week.”
Mason listened to the music, waiting for Bongiovanni to answer. It was hard-driving country. He didn’t figure Bongiovanni for honky-tonk. He knew his phone call would raise questions he didn’t want to answer, but that couldn’t be helped. Not if he was right about Mark Hill. The music faded to a low buzz, heavy on the bass. Bongiovanni had found a quieter place to talk.
“What do you know about Johnny Keegan?” he asked Mason.
“Enough to tell you that if he and Charles Rockley end up dead in the same week, you better be damn sure you know where your client is and it better be someplace her husband can’t find her.”
“Are you telling me that Mark Hill killed Rockley and Keegan?”
“I’m telling you to take care of your client. One other thing. I can’t make it tomorrow morning. How about two o’clock?”
“I’ll make it work,” Bongiovanni said. “And thanks for the heads-up.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Mason retrieved Saturday morning’s newspaper from the end of his driveway as Tuffy chased scents around the trees in the front yard. The air was crisp, the sky a Neapolitan blend of orange, pink, and blue layers as the sun edged over the horizon, promising a mild day, a teaser for the coming spring.
The couple that lived across the street came out their front door wearing matching jogging outfits, the husband leading their chocolate Lab on a leash twisted around his fist. They turned down the sidewalk, ignoring him. Tuffy bolted for a sniff of the Lab. The neighbors reined their dog in, casting a venomous look at Mason for keeping such an ill-mannered animal as they picked up their pace, putting distance between them.
Watching them run away, he replayed last night’s conversation with Bongiovanni. He had jumped to the conclusion that Mark Hill had killed Rockley and Keegan out of jealousy and risked disclosure of his problems with Judge Carter to protect Carol. Ten hours later, he wasn’t so certain. Hill may have killed Rockley and Keegan, but that didn’t explain why he chose Avery Fish’s car as Rockley’s casket. Without that missing link, it was hard to tie the two murders together.
Rachel Firestone hadn’t connected the murders either. Her story on Rockley was front page, below the fold. It was straightforward although the slant edged toward sensational. She reported that the police couldn’t confirm the anonymous tip she’d received concerning the identity of the murder victim found in the trunk of Fish’s car. They acknowledged that they had sent DNA samples to the FBI for identification but said they had yet to receive a report.
Despite the cops’ equivocation, the Star considered the tip reliable enough to print the story naming Rockley as the victim. That meant Rachel had corroborated it with the only source that could-the FBI. Yet the article quoted spokesmen for the FBI and the U.S. attorney as having no comment. A Police Department spokesman also declined comment when she asked him if someone had leaked the story to embarrass the department.
The story was more about the cops getting scooped than either the killer or the victim, since she had nothing to report about them. She capped it off by tying Rockley back to Avery Fish’s trunk and the mail fraud charges pending against Fish, adding Mason’s no comment to the litany of those who should know something but claimed that they didn’t. Anyone reading the story would conclude that the cops, the feds, and the lawyers were either morons or on drugs.
The story on Johnny Keegan was on the inside of the Metropolitan section of the paper, reported without a byline, one of several blurbs about overnight crimes committed in the city. Mason took no comfort in that. Rachel and the cops would make the connection soon enough.
He put the paper down and scratched Tuffy behind her ears. He still hadn’t figured out what he would say when Bongiovanni asked him again how he knew about Johnny Keegan and Carol Hill. He had until the afternoon to figure that one out. Plenty of time.
TWENTY-NINE
Kansas City International Airport was on the northern edge of the city limits on a broad, flat plain that confirmed every stereotype about Midwestern topography. It was so far from the center of the city that people arriving for the first time often thought they had boarded the wrong plane or that they had been hijacked en route.
Its saving grace was a design that put the gates practically on the curb, allowing people to meet their friends and family as they got off the plane. It was an anomaly in an age of draconian airport security in which wheelchaired grandmothers were nearly strip-searched and travelers were forced to walk a mile to find a familiar face.
The layout also resulted in tightly knotted clusters of people converging like a mosh pit in front of the door from which passengers emerged. Abby’s flight was full, which meant that the area in front of the gate was clotted with people waiting for its arrival. Young children clung to parents or darted between legs, stepping on toes until they were put in time-out. Old parents clung to middle-aged children, waiting for their grandchildren. Lovers stood on tiptoes, craning their heads, anticipation arching their backs.
Mason leaned against the wall opposite from where the passengers would appear. Surveying the crowd, he realized he didn’t fit in any of these categories; such was the limbo in which his relationship with Abby lingered.
When she stepped through the gate, smiling and waving at him through gaps in the crowd, his heart quickened. She was carrying a coat over one arm and wearing black slacks and a bright red sweater, the contrast perfect with her porcelain skin. His glimpse of her erased months of doubt even though she’d asked for nothing more in her phone message than a ride from the airport and offered less in return. All she had said was that it would be nice if he could be there to meet her. That was enough for him.
Blues had once asked him if he wished that Abby was the only woman he’d ever loved. He wasn’t certain how to answer, not regretting all his past relationships, just the ones of which he wasn’t proud. Finally he answered, telling Blues no, but he hoped she was the last woman he would ever love.
They wedged through the crowd, joining hands as people swirled around them. She looked up at him, her eyes expectant, the corners of her mouth crinkled in a sly grin. She let go of one hand, brushing her dark bangs off her forehead, giving her head a shake and thumping him lightly on the chest.
“It’s okay. You can kiss me.”
He leaned down, their lips brushing, her mouth slightly parted. “You look terrific. I’m glad you called,” he said, still holding her hand.
“And why not? You’re cheaper than a cab,” she teased. “Let’s get my bag.”
He waited until they pulled out of the parking garage to ask if she had more in mind than a free ride.
“How long will you be in town?”
“A week. I’m meeting with people in the senator’s Kansas City office and a number of locals-contributors, politicians, that kind of thing. Plus I’m doing some advance work. Josh is the guest of honor at a civic award dinner next Saturday night.”
Mason noted that she referred to Josh Seeley both as “the senator” and by his first name, blurring their professional and personal relationships. Senator Seeley was married and Abby was no home wrecker. Still, Mason hadn’t been able to shake his own jealousy when he’d seen them together. Real or imagined, their relationship bothered him. He hadn’t made an issue of it, realizing that Abby’s refusal to live with the violence that surrounded his cases posed the biggest threat to their future. He was surprised by her phone call and thrilled by her warm greeting, but he hesitated to read too much into either.
“Sounds like a busy week.”
“All in the service of our constituents,” she added with a laugh. “The Missouri Republican Party is having its annual Lincoln Day fund-raiser tonight at the Westin in honor of Abe’s birthday. The senator will be shaking hands
