"That's why I won't get bail," Blues said. "Remember something else while you're out there stirring up this shit pot."

"What's that?"

"The killer won't mind killing again to make sure I go down. And no one else will mind either."

Associate Circuit Court Judge Joe Pistone's courtroom was on the eighth floor of the Jackson County Courthouse, a neoclassical monument to the durability of public-works projects built during the Depression. It was on the East Side of downtown across the street from City Hall, another monument cast from the same mold. Police Headquarters, an uninspired squared fortress, was one block east on Locust. The three buildings, all hewn from Missouri limestone, formed Kansas City 's triangle of legislative, judicial, and executive order. The courthouse was eight stories and Police Headquarters was six. City Hall loomed over both of them at thirty stories. The branches of government may have been equal on paper, but the daily grind of governing required considerably more people and space than public safety or justice.

Mason passed through the metal detector in the courthouse rotunda, hurrying up to wait for the elevators. The job of operating the courthouse elevators had been one of the last county patronage jobs to succumb to modern technology. Since the courthouse opened in the 1930s, loyalists at the bottom of the political food chain had been rewarded with the stupefying opportunity to sit for hours at a time on a small stool and bounce the elevators from floor to floor. Over the years, they had perfected a herky-jerky stop-and-go technique that left most passengers gasping when the doors opened at their floor. When the ancient elevators and their equally ancient operators were replaced, the county installed new elevators that ran smoothly, but slowly enough to drive even the most exercise-averse to use the stairs.

Associate Circuit Court was the home of rough justice. Rules of evidence and procedure were loosely applied to hasten the endless passage of collection, landlord-tenant, and traffic cases through the system. Associate Circuit Court judges carried the honorific title of their Circuit Court brethren, though many lawyers treated them behind their backs like minor leaguers. The one exception was the criminal defense attorney whose client stood before the judge seeking bail in an amount the defendant could make. At those moments, the lawyers meant it when they called the judge "Your Honor."

Reporters from the local TV and radio stations had gathered outside the courtroom, creating a media gauntlet for Mason to pass through. Mason ignored the questions they tossed in his path, smiling politely without answering until Rachel Firestone stepped in front of him. Mason recalled her tenacious pursuit of him in the aftermath of the bloody demise of his last law firm, Sullivan & Christenson.

"Listen, Lou," she had told him. "This story is going to be written whether you like it or not. You are the story. Talk to me."

"Not interested," Mason had told her. "Too many people are dead. Let them be."

Rachel had written the story, quoting his refusal. She'd sent him a copy with a note saying she hoped he liked it and asking him to call her. Mason had thrown the note and the article away.

Rachel had short-cropped dark red hair, alabaster skin, and dancing emerald eyes. Her trim, athletic build matched the nervous energy she radiated like a solar flare. Newspaper reporters didn't have to dress for success like their TV counterparts. Rachel put them to shame anyway with a pair of moleskin khakis, lumberjack shirt, bomber jacket, and hiking boots.

"Welcome back to the meat grinder," Rachel said. "Care to talk?"

"No," Mason told her.

"Wrong answer, Lou. I'll give you another chance later," she said before pushing her way into the courtroom and a seat directly behind the prosecutor's table.

Joe Pistone's entire legal career had been spent in Associate Circuit Court, the first twenty-five years as a lawyer and the last fifteen as a judge. He had white hair, a thin face, and shoulders that were hunched like a man who'd spent his life ducking trouble. He rarely looked at the lawyers or the litigants, keeping his head down and the cases moving.

Judge Pistone's courtroom was small enough to be crowded if more than a handful of people were present for a case. When there was a docket call for first appearances in criminal cases, the courtroom shrank as the jury box was filled with defendants dressed in orange jailhouse jumpsuits, their hands and feet shackled. There were two counsel tables, one for the prosecutor and one for the defense. The pews behind the rail that separated the lawyers and judge from the public usually were filled with family members of defendants and victims who divided themselves like the bride's side and the groom's side. Inexperienced lawyers who didn't arrive in time to sit up front wedged themselves into any empty space they could find, while the veterans hung around the judge's bench as if they were at a local bar. Toss in the media pack and the courtroom became standing-room-only.

Mason made certain he was early enough to claim a seat at the defense table so that he could talk with Patrick Ortiz before Blues's case was called. Ortiz arrived at eight forty-five, carrying a stack of files and trailed by two assistants. The other defense lawyers flocked to him like schoolchildren asking for early dismissal. Mason waited while Ortiz listened to their pitches, nodding at some while disappointing others. When the frenzy had subsided, Mason stepped over to the prosecutor's table, buttoning the top two buttons of his three-button gray suit jacket and straightening his black-and-blue-striped tie.

"Morning, Patrick," Mason said, extending his hand.

"Lou, good to see you," Ortiz answered, shaking Mason's hand without conviction.

Mason was six feet tall, with a hard flat body kept in shape on the rugby field and a rowing machine he kept in his dining room. Ortiz was a head shorter than Mason, and had the irregular rounded shape of someone whose diet was limited to those foods that end in the letter O. Mason sat on the edge of the prosecutor's table, a friendly adversary chatting up the opposition.

"I'm here on Wilson Bluestone."

"So I've been told. These are for you," he said, handing Mason a copy of the police reports. "Normally, you wouldn't get these until the preliminary hearing, but Harry Ryman says he promised to give them to you today. Don't ask for any more favors. This is my case now, not Ryman's."

"I'll keep that in mind," Mason answered as he skimmed through the pages.

Ortiz enjoyed taking full advantage of the rules on disclosure of the state's case, and he didn't like the fact that Harry had given up his right to withhold the investigative reports from Mason until the preliminary hearing, which probably wouldn't be scheduled for two weeks. Ortiz rarely granted a favor to the opposition without cashing it in for a bigger favor down the road.

"Sign this," Ortiz said, and slid a single sheet of paper toward Mason.

Mason picked it up. It was a consent form authorizing the State of Missouri to obtain blood, hair, and skin samples from Wilson Bluestone, Jr. Mason signed it and handed it back to Ortiz.

"You want to talk about a plea, come see me this afternoon," Ortiz told him.

"My client's only plea is innocent. I don't expect you to agree to release him without bail. How much are you looking for?"

"No bail. That's what I'm looking for, Lou," Ortiz answered.

Before Mason could respond, three deputy sheriffs led Blues into the jury box. After a night in jail, clad in Day-Glo orange with his hands and feet manacled, even to Mason he looked like a flight risk and a danger to the public.