The Last Witness

Chapter Ten

Mason was lousy at big social functions. He was no good at being a hail-fellow-well-met, or assuring a new face that he was damn glad to meet him. In a world that ran on networking, he preferred the sidelines. It wasn't that he was shy or unfriendly. He just hated the forced conviviality of events at which new acquaintances looked over his shoulder for a better deal while pretending to be enthralled with their new friendship. Particularly when friendship was the last thing on anyone's agenda. Advantage, fair or otherwise, was the party favor everyone wanted to take home.

He stood at the back of the ballroom at the Hyatt Hotel and listened as Mayor Billy Sunshine thanked each of his dear personal friends who had been so gracious to invite him to this wonderful event at this wonderful time of year. Even from a distance, Mason had to give the mayor his due. The speech had been written for him, but he made the words his own. His DNA was uniquely programmed with a connection gene that linked him to his audience, erasing any suggestion that both he and they were just going through the motions. The mayor may have been tail and handsome, but he made it work for him instead of letting it turn him into a caricature.

Billy Sunshine had been the quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs for ten years before retiring rather than risk suffering another concussion. Before hanging it up, he had taken the Chiefs to the Promised Land of the Super Bowl, winning the championship on an eighty-yard bootleg as time expired. He had announced his retirement and his candidacy for mayor the day after the ticker-tape parade. He'd been more crowned than elected. Though he wasn't Kansas City's first African-American mayor, he was the first to make teenage girls swoon as if he were a rock star and middle-age white guys tear up when he told football war stories on the campaign trail.

Even his critics, who were few when he took office, conceded that he was more than another pretty face with a Super Bowl ring. He was bright, earnest, charming, and irresistible. Although eight years in office had replaced his cleats with feet of clay, the mayor pretended not to notice. No one else in the ballroom seemed to notice either as he worked yet another football memory into his remarks.

Mason scanned the ballroom, trying to identify the mayor's staff people who would shuttle him to his next meeting after he finished speaking. The ballroom was actually three rooms that could be divided by movable walls, shrinking or expanding the space as attendance required. The Salvation Army's annual luncheon was one of those causes no one could quibble with, and the turnout was huge, at least a thousand people by Mason's estimation. Ten people were crowded around each table, which had a miniature Christmas tree as its centerpiece. Instead of a star at the top of the tree, each one was adorned with the name of the sponsor for that table. The effect was a bit like a political convention where each state's delegation gathered around its banner. Those sponsors who had contributed an additional amount could watch as their names and logos ran across a video loop projected above the head table.

Titanic-sized pear-shaped chandeliers hung from the ceiling, soft yellow light refracting brilliantly through sharply cut crystals, adding an intimate glow to the ballroom. Waiters in short white jackets, ruffled shirts, and tuxedo pants wove in and around tables, deftly serving, pouring, and clearing. Twenty-foot-tall Christmas trees flanked the raised dais, besotted with glistening ornaments and small, twinkling colored lights. A wreath of mistletoe large enough to be a life preserver hung in front of the speaker's podium, and blood-red poinsettias on pedestal planters ringed the room.

Mason was Jewish, and Christmas was a holiday he had always witnessed as a bystander. He didn't consider himself an observant Jew. That didn't matter to him. Whether he believed or didn't believe, whether he was observant or not, he was Jewish and Christmas wasn't his holiday. When he was younger, he'd been envious of his Christian friends, barely able to resist the sweep of the Yuletide season. His aunt Claire had always emphasized the ethical grounding of Judaism, adopting as her personal creed the commandment to heal the world, while discarding the rituals and holidays as little more than historical relics. Mason periodically acknowledged a spiritual itch in the back of his soul, but wasn't certain how to scratch it.

"The gentiles sure know how to throw a party," Rachel Firestone said.

Mason hadn't seen her arrive, though he remembered that she had told him she would be covering the mayor's appearances today. He wondered if she was there to see the mayor or to watch Mason try to see the mayor.

"Let me guess," he told her. "You're a boots, jeans, flannel-shirt-wearing, short-haired, Jewish lipstick lesbian."

"Damn straight! Though I'm certainly not," she added with a grin. "Too bad you can't take me home to your mother."

"More than you know," he answered. "I'm sure she would have wanted me to marry a nice Jewish girl, but not one who also wanted to marry a nice Jewish girl."

Rachel said, "Ooops. A past-tense mother is not a good thing. Sorry."

"Don't worry about it. She and my father were killed in a car wreck when I was three. I grew up with my aunt." He gave Rachel an appraising look. She had upgraded to camel-colored slacks, a deep-teal turtleneck sweater, and black tassel loafers. "Give up on the forest ranger look?"

She dipped her head, blushing slightly. "Business casual, tasteful but serious and boring as hell. What's your plan to get to the mayor?"

"I was thinking of waving a five-dollar bill over my head and whistling. What do you think?"

