Deadlocked (18 page)

"Hold on," a man said, asking someone named Jim if it was okay to give out membership information. Mason eavesdropped from his end of the conversation. Jim said to take the guy's name and we'll give the message to Vince, let Vince call the guy if he wants to.

"Works for me," Mason said, leaving his phone number when the man repeated the message.

His paper shuffling brought the clipping about his parents' accident back to the surface, Mason picking it up again, asking himself the same questions. What was he missing? The article told only part of the story: how the car went off the road. Mason wanted to know why. The article said nothing about witnesses, but that didn't mean there weren't any. Their names would be included in the police report. Mason picked up the phone again.

"Detective Greer," Samantha said.

"What's the best way for me to beg a favor?" Mason asked.

"Dial another number," she answered.

"Too late. I'll settle for the second best way. I need an accident report."

"A car accident? You've got to be kidding. Get off your ass, go to the records department, pay your ten dollars, and wait for the mail. Just like everybody else."

"I would, except for one thing. This accident happened forty years ago. No records clerk is going to lose any sleep tracking that down unless it's an order instead of a request."

"What's so important about an accident that happened forty years ago? A little late to file a lawsuit, isn't it?" Samantha asked.

"It's my parents' accident," Mason answered. "They were killed. I never knew the details. Now I want to know."

"I'll buy that if it will keep you out of trouble for a while," she said. "Friday afternoon is no time to ask someone to start a search like this. Can it wait until Monday?"

"Monday would be fine. And, thanks, Sam."

Mason wondered if the accident report would tell him why someone was visiting his parents' grave now. The accident happened on August 1 forty years ago. Today was July

19. There was no way to know when the rock Mason had found had been left there. It could have been a week, a month, or a year.

Mason couldn't remember when he'd last visited his parents' grave or whether there were any rocks on the headstone. But someone had left another rock today. Mason knew the question, writing it on the board, even if he didn't know the answer.
Why July 19?
Then, Mason added another question.
Who left the rock?

Mason didn't have answers, but at least he had questions. He'd kick-started his case and peeled open his past. Now all he could do was the one thing he hated to do most of all. Wait.

Chapter 25

There's only so much heat a city can take. Some people shrug it off at first, declaring over cold beer and barbecue that it augurs for a hard winter and pass the beans, please. Like they'd written
The Old Farmer's Almanac.
Others claim to like the heat, thumping their chests as they jog or paint the house while the sun is at its zenith, their faces rigid with surprise when the rest of their bodies wilt, somebody calling an ambulance for them if they're lucky. Then there are those who go to the mattresses, cranking up the air-conditioning, watering their lawns at noon, flying their I'll-be-goddamned if-anybody's-going-to-tell-me-what-to-do flags every time the mayor invokes another emergency heat ordinance.

But stoke up the blast furnace long enough on people who struggle every day to hold their lives together in the midst of money problems, job problems, family problems, and the heat starts burning them down like a wildfire on a New Mexico mountain. Short tempers get shorter, disappearing in a swallow of whiskey or in the crack of an insult. And people start killing each other.

A local shrink said as much on the Channel 6 evening news Monday night, a week and a day after Ryan Kowalczyk was executed, a legal killing that didn't offend the laws of nature or cause the distress that an outbreak of weekend fights and domestic disturbances had generated.

Two Hispanics in a bar on Southwest Boulevard fought over whether one had insulted the other's girlfriend, both of them too drunk to know for certain. The fight ended with the boyfriend's throat ripped open by the jagged edge of a broken bottle of tequila. The boyfriend bled out. The girlfriend grabbed a table knife, snapping the blade off between the other guy's ribs. One dead, one wounded. The girlfriend in jail.

North of the river, two brothers fought over a gold cap for the younger brother's tooth. He'd left it in the older brother's car and the older brother offered to sell it back to him for thirty dollars. The younger brother decided it was cheaper to cap his brother with a .38.

On the east side, rival black gangs cruised up and down Prospect Avenue, trash talking until respect and disrespect turned into guns and knives, the cops firing tear gas and busting heads. Two dead, eight injured, two of them cops.

