Cold truth

Chapter 22

Mason chased Jordan's ghosts and demons as he prepared for her preliminary hearing. He didn't trust Centurion to let matters lie, and convinced Jordan to remain at Daphne's. Mickey, Harry, and Blues continued their rotation. Abby found excuses to drop by, but didn't ask Jordan for a DNA sample, settling instead for Jordan's face-splitting smile each time Abby walked in the room. At Samantha Greer's direction, a patrol car cruised the neighborhood every couple of hours. It was, she told Mason, the best she could do.

Mason found Centurion's ledger easy to understand and hard to decipher. He assumed that the initials shown on each entry were those of the adoptive parents; that the date shown was the date of the adoption; and that the amount listed was the purchase price for the baby. Either the letter P or B followed each entry, citations he couldn't interpret.

Abby broke that code at Mason's house Monday evening where she and Mason were observing the oneweek anniversary of Gina Davenport's murder. Tuffy was stretched out between them as they sat on the living room floor, rotating her head from one lap to the other, displaying a politician's loyalty to whoever did the better job of scratching behind her ears.

Abby sat up, plunking Tuffy's head on the floor. "P is for pink and B is for blue. Girls are pink and boys are blue," she announced. Tuffy stuck out her tongue, cuffed Abby on the thigh with her paw, and abandoned her for Mason. "I wish we could identify the adoptive parents," she said.

"That might help Jordan find her daughter, but it won't help me defend her," Mason said. "Maybe I've run down this blind alley long enough. I've got to get back to the murder, the physical evidence-anything to poke holes in the prosecutor's case."

"The entries in the ledger go back over twenty years," Abby said as if she hadn't heard him. "That's a long time." She handed Mason the ledger, pointing to the earliest entries.

"You're right," Mason said. "Plus some of these entries were made while Centurion was a guest of the State. I don't get that, but it still doesn't help me."

Abby nestled into Mason's shoulder, forcing Tuffy to share his lap with her. "What if," Abby said, hesitating to finish her question.

"What if what?" Mason asked. Abby's scent had become imprinted on him, as had the fine line from her chin to her neck and the way she absently brushed her hair behind her ear. She fit against him and he against her like pottery shards dug up and reunited, belonging, not clinging. "What?" he asked again, running his hand down her arm.

"What if the dates in the ledger aren't the dates of the adoptions. What if they are the dates the babies were born."

"So what?"

"So," she said, taking his hand, kissing the tip of his finger, and guiding it to an entry on the first page. "That's the date my baby and Jordan were born. Plus, it's a P- pink for girl."

Mason draped his arm across Abby, holding her. "You're trying too hard," he whispered.

"Maybe not hard enough," she said. "Call Jordan. Ask her when her baby was born."

"Okay," Mason said, sighing as he got up. He retrieved the cordless phone from the kitchen and came back to the living room as he spoke with Jordan. Abby was pacing. Tuffy was watching. He thanked Jordan and checked the date in the ledger. "It's a match, including the letter P," he said. "But that doesn't mean your baby, or Jordan, or her baby are in this book. Your baby and Jordan were born in St. Louis. Centurion does business in Kansas City. He doesn't have a St. Louis branch."

"Then why does he have a ledger with both those dates in it? And who dragged me into this mess in the first place?" A small ceiling spotlight meant for a painting long since removed splashed her face, casting her shadow against the empty wall where she stood. "Why would somebody do that?"

Mason went to her, blocking the light, dwarfing the shadow. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm beginning to think we better find out."

The next afternoon, Mason attended Trent Hackett's funeral, forcing his unwelcome condolences on Arthur and Carol Hackett. As he waited his turn in the throng that surrounded the family before the service, Mason overheard one woman remark to another how poised Carol Hackett was in the face of such an unspeakable tragedy that would only get worse if the rumors of the daughter's guilt proved true.

The Hacketts chose cremation, reminding Mason of Trent's hellfire greeting card. He hadn't figured Trent for a prophet, though he doubted Trent had seen his own future in the flames.

