The Last Witness

Chapter Sixteen

Mason refused to let Rachel take him to a hospital. "I don't want to explain to an emergency room doc what happened," he said through chattering teeth. "Somebody will call the cops; then the press will get a hold of it."

Rachel had docked the motor boat at the Dream Casino pier, and they were sitting in her car, the heater turned on full blast.

"You'll probably catch pneumonia, ten different diseases from the crap in the river, and it looks like you've been shot," she added, pointing to a red stain on the left side of his soaking tuxedo shirt. "And in case your brain completely froze while you were in the water, I am the press and I've already got a hold of this story."

"You forgot our deal. Everything's off the record unless I say otherwise."

Rachel rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Men are too dumb to live. I'll be right back."

She returned ten minutes later with her mink coat and wrapped it around him. "Take off your clothes," she instructed.

"You mean I've converted you?" he asked. The weakness in his voice robbed the joke of its impact.

"Not in this lifetime. I don't want you to freeze to death in my car. Makes a lousy obituary."

Mason peeled off his tuxedo shirt, wincing from the laceration in his side. Reaching under the fur coat, he pushed his pants down to his ankles and pulled them all the way off with his feet. He was too tired to fool with his socks and too proud to pull off his boxers. The combination of the heater and the insulation of the fur coat was enough to restore the feeling in his hands and feet by the time they reached his house. Mason got another chill when he saw an unfamiliar car parked in front.

"Don't worry," Rachel said. "She's a friend of mine."

Rachel's friend turned out to be a doctor who made house calls before sunrise on New Year's Day. She had short brown hair, round farm-girl features, thick wrists, and a soothing, confident touch as she palpated and prodded Mason. He followed her instructions to take the hottest shower he could stand, after which she dressed the wound in his side, gave him an injection of antibiotic, and left samples of more antibiotics, to take over the next five days.

Mason dressed in sweats and heavy wool socks before coming downstairs to thank her, only to find that she had already left. Rachel was alone in the kitchen, sitting at the table with two large mugs of steaming tea.

"Where's your friend?" Mason asked Rachel. He sat at the table and took a sip from his mug. "I didn't get to thank her."

"I thanked her for you."

"She didn't even tell me her name."

"You didn't need to know it."

"Why? Is that another secret of the sisterhood?"

Rachel slapped her hand on the table, shaking her mug so that tea spilled onto the table. "Damn you, Lou! I drag your ass out of the river before you drown and find you a doctor in the middle of the night on fucking New Year's Eve so that you don't have to go the hospital where you belong, and you've got to crack dyke jokes."

Mason raised his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry. She was terrific. You redefine terrific."

Rachel grabbed a dish towel from the kitchen counter and wiped the tea that had spilled from her mug. "Yeah, well, she is terrific. She's also married and she's gay. That's a tough way to go. She's got bigger secrets to keep than yours and she understands what it means to help someone when they can't go public."

Mason said, "I am suitably humbled. Tell her the door swings both ways. Make sure she knows where to find me if she needs me."

Rachel nodded. "I'll do that. Now tell me what in the hell happened out there."

"Off the record?"

Rachel nodded again. It was a reluctant nod, punctuated by the dish towel that she threw onto the table in surrender.

"Off the record," she said.

"It was about a quarter to twelve and I was coming to look for you at the front of the casino. Beth Harrell appeared out of the crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea. She asked me to take a walk with her."

And since you are cursed with a penis, you had no choice."

"Jealous?"

"Of her? Not a chance. She's not my type."

"You don't give a guy any hope, do you?"

"Get this through your testosterone-drenched brain. No guy has any hope with me."

Mason sighed. "You have made me a believer. So, Beth and I take a walk. We end up out on the end of the prow. She snuggles up, the rockets red glare, and she makes a pass at me."

"A beautiful woman comes on to you and you decide to jump into the river. Are you sure you're not gay?"

"You should live long enough to find out," he told her. "In spite of what you might think about the curse of the penis, I turned her down. It wasn't pretty. She's got a fair dose of self-loathing inside that perfect body. She left and I gave her a good head start. The next thing I know, someone is shooting at me. The river was my only way out. How did you find me?"

"I guess it's time for my little confession," she began. Mason's eyes widened. "No, you moron, I didn't shoot you, but that's starting to look like an attractive option."

