Samantha, Mason conceded, was right. Gina Davenport's murder had led to the exposure of Centurion's operation at Sanctuary, a deadly example of the rule of unintended consequences. Centurion's admission that the car-jacking was payback for someone else turned his other assumptions about the case on their head.
He had been looking for a link between Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett that would exonerate Jordan and convict a single killer. Now Mason wondered if he should look for something that tied him to both victims or someone who had reason to kill all three of them.
Samantha was convinced that Trent Hackett had orchestrated the elevator attack on Mason, closing her investigation when Trent was murdered. Trent may have been innocent of the act but known of the attempt, the latter enough to get him killed. Mason hoped Mickey found the common thread in Trent's office. He shook his head to clear the internal fog that permeated this case, stamping his feet on the pavement.
Paula Sutton lived in an apartment complex north of the Missouri River off I-29 and 64th Street. Kansas City was divided by a lot of things, including race, the state line between Missouri and Kansas, and the fight over who made the best barbecue sauce. The river, with distinct worlds north and south of its banks, also divided it. Those who lived south of the river rarely went north, except to go the airport. Those who lived north rarely went south. The reasons lay in the perception that each had it better than the other, neither side able to make the case, both sides comfortable in their parochialism.
The apartments were new, banners dipped in primary colors fluttering from the arched entrance, shrubs freshly planted around each building, neatly manicured roads winding throughout, a jogging trail threaded like a ribbon across abundant green space, the emphasis on community, not on complex. Each building was named after an island, a salute to bad marketing, Paula's building the Tahitian. Mason checked out the surrounding buildings, disappointed none were named Staten or Rhode.
Paula lived on the first floor. Mason knocked, peering through a gap in the curtains covering the front window, hearing footsteps, a shadow blotting the peephole, the door not opening. Mason knocking harder, the footsteps retreating, Mason catching a glimpse of Paula through the window, a sleek Doberman on a taut leash at her heel.
"Paula, it's Lou Mason. We need to talk."
Paula didn't, but the dog did, Mason hearing its bark from the backside of the building. Paula was running, the dog her escort. He raced around the building, picking up the jogging trail as Paula disappeared around a turn a hundred yards away.
Mason chose a solid pace, figuring to close the gap without sprinting into the Doberman's jaws, guessing that Paula would be wheezing when he caught up to her, gasping for air and a cigarette. He found her leaning against a tree, holding her side, the dog coiled, its ears flat.
"Paula, I'm not going to hurt you," Mason said. "I just want to talk."
"Go away," she said, still heaving. "Or I'll turn the dog loose." She eased her grip on the leash enough for the dog to lurch at Mason, teeth barred, a guttural growl and demon eyes giving the threat its heft.
Mason backed up a step, keeping his hands at his sides, palms out, his body language lying to the dog that Mason was a friend. The dog didn't buy it, ratcheting its growl to a sharp bark.
"I'm not going anywhere until we talk," Mason said. "If you run, I'll find you. Besides, you can't bring the dog to the courtroom."
"No," Paula said, the pain in her side subsiding, her breathing still ragged. "You can't make me."
A real jogger, a lycra body stocking stretched tightly over his lean, well-muscled frame, interrupted their standoff. Mason guessed he was in his late twenties and, from his quick stop and concerned look at Paula, ready to jump to the obvious but wrong conclusion.
"Miss," he said to Paula, "is everything all right? Do you need help getting home?"
"No," Mason said. "This isn't what you think."
"Yes," Paula said. "He followed me onto the trail."
The runner turned to Mason, measuring himself, counting the dog as an ally, not certain it would be enough. "Look, man," he said. "Just back away and let me take the lady home." He reached for a cell phone at his waist. "I can call the cops," he added.
"Do that," Blues said, stepping onto the path, a gun at his side. "Ask for Homicide Detective Samantha Greer. Tell her that Lou Mason and Wilson Bluestone are holding a material witness in a homicide investigation and ask her to send a car for the witness, an ambulance for you, and a canine officer to pick up a dead dog."
"Hey, man!" the runner said, his hands up in the air. "Don't get radical. The lady looked like she was in trouble."
"She is," Mason said. "Make the call." The runner opened his phone, his hands shaking, his fingers hesitating above the keypad. "It's 9-1-1," Mason added.
"Right, right," the runner said, nodding, eyes darting between Blues and the snarling dog, wishing he'd kept on running.
"No!" Paula said, "it's okay. I'm fine," she added, stroking the back of the dog's head. "Really, I'm fine," she insisted.
The runner drew a deep breath. "Good. I mean, great. That's really great. Glad to hear it, sorry I bothered you," he said over his shoulder as he sprinted away.
Blues holstered his gun inside his jacket and walked slowly toward the dog, the dog throttling back its growl, Blues taking the leash from Paula, clicking commands at the dog, letting the dog sniff his hand.
"You two have a nice chat," Blues said. "Rover and I are going for a walk."
Mason watched Blues and the dog until they were out of view, Paula fishing in her jeans pocket for a cigarette, lighting it, the shakes making her match dance around the tobacco, sucking the smoke like a hungry newborn.
"Your friend is a freak," she said. "He was going to shoot my dog."
"You maybe, but definitely not the dog," Mason said. "Blues is very strong on animal rights."
"Fuck you," Paula said.
"Sorry, I'm spoken for," Mason said. "Why did you run?"
"I didn't run. I was taking my dog for a walk. You chased me. Make that assaulted me. I'm going to sue your ass."
"Fucking me and suing my ass, is that a package deal?" Mason asked.
Paula threw her cigarette at Mason's feet, grinding it with her heel, blowing smoke in his face. "I'm out of here," she said.
Mason took her by the arm, pressing his thumb into the notch of her elbow, ignoring her pained yelp. "I know about Jordan's cell phone. I know you called Abby Lieberman and tipped her off about her baby and Gina Davenport."
Paula yanked free from Mason's grasp, rubbing her forearm and hand. "Good for you. So what?"
"So your phone prank triggered this whole mess. You're right up there with Mrs. O'Leary and her cow and Typhoid Mary."
"It's not my fault!"
"You wanted to stir up trouble for Gina because you were jealous of her. You didn't count on Gina deciding to go public about Emily."
"I should have," Paula said. "Gina would do anything for ratings."
"Problem was," Mason said, "Gina's story threatened to expose what was going on at Sanctuary."
"I didn't know any of that until it was all over the news last night! How could I? Besides, that detective said Sanctuary had nothing to do with Gina's murder. She said that Jordan killed Gina."
"Don't count on it," Mason said, though Paula was, her defiance gaining momentum as she lit another cigarette, holding the smoke deep in her lungs. "If there's no connection, why did Arthur Hackett come to see you last night after the news broke on Sanctuary?"
Paula dropped her hands to her sides, smoke leaking from her mouth, Mason having knocked her back on her heels. "Your friend the dog lover?" she asked.
"Doesn't matter," Mason answered. "I'm giving you first chance to explain. Don't waste the opportunity."