In Mission Hills, a part of town where only the hired help spoke Spanish and the only cruising was done on a ship, a bank president grilling steaks dumped hot coals on his drunken wife when she confronted him about his latest mistress. The banker told the cops his wife was screaming so loud, he thought he'd give her something to scream about.

Mason half listened to the news, finishing a cold beer and short end of ribs as he leafed through part of the King file he'd brought home from the office. Setting the file aside, he replayed his weekend. Tuffy nudged his thigh until he shared the ribs with her.

Friday night, he'd found Josh Seeley's campaign Web site, clicking on the candidate's itinerary, toying with the notion of showing up at one of Seeley's events despite Abby's insistence that he stay away. Mason wasn't willing to give up. His ex-wife, Kate, had cut off their relationship one day with the dispassionate news that she was finished with him. So long. It's been real. Let's be friends. Or not.

Abby hadn't said that. The hurt in her eyes said she loved him too much to live the life he'd chosen. She would come back to him if he could find his way back to her. It was one of those how-did-I-get-here moments for Mason, wanting her back but not knowing how to make it work and knowing he couldn't walk away from Nick and Mary.

Seeley was campaigning in Cape Girardeau, a small town in the Missouri boot heel, more Tennessee than Missouri, the first stop on a swing through the southeast part of the state. Mason watched a streaming video feed of the candidate climbing down from his chartered plane, catching a glimpse of Abby behind him, her hair swirling around her face in the prop wash. She could have been Neil Armstrong walking on the moon, she was that far away.

Mason spent Saturday catching up on his other cases, writing a brief to convince a judge his client lacked criminal intent when he sneaked out the bathroom window at Best Buy with a thousand dollars worth of computer software stuffed down his pants. It was an exercise in legal gymnastics that ended when he launched another dart assault on his office wall.

He stopped by the hospital to visit Nick, not getting past Nick's grandmother. She told him that the doctors were going to operate on Tuesday to remove the bullet fragment. Progress of a sort, Mason told her, asking her to tell Nick he'd been there. She grunted in reply, leaving the interpretation up to Mason.

On Sunday he took another pass at Mary's house. Newspapers had accumulated on her driveway, mail filled the mailbox. The fish in the aquarium were listless. Mason found a container of fish food on a shelf beneath the aquarium and sprinkled some on the surface. After a moment, the fish woke to their meal, darting after the morsels, knocking over the deep-sea diver. Mary wouldn't have left the fish unattended. He knew her that well. She would have asked a neighbor to pick up the papers and the mail and feed the fish while she was gone.

He stopped to talk to the neighbor across the street, glad to catch him outside. Cats peered at them from the front window.

"Any sign of Mary?" Mason asked.

"Nope. Not a peep," the man said. "But you're not the only one been looking for her."

Mason straightened. "Who else has been over there?"

"A woman. Driving a silver Lexus. Came by Friday afternoon, late in the day. Knocked on the door and left. That was it."

"What did she look like?" Mason asked.

"Dressed to the nines, that's all I can say," the man told him. "Real pretty. Dark hair. I wandered down to the curb, said hello to her. She give me a look like to cut right through me. I said fare-thee-well my lady to you too, if you get my meaning," he said flourishing his hands like a hula girl.

"That I do," Mason said, recognizing Sandra Connelly.

After hammering him for not playing by the rules, Sandra had gone Mason one better by not bothering to ask him for permission to talk to his client. Maybe she just wanted to find out for herself if Mary was really missing. Either way, Mason was primed for his next conversation with her.

Vince Kowalczyk called Mason Sunday night, saying no, he hadn't talked to Mary in two years. Mason thanked him, adding Father Steve to his Monday call list, anxious to hear the next dodge the priest had for him. He wasn't surprised Monday morning when a secretary at the church told him Father Steve wouldn't be in, apologizing that she didn't know where he was or how to reach him.

Mason had no better luck with Sandra Connelly, leaving her a voice message, following the recorded instructions to press the number two if his message was urgent.

