Lou Mason Mystery 03-Cold Truth (9 page)

"He's a painter, teaches at the Kansas City Art Institute."

"That's okay with me," Mason said. "I never got past paint-by-numbers."

"He's a drug addict," Arthur said. "Cocaine. Gina couldn't do anything with him. He was in and out of treatment centers all over the country. Cocaine is an expensive way to kill yourself." Arthur wrote the number on a slip of paper and handed it to Mason. "It's unlisted, but I guess that doesn't matter so much anymore."

Mason looked at the number. It didn't match Abby's. He was zero for three. "Do you recognize this phone number?" Mason asked Arthur as he wrote the number Abby had given him on the same paper.

"Where did you get this number?" Arthur asked, a tremor rippling through him.

"That's confidential for the moment. Whose number is it?"

"It's Jordan's cell-phone number. What's going on here, Mason? I'm paying you and I want to know."

Mason said, "I don't know. When I find out, I'll tell you if I can."

"You'll by God tell me period!" Hackett told him, pounding his desk with a fury, making Mason wonder whether Jordan's temper was the product of nature or nurture.

"Arthur," Mason said. "You're paying my fees, but you're not my client. I'll tell you what I can. Get used to it."

The ride back down the elevator was easier. Mason didn't hold his breath and turn blue, though he did breathe easier when he spun through the revolving door onto the sidewalk and into the midday sun of a perfect fall day. The Cable Depot had a heavy feel. He didn't know whether it was Gina's death or his near-death. Or whether it was the Hackett family imprint or the lingering ghosts of earlier tenants. The building had a way of laying cold hands on him and he was glad to be outside.

Mason knew that technically speaking, it was still summer, but he operated on a separate calendar he had devised in elementary school. It started the seasons on the first days of September, December, March, and June. It was a lot simpler than remembering the equinox and appealed to his optimistic off-balance logic.

Always too impatient for summer, he decided it should start on June 1. He was back in school by September 1, and that meant it was fall. December was too cold not to be winter. Best of all, his spring started on March 1 when everyone else was suffering through three more weeks of winter. His system was a child's invention that worked in an adult world. It was fall in Mason's world, the heat unseasonable.

There was a small park across the street with a pair of benches beneath a modest oak tree, broad enough for shade, open enough to mix in the sun. David Evans sat on one of the benches, watching Mason as he stood on the sidewalk, taking in the day. He caught Mason's eye with a wave, inviting Mason to join him.

Mason found Evans hard not to like. Evans, like Centurion Johnson, had the gift of schmooze. It was how they made people trust them. When they were caught, they used good humor and glad hands to lessen the blow. Evans had fought Mason hard in Max Coyle's case, representing himself and paying up only at the last moment. Throughout, he had never raised his voice at Mason or taken offense at Mason's harsh allegations. It was as if Evans wanted Mason to like him in spite of the fact that he had ripped off Mason's client.

Evans was in his mid-fifties, aging well, spending enough time in the gym and enough time touching up the gray to fool younger women and trusting investors, though not Mother Nature. He had more charm than good looks, but enough of both to slide by more on form than substance. He was a slick package.

"Lou," he said when Mason crossed the street. "It looks like we'll be on the same side this time. I prefer that since I can't afford fighting you again."

"That gives me great comfort, David, but how is it that we're on the same side?"

"I watch the news, Lou. Your client confessed to killing my client. Your job is to get her off. I can help you."

Mason looked down at Evans, whose return smile made Mason regret his next question. "How?"

"I know who did it."

"Call a priest. I don't take confessions," Mason said.

"Lou, give me some credit. If I did it, I wouldn't confess to you until I hired you. I wouldn't want you telling the wrong people. Besides, you've already got a client and I don't need a lawyer."

"Okay," Mason said. "Solve the case for me."

"Sit down first," Evans said, patting the bench. "Enjoy the day."

Mason hesitated but sat. He suspected that Evans was playing him, but was interested in what he had to say.

"Excellent," Evans said. "Arthur Hackett did it."

Mason got up. "That's your best shot? The father did it and he's going to let his daughter take the fall?"

