The Last Witness

Chapter Twenty-one

The door opened into a long, dark, narrow hallway that led to the back of the building. Bare wooden stairs that led down from the second floor nearly to the entrance further narrowed the passage to the rear.

Another door to Mason's right would have opened into the barbershop had the door not been lying on its side, propped against the wall as an afterthought. The shop was nearly empty, having been looted years before. An ancient barber's chair planted in the center of the floor, and stretched into the reclining position used to wash and shave, was the last relic of the brisk trade in grooming and gossip that had once flourished there. Even the sink the barber had used had been uprooted. Steel bars had been bolted to the storefront window frame; a stark concession to the uneasy plight of an abandoned building made too late to save anything but memories.

A naked lightbulb at the top of the stairs cast uneasy shadows at Mason's feet He could hear Shirley Parker's shoes scraping overhead against the floor of Tom Pendergast's old office.

Mason had spent the afternoon betting that Jack Cullan had hidden his secret files in Pendergast's office. He was certain that Cullan couldn't have resisted the delicious irony of using his hero's headquarters as his own hideaway. Putting the ownership of the building in Shirley Parker's name was a thin dodge, arrogance mistaken for cleverness-a common weakness of bad guys. Mason was certain that Superman never would have put Jimmy Olson's name on the deed to the Fortress of Solitude.

Mason had also bet that Shirley Parker would make the short trip across the street to be certain that the files were undisturbed. He hoped that his questions had unnerved her, compelling her to conduct her own stakeout of the barbershop from the vantage of Cullan's office just to confirm that Mason didn't try to break in and steal the files. Having spent her day watching the barbershop, she wouldn't be able to resist the compulsion to make sure he hadn't somehow sneaked past her.

Breaking, and entering was a Class D felony, not an upward career move for most lawyers. As he walked from the diner to the barbershop, Mason convinced himself that he was neither breaking nor entering; he was simply making a business visit knowing that Shirley was inside. Besides, he had no intent to commit any crime on the premises, at least not at that moment. He just wanted to talk with Shirley Parker.

Mason's careful rationalization evaporated along with his chilled breath the moment he stepped inside. Shirley Parker had refused to answer his questions in Cullan's office during normal business hours. Popping up like the Pillsbury Doughboy in Pendergast's office after hours wouldn't loosen her tongue. She would make good on her threat to call the police, and the files, if they were upstairs, would disappear overnight.

Mason had a sudden insight into the curious reasoning that frequently landed his clients in jail. It was a mix of overstated need, selfish justification, and unfounded optimism that he could pull off the plan that he had just conceived in a larcenous epiphany. He walked to the end of the hallway, confident that it really was a good idea to hide there until Shirley left the building, then search Pendergast's office until he found the files. Tomorrow morning, he would serve Shirley with a subpoena for the files, and then sit back and watch Patrick Ortiz marvel at his resourcefulness.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he felt his way along the hallway, soon coming to the backside of the stairway, where he found a door that he assumed led to the basement. Taking care not to aggravate squeaky hinges, he gently nursed the handle until he felt it release, then eased the door open just enough to slip through. Probing the black space with one foot, he confirmed his guess about a basement and stepped down onto the first stair, pulling the door closed behind him. He was sweating inside his jacket in spite of the cold that crept up the stairs from the unheated basement.

Twenty minutes passed, made longer and slower by the stiffness that seeped from his neck downward and his feet upward, merging into an electrified knot in the small of his back. The sound of Shirley's footsteps coming down the stairs drowned out the protests his body was filing with his brain. He opened the basement door a crack to make certain he would hear the front door opening and closing. He took comfort in Shirley's unhurried gait and unbroken march down the stairs and out the door. She didn't hesitate, as she would have if she had heard or sensed his presence.

Mason waited another five minutes after Shirley left before heading upstairs. Shirley had turned off the light at the top of the stairs, and Mason didn't want to take the chance that she was watching from across the street for a light to come on. The glow from the streetlight and passing headlights scarcely permeated the frame of the front door, leaving him to feel his way along the wall with his hands. If he could have seen his feet, he would have kicked himself for having failed to bring a flashlight.

Still using his hands as his eyes, Mason located the door to Pendergast's office and was relieved that Shirley had left it unlocked. The office was darker even than the stairwell, as if it had been sealed. Recalling that there was a double window overlooking Main Street, and that he'd seen blinds on that window when he'd looked up from his car, Mason felt his way to the street side of the room to peek through the blinds. When his fingers found smooth drywall all along that surface, he became disoriented, so uncertain of direction that he circled the room twice as his mouth dried up in a blind man's panic.

On his second pass, just beyond the door, his knuckles brushed against a switch, flicking it on and blinding himself a second time, though with light rather than darkness. He leaned against the wall, squinting until his pupils stopped dilating. The double window had been covered, the blinds still in place, so that the outside world would see the window, unchanged and unopened-but a window nonetheless. Inside, the light was captive, unable to illuminate the secrets behind the walls.

