Donnell was in a squad car, crying for his mother, who sat in another car, handcuffed and trembling. Mason couldn't tell if she was shaking because of the shooting or because she needed a rock. He knew it would be a long time before Donnell saw his mother again, longer still before he understood why.
Samantha Greer came toward him from the house, stripping latex gloves from her hands. Two detectives offered her a preliminary report on the neighbors, and she dismissed them with a not-now wave, bearing down on Mason, who checked the inside of the ambulance for cover.
She gave the thumb to the paramedic and pointed her forefinger at Mason like a switchblade. "Not one smart-ass remark, not one excuse, not one goddamn lie, or I'll tie you back up in that chair myself, so help me God, Lou!"
"That doesn't leave me much room, does it?" Mason said.
"Do not push me, Lou. I mean it!" she said. "I've got a dead body, a strung-out hooker, and a little boy using blood for finger paints. What in the hell are you mixed up in?"
"What day is it?"
A red tide rose in Samantha's face and she raised a hand, more to stop herself than him.
"I'm not kidding," Mason said. "I don't know what day it is for sure."
"It's Sunday, my day off, except when my ex-boyfriend gets a front-row seat at a homicide. How could you not know what day it is?"
"I was on my way home last night when I was car-jacked. The dead guy's name is Tyrone. He and his partner, a white guy named Richie, grabbed me at 18th and Grand. They were driving a beat-up Caprice. Tyrone jumped in my car and made me follow the Caprice. They put a bag over my head that was laced with some kind of drug, and I was out until today. When I came around, they strapped me to the chair and were about to needle me to death. The dog saved my life."
Samantha shook her head, hands on her hips. "Right. I suppose the dog's mother was Lassie."
"I don't think this dog had a mother," Mason said. "Richie hit the dog with the butt of the shotgun and the dog attacked him. The shotgun went off and Tyrone took the hit. The dog was on Richie and when he dropped the shotgun, I was able to get it and Richie took off."
"You were tied to a chair lying on your back!"
"I'm a very good scooter when someone is trying to kill me," Mason said.
"And I'm supposed to believe they picked you at random as part of a new urban sport?"
"I don't know why they picked me. They didn't take my money. They didn't ask me for anything. They just did it."
"Well, since they wouldn't tell you what they wanted, what did you tell them? You must have offered them something. No one, especially you, sits politely waiting to be called on while the bad boys are getting ready to kill you. You begged or bargained. What did you think they wanted?"
Mason realized Samantha was right. They had interrogated him with silence, letting his fear of dying do the talking. "Best guess, they were working for Centurion Johnson. Jordan Hackett took something from Centurion. I gave it back, but I kept a copy. I told them I would give them the copy. Apparently, that wasn't good enough for Centurion."
"Did you see Centurion Johnson during your escapade?"
"No."
"Did they mention his name?"
"Actually, the only one who ever talked to me said he didn't know Centurion."
"Why would they deny it if they were going to kill you? Isn't that when they tell you everything so you don't die of curiosity?"
"Bad manners, I guess," Mason said.
"What did Jordan take?"
"A ledger book containing names, initials, dates, and amounts of money. I couldn't figure out what it meant."
"Did Centurion tell you that's what she took from him?"
Mason hit his first speed bump. "No, but that's what he wanted."
"Who told you that?"
"Terry Nix, the social worker at Sanctuary. I set the meeting up with Centurion for the downtown library. Nix showed up and I gave him the ledger. I was on my way home when they grabbed me."
"Did Nix mention Centurion's name?"
"No."
"What did he say was in the ledger?"
"The names of donors to Sanctuary," Mason answered, feeling the stupid stick whack him in the back of the head.
"Let me get this straight, Lou. You gave Terry Nix a ledger of donors that Centurion Johnson didn't ask for, then you get car-jacked by two freaks that won't tell you why they are going to kill you and deny knowing Centurion Johnson. Then, when one of the freaks get dead, you want me to go arrest Centurion Johnson. Is that about it?"
"Not good enough, huh?"
"Duh!" she said, looking him over from head to toe, satisfying herself that he was still in one piece. "Throw away your clothes. Blood never comes out."
"That's it? End of investigation?" Mason asked.
"No, Lou. End of interrogation, beginning of investigation. You said you made a copy of the ledger. That's why they snatched you. I want the copy."
"Well, yeah," Mason said, feeling a lot less clever. "But I offered to give it to them and they weren't interested."
Samantha said, "If you're right about Centurion and the ledger, they were interested. Once you told them you had a copy, it was okay to kill you. Now Centurion will go after the copy and anyone else who has seen it. Care to give me a list?"
"Mickey Shanahan has the only copy. I'll drop it off this afternoon."
"You don't have a car, remember. I'll take you. Just tell me where."
"Daphne's B amp;B," he told her.
Samantha pursed her lips and nodded. "Perfect," she said. "Just perfect."
Mason's body clock had kicked into a twilight time zone the moment Richie dropped the black bag over his head. Waiting for Samantha to finish buttoning up the murder scene, he tried to reset his clock beginning with the last time he'd eaten. At first, he thought that had been lunch the day before until he remembered that lunch had been a "soup sandwich" in the rain with Centurion. When he couldn't remember the meal or the menu, his stomach growled, telling him to skip the details and feed it now. When Samantha finally pointed him toward her car, he was a little wobbly. Dried blood and day-old sweat gave him a slaughterhouse aura.
"You really should consider corporate law," Samantha told him as she lowered all the windows in her car and turned the air-conditioning on high. "It's easier on your wardrobe."
"Lower class of clientele," Mason answered. "I'm starved. Drive through the first fast-food you find."
"Why not. A dose of quarter-pounder breath will make you irresistible," Samantha said.
Samantha watched Mason devour a burger, fries, another burger, and a drink large enough for a diving board, as they sat in her Crown Victoria.
"If my car turns up, tell them to take it to George's Body Shop at 35th and Troost," Mason said between bites.
"We don't deliver," Samantha told him. "You're welcome to tour the city lot during normal office hours."
Mason wiped his mouth with his sleeve, adding another stain. "I pay my taxes," he said. "What kind of service is that?"
"Pay more taxes, you get better service," she said. "Why are you trying so hard not to tell me about what happened? I'm on your side."
"I told you what happened. You told me I was a moron. That doesn't encourage class participation. Besides, you've already decided that my client is guilty. The only evidence you're interested in is the evidence against her, and there's damn little of that."
"There was enough evidence to arrest her. There is enough evidence to bind her over for trial, and if I do my job, there will be enough evidence to convict her. That doesn't mean you have to run around playing knight-errant tempting the fates-and me-with your life. I don't like finding you on the floor in a pool of blood every time I open the door to an elevator or crack house."