Chapter 29 The Weight Of Lies

Mason padded toward his kitchen, a parade of "Morning, boss" and "Looking berter, Mr. King" following him down the marble hallway. Even the cleaning lady, Maria, dropped her duster to bow slightly. "Coffee's fresh, señor Rivers. Colombian, like you prefer." The penthouse screamed money louder than a stool pigeon under pressure. Italian marble that cost more than most guys made in a year. Art worth killing for (and some of it actually had been). Floor-to-ceiling windows offering a view of Chicago that'd make God jealous.