The Last Witness

Chapter Twenty

Mason decided it was time to connect the dots instead of waiting for someone else to draw the picture for him. He'd spent the last three weeks scrambling to get ready for the preliminary hearing even though the outcome was a foregone conclusion. The trial was in sixty days, and he would have to use that time to make something happen.

Getting Blues released on bail was one thing he had to make happen. He called Judge Carter's chambers to request a bail hearing. He was surprised when the judge's secretary informed him that Judge Carter was sending out an order that day setting a hearing for the following Monday, January 7, at eight o'clock. Shortly after he hung up, his fax machine rang and whirred as the judge's order arrived. He was reading the order when Mickey Shanahan knocked at his open door.

"This is not a good look for you, Lou," Mickey told him. "You've got to be perma-pressed and lightly starched, wrinkle-free, know what I mean, man? No worries. Everything is cool. That's what the people expect. This I-spent-the-night-in-a-Dumpster look isn't going to cut it. Listen to me. It's all about image."

"Turn around," Mason told him. Mickey hesitated. "Turn around now," Mason repeated.

Mickey saw the gun on Mason's desk, blanched, and did a quick pivot. "I'm just trying to help, for chrissakes. That's no reason to go ballistic, man."

Mason walked over to the dry-erase board and closed the cabinet doors. He was tired of people walking in and reading his mind.

Returning to his desk, he picked up the gun, balanced it in his palm, and shoved it into the holster. It felt like a prop, not a part of him. He couldn't decide whether to put it away or put it on. The fear he'd felt the night before had receded as he hid the attempt on his life behind the closed cabinet doors. He shook his head at the image of himself as a heat-packing action hero. Carrying a concealed weapon was the road to Palookaville, the punch line to a bad joke. He put the gun in a desk drawer, slamming the drawer shut loudly enough to make Mickey jitterbug in the doorway.

"For chrissakes," Mickey protested again. "Give a guy some warning that you're gonna make him piss his pants for saying hello."

"At ease," Mason told him. "About face."

Mickey looked cautiously over his shoulder at Mason, taking care to look for the gun, before turning completely around. "Hey, you still look like shit. You know that, man. That's not good, not good," he added, warming back up.

"What do you know about the Internet?" Mason asked him.

Mickey brightened as if he'd just added a thousand gigabytes to his game. "That's where it's happening, Lou. A Web site is just what you guys need. I can have it up for you by the end of the day."

"I don't want a Web site, Mickey. I want research on Ed Fiora. Every word ever printed. Can you do that?"

Mickey locked his fingers together and stretched his arms out. "My six-year-old nephew can do that in his sleep. I can do better than that."

"How much better?"

"Asset search, bank accounts, anything you want. There are no secrets anymore. Everyone's life is floating in cyberspace, waiting to be bought or sold."

"Use my computer," Mason told him as he wrote his password on a Post-It note. "Don't look at my board or I'll break both your legs above the knee."

"Does this mean I'm on the team?" Mickey asked.

Mason thought for a moment, hoping he wasn't making the wrong choice for Mickey. "Sure," he told him.

"Do I get a T-shirt?" Mickey asked.

"Only if we win," Mason said.

A shower and a shave later, Mason parked his car on the curb in front of the old People's Savings & Loan Building at Twentieth and Main. The bank had owned the six-story building, occupying the first floor, until it went under during the thrift crisis in the 1990s. Jack Cullan, whose office had been on the second floor for twenty-five years, had bought the building from the government.

The former S &L space was now occupied by a twenty-four-hour copying company, and the other floors were Class "C" office space. Class "A" space could be had in the newest office towers downtown, on the Plaza, or in the suburbs. Class "B" space was a generation older, but still offered decent amenities and a respectable letterhead for tenants. Class "C" was space reserved for those tenants who didn't care or couldn't afford to care about their address as long as the lights worked and they could pay the rent.

Mason climbed the stairs to the second floor and found the door to Cullan's office. Many law firms spent lavishly on impressive entrances to their offices with carefully designed logos, nameplates, and eye-catching art. Mason knew of one local firm whose lobby had been used to film scenes for a cable movie based on a wildly popular legal thriller. Another firm bragged to its clients that the paneling in its office had been made from a rare tree found only in the Amazon rain forest. As Mason reached for the handle to Cullan's plain oak door, he appreciated the simple inscription that had been painted on it years before-jack cullan, attorney. Stepping inside, he knew that Cullan's simple tastes were the only things the two of them had in common.

Shirley Parker looked up from her desk as Mason closed the door behind him. She had a buoyant, upswept hairstyle that had been fashionable decades ago, but was now a silvery-blue-tinted artifact. Though she was working for a dead man whose clients were unlikely to have appointments, she was immaculately dressed in a high-throated, deep-navy dress accented with a modest string of pearls. Her makeup was robust, adding an unnatural rose to her cheeks. She was a stout woman with stiff posture and disbelieving eyes, going through the motions because she didn't know what else to do.