He sat with Jordan and Abby, one row behind the family section. Parents and daughter did not speak, though Jordan looked at them with such longing and despair that Mason thought she would vaporize if they touched. Arthur Hackett, his hard arrogance splintered, sheltered his wife with his burly arm, not able to make room for Jordan in his grief.

Jordan sat between Mason and Abby, her head bowed, her long hair obscuring her face from the unrelenting stares of mourning voyeurs, her tears falling onto her lap and disappearing into the dark fabric of her dress. When the minister began his eulogy, she grasped Abby's hand, interlocking their fingers, anchoring her to the pew. The minister spoke of family love, community sorrow, and God's forgiveness, none of which, Mason knew, would bind the Hacketts' wounds. Instead, he was reminded of his Aunt Claire's more earthbound philosophy-take care with the people you love because some things can't be fixed.

Samantha Greer watched from the rear of the church, waiting until afterward to talk to Mason as Abby ushered Jordan through the crowd.

"Centurion's lawyer invited me to Sanctuary," she told him as they stood outside. Mourners swept past them, anxious to escape the unspeakable grief of parents burying a murdered child.

"For dinner or just dessert?" Mason asked.

"Appetizers, plus a tour of the house," she said.

"Hoping you won't seek a search warrant," Mason said. "When are you going?"

"I went this morning. The lawyer answered all my questions. Centurion shined his smile on me and gave the tour."

"Waste of time?"

"Not for them. If I get a warrant to search or arrest, they'll say they have nothing to hide and are cooperating fully, using my visit as proof. Centurion knows we're watching him, so he'll be on his best behavior for a while. That takes some heat off of you."

"Any sign of my car? The rented Camry I'm driving is bad for my self-image."

"I'll let you know when your car hits the top of my give-a-shit list," Samantha said.

"That's not a charitable attitude," he said, enjoying the comfortable give-and-take that had first drawn them together. "What did you find out about my friends from the crack house?"

"I don't think they'll be missed since no one has claimed Tyrone's body and no one has filed a missing person's report on Richie. They had loose connections to Centurion from his days in the drug trade, but we haven't found evidence of any current contacts."

She wouldn't tell him anything else about her investigation, except to promise that she'd tell him what he needed to know when he needed to know it. Mason knew that wouldn't be until after Jordan's preliminary hearing.

"Your client is guilty," Samantha told him when Mason pressed her for more information. "Centurion's business-whether it's troubled kids, illegal drugs, or Babies-R-Us-has nothing to do with Gina Davenport's murder."

"You don't know that," Mason said, though he was less certain than she. He considered telling her about the entries in the baby ledger, but decided to wait until he had something more concrete to trade.

Samantha switched from ex-girlfriend to cop. "The investigation is ongoing and that's all you're getting out of me, so give it a rest. Besides, Jordan is about to become one of your best repeat clients. Tomorrow, we're charging her with killing her brother. The funeral is the only reason we waited. Bring her in by nine A.M. and tell her to bring a toothbrush. Judge Pistone will revoke her bail before you can say Your Honor."

"You can't be serious," Mason said, never doubting that she was.

"You know me better. Earl Luke Fisher puts her in the building for both Trent's and Gina's murders. Her fingerprints are all over her brother's office, including the computer monitor. She's got a motive, and the similarities to the Davenport murder make it an easy call."

"What similarities?"

"She threw one victim out the window and another through the computer screen. They're both windows, just different kinds."

Mason couldn't give it a rest, but he couldn't prove the connection between Centurion's drug and baby business and the murders. Worse, he had no evidence that would convince Judge Pistone not to bind Jordan over for trial on the charge that she murdered Gina Davenport.

He considered calling Terry Nix to testify at the preliminary hearing that he had convinced Jordan to make a false confession. That, he realized, would force Nix to also testify that Jordan claimed Trent had raped her, setting up the motive for Trent's murder. Even if Nix's testimony caused Judge Pistone to doubt Jordan's confession, it would blow a hole in his defense of Jordan in the murder of her brother. Mason was caught in a vicious cross-rough and couldn't see his way out.

