Mason would tell them-just not tonight. Not before he had a better sense of what he had gotten into.
'I've been hired by the parents, but they aren't really my clients. They're just paying the bills. I'm meeting the client tomorrow. Unless the cops make an arrest, it stays quiet.'
'Sure thing,' Mickey said.
Mason looked around the table. He couldn't have ruined the party more thoroughly if he'd mooned the waiter. It wasn't the subject of murder or his rebuke of Mickey that doused everyone's mood. It was Abby. The light drained from her eyes and she couldn't meet his, glancing away, bent slightly as if she'd taken a punch.
She gathered herself and fished through her purse for a pager Mason was certain had not gone off. 'Claire,' Abby said, 'it was lovely of you to include me, but my answering service has paged me. Client emergency. I'm sorry. Happy birthday, Harry,' she said.
Mason watched her until she disappeared.
'Never give the hand back, Lou,' Rachel said. 'You've got to keep something to hold onto.'
'Sage advice,' Blues said.
'Okay, people,' Mason said. 'I know you aren't the support group for the perpetually single and relationship impaired, but what the hell just happened?'
'I invited her to dinner to fill out the table. Besides, you need to meet someone new,' Claire explained.
'I'm not talking about that,' Mason said. 'You've fixed me up with every Matzo Ball Queen since Moses parted the Red Sea, but I still don't know what happened. I'm off to the fastest start since Secretariat won the Triple Crown until Mickey mentions Gina Davenport's murder. Next thing I know, I'm sitting between my aunt and an empty chair.'
Claire said, 'If she wants you to know, she'll tell you.'
Tuffy was sleeping on her pillow in the otherwise empty living room when he got home. The German shepherd-collie-mixed-breed anti-watch dog opened one eye, yawned, and rolled over.
Mason walked around the sparsely furnished first floor of the house Claire had given him and his ex-wife, Kate, as a wedding present. Empty rooms and a sleeping dog were all that remained of that relationship. His great-grandparents stared down at him from their framed photographs on the dining room wall, a room they shared with his rowing machine.
'Yes, Abby is a nice Jewish girl,' Mason said to his unsmiling ancestors. 'And, yes, I blew it again,' he added with an indulgent note of self-pity. 'Okay,' he told them. 'Maybe I didn't blow it. I'll call her and tell her that defending people accused of murder doesn't have to ruin a party.'
Yet Mason didn't believe that Abby's reaction had been to his job. She had to be connected to the case in some way that made Dr. Gina's death and Mason's involvement too personal for her. His first guess was that Abby was also Dr. Gina's patient, perhaps even making her a suspect. Neither possibility fit with her incendiary impact on Mason, though either would explain Claire's insistence on keeping him in the dark. Maybe, he thought, Abby and Dr. Gina were close friends and she couldn't hold hands with someone who was defending her friend's accused killer. The only thing Mason was certain of was his need to find the quickest way over the top of the wall that had risen between him and Abby Lieberman.
Mason's phone rang, spawning the instant fantasy that the caller was Abby. He picked up the phone in the kitchen.
'Hello,' he said, kicking off his shoes.
'It's Sherri Thomas, Channel 6 News.'
Mason sat down and rubbed his tired feet. 'What can I do for you, Sherri?'
'Sorry to bother you at home. I hope I'm not calling too late.'
The clock on the stove read 9:45 P.M. Mason knew that Sherri wasn't sorry about the bother or the time. The ten o'clock news was coming up and she was on deadline, trying to resurrect her reputation as a serious journalist. Her unprofessional broadcast of Dr. Gina's death would have cost her job except for the spike in her station's ratings. She apologized on the air and promised to follow the murder of Gina Davenport wherever it led, underscoring her commitment to hard-hitting reporting from the streets of Kansas City.
Mason had watched Sherri's apology, certain that her only regret was being caught reveling in tragedy. He had no interest in giving her career a boost.
'Not a problem,' Mason said. 'I'm staying up to watch the news. The Daily Show doesn't start until ten.'
'They told me you were a smart-ass,' Sherri said.
'Really. Who are they? Or are your smart-ass sources confidential?'
'I'm running a story at ten that the police are investigating possible ties between the Hackett family and the murder of Dr. Gina Davenport. Care to comment?'
'Why would I have any comment?' Mason asked.
'Because my sources-and they are confidential, whether they're assholes or otherwise-say that you are representing the family.'
Mason didn't give her credit for intrepid reporting. Arthur Hackett had called the general manager at Channel 6 to request a copy of the videotape for Mason. Mason had talked to Ted Phillips, the cameraman, when he picked up the tape. He was a well-known criminal defense attorney who snagged his share of high-profile murder cases. It wasn't tough to put together.
'If that's true, you know I don't have any comment.
If it weren't true, I'd just be making something up. So what do you really want?'
'I'm going to stay on this story like white on rice, Lou. Help me out and you'll get more good coverage than you know what to do with. Besides, you can't give all your stories to Rachel Firestone. There's no payoff with her.'
Mason wasn't interested in the spotlight, though his clients too often dragged him into its glare. Rachel had covered Mason's involvement in the collapse of Sullivan amp; Christenson, his one-time law firm, and in the Dream Casino case. They became close friends, turning their relationship into fodder for local media gossip, especially since Rachel was gay. If their relationship compromised her reporting, she left the reporting to someone else. Mason didn't know how that would work out in the Davenport case, but he doubted that Rachel would bring Sherri Thomas in off the bench. Sherri's crass pitch for his business was a step removed from a street solicitation-a small step.
'Like white on rice?' Mason asked. 'Who writes your material? Never mind. I don't discuss my clients or people who aren't my clients. Keep your payoff for somebody who needs it. I don't.'
Sherri laughed. 'You've got to try harder than that to shame me, Lou. I make the news. You can either be the lead or the punch line, but you can't ignore me.'
'Sure I can,' Mason told her. 'That's what the remote control is for. See you in the funny pages.'
Chapter 3
Sanctuary was secreted off the interstate, off the back roads, in an unincorporated patch of Jackson County in the general direction of St. Louis. The locals called their piece of the action Eastern Jack. Downtown Kansas City was also in Jackson County, but Eastern Jack was a different world. Defined more by the blue collars of Independence and Raytown than the white collars of downtown, Eastern Jack made no pretense of its lack of pretension.
The unincorporated areas outside these smaller cities harbored woods, meadows, and streams that shut out concrete and high-rises, giving nature its own reservation in the civilized world. The natural defenses against the urban onslaught underscored the safety of Sanctuary, touting isolation as security.
'East of the sun and west of the moon, two stars to the right and on till morning.' Mason recited the poem from memory unable to name the poet or finish the verse, as he navigated his TR-6 along the convoluted route he'd downloaded from Sanctuary's web site. It was a top-down morning, the sun soothing, not yet hot. Morning fog painted deer tracks with vapor trails. Moist earth, wild grasses, and unseen animals perfumed the air with a musk scent.
Mason had spent his whole life in the city. He wasn't a Boy Scout and couldn't find moss on the north side of a tree. The drive reminded him of Kelly Holt's log cabin sanctuary in the Ozark woods. She was the last woman
