The Last Witness

Chapter Thirty-three

"I love happy endings," Fiora said when the screen went blank.

"I want a copy of the disk," Mason said.

He was past understanding or explaining Beth. She had fallen out of first place in the Jack Cullan murder sweepstakes, but she was ahead of the pack in the psycho competition. Mason didn't know what he would do about her, only that he would do something.

"This is strictly pay-per-view," Fiora said. "No more party favors. You get me the file; then we'll talk."

Mason asked, "You know a homicide detective named Carl Zimmerman?"

"Sure. He was one of Cullan's guys. Cullan called him and that other cop, Toland, his golden retrievers. Any time some bigwig or his kid stepped in the bucket, those two guys fetched the bad news to Cullan."

"I think they killed Cullan and went into business for themselves. They made Shirley Parker tell them where Chilian kept the files and then they stole the files and killed her."

"They don't call this the land of opportunity for nothing," Fiora said. "Now you're going to go up against two rogue cops and put them out of business while stealing my file back for me. Is that it?"

"I've got help."

"Must be your client that I sprang from the county jail. That might even be a fair fight from what I understand. Are you keeping the good cops out of this?"

"We've got to until we get the files. After that, the good cops can have the bad cops."

"Why tell me all of this?" Fiora asked.

"We don't know where Zimmerman and Toland have hidden the files. I want you to call Zimmerman and offer to buy your file and hire him as a security consultant for the casino. The only catch is that your offer expires at midnight. Tell him if you don't have the file by then, you'll send Tony to get it."

Fiora said, "Your partner figures to follow Zimmerman to the files, pop him, and bring me my file. Then you have a come-to-Jesus meeting with the prosecutor, Blues pleads guilty to some bullshit misdemeanor, and the whole thing goes away."

"Like you said, I love happy endings."

Fiora thought a minute, drumming his fingers on his desk, calculating the odds for the house. "You got a phone number for this bum, Zimmerman?"

Mason handed Fiora a slip of paper, and Fiora dialed Zimmerman's number. Mason and Mickey listened to Fiora's side of the conversation. As nearly as they could tell, Zimmerman was going through the stages of grief; denying that he had Cullan's files, angrily accusing Fiora of blackmail, and unsuccessfully negotiating better terms before accepting Fiora's offer.

Fiora hung up the phone and spread his arms wide. "Detective Zimmerman is seriously pissed off and seriously suspicious. He even asked me if you were in on this. The meeting is at nine o'clock tonight."

Mason asked, "Where?"

" Swope Park, at the shelter next to the lagoon."

"Thanks," Mason said. "We're out of here."

"I don't think so," Fiora said. "You and junior will wait right here. We'll all go together."

"Ed, that's not a good idea. This could get ugly. I don't think you want to be anywhere near the park," Mason told him.

"I don't like the odds if I'm sitting here fat and unhappy hoping you keep up your end of the deal. I figure Tony gives us an edge, and I always take the edge. So sit down and sit tight."

"Zimmerman has killed two people already. You don't kill people, remember?"

"I don't kill people. Tony kills people."

Mason looked at Tony, who had planted himself in front of the door to Fiora's office. "I need to make a phone call," Mason said.

"I thought you might," Fiora replied.

Mason used his cell phone to reach Blues. The conversation was brief.

"Nine o'clock at the shelter next to the lagoon in Swope Park," Mason said.

"Good. Meet me at the office. We'll get ready."

"Can't do it."

"Fiora got you on a leash?"

"You got it"

"He and Tony figuring on coming along?"

"All the way."

"Make for a helluva party," Blues said, and hung up.

Mason closed his cell phone. "You got an unmarked deck of cards?" he asked Fiora. "I'm into Mickey for two hundred and fifty bucks. I might as well try and get my money back."

Tony remained at the door, moving only to allow Fiora to go in or out. Mason and Blues had not discussed the possibility that Fiora would hold him and Mickey hostage and insist on coming along. Though unexpected, Fiora's intervention would bring all the bad guys together. The combination would be volatile, unstable, and uncontrollable.

Fiora came back at six o'clock. "Let's get going," he said. "The roads are still a mess and I want to get there ahead of Zimmerman and Toland. What are you driving?"

Mason answered, "I've got my Jeep. It has four-wheel drive."

"Perfect. You drive."

The snow was still falling when they left the casino. Though city crews had been working for seven hours to clear the streets, they were fighting a losing battle. Fresh snow blanketed every plowed surface, erasing tire tracks and hiding the ice beneath like a land mine.

