Samantha Greer stood with hands on her hips, watching her people work. She nodded as they reported to her, took notes, and resumed the position.
“Wait here,” Cates told Mason when they reached the yellow tape.
Cates ducked beneath the tape, walked over to Samantha, and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and looked at Mason, listening as Cates spoke. When he finished, she brushed her hair with her hands and made her way to Mason, keeping the tape between them.
“Happy birthday, Sam,” Mason said.
“And I don’t feel a day older. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know it was Mark Hill, so who told you?”
“A reporter at the Star picked it up from the police scanner, checked it out, and called it in to his editor. Rachel Firestone overheard and called me.”
Samantha looked past Mason at Rachel, who waved and smiled. Samantha ignored the gesture.
“Why did she call you?”
“She’s working Avery Fish’s case.”
“I read the article,” Samantha said. “Big help.”
Mason ignored the dig. He wanted to find out what he could as quickly as possible and get out of there so he could salvage the evening with Abby.
“I told her about Carol Hill’s lawsuit against Rockley and Galaxy. She thought I’d want to know about Mark Hill.”
“You think there’s a connection between the deaths of Rockley and Hill?”
“Hill smacked Carol around. Rockley came on to Carol. She didn’t like either one of them. Makes Carol a suspect.”
“Women don’t generally mutilate bodies or drag them to lakes in the middle of the night. When they kill someone, they leave them where they fall.”
“Then again,” Mason said, “Hill could have killed Rockley for harassing his wife and somebody killed Hill to balance the books. Give me enough time and I’ll come up with plenty of options.”
“All of which will conveniently point the finger away from your client for killing Rockley, huh?”
“That’s one way to look at it. In fact, that’s a pretty good way to look at it. How did Hill die?”
“Bullet to the brain.”
“Did he do it by himself or did he have help?”
“Coroner says it’s too early to tell.”
“Time of death?” Mason asked.
“Somewhere in the last twelve to twenty-four hours.”
“Talk to your client. Tell him he better be able to account for his whereabouts,” Detective Cates said.
Mason turned to him. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear Detective Greer say that Hill’s death points the finger away from Avery Fish?”
“I make a point to keep bullshit out of my ears,” Cates said. “The way I see it, your client could have killed Hill just so we’d look somewhere else on Rockley. Bring him downtown tomorrow morning. Don’t make us come and get him.”
“Sam,” Mason said. “You can’t be serious.”
“Rockley isn’t my case, Lou. Hill belongs to me unless it turns out they’re related. If they are, Cates and Griswold will take it. Right now we don’t know one way or the other. Either way, we’re going to need to talk to Fish. Might as well make it tomorrow morning.”
Dennis Brewer was meeting with Mickey at 9 A. M. to prepare him for the tour of Fish’s safety deposit box. Mason wanted to sit in on that session, which shouldn’t take more than an hour.
“We’ll be there at eleven,” he said.
Mason told Rachel what he’d learned, thanked her for the tip, and declined her offer for a late dinner, telling her he was already late for dinner with Abby. His cell phone rang again before he reached his car. He let it ring while deciding whether to answer it or throw it in the lake, choosing the former when he saw Blues’s name on the screen.
“What do you have?” Mason asked him.
“One address for both cars at Lake Lotawana. Place is owned by someone named Ernie Fowler. Got the phone number too.”
“I’ll bet the rent money that Ernie Fowler’s phone is answered at Sylvia McBride’s call center in Minneapolis.”
“One way to find out,” Blues said. “Call him.”
“What if he doesn’t answer?”
“Then we knock on his door.”
“I was thinking of something more discreet. Besides, have you ever tried finding an address at a lake?” Mason asked. “You practically need a guide.”
“I’ve got one. This BMW has a GPS system. I’ve already punched in the address. It’s only twenty-four-point- thirty miles if we pick the route for the fastest time and the most use of freeways. Damn, being rich is a fine thing.”
“Pick me up at the office,” Mason said. “Ten minutes.”
SIXTY-SIX
Troost Lake was an oversized pond, home to no one. Lake Lotawana was the real deal: a pastoral haven far enough from Kansas City to feel like you left. Mason didn’t expect to find any bodies floating there, but that didn’t make him feel any better about making the trip. The case was swallowing him whole, the dark water lapping against his chin. He had an image of Abby turning her back as the water closed over his head.
The first twenty miles were easy. They took Highway 71 south, picked up I-470, and got off at Colbern Road. A handful of quick turns later, they were on Lake Lotawana Road, passing the Lake Lotawana Police Department, which served and protected the two thousand people who lived in homes surrounding the lake, according to the brightly lit sign outside the station.
“Look at that map,” Mason said, pointing to the GPS screen. “The lake looks like Italy and we just crossed the border from France. Ernie Fowler’s house is south of Rome. The way this road curves around, we are going to have to knock on his door. There’s no way we can get there without being seen.”
“You want to see his house from the outside in or the inside out?” Blues asked.
“I’ll settle for outside. My breaking-and-entering days are behind me.”
“Too much conscience is a bad thing for a man in our line of work,” Blues said.
“Maybe I need a new line of work. What about the lake? If we can find a boat, we can check the house out from the water.”
“I’ve got a pair of night vision binoculars in the trunk. But I didn’t have room for the boat.”
“We can borrow someone’s boat,” Mason said. Blues looked at him, eyebrows arched. “We’ll put it back and I’ll leave gas money, all right?”
“Need a new line of work, my ass.”
Lake Shore Drive circled Lake Lotawana. Side streets named with single letters led from Keystone to the homes at the water’s edge, the entrances to each flanked by long, curved brick walls that gave way to a split-rail fence, the fence connecting to the brick wall at the next side street. The wall and fence added an air of privacy to the residential area though they wouldn’t keep anyone out.
Ernie Fowler’s house was on L Street. They drove south on Keystone along the west flank of the lake, pulling onto the shoulder just beyond the entrance to L Street, not wanting to risk that someone was watching from the house for any unexpected traffic.
“Let’s see how close we can get without being shot at,” Blues said.
They took their time, Mason letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, Blues scanning the street with his night vision glasses. The street was laid out in a T shape with houses on both sides of the vertical leg and a row of
