Mason gave Centurion credit for perhaps telling the biggest lie, implying that Jordan was somehow involved in Emily's death. The beauty of that lie was not just in the similarity between the deaths of mother and daughter. The real power of it lay in the desire to believe it. That Jordan could have thrown Gina Davenport out the window to her death was infinitely more believable if she had done the same thing to Gina's daughter, Emily. Though more horrible, it was easier to accept, making a perverse sort of sense.
The lie carried a more subtle threat. Even if Centurion decided not to kill Mason, he could sign Jordan's death warrant by whispering to the police that they should reopen the investigation into Emily Davenport's suicide. No doubt, Centurion would help the cops find their way to Jordan. A triple-murderer was assured of a reservation on death row.
That, Mason realized, was the real message Centurion delivered in the car. He knew that Mason wouldn't toady to him out of fear for his own safety. Mason's track record was proof of that. Threatening to tie Jordan to Emily's death was a brilliant stroke aimed at Mason's soft underbelly-his client.
Mason could defend Jordan against the charge that she had killed Dr. Gina. The hill got steeper with Trent's murder, but the slope went vertical with Emily's. No one, Mason included, could expect to win an acquittal on three murder charges tied so closely together.
Mason reordered his thoughts, listing two questions at the top. What was Jordan Hackett's relationship with Emily Davenport? And what did Jordan take from Centurion Johnson?
Harry, Mickey, and Blues were sitting around the dining room table at Daphne's when Mason returned. The rain had dwindled to a mist Mason shook from his coat and stamped from his shoes onto the Oriental rug in the entry hall. Mickey and Blues were studying a rough sketch Mickey had made of the exterior of the Victorian B amp;B. Harry was gazing out the window. Mason wanted to ask him about his eyesight, but waited for a private moment.
Daphne carried a tray of steaming mugs into the dining room, setting them onto the table. She was glowing with more than the warmth billowing from the cups.
"Lou," she said. "This is all very exciting." Daphne was petite, almost pocket-sized, vain enough to color the gray from her hair and dress for success on a Saturday afternoon. Mason guessed she was as old as Claire and Harry, though she resisted the visible hallmarks of her years with greater success. "Plus, Harry is going to fix the lock on the back door, aren't you, dear?"
Harry blended a smile with a wince as he picked up his mug. He was devoted to Claire and embarrassed at Daphne's attention. "Yes, ma'am," he said, taking a sip.
"We're each taking eight-hour shifts," Blues said. "Mickey is on till midnight, then me, then Harry. How long will this go on?"
Mason shrugged. "I don't know. Centurion Johnson says Jordan took something that belongs to him. He wants it back in a serious way. If I can take care of that, we might be able to step down to Def-Con Three."
"Did he say what it was?" Blues asked.
"Nope. He just sent me on a scavenger hunt," Mason said. "Daphne, do you have a computer hooked up to the Internet?"
"It's in my study," she said. "I don't normally let guests use it because I don't want people going to those awful web sites. Someone did that once and I got nothing but e-mails about barnyard sex for a month."
"Mickey," Mason said. "Go on-line, but leave Old McDonald alone. Private foundations have to file an annual report. I want the annual reports called Form 990 for Sanctuary for each year since it was formed. If you find anything interesting, see where it takes you. Where's Jordan?"
"She's in her room, dear," Daphne said.
Jordan's bedroom continued the Victorian theme with vanilla chintz curtains, a four-poster, canopied bed, and overstuffed furniture covered in muted floral fabric. It was a grandmother's room guaranteed to chafe a restless twenty-one-year-old.
"This place sucks and Daphne sucks," Jordan said. "I want to go back to Abby's loft." She was slouched in a wing-backed chair, her feet up on the bed, leafing through a magazine.
"Abby would like that," Mason said.
Jordan perked up. "She would? Really? Why can't we then?"
"We can as soon as we take care of some business. We might even be able to go back tonight."
"Great. Let's do it. This place is for people who've been dead thirty years and don't know it."
Mason sat down on the edge of the bed, slid his hand under Jordan's shoes, and dropped her feet to the floor. "I need a couple of things from you."
Jordan nodded, still slouched in the chair. "What do you want? I don't have any money and I saw how you and Abby look at each other, so I know you don't want to sleep with me," she said with the first sign of humor since he'd met her.
"Tell me about Emily Davenport."
Jordan shuddered at the mention of Emily's name. Her body convulsed so quickly-eyes snapping, veins popping, muscles tensing-that Mason thought she might have a seizure. She shook her shoulders and arms like an athlete loosening up, got up from her chair, and rubbed her arms with her hands to warm up from the sudden chill Mason had given her.
Breathing deeply, she said, "That's a name I haven't heard in a while."
"Centurion says you two were roommates at Sanctuary."
Jordan's color drained. "You talked to Centurion?"
"Yeah. We met for lunch on the Plaza and went for a ride in his Mercedes. He's not such a bad guy once you get to know him."
"He's a pig!"
"True, but for a pig, he's not bad once you get to know him."
"Do you joke about everything?" Jordan asked.
"Sometimes it helps keep the conversation moving until people are ready to talk about the tough stuff."
"Like Emily?"
Mason said, "Like Emily. Centurion said Emily got high and thought she could fly right out the window. Is that the way it happened?"
Jordan's chin found her chest. "If that's what Centurion said."
"What do you say?" Mason asked.
Jordan did a slow turn, running her hands over the chintz curtains, crumpling them, releasing them, and then smoothing the wrinkles from the fabric. She pulled the blackout shade down, gave it a yank, and held on as it rolled back up. She leaned her palms against the window, pressing her fingertips hard against the glass, making both Mason and the window quiver.
Mason said, "Talk to me, Jordan."
"We were best friends," she whispered, the words slipping out so softly Mason stepped closer to catch them.
"Was Centurion telling the truth?" he asked.
He looked over her shoulder, out the window into the rain that had returned, pinging against the window. An oak tree soared past the window, its branches scraping the house. Jordan craned her neck, searching for the treetop or a way out. The wood frame smelled of the dampness harbored in its pores.
"Emily was high. That part's true. She was also eight months pregnant. She wanted an abortion, but Terry Nix talked her out of it until it was too late. I don't know if that's why she jumped or if she was just too fucked up to know what she was doing."
"Did you try to stop her?"
Jordan gripped the window frame with both hands, rattling it, stopping when it didn't give way. She looked again for the crown of the oak tree.
"It was late summer, like today, only it was a beautiful night," she began. "That's why we had the window open. It was bigger than this one. You could sit in the opening, practically stretching your legs out. Emily was leaning her back against the frame with her feet against the other side." Jordan smiled at the memory, Mason seeing her reflection in the glass. "It was like she was inside a picture frame. I told her she looked like a painting. She said, yeah, call me a portrait of an unwed mother. Then she started singing this weird song, like a twisted nursery rhyme. Hush, little baby, we're gonna die. Momma and baby, we can't fly. I told her to cut it out, that it wasn't funny. Terry came in our room. She got this cold look, like she was going to do it. I tried to grab her. Terry said I shoved her, but I didn't. I know I didn't. I couldn't have," she said, balling her fists against the pane.