"Yes, may I help you?" she asked.

"My name is Lou Mason," he said, as if that would be explanation enough.

"My name is Shirley Parker. I'm Mr. Cullan's secretary," she replied, not offering any more information than he had provided.

Mason wasn't certain where to start. Shirley had the look of a woman who had been the secretary for the same man for so many years, it was almost as if they were married. She would have known Cullan's secrets, helped keep them, and wouldn't easily surrender a single one.

"I'm the attorney for Wilson Bluestone."

"Yes. I know who you are." Her face gave no hint whether she cared who he was, or whether she resented him as she must have hated his client.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Mason offered. It was a clumsy gesture, and Mason regretted he hadn't been more sincere, though Shirley accepted it graciously.

"That's very kind of you."

Mason looked around, nodding. The furniture in the outer office was nearly as old as he was, though it had fewer nicks and scratches. Framed prints from a Monet exhibit hung on the walls. A stack of unread magazines sat on a corner table at the junction of a short couch and a chair.

"It must be difficult closing up a law practice under these circumstances," Mason said. "I imagine you've been going nuts trying to get clients placed with new lawyers, files transferred, and all those other things."

"Yes," was all she said in a neutral tone, not agreeing or disagreeing.

There were only a handful of papers on Shirley's desk, no more than would have come in the mail on an ordinary day. Her computer screen was on CNN's home page. The phone hadn't rung since Mason had arrived. Looking around again, Mason realized that there were no storage cabinets, no places to keep the files of clients who needed new lawyers, or the secret files about people who didn't know they needed a lawyer in the first place. Maybe, he thought, Shirley had already transferred the clients and their files, and was just coming in each day to open the mail until there was no more mail.

"It looks like you've pretty much cleaned things up. You must have already shipped out the client files," Mason said.

Shirley didn't respond. She simply sat back in her chair and waited for Mason to say something that warranted another polite acknowledgment.

Mason nodded some more as he opened the door to Cullan's private office. He was through the door before Shirley Parker could try to stop him.

"You can't go in there," she said, and was on his heels before he could turn on the light.

Cullan's office faced west, just as Mason's did, though now the sun was up far enough to light the office. Dust mites floated lazily in the shafts of sunlight, the only occupants of the office. Mason was struck by the similarity between the layout of his office and Cullan's. They both had oversize sofas. A pair of shoes and a wadded dress shirt had been abandoned beneath Cullan's, suggesting to Mason that Cullan had spent more than a few nights on the sofa. Cullan also had a refrigerator. The office was cluttered, undisturbed from the last time Cullan had left it. Papers were scattered on his desk, though Mason was confident that Shirley had removed anything confidential, leaving the rest in the empty hope that Cullan would return. The walls were covered with framed photographs of Cullan shaking hands with dignitaries and celebrities from Harry Truman to George W. Bush, from Elvis Presley to Elton John.

Shirley was standing in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest. Mason took a step toward her. She didn't back up as he flicked on the light switch by her shoulder and began a tour of Cullan's photographic souvenirs.

"Where are they, Shirley?" Mason asked.

"Where are what?"

"Your boss's secret files. The dirty pictures and other trash he collected all these years. Now don't tell me you didn't know about that, Shirley. How long did you work for Jack? Twenty years, thirty years? You had to know about the files and you had to know where he kept them."

"I'll have to ask you to leave, Mr. Mason."

"Of course you do, Shirley. That's your job even though your boss isn't here to tell you. Maybe you didn't know what he was up to. Maybe he liked you well enough not to make you an accessory to blackmail, extortion, and racketeering. All things considered, you'd be better off helping me now than answering all these questions in court, under oath."

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. Mason. Please leave now."

Mason stopped in front of a black-and-white photograph of an old man and a young boy. They were shaking hands in front of a barbershop, the barber's pole framed between their outstretched hands.

"Who's that?" Mason asked.

Shirley expelled an exasperated sigh. "I'm going to call the police if you don't leave now."

Mason raised his hands in protest. "Okay, I'm convinced. Just tell me who's in the picture and I'll leave. That can't be a state secret."

"Very well," she said. "The young boy is Mr. Cullan. The other gentleman is Tom Pendergast. Now please leave."

"No kidding," Mason said, taking another look at the photograph. "When was this taken? Last question, I promise."

"I'll tell you on your way out," Shirley said, and turned off the light. She followed Mason out of Cullan's office, locked the door behind them, and ushered him out into the hallway. "Nineteen forty-five," she said, and slammed the outer door tightly shut.

Mason stepped out onto the sidewalk and looked back up at the window to Cullan's office. For an instant, he thought he saw Shirley Parker lingering in the shadows, then dismissed the image as a trick of the sun against the glass and his own creeping paranoia. Sitting in his car, he turned on the engine and began a U-turn to go back south on Main. As he did so, he had a head-on view of the building across the street from Cullan's office. A barber pole was bolted to the wall of 2010 Main Street. The barbershop, and the rest of the block, was vacant, but Mason suddenly remembered it from the stories told him by his grandfather.

