Final judgment

SIXTY-FIVE

Abby hung up in the middle of Mason’s explanation. Right after he told her that a key witness had just been found murdered. She wasn’t interested in the details or why he had to go the scene instead of reading about it in the paper like everyone else. He knew why but couldn’t tell her because she didn’t give him the chance and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway.

If she’d let him, he would have told her that a case is a living, breathing organism conceived in conflict. It is a wild, uncontrollable adolescent while the facts are being fleshed out by the rule of unintended consequences. As it matures, lawyers may rein it in with pleadings and tactics and courts may squeeze it with orders until it surrenders its last gasp, but those days were weeks or months away. Tonight, he had no control over it. All he could do was hold on.

Troost Lake was a triangle of brown water lying between Twenty-seventh and Twenty-ninth Streets, the long leg of the triangle parallel to Paseo. The full name of the street was The Paseo Boulevard, though Mason had no idea what the north-south artery had done to earn that formal distinction.

The lake was a quarter mile east of Troost Avenue, both the lake and the street the legacy of a Dutchman, Benoist Troost, one of Kansas City’s earliest physicians and civic boosters. Defeated for mayor in 1853, he had organized the city’s premier newspaper in 1854 and helped found the Chamber of Commerce in 1857. Mason read the doctor’s abbreviated biography on an historical marker near the south end of the lake well behind the yellow crime scene tape that kept him away from the cops working Mark Hill’s murder.

Mason doubted anything would be named after him, though, given a choice, he preferred a couple of kids to a strip of concrete or a muddy patch of water. Troost Lake may have been named to memorialize the good doctor, but it had become a favorite burial ground for dead bodies owing to the terrain and the demographics. The Paseo was elevated above the lake and the surrounding trees provided additional good cover. The area was part of the urban core where too many people saw violence and death through eyes dulled with repetition. Outrage succumbed to resignation as the city shrugged its shoulders.

Rachel met him, wearing a sheepskin coat and a muffler knotted at her throat. The night had turned damp, moisture seeping through his jacket with the cold. He shifted his weight from side to side to keep warm.

“What do you think?” she said.

“Samantha Greer is working the case. That’s her over there,” Mason said, pointing to the right angle of the triangle. It was the heaviest wooded corner of the lake, least likely to give up its victims until fishermen returned in the summer. “I can’t get close enough to talk to her.”

Mason felt a hand on his back and turned around. “How about I take you a little closer?” Detective Cates said. “Sorry,” he said to Rachel.

Klieg lights mounted on ten-foot stands illuminated the site where Hill’s body had been found, warming the water enough to boil a ground-hugging fog. A forensics team moved slowly across the invisible grid they had laid down over the scene, lifting each square by its roots, shaking and sifting it for evidence. A diver in a glistening black wet suit waded out of the water, carefully pinching the butt of a gun between two fingers. An ambulance waited at the north end of the lake, its back end open and ready to receive the body.

Samantha Greer stood with hands on her hips, watching her people work. She nodded as they reported to her, took notes, and resumed the position.

“Wait here,” Cates told Mason when they reached the yellow tape.

Cates ducked beneath the tape, walked over to Samantha, and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned and looked at Mason, listening as Cates spoke. When he finished, she brushed her hair with her hands and made her way to Mason, keeping the tape between them.

“Happy birthday, Sam,” Mason said.

“And I don’t feel a day older. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t already know it was Mark Hill, so who told you?”

“A reporter at the Star picked it up from the police scanner, checked it out, and called it in to his editor. Rachel Firestone overheard and called me.”

Samantha looked past Mason at Rachel, who waved and smiled. Samantha ignored the gesture.

“Why did she call you?”

“She’s working Avery Fish’s case.”

“I read the article,” Samantha said. “Big help.”

Mason ignored the dig. He wanted to find out what he could as quickly as possible and get out of there so he could salvage the evening with Abby.

“I told her about Carol Hill’s lawsuit against Rockley and Galaxy. She thought I’d want to know about Mark Hill.”

“You think there’s a connection between the deaths of Rockley and Hill?”

“Hill smacked Carol around. Rockley came on to Carol. She didn’t like either one of them. Makes Carol a suspect.”

“Women don’t generally mutilate bodies or drag them to lakes in the middle of the night. When they kill someone, they leave them where they fall.”

“Then again,” Mason said, “Hill could have killed Rockley for harassing his wife and somebody killed Hill to balance the books. Give me enough time and I’ll come up with plenty of options.”

“All of which will conveniently point the finger away from your client for killing Rockley, huh?”

“That’s one way to look at it. In fact, that’s a pretty good way to look at it. How did Hill die?”

“Bullet to the brain.”

“Did he do it by himself or did he have help?”

“Coroner says it’s too early to tell.”

“Time of death?” Mason asked.

“Somewhere in the last twelve to twenty-four hours.”

“Talk to your client. Tell him he better be able to account for his whereabouts,” Detective Cates said.

Mason turned to him. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear Detective Greer say that Hill’s death points the finger away from Avery Fish?”

“I make a point to keep bullshit out of my ears,” Cates said. “The way I see it, your client could have killed Hill just so we’d look somewhere else on Rockley. Bring him downtown tomorrow morning. Don’t make us come and get him.”

“Sam,” Mason said. “You can’t be serious.”

“Rockley isn’t my case, Lou. Hill belongs to me unless it turns out they’re related. If they are, Cates and Griswold will take it. Right now we don’t know one way or the other. Either way, we’re going to need to talk to Fish. Might as well make it tomorrow morning.”

Dennis Brewer was meeting with Mickey at 9 A. M. to prepare him for the tour of Fish’s safety deposit box. Mason wanted to sit in on that session, which shouldn’t take more than an hour.

“We’ll be there at eleven,” he said.

Mason told Rachel what he’d learned, thanked her for the tip, and declined her offer for a late dinner, telling her he was already late for dinner with Abby. His cell phone rang again before he reached his car. He let it ring while deciding whether to answer it or throw it in the lake, choosing the former when he saw Blues’s name on the screen.

“What do you have?” Mason asked him.

“One address for both cars at Lake Lotawana. Place is owned by someone named Ernie Fowler. Got the phone number too.”

“I’ll bet the rent money that Ernie Fowler’s phone is answered at Sylvia McBride’s call center in Minneapolis.”

“One way to find out,” Blues said. “Call him.”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“Then we knock on his door.”

“I was thinking of something more discreet. Besides, have you ever tried finding an address at a lake?” Mason asked. “You practically need a guide.”

“I’ve got one. This BMW has a GPS system. I’ve already punched in the address. It’s only twenty-four-point-thirty miles if we pick the route for the fastest time and the most use of freeways. Damn, being rich is a fine thing.”

“Pick me up at the office,” Mason said. “Ten minutes.”