"You Earl Luke Fisher?" Mason asked.
Earl Luke was stretched out on the bench, using a filthy bedroll as a pillow, the green neck of a bottle sticking out of a brown bag nestled under one arm like the favorite stuffed animal a child took to bed. Mason and Abby caught their breath; Earl Luke reeked like warm garbage on a hot day. If begging didn't work out, he could rent himself out as a breeding ground for bluebottle flies.
"Mebbe," Earl Luke muttered.
"I saw you on TV," Mason said.
Earl Luke sat up, rubbing his red-rimmed eyes, ignoring Mason. "Pretty lady," he said to Abby, giving her a jack-o'-lantern smile showcasing his few remaining teeth. "I was on TV, you know."
"I've got a videotape of it. Any time you want to watch it, you give me a call," Mason told him, handing him a business card. "How long have you been here tonight?"
Earl Luke wiped his face with his hands, trying to focus on something so unimportant to him as the time. He pulled the bottle of wine from the paper bag, measuring how much remained with his fingers.
"A while," he said. "Since before dark. This is my spot," he added, making it clear that was explanation enough.
"Did you see a woman go into that building? A young woman with brown hair, probably wearing jeans and a T-shirt."
Earl Luke took a long pull on his bottle and flashed his horror-show gums at Abby.
"It's very important, Mr. Fisher," Abby said. "I'd really appreciate any help you can give me."
Earl Luke lit up with a glow he wouldn't find in the wine bottle. "Yes, ma'am," he told her. "I seen that girl a while ago."
"Has she come back out?" Abby asked.
"Don't know," Earl Luke said. "My eyes ain't what they used to be. The VA, they used to gimme glasses, but I quit going over there. They was always talking to me 'bout getting into some goddamn program or 'nother. Shit, I say to those goddamn bureaucrats! I ain't never comin' back to your goddamn hospital, I tole 'em, and by God, I ain't been back neither."
"Thank you, Earl Luke," Abby told him, Mason crossing the street. "You've been a great help."
Mason had kept the key Trent Hackett had given him. "I thought you were going to take Earl Luke home," he said to Abby as he unlocked the front door to the Cable Depot.
Abby said, "There's no room at the inn. I'm already booked."
"Will you hold the reservation for a late arrival?"
"Well…" she said with a sly smile, drawing out her answer. "Unless I get a better offer." Mason stared at Abby, wide-eyed and hopeful. "It's okay, Lou. You don't have to win all the banter battles," she told him.
"I surrender," he said.
"Careful," she answered. "You haven't heard my terms."
Gina Davenport's office was empty, the latest round of crime-scene tape gone. KWIN's offices were unlocked.
"Let's have a look," Mason said.
Abby followed him through the vacant lobby, down the hall to Arthur Hackett's office, nearly colliding with Max Coyle, carrying a tall Starbuck's cup in one hand and a sheaf of papers in the other.
"Lou!" Coyle said, "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for Jordan. Have you seen her?"
"Nope. I was just wrapping up some promos."
"Anyone else here?" Mason asked him.
"Just me. The nighttime programming is all syndicated and runs on automation. Isn't Jordan supposed to be out at the joint in the country for the whacked-out kids, what's it called?"
"Sanctuary," Mason said.
"Right. So if she's supposed to be there, why are you looking for her in here?"
"I need the exercise, Max. Do me a favor, forget I asked."
Max nodded. "No problem, Lou. You gonna introduce me?" he asked, beaming down on Abby, Abby beaming back up.
"I'm Abby Lieberman," she said. "I saw you when you won the heavyweight belt."
"You know him?" Mason asked.
"You were more fun as a wrestler than you were as a football player. I like your show."
"Watch out, Lou. She likes wrestlers," Max told him. "I'm outta here."
Mason and Abby finished a quick tour of KWIN, checking Gina's office again in case Jordan had slipped past them.
"The Hacketts' son, Trent, is the building manager," Mason said. "Let's see if he's working late. Maybe he's seen Jordan."
Light showed along the bottom of the door to Trent's office. They stood outside the door listening to grinding rap music blaring inside. There was no reply when Mason knocked on the door.
"Trent, open up! It's Lou Mason," he said, knocking harder.
Abby reached in front of Mason, turning the doorknob. "See how easy this is," she said as she pushed the door open and screamed.
Trent Hackett was slumped over his desk, his head punched halfway through his computer monitor, blood pooling on the desk from his slashed throat, running down his dangling arm, dripping onto the floor.
Samantha Greer told Mason and Abby to wait outside while detectives and forensics swarmed over the scene. One uniformed cop stretched yellow crime-scene tape across the revolving door while another cop set up barricades blocking traffic on 6th Street. Sirens summoned people living on Quality Hill a few blocks south, the crowd gathering in Earl Luke's park across the street.
Half an hour after the cops arrived, Arthur Hackett shoved his way through the crowd and demanded to be let inside. Mason had listened when Samantha called him, asking him to come down, but not telling him about his son, preferring to tell him in person. She wanted to spare him the intolerable ride downtown and gauge firsthand his reaction to his son's murder.
"That's my building!" Hackett said when a cop tried to turn him away. The officer relented when Hackett produced identification.
Mason was glad that Hackett had not noticed him. There would be plenty of time for that confrontation. Hackett would demand answers Mason couldn't give even if he knew what they were. He had already had a similar conversation with Samantha.
"Lou, what were you and Ms. Lieberman doing here?"
Mason caught the undertone of Samantha's question, calling him by his first name, a soft concession to past intimacy, calling Abby by her last name, a stiff reminder that their relationship hadn't ended as easily as they pretended.
"I stopped by to return the key Trent gave me the other day. You remember he said it would cost me twenty-five dollars if I didn't."
Samantha nodded. "I'll disregard the bullshit for now, Lou. You get your story straight and we'll talk tomorrow. Any reason I should ask your client where she spent her evening?"
"None that I can think of," Mason said. Except, he thought, that Trent Hackett raped Jordan eight years ago, spawning a simmering rage that she may have vented by killing her therapist and her brother. "Don't forget she is my client and accidentally show up at Sanctuary to talk with her when I'm not around."
"That would be against the rules, Counselor. Same as obstructing justice. Wait outside."
Mason was good at doing what he was told when he had no choice, especially when he was buying time. He crossed the street to the park looking for Earl Luke. He wanted to question him further before the cops got to him. Earl Luke was holding forth in front of a small group, including David Evans. Evans handed Earl Luke a five-dollar bill, peeling away, bumping into Mason.
"Trolling for another piece of business?" he asked Mason.
"Nope. Just enjoying the crisp night air. What brings you downtown to a murder scene on a Friday night? No movies left at Blockbuster?"
Evans smiled. "Okay, I was out of line. Sorry. I live on Quality Hill. I was sitting on my deck and heard the sirens so I thought I'd take a look. People here look out for one another. We're a neighborhood watch area."
"Yeah," Mason said. "With a bum for a night watchman."
"You mean Earl Luke? He's harmless, except for a smell that will bleach your teeth. I give him a few bucks now and then. I know he spends it on booze, but it makes me feel better."