Mason said, "We'll take I-70 east to I-435 south and get off at Gregory Boulevard. Maybe the snow plows have kept one lane on the highways fairly clear."

Tony sat in front next to Mason, leaving Mickey and Fiora in the back. Road conditions were treacherous, even for the Jeep. The wind blew snow across the highway in ground-level clouds, making it nearly impossible to see headlights or taillights.

Salt trucks outfitted with snowplows plodded along Interstate 70, clearing the outside lane while depositing a layer of salt in their wake. In spite of the conditions, eighteen-wheel trucks charged past them, their drivers pushing to deliver their loads. A few had pushed too hard and their tractor-trailer rigs had jackknifed, sliding down embankments along the highway, scattering their cargoes.

Some drivers had been caught too far from home, and had been forced to abandon their cars after they had spun out of control or gotten stuck. The Highway Patrol had spent the day and early evening rescuing stranded motorists.

Mason crept steadily along, occasionally reaching speeds of thirty-five or forty miles per hour when he hit a stretch of clear tire tracks. The exit ramp from I-70 onto I-435 was like a black ski ran, forcing Mason to fight for control of the Jeep as it shimmied and fishtailed before straightening out.

Mason took the Gregory Boulevard exit westbound from the interstate. The two-lane road ran ahead of them flanked by snow-laden trees that loomed like ghostly sentinels in the darkness. Irregularly spaced streetlights pointed the way, adding a halo to the falling and blowing snow. A concrete railroad bridge arched overhead as the boulevard funneled them into the park.

Colonel Tom Swope had donated Swope Park to the city in the early 1900s. The largest green space in the city, it was home to the zoo, an outdoor theater, two golf courses, and enough trails for anyone to get lost in. The lagoon was near the center of the park along Gregory Boulevard. Over the years it had been stocked with fish by the city and, occasionally, dead bodies by the less civic-minded.

Mason eased to a stop along the curb where a bike path intersected with the road, and turned off his lights.

"Why are we stopping?" Fiora asked.

"The lagoon is around the next curve. If we go all the way in and Zimmerman is already in place, he'll see us."

"Tony." Fiora spoke his name as a command.

Tony grunted as he opened the door, and disappeared without a backward glance.

"Where's he going?" Mickey asked.

"For a walk, Junior," Fiora answered.

Mason turned onto the bike path, keeping the Jeep at a slow crawl and his headlights off. Driving through the woods with no lights in a blizzard, Mason thought to himself, was the automotive version of blindman's bluff. The bike path emptied onto an unmarked service road that Mason followed another half mile before picking up the bike path again. This time, he backed the Jeep a hundred yards down the bike path and turned off the engine.

If he was lucky, he had made it to his hiding place without being seen. Mason looked at his watch. It was seven-thirty.

"What now?" Mickey asked. "It's cold enough to freeze-dry my nuts."

"Here," Mason said as he handed Mickey the keys. "You can turn the heat on if you have to. Just remember, Zimmerman can find you a lot easier when the engine is running."

"Hey, where are you going?" Fiora demanded.

Mason took his gun from the glove compartment. "For a walk."

"That's not our deal," Fiora said.

"Mickey will keep you company, but don't play gin with him. He cheats."

"Like hell I'm waiting here," Fiora said. "Zimmerman is expecting me and if I don't show, you guys shoot craps."

"Suit yourself," Mason said, knowing there was no way to make Fiora wait in the Jeep.

"Wingman on your flank," Mickey said to Mason as he climbed into the front seat long enough to grab his gun from the glove compartment before joining Mason and Fiora.

"Give me that," Mason said to Mickey, pointing to the gun.

"Are you kidding me?" Mickey asked.

"You don't know how to use a gun. You'll shoot yourself or one of us. Give me the gun."

Mickey held the pistol up with both hands and, before Mason could reach for it, he unloaded it, disassembled it, and put it back together. "Oh, ye of little faith," Mickey said.

"That's pretty good, kid," Fiora said. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Video games-the perfect home-schooling curriculum," Mickey answered.

Mason, Fiora, and Mickey hugged the edge of the woods as they briskly walked single file alongside the service road back toward the lagoon, satisfied that the storm made them virtually invisible. Before reaching the lagoon, they stepped into the woods. Mason took off the thick glove on his right hand, put his hand in his pocket, and wrapped his fingers around his gun. The steel was icy and refused to warm against his hand. He found the safety with his thumb and switched it off.

"Let the games begin," Mickey whispered.

