"Can it, Mason," Evans said. "You want to talk to me, make an appointment during regular business hours."
Mason shouldered past Evans before he could close the door. "We're in the service business, David. There are no regular business hours."
Evans was built lower to the ground than Mason, with a squared midsection, once solid, now soft. Mason felt Evans's muscles tense beneath the fat as he blocked Mason from getting past the entry hall.
Mason tightened in response, an involuntary primal reflex, as he realized he had pushed Evans too far. A man could do many things in defense of his home, including kill an invader, and Evans was ready to defend. Mason eased back, opening a demilitarized zone between him and Evans, keeping his hands loose at his sides, risking a glance at Paula holding the robe tightly around her.
"Get out," Evans told him, leaving no room for other choices.
"Maybe this isn't a good time after all," Mason said.
"I'll just talk to the IRS about the Form 990 reports you filed for Emily's Fund. I'm sure they'll call you for an appointment during regular business hours."
Evans didn't blink or breathe for a moment, then he found his smile. "Damn, Mason. Next time someone tells you to follow the money, run the other direction," he said, clamping his hand on Mason's arm. "Come on in if that's all you want to talk about," he added as Paula took her cue and disappeared into the bedroom.
Evans led Mason into the kitchen. The wine he'd purchased at the liquor store sat on the kitchen table unopened alongside the still-wrapped carryout from the deli. Mason had interrupted the appetizer, not the entree. The kitchen was a narrow rectangle that opened into a living room where Paula had left her shoes and skirt on the floor. She slipped out of the bedroom still wearing Evans's robe, gathered her things, and punched the off button on the stereo, cutting Sinatra off in mid-croon. Firing a defiant look at Mason, she retreated again.
"Your charity reported contributions it didn't make. How come?" Mason asked.
Evans opened the refrigerator and tossed a can of beer to Mason. "You look like a beer guy to me," Evans told him. "Emily's Fund wasn't my charity, it was Gina's, and I didn't sign the reports. Gina did. I checked the books after she was killed and figured out what she had done, though I couldn't tell you why she did it."
Mason popped the lid on his beer. "I'm supposed to believe you didn't know that Emily's Fund only gave away half the money it said it did."
"I don't care what you believe," Evans said. "Don't forget, I'm the one who told you to check them out. You've seen the reports or you wouldn't be here. Gina signed them. I'll be right back." Evans retrieved his briefcase from the entry hall closet. "I signed these," he said, taking a folder out of the briefcase.
Mason leafed through the pages. "Amended reports," he said.
"That's right," Evans said. "Only these have the real numbers. I mailed the originals to the IRS yesterday. These are copies. Keep them, I've got another set at the office."
Paula returned from the bedroom wearing her own clothes. Evans handed her a beer, but Paula shook it off, lighting a cigarette instead, tapping her lighter on the kitchen counter as she drew down on the burning tobacco. Mason read through the amended reports again, searching for a reason not to feel like a fool.
"Go figure," was all Mason could muster.
He stuck his hand in the pocket of his barn jacket, his fingers closing around the cell phone he bought from Earl Luke, playing a hunch, taking it out, and putting it on the counter, watching Paula Sutton gag on her smoke when he spun the pink faceplate toward her.
Recovering quickly, she stubbed her cigarette out in the sink. "I'm going home. Call me," she said, then told Mason, "Him, not you."
"Don't leave me out," Mason said. "You can call me on my cell phone."
Chapter 30
Evans gave Mason the universal shrug all men use when they don't understand a woman's behavior, Mason responding with the knowing nod, meaning that he knew what Evans meant even if he didn't understand Paula's behavior any better than Evans did. Except that Mason's nod was a lie. He understood Paula's reaction to his house call and Jordan's phone.
Paula started getting an allergic reaction to Mason at the golf tournament when Mason first mentioned Abby Lieberman's name. Since then, Paula had avoided Mason, losing her libido entirely when Mason showed up at Evans's house, an effect Mason hoped was an isolated incident in his relations with women. When she saw Jordan's phone, she nearly swallowed her cigarette. Mason reached the easy and obvious conclusion that Paula had used Jordan's phone to call Abby Lieberman, putting her on a collision course with Gina Davenport.
The better questions were why Paula would go to such trouble and how she knew to make the connection in the first place. Walking back to his car, Mason put his money on jealousy and passion. Paula's jealousy of Gina's success gave her reason to ferret out Gina's weak spots and use them to discredit Gina or just to ruin her day. The worst motive he could ascribe to Paula was the desire to stir up trouble for Gina.
Gina must have known from the beginning that Abby was Emily's birth mother, and confided the truth to Evans, relying on him to keep her secrets confidential. Evans must have been the kind of man who liked to impress a woman by sharing juicy tidbits, his knowledge evidence of his power, his power the best aphrodisiac he had to offer.
Accepting all that, Mason still couldn't make the link from Paula's phone call to the murders of Gina Davenport and Trent Hackett. The case was becoming a maddening collection of circles and false starts, none of which overcame the evidence against Jordan. By the time Mason reached his car, he was practicing his speech to Jordan about the wisdom of taking a plea that would give her a chance at a new life after most of her old life had been wasted in prison.
Forgetting the allure of the trapdoor behind the Cable Depot, Mason revved the engine of his rented Camry, banging his palm on the steering wheel, frustrated at his inability to make Jordan's case come together. Whenever he misplaced an important document in his office, he invariably found it on top of a stack of papers after he'd turned his office upside down looking for it. He usually made a bigger mess because he couldn't see what was in plain sight. As he sat in his rental car, missing his TR-6, all he saw was the mess.
Mason stopped at Blues on Broadway, taking comfort in the quiet of a slow night. Only a couple of tables were occupied. Fred, the regular bartender, waved a dish towel at Mason when he sat down at the bar. Fred was tall and thin, sometimes banging his head on the glasses hung in the rack above the bar. He had a round face like a sucker on the end of a long stick. For a bartender, he didn't say much, preferring to pour and serve.
"What'll you have, Lou?" Fred asked.
"Whatever you've got on draft," Mason answered. "You seen Blues tonight?"
"He called a while ago, didn't know if he'd make it in. You want something to eat? Connie is in the kitchen."
Blues on Broadway wasn't known for its food, the Reuben sandwich being the specialty of Connie, the short-order cook, who was married to Fred. Connie was also known for her temper, having threatened more than once to add an offending customer's fingers to the chowder she made on Fridays. Mason was hungry, but didn't want another sandwich. "Tell Connie to surprise me. Anything but a Reuben. She's got to be able to make something else."
Mason moved to a booth, nursing his beer, almost complaining when Connie shoved a Reuben under his chin, thinking better of it when he saw the hard set to her jaw. Mason looked past her to Fred, who ducked, not wanting to confess he'd told Connie what Mason had said. Connie was so short she needed a step stool to kiss her husband, but Fred valued his fingers too much to risk his wife's temper.