Deadlocked (35 page)

"You're going to like this, boss," Mickey said, waving a handful of papers at him.

Mason flipped through the pages, getting lost in the rows of numbers, handing them back to Mickey. "Too early. You tell me."

"Damon Parker has a silent partner."

"Whitney King?" Mason asked.

"Nope. His mother." Mickey said. "She bought into Parker's company around fifteen years ago."

Mason pulled himself to the edge of the couch. "His mother? She's three bricks short of a load! She's been a patient there for fifteen years."

"I guess that's why Parker put her money in a special account," Mickey said. "He's been paying her like clockwork."

"Paying her? For what?"

"Her share of the profits, man. What else? She's an owner."

Blues had finished out a complete bath, including shower, on the second floor. Mickey took advantage of it to avoid renting an apartment, using his office as home. Mason was glad to use it to get clean, massaging Mickey's information while he showered. He wrapped a towel around his waist, using the mirror to take inventory. He hadn't shaved, and his dark beard coupled with the circles under his eyes and the still angry scar on his chest gave him the look of a person just one wrong step away from life on the street.

But it wasn't just the beard or the bags under his eyes. He was worn, the battles notching lines on his face. He didn't have to take on this fight, but he had. He'd deluded himself into thinking that this one would be different, more to convince Abby than himself. He'd dived into the dark water again and it was deeper than ever.

He let out a long, slow breath, taking his time as he went back to his office for the electric razor he kept in his desk. Mickey was sitting on the couch, holding a microphone that was plugged into Mason's laptop computer.

"Watch this, boss," Mickey said, tapping the keys. Mason's phone rang. "Go ahead. Answer it," Mickey told him. Mason picked up the receiver. "Come here, Watson. I need you," Mickey said, his voice coming through clearly on Mason's phone.

"How'd you do that?" Mason asked, putting the phone down.

"While you were sleeping, I signed you up for WiFi phone service with your laptop."

"Does that mean anything in English?" Mason asked.

Mickey grinned. "Making phone calls on the Internet is nothing new. Not many people do it because they're too used to regular phones. But it's free. No long distance charges."

"I've heard of that," Mason said. "I thought you had to use a phone line or a cable hookup to do that."

"That's the beauty of wireless Internet. You can get online without a cable or phone hookup and call anybody anywhere for nothing. I saw your laptop and decided to try it. Cool, huh?"

Mason stared at Mickey, then at the laptop, his mind focusing more sharply. "Maybe," he said. "How much does it cost?"

"Depends on the package you buy, but they're all flat-rate programs."

"Sounds like an overgrown cell phone," Mason said.

"Except it's got a security feature you can't get with cell phones," Mickey explained. "These calls can't be traced back to your phone number since the computer doesn't use one. It just uses an Internet service provider that bills everything to your account with no records of individual calls. You want to make a call to someone that won't show up on anybody's phone bill, this is the way to do it. The phone sex companies are pushing it big time."

"You mean," Mason said with growing interest, "the person you call gets a bill that shows an incoming call without any originating phone number?"

"You got it," Mickey said. "Cool, huh?" he repeated. "Very cool," Mason said. His phone rang a second time.

Mickey raised his hands in a not me gesture. "Mason," he answered. "You better get over here quick," Harry said. "Why? What happened?" "It's Mary," Harry said. "What's wrong with her?" Mason asked. "She wants to go to church."

Chapter 49

Mary and Victoria were sitting on the couch in Claire's loft when Mason arrived ten minutes later. Their backs were straight, their feet on the floor, ankles crossed. Victoria cast a questioning look at Mason as if it was the first time she'd seen him. Her eyes fluttered as if she was trying to clear her sight. Mary was edgy, kneading her hands, reminding Mason of the first time he saw her. When Victoria reached for Mary's hand, Mason was not certain who was comforting whom.

Blues and Mickey came up the stairs a moment later. Mason looked at Blues.

"All clear," Blues said, answering Mason's unasked question.

Mary tightened up when she saw Blues, clenching her jaw and squaring her shoulders. "I told you I didn't want him involved," she said to Mason.

"Mary," he said, "a lot has happened since then. We need him."

