"Your hunch about Robert Davenport was half right," Harry said.
"Which half?" Mason asked.
"The half about Davenport getting busted. It happened when he was living in St. Louis."
"Which half was wrong?"
"There's no connection to Centurion Johnson."
"I wouldn't have expected one in St. Louis. Centurion always stayed close to home," Mason said.
"There's still another half," Harry said. "Davenport was busted along with a few other guys. It was strictly small-time stuff, nickle-and-dime bags, but you'll be interested in who one of the other guys was."
"Harry, don't make me beg."
"Habit," Harry said. "It was Terry Nix."
"Do not shit me, Harry," Mason said, "or I'll tell Claire to put saltpeter in your warm milk."
"I shit you not," Harry said. "The charges were thrown out because of a problem with the search. I tracked down one of the arresting cops. Turns out we know some of the same guys. His name is Roy Bowen. He used to work narcotics, undercover. Now he's behind a desk. Said he'd be glad to talk to you."
"Where do we find him?" Mason asked.
"Where do you think?" Harry asked.
"Krispy Kreme?" Mason said.
"Very funny," Harry answered. "Turn yourself in at noon, downtown."
Chapter 27
"We've got three hours to kill before we meet Roy Bowen," Mason said, "and we're not spending it on this bench. Come on."
Abby said, "I'm not in the mood for sightseeing."
"And I'm not coming to your pity party," Mason told her. Abby's face fell, Mason cupping her chin in his hand. "I need your help," he told her. "I need you in the game, not on the bench feeling sorry for yourself."
Abby held his wrist, nodding her head. "Okay. What's next."
"Vital records," he said. "Another bureaucratic adventure. Emily's birth certificate will say where she was born. I want a copy. Might as well get one for Jordan while we're there."
An hour later, they were sitting in a Starbucks in downtown St. Louis, the birth certificates, medical records, and Baby Book entries spread in front of them, alongside a copy of the St. Louis Post Dispatch. Mason didn't like the taste of coffee, but he did like the smell. The double latte Abby ordered revived her.
"Emily's birth certificate confirms she was born at Caulfield and that Gina and Robert Davenport were her parents," Abby said.
"Gina just didn't sign the Baby Book, that's all," Mason said. "We can't check her medical records without an authorization or a subpoena, and the hospital would fight a subpoena."
"Why?" Abby asked. "She's dead. What do they care?"
"They don't, except they would want a judge to order them to turn over the records so that Robert Davenport doesn't sue them for invasion of privacy. If Davenport objected, the court wouldn't order the hospital to turn over the records unless I could establish some relevance to Jordan's case, which I can't do at the moment. That song and dance will take at least a month."
Abby leafed through Jordan's medical records again, smoothing the pages, stopping at the court order granting custody to the Hacketts. "What's this mean?" she said, pointing to the language in the order reciting that the natural parents had waived their parental rights.
"It means that the natural parents consented to the adoption. Otherwise, one of the parents could have shown up later and asked to have their baby back. I know what you're thinking," he said. "We could find the father, talk to him, but those records are sealed too."
Abby grinned for the first time that morning. "Don't be so certain you know what I'm thinking, mister. We don't need the court records. I know the father."
"Assuming Jordan is your daughter, you know where he is after twenty-one years?" Mason asked, basking in her smile.
Abby showed him the front page of the newspaper's sports section, pointing to the picture of a columnist whose byline and picture appeared beneath a column titled, "Kramer's World." Mason studied the photograph of Tony Kramer, resisting an unexpected twinge of jealousy. Kramer was bald on top, his full cheeks made heavier by a thick beard. Mason felt better.
"You followed his career after all these years?" Mason asked.
"Not really," she answered. "I knew he went to the University of Missouri for journalism. I heard from some friends that he ended up in St. Louis with the Post Dispatch." Abby turned the paper toward her. "In high school, his hair was on his head, not his face. He was cute and I was easy. Turned out to be a bad combination. Let's call him."
"Bad idea. Most guys don't like starting the week with a phone call from the girl they knocked up in high school. You won't get anything out of him."
"What do you suggest?"
"A personal visit. Really shake him up."
Roy Bowen was having a bowl of fresh fruit and raw vegetables for lunch. "I'm on a fruit-and-vegetable diet," he explained, patting his belly. "My wife tells me I've got done-fell syndrome. She says my stomach done fell and I can't see my feet anymore. My wife, she's a panic," he said with no trace of humor.
Bowen's desk job was deputy chief of police. His office was on the top floor of police headquarters, two doors down from the chief. The walls were lined with commendations and photographs with dignitaries. His desk was thick with paper. The Arch dominated the landscape beyond the windows behind his desk, reducing the Mississippi River to an afterthought.
"Harry Ryman said you used to work narcotics," Mason said.
"That was back when I thought it was fun to get shot at," Bowen said. "My wife didn't mind that so much, or the pierced ears. She drew the line at tattoos, so I went into management," he said with the forced laugh of a joke told too often.
"What can you tell us about Robert Davenport and Terry Nix?"
Bowen picked up a file from his desk. "I had somebody dig this out after I talked to Harry," Bowen said. "One of the perks of this job is that you can actually make somebody do something if it's about a two-bit bust twenty years ago. Davenport and Nix were small-time dealers. One of the cops screwed up the warrant and the case got thrown out. End of story," he said.
"You run into either one of them again?"
"Nope," Bowen answered. "We kept tabs on them for a little while. The bust cost Nix his job and he left town. I don't know what happened to Davenport."
"Where did Nix work?" Mason asked.
"That was the part that made me remember him when Harry called," Bowen said. "Nix was a substance-abuse counselor working at Caulfield Medical Center. The guy was supposed to be treating people and he was selling them dope. Can you believe it?"
"Yeah," Mason said. "I can. If you have a picture of Nix from when he was arrested, I could use a copy."
"No problem. Making copies is one of my secretary's specialties. There's one other thing you might be interested in based on what Harry told me about your case,"
Bowen said.
"What's that?"
"We heard rumors at the time that Nix had another sideline brokering illegal adoptions. Some of the girls he counseled were pregnant, and he offered them cash or drugs if they sold their babies. Nix left town before we could prove anything. You snag this guy or need some help, let me know," Bowen said, writing his home phone number on a business card and handing it to Mason.
"Count on it," Mason said.
A security guard stopped Mason and Abby in the lobby of the Post Dispatch building, making them sign in, produce identification, and wait while he called Tony Kramer.
"So much for shaking him up. I understand the need for security, but do we look like terrorists?" Abby asked, resuming the jittery pacing she'd done at the hospital.