Mason had lived for a while on the money his homeowner's insurance company had paid for the loss of his personal possessions, using part of it to pay the expenses for Tommy Douchant's lawsuit. By the time Mason had settled Tommy's case and could afford to refurnish the house, he didn't want to. Instead, he bought only the things he needed, which turned out to be the things he wanted. The rowing machine was docked in the dining room. He had no plans to entertain.

Forty minutes later, he had finished his row. The mist, the lake, and the ache in his body were gone, replaced by the panting exhilaration of a hard row. Plan your row and row your plan was the rower's creed. He hadn't followed that simple rule when he tried to reach Ed Fiora. Instead, he'd smart-assed his way into a one-punch knockdown that underscored what to expect if he insisted on not getting the message.

After downing a bottle of Gatorade, Mason trotted outside for the morning paper. The wind had moved on to punish some other part of the country. A light cover of snow crunched under his feet. The subzero air was bracing after his workout. His dog, Tuffy, a German shepherd-collie mixed breed, joined him on the short walk to the end of his driveway. Her blond and black German shepherd colors were layered through her winter coat in a collie's pattern, complete with a pure white thatch under her chin. Tuffy raced through the front yard, nose to the ground, sniffing for anything interesting. She found nothing, and reluctantly followed Mason back into the house.

Mason wiped the snow off his shoes and Tuffy shook her coat, more for the practice, Mason decided, since her coat was dry. The dog stopped shaking when Mason stopped wiping. She was loyal beyond a fault, for which Mason loved her. He dropped to a knee and scratched her behind her ears, stopping when the phone rang.

Mason picked up the phone in the kitchen, noting that the clock on the microwave oven said it was only six fifty-five and wondering who would call so early in the day.

Mason said, "Hello."

"Lou, it's Rachel. What did you think of the story?"

"What story?"

"Don't tell me you don't get the paper? The story is on the front page, above the fold."

"I just brought the paper in," he said. "Give me a minute."

Mason opened the newspaper and skimmed the story under the headline defense attorney claims pressure to deny bail. Rachel's story recited Judge Pistone's refusal to grant bail to Blues, and Mason's implied charge that unknown persons were applying pressure to get either a conviction or a plea bargain that would close the case of Jack Cullan's murder as soon as possible. The story summarized Rachel's ongoing investigation into the granting of the Dream Casino's license. It tied Ed Fiora, Mayor Sunshine, and Beth Harrell into a tight circle around Cullan's body, and speculated aloud whether any of them would cooperate with Lou Mason in his defense of Wilson Bluestone, Jr., against a first-degree murder charge and possible death penalty. The article ended by noting that Fiora, Sunshine, and Harrell had refused to comment for the story.

"You left out one thing," he told her.

"What?"

"Off the record," he insisted.

"Fine, fine," she said. "What?"

"I think Fiora commented privately," he said, and explained what had happened the night before.

"Holy shit! Did you call the cops?"

"What for? There were no witnesses. I couldn't ID the guy or the car. Besides, I wouldn't expect to get a sympathetic response. The cops are more likely to look for a cat stranded in a tree than for someone who kicked my ass. And I don't want to read about that in tomorrow's paper. I'll figure some other way to get to Fiora. I don't think he'll respond well to being accused in the paper of ordering someone to assault me."

"My editor would be even less interested in getting sued. Did you have any luck with the mayor or Beth Harrell?"

"Nope. I figure the mayor is the most likely to respond to bad press. I think Beth Harrell will see me because I was an irresistible student."

"Don't sit by the phone. You'll grow old. Listen, the mayor's daily schedule is posted on the city's Web site. He's got several public appearances today. Pick one and show up. It's a free country. The Gaming Commission is holding a public hearing on Monday about problem gamblers during the holidays. That's at the Meridian Hotel."

"Any chance you'll be attending any of these events?"

"You can bet on it, baby."

Chapter Eight

Mason showered and shaved, though he wondered at the wisdom of shaving a beard that was dusky by noon and in full shadow by nightfall. He occasionally thought about surrendering and letting his beard grow, but always ended up scraping his face. He had taken his aunt Claire to dinner after the one time he had given his beard free rein. His aunt was in her late fifties and was a big, rawboned woman with no-nonsense straight-cut hair that had grayed early in life. She wasn't attractive in any classical sense, but her exuberance, self-assured power, and rough take on life had been a siren call for Harry Ryman. The waiter had mistaken Mason for his aunt's husband. Mason had blamed it on the beard, refused to leave a tip, and shaved the moment he'd gotten home.

Making certain that Tuffy's dog door hadn't frozen shut, he patted her on the head and promised to be home for dinner. Tuffy cocked her head, as if to say, Who are you kidding? and watched him as he drove off, her paws propped up on the windowsill in the living room that was empty except for the oversize dog bed Mason had bought her.

Mason's first stop was the Jackson County Jail, a study in modern incarceration. Opened several years earlier, it was intended to relieve the overcrowding and lax security in the old jail. The voters were persuaded to fund the new jail after one enterprising inmate tried selling time-shares to prisoners.

The redbrick circular jail was on the east side of Police Headquarters, its exterior perforated by longitudinal rows of rectangular windows. The windows were big enough to satisfy court-mandated quality-of-incarceration living standards, and small enough to make certain the inmates stayed there to enjoy it.

The visitors' entrance resembled the waiting room in a doctor's office, complete with two-year-old magazines and a receptionist who didn't care how long an attorney waited to see his client. She was a civilian employee who wore olive slacks and a pale blue shirt with epaulets on the shoulders to give the ensemble an official uniform appearance. Her bleached blond hair was pulled back tightly enough to raise her chin almost to her lower lip, freezing her mouth in a scowl, though Mason thought she might have just made an awful face as a child and it froze that way. Her face was a washed-out listless shade of artificial light. Mason hesitated a moment when he read the name Margaret on her name tag. He rejected the likelihood of a conspiracy by the World Federation of Margarets to make his life miserable, but clenched his smart-ass impulse just in case.

"Good morning," he told Margaret. "I'm Lou Mason and I'm here to see my client, Wilson Bluestone." Mason handed her his driver's license, Missouri Bar Association membership card, and one of his business cards.

Margaret scanned Mason's card collection like a bouncer checking for fake IDs. "You didn't sign the back of your bar card. I can't accept it without a signature," she said, handing the bar card back to Mason.

Mason felt the first wave of intemperance ripple through his back and neck. He resisted the urge to vault the counter separating them, and smiled graciously instead.

"Of course. Sorry about that," he said as he signed his name and handed the card back to her.