'Now how am I gonna see that?' Earl Luke asked. 'Any fool can see that trash chute comin' out of the radio station up there. How am I gonna see who opens that little-bitty door?'
'How do you know the trash chute is in the radio station?'
'On account of I know that the radio station is up there and on account of I saw that woman what got throw'd out her window on the south side of the building. So, the radio station has to be on this side.'
'You're right,' Mason said, remembering the view from Arthur Hackett's window north to the downtown airport. Mason turned around, a small plane gliding in for a landing, puffs of smoke bursting from the runway as the wheels touched down. He looked back at the trash chute, finding the small door cut into the wall directly below Arthur Hackett's window.
Earl Luke watched Mason for a few more minutes, clearing his throat, shuffling his feet, baiting the air with the hope for more easy money. 'Anything else you want to see?' he finally asked Mason.
Mason gazed eight stories up, not hearing Earl Luke, wondering about a father's grief and the reasons it ran so deep.
David Evans's office was locked, no light under the door, no answer to Mason's knock, Mason drawing the line at breaking into Evans's office. Outside, blue violet dusk chased the last patches of daylight, lacing the evening air with a sharp chill, making good the weatherman's forecast of an early frost. Mason sat on Earl Luke's bench watching tenants spin out of the Cable Depot's revolving door, their day finished, collars gathered around chins, cursing the unexpected cold. Earl Luke was gone, having taken his grocery cart and Mason's money out for the evening.
Mason was glad that he'd thrown a barn jacket and a ball cap in his car when he heard the forecast that morning. He was used to Kansas City's multiple-personality weather, with days that dawned bright and sunny, then descended into raw nights. He rolled his collar up and pulled his cap down, becoming invisible to those passing by, arguing with himself about the door behind the Depot, knowing the argument was more about when than if.
He tabled his internal debate when David Evans and Paula Sutton squeezed through the revolving door, setting a quick pace as they headed south, Paula trying without success to smooth the wrinkles in her clothes, Evans teasing her and the fabric with playful strokes. She gave him a shove, not resisting when he locked his arm over hers, pulling her to him as they continued on, their dance reminding Mason that a locked door with no light beneath it and no answer to his knock didn't mean that no one was home.
Remembering that Evans lived a few blocks away in Quality Hill, Mason followed them, telling himself that the door behind the Depot wasn't going anywhere. Mason liked catching a witness out of his element, away from the comfortable trappings of home turf. Evans's house was certainly his home turf, but it wasn't Paula Sutton's.
Mason gave them a good head start before following at an unobtrusive distance, lingering in doorways when they stopped at a deli, then a liquor store. Evans's townhouse was the middle unit in a row of restored, orange- brick row houses. Mason waited until the lights came on before retreating to the deli for his own dinner.
A pastrami on rye with dark mustard and darker ale gave him no great insights into the relationship between Paula Sutton and David Evans. There was nothing sinister, or even wrong, about a relationship they made no effort to hide, though Mason guessed that Paula's open resentment of Gina Davenport made for interesting pillow talk.
He called Abby, telling her he was working late, relieved when she said that she was as well, promising to call tomorrow. He wasn't ready to tell her about Emily, and he wasn't anxious to undermine their relationship by holding back. He hoped another day would bring more answers.
Realizing he had to ask questions to get answers, he retraced his route to David Evans's front door, this time drawing a response to his knocking. Evans opened the door, his shirt half-buttoned and hanging out over his pants, Sinatra playing in the background.
'Mason, what do you want?' Evans asked, glancing over his shoulder.
'Sinatra?' Mason asked in return. 'I never figured you for a Sinatra guy, David. I would have guessed the Backstreet Boys.'
'Who is it?' Paula asked from inside the house, appearing behind Evans wearing a man's bathrobe. 'Oh, shit!' she said, answering her own question.
'Publisher's Clearing House Prize Patrol,' Mason said. 'If you'll just step outside for our cameras, we'll present you with the grand-prize check.'
'Can it, Mason,' Evans said. 'You want to talk to me, make an appointment during regular business hours.'
Mason shouldered past Evans before he could close the door. 'We're in the service business, David. There are no regular business hours.'
Evans was built lower to the ground than Mason, with a squared midsection, once solid, now soft. Mason felt Evans's muscles tense beneath the fat as he blocked Mason from getting past the entry hall.
Mason tightened in response, an involuntary primal reflex, as he realized he had pushed Evans too far. A man could do many things in defense of his home, including kill an invader, and Evans was ready to defend. Mason eased back, opening a demilitarized zone between him and Evans, keeping his hands loose at his sides, risking a glance at Paula holding the robe tightly around her.
'Get out,' Evans told him, leaving no room for other choices.
'Maybe this isn't a good time after all,' Mason said.
'I'll just talk to the IRS about the Form 990 reports you filed for Emily's Fund. I'm sure they'll call you for an appointment during regular business hours.'
Evans didn't blink or breathe for a moment, then he found his smile. 'Damn, Mason. Next time someone tells you to follow the money, run the other direction,' he said, clamping his hand on Mason's arm. 'Come on in if that's all you want to talk about,' he added as Paula took her cue and disappeared into the bedroom.
Evans led Mason into the kitchen. The wine he'd purchased at the liquor store sat on the kitchen table unopened alongside the still-wrapped carryout from the deli. Mason had interrupted the appetizer, not the entree. The kitchen was a narrow rectangle that opened into a living room where Paula had left her shoes and skirt on the floor. She slipped out of the bedroom still wearing Evans's robe, gathered her things, and punched the off button on the stereo, cutting Sinatra off in mid-croon. Firing a defiant look at Mason, she retreated again.
'Your charity reported contributions it didn't make. How come?' Mason asked.
Evans opened the refrigerator and tossed a can of beer to Mason. 'You look like a beer guy to me,' Evans told him. 'Emily's Fund wasn't my charity, it was Gina's, and I didn't sign the reports. Gina did. I checked the books after she was killed and figured out what she had done, though I couldn't tell you why she did it.'
Mason popped the lid on his beer. 'I'm supposed to believe you didn't know that Emily's Fund only gave away half the money it said it did.'
'I don't care what you believe,' Evans said. 'Don't forget, I'm the one who told you to check them out. You've seen the reports or you wouldn't be here. Gina signed them. I'll be right back.' Evans retrieved his briefcase from the entry hall closet. 'I signed these,' he said, taking a folder out of the briefcase.
Mason leafed through the pages. 'Amended reports,' he said.
'That's right,' Evans said. 'Only these have the real numbers. I mailed the originals to the IRS yesterday. These are copies. Keep them, I've got another set at the office.'
Paula returned from the bedroom wearing her own clothes. Evans handed her a beer, but Paula shook it off, lighting a cigarette instead, tapping her lighter on the kitchen counter as she drew down on the burning tobacco. Mason read through the amended reports again, searching for a reason not to feel like a fool.
'Go figure,' was all Mason could muster.
He stuck his hand in the pocket of his barn jacket, his fingers closing around the cell phone he bought from Earl Luke, playing a hunch, taking it out, and putting it on the counter, watching Paula Sutton gag on her smoke when he spun the pink faceplate toward her.
Recovering quickly, she stubbed her cigarette out in the sink. 'I'm going home. Call me,' she said, then told Mason, 'Him, not you.'
'Don't leave me out,' Mason said. 'You can call me on my cell phone.'
