The priest's jaw hardened for an instant, his eyes narrowing; then a small smile crept into the corners of his mouth as he relaxed. 'Money, Mr. Mason. The church needs it and Whitney has it. My job is to ask him for it. It's demeaning but necessary. Is that all?'
'Almost. That woman who has been at your side for thirty years has disappeared. Do you know anything about that?'
'Mary's disappeared?' Father Steve asked, hands at his sides, mouth open. 'What do you mean?'
'She's missing. She left home yesterday, got on a bus to come here and see you. She never made it home.'
'Am I supposed to have spirited her away? Come now, Mr. Mason.'
'Was Mary here yesterday?'
'Of course she was. She volunteers every Wednesday, helping out in the office, whatever needs to be done.'
'You saw her, then?'
Father Steve dropped his cigarette to the floor, grinding it beneath his heel. 'Yes, Mr. Mason,' he answered with diminished patience. 'I saw Mary. I spoke with Mary. I saw Mary leave. Now what do you mean she didn't go home?'
Mason studied the priest, thinking of him as any other witness, evaluating his demeanor, his motive for telling the truth or not, his interest in the outcome of the case, conceding that his collar enhanced his credibility.
'Just that,' Mason said, still pressing, 'she's disappeared and you're the last person to have seen her alive.'
'I hope you are not such an alarmist with all of your clients,' Father Steve said. 'Mary told me she was going away for a few days. She said she might go visit her husband. They never divorced, you know. He called her after Ryan's death.'
'Did she say where her husband was living?' Mason asked.
'Omaha, I believe she said.'
'Well, then. I'm sure she'll be back soon,' Mason said, his sarcasm lost on the priest.
'Of course she will,' Father Steve said. 'I've got to get back. If you'll excuse me.'
'One last thing. Something you said bothered me,' Mason said.
Father Steve stuck his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, his smile and his patience flattening out. 'Try me, Mr. Mason. I'm a priest. I specialize in things that bother people.'
'Why do you suppose Mary would go to Omaha for a few days and leave her suitcase under her bed?'
Father Steve stopped rocking, tilted his head to one side, biting the corner of his mouth. 'I suppose,' he answered softly. 'She had two suitcases.'
Chapter 23
Certainty is the sum of need and faith. Wisdom is the remainder of living. Knowledge is the division of doubt by facts. Truth is the product of them all. Mason repeated the math Claire had taught him when he was growing up as he jogged toward the Plaza on Saturday morning before most people were out of their houses. The sky teased the city with the promise of rain, the sun burning through a low layer of gray clouds like dry kindling.
Mason was certain that Ryan Kowalczyk was innocent and Whitney King was guilty, though his certainty was the sum of need and faith, as was his belief that Claire was hiding the truth about his parents. He rejected the wisdom of Harry and Claire who said leave well enough alone. He had yet to find the facts that would divide their doubts. The truth still eluded him.
He ran east along Brush Creek, a landscaped tributary of the Missouri River that defined the southern border of the Plaza. He looped back, finding Tuffy waiting for him, thumping her tail for breakfast as he carried the morning paper inside. The headline read 'Hot Streak Breaks Record,' nothing selling better than bad news turned into a spectator sport.
The toll was charted in a sidebar column with numbers followed by the calamity they represented. Forty-two days without measurable precipitation. Nineteen days above ninety-five degrees. Eleven power outages due to high demand for electricity. Eighty-three people admitted to area hospitals for heat exhaustion. Sixteen people dead throughout the state from heat-related causes, five of them from Kansas City.
Mason took the paper with him to his office, posting his personal tally for the week on the dry erase board. One execution witnessed. One client missing. One client critically wounded. One girlfriend lost. Two best friends pissed off. One closest living relative maybe not so close. His numbers were smaller, but the toll bore down on him like a personal heat wave.
What made it worse was how little he had to show for it, getting pimped by a priest the highlight. I suppose she had two suitcases, Mason repeated the punch line, throwing another dart across his office, taking little satisfaction in the puff of plaster as it stuck in the wall, tail feathers vibrating. Maybe she did. Mason didn't think so.
He tried directory assistance for Omaha. There was no listing for Vince Kowalczyk. Mickey had convinced him to subscribe to an Internet service that promised to find anyone, anywhere in the United States for twenty-five dollars, as long as you had a Social Security number. Otherwise, the most you could hope for was a list of people with the same name. Mason booted up, striking out on Vince, the Web site practically accusing Mason of making up the name.
He did the same with a few of the jurors' names, shooting craps each time, cursing Mickey until he figured out how to cancel the Internet service. At least he was back on track with the one approach that made sense. Find a juror. One that was alive. One that would tell the truth.
Giving the computer another chance, Mason logged onto the city's Web site, clicking his way to the vital records page, certain he could do a quick search of death certificates for the jurors. They had lived in Kansas City at the time of the trial. If they had died in Kansas City since, the city would have a record of it. The city did, but he had to mail in his request with the date of death and the deceased's Social Security number, and wait four to six weeks for a response. The Web site was a cyberspace version of you can't get there from here.
He left a message for Rachel Firestone who called him back ten minutes later. 'What's going on?' she asked.
'How far back do the paper's obituary records go?' Mason asked.
'Like everything else. To the beginning of time. You should read Moses's obit. It takes up five books.'
'Jewish newspaper humor must be an acquired taste,' Mason told her. 'If I give you a list of names, can you check to see if they made the obituary page?'
'As long as I can write about it if it's a good story.'
'I've got eight names. They all show up, you can write a book,' he said, giving her the information.
'Okay. I surrender. Who are they?' Rachel asked.
'They were jurors on the King and Kowalczyk case. The other four jurors are dead. Two of them in accidents that don't pass the smell test. Two of them shot to death. In the face. Sonni Efron was one of them.'
Rachel whistled. 'What are the odds?'
'Don't try to figure the over-under. Just run down the names. Let's see who's vertical and who's horizontal.'
Mason wanted to talk to Whitney King. He wanted to hear King's story about shooting Nick Byrnes. He wanted King to explain his relationship with Father Steve. He wanted to watch King's reaction when he asked King about Mary Kowalczyk's disappearance. He wanted to talk to King in private, off-the-record, counting on King's arrogance to tell him more than he would in front of witnesses, even if he were under oath. Especially under oath.
Mason threw another dart at the wall, knowing he couldn't talk to King. Knowing that he couldn't drop in on King at his office, arrange to run into him at the gym, or invite him over for dinner. Not because King wouldn't talk to him. Mason bet he would. Mason couldn't talk to King because the Model Rules of Professional Conduct for lawyers prohibited a lawyer from communicating directly with an adverse party that the lawyer knows is