"Latent heterophobia?"

"More like overt smart-ass phobia! Fiora sent a bunch of invitations to the newspaper. I took one so that I could ask you to go. I threw you in just so I could watch what happened. I didn't think you could resist going after Fiora. I thought I could get a good story." Rachel looked down and away, a red stain creeping across her checks. She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "I'm really sorry," she added in a voice he could barely make out.

Mason exhaled slowly. "Whew," he said. "You didn't make me come with you and you didn't make me go out on that prow with Beth Harrell. But you did save my life and that should balance anybody's books. How did you manage that?"

Rachel looked up. "My God, you are a mess of a human being! You come on to any woman with a pulse, you can't go two minutes without being a smart-ass, and you forgive way too easily."

"Makes you want me for a brother, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," she said softly. "It really does." They sipped from their mugs for a moment. "I saw Tony Manzerio fetch you for a visit with Fiora," she continued. "I want to hear all about that, by the way. Then I just kept my eye on you. When you went outside with Beth, I went out another exit, figuring I could get close without being seen."

"You saw what happened?" Mason asked her.

"I'm in the voyeur business," she said with a shrug. "When Beth left, I was going to hustle back to the front of the casino and wait for you. Then I heard the shots and saw you jump in the water. I'd been at that casino a lot and I knew there was a boat tied up at the pier. There wasn't time to call the Coast Guard. I ran for the dock, which wasn't easy in this body condom I'm wearing. The rest is commentary."

"Did you see who was shooting at me?"

Rachel shook her head. "All I know is that it wasn't coming from my side of the deck. Whoever it was couldn't have been much of a shot. It would have been hard to find an easier target."

"Unless the shooter wasn't trying to hit me. Maybe the idea was to get me to jump, let the river do the rest."

Rachel said, "I still don't understand why you wouldn't go to the hospital and let the police take care of this."

Mason didn't say anything. He drained the rest of his mug and set it down on the table.

"Yes, I do," Rachel said. "I am so dumb sometimes. You don't want to involve Beth Harrell in another scandal. You think she might really have something that you want."

"I do, but it's not what you think. You were watching me all night. I don't think Beth was. Someone had to tell her where and when to find me. Ed Fiora is the only one who could have told her that. The casino has video cameras everywhere. I'm pretty sure Fiora sent her on her mission. If he got me on videotape making love under the stars with a key witness against my client, I'd be out of this case in a heartbeat. That didn't work, so he went to plan B."

"Then the whole thing is on videotape. The shooting, everything," Rachel said.

"I'll take odds that those tapes are gone by now. I have to find out what's going on between Ed Fiora and Beth Harrell," Mason said.

"Of course. You'll drop by, talk about old times, and she'll spill her guts."

"Something like that."

"This I've got to see."

"Sorry. No press. Don't pout. You'll still get your exclusive when it's all over. There is just one thing you may want to think about."

"What's that?"

"If Fiora saw Beth and me on videotape, he saw you too. I'd be very careful."

"Happy New Year to me," Rachel said.

Beth Harrell lived in Hyde Park, one of the first neighborhoods of Kansas City to have been reclaimed from the scrap heap left by white flight to the suburbs. It had been home to the society swells during the first half of the last century. Many of its Victorian, Georgian, and Dutch Colonial homes had slid into decay, some subdivided into apartments, during the next thirty years. Over the last twenty years, it had become a hip place to live, replacing urban decline with urbane gentrification. Whites were comfortable with the blacks that were their neighbors since many of them had a J.D., M.D., or CPA to go with their BMWs.

Mason stopped in front of Beth's house, a Dutch Colonial whose redbrick had been sandblasted to give it a lighter, brighter cast. The wrought-iron anchors that secured the brick on either side of the front of the house had been recently painted, and the morning sun reflected sharply off the gleaming black paint. Mason liked the sunlight of winter better than other times of the year because the cold air made for cleaner and clearer color. On mornings like this New Year's Day, the sun shot straight through the sky, etching sharp colors and crisp shadows wherever it reached.