Tom Pendergast had run Kansas City with a velvet hammer Cullan must have envied. Mason's grandfather, Mike, had gotten his start in the wrecking business when Pendergast had given his blessing to his grandfather's plan to salvage the scrap from the construction of Bagnel Dam at the Lake of the Ozarks and sell it. Afterward, his grandfather had gone to Pendergast's office to pay his respects and a cut of the profits to Pendergast. Pendergast had accepted the gratitude but not the cash, and Mason's grandfather had been on his way. Mason's grandfather had always told his grandson how strange it was that such a powerful man who could have had an office bigger than the president's chose to do business from an office above a barbershop on Main Street.

By 1945, when the picture had been taken, Pendergast had been released from jail and his organization lay in ruins. Maybe the young Jack Cullan didn't know or care about Pendergast's background. Maybe he did and respected Pendergast for coming back to his old turf. Maybe it was pure coincidence that Cullan had shaken hands that day with the man whose career he would emulate. Mason didn't believe in coincidences or the ability of people to change their fundamental nature. Cullan's picture reminded Mason of the photograph of a youthful Bill Clinton shaking hands with his idol, President John Kennedy. He wondered whether people picked the footsteps they followed, or whether the path was already laid out.

There was a small diner, another relic from pre-fast-food times, a block south on Main. It was the last building on the east side of the street and offered a handful of parking spaces in a lot on the south side of the building. Mason pulled into the parking lot and called Mickey Shanahan from his cell phone.

"Law offices of Lou Mason. To whom may I direct your call?" Mickey said.

"Are you auditioning for a job as a receptionist too?" Mason asked.

"No job too small, no duty too great. Pay me soon, it's been a week since I ate," Mickey recited.

"I'm not surprised. Your shtick is from hunger," Mason replied. "While you're cruising the Internet, go to the county's Web site and check property ownership records for 2010 Main. In fact, check the ownership records for that entire block. The west side of Main between Twentieth and Twenty-first. Call me back on my cell phone," Mason said, and gave him the number.

Mason took his phone and went inside the diner, noting its name for the first time. The Egg House Diner was a twenty-four-hour restaurant with a counter that seated eight and a row of booths along the front window, none of which were occupied when Mason sat down shortly before noon. A man of indeterminate age, wearing layers of soiled clothing and a strong odor, sat at the counter, stirring a cup of coffee. A large, black plastic bag, stuffed to its limit, lay on the floor at his feet. The booths were empty. Mason knew that a diner that was dead at lunch was not living off its reputation for fine food.

He chose a booth that gave him a clear view of the barbershop, and picked up a menu that had more stains than entrees. A few moments later, a flat-faced woman with dull eyes and thin hair, wearing a lime-green-and-white-striped waitress uniform, brought him a glass of water and took his order for a turkey sandwich. He'd taken his first bite when his cell phone rang. Mason's caller ID displayed his office phone number.

"What do you have for me, Mickey?" Mason asked.

"The whole block is owned by New Century Redevelopment Corporation except for 2010 Main. Shirley Parker owns that building. Her name mean anything to you?"

"It means everything," Mason answered. "I'll probably be out the rest of the day, but you can reach me on my cell phone."

Mason spent the rest of the afternoon in the booth at the Egg House Diner. The man sitting at the counter did the same. The waitress, apparently used to customers who spent little, talked less, and stayed forever, left him alone. He watched the traffic on Main Street, waiting for Shirley Parker to jaywalk from the People's Savings Building to the barbershop across the street.

Mason wasn't good at sitting and waiting. He lacked the patience for a stakeout and wasn't certain whether sitting in a restaurant qualified for that description. He figured a real stakeout meant sitting in a dark car, drinking cold coffee, peeing in a bottle, and scrunching down in the front seat whenever someone drove by. He was just killing time in a dumpy diner, kept company by people who had no place else to go.

After a while, he retrieved a yellow legal pad from his car and tried to reproduce the notes from his dry-erase board.

He wrote the names and the questions again, adding order and precision to the notes without finding any new answers. He drummed his pen against the pad until the vagrant at the counter silenced him with an annoyed look. No one else came into the diner. At three o'clock, Mason ordered a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee to be polite. He picked at the pie and stirred the coffee, then told the waitress to give it to his counter companion. The man gave him another annoyed look, but didn't send the snack back to Mason's booth.

By five o'clock, clouds had moved in, hastening the transition from dusk to dark. Headlights blinked on, slicing the gloom on Main Street as people began making their way home. As if on cue, the man at the counter grunted at the waitress, hoisted his plastic bag over his shoulder, and left, giving Mason a final silent stab on his way out the door.

A pair of city buses, one northbound, the other southbound, stopped at the corner of Twentieth and Main, momentarily blocking his view. When the buses pulled away, he saw Shirley Parker jostling the lock on the door to the building that housed the barbershop. He waited until she was inside before leaving the diner, trying to remember when he'd had his last haircut.