Deadlocked (30 page)

Samantha flipped to another page in her notepad, hesitating a moment. "Why not," she said, copying the address for Mason.

"What about the other one, Andrea Bracco. I think she was a secretary," Mason said.

"Twenty-seven at the time of the trial," Samantha said. "She worked for an insurance broker. A week after the trial she stopped coming to work. They never saw her again and no one else has either. She was single. No family we can find. It's like she never existed."

"Have you talked to King yet?"

Samantha slid off the bed. "Nope. We can't find him."

"That's what makes you nervous, isn't it?" Mason asked.

She opened the door, propping her heel against it. "Yeah. Now how about letting me talk to your client?"

"Me first," Mason told Samantha when they reached Nick's room.

"C'mon, Lou," she said, shaking her head and stepping between Mason and the door. "No more games!"

Al Kolatch rolled out of his chair, lumbering toward them, Samantha raising her hand and shaking her head again, this time at her partner. Kolatch shrugged his shoulders, stuck a toothpick between his teeth, and returned to his seat.

"Representing my client isn't a game, Sam. You forget. The first time I've spoken to him since he was shot was when he called me thirty minutes ago. I'll let you talk to him after I find out what he's going to say. Besides, it will be easier for him to handle the death threat if I tell him about it."

She drew a short breath, sliding out of Mason's way. "Fine, but don't take too long."

"Relax. You're talking to a guy who gets paid by the hour," Mason said. "Everything I do takes too long."

***

Nick Brynes lay on his back, his hospital bed elevated at a forty-five-degree angle, his depleted body looking like he had melted into the sheets. His blond hair was matted, his skin was the color of dirty water, and both of his arms were plumbed with IVs. Another tube draining his wound ran from his chest to a bag on the side of his bed.

A television tuned to MTV hung from the ceiling in a corner, the sound broadcast from a remote speaker pinned to the mattress next to his pillow. The music was harsh and tinny, though Mason couldn't tell whether that was the result of the poor speaker or whether it was supposed to sound that way.

Nick brightened when Mason walked in, aiming the remote control at the television, trading the muffled music for a blank screen.

"Hey, Mr. Mason. Thanks for coming," he said, his raspy voice the result of spending a week with a tube down his throat while he was in ICU. "Have a seat."

Mason pulled a chair toward the end of the bed so Nick could see him without having to move. Looking at the IV lines in Nick's arms, Mason flashed back to Ryan's execution, wondering if Nick had an appreciation for irony.

"How you feelin'?" Mason asked him.

"You want the answer I give my grandma?"

Mason smiled. "Nope. We'd both know you're lying and she probably knows it too. You feel up to talking about what happened?"

"Is that why the cops are here? Did they arrest Whitney King for shooting me? Nobody has told me anything. My grandparents told them not to, I guess."

"Where is your grandmother?" Mason asked, ducking Nick's questions. "I thought she'd gotten her own room here."

Nick said, "My grandpa made her go home after I got out of intensive care. She'll be back, but I wish she'd stay home. All she does is sit in that chair and stare at me like I'm dead and it's my fault. I can't stand it."

"Cut her some slack, Nick. She doesn't know what else to do."

"Well, it wasn't my fault."

"Whitney King says you threatened him with the gun and that it went off when he tried to take it away from you. Is that what happened?"

Nick's eyes widened. "Partly, but not really," he said, softly thumping the mattress with his hand. "I can't believe that guy gets away with everything. They didn't arrest him did they? They're going to let him get away with it again! I can't believe it!"

"Nick, tell me what happened," Mason repeated.

Nick closed his eyes for a moment, gathering himself, opening them again. He reached for the bed's controls, raising himself until he was almost sitting up straight.

"After I left your office that day, I was really hot. Mr. Bluestone made it sound like there was nothing I could do, not without taking the chance something would happen to my grandparents. I wasn't going to let King get away with killing my parents a second time. I went home and got my grandfather's gun. Then I just drove around and hung out trying to figure out what to do. I got King's home phone number from directory assistance and I called him. I told him I wanted to settle things with him once and for all. He told me to meet him at his office in thirty minutes. He was waiting for me outside when I got there."