"No! Not after what he did to my Ryan."

Mary's eyes narrowed, flashing anger and hate that put Mason back on his heels. He didn't blame her for the depth of her feelings, even if they were misplaced. Perhaps the strength of those emotions had sustained her all these years. One thing was certain. Mason wouldn't convince her otherwise. At least not yet.

"Blues," he said. "Take Mickey with you and go see Janet Hook. I want two witnesses to hear whatever she has to say."

The big man nodded, his face impassive. It was personal. He wouldn't pretend otherwise, but he was there for Mason, not for Mary who offered a grimly triumphant smile when they left.

Mason marveled at Mary, remembering the contradictions between his and Blues's images of her, concluding that Blues had at least a piece of her dead to rights. She was a woman with a gutsy, sharp-edged determination whose diminutive size was deceptive. Mason's rugby coach would have said she played bigger than she looked.

"Mass is at eight o'clock," Mary said. "I haven't been to church in days. I need to go."

Mason tugged at his chin, looking at his watch. It was almost seven-thirty. "It may not be safe, Mary."

She smiled at him, though this time it was with the warmth she'd shown him earlier. "I'll be fine. St. Mark's isn't far from here, though I'd rather not walk," she said, standing and brushing her hands across her pants, smoothing the wrinkles.

Mason knew she was telling him more than she was asking him. He couldn't stop her from going and he couldn't let her go alone. Hoping that Father Steve would be there, he said, "I'll go with you."

Mary looked him up and down. "It may do you some good," she said.

Ten minutes later, they were parked across the street from the church. Mary had been silent during the short drive and started to open the car door.

"Not yet, Mary," Mason said. She looked at him then looked away, leaving the door open. "Don't you think we should quit pretending that yesterday was just your average summer day? How in the world did you end up in that psychiatric hospital?"

She rubbed her hands together. "I miss my rosary beads," she said. "They were in my purse." She studied her hands for a moment then slapped her open palms against her knees. "God forgive me! I'm such a fool!"

"Mary, you disappeared," Mason said softly. "You went to St. Mark's to help Father Steve and then you fell off the face of the earth. Father Steve was the last person I could find who had seen you. I searched your house. I even filed a missing person's report."

Mary drew back in surprise. "You were in my house? How did you get in?"

Mason grinned like a busted schoolboy. "I broke in. I'll pay for a new lock on the back door. I was afraid you were dead until I went back and saw that your fish were gone too. I knew they were important to you and that convinced me that you were alive and had arranged for someone to take care of the fish."

"No," she said softly, her eyes widening. "I don't know what happened to the fish. I couldn't take care of anything."

"What happened to you?" Mason asked. "How did you end up at Golden Years?"

Mary glanced at him, her cheeks coloring, shaking her head. "I spent fifteen years trying to save my son. Fifteen years and they still took him from me! Victoria King knew her son was guilty and she let my Ryan rot in jail until they killed him."

"Victoria King has been in a mental institution for the last fifteen years," Mason said. "What makes you think she knows Whitney is guilty?"

"A mother knows," she said, shaking her head to banish any doubt. "I know it's sinful, but I've hated that woman as much as I've hated her son. She helped him get away with murder! All these years, I've hated her. I couldn't stand it another minute. I had to make her tell the truth."

"You mean you went to Golden Years to confront her?" Mason asked.

Mary nodded. "That day at church, it was Wednesday, my volunteer day. St. Mark's does outreach at Golden Years. A shuttle brings people to the church for afternoon mass. I saw the shuttle and I just got on. I didn't even think about it. I just did it."

"What happened when you got there?"

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, rubbing the palm of her hand across the dash. Her hand was dry and didn't leave a trace. "I went to the information desk and asked to see Victoria King. A man came to get me and said he would take me to her."

"What did she tell you?" Mason asked.

Mary looked at Mason, her eyes blazing. "I never saw her until yesterday when she got into your car. The man took me to the room where you found me and locked me in. The food they gave me was drugged so I slept most of the time at first. When I realized what was happening, I tried one food at a time until I was sure it wasn't drugged. Then I wrapped the rest in a towel and got rid of it when that man took me to the bathroom."

