roughly a hundred feet wide between the trees and the cabin. Long-stemmed purple stalks, sunflowers, and deep blue pansies painted the grass in a natural palate.
A fifty-gallon propane tank on the north side fueled the hot-water heater, kitchen appliances, and an electrical generator. Along with the bathroom, they were the only concessions to modern living.
Mason sat on the wooden bench on the front porch, letting the rising sun warm him as he relived last night. Hallmark has a card for almost every occasion. There’s one for birthdays, remembered or forgotten, comings and goings of all kinds, friends and loved ones gained or lost. There’s even one for Mother-in-Law’s Day, but he was certain there was no card for killing someone. After all, what would it say?
He was just tugging at the fringes. He didn’t know how this was going to feel now or in the future. He knew three things for certain. The first was that he had responded to the most basic instinct of survival. The second was that killing came more easily than he would have ever imagined possible. And the third was that the threat was still there.
Everything began with Sullivan’s death. Harlan’s murder and the latest efforts to add him to the obituary list connected events since then.
Sullivan had been poisoned, which is a chancy way to kill someone. The killer can’t be certain that the poison is going to be consumed or that the dose is sufficient for the size of the victim. Unless the poison acts instantly, there is always the possibility the victim will fall ill and get to a hospital before it’s too late.
Sullivan had been poisoned with insulin. According to the autopsy report, the reaction time can vary from a few hours to a few days. Even if the killer was present when Sullivan took the fatal dose, he or she could not have known where he would be when the stuff hit him.
Poisoning was like drawing to an inside straight when compared to the pat hand used with Harlan. His neck had been snapped like a dried branch. Nothing left to chance. Poisoners and neck snappers weren’t cut from the same cloth. The difference was enough to convince Mason there were two killers. Probably.
Someone in a black Escalade tried to run him off the road. The next time he saw it, Jimmie Camaya was shooting out a window at him. The last time he saw it, Vic Jr. was driving it but Camaya was in it. That was enough to convince him that there was a connection between the two killers. Probably.
He didn’t have a favorite on the short list of suspects he’d given Kelly. Pamela Sullivan had enough motives for a miniseries and probable access to insulin.
Without his own clients, Scott Daniels’s best chance of securing his future was to inherit Sullivan’s practice. Angela was squirming enough under Sullivan’s blackmail to risk bugging the offices. Either one-or both-could have rented a ski boat, met Sullivan at the condo, and poisoned him. As long as Sullivan agreed to sit still while they injected him with a fatal dose of insulin.
With the feds closing in, O’Malley may have decided Sullivan was the weak link in his defense-or maybe he really didn’t like paying for work that nobody did. He wasn’t at the lake when Sullivan was murdered, but he was the type who hired people to cut his grass, shovel his snow, and do his killing.
Even if one of them killed Sullivan, Mason couldn’t guess at a reason to kill Harlan or-better yet-to hire Camaya to kill him. What did he have that was worth killing for?
Mason thought about it as if he were preparing for trial. Putting a case together meant building a puzzle, tearing it apart, and putting it back together again until any jury can understand and believe it. No matter how many times he prepared a case, he always worried that he’d forgotten something that would unravel his case faster than a loose thread on a cheap suit. This case was all loose threads-each one leaving a hole when he pulled it out.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The rumbling growl of an engine in low gear scattered his thoughts. Mason resisted the urge to run for cover, not believing Camaya could find him in the wilderness.
The engine belonged to Kelly’s maroon, middle-aged Chevy pickup. She swung the truck in a tight arc, braking so that the Chevy’s nose was pointed downhill.
She climbed out, took four brisk strides to the porch, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at him. The dust hadn’t settled around the truck tires. She was ready to pick up where she’d left off last night when Blues opened the cabin door. He was wearing a ratty T-shirt and boxer shorts and was engaged in the male morning scratching ritual when Kelly turned her high-intensity eyes on him.
“Morning, Sheriff,” he said. “Glad you could join us for breakfast-hope you brought enough for everybody.”
With an easy stretch and a wide yawn, he pivoted half a turn and slid back inside.
“Well, you can take the cop out of the country but you can’t take the country-”
“Save it, Counselor! It’s going to take a lot more than smart-ass punch lines to clean up this mess.”
Kelly was back in uniform, body and soul. She had a real knack for spoiling magic moments. Mason pulled himself up from the love seat and followed her inside.
Blues had brewed coffee, and the aroma filtered into the bedroom, bringing Sandra back out with it. Mason had never developed a taste for coffee and still felt like a kid when he was the only one sucking on apple juice. Since the cabin didn’t have a fully stocked minibar, he rinsed his mouth with tap water while the others drank their attitude adjustment.
They each stood their ground in the cramped kitchen, no one talking, sorting their muddled feelings for each other and their circumstances. Kelly stood at parade rest, shoulders drawn back, fingers of both hands wrapped around her mug, eyes fixed on a watermark on the wall. Blues hunched over the sink, humming something unidentifiable under his breath, pausing only long enough to take an occasional sip. Sandra lounged against the refrigerator, drawing invisible circles on the hardwood floor with her bare toes. Mason filled the doorway between the kitchen and the den, bottling them up. Steam rose from coffee cups. Nothing else moved.
“Kelly-,” Blues began, his back still to her. “Lou and Sandra were in a jam. We had to get them out of there before Camaya came back.”
“Goddammit, Bluestone! You were a cop! How could you be so stupid? You let him run around until he almost gets himself and Sandra killed and then you leave the scene of a homicide! And just for kicks, you drop the whole mess in my lap!”
Blues placed his cup on the Formica countertop and watched a pair of squirrels chase each other in the grass.
“You called it in, didn’t you?”
“The body, the one you called Julio? You knew I would the minute you told me what happened.”
“Kansas City cops or the feds?”
“Kansas City-it’s their jurisdiction.”
“They told you someone had already called it in.”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Because I called it in from the car. You call them back this morning to find out what went down?”
“Yes.” The edge was gone from her answer.
Blues turned around, facing Kelly, and raised himself onto the counter. “And they told you they checked it out and didn’t find a body.”
Kelly’s face softened as she nodded her reply.
“Wait a minute!” Mason said. “I killed that son of a bitch and his body disappears?”
He dropped onto the lone kitchen chair, a metal-backed model with torn, red vinyl upholstery.
“I told you Camaya would clean up his own mess,” Blues said to him. Turning back to Kelly, he continued, “Camaya was coming back to finish up with Sandra and Lou. If the cops got there first, it was Jimmie’s problem. If he cleaned house first, it stayed private. Either way, Sandra and Lou had to get out of town.”
Satisfied for the moment, Kelly changed course. “Camaya isn’t the only one looking for you, Lou. Gene McNamara called first thing this morning wanting to know if I knew where you were.”
“What did Fido want with me?”
“Victor O’Malley’s son is missing. McNamara wants to talk with you about that. I told him I would let you