"That only works with the hookers on Independence Avenue. The mayor's price is higher. See that woman standing over there next to the door to the kitchen?"

Mason followed the aim of Rachel's extended hand, fixing on a dark-haired woman in a severe gray suit standing next to the kitchen door, her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes alternating between the mayor and her watch, her foot tapping impatiently against the thick carpet.

"Who is she?" Mason asked.

"Amy White, the mayor's chief of staff. She ran his last campaign and is already planning his run for Congress just in case the mayor doesn't get indicted."

"What's her story?"

Rachel said, "The usual political prodigy. Savvy, in love with politics, and thinks she's picked a winner who will take her a long way."

"Savvy enough to keep me from asking the mayor, in front of God and everybody, if he knows who killed Jack Cullan?"

"With one hand tied behind her back. Take your best shot."

Mason winked at Rachel. "No time like the present."

He circled to the far wall of the ballroom, ignoring the murmurs that followed his passage. A little more than a year ago, Mason's picture had been in the newspaper and on television for weeks, accompanied by a media chorus that relentlessly flogged the explosive demise of Sullivan & Christenson. His refusal to participate in his celebrity status had been turned into one more angle, adding to the price of his privacy. He had been relieved when another story had eclipsed his own.

The turned heads and hushed recognition from the crowd proved that Rachel Firestone had been right. His defense of Blues had thrown him back into the mix. His picture was in the paper again and his name was in the news. In her article in the Star, Rachel had identified him as Blues's attorney and reminded her readers that he had been called a suspect, a killer, and a hero in the Sullivan & Christenson case.

The mayor had finished his remarks, and a polite ripple of applause washed across the ballroom as the mayor made his way off the stage and headed toward Amy White. Mason was on course to intercept the mayor. The murmurs increased as many in the crowd who had read Rachel's article sensed that something was about to happen that would make their hundred-and-fifty-dollar-a-plate lunch worth the price of admission.

Mason was paying attention to Amy White, figuring she was the first hurdle he had to overcome. As he got closer, they made eye contact, though her piercing slate eyes gave no hint of special recognition. Amy had auburn hair that billowed gently around her head, landing softly against the base of her neck. Her dark-rimmed glasses gave her unlined face a serious cast. The gray suit she wore covered a slender build. She watched as he approached, not flinching and not looking back over her shoulder to gauge the mayor's progress toward her. She knew why Mason was coming, and her intense gaze was more one of curiosity than concern, even as people stood and those closest to the scene surged a few steps closer, not wanting to miss anything.

Billy Sunshine suddenly appeared at Amy's side. The mayor stepped in front of her just as Mason reached them.

"Merry Christmas, Lou," the mayor boomed loudly enough to be heard at Santa's North Pole workshop. "Glad you could make it," he added, grasping Lou's right hand with his own while wrapping his left arm around Lou's shoulder. "It's time we talk about that case of yours. I'm sorry we haven't been able to get on your schedule sooner. Thanks for coming down today."

Amy White permitted herself a small smile as Mason glanced back and forth at the two of them. The mayor held on to Mason and his smile until Amy tilted her head slightly toward the doors to the kitchen. The mayor took his cue, realizing that the television cameras had gotten their footage, before leading Mason through the crowd like a lead blocker.

They walked through the kitchen and into an empty hallway that led to a service elevator the mayor had used to reach the ballroom without using the front entrance. Once the three of them were alone, Mason spoke.

"You're as good as people say you are, Mr. Mayor. You saw me coming the whole way."

"A good quarterback has to be able to pick up the blitz, Lou," the mayor said.

Mason nodded at Amy. "It helps to have a good defensive coordinator."

"Best in the business," the mayor said. "You've got five minutes. Don't waste them and don't darken my door again. You do and I'll tell the press that you are harassing me and trying to inject race into the defense of your friend. You can call me to testify at the trial if you think I've got anything to say. You won't hear anything different then from what I'll tell you now."

"It's a little early to play the race card, don't you think, Mr. Mayor?"

The mayor responded with a blank stare, looked at his watch, and said, "Four minutes. I hope you're better in court."

"Try this, Mayor Sunshine. We'll play the two-minute drill. Did Jack Cullan ever represent you?"

"Yes. On private matters that are protected by the attorney-client privilege."

"Did Jack Cullan bribe you to approve the license for the Dream Casino?"

"No. One minute."

"Who killed Jack Cullan?" Mason asked.

"Your client. Thirty seconds. Time for one last play."

"What's in Jack Cullan's secret file on you, Mr. Mayor?"

Amy and the mayor kept their faces turned to Mason, though they couldn't help the involuntary flicker of their eyes toward each other. Billy Sunshine didn't answer. "Maybe you don't know," Mason said. "That could be worse than knowing. I'll make you a deal since you've been so helpful. I'll tell you the next time we talk. I guess that will be in court. Merry Christmas."