage with the building directory on one side, two elevators on the other, a narrow corridor leading behind them to Trent's office. The floor was marble, the high ceiling painted with a snapshot of Kansas City in its frontier days.

Stepping off the elevator on the eighth floor, he could see into KWIN's office through glass double doors. The reception area was dark, but lights were on in the hallway leading back to the studio. KWIN broadcast around the clock, the late-night hours filled with syndicated programs, the station operating on autopilot. The doors were locked. Mason resisted the temptation to use his passkey just to look around.

Pieces of crime-scene tape clung to the frame around the door to Dr. Gina's office. The name plate—
Gina Davenport, Ph.D.
—was more than understated, leaving out her celebrity life and sensational death.

Mason stepped inside, closed the door, and turned on the small but powerful mag light he kept in his car for poking around after dark. He found the light switch and slipped the flashlight back into his pants pocket, surveying the office, getting a feel for the dead woman— who she was, how she lived, and why she died.

Mason had worked in two law firms before he started his own. The first was a small personal-injury firm and the second was a big corporate firm. In both, his office had reflected more of the firm than of him. Now his office was like a second skin. There was no receptionist, file room, mail room, or library. Everything was in one room, nothing separating him from the business he did. During a trial, he spent more time there than at home. Rugby gear tossed over a chair, jazz CDs piled on top of the refrigerator, shoes stuffed under the sofa were all clues to his life that couldn't be separated from his practice.

Dr. Gina's office struck him the same way. There was no room for a receptionist. No place for someone sitting behind a counter shuffling insurance forms beneath a sign requiring payment at the time service was rendered. The room wasn't large, but it was comfortable. A pair of small sofas framed around a low table with a chair formed a circle where Mason assumed Gina met with her patients. Plants on the floor, abstract posters in soothing colors on the walls, and candles on the table made it an inviting place to sit down and talk.

A small desk sat in a corner, abandoned, papers strewn across it. Mason wondered whether Gina shared his aversion to a clean desk or whether the cops had sorted through everything, leaving the mess behind for someone else to clean up.

Mason glanced through the papers, finding nothing more interesting than a few bills and offers for low-interest-rate credit cards. Dr. Gina's phone sat on the edge of the desk, the phone number printed in bold type on the faceplate of the receiver. The number was 816-555-4684—not even close to the number Abby had given him. He didn't find any other phones in the office. Maybe, he thought, Abby had called Dr. Gina's cell phone.

Mason skimmed through the bills again, not surprised that he didn't find a cell-phone bill. He realized the cops would have taken it to check the list of calls made and received for any leads. He did find a notice from the cell-phone company offering Gina five thousand frequent-flier miles if she renewed her service contract for two years. The letter referenced her cellphone number. It too was different. That left Gina's home phone number. Mason found a phone book in a desk drawer and tossed it back when the only listing he found for Gina was for her office. Directory assistance confirmed that her home number was unlisted.

The rest of her desk drawers were empty, as were the filing cabinets behind the desk marked
Patient Records, Billings, Insurance,
and
Correspondence
. He found a separate file cabinet with two drawers—one labeled
KWIN
and the other marked
Emily's Fund
—in a closet. They too were empty. The police had emptied the office of anything tied to Dr. Gina's practice.

There were two windows. Plywood had been nailed to the fatal one, preventing Mason from examining any part of it. The other window was on the same wall, raised two feet off the floor and set back a foot. Mason stood against it, his six-foot frame matching the window's height. He pressed his body against the glass, the single sheet pressing back against him, vibrating slightly, warning him not to rely too heavily on its support.

Still, throwing someone through a window raised off the floor and set back from the wall was not a slam dunk. Mason guessed that the crack in the window had to have been just right and the impact of Gina's body even more precise to carry her to her death. All of which meant that the homicide might not have been intentional. It may have been reckless, careless, or accidental—three qualifiers that could mean the difference between jail time and no time.

The one thing Mason didn't expect to find was an elevator in the center of the wall to the left of the door, flanked by bookshelves heavy with psychology texts. He pressed the call button and listened as the elevator ascended from a lower floor, humming louder as it came closer. It stopped with an unsteady clang, the floor still wobbling when the door opened.

Mason stepped inside and the door closed. It was an old elevator with raised buttons for each floor, the lobby, and the basement. The elevator floor was carpeted, the walls and ceiling paneled in dark wood and lit by recessed lights around the perimeter of the ceiling. A video camera was mounted in one corner, the first sign of security Mason had seen anywhere in the Depot. He took comfort in the sign that said the certificate of elevator inspection was on file in the building manager's office until he remembered that Trent Hackett was the building manager.

He pressed the
open
button and the door, to his relief, opened. He allowed it to close again, this time pressing the button for the seventh floor. The button didn't light up and the elevator didn't move. He tried each button in succession, getting no response until he pushed the button marked
B,
which he assumed was for the basement.

The elevator gears began their deep hum as the car slowly descended, Mason concluding that the elevator had been programmed to run exclusively between the basement and Dr. Gina's office. He didn't know what was in the basement, but guessed there was underground parking, making the elevator a special perk for KWIN's top star.

Seconds later, the elevator jerked to a stop and the lights went out. Disoriented, Mason swore he felt the car sway in an imaginary breeze. He flicked on his flashlight, running the beam along the control panel until he found the alarm button. He pushed it three times with no result. There was no emergency phone and he'd left his cell phone in the car. He yelled for help, with no response, and banged on the wall for added effect until the car dropped a foot like an airplane hitting an air pocket, taking Mason down on one knee.

Mason braced himself against the wall, trying to steady the elevator and his nerves. He didn't know anything about elevators, but he knew enough to know that an elevator playing freeze tag in the dark was a bad thing.

Aiming his flashlight against the ceiling, Mason found the escape hatch used to reach the roof of the car. Certain only that he didn't want to be inside the elevator if it plunged to the bottom of the shaft, he boosted himself onto the waist-high rail around the interior of the car and popped the hatch open with his forearm.

The hatch, an eighteen-inch square in the corner where he was perched, gave him the room and the angle to pull himself through the opening. Flashlight clamped between his teeth, he stuck his head and arms through the hatch, grabbing hold of the housing for the wire-rope cables to pull himself up on the roof of the car.

His flashlight wasn't strong enough to penetrate much of the pitch-black shaft, and he couldn't tell where he was until he saw an elevator door marked
6
several feet below him. A service ladder was bolted into the wall of the shaft alongside the doors, a good five feet from where he stood. Peering over the edge of the elevator, he nearly lost his balance as the car lurched again.

Mason retreated to the center of the car, standing on top of the housing, his left arm wrapped around the greasy steel ropes, the flashlight aimed at the wall, his breathing echoing against the shaft. He measured the distance to the service ladder again, debating whether to try for the ladder or take his chances with the elevator.

The debate ended when the elevator plunged like an amusement park nightmare, Mason stumbling off the housing, throwing himself at the service ladder, slamming his face and chest against the cold metal while he fought for a handhold, sliding down a half dozen rungs before stopping his fall, his left arm dangling at his side, suddenly numb.

He'd dropped his flashlight onto the roof of the elevator, its pinpoint light vanishing in the instant before the car crashed into the pit at the bottom of the shaft, launching a plume of dust, choking and blinding him more than the darkness of the elevator shaft. He felt a warm, sticky flow down his left arm, touching it with his right hand, knowing it was blood, not knowing whether his skin had been ripped by the cable or pierced by his collision with the ladder. Either way, his arm wouldn't do what he told it to do.