He sat in front of her house waiting for some sign of activity inside, knowing what he would ask her and wondering what he would do if she didn't answer truthfully. The harder part, he knew, would be discerning what was true from what was artifice. She had kept him on his heels both times he had been with her in the last two weeks. She was a beautiful, troubled, and vulnerable woman whose traits stoked a dangerous eroticism. That she was a witness, a suspect, and a possible conspirator added a geometric complexity to his feelings about her. Rachel would have told him to leave his penis in the car.

It was nine o'clock. Mason had barely slept, too jazzed by his near-death experience. He hadn't shaved, and the bags under his eyes looked as if they'd been packed for a long trip. Though his body temperature was normal, his skin still had a bluish pallor. Dressed in faded jeans, a navy corduroy shirt, and a Land's End barn jacket, he looked more as if he were getting over a bad hangover than a murder attempt. Though he suspected that Beth might have had a hand in that attempt, he didn't hesitate when he rang her doorbell. Whatever else she may be, he thought, she didn't seem dangerous on her own.

Mason watched through a glass panel on the side of her front door as Beth descended from the second floor. She was wearing a long, white robe, tied loosely at the waist, and as nearly as he could see, very little else. Her hair was tousled from interrupted sleep, and she ran her fingers through it as she approached the door. When she saw Mason's face through the glass, she stutter-stepped, pretended to tighten the belt around her robe, and opened the door.

"It's a beautiful morning, don't you think?" Mason said.

"The best so far this year," she answered.

Beth had recovered from her surprise at finding Mason at her door, and stepped to her side as he walked in. She closed the door and leaned against it. Sunlight washed through the glass side panels, wrapping her in golden ribbons. The front of her robe had slipped open, revealing the swell of her breasts. Her arms hung at her sides, inviting him to look.

She told him, "If you've changed your mind about last night, I'm afraid I have too. I behaved very poorly. I hope you're not too disappointed in me."

It was the most contradictory rejection and apology Mason had ever received. The more he learned about Beth, the less he understood her. The more he saw of her, the more he wanted her.

Mason said, "We need to talk. You should get dressed first."

Beth waited a fraction of a minute, letting him reconsider, then gathered her robe closely to her chest. "Of course. I'll only be a minute." She left a renewed chill behind as she went back upstairs.

The minute she had promised turned into thirty. While he waited, Mason explored the first floor. There was a dining room to the left of the entry hall and a living room to the right. Unlike his, they were furnished. Beth's tastes ran to antiques and oriental rugs, muted taupe and pale burgundy fabrics, and overstuffed pillows.

There was a portrait in the living room of a brooding young girl set in shadow, her long blond hair hanging loosely over a thin white gown, open at the neck. The girl's fingers were wrapped in strands of her hair, her lips half open with wistful longing. Her features were soft, her eyes both dreamy and sad. The artist had captured an ache that reverberated throughout the girl, as if she'd seen her future and wished she could turn from it. Looking more closely, he realized that the girl was Beth.

"I was fifteen. My mother was the artist," Beth said from behind him. "She painted portraits while my father took his secretary on business trips. She told me how he had cheated on her since before I was born but that she couldn't afford to leave him. Then one day, he left her. She said she wanted to paint me while I was still young and no one had crushed my heart like he had crushed hers."

Beth had changed into slightly wrinkled chinos and a plum-colored crew-neck sweater. She had brushed out the kinks in her hair, but wasn't wearing any makeup. She still looked beautiful but, for the first time, she also looked brittle, as if one more jolt would fracture her. The girl in the painting had seen her future.

"You said we needed to talk," she reminded him. "What about?"

"Why did Ed Fiora send you to find me last night?"

"Why do you think?"

"Then he did send you?"

"You won't consider the possibility that I was there alone, that I saw you and wanted to be with you?"

Mason hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "I did consider that. It may be true, but I don't think it's entirely true."

"A concession to your ego and my weakness, Lou?" He didn't answer. "It would be less humiliating if it weren't true at all. Then I'd just be a victim instead of a fool and you might be willing to help me."

"I can't help you if I don't know the truth, and I may not be able to help you even then."

She walked over to where he was standing and studied her painted image. "My mother wasn't exactly a prize either. She was cold and aloof, even toward me. She put her feelings in her paintings, stroking her brushes instead of my father and me. My father needed constant reassurance that he was wonderful and wanted. They made each other's weaknesses worse."

