The Last Witness

Chapter Twenty-three

Mason was slow getting out of the house on Friday morning. The paramedic had been right about the epidermal color scheme he would be sporting for a while. Standing naked in front of his bathroom mirror, his body looked as if he'd been tattooed with a Rorschach test. The stitches in his side had held, though there was an angry red ribbon around them. He walked creakily around his house like the Tin Man in search of a lube job, trailed by Tuffy, whose whining and yelping Mason mistook for sympathy until he realized that the dog just wanted to be fed. He tried rowing, but gave up when the rowing machine started to sink. A shower hot enough to parboil his skin loosened the kinks in his muscles and joints.

Rachel had followed him home the night before, and had stayed long enough to extract information she agreed to attribute only to a source close to the investigation. Her story in the morning paper ran alongside a color photograph of him clutching the bars on the barbershop window while flames danced a pirouette around him. A spectator had taken the photograph and sold it to a wire service, turning a quick profit on tragedy. Mason held the picture up for a closer look as he searched for a trace of courage in his bugged-out eyes and gaping mouth.

Rachel's article wove the Pendergast angle into the facts, giving the story a gangland flavor that linked two twenty-first-century murders with a long-dead twentieth-century kingpin. Rachel related the rumored existence of Cullan's confidential files and the suspicion that they contained embarrassing information on the city's leaders. She speculated on whether the files had been destroyed in the fire or whether the fire had been set to cover their theft. She described Shirley Parker as a never-married woman with no survivors whose only known employment had been for Jack Cullan. Mason decided that there was more tragedy in Shirley's epitaph than in her death.

As for him, Rachel played it straight. The caption under the photograph identified him as Blues's lawyer. The article offered no explanation for his presence in the barbershop, noting that he had declined to comment on the record, as had Harry Ryman when she had asked him whether Mason was a suspect in Shirley Parker's murder.

Off the record, Mason had told her the story, not wanting her to think he was a killer.

"I don't," she had told him when he had finished explaining what had happened. "A lousy burglar, yes, but a killer? I don't think so."

"Thanks for the endorsement," he had told her.

"So who did it? Who killed Cullan, blew up the barbershop, and killed Shirley Parker? And what happened to the files?"

"Like G.I. Joe says, knowing is half the battle," Mason had answered. "The other half is proving it. Ed Fiora is the leader in the clubhouse. Fiora may have been happy for Cullan to work his magic on the license for the Dream Casino. But who wants a lawyer with a file that could send him to the federal penitentiary? Plus he's got the muscle. Tony Manzerio probably gets his rocks off blowing stuff up. Fiora killed Cullan-or had him killed-to preserve the attorney-client privilege. Then, he sends Tony to talk to Shirley and she gives up the files. Tony snatches the files and kills Shirley."

Rachel had chewed on Mason's theory. "Yeah, but killing Shirley is too messy. Threaten her, buy her off, and send her out of town-which would have made sense. Killing her turns up the heat hotter than the fire. Fiora isn't that stupid."

"No plan ever goes down the way it's written. Something went wrong and Tony popped Shirley."

"So Fiora has the files?" Rachel had asked.

"They ain't at the public library."

"So how do you prove it?"

"Beats the hell out of me," Mason had answered.

Mickey Shanahan was sitting in Mason's desk chair, his feet propped on Mason's desk, drinking from a bottle of fresh orange juice, when Mason arrived just before ten o'clock.

"Is that my orange juice?" Mason asked him.

"Sorry, Lou," Mickey told him, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "This woman dropped it off a while ago. Said she was your aunt. Said you should call her so she could chew your ass. Whatever you did, she's like totally pissed, man. What's goin' on?"

"First, that is my orange juice. Second, my aunt is probably upset that I got trapped in a burning barbershop with a dead body. Third, when did you move into my office?"

"Sorry, again, boss," Mickey said, this time taking his feet off of Mason's desk. "I give on the OJ. But you've got to tell me about the barbershop and the body. That is too much! And you're the one who hired me to use your computer to check out Ed Fiora. That was yesterday. You left me here without the key. I didn't want to leave the place unlocked and I didn't know when you were coming back, so I stayed."

"All night?"

"That sofa's not bad. And the orange juice is pretty good."

Mickey was wearing the same faded jeans and denim shirt under a black crew-neck sweater as he had worn the day before. He had scruffy stubble on his chin and above his lip, though his cheeks were smooth and his unwashed hair looked like it had been finger-combed.

"Mickey, where do you live?"

Mickey brushed his sweater as if to freshen his dignity. "I've got a place not far from here."

"What about clients? I haven't seen a single client in or out of your office in six months. What's up with that?"

"It's been a little slow," Mickey said. "I'm expecting things to pick up. This case will be a big boost."

Mason got a quick picture of a kid barely off the street who thought he had scammed Blues on the office lease and had probably been living at the bar ever since. Mason doubted that Mickey had fooled Blues from the moment he'd said hello. Mason reached into his wallet and took out a twenty.

"I haven't had breakfast. Would you mind picking something up for me? Get yourself something too if you want."

"Hey, no problem, boss. I'll probably stop at home and get cleaned up if that's okay."

"You bet. Did you find anything out about Fiora?"

"A lot of smoke, not much fire. It's all here in a report I did for you."

"Give me the highlights."

"I've covered the public-record stuff, property ownership, lawsuits, stuff like that. The Gaming Commission files could be the real bonanza."

"Why?"

