'I'm going to St. Louis.'
Abby and Mason had rocketed through the official dates that marked the first stage of a new relationship, cruising into the what-are-we-doing-tonight stage that assumed they would be together that night and every night. They hadn't talked about it or negotiated terms, they'd just let it happen, each catching the other staring with bemused satisfaction, sharing a quick smile, a dip of the head, or a knowing wink.
He left her a message Saturday morning explaining why he wasn't available that night, that he was going for a run and would call her later. When he got back from Loose Park, she was waiting on his front step with an overnight bag, scratching Tuffy behind the ears.
'Don't tell me I'm not going, or that I'll be in the way, or that it will be too dangerous or too boring. I'm going,' Abby said.
'Do I look lucky or stupid?' Mason asked her, wiping sweat from his face with his T-shirt.
'Stupid if you give me any trouble. Lucky if you pick a good hotel.'
'How about the Ritz in Clayton?'
'Umm,' she said, standing up. 'It's good to be lucky, but lucky and loaded is most unusual.' She rubbed her hand on his chest, balling his sweaty T-shirt in her fingers.
'You'll have to settle for lucky. I've got a coupon for a free weekend at a Marriott Courtyard. Continental breakfast included. Still interested?'
'Definitely' she said, kissing him. 'I love Continental breakfasts. The oatmeal buffet is very romantic.'
'I'll get you extra brown sugar. I've got one stop to make before we go,' he said.
'I hope it's the shower.'
'Okay, two stops. The second one is at Robert Davenport's studio and that's a solo appearance. He's tough enough to get anything out of without having to explain why you are there. I want him focused on me, not you.'
'Are you patronizing me or flattering me?' she asked, twisting his T-shirt again with playful annoyance.
'You already ruled out stupid,' Mason answered.
Mason found Robert in his studio, stretched out on a futon, nodding his head to a beat only he could hear. Mason watched him paint imaginary strokes with imaginary brushes, his eyelids fluttering. An empty needle lay on the floor next to the futon, explaining why Robert could hear music without sound, paint without brushes, and see with his eyes closed.
Mason squatted at Robert's side. 'Hey, Robert. You got company, man.'
Robert opened his eyes, squinting and grimacing as if Mason was a bad dream. 'Go way,' Robert mumbled. 'No assholes today.'
Mason grabbed him, pulling him up. Robert was all rubber arms and legs, like a doped-up, life-sized Gumby doll. Mason tried propping him up on a stool, but had to catch him before he fell over. Hoisting Robert again, Mason dumped him back on the futon, letting the high pass, using the time to look around the studio.
Robert had described himself as a decent artist. Mason thumbed through the canvasses stacked around the studio, finding nothing that stirred him, including the nudes. Robert painted the women without facial features, exaggerating their breasts and genitalia. Mason couldn't tell whether the paintings were unfinished or a reflection of Robert's inner psyche.
A corner of the studio was partitioned with a desk on the other side. Mason sat in the swivel desk chair, and began a methodical search of the drawers, finding nothing more interesting than class schedules. The bottom drawer was for files that hung on metal rails on the sides of the drawer, though Robert's files were laid flat, stacked one on top of another. When Mason lifted them out, he discovered why the files weren't hung from the sides. The drawer had a false bottom. Mason found a letter opener and pried the bottom panel out of the drawer.
The hidden space was Robert's combination medicine cabinet and safety deposit box, concealing a small bag of cocaine, three smaller bags of a darker powder Mason guessed to be heroin, and three syringes. Mason found a letter-size envelope underneath the drugs. He opened the envelope, pulling out four photographs that jolted him like one of Robert's needles.
The photographs were fish-eyed images of Gina Davenport and Max Coyle locked in naked embraces that gave new meaning to his client's nickname, Mad Max. The date of the photographs-August 15-was superimposed in the corner of each frame, confirming that Max was the boyfriend Gina had broken up with two weeks before she was killed. Mason guessed that Robert hid the camera in the ceiling above their bed as an insurance policy against the day Gina decided to dump him.
The first time Mason and Robert talked, Robert denied knowing whom Gina had been seeing. Mason wasn't surprised that Robert lied, though he did wonder what Robert intended to do with the photographs now that his wife was dead. He doubted that Robert had shown them to the police. If he had, the cops would have questioned Max and Max would have called Mason. Mason kept the photographs, but put the drugs back. Robert was curled on his side, his knees to his chest, moaning as the heroin slowly released him. Mason didn't say good-bye.
The pictures of Max and Gina reaffirmed Mason's confidence in the capacity of people to be stupid. It wasn't that people would lie, cheat, and steal. He depended on that to make a living. It was that some people would get up in the morning, make a list of the dumbest things they could do, and spend the rest of the day checking them off after completing each one. Max, Gina, and Robert were at the head of the class.
When the people were strangers, Mason found their behavior puzzling, amusing, and intriguing. When the people were his friends-as Max was-he found it sad. Max was also his client, which made his discovery of the photographs more complicated. He had represented Max only in Max's lawsuit against David Evans. Technically, there was nothing about that representation that required Mason to suppress evidence that would make Max a suspect in Gina's murder.
That was a lawyer's distinction Max would not appreciate. As far as Max was concerned, Mason was his lawyer, charged with keeping his secrets secret. He wouldn't understand when Mason told him the pictures made him a suspect in Gina's murder and that he'd better get another lawyer. Mason called Max on his cell phone, finding him playing in a charity golf tournament to raise money for kids with leukemia. He told Mason to meet him at the halfway house between the ninth and tenth holes.
Mason had played golf enough times to know that his talents lay elsewhere and to be grateful that his law practice wasn't cultivated on the links. His backswing was so twisted that it positioned his club for self-colonoscopy, producing shots that put everyone on the course in harm's way.
The tournament was being played at a course built to sell the million-dollar homes that surrounded it in what the developers called a lifestyle community. Calling it a mere subdivision devalued the experience. Putting a guardhouse at the entrance of the private street that led past homes to the golf course reminded the residents that the rich were different.
Max was waiting in his golf cart parked outside the halfway house, signing autographs and posing for pictures, beaming from beneath his wide-brimmed straw hat as each photo was snapped. Mason doubted Max would be as eager to see the photographs in the envelope tucked under his arm.
Paula Sutton, the acerbic host of KWIN's morning show, intercepted Mason with the beer cart she was driving before he reached Max.
'Hey, stranger,' she said. 'You missed the tee-off, but you can still get a cold beer.'
'I'll pass,' Mason said. 'How'd you get stuck playing bartender instead of golf?'
'Highest and best use,' she answered. 'The station is a big sponsor of the tournament. The Hacketts are keeping a low profile after everything that's happened, but Arthur ordered the rest of us to show the flag. You don't strike me as a country-clubber. What are you doing here?'
'I'm going to audit Max's scorecard,' Mason joked, knowing she would see him talking with Max. 'Tell me something,' he said, changing the subject. 'When we talked at the radio station, you said that Gina Davenport ducked under her morality bar like she was doing the limbo. What did you mean? That dance may have gotten her killed.'
Paula flashed a sly smile, giving Mason a fleeting image of her doing the limbo while the crowd chanted, 'How low can you go?' She patted the empty passenger seat. 'Climb aboard,' she said.
Mason waved at Max as they passed him, mouthing that he'd be right back. Paula stopped in a grove of apple trees on a hill overlooking the green at the end of a long fairway. She got out of the cart, plucked two apples, tossing one to Mason and taking a bite out of hers. A foursome was working its way toward them.
'A good-looking woman offers me an apple in the middle of a twenty-first-century Garden of Eden,' Mason
