Joel Goldman - Deadlocked

"Exactly," Mason said. "Plus, there wasn't time for anyone else to do it."

"But how do you explain the phone call?" Harry asked.

"Why would Sandra tell you King had called and told you to wait there if the caller was Dixon?"

Mason frowned. "Maybe it wasn't King. Maybe it was Dixon with a bad cell phone connection or a disguised voice. I don't know. Dixon told me that there are no records of a call from Whitney to Sandra. There is a record of a call but no originating phone number."

Claire said, "Then it couldn't have been made from Dixon's phone. That number would appear in the records."

"If," Harry said, "Dixon was dumb enough to use his own phone. More likely he stole someone's cell phone."

"If he did, that stolen number would show up and lead us back to the owner of the cell phone. Dixon told me that all the numbers in Sandra's records checked out except for the one that's unidentified. Dixon wouldn't lie about that since he knows I'll see the records."

"I'll tell you what," Harry said. "You better find out who placed that anonymous call or the jury will think you made the whole story up."

"No plan is perfect," Mason said, pushing back from the table, casting another long look at the closed bedroom door.

"Go home," Claire told him. "Leave them be. Come back in the morning and bring a bag of bagels and cream cheese."

Mason nodded and stood. "Okay," he said. "We've got some things to talk about too."

"I know," she said. "It's time."

Mason looked at her, not certain if the light was playing tricks. A sadness he'd never seen crept into her eyes and spread across her face. He turned to Harry.

"You staying?"

Harry said, "I'll be here."

"Feel better?" Claire asked. "And no speeches about Whitney King looking for Mary and his mother. We'll be fine. Harry keeps a gun here that I'm not supposed to know about and I've still got the bulletproof vest he bought me for Valentine's Day," she added, patting Harry on the thigh.

Mason looked at them. His aunt was defiant. Harry was a rock. He doubted that King would think to look here. It was more likely that he'd wait for Mason to come home. Even if King showed up at Claire's house, he liked their chances.

"See you in the morning," Mason told them.

On his way home, Mason called Samantha Greer and told her where he'd seen Whitney King.

"That's where the tornado hit," she said.

"Close. The heavy damage was across the street at Golden Years."

"I saw the news," she said. "What were you doing there?"

"I was picking up some things at Wal-Mart."

"And in the middle of a tornado, you just happened to go shopping at a Wal-Mart that's twenty miles from your house, right?"

"There aren't any Wal-Marts in my neighborhood," Mason said.

"Yeah, but there's a Costco at Linwood and Main that's less than ten minutes from your house. And I suppose it's just a coincidence that your favorite Wal-Mart is in Whitney King's neighborhood if I'm reading my street map correctly."

She didn't repeat Patrick Ortiz's theory that Mason had intended to kill both Sandra Connelly and Whitney King, but the accusation hummed in the background.

"So you want to convict me based on my shopping habits," Mason said.

"No. I want you to stop peddling this crap to me," Samantha said. "The night Sandra was murdered, you told me that she had doubts that Whitney's mother belonged at Golden Years, so I checked it out. Victoria King had a breakdown after Whitney's trial and her husband's death. Been there ever since. Satisfied?"

"I am if you are."

"Then why were you poking around out there and how did you just happen to run into Whitney King when we've been dogging him for the last three days without getting a sniff of him?"

"Why are you cross-examining me instead of thanking me for the tip on Whitney?" Mason asked.

"Because your lawyer is up to his eyeballs in a federal investigation of Golden Years and because you are the master of the omitted. If you just happened to be shopping at that Wal-Mart and Whitney King just happened to wave to you in the parking lot, then that damned tornado was airmailed special delivery to kick your ass. There's only so much Lou Mason bullshit I can shovel in one day!"

"I'll show you my receipt from Wal-Mart," he offered. "In the meantime, you might want to double the coverage on Nick Brynes. Whitney didn't look too happy when I saw him."

"I'm going to hang up so you don't have to tell me any more lies," she told him.

"Hang on a second," Mason said.

"What?" she asked, her voice vibrating with exasperation.

"Earlier today, when we were at the hospital, Nick told you that Father Steve wasn't a witness when Whitney shot him. You sent your partner Kolatch to talk to the priest. What did he find out?"

"Al talked to him. Father Steve is sticking to his story."

"You buy that?" Mason asked.

"It's an easier sell than your story of suburban adventure, but thanks for the tip on Whitney," she said, hanging up.

The more easily a story fits into someone's world, the more likely they are to believe it. Mason knew that. That's why primitive people worshiped the sun-making a star into a god fit with their limited knowledge of their world.

Mary believed her son was innocent because she couldn't imagine him being guilty and because she hated rich people like Whitney King. Samantha dismissed Mason's story about seeing Whitney and bought Father Steve's story about Nick's shooting because it fit with the case she had put together against Mason.

Cops, Mason decided, loved easy solutions that answered the most questions. Like sun-worshiping primitive tribes, cops looked for things that fit together. Mason looked for things that didn't.

Mason stopped at home long enough to pack clean clothes and Tuffy into the car. He'd typed some notes about the case on his laptop and tossed it onto the front seat of his car along with the files he'd brought home on King and the pictures he'd printed from the Golden Years' Web site.

Mason didn't know where or when King would show up, but he was confident that King would come after him. If he was right about King's mother, King would have no choice. Mason's house was too vulnerable. His office was easier to defend, especially with Mickey and Blues.

He found them both at Blues on Broadway. Blues was tending bar on a slow Saturday night, which was a bad thing in the bar business but understandable after the storm. He poured Mason a beer and listened without comment as Mason described what had happened since they'd had lunch at the Peanut.

"Harry's not as good as he used to be since his eyesight has gone to hell," Blues said. "You're taking a chance stashing Mary and Victoria over there."

Mason nodded. "Can't be helped. I couldn't think of anyplace else."

"What about Abby's place?" Blues asked.

Mason thought for a minute, swirling the last ounce of beer in the bottom of his mug. It wasn't hard to imagine Abby's reaction if he asked her.

"Bad idea," he said. "What about you? Any luck with Shawana James?"

Blues wiped a white dish towel over imaginary spots on the gleaming surface of the bar. "She's not going to be buying any tickets to the Policeman's Ball. It took a while to get past that I used to be a cop."

"Why'd you tell her?" Mason asked.

"Didn't have to. She knew by looking. Turns out we know some of the same people but from different sides of the story. She finally told me what happened to her sister."

Mason slid off his bar stool. "It's been a long day, man. Don't make it any longer."

Blues flashed a smile, enjoying the moment. "Easy, son. She's not going anywhere. Janet is living in a halfway house over in Kansas City, Kansas. She's doing the last six months of a seven-to-ten stretch for armed robbery."