Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

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."

"Call him," Mason told her.

"But I thought…" she began.

"It's okay. I don't want you to get in any trouble. Dixon Smith is my lawyer," he told her. Adrienne's eyes widened in disbelief until Mason picked up the newspaper, found Smith's quote that his client, Lou Mason, was cooperating with the grand jury process and showed it to her.

"I don't understand. Mr. Parker told me that Mr. Smith was his lawyer," Adrienne said.

"You mean Damon Parker who owns Golden Years?" Mason asked, Adrienne nodding. "Dixon told me all about that," Mason reassured her. "A lawyer needs more than one client, you know." He picked up the phone and handed it to her. "You better call him," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Positive. But you probably shouldn't tell him that you told me you were supposed to call him. He might consider that to be covered by attorney-client privilege. I'll square it with him later. Lawyer to lawyer."

"You can do that?" she asked.

"Sure. Especially since he represents me too. I don't want you to get caught in the middle. Tell you what," Mason said. "Is there another extension I can use while you call him? I've got a call to make too."

"Of course. There's one right over there," she said, pointing to a phone in the office behind her.

Mason looked at her phone. It had lights for three incoming lines, the buttons for each line marked one, two and three, none of which were lit. She hadn't selected a line yet and Mason bet she would pick line one when she made the call. He walked into the office, keeping eye contact to delay the start of her call. He picked up the receiver for the office phone, gave her a quick wave and turned his back, hoping his timing was good. He pressed the button for line one at the same instant she did, joining her call without her knowledge, listening to the electronic tones as she dialed. He hoped she was too distracted to notice that neither of the other two lines was in use.

"Dixon Smith," his lawyer said when he answered the phone, his tone flat, disinterested.

"Mr. Smith. It's Adrienne Rubinkowski from Golden Years. You said to call if that man, Lou Mason, came here."

"Yes, I did, Adrienne," Smith said. Mason squeezed the phone when he heard Smith's voice quicken. "Is he there now?"

"Yes he is."

"Where?"

"Using a phone in the office."

"What did he want? What did he say?"

"He said he wanted to see someone but wasn't certain which unit she was in. I did just what you told me. I said I couldn't give out that information for privacy reasons."

"And you can't," Smith said. "That's the law. Did he say who he wanted to see?"

"No, he didn't. Do you want me to ask him?"

"Yes. That's very important. I need to know who it is. Tell him you'll call and ask if the person wants to see him. Then call me back. Got it?"

"Got it," Adrienne said.

"Good girl," Smith said. "I'll tell Mr. Parker what a great job you're doing."

"Thanks," she said, hanging up.

Mason punched the button for line two, keeping his back to Adrienne a moment longer, watching the video monitors, his head buzzing. His suspicions of Smith had been confirmed. The wild card was Smith's comment that he needed to know who Mason wanted to see. The only person on Mason's list was Victoria King. He wondered who else Smith was talking about as he returned to Adrienne's desk, still smiling.

"Everything go okay?" he asked her.

"Fine," she said, smoothing her jeans.

"You see," he said. "I told you it would be all right. See you around."

"Mr. Mason," she said, stammering.

"Please, call me, Lou."

"Okay, Lou" she said, still flustered. "If you'll just tell me who you want to see, I'll call them and ask if I can give you that information," she said, picking up the phone again, twisting the cord through her fingers.

"You know what?" he said. "Turns out she's not even here. She's at Lakewood Gardens. That's why I made that call. I don't know how I screwed that up. Sorry to have bothered you."

Mason left her looking stricken, hoping she didn't lose her job when she called Smith back with the bad news. He'd come to Golden Years to see Victoria King. He drove away wondering who else was there and why Dixon Smith didn't want him to talk to them.

There was a mammoth strip mall on the north side of Eighty-seventh Street Parkway directly across from Golden Years. A Wal-Mart Super Center anchored the west end, a Home Depot matching it on the east. In between, the center boasted a sandwich shop, video store, dry cleaner, liquor store, sports bar, Chinese restaurant, veterinarian, Lasik surgery center, cosmetic dentist, tanning salon, office supply store, and half a dozen other businesses. A bank, a Mexican restaurant, a pizza joint, and a Starbucks occupied pads scattered across the parking lot. Collectively, the retailers offered everything needed for survival in the suburbs, including duct tape.

Mason parked in front of Wal-Mart. He wanted to take his own tour of the Golden Years campus but doubted whether he would be welcomed back twice in one day. He decided that a maintenance man would have an easier time prowling around than he would.

Twenty minutes and two hundred dollars later, Mason had a pair of pewter-colored work pants, a short-sleeve denim shirt, a white crew neck T-shirt advertising an herbicide company, a ball cap with a tractor on the front, a pair of work boots, and a pair of aviator sunglasses. At Home Depot, he picked up a leather tool belt filled with an array of screwdrivers, pliers, wire cutters, and a tape measure. He bought a clipboard and a pad of forms labeled WORK ORDERS at the office supply store, then stopped at the sandwich shop for a bottle of water. Finished with his shopping, he moved his car to a parking space in the middle row of the strip center parking lot between two minivans that afforded a view of the entrance to Golden Years.