“I respect the man and his music,” Riley said from his seat at the counter.
Mason continued. “Sullivan knew that St. John had him cold when St. John served the subpoena on him. The fixtures documents were his trump cards. Sullivan was going to offer a trade to St. John. Somebody else found out. They must have been looking for the documents when they broke into Sullivan’s house last month.”
“And Harlan was going to try his own version of let’s make a deal. Now they’re both dead,” Kelly said.
The sun flattened out against the water-spotted window. Kelly rested her elbow on the ledge, chin cupped in her hand, her eyes set on some distant place. The sad weariness Mason had first sensed in her had spread in the hours since her cabin burned. She hadn’t talked about it and didn’t have to. It was the last link to her father. He’d died long ago, but now he was truly gone. Mason tried to comfort them both by holding her close. She pulled away, her melancholy smile telling him that he was not what she needed right now.
Breakfast passed quietly. She explained that her chief deputy would handle the investigation while she was away. Another deputy would drive her home to clean up and pack and then take her St. Louis, where she’d catch a Southwest flight to Chicago, getting there in time for lunch. She left the tip and said good-bye.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
There was a Holiday Inn two blocks away with a vacancy, and Mason’s plastic was still good. He showered and slept past noon, too tired for nightmares. It was Friday and he counted on the latest set of clothes he’d just purchased to last through the weekend or his insurance settlement wouldn’t see him past Labor Day.
By two o’clock, he was all dressed up with no place to go. He drifted back to the courthouse and Kelly’s office, figuring that Blues and Sandra would turn up eventually. Nobody told him not to, so he camped out in Kelly’s chair.
He was about to go looking for Blues when a file clerk walked in with a fax from the community blood bank. Like all faxes, it had a bold
The second sheet was a copy of the blood bank’s laboratory test from September 1987 for Richard Sullivan. The lab data were medical hieroglyphics to him, but the narrative report couldn’t have been clearer. It was 95 percent certain that Richard Sullivan was the natural father of an unnamed child, then aged ten. The mother was Meredith Phillips. The report was addressed to Dr. Kenton Newberry of Rogersville, Kansas.
Mason finished writing the information on a yellow pad just as Blues and Sandra came through the door. Judging from the creases in their jeans, they’d all been on the same schedule.
“Trans-Am’s got new wheels and is running fine,” Blues reported.
“Well, Chief, got any bright ideas for the rest of our summer vacation?” Sandra asked.
“Yep. We’re going home.”
“Pardon me. But unless I’m missing something, we came down here to hide from Camaya-and now we’re going back to Kansas City!” Sandra said. “Should we just paint a target on our backs or would a
“We haven’t done a bang-up job of hiding. Besides, he won’t look for us there if he thinks we’re still down here. We’re the only ones who’ll know where we’re going and we won’t tell anybody, now, will we?”
The mildly accusing tone came out without premeditation.
“No, we won’t!” Sandra said, bristling at the implication in Mason’s voice. She turned and walked out.
“Hey, where are you going?” he called to her.
“To the bathroom. Do I need an escort?” she replied over her shoulder.
“What’s that all about, man?” Blues asked when she was out of range.
“I don’t really know. I didn’t intend for it to sound that way. But she sure took it personally. It just seems kind of odd that Camaya found us so easily.”
“I told you he’d come looking for us, and he’d figure you were with Kelly.”
“Yeah, but how did he know where Kelly was?”
“She’s the sheriff, for crissakes! You look for her at the sheriff’s office.”
“Well, unless he keeps tabs on ex-FBI agents, how did he know she was the sheriff down here? St. John didn’t even know that.”
The more Mason talked, the more he warmed up to this latest thread. “Even if he knew Kelly was in the Ozarks, the location of her cabin was practically a state secret. Somebody sure as hell had to tell him how to get to it. And back at the warehouse, Sandra didn’t bat an eye when that black Escalade pulled up.”
Blues got his clenched-jaw cop look as he chewed on the possibilities. “And she didn’t complain about being stuck down in that basement all night with Riley.”
“Maybe I’m just grabbing at shadows. But we don’t know where Camaya is or how much help he’s got. If he stayed in the area, chances are he’ll watch the roads back to KC. I’ve got a different route in mind.”
Mason told Blues about the blood-bank results before showing him a road map he’d dug out of Kelly’s desk. They were about 180 miles south and east of Kansas City. They would take Highway 54 west across the state line into Kansas to Highway 169, then head north on 169 to Rogersville, a small town about sixty miles south of Kansas City.
It was roughly the same distance to Rogersville from the lake as from the lake to Kansas City. It would take three to four hours to get there. Mason didn’t know what they would find there on a Friday night, but he doubted anyone would be watching for them along those roads. They agreed to say nothing to Sandra about their route. They would stop in Rogersville for dinner. Mason hadn’t gotten any further in his thinking when Sandra reappeared.
“Okay, guys. I’m ready,” she said, all trace of hostility gone. “I hope your moms told you to go to the john before going on the highway.”
“You betcha!” Mason said. “Come on, Blues; I’m not stopping every ten minutes for you.”
As they were walking out of the bathroom, Mason noticed a pay phone tucked in an alcove between the sinks and the urinals. He told Blues to take Sandra to the car and he would meet them in a minute. He pretended to have forgotten something in Kelly’s office, and on the way back out stopped to talk to the sheriff’s dispatcher, a greasy- haired kid, probably not yet twenty-one and barely winning the war on acne.
“Were you on duty last night when Sheriff Holt called in from the cabin?”
“Sure was! That must have been one hell of a fire!”
“Lucky thing the troops knew how to get there. I never could’ve found the way on my own.”
“Shit, man!” he said laughing. “Nobody knew how to get to that cabin. The sheriff had to damn near talk the lead deputy all the way in. We all knew she had the cabin, but she was mighty private about where it was.”
“No kidding?” Mason’s stomach tightened with a cold shiver, and he changed the subject. “How do you keep in touch with Sheriff Holt when she’s on the road?”
“Age of the cell phone, man.”
“Mind giving me the number? I may need to get in touch with her.”
“No problem,” he said as he scratched it on a piece of paper and handed it to Mason.
Mason started to leave and stopped. “Just one last thing. I was wondering, do you have any pay phones around here?”
“Yeah. There’s one in each john.”
“Thanks,” Mason said and headed for the car.
Sandra was in the front seat, riding shotgun.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Mason couldn’t explain his sudden suspicion of Sandra, yet he couldn’t shake it, and her passive aggressive response didn’t help. He would have preferred ducking her usual barrage of sarcasm and threats than the uncomfortable silence that filled the car. When he turned to look at her, she made a point of staring out the