Abby escorted Jordan to Harry's car. He pulled out behind Mickey, Blues following, completing the three-car caravan. Mason watched them go before asking Abby to come to Daphne's that evening, wondering how to tell Jordan to pack her bag.

He told Jordan the only way he could-straight. She reacted the only way she knew-violently. They were alone in the den at Daphne's, a room crowded with overstuffed furniture, soft light, and thick carpet. Jordan hurled a Tiffany lamp, snapping the cord from the wall, slamming it into the fireplace mantel.

"I didn't kill the little bastard," she said, her breath heaving through clenched teeth. "I goddamn wish I did, but I'm not going to jail for something I didn't do!" Blues rushed into the room, trailed by Abby, who slipped past him before he sealed the doorway with his body. Mason held Abby back.

Jordan had confessed to killing Gina with near serenity compared to her attack on the lamp. Mason preferred spontaneous, volcanic denials to studied confessions, though he knew that neither guaranteed honesty. It was the contrast that struck him most, though he didn't have time to sort out its meaning as Jordan cast about for another missile.

"I can't make it sound like something it isn't," Mason told her, encouraged for the moment that her hands were balled in fists instead of wrapped around another antique. "The judge is going to revoke your bail. You're in a bad spot, but you're just going to have to gut it out. Gina's case will go to trial first. If we win, the judge may let you out on bail."

Jordan's eyes opened wide as Mason's words registered. She was going to jail and she might never get out. Her face contorted into an anguished mask, a guttural wail erupting from her belly. She lowered her head and charged Blues, who was blocking her escape. He let her hit him dead on, grunting at the impact, bear-hugging her as he let her pummel his chest until she collapsed, Abby swarming her, searching for the place that hurt most.

Mason tried to find a common genetic thread that tied Abby to Jordan as she stroked Jordan's face and hair, calming her. They didn't look like mother and daughter, each a mirror reflecting the other's past or future. A child could favor either parent or neither, Mason knew from his own experience when well-meaning people told his aunt how he looked like her, though they only shared a faint resemblance. Abby hadn't described her child's father, except as the worst mistake of her life.

Abby was both soft and strong. Jordan had a prickly, hard veneer shot through with hairline fractures. Abby was beautiful, graced with a lively sensuality. Jordan was too ill at ease with herself to summon passion. He knew that their differences didn't exclude the possibility they were mother and daughter, though they underscored how unlikely it was that that link would be found in their blood.

Still, he had witnessed how Jordan and Abby reacted to each other with visceral, intuitive affection. Abby accepted her, welcomed her, and Jordan responded, loosening a bit, clamoring to be like Abby, a woman possessed of her life, not possessed by it. Now, Abby held her in a mother's unconditional embrace, a bond strong enough for the moment.

Wednesday dawned with a cold, biting rain spit from cement clouds, too harsh for the last September days of summer, but a perfect backdrop for surrender. Samantha let Mason bring Jordan in through the police garage, away from the cameras that waited in response to a leak from "a source close to the investigation," as Channel 6's Sherri Thomas reported. Samantha cursed the leak, promising Mason she would plug it if she could find it, both of them knowing that leaks and cockroaches were permanent residents of government offices.

Mason didn't object to the quick arraignment, preferring to keep Jordan's courtroom appearances to a minimum and hoping the full press corps might not yet have gotten the word. Judge Pistone made short work of the arraignment, revoking Jordan's bail and ordering a preliminary hearing two weeks after the preliminary hearing on the Davenport murder charge, now only ten days away.

Microphones surrounded Mason when he stepped into the hall outside the courtroom. Sherri Thomas wielded hers like a machete, slicing through the competition, squaring off in front of Mason.

"Mr. Mason," she said. "Now that your client is off the streets, is the killing over? What's next?"

Mason knew she wasn't interested in his answer. The story she wanted was in her question. "Justice," he told her, brushing aside the rest of the pack.