Cold truth

Chapter 17

Mason took Jordan to Daphne's B amp;B, a bed-andbreakfast near the Nelson Atkins Museum of Art owned by Daphne Bacchelder. Daphne had been a school secretary at an exclusive private school for wealthy kids, and those not so wealthy who could make a three-point basket, until she timed the crash in tech stocks perfectly, riding the bull market to an early retirement. Bored with retirement, she bought the B amp;B. She hired Mason after an audit of the school revealed that money had been embezzled. The headmaster accused Daphne, who was mortified at the charge. Mason proved that the headmaster had been the embezzler and tried to frame Daphne. Daphne promised Mason the use of a suite for the rest of his life as a bonus for saving her good name.

Mason and Samantha had been frequent guests, spending their last night together there, ending the weekend with uneasy good-byes. He had hoped to return with Abby, not Jordan. As Harry and Blues walked around the three-room suite on the third floor of the B amp;B, checking windows and doors, Mason explained to Daphne that no one was to know they were there. Daphne gave him a conspiratorial wink, telling him that her bad fortune was his good luck. Business was down and they were the only guests. She refused when Mason tried to pay for the suite, telling him that it was she who still owed him.

Centurion took the news that Jordan was not coming back without obvious disappointment. "That's cool, Mason," he said when Mason called him.

"I'll tell the judge and the prosecutor on Monday," Mason said. "They won't care as long as I promise she'll show up at her preliminary hearing."

"Where's Jordan stayin' at?" Centurion asked. "Terry Nix says she's got a therapy session scheduled he don't want her missin'. Says he'll make a house call if she don't want to come back here. That's the kind of dedication we got for these kids, Mason. You know what I'm sayin'?"

"Yeah," Mason said. "It's really heartwarming. I'll pass the message on and Jordan will call him if she feels the need."

"Tell you what, Mason," Centurion said. "I'm hungry. Why don't you and me meet somewhere for lunch?"

Mason took Centurion's question for an invitation he shouldn't refuse. "Sure. How about the Sidewalk Cafe on the Plaza?"

"Mason, look out the window, man. It's raining. What's the matter with you?"

"Don't worry, Centurion. You won't melt. I'll see you there in an hour."

The Sidewalk Cafe was on 47th Street in the heart of the Plaza. There were inside and outdoor sections, the outside covered with a heavy-duty plastic awning that was supposed to keep customers dry. The outdoor section was deserted. Even with the awning, rain blew across the tables. The hostess, inside and dry, ignored Mason as he sat at a wet table, his windbreaker zippered to his chin.

Mason wasn't hungry and didn't care about the rain. He preferred being out in the open with Centurion Johnson than in a dark booth of a quiet bar where a dead man could be mistaken for someone sleeping off a drunk.

Centurion's Mercedes glided to a stop at the curb in front of the cafe. The passenger window retreated, Centurion shaking his head at Mason, who couldn't see past Centurion to the driver. Centurion motioned Mason to join him, Mason leaning back in his chair, stretching his legs, picking up a menu that had been left on the table before the rain began.

"Shit," Centurion said, shoving the car door open and slamming it shut. He kicked Mason's feet away from an empty chair and sat down. "You are starting to annoy me, Mason."

"Hey, you invited me to lunch. What are you going to have?" he asked, sliding the menu to Centurion.

"I lost my appetite," Centurion answered, flinging the menu to the ground. "That bitch of yours took something that belongs to me."

Mason sat up. "Let's get something straight. Her name is Jordan. A bitch is a female dog. While you're probably more familiar with them as sexual partners, don't confuse them with my client."

Centurion dimmed his glare and turned up his high-wattage smile. "I guess I was all wrong about you, Mason. You just ain't gonna back down, is you?"

"Nope. Not until you treat me like one of your corporate donors and talk like a high school graduate. Thug-speak is lost on me."

"Fine. Let me put it this way," Centurion said. "Your client left Sanctuary in a hurry. In her haste, she took something that belongs to me, not her. I'm certain it was an innocent mistake. I'd appreciate your assistance in returning it to me."

