Deadlocked

Chapter 43

Johnson County used to be referred to as Kansas City's bedroom, the state line an artificial stripe separating the two in a rapidly growing region that blurred geopolitical identity into a massive metropolitan statistical area. With more people and square miles in its thirty-eight cities, towns, and villages than the city had within its borders, Johnson County had moved out of that metaphorical house to become Kansas City's rival and sometime partner. Mason preferred the city to the suburbs, unable to shake the sensation that he was drowning in vanilla whenever he found himself surrounded by strip malls and office parks.

Golden Years called its locations campuses, each facility euphemized as communities. Mason had been told that Whitney's mother lived in both the nursing home and the psychiatric hospital on the Johnson County campus in Lenexa, Kansas. He doubted the she lived in both unless she kept one as her vacation home.

Golden Year's Johnson County operation had grown from the original single-wing nursing home depicted in the photograph of the groundbreaking to a campus offering everything from town houses sold as condos, to assisted living apartments and inpatient care with twenty-four-hour private nursing. Mason turned in the entrance on the south side of Eighty-seventh Street Parkway, slowing for a small flock of geese that had chosen to walk across the driveway rather than fly to the pond on the other side of the road.

The campus was laid out in a horseshoe configuration. To his left was a cluster of attached town houses, all painted the same subdued shade of taupe and connected by walkways and parking lots. A four-story, two-wing assisted living apartment building wrapped around the back of the horseshoe. The taupe stucco motif was carried through this building and onto the long-term care unit on his right.

He parked his car in front of the apartment building, getting out and surveying the grounds. The grass was mowed with a precision that would withstand inspection by a drill sergeant measuring the length of each blade. Shade came from well-pruned maples, oaks, and cottonwoods that provided optimal light for the annuals and perennials accenting the taupe walls and green lawns with riots of color. A sign between the apartments and the long-term care facility pointed down a tree-lined sidewalk toward the Golden Year Psychiatric and Alzheimer's Treatment Center.

Another sign directed all visitors to the information center inside the apartment building where Mason found an attractive brunette sitting at a desk in the lobby reading Cosmopolitan. Brochures describing Golden Years were displayed in a rack on one corner of her desk; the rack was engraved in gold with the words "Information Center." It wasn't much of a center, but the brochures didn't offer much information, relying on sunny pictures of healthy elderly people flashing happy smiles and good bridgework.

To his right was a lobby furnished in brightly upholstered furniture, pastel and floral fabric the order of the day. A large screen television was parked in one corner. It was tuned to a local station broadcasting a golf tournament. A weather alert ran across the bottom of the screen advising that the National Severe Storms Forecast Center had upgraded its earlier severe thunderstorm warning by adding a tornado watch for the next three hours. A blue-haired woman and a bald-headed man sat in front of the television ignoring the golf and the weather alert, preferring the card game they were playing.

An elevator bank was on his left. The floor was carpeted and the walls were painted in muted tones that made the furniture the dominant visual effect. It was comfortable, a cut above bland institutional and, Mason guessed, just the kind of place that made the tenants feel at home though it would drive him nuts.

There was an office behind the information center desk with a bank of video monitors displaying scenes from around the grounds and the lobbies of the other buildings. The technology was good but there was no one watching the monitors. The woman behind the desk was wearing jeans and a snug fitting bright purple tank top. She didn't look like security was part of her job description.

The magazine lay open on her desk. From his upside down vantage point Mason deciphered the title of the article she was reading.

" 'Ten Ways to Make Your Man Come Back for More,' " he read out loud. "What's number one?"

She looked to be in her thirties with the ready smile and practiced eye of someone who quickly evaluated a prospect. Her blue eyes took their time with him.

"Don't you want the whole list?" she asked.

"I was hoping number one would be good enough that you wouldn't need the other nine."

"Keep him happy but hungry," she read, closing the magazine, standing, and extending her hand. "Welcome to Golden Years. My name is Adrienne."

"It's a pleasure to be here," he said, shaking hers with his. His name hadn't opened many doors lately so he didn't offer it.

She held his hand for an instant longer than necessary, letting him go when he gave a gentle tug. "That's what our residents tell us all the time. What can I show you today? Town houses, apartments, or long-term care?"

"Don't forget the psychiatric hospital," Mason teased her.

"Oh, I'm a pretty good judge of people," she said. "You don't look crazy to me."

"Don't bet on it, Adrienne. I do a pretty good crazy."

"In that case," she said. "I may have to show you the room with the padded walls."

"As tempting as that sounds, I'm here to see someone but I'm not certain which facility she's in."

"That's too bad. I'm not allowed to give out any information about our residents. They're very big on privacy here."

Mason gave her the easy smile, the one with soft light and high voltage. "What's your last name, Adrienne?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Rubinkowski. And don't tell me that's a pretty name. I can't do anything about the privacy policy."

"I don't want you to break the rules," he told her.

An elderly man wearing a Hawaiian print shirt, Bermuda shorts, black socks pulled up over his calves, and shiny black loafers, and carrying a newspaper tucked under his arm walked in, stopping at the desk next to Mason. He dropped the newspaper on her copy of Cosmopolitan. It was the Kansas City Star and Mason's picture as he left the courthouse the day before was on the front page above the fold.

"Put this in the recycling for me, honey," the man said, patting Mason on the arm. "Forget it, sonny. Medicare don't cover her and she don't come with the apartment," he added and left.

Adrienne's mouth widened as she looked at Mason's picture and reached for the phone on her desk.

"It's okay," he told her. "You don't have to call anyone," he said, covering her hand with his. "I just want a room number."

She looked at the newspaper again and then at Mason, shrinking from him. "It's you, isn't it? I saw it on the news. They said you killed that woman."

"It's a lousy picture," he said, trying to keep it light, "but I didn't kill her. She was my friend. I was set up. That's why I'm here. I need your help, Adrienne."

A tremor rippled along her arm as she tightened her grip on the phone, looking down at the keypad. Mason felt her shake as he held onto her. "I'm supposed to call if you show up here," she said. "He didn't think you would, but he said to call. Just in case."

Mason let go of her hand, tipping her chin up so he could look her in the eye. "Adrienne, who are you supposed to call?"

"You really didn't do it?" she asked, her eyes moist, "because I am a good judge of people and you don't look the type."

Mason shook his head. "I didn't do it, Adrienne. Help me out. Who are you supposed to call?"

She took Mason's wrist, lowering his hand, letting her fingers slide across his. She opened her desk drawer and handed Mason a business card. It was turned upside down. Mason flipped it over.

"That's who," Adrienne said. "Dixon Smith."