The room was empty. Mason imagined Pendergast sitting behind a desk, dispensing favors or broken legs, as the moment required. He envisioned a couple of overfed cronies in snap-brimmed fedoras, smoking sour cigars, giving witness and protection to Pendergast's patronage practice. He thought of his grandfather, genuflecting with a humble "Thank you, Mr. Pendergast." There were no reminders of those times, no photographs on the walls, not even outlines in the dust on the floor where the furniture once sat.

There was a sliding panel that had been built into the wall Mason guessed would have been behind Pendergast's desk. It was the wall that would have afforded Pendergast a straight-on view of each supplicant or sucker who crossed his threshold. A circular groove had been cut at one end of the panel into a finger hold with which to pull the panel open. A lock had been added directly above the groove. Mason tried it without success; not surprised when it didn't yield.

There were no lock picks or crowbars lying on the floor, so Mason used his shoulder to loosen the lock. It gave on the third try, splintering the wood that housed the bolt. He shoved the panel back along its track and stepped into a walk-in closet lined with wooden file cabinets. Expecting the drawers to also be locked, Mason yanked on the nearest one, almost falling over when it easily spilled into his arms. The names on the files should have read Pay Dirt. Instead, the files were labeled with the names of the rich and powerful. Skimming the names, Mason found Cullan's files on Billy Sunshine, Ed Fiora, and Beth Harrell. He almost had time to read them before his career as a second-story man ended like a scene from a late-night rerun.

"Freeze, mister! Put your hands where I can see them and turn around real slow!"

Mason left the drawer gaping open and did as he was told. A police officer aimed his service revolver at Mason from the doorway. Mason could see Shirley Parker peering around the cop, her eyes drawn in beady satisfaction.

"I'm unarmed," Mason said. He didn't think there was any point in telling the cop that this was all a misunderstanding; that he hadn't really done what he'd so clearly done. He expected to be arrested, and was more interested in not getting shot.

"Up against the wall, legs and arms spread wide," the cop instructed.

Mason complied again, flinching as the cop ran one hand down his sides, up his legs to his crotch, under his jacket, and around his middle.

Satisfied, the cop said, "Okay. You can turn around now."

The cop was tall, square-shouldered, and vaguely familiar until Mason read the name beneath his badge. Blues had decked Officer James Toland when Toland had tried to put cuffs on him. Mason understood Blues's impulse as Toland looked him over. Mason waited for Toland to pull out his handcuffs, read him his rights, and end his career. None of which happened.

Shirley Parker stepped past them and into the closet, conducting a quick inventory.

Toland broke the silence. "Do you want to press charges, Miss Parker?"

"There doesn't seem to be anything missing," she said. "You can let Mr. Mason go," she answered from inside the closet.

Toland looked like a kid whose Christmas had been canceled. "Must be your lucky day, Counselor," Toland told him.

Mason felt his blood start circulating again as he realized why Shirley had granted him a reprieve. He may have been guilty of breaking and entering, but she was sitting on the mother lode of blackmail that would make her the next frontpage defendant. Whatever Shirley intended to do with the files, exposing their existence wasn't an option.

Shirley stepped back into the room, her face suddenly bleak and ashen. She knew she was in over her head. Mason imagined that she had gone through life doing what Jack Cullan had told her to do, maybe nursing a quiet love that was never noticed or returned, resigned to her life at his side, loyal and lonely. She'd been angry enough at Mason's intrusion to call the cops, summoning righteous indignation, wielding the authority her boss had carried. Now she'd outsmarted herself and could only let him go.

Mason had more questions for her that he was certain she wouldn't answer, but he couldn't resist the most obvious.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked her.

Shirley faced him. "There's a motion detector on the stairs. Satisfied, Mr. Mason?"

"Completely," Mason answered. "I'll be back in the morning with a subpoena for those files, so take very good care of them tonight. You've got enough problems without adding a charge for obstruction of justice."

Mason hurried back up the street to the Egg House Diner, checking over his shoulder to see when Shirley Parker and Toland left the building. He'd just slid into his booth when they emerged. Shirley locked the door, pulling a steel bar across it that he hadn't noticed before.

Toland watched her cross the street back to the People's Savings Building before climbing into his squad car and driving away. Mason waved as Toland passed the diner, pleased with his escape and happy for Toland to know that he was still keeping his eye on the files.

Mason looked around the diner. A second shift had come on duty during his absence. A waiter had replaced the waitress, and a homeless woman seated at the counter had taken the place of the homeless man. Though he couldn't be certain, Mason suspected that the waitress and the homeless man had simply traded places. The waiter's pale skin looked even paler against his two-day growth of beard when he shoved a glass of water across Mason's table. Not wanting to push his luck, Mason ordered another turkey sandwich. The woman huddled inside her tattered overcoat and scarves as if she were in a cocoon for the winter.

"Give her some dinner and put it on my check," he told the waiter.