"I found two things in those records that are the keys to the information universe. Fiora's Social Security number and bank accounts. It will take some time, but I'll eventually be able to follow the money."

"Is that legal?"

"Hey, you're the lawyer. Do you really want to know?"

"No, I really don't. What's the bottom line?"

"Fiora is a big football fan. Just like the mayor. I did some checking on him too."

Mickey handed him a typed report with printouts from the Internet attached. Mason thumbed through it, impressed by the level of detail and organization. He reached into his wallet again and handed Mickey two fifties.

"We haven't talked salary yet. This will cover yesterday until we have time to work out the details."

Mickey folded the fifties and stuck them in his pocket with a nonchalance that clashed with the hunger in his eyes. "Works for me. I'll have to see where I'm at on my other clients before I can commit to anything full-time."

"Sure. I understand. Check your schedule and let me know. I'm probably going to need somebody at least until Blues's case is over. If you're not available, I'll have to run an ad. That's always a pain in the ass."

Mickey pursed his lips and nodded, realizing that they were playing each other. "So, what's the story on the barbershop and the body?"

"Buy yourself a newspaper and read all about it. Come to work for me full-time and we'll talk."

Mickey smiled and said, "Catch you later, boss."

Mason, certain that he would, settled into his desk chair, checked out the traffic on Broadway, and read Mickey's report.

The relationship between Fiora and the mayor was more complicated than a backwoods family tree and was, in the end, filled with enough smoke that there had to be a fire somewhere. The Dream Casino bought a wide array of goods and services to make dreams come true for its customers, including food, laundry, carpets, paint, security equipment, slot machines, lighting, liquor, and beer. The Dream had an exclusive contract with a local beer distributor owned by Donovan Jenkins.

Jenkins, a former wide receiver for the Kansas City Chiefs, had been Billy Sunshine's favorite target. Jenkins had retired from football a year after the mayor had quit, and bought the beer distributorship. He'd been a steady political supporter of his old quarterback, making modest campaign contributions. A month after Jenkins had inked the exclusive deal with Fiora, mayor Sunshine had refinanced the $250,000 mortgage on his house. The mayor's new lender was Donovan Jenkins. Mickey speculated at the end of his report that the mayor wasn't making house payments like regular folks.

Mason picked up his phone and dialed Rachel Firestone's number at the Star. "What do you know about the mortgage on Mayor Sunshine's house?" he asked her.

"Good morning to you too. Nice of you to call and you're welcome for last night," she added.

"I'm sure it was as good for you as it was for me."

"As good as it gets," she assured him. "How did you find out about the mortgage?"

"You aren't my only source," he told her. "What do you know about the relationship between Fiora, Donovan Jenkins, and the mayor?"

"Fiora made Jenkins his exclusive beer supplier. Jenkins loaned the mayor a quarter of a million bucks. It's dirty, it sucks, but it's legal. I've talked to the U.S. attorney about it. Jenkins's loan is a matter of public record. Amy White, the mayor's chief of staff, showed me canceled checks for the monthly house payment Mayor Sunshine makes to Jenkins. The interest rate is a market rate. End of story, but I've got something you might be interested in on that tunnel you found in the basement of the barbershop."

"Should I sit up and beg?" Mason asked.

"Not over the phone. I can't tell if you're really sitting up. I checked the paper's archives. During Prohibition, Pendergast owned a speakeasy that was on the other side of the alley from the barbershop. He built the tunnel so his boys could escape in case the feds raided the joint."

"Who owns the building?" Mason asked.

"Donovan Jenkins. He bought it from Jack Cullan a year ago."

Mason said, "That's handy. Who does Jenkins lease the space to?"

"An art gallery. They had a big opening last month. It was vacant a long time before that. Care to guess who the last tenant was before the art gallery?"

"And rob you of the pleasure of telling me? Never," Mason told her.

"You are so thoughtful. Would you believe it was the Committee to Reelect Billy Sunshine?"

"Get out!"

"Get in and get in deep!" Rachel said.

"Man, is there anybody in this whole mess who isn't in bed with one another?"

"Just you and me, babe. Just you and me," Rachel told him.

Mason didn't know what to say. He couldn't tell if Rachel was flirting with him, and if she was, he didn't know how to flirt with a lesbian. "By the way, thanks for last night," he told her.

"It was nothing. Keep in touch," she added before hanging up.

Mason knew that it wasn't nothing, although he hadn't figured out quite what it was. His relationship with Rachel wasn't sexual or romantic and never would be, despite his complete willingness to overlook her gender preference if only she would. Mason reluctantly conceded that it was easier to make love to a woman than to just make friends with her. That this particular woman spent every waking moment gunning for a page-one headline above the fold didn't make the calculus any easier.

With Cullan's files either destroyed or stolen, Mason was back at the bottom of the hill, still trying to push the boulder to the top. He would let Mickey continue plowing fields in cyberspace while he dug at ground level.

Mason logged on to the county's civil-lawsuit database and punched in Beth Harrell's name. Both of her divorce cases showed up. Husband number one was Baker McKenzie. Mason recognized his name. He was the senior partner in the McKenzie, Strachan law firm. Husband number two was Al Douglas, a name Mason didn't recognize. According to Beth, one of her ex-husbands had snapped nasty pics of her and had given them to Jack Cullan. Mason's best idea of the day was to find the exes and ask which one of them was the shit bag. It wasn't noon yet, but Mason hoped he'd have a better idea before the sun set.