"Was it always the same person?" Mason asked.

"Always. No one else."

"Did he tell you why you were being held?"

"No. He acted like I was just one of the patients. He'd take me to the bathroom and wait outside the door, then take me back to my room. There was nothing I could do," she added, shaking her head again, repeating the words as if she was apologizing to herself. "There was nothing I could do."

"That man," Mason said. "Was he an older, heavy-set white man? He might have had a nametag that said Walt."

"I never saw a nametag, but that's what he looked like. He had jowls like a bulldog," Mary added. "Do you know who he is?"

"I think so," Mason answered, remembering how Walt and Dixon Smith had frantically searched for them after the tornado. "Did you tell Father Steve that you were going to see Victoria?"

Mary was quick with her answer. "No. I was afraid of what he would say if he knew what I was going to do. I told him I was going to see my husband Vince in Omaha. He was inside the church when I got on the shuttle."

"Why were you afraid?" Mason asked. "What would be wrong with you going to see Victoria King?"

Mary looked at Mason again, her eyes black and her face brittle. "I tried so hard to do things the right way, Mr. Mason. I raised my son to know right from wrong, to be a good boy. I let the lawyers tell me what to do after Ryan was arrested and now he's dead. I came to you to put it right, to save his memory, even though I knew it would do no good. Memory isn't enough for a mother to hold on to. You can't touch it. You can't sing to it. You can't even hold it because it slips through your fingers like smoke."

"Coming to me was the right thing to do, Mary. It was the only thing you could do."

"No, Mr. Mason. It wasn't the only thing I could do, not if Victoria King wouldn't tell the truth."

"And if she wouldn't, then what?" Mason asked.

"Then, I was going to make it right," she said, clipping her words. Her jaw tightened, pulling her skin taut across her chin. "I couldn't tell Father Steve that I was going to kill Victoria King, could I? So now do you know why I have to go to mass?"

"To confess and to pray for forgiveness," Mason answered.

She looked him in the eye, her fire gone, replaced by ashen sorrow. "No more. I've lost my faith," she said. "Too many unanswered prayers. I'll just ask Ryan to forgive me for failing him again."

Chapter 50

Mason cupped Mary's elbow with his hand, as much to help her across the street as to keep her within his grasp. He didn't know whether she would have killed Victoria King had she had the chance at Golden Years. He didn't ask Mary how she planned to do it, if she had a gun or a knife or whether she intended to throttle Victoria with her bare hands. It was a picture that crept reluctantly into his mind, yet he couldn't ignore Mary's sturdy confession or her history.

Mary had taken a knife to Blues when he arrested Ryan. That was a spontaneous attack launched as a protective impulse. She'd had fifteen years to premeditate the murder of Victoria King, telling Mason that day at his office that she would do what needed doing if he couldn't deliver. Boarding the church shuttle may not have been the spur of the moment decision she made it out to be.

Mason wondered what had passed between Mary and Victoria when they were behind closed doors at Claire's. Did one confess? Did the other forgive? Did Victoria deny her son's guilt, taunting Mary with the loss of her son? He suspected that Victoria hadn't said a word or responded at all, the fog that had overcome her protecting her from Mary's inquisition.

Perhaps Mary's hatred had failed her. Bitter though it was, maybe it wasn't bitter enough to fuel the murder of a woman who may have forgotten the best and the worst of her life. Samantha had confirmed for him the story of Victoria's breakdown. Whatever Victoria had known, it was likely that she didn't know it any longer. Nonetheless, one thing was certain. Mason wouldn't leave the two of them alone again.

Mary shook herself free of Mason's guiding hand as they passed beneath the arched limestone entrance to the church, flowing among the many people who greeted her, hiding her apostasy and her darker self in the rainbow light that refracted through the stained-glass windows lining the outer walls of the sanctuary. The windows were tall rectangles of bold color depicting great moments of faith, saints and sinners immortalized in their triumphs and failures.

She took a seat in a pew near the front, wedged between two large, older women who sheltered her, their blue-white coiffed heads towering over Mary like sentries. Mason got the message. She didn't want his company while she communed.