"What did you do?"

"I told him I knew he killed my parents and he laughed and said what are you going to do about it, kid. He didn't even deny it. He said that since the jury found him innocent no one could touch him. He said I'd be sorry if I sued him. I got so mad," Nick said, his eyes filling, his face showing some color. "I pulled the gun out and he laughed again. We were only a few feet apart and the next thing I knew he grabbed it and shot me. I thought I was gonna die," he added softly.

"What about the priest?" Mason asked. "Father Steve said he saw the whole thing and that the gun went off accidentally."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nick said. "I never saw a priest."

"Sure you did," Mason told him. "Father Steve. He was the priest at Ryan's execution. Short, kind of dumpy. Smells like an ashtray and wears a collar."

"I would have remembered, Mr. Mason," Nick said. "Honest. There was no one else there."

Mason rose, locked his fingers behind his head, and paced the few steps from the bed to the window and back again. Father Steve had corroborated King's claim of self-defense. The priest had explained to Mason that he had gone to King's office to ask for money for the church. Though it was possible Nick had simply forgotten some of the details of what had happened, this was too big a detail to forget.

"Nick, did you pass out after you were shot?"

Nick thought for a moment, forehead furrowed, scrounging his memory. "I guess I must have," he said at last. "I mean at first I didn't feel anything. It was like I couldn't even believe he actually shot me. I was lying on the ground and I couldn't move. Then, my chest started to burn real bad and he was standing over me, aiming the gun at me like he was going to shoot me again. I thought for sure he would. I don't know what happened after that. The next thing I remember, I was in the emergency room."

"Father Steve said he and King had just come from King's office. You said you called King at home and he told you to meet him at his office in half an hour. King lives almost thirty minutes away. There would have barely been enough time for him to get to his office, meet with Father Steve, and then come back downstairs and wait outside for you. Even if there was enough time, how did Father Steve know King was going to be there?"

"Mr. Mason, I don't understand anything you're talking about."

"Neither do I," Mason said. "All I know is that it's time for Father Steve to make confession."

"You're Jewish, Mr. Mason. How are you going to get a priest to do that?"

"It shouldn't be too tough. I have a feeling Father Steve's collar is getting a little tight."

"What about Whitney King?" Nick asked.

Mason sat on the edge of Nick's bed. "That's why the cops want to talk with you," he said, repeating what Samantha Greer had told him, gauging Nick's reaction.

Mason gave the kid a lot of credit. He didn't fall apart and he didn't bluff that he wasn't afraid. He clenched his fists, the veins in his arms rising.

"Mr. Mason?" he asked. "Is it too late to file that lawsuit?"

Chapter 42

Samantha Greer questioned Nick about the shooting, flashing a look at Al Kolatch when Nick told her the priest wasn't there when King shot him. Kolatch left, and Mason was certain he was headed to St. Mark's for a private prayer with Father Steve. Mason knew there was no point in trying to beat Kolatch to the punch. If the priest had lied to the cops, Kolatch would help him renew his vows.

Mason called Mickey from the car, telling him to meet him at The Peanut at Fiftieth and Main for lunch. Driving north from the hospital, Mason could see a faint darkening of the sky on the far horizon.

In some parts of town, The Peanut would have been called a dive. Since it was on the east edge of the Plaza, its warped and worn hardwood floors, tables with uneven legs, and pool hall lighting qualified it for quirky cool, proving again that location is everything. The Peanut thrived by turning the BLT into an art form. Mason considered himself a connoisseur.

Mickey and Blues were waiting for Mason when he arrived at The Peanut. He blinked his eyes while they adjusted from the sunlight to the blue light, finding his friends at a table against the far wall. He hadn't asked Mickey to bring Blues and he knew Blues hadn't asked Mickey if he could come. Blues wasn't good at asking permission. He was much better at knowing when Mason needed him.

Mickey's idea of business casual had always been a shirt with a collar and jeans that didn't have a hole in the knees. He was wearing gabardine slacks and a linen shirt. The mouse he'd grown in the cleft of his chin was gone, his anarchic hair style subdued by a close cut. Mason took one look at him, glancing at Blues who turned his head, biting his lip.

