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headstone."
    Albert shook his head. "Don't take this wrong, mister. I ain't got nothin' against your people, but I surely don't understand that rock business. What's a rock got to do with remembering someone anyway?"
    "I couldn't tell you," Mason said, embarrassed that he couldn't. "Either of you see anyone?"
    "We see lots of people visiting lots of graves. We too busy digging new ones to pay 'em much attention," Marty said, Albert nodding.
    "Tell you what," Mason said, handing them each a business card and a twenty dollar bill. "Next time you see someone over there, pay enough attention to call me."
    "All right, okay then," Albert said, pocketing Mason's money and card. "Be lots of people here today. Probably be
    a whole lot of rocks left on this grave."
    "Who died?" Mason asked.
    "Name of Sonni Efron," Marty answered. "Woman got shot in the face standing in her own front door. Don't that beat all hell."
    Mason recognized the name from the news reports. Sonni Efron had been murdered two days ago, front page news, the Kowalcyzk execution back-page filler. She was a prominent member of the Jewish community, active in philanthropic organizations and the arts. Claire knew her, though not well, and Mason not at all. Marty was right. There would be a lot of rocks left on Sonni Efron's headstone. The police had no suspects. Mason knew the cops would be in the funeral crowd, hoping her killer would be there too.
    Mason had a different appointment at eleven that morning. He'd given Nick Byrnes one of his business cards, telling him to call if he needed anything, or if he'd just like to talk. Nick called the day after the execution, saying he had a case Mason might be interested in handling, though he didn't offer any details. Mason gave his parents' grave a last glance as he went to work.
    Mary Kowalczyk was waiting for Mason when he pulled into the parking lot behind Blues on Broadway, a bar near Thirty-eighth and Broadway. The neighborhood was a stretch of Kansas City somewhere between run-down and uptown. Mason dodged potholes as he parked. His office was on the second floor.
    The bar was owned by Harry Ryman's ex-partner, Blues, who played jazz piano or tended bar as the mood struck him. It was a long, strange trip for a full-blooded member of the Shawnee Indian tribe, a trip that included dispensing rough justice for Mason's clients and attitude adjustments for those who stood in the way.
    Mary, dressed in black pants and a long-sleeved black blouse despite the heat, shaded her eyes against the morning sun that threatened to peel another coat of paint off the back wall of the building. Mason felt a knot in his chest, unable to separate her from her son, uneasy at seeing her again, uncertain how to console her. He hoped she hadn't come to see him, but couldn't think of any other reason for her to show up on his doorstep.
    Mason didn't know whether her son was guilty. Harry's version of the case against Ryan Kowalczyk was convincing and Mason trusted Harry's judgment as much as anyone he knew. Still, he'd defended enough people accused of crimes they didn't commit to harbor a steady suspicion of the prosecution. Ryan's last gasp of innocence haunted him. What's the point of lying in that final instant?
    Mason was less certain that Ryan deserved to die, his own feelings about the death penalty an ambivalent mush. He was opposed to it when he was defending someone on trial for his life in an imperfect system tainted by racial and class bias. A system dependent on the vagaries of recollection, often deceived by what the jury doesn't know. He was less certain when outrage at the perpetrator of an unspeakable crime swept over him.
    Mason looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. If Mary had come to see him, at least she would be gone before Nick Byrnes arrived at eleven. He'd been in the same room with them once before and didn't want to do that again. Mason slowed as he approached her, saying nothing, letting her make the call.
    "Mr.