The waiter returned to the counter, leaned over to the woman, and spoke too softly for Mason to hear. A moment later, the woman shuffled off the stool, gave Mason a poisonous glare, and disappeared down Main Street. The waiter shook his head as if cursing himself for not knowing any better. Mason had tried taking a page from his aunt Claire's book, only to realize that it was now a different book tided No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

Mason didn't trust Shirley Parker to leave Cullan's files where they were until he showed up with a subpoena the next morning. He didn't know whether there was another entrance to the barbershop, and he couldn't watch both Shirley and the barbershop all night. Nor was Mason thrilled at the prospect of spending the night in the diner, pissing off homeless people. The simplest solution was to make a deal with the prosecutor. Mason would tell Ortiz about the files in return for Ortiz's promise to share the contents with him. Ortiz would track down Judge Carter and get a search warrant before Shirley Parker had a chance to come up with plan B.

Mason's deal with Ortiz for Cullan's files would cancel the ones he'd made with Rachel and Amy and more than disappoint Fiora. Mason dialed Patrick Ortiz's direct-dial number on his cell phone, not surprised that Ortiz was still working long after most county employees had gone home.

"Ortiz," he said, answering on the second ring.

"Patrick, it's Lou Mason. I've got a great deal for you."

"Too late," Ortiz said. "I told you the plea bargain was off the table if we went to the preliminary hearing."

"Forget the plea bargain. I'm going to make you the hero in this case. Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell and a lot of other people, maybe including the mayor. I've found the files he kept on those people."

"So you're calling to report a crime committed by a dead man?"

"I'm calling to tell you to get a search warrant for those files so you can prevent them from disappearing. Those files are evidence in Cullan's murder. The killer is probably someone whom Cullan was blackmailing."

"Your client is the killer, Lou. Did Cullan have a file on him?"

"No. Listen, Patrick. Cullan's secretary has those files squirreled away in Tom Pendergast's old office on Main Street. She's an accessory to Cullan's blackmail. She knows that I know about the files and if you don't get a search warrant for them tonight, they'll be in a shredder before sunrise."

"Sorry, Lou. I'm not going to bother Judge Carter tonight on a bullshit story like that. You want to take it up with the judge tomorrow, give me a call. I've got work to do."

Mason wanted to throw his phone across the room when Ortiz hung up on him. Instead, he called the homicide division, hoping that Harry Ryman was working late. Carl Zimmerman answered instead.

"Carl, it's Lou Mason. Is Harry around?"

"Nope. He had to go see a witness; a guy he's been chasing for a couple of weeks. What's up?"

Mason hesitated. He intended to tell Harry the entire story and ask him to help baby-sit Cullan's files until Mason could talk to the judge in the morning. He even hoped that Harry would send a couple of uniformed cops to sit outside the barbershop all night. Mason didn't know Zimmerman well enough to ask for a favor like that, but he didn't have another choice. He decided to keep his story simple to convince Zimmerman that there was a good reason to help him out.

"Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell. He kept secret files on her, the mayor, and Ed Fiora, plus a lot of other people. I've found Cullan's files but I can't get to them. The prosecutor won't ask Judge Carter for a search warrant tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, the files could be gone. I know you're convinced that my client killed Cullan, but there's a good chance something in those files will prove he didn't. I need your help to make sure nothing happens to them."

"Where are the files?" Zimmerman asked.

"In Tom Pendergast's old office above the barbershop at Twentieth and Main."

"Anybody there now?"

"No."

"Who else knows about the files?"

"Cullan's secretary, Shirley Parker. A cop named Toland, who was with you when you arrested Blues, knows that there's something in that office, but I don't think he knows what it is."

"Where are you now?"

"In a diner up the street from the barbershop."

"Sit tight, Lou. I just got hit with a call on a dead body in Swope Park. I'll meet you when I'm done with that. It may take me a couple of hours, but it's the best I can do."

"Thanks," Mason said.

A couple of hours passed and then another. Mason tried Harry's number again without any luck. He called the dispatcher, asking her to contact Harry and tell him to call Mason. When Harry didn't call, he left the same message for Zimmerman. He called his aunt Claire, who told him that she hadn't spoken to Harry all day. The waiter was eyeing Mason like he should start charging him rent for the booth when Mason's cell phone rang.

"Harry?" Mason asked.

"It's Zimmerman. What's going on?"

"I'm growing old in this diner. I think the waiter is about to add me to the menu."

"Leave him a big tip. I'm stuck in the park. Stay where you are and wait for me."

"Right," Mason said, having decided in the same instant that he couldn't wait any longer.

Mason left a ten-dollar tip for a five-dollar meal, and went to his car. His ex-wife had once given him a tool kit to keep in the trunk of his car. It was one of the first indications that they didn't know each other as well as their glands would have liked. Mason's tool of choice to fix anything was a hammer he could use to beat whatever was broken into submission. The rest of the tools were for guys who knew the difference between a flat head, and a Phillips head. Mason found the small flashlight at the bottom of the kit, and grinned when the batteries still worked. Grabbing the hammer and the flashlight, he closed the trunk and got ready to commit a felony for a second time that night.