"Easy, easy," Evans said. "Just listen to me. I was negotiating with Arthur Hackett to get Gina out of her contract. She had an offer from a national network and a chance to own a piece of her show."

"Old news," Mason said as he turned away.

"Christ, man!" Evans said. "If you were in this big of a hurry in Max Coyle's case, I never would have had to pay you a cent!"

Mason sat back down. "Get to the point."

"Gina only had another year to go on her contract. Then she was gone. A radio station isn't like a baseball team. You can't trade your star player to avoid losing her in free agency. There was only one way for Hackett to get any value out of her."

"Kill her?" Mason asked.

"And collect on the life insurance policy he took out on her six months ago. Five million dollars is better than nothing."

Mason bit the inside of his lip to keep his mouth shut. He felt like a fish in Evans's barrel, unable to resist the bait.

Evans continued, pointing his finger at Mason like a rod, reeling him in. "You don't have to believe me, Lou. Ask Arthur. He took policies out on all the top talent, which at his station meant Gina and Max Coyle. Not that Max should be worried. He's too big for Arthur to throw him out the window."

"That doesn't explain why he would let his daughter go to jail."

"That's why he hired you. I'm certain Arthur didn't expect his daughter to confess."

"Have you told the police your theory?" Mason asked.

"Of course. I would rather Detective Greer interrogate me than you. She's much better looking."

"Why do you want to hang this on Arthur Hackett? Was Gina Davenport your last client?"

Evans laughed. "Nearly so, I'm afraid. You scared everyone else away. Gina was loyal. She understood that my problem with Max was bad timing in the stock market, not bad faith on my part."

"Six hundred and fifty thousand dollars is a lot to pay for something that wasn't your fault."

"Oh, don't tell me that, Lou. We both know cases get settled for all kinds of reasons. I didn't have insurance and I couldn't take the risk of a big punitive-damage verdict. You took advantage of my vulnerability. Don't gloat, especially when I'm trying to help you."

Mason had a sudden insight. "Gina gave you the money for the settlement, didn't she?"

"As I said, she was a loyal client and friend. She loaned me the money. We trusted each other."

"Enough that she let you manage the money in Emily's Fund. Twenty million dollars is a lot of trust. Where did Emily's Fund get that kind of money?"

Evans answered, enjoying the moment. "I can't take all the credit, Lou. After all, you don't think I'm much of an investment expert, but I made the right picks in the market. The seed money came from the sale of Gina's books, her personal appearance fees, things like that. Gina was financially set when Emily died, and insisted the money go into the foundation."

"Did you tell Samantha Greer about the settlement money and your involvement in Emily's Fund?"

"I am not stupid, despite what you and Max might think. I told Detective Greer everything. I even gave her the records for Emily's Fund, and I'll give a set to you if that will make you happy. Gina Davenport was my friend and my client. What do you do when your friends and clients are murdered?"

Evans rose without waiting for Mason to answer, patting Mason on the shoulder, sauntering away, leaving Mason riveted to the bench, uncertain whether he was ashamed of himself or overwhelmed by Evans's performance. Two birds swooped down to the sidewalk, snapping up crumbs, Mason wondering if he was another one of David Evans's pigeons.

A navy-blue Ford Crown Victoria pulled up to the curb in front of Mason's bench. The window on the passenger side descended into the door panel and the driver said, "Get in."

Mason smiled. "Yes, officer." He slid into the passenger seat. "Why do cops all drive Crown Vics?" he asked Samantha Greer. "They stick out like sore thumbs. How can you ever go undercover, especially with that thing sticking out of your armpit?"

Samantha was wearing a lightweight jacket that barely concealed her shoulder holster. When they first started going out, Mason teased her about the .45-caliber pistol she carried. She said the smaller guns that some detectives wore behind their backs didn't have the stopping power she wanted and were harder to get at. She wasn't a big woman and wanted the bad guys to know she packed a serious weapon.

"Unlike a TR-6, a Crown Vic can take a bullet and still do a hundred twenty miles an hour. You still look like hell. Are you feeling okay?"