Late Monday morning, he went downtown to police headquarters and filled out a missing persons report on Mary Kowalczyk, telling the desk clerk to deliver a copy to Detective Samantha Greer. The desk clerk, a skinny kid with slicked back hair and a T-bone nose, wearing a civilian uniform, playing cop dress-up, gave Mason a look that translated as I'll-get-around-to-it. Mason left Samantha a message, convinced that the rest of the world was observing Don't Answer Your Phone Day.

He didn't hear from Harry about the license plate on the car at the cemetary and forced himself not to push. Harry was reluctant to trace the plate and, as much as Mason wanted to know who was visiting his parents' grave, he had to let Harry do it on his own schedule. It was one more piece of his past that hung out of reach.

Rachel Firestone had wrapped up Mason's Monday with a scouting report on the King jury.

"I've tracked down five of the eight names you gave me. You're not going to like this," she told him over the phone.

"Give it to me," he said, putting her on the speaker phone, standing at the dry erase board, red marker in his hand.

Rachel began. "Nate Holden dropped dead of a heart attack nine years ago."

Mason read from his notes on the board. "He was forty-four at the time of the trial. That makes him fifty when he died. I can buy that. Shit happens when you turn fifty," he said.

"Another juror, Troy Apple, was shot coming out of his house early one morning. Cops suspected it was drug related."

"Apple was black, twenty-two years old. Back then. Single, lived on the east side. Who needs proof when you've got a good stereotype? Any arrests in that one?"

Rachel answered, "Nope. But, you'll like the trend. He was shot in the face."

"Why am I not surprised? I'd rather hold out for the heart attack," Mason said.

"Check this out," Rachel said. "Martella Garvey and Judith Dwyer are both dead. Garvey disappeared one day. Her body was found six months later, beaten to death. Same story for Dwyer. But, you'll be glad to know that Lisa Braun died of cancer two years ago."

"Son of a bitch," Mason said. "Aren't the cops paying attention? Doesn't anybody notice that this jury has a worse survival rate than a new sitcom?"

"No reason to. Martella Garvey was killed in Kansas City. Judith Dwyer moved to Chicago and was killed there. Besides, nine deaths spread out over the last fifteen years in different cities won't attract any attention. And the odds are against the cops finding out the victims served on the same jury since people generally don't include jury service in obituaries."

"Still," Mason said, "nine out of twelve jurors are dead. Only two from natural causes. That leaves Janet Hook, Frances Peterson, and Andrea Bracco."

"It's hard to believe," Rachel said. "But, who would want to kill those jurors? Ryan Kowalczyk was in jail. Whitney King was found innocent. I don't get it."

"Remember, Nancy Troy said the jury made a pact not to talk about the case."

"You told me. It still doesn't make sense. Why would they have needed a pact?" Rachel asked.

"If the jury was fixed, they'd have to keep it quiet."

"You mean the entire jury was bribed to find Whitney innocent? That's nuts! How are you going to bribe all twelve people and keep it quiet?"

"I don't know how you bribe all twelve of them, but I do know how you keep it quiet. Kill them. I've got to find the last three jurors."

On Monday evening, Mason had picked ribs up on his way home from the office. Tuffy gave him another nudge, earning the last rib, trotting off to enjoy it alone. The Channel 6 reporter recapped the victim list from the weekend's violence, adding them to the day's top story about a residential real estate agent lured to an unoccupied house and shot to death. The woman's name was Frances Peterson. Police have no suspects, the reporter said.

Mason nearly choked on his rib. He grabbed the list of jurors from the file he'd brought home, running his finger down the page. Frances Peterson. White. Age thirty-six. Lived in Brookside. Divorced. Two kids. Residential real estate agent. Fifteen-year-old information that he bet was still accurate.

Mason reached for the phone, catching Samantha Greer at home.

"Who's working the Frances Peterson case?" he asked her.

"Don't you ever say hello anymore? Or even I'm sorry to bother you at home again? And, by the way, I got the report on your parents' accident and faxed it to your office. You must have already left or I'm sure you would have thanked me."

"Thank you and hello. I'm sorry to bother you at home again. Nine out of twelve jurors in the King case are dead.