Chapter 30
Evans gave Mason the universal shrug all men use when they don't understand a woman's behavior, Mason responding with the knowing nod, meaning that he knew what Evans meant even if he didn't understand Paula's behavior any better than Evans did. Except that Mason's nod was a lie. He understood Paula's reaction to his house call and Jordan's phone.
Paula started getting an allergic reaction to Mason at the golf tournament when Mason first mentioned Abby Lieberman's name. Since then, Paula had avoided Mason, losing her libido entirely when Mason showed up at Evans's house, an effect Mason hoped was an isolated incident in his relations with women. When she saw Jordan's phone, she nearly swallowed her cigarette. Mason reached the easy and obvious conclusion that Paula had used Jordan's phone to call Abby Lieberman, putting her on a collision course with Gina Davenport.
The better questions were why Paula would go to such trouble and how she knew to make the connection in the first place. Walking back to his car, Mason put his money on jealousy and passion. Paula's jealousy of Gina's success gave her reason to ferret out Gina's weak spots and use them to discredit Gina or just to ruin her day. The worst motive he could ascribe to Paula was the desire to stir up trouble for Gina.
Gina must have known from the beginning that Abby was Emily's birth mother, and confided the truth to Evans, relying on him to keep her secrets confidential. Evans must have been the kind of man who liked to impress a woman by sharing juicy tidbits, his knowledge evidence of his power, his power the best aphrodisiac he had to offer.
Accepting all that, Mason still couldn't make the link from Paula's phone call to the murders of Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. The case was becoming a maddening collection of circles and false starts, none of which overcame the evidence against Jordan. By the time Mason reached his car, he was practicing his speech to Jordan about the wisdom of taking a plea that would give her a chance at a new life after most of her old life had been wasted in prison.
Forgetting the allure of the trapdoor behind the Cable Depot, Mason revved the engine of his rented Camry, banging his palm on the steering wheel, frustrated at his inability to make Jordan's case come together. Whenever he misplaced an important document in his office, he invariably found it on top of a stack of papers after he'd turned his office upside down looking for it. He usually made a bigger mess because he couldn't see what was in plain sight. As he sat in his rental car, missing his TR-6, all he saw was the mess.
Mason stopped at Blues on Broadway, taking comfort in the quiet of a slow night. Only a couple of tables were occupied. Fred, the regular bartender, waved a dish towel at Mason when he sat down at the bar. Fred was tall and thin, sometimes banging his head on the glasses hung in the rack above the bar. He had a round face like a sucker on the end of a long stick. For a bartender, he didn't say much, preferring to pour and serve.
'What'll you have, Lou?' Fred asked.
'Whatever you've got on draft,' Mason answered. 'You seen Blues tonight?'
'He called a while ago, didn't know if he'd make it in. You want something to eat? Connie is in the kitchen.'
Blues on Broadway wasn't known for its food, the Reuben sandwich being the specialty of Connie, the short- order cook, who was married to Fred. Connie was also known for her temper, having threatened more than once to add an offending customer's fingers to the chowder she made on Fridays. Mason was hungry, but didn't want another sandwich. 'Tell Connie to surprise me. Anything but a Reuben. She's got to be able to make something else.'
Mason moved to a booth, nursing his beer, almost complaining when Connie shoved a Reuben under his chin, thinking better of it when he saw the hard set to her jaw. Mason looked past her to Fred, who ducked, not wanting to confess he'd told Connie what Mason had said. Connie was so short she needed a step stool to kiss her husband, but Fred valued his fingers too much to risk his wife's temper.
'Smells great, Connie. Thanks,' Mason said.
'Leave a decent tip,' she told him.
Mason had finished half the sandwich when Samantha Greer slid into the seat across from him. She rubbed her hands together, pressing them against her cheeks. 'Boy, it's too early to be this cold already,' she said.
'Frigid Canadian front,' Mason said. 'I heard it on the news.'
'I once dated a Canadian with a frigid front,' Samantha said.
Mason did a finger drum roll on the table. 'Dynamite material. You should try open-mike night at a comedy club.'
'Who puckered your backside?' she asked him. 'Never mind, I don't want to know. I've got some news that will pick up your spirits.'
'What? Patrick Ortiz resigned as prosecuting attorney to write legal thrillers and dropped the charges against my client as a going-away gift to me?'
'You know, Lou, your fantasies used to be a lot more fun.'
'Yeah, but the rubber suit gave me a rash. What's up?'
'We found your car. I wanted to tell you myself. You didn't answer at home or the office or on your cell phone. I don't have what's-her-name's phone number, so I tried here. Glad I caught you,' she said, not concealing the light in her eyes.
'Her name is Abby. Her number is in the book. You found my TR-6?' Mason asked, pushing the Reuben out of the way, reaching across the table for Samantha's hand, an instinctive gesture.
'Well, I didn't personally find it,' she said, tentatively resting her other hand on top of Mason's, gently rubbing her finger between his. 'A patrolman doing a routine check of abandoned buildings found it stashed in a vacant garage on the East Side.'
'That's fantastic,' Mason said. 'No, it's beyond fantastic. When can I get it back?'
'Tomorrow morning,' she said. 'But it's a little banged up,' she added.
'Banged up? How bad?'
'A little, actually more than a little, a lot. And it's not running. To tell you the truth, it's sitting. On blocks. Without wheels.'
Mason slumped against the back of the booth. 'Is this how you tell the widow she's a widow? I've got good news, Mrs. Smith. We found your husband, or at least most of him.'
'Oh, come on, Lou. I know you love that car, but it's just a car. I had it towed to George's Body Shop. Just like you asked.'
Mason let out a sigh, realizing that Samantha was still cradling his hand in hers. He drew his hand back, ignoring the slight resistance she offered. 'Thanks, Sam,' he said. 'I appreciate you taking the trouble to come here. You didn't have to do that.'
'Yeah, well,' she said, pushing her hair back with one hand, hiding the other in her lap. 'You know our motto: to protect and serve. This falls under customer service.'
Mason wished he'd kept his hands to himself, not stumbling into another awkward, post-lover exchange with Samantha. Her not-so-subtle flirtation was a complication he didn't need.
'Good,' he said, nodding like a bobble-head doll, struggling for something to say to put their conversation back on a professional track.
Samantha sat back, took a deep breath, and clapped her hands. 'Okay, I give up,' she said. 'A woman should never tell a man she isn't over him, especially when he's found somebody else. I'm not over you, Lou, but I guess you know that. I'm working on it, and I'd appreciate it if you'd help me out by acting like a jerk a little more often. I know you've got it in you,' she said with half a laugh.
Mason smiled. 'I can be a jerk,' he said. 'No problem. How about if I beat you up on the stand at Jordan's preliminary hearing on Friday. Then you could hate me.'
'I wouldn't hate you,' she said. 'I'd feel sorry for you if that's the best defense you can give your client. If it is, you better make a deal.'
'It's worse than that,' he told her. 'I don't even have anything to beat you up with.'
'Tell me what you do have, Lou. I don't just want to win. I want to be right. I'll take my badge off and just be your friend. Try me,' she said.
Mason considered her offer. He knew she was telling the truth when she told him she wanted to be right. He
