Deadlocked

Chapter 42

Samantha Greer questioned Nick about the shooting, flashing a look at Al Kolatch when Nick told her the priest wasn't there when King shot him. Kolatch left, and Mason was certain he was headed to St. Mark's for a private prayer with Father Steve. Mason knew there was no point in trying to beat Kolatch to the punch. If the priest had lied to the cops, Kolatch would help him renew his vows.

Mason called Mickey from the car, telling him to meet him at The Peanut at Fiftieth and Main for lunch. Driving north from the hospital, Mason could see a faint darkening of the sky on the far horizon.

In some parts of town, The Peanut would have been called a dive. Since it was on the east edge of the Plaza, its warped and worn hardwood floors, tables with uneven legs, and pool hall lighting qualified it for quirky cool, proving again that location is everything. The Peanut thrived by turning the BLT into an art form. Mason considered himself a connoisseur.

Mickey and Blues were waiting for Mason when he arrived at The Peanut. He blinked his eyes while they adjusted from the sunlight to the blue light, finding his friends at a table against the far wall. He hadn't asked Mickey to bring Blues and he knew Blues hadn't asked Mickey if he could come. Blues wasn't good at asking permission. He was much better at knowing when Mason needed him.

Mickey's idea of business casual had always been a shirt with a collar and jeans that didn't have a hole in the knees. He was wearing gabardine slacks and a linen shirt. The mouse he'd grown in the cleft of his chin was gone, his anarchic hair style subdued by a close cut. Mason took one look at him, glancing at Blues who turned his head, biting his lip.

"Don't tell me," Mason said. "You gave up politics for selling cars."

Mickey laughed, plucking the front of his shirt. "Sucks, huh? It's Abby's new man plan. She said that the staff is a reflection on the candidate. If I had stayed another week, she would have made me bleach my teeth."

"So you didn't come back to help me," Mason teased. "You just needed a change of clothes."

Mickey said to Blues, "And I'm getting paid to take this abuse."

"Don't count on it," Mason told him. "How's Abby?" he asked as he scanned the menu, doing a lousy impression of nonchalance.

Mickey nodded. "She's good," he said. "Fine, really. Busy as hell. The campaign runs twenty-four-seven and she's working twenty-five-eight."

"That's great," Mason said with a puckered smile. "She okay with you coming back?"

"What is it with the two of you?" Mickey asked. "You guys act like you're my divorced parents fighting over custody."

Blues explained, "They're not divorced, just separated. And, you're not their baby. They just think you are."

"Nice, very nice," Mason said. "Abby got you the job with Seeley's campaign to protect you from me. Coming back to work for me is not part of her new man plan for you."

"Why do I need to be protected from you?" Mickey asked.

"Because," Blues answered, "people like to shoot at Lou and his friends."

"Oh, that," Mickey said. "I get it."

"Don't let Blues kid you, Mickey. That's the straight story. Abby was doing you a favor."

Mickey looked at Mason, then at Blues. Their banter was a thin coat of armor. "I've been down this road with you guys before," he reminded them. "Maybe I'm the one doing you a favor."

A television hung from the ceiling in a corner above the bar, the early laps of a NASCAR race running silently, the sound muted. Looking over Blues's shoulder, Mason read the crawl running across the bottom of the screen. It included a notice that a severe storm warning had been issued for the greater metropolitan Kansas City area until ten P.M. Though the storm clouds Mason had seen a few hours ago were on the far horizon, he wasn't surprised by the forecast. In the course of a Kansas City summer day, weather bulletins could progress from watches to warnings, from thunderstorms to severe storms, and, finally, to tornadoes.

A watch meant maybe. A warning meant probably. A thunderstorm meant lights and action. A severe storm meant pay attention and a tornado meant take cover.

This warning meant the five counties on either side of the state line could get anything from a cooling summer shower to a force five tornado, depending on the alignment of the planets over the next ten hours. The pattern could move lazily through the day or turn deadly on a dime. It also meant that nothing could happen, some vagary in the winds shifting the whole system east where it would pound the daylights out of a trailer park.

Mason, like most people in Kansas City, treated severe weather warnings with the same nonchalance as Californians considered the threat of earthquakes. There was nothing to be done about either and the threats were almost always overstated. Some people even served as self-appointed, unofficial tornado spotters for local radio and television stations, as if standing outside during a thunderstorm in the hopes of spotting a funnel cloud was a less than extreme sport.

They ordered singles with extra bacon, Mason filling them in while they waited for their sandwiches. Blues leaned back in his chair, his face flat. Mickey fiddled with sugar packets, drumming his fingers on the tabletop until Blues made him put his hands in his lap. The food arrived as Mason finished. The conversation about murder was tabled while they ate.

"Why would Father Steve cover for Whitney King?" Mickey asked, picking a stray bacon crumb off the table when they'd finished.

"Money, I guess," Mason answered. "The church needed it and King had it. Father Steve's job was to get it."

"I don't buy it," Blues said. "He's a priest not a bagman. He's not going to take chances like that just so the church can buy new carpet for the rectory."

"Then what?" Mason asked.

"They must have some history," Blues answered. "Maybe King has pictures of the priest with an altar boy. Whatever it is, King's got Father Steve by the collar, but it's not about money."

Mickey asked, "So what do we do?"

"You"-Mason said, pointing at him-"check out Damon Parker's company, Golden Years."

"What am I looking for?" Mickey asked.

"Connections with the King family. King's father built Parker's nursing homes. Dixon Smith represented Parker until Sandra Connelly asked him to find out if King's mother belonged in one of them. Smith says he got fired for asking."

"And you don't think your lawyer is being straight with you," Blues said.

"Let's just say that I'd like a second opinion," Mason said.

"What else?" Blues asked.

"This case goes back to King's murder trial. Something happened in that jury room. If we don't find Janet Hook and Andrea Bracco, we'll never know what it was. Andrea Bracco disappeared the day after the trial." Mason handed Blues the piece of paper with Shawana James's address. "This is the address for Shawana James, Janet Hook's sister. When Samantha talked to her, Shawna practically denied even having a sister. Maybe you'll have better luck."

"What are you going to do?" Blues asked him.

"I'm going to ask Whitney's mother if she knows where her son is."

Blues drained the last of his beer as the waiter cleared their table. "You're chasing too many shadows, Lou."

"I don't have much choice," Mason said. "The shadows are chasing me too. At least there's some good news. Nick is going to recover and Mary Kowalczyk is okay."

"Because of her damn fish?" Blues asked. "All that means is that her fish are missing too. She's still disappeared and Nick wants you to sue Whitney King before Whitney kills him. Which might work out since the cops are rooming with Nick at the hospital and Whitney is in the wind. On top of that, you're chasing a priest that's walking on the dark side while you bird dog your own lawyer who's supposed to defend you when the grand jury indicts you for first degree murder on Monday. I don't know why you get out of bed in the morning."

Mason shook his head. "Sure you do. To see what happens next."