"Not bad for a guy who sucker-punched himself. The worst part is that it doesn't make a good story. I sound like I was too stupid to live."

"No, it sounds like you're in it for the wrong reason."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Mason asked.

"You're like a cop that always wants to be the first one through the door, not because he wants to bag the bad guys but because he wants the jolt of taking the chance that he won't make it through. That's a dangerous way to practice law, Lou. You're not that good."

Mason stared out the window, not answering because he didn't have an answer, afraid that Samantha was more right than wrong, not fully understanding why she was right. He'd stepped over a lot of lines in the past few years. Some of them small, like slipping into an office and snooping around. Some of them huge, like killing a man, even if it was in self-defense. Some of them hard to measure, like inviting violence into his life. He couldn't remember when that murky world became normal.

"Mickey calls it diving into the dark water," Mason said.

"Yeah? Well, do me a favor. Don't end up dead in the water. Let's get some pasta for lunch."

She drove east to Walnut, then north to the City Market, where they parked. Balzano's was an Italian diner where they were both regulars. The same family had owned it for three generations. Josephine, the matriarch, had taken it personally when Mason had told her that he and Samantha weren't getting married. She hugged both of them when they walked in, telling them that lunch was on the house if they were back together.

"Separate checks," Samantha told her, sending Josephine away, shaking her head in disappointment.

Mason asked Samantha, "What's up? Or were you just in the neighborhood?"

"Would you prefer that I was in the neighborhood or that I was checking up on you like I do all my old boyfriends?"

Josephine returned with plates of moscattioli and meat sauce, setting them down without a word.

"She's mad at us," Mason said. "My preference doesn't matter. You showed up right after David Evans left. Were you staking us out?" he asked with a grin.

"David Evans is a treat," she said. "He was in my office the morning after Gina Davenport was killed. It's nice that everyone has been so cooperative in this investigation. The killer confesses. The victim's lawyer rats out the killer's father. Very nice."

"Why didn't you look at Arthur Hackett for the murder?"

"We did. Evans's story is as good as any other, but it doesn't beat a confession that matches the physical evidence. We took elimination prints from Hackett, even though we expected to find his prints in Davenport's office. And we did."

"He's got motive and opportunity," Mason said.

Samantha said, "And a daughter whose fingerprints were found on the window frame, and whose hair and clothing fibers were found on the body and who conveniently confessed."

Mason hadn't seen the police reports and forensic analysis yet. Normally, he wouldn't get copies until just before the preliminary hearing. Samantha was cutting him some slack, and not just for old times' sake. She was doing it so he would know what a strong case the prosecutor had.

"But the confession isn't reliable. She's been under treatment—" Mason said.

"Lou," Samantha interrupted. "Save it. I'm not your audience. Besides, we've got a witness that places her at the scene."

Mason stopped sprinkling Parmesan cheese on his pasta. "Who?"

"Remember the homeless guy in the Channel 6 videotape? Earl Luke Fisher. The bench you were sitting on is his master bedroom. He ID'd Jordan. Says that he saw her park a Mercedes a couple of blocks away and let herself in the front door."

"That contradicts Jordan's confession. She says that Gina let her in."

"It's not a perfect world, Lou."

"What about Evans? Gina Davenport supposedly loaned him six hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Plus he was managing twenty million dollars in the foundation Gina set up in memory of her daughter."

"He signed a promissory note with a market rate of interest. The foundation's books are clean and so is Evans. He and Gina had been friends since they lived in St. Louis twenty years ago. He may have even been in love with her for all I know."

"Maybe they were in love," Mason said. "Maybe they were having an affair and Gina's husband found out. I hear he has a drug problem. Don't you think he could have gotten high and killed her?" Mason regretted the desperate tone of his questions, but he was running out of options.

"Robert Davenport is a recovering drug addict, I'll give you that. Someone called in an anonymous tip that Dr. Gina was dealing drugs out of her office. I talked to the narcotics detectives. They thought it was bullshit except for the husband, who's been busted a couple of times, but nothing stuck. They didn't have time to check it out before she was killed. We did find a stash of cocaine in her office."