"Much better, CJ. What would this item be?"

"You talk to her. I'm certain you can convince her to tell you. You can also assure her that if she returns this item to me today, there will be no questions asked and I'll consider the matter closed."

"That's very generous of you. If she doesn't have this item or is unable to return it to you by your deadline, what should I tell her?"

Centurion's happy grin morphed into a snarl. "You tell that bitch she better stay away from windows."

"That's a little over the top, don't you think? You're in the running for humanitarian of the year at the same time as you're threatening to throw my client out a window. If she does take a fall, I tell the cops about our little chat, which I might have to do anyway since you're threatening to kill her the same way Gina Davenport was killed. What little item did Jordan take from you?"

Centurion took a deep breath, a full wind-up before throwing his next pitch. "There are a lot of windows in this town, Mason."

"Great. I get a threat too. What? Are you running a special?"

Centurion opened his jacket, letting Mason see the butt of his gun. "Mason, what do I have to do to convince you that I'm serious as a motherfuckin' heart attack? That bitch," he said, but Mason raised his hand, stopping him. "Your client," he continued as Mason nodded, "made a bad decision. I'm willing to give her and you a free pass, but she's got to put it right."

"Look, Centurion. You're not going to shoot me in the middle of the Country Club Plaza in front of a restaurant full of witnesses. You've got a problem. Maybe I can help. I've got a problem, maybe you can help me."

Centurion laughed, this time with genuine amusement. "Damn, Mason. You just been playing me this whole time. You want to make a deal, we'll make a deal. What do you want?"

"I'll tell you what I don't want. I don't want to jack up your deal with Sanctuary. If you can soothe the guilty consciences of the power elite by selling them shares in Sanctuary, more power to you. If you do those kids some good, even more power to you. If there's something extra on the side for you, well, my friend, this is America-the land of opportunity. I only want one thing-to get my client acquitted. And I need your help to do that."

"I ain't confessin', if that's what you got in mind," Centurion said.

"I wouldn't expect that, especially if you were guilty. I need to know more about Gina Davenport. The foundation she set up in memory of her daughter was a big contributor to Sanctuary. How did you hook up with her in the first place? What's the story on her daughter's suicide? How does her husband and his coke habit fit in? Who supplies him? I don't care if you're in or out of the business, Centurion. Just give me something to work with and I'll get you back whatever Jordan took."

"You're asking a lot, Mason."

"A lot is at stake for Jordan. I get the impression a lot is at stake for you too."

The wind picked up, slapping them with pellets of rain. Centurion turned his collar up. "Come on," he said to Mason. "We'll go for a ride." Mason kept his seat. "I said, let's go for a fuckin' ride. I'm not going to kill you. Leastways, not today."

Mason followed Centurion to the Mercedes, sliding into the backseat after him. The driver was a young black man Mason didn't recognize. Centurion tapped him on the shoulder, and the driver pulled away from the curb heading east on 47th Street.

"Gina Davenport was one of the first people I signed up. She really dug the concept, especially the part about the kids working on the farm. She volunteered her time doing counseling. When Emily got all fucked up, she put her out there."

"What was Emily's problem?"

"Shit, man. I don't know nothing about psychology except what I learned on the street and in the joint. These kids-they all got too much of everything or not enough of anything. After that, it's all a bunch of social-worker bullshit, if you ask me. That Terry Nix can rattle off more diagnostic bullshit than you can imagine, and insurance will reimburse for every last one of them."

"Emily killed herself. That can't be good for business."

"Emily got high and thought she could fly. That's what happened with Emily. She was blowin' coke and shooting up when she got to Sanctuary. She sneaked some shit in and we didn't catch it."

"Was anyone with her when she died?"

"Yeah. Now that you mention it. Your client was," Centurion said. "Damn. I'd forgotten all about that. Your client was Emily's roommate. Ain't that a bitch."

"Yeah," Mason said. "A real bitch. Take me back to my car. I'll get you what you want."