Free Deadlocked by Joel Goldman Page B

reflected the glare of the camera's flash. The story below the picture was brief, the camera telling it better.
    John and Linda Mason were killed last night when their car spun out of control on a wet roadway in south Kansas City late last night. Police officers at the scene described the conditions as treacherous.
    Mason checked the date on the clipping. August 1. The fortieth anniversary of their deaths was less than two weeks away. Tucked behind the clipping was another, this one of his parents' obituary cut out from The Jewish Chronicle, the weekly newspaper focusing on Kansas City's Jewish community.
    The obituary featured a picture of his parents, probably from their wedding or engagement, judging from the unabashed joy they showed in their broad smiles and electric eyes, their heads millimeters apart. Mason held the clippings, one in each hand, not able to match his parents' faces to their collapsed car. His hands shook so that he dropped the clippings on his desk. He pressed his palms flat on the hard surface, locking his elbows to restore order in his limbs.
    Mason had never seen the clippings, never thought to ask if there were any, Claire never hinting she had them. He picked up the envelope, and a handwritten note from Claire slipped out, settling on top of the clippings.
    It's all here. Let it go.
    Claire had never shrunk from any confrontation on any subject no matter how uncomfortable. She taught him about sex, drugs, race, religion, and politics. Not just the sterile, public consumption versions. Telling him there were no stupid questions, just stupid people who were afraid to ask questions. She talked to him about masturbation and wet dreams, not easy topics for a twelve-year-old boy to cover with his aunt. She answered his questions about drugs, admitting her dope-smoking days, telling him she hoped he would be smarter than she was. She fought for the underdog, battling fiercely, never backing down.
    Sending him the clippings instead of sitting down with him to talk it through was not just unusual. It was the anti-Claire and it told him one thing. It wasn't all there and he couldn't leave it alone. Nick Byrnes's question echoed in his mind. Who was protecting you?

Chapter 9
     
    Mary Kowalczyk lived in a cramped house off of Van Brunt Boulevard, a northeast pocket of the city built before World War II and not much improved since. Small homes and apartment buildings, more tenement than residential, mixed with low-slung businesses that fixed leaky radiators, sold pagers, and rented appliances.
    Though old and modest, the house was well maintained, the front porch furnished with a swinging bench suspended beneath a pitched roof. The front of the house was made of stone, the sides covered in clapboard, giving it a sturdy feel. The narrow concrete steps leading up the sloped yard to the front door were lined with summer flowers that were holding their own in the heat, no doubt because Mary was ignoring the emergency ordinance restricting watering.
    A white Kia sedan, the front fender creased, was parked in front of her house when Mason pulled up behind it shortly after lunch. A bumper sticker on the rear fender identified the owner as a fan of the St. Mark's Mustangs.
    He had to learn as much about Ryan as he did about Whitney, not from the sterile court record, but from the people in their lives. He didn't expect Mary to be an objective historian, but she was the logical person to start with.
    Sitting in his car, Mason checked his voice mail for a message from Abby. He snapped the lid of his cell phone shut like it was the phone's fault that Abby hadn't called. He cut the engine letting the car heat up along with his mood, then getting out before he boiled over.
    Mary was at her front door, but not because she was waiting for him. Mason hadn't called to say he was coming, preferring the unprepared responses he got when he dropped in on clients and witnesses. Mary had another guest who was leaving. Shading his