If Fiora had insisted on being early, Mason had to assume that Zimmerman and Toland would do the same. Mason knew without asking that Blues would not be the last one to arrive. Tony had gotten out of the Jeep twenty minutes ago. No one was going to be late for this party. It suddenly occurred to Mason that everyone was probably already there, each man fighting off the wind chill, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

"Why in the hell would Zimmerman set the meeting out here?" Fiora asked.

"Look around," Mason answered. "It makes sense. The interior of the park is isolated but accessible. There's not much chance of other traffic on a night like this. The shelter is out in the open. The nearest woods are far enough away that under these conditions you'd have to be an incredible marksman to shoot someone from the trees."

Fiora wasn't convinced. "You think Zimmerman had that all figured out. How would he know about this place?"

"He's a cop who knows where bodies are dumped. Plus, he's a Cub Scout den leader," Mason explained. "He's probably brought his troop here."

"You're shitting me? This hump is a Cub Scout leader? I oughta pop him myself," Fiora said, "except I don't kill people."

Mason studied the wind-driven waves breaking along the snowpacked shoreline of the lagoon, moving his gaze outward to the road. There were no tire tracks, meaning that everyone else either had walked in or had yet to arrive. Mason bet on the former.

The shelter stood twenty-five feet from the southern edge of the lagoon. There was a streetlight close enough to outline the shelter, but too far away to illuminate what was beneath it. The shelter was little more than a roof supported by four stout poles; a shelter from sun and gentle rain, but no port in a snowstorm. A bright light came on at the center of the shelter's ceiling, startling Mason and the others. Neither Zimmerman nor Toland was camped out beneath the shelter.

The light turned off a few minutes later, only to come on again in an irregular cycle. Mason could make out an electrical line that ran from the roof of the shelter to a utility pole to the west. The line bowed, heavy with ice.

"It's a motion light," Mason said. "It's for security. Any movement near the light turns it on for a preset period. Then it goes off. If the wind blows hard enough, that will turn it on. We'll be able to see Zimmerman and Toland when they get close enough to activate the sensor."

"Then what do we do, Counselor?" Fiora asked.

"I don't know," Mason confessed.

"In the meantime," Fiora complained, "I'm freezing my ass off. Where the hell is Tony?"

Mason ignored Fiora's complaint and his question. Fiora was used to running the show, and didn't like being a spectator. Though Mason wondered where both Tony and Blues were waiting. Fiora had been standing on Mason's left. Mason turned to his right to talk to Mickey, only to discover that Mickey was gone.

Mason hissed Mickey's name, but the sound died in the wind. Mason remembered Mickey's announcement as he got out of the car. Wingman on your flank, Mickey had said. Mason silently cursed himself for getting Mickey involved. A moment later, he cursed aloud when he saw Mickey emerge from the woods closest to the shelter, being pushed ahead by a tall figure poking Mickey in the back with a shotgun. Mickey stumbled and fell. The gunman prodded him with the barrel of the shotgun until Mickey got to his feet.

As the pair reached the shelter, the light came on again. In the instant before the gunman smashed the light, Mason saw Mickey's panicked face and the block-cut jawline of James Toland.

Fiora started toward the shelter, but Mason grabbed him by the arm. "Don't," Mason told him. "That's exactly what they want you to do. They'll try to take us one at a time. Mickey can handle himself."

Mason knew that he was right about everything except Mickey. The kid could deal cards, field-strip a pistol, and hustle a rent-free pad, but Mason knew he was out of his league against Toland. Besides, sending Fiora to bail out Mickey was like telling the Dutch boy to put a bigger finger in the dike. Without Tony to back him up, Fiora was just a street-wise punk. Toland wouldn't be impressed.

Fiora puffed himself up, as if sensing Mason's dismissive appraisal. "Why not? I'm the guy they're expecting. If I don't go, they'll know they're being set up. I'll tell Toland that the kid is my driver and that he wandered off. You go find Tony and Blues."

Mason couldn't argue with Fiora's reasoning or stop him. Fiora chose a slow, casual walk, raising his right hand in greeting as he neared the shelter. Mickey and Toland were hidden in plain sight under the shelter, swallowed by the dark. When Fiora reached the edge of the shelter, he suddenly collapsed to the ground. Mason couldn't tell whether he'd been shot or struck, but Fiora didn't move as the snow gathered around him.

In the same instant, Mason felt the icy sting of cold steel against his neck. "I had a feeling you were in on this, Mason." Carl Zimmerman pressed the barrel of his gun tightly against the base of Mason's skull. "You should have told your client to take the plea."