Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

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."

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?"