"Don't tell me," Mason said. "You gave up politics for selling cars."

Mickey laughed, plucking the front of his shirt. "Sucks, huh? It's Abby's new man plan. She said that the staff is a reflection on the candidate. If I had stayed another week, she would have made me bleach my teeth."

"So you didn't come back to help me," Mason teased. "You just needed a change of clothes."

Mickey said to Blues, "And I'm getting paid to take this abuse."

"Don't count on it," Mason told him. "How's Abby?" he asked as he scanned the menu, doing a lousy impression of nonchalance.

Mickey nodded. "She's good," he said. "Fine, really. Busy as hell. The campaign runs twenty-four-seven and she's working twenty-five-eight."

"That's great," Mason said with a puckered smile. "She okay with you coming back?"

"What is it with the two of you?" Mickey asked. "You guys act like you're my divorced parents fighting over custody."

Blues explained, "They're not divorced, just separated. And, you're not their baby. They just think you are."

"Nice, very nice," Mason said. "Abby got you the job with Seeley's campaign to protect you from me. Coming back to work for me is not part of her new man plan for you."

"Why do I need to be protected from you?" Mickey asked.

"Because," Blues answered, "people like to shoot at Lou and his friends."

"Oh, that," Mickey said. "I get it."

"Don't let Blues kid you, Mickey. That's the straight story. Abby was doing you a favor."

Mickey looked at Mason, then at Blues. Their banter was a thin coat of armor. "I've been down this road with you guys before," he reminded them. "Maybe I'm the one doing you a favor."

A television hung from the ceiling in a corner above the bar, the early laps of a NASCAR race running silently, the sound muted. Looking over Blues's shoulder, Mason read the crawl running across the bottom of the screen. It included a notice that a severe storm warning had been issued for the greater metropolitan Kansas City area until ten P.M. Though the storm clouds Mason had seen a few hours ago were on the far horizon, he wasn't surprised by the forecast. In the course of a Kansas City summer day, weather bulletins could progress from watches to warnings, from thunderstorms to severe storms, and, finally, to tornadoes.

A watch meant maybe. A warning meant probably. A thunderstorm meant lights and action. A severe storm meant pay attention and a tornado meant take cover.

This warning meant the five counties on either side of the state line could get anything from a cooling summer shower to a force five tornado, depending on the alignment of the planets over the next ten hours. The pattern could move lazily through the day or turn deadly on a dime. It also meant that nothing could happen, some vagary in the winds shifting the whole system east where it would pound the daylights out of a trailer park.

Mason, like most people in Kansas City, treated severe weather warnings with the same nonchalance as Californians considered the threat of earthquakes. There was nothing to be done about either and the threats were almost always overstated. Some people even served as self-appointed, unofficial tornado spotters for local radio and television stations, as if standing outside during a thunderstorm in the hopes of spotting a funnel cloud was a less than extreme sport.

They ordered singles with extra bacon, Mason filling them in while they waited for their sandwiches. Blues leaned back in his chair, his face flat. Mickey fiddled with sugar packets, drumming his fingers on the tabletop until Blues made him put his hands in his lap. The food arrived as Mason finished. The conversation about murder was tabled while they ate.

"Why would Father Steve cover for Whitney King?" Mickey asked, picking a stray bacon crumb off the table when they'd finished.

"Money, I guess," Mason answered. "The church needed it and King had it. Father Steve's job was to get it."

"I don't buy it," Blues said. "He's a priest not a bagman. He's not going to take chances like that just so the church can buy new carpet for the rectory."

"Then what?" Mason asked.

"They must have some history," Blues answered. "Maybe King has pictures of the priest with an altar boy. Whatever it is, King's got Father Steve by the collar, but it's not about money."

Mickey asked, "So what do we do?"

"You"—Mason said, pointing at him—"check out Damon Parker's company, Golden Years."

"What am I looking for?" Mickey asked.

"Connections with the King family. King's father built Parker's nursing homes. Dixon Smith represented Parker until Sandra Connelly asked him to find out if King's mother belonged in one of them. Smith says he got fired for asking."