"It's a little late in life to be blaming dear old Mom and Dad, isn't it?"

Beth folded her arms over her chest. "You bet it is. I just got some of the worst from both of them, and I ended up looking for love in all the wrong places."

Mason said, "That song has been covered by a lot of people."

"Listen, this isn't easy. I was so determined not to screw up like they did. I put everything into school and my career. I graduated first in my class, got a job with a top firm, went back to teach law school, got appointed to the Gaming Commission. I was doing everything right publicly, but I made some bad choices privately."

"Including taking a bribe to approve the license for the Dream Casino?"

She shook her head. “No. I really thought Fiora's application was the best one. The key to it was the lease with the city for the location at the landing. It was the best deal for the taxpayers."

"What about Fiora's background?"

"We checked him out every way possible. He's rough around the edges, but we found no compelling evidence that he was dirty."

"Then why the scandal?"

Beth looked at Mason, silently judging them both. "Fiora bribed the mayor. Jack Cullan set it up through a secret ownership in the Dream Casino."

"Can you prove that?"

"I had heard enough whispers that I was going to have the Gaming Commission investigate it. I think we could have made the case."

"Why didn't you?"

"I was about to until Jack invited me to go out that night. He tried to bribe me during dinner. Not straight up. Just enough subtle hints about what a bad idea it would be if the commission investigated the Dream Casino and that I would be well taken care of if I stayed out of it."

"You turned him down?"

"I acted like I didn't hear him, like I didn't know what he was talking about. I told him that we couldn't discuss commission business at all. He let it drop until we got to Blues on Broadway. Then he brought it up again. Only this time he threatened me."

"With what?"

Beth sat down on a sofa, sinking deeply into the cushions. "I told you that I had made some bad choices. One of my husbands was the worst. I let him take some photographs of me." She dipped her head, bit her lip, and looked away. "Doing some things." She rubbed her palms across her eyes. "Jack said that he'd bought the pictures from my ex and had given them to Ed Fiora. He promised to get them back from Fiora if I played ball. That's when I threw my drink in his face."

Mason paced slowly around the living room, trying to concentrate on the crown molding along the ceiling, the intricate design of the parquet hardwood floor-anything but the person dissolving on the sofa. He didn't know whether he should drop to one knee, take her hand in his, and promise to avenge her honor, or whether he should twist her arm until she agreed to take a polygraph test.

Mason said, "That doesn't explain last night."

Beth took another deep breath and sat up straighter. "No, it doesn't. I was at the grocery and this huge man comes walking down the aisle. He dropped an envelope in my cart. At first, I thought it was an accident. Then I saw my name on the envelope. There was an invitation to the party inside and a photocopy of one of the pictures. Someone had written a note that said Mr. Fiora looks forward to seeing me at the party. So I went."

"Did you keep the invitation and the picture?"

"No. I almost got sick right there in the grocery store. I burnt them when I got home."

"What happened when you got to the party?"

"Fiora's moose found me. God only knows how in that crowd. Fiora told me where to find you."

"And the rest?"

Beth rose from the sofa and walked to the floor-length windows at the front of the room, her hands balled into fists. She banged them against the glass, pressed harder, and turned to face Mason.

"The little prick told me that since I liked being in pictures so much, he wanted to get some of you and me together. He told me to go find you and use my imagination. He said he'd be watching."

Mason thought about their embrace, her kiss, and his rejection of her. "What did you do after you left me out on the prow?"

"I got out of there as fast as I could, came home, and got drunk."

He stared at her, hoping to peel through the layers she was wrapped in and find something or someone he could believe. "Right after you left, someone tried to shoot me. I had to jump into the river to get away. I got shot anyway and nearly drowned."

Beth's hands fluttered to her mouth and she let out a long, low moan as she slid slowly into a heap on the floor. The sunlight poured through the windows behind her, burying her in its brightness. Mason walked over to her and she looked up at him, silently mouthing that she was sorry. She reached for his hand, and he reluctantly took hers as she pulled him down toward her.

"Lou, you've got to believe me. I didn't know. It wasn't me. I'm begging you to help me. Get those pictures for me. I want my life back."

They stayed that way for a time, neither of them saying anything, until Mason's legs started to ache. He stood and left her there without making a promise he didn't know whether he could keep.