first? The check or the trophy?" Mason asked.
"According to my friend who covers the society beat, he pays to win. The charities need the money. On this one, Whitney got help from a friendly stopwatch."
"Women?"
"He collects them. None of them last long. Word has it that he likes it rough. He's had a few complaints, but they always get settled quietly."
"What's he do for a living?" Mason asked.
"Runs the family business," Rachel said. "King Construction Company. Whitney's grandfather started it. Over the years, they've built everything from subdivisions to high-rise office buildings."
"When did his father die?" Mason asked.
Rachel slid another clipping across the table. "Week after the trial. Tragedy strikes again. Newspapers love stuff like that."
Mason read Christopher King's obituary, a litany of private club memberships. "How did he die?"
"Fell down the stairs," Rachel said. Mason's eyebrows bounced in astonishment. "No kidding," she said. "Number one cause of accidental deaths in the home. Falling down. I ever buy a house, it's gonna be a ranch. No two-story death traps for me."
"What about Whitney's mother?"
"The son's trial and the husband's death were too much for her. She fell apart. Whitney got her the penthouse at the loony bin. Golden Years Psychiatric Hospital in Lenexa. She's been there ever since."
Lenexa was a suburb of Kansas City across the state line in Johnson County, Kansas.
"Nice family," Mason said. "I can't wait to meet him."
"From your lips to God's ears," Rachel said, looking past Mason. "He's on his way to our table."
Mason took Rachel's word for it, resisting the temptation to turn around, catching Whitney's reflection off a parabolic mirror mounted in the corner of the ceiling, the distorted image squashing Whitney, doing the same to Sandra Connelly who followed a step behind.
King was dressed in black, just like Father Steve, except for the collar and the build. Father Steve was soft rolls and paunch. King was bounce-a-quarter-off-his-pecs buff, his silk shirt stretched across his chest, short sleeves straining against his biceps. Sandra, her toned and sculpted arms rippling from linen sleeves, was the perfect accessory.
"I understand you're looking for me," King said, standing at Mason's shoulder, forcing Mason to turn or stand. Mason did neither, leaving the newspaper clippings spread before him.
"Nope," Mason answered, watching King's funhouse image in the elevated mirror. "If I want you, I know how to find you. That's what your lawyer is for."
King glanced at the mirror. Mason ignored him, locked onto Rachel's green eyes, as Rachel bit her cheek. King flexed his fingers, wanting to make Mason turn and face him, the entire encounter all about who blinked first.
"Let's go, Whitney," Sandra said, her hand on his arm. King shook it off, laughing lightly.
"Mason," he said. "You sue me for those murders and I'll wipe your ass all over the courtroom."
"If I don't sue you, will you wipe my ass anyway? I could use the help," Mason said, keeping his back to King.
"Sandra told me all about you, Mason," King said, conceding the first skirmish, stepping between Mason and Rachel. Mason pushed back from the table, hands in his lap.
"Like I said," Mason told him. "That's what your lawyer is for."
"She said you were a smart-ass. Won't back down. Too stubborn to live. That sound about right?"
"Close. She got the stubborn part wrong. That's too stubborn to die."
King smiled, his perfect white teeth giving the grin its ice, his eyes narrowing. "On second thought, Mason, you go ahead and sue me. I'm going to enjoy cleaning your clock."
"Gosh, Whitney," Mason said. "Do you think you'll have as much fun as when you murdered Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes?"
King cut the short distance between him and Mason in half, his chest and neck swelling, the move a threat, not a plea. "You're forgetting the jury said I didn't do it."
Mason finally stood, measuring himself against King's shorter frame,
"According to my friend who covers the society beat, he pays to win. The charities need the money. On this one, Whitney got help from a friendly stopwatch."
"Women?"
"He collects them. None of them last long. Word has it that he likes it rough. He's had a few complaints, but they always get settled quietly."
"What's he do for a living?" Mason asked.
"Runs the family business," Rachel said. "King Construction Company. Whitney's grandfather started it. Over the years, they've built everything from subdivisions to high-rise office buildings."
"When did his father die?" Mason asked.
Rachel slid another clipping across the table. "Week after the trial. Tragedy strikes again. Newspapers love stuff like that."
Mason read Christopher King's obituary, a litany of private club memberships. "How did he die?"
"Fell down the stairs," Rachel said. Mason's eyebrows bounced in astonishment. "No kidding," she said. "Number one cause of accidental deaths in the home. Falling down. I ever buy a house, it's gonna be a ranch. No two-story death traps for me."
"What about Whitney's mother?"
"The son's trial and the husband's death were too much for her. She fell apart. Whitney got her the penthouse at the loony bin. Golden Years Psychiatric Hospital in Lenexa. She's been there ever since."
Lenexa was a suburb of Kansas City across the state line in Johnson County, Kansas.
"Nice family," Mason said. "I can't wait to meet him."
"From your lips to God's ears," Rachel said, looking past Mason. "He's on his way to our table."
Mason took Rachel's word for it, resisting the temptation to turn around, catching Whitney's reflection off a parabolic mirror mounted in the corner of the ceiling, the distorted image squashing Whitney, doing the same to Sandra Connelly who followed a step behind.
King was dressed in black, just like Father Steve, except for the collar and the build. Father Steve was soft rolls and paunch. King was bounce-a-quarter-off-his-pecs buff, his silk shirt stretched across his chest, short sleeves straining against his biceps. Sandra, her toned and sculpted arms rippling from linen sleeves, was the perfect accessory.
"I understand you're looking for me," King said, standing at Mason's shoulder, forcing Mason to turn or stand. Mason did neither, leaving the newspaper clippings spread before him.
"Nope," Mason answered, watching King's funhouse image in the elevated mirror. "If I want you, I know how to find you. That's what your lawyer is for."
King glanced at the mirror. Mason ignored him, locked onto Rachel's green eyes, as Rachel bit her cheek. King flexed his fingers, wanting to make Mason turn and face him, the entire encounter all about who blinked first.
"Let's go, Whitney," Sandra said, her hand on his arm. King shook it off, laughing lightly.
"Mason," he said. "You sue me for those murders and I'll wipe your ass all over the courtroom."
"If I don't sue you, will you wipe my ass anyway? I could use the help," Mason said, keeping his back to King.
"Sandra told me all about you, Mason," King said, conceding the first skirmish, stepping between Mason and Rachel. Mason pushed back from the table, hands in his lap.
"Like I said," Mason told him. "That's what your lawyer is for."
"She said you were a smart-ass. Won't back down. Too stubborn to live. That sound about right?"
"Close. She got the stubborn part wrong. That's too stubborn to die."
King smiled, his perfect white teeth giving the grin its ice, his eyes narrowing. "On second thought, Mason, you go ahead and sue me. I'm going to enjoy cleaning your clock."
"Gosh, Whitney," Mason said. "Do you think you'll have as much fun as when you murdered Graham and Elizabeth Byrnes?"
King cut the short distance between him and Mason in half, his chest and neck swelling, the move a threat, not a plea. "You're forgetting the jury said I didn't do it."
Mason finally stood, measuring himself against King's shorter frame,
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