The Last Witness

Chapter Twenty-four

Mason didn't want to ask Beth which of her ex-husbands was the shit bag. He wasn't entirely convinced that she was telling the truth in the first place. If Beth knew he was checking out her story and she was lying, she would backpedal or find some way to distract him, and he wasn't up to being distracted. If she was telling the truth, she would start crowding Ed Fiora's pole position on the suspect track.

Mason called the clerk of the Circuit Court to locate Bern 's divorce files. The voice-mail system cast him into a menu of choices that he accepted and rejected until a human being answered. When the woman said her name was Margaret, he didn't believe her when she asked if she could help him.

"My name is Lou Mason. I'm a lawyer and I'm trying to locate two divorce files," he said.

"Are they on-site or off-site?" she asked him.

Mason swallowed. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

"If they are on-site, they might only be available on microfilm. That would mean that we shipped the hard copy off-site. If the files are off-site and you want the hard copy, it will take one to three business days to retrieve the files from off-site storage. Hold, please," she added before he could respond.

Mason imagined dozens of different torture scenarios for bureaucrats named Margaret during the three minutes and twenty-seven seconds she left him on hold. Mason timed her.

"This is Margaret. May I help you?" she asked when she returned to his call.

"Margaret, this is Lou Mason. We've already met. I'm looking for two divorce files and I know the on-site, off-site drill. Let me give you the case numbers so you can find out where they are."

"We can't give that information out over the phone. You'll have to come to the clerk's office and sign a form."

Mason took a deep breath. "Should I ask for you, Margaret?"

"Yes. I'll be at lunch."

Mason hung up, confident that Margaret would keep a lookout for him and run out the back door for lunch the instant he crossed the threshold of the clerk's office.

Thirty minutes later, Mason cautiously approached the court clerk's office. He was less concerned that Margaret would actually be at lunch than he was that she would be there and he'd end up a suspect in another homicide. Mason passed through double glass doors, above which clerk of the jackson county circuit court had been embossed in gold-filigree letters on the dark-walnut-paneled wall. A long white counter laminated with Formica separated Mason from women working at desks, processing the county's civil and criminal cases.

He had concluded from past experiences that they had been trained not to look up unless it was at the clock. It was ten minutes to noon when Mason rang the bell on the counter under the sign that read ring for service. The woman at the nearest desk looked up, the resentment at his interruption shot through her glare. He asked for Margaret.

The woman picked up her phone, speaking softly and furtively stealing glances at him until Mason was certain that she'd called the sheriff's office. She hung up the phone, put the cap on her pen, and disappeared to the back of the office. He didn't know where she had gone, only that she was gone.

Mason waited. There was a large clock on the wall to his right. He watched the second hand sweep around the dial and the incremental march of the minute hand to twelve o'clock high. The other women in the office, as if in response to an inner clock, rose in turn from their desks, vanishing into the far depths of the clerk's office.

One woman remained. She was of an indistinct age and build that spoke of middle years without further precision. She wore a tan pantsuit and a flat expression across her wide face. She walked slowly to the counter, eyeing the clock, timing her advance.

"My name is Margaret," she said, this time not offering to help him.

"I'm Lou Mason. We spoke on the phone. You said I had to fill out a form to request a couple of divorce files."

Margaret reached into a drawer on her side of the counter and handed Mason two forms, one for each file. He filled them out and flashed her his best smile when he handed them back to her. He followed her gaze to the clock.

"It's noon. I'm on my lunch break now. Come back at one o'clock," she said.

Mason watched helplessly as Margaret carried the forms back to her desk, dropping them on her chair as she walked past, never looking back.

He returned exactly sixty minutes later. Seventy minutes later, Margaret presented him with both files, neither of which had been off-site or on microfilm. He filled out additional forms to check out the files, which meant that he could take them into a small adjoining room and look at them. He would have to fill out another form to request copies, and he could not under any circumstances, Margaret explained in the severest of tones, remove the files from the clerk's office.

Mason read Beth's divorce files, filling in some of the statistical blanks in her life. The files were one-dimensional ledgers of dates and dollars, the final accounting of dead relationships. He thought about his own marriage, about the passion and pain that had swept both him and Kate along for three years until Kate called it quits, depriving him of the choice to fight or surrender. There was no exuberance in the dry recitation of the dates of Beth's marriages, and no regret in the hollow entries of the decrees of divorce. It was history without humanity. Irreconcilable differences were the code words for hearts empty and broken.

Beth Harrell had married Baker McKenzie shortly after graduating from law school. She was twenty-five and he was twenty-five years her senior. They had met when Beth worked at McKenzie's firm during the summers while she was in law school. The file was thin, the grounds the ubiquitous irreconcilable differences. The marriage had lasted two years. There had been no children, and she hadn't sought alimony or any of his property. He had wanted out, and she had settled for the restoration of her maiden name.

She had waited five years before marrying Al Douglas, an architect fifteen years older than Beth. She had kept her maiden name, and they had signed a prenuptial agreement that prohibited either of them from seeking any monetary settlement from the other in the event of a divorce, with the exception of child support if they had a family. Irreconcilable differences had again been diagnosed, like a recurring cancer. The court had entered the decree of divorce on their fourth wedding anniversary.

It was impossible to draw any conclusions about Bern 's marriages from the information that had been presented to the court other than that they had had a beginning and an ending. What had taken place in the middle was not a matter of public record. Mason would have to ask Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas to find out which one of them was the shit bag.

Mason had learned one thing about celebrity. It cleared a lot of scheduling conflicts. Both Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas agreed to see him that afternoon. He started with McKenzie.

Baker McKenzie was the third generation of McKenzies in the firm his grandfather and Matthew Strachan had founded seventy-five years earlier. None of Strachan's heirs had followed their ancestor in the law, though no later generations of interloping partners had suggested removing the Strachan name from the door. McKenzie & Strachan was the oldest, and largest law firm in the city, its bloodlines were the bluest, and its stockings were woven of the finest silk.

Baker McKenzie sat comfortably at the top of the firm, worrying more about his putting stroke than the firm's clients. He had hidden mediocre legal skills and a civil service work ethic beneath the legacy of his grandfather and father. Mason had run across him once or twice in cases where the client had expected the name partner to show his face. McKenzie had shown it just long enough to make certain he didn't get it dirty before begging off because of pressing matters in the case of Tee v. Green. He was a society-page regular who never left home without a beautiful woman on his arm, though not one so beautiful as to detract from his own shining countenance.

McKenzie greeted Mason as if they were asshole buddies. "My God, man! How the hell are you? I swear to Jesus that you are turning our profession into one dangerous contact sport."

McKenzie gleamed as if he'd just been washed and waxed. His artificially whitened teeth sparkled, as did his blond hair and silvery temples. His eyes glistened, making Mason wonder if McKenzie was wearing special contact lenses. Even his skin had a ruddy, glowing patina, as if a shoeshine man had just spit-shined his forehead and chin. McKenzie was Mason's height, though broad where Mason was lean. His suit was Italian and cost at least two grand. McKenzie was fit for his age or any other, and shook Mason's hand vigorously enough to make that point.

McKenzie led Mason back to his private office on the forty-first floor of the Citadel Building, the tallest office building in Kansas City. McKenzie & Strachan occupied fifteen floors in the building. McKenzie's office was on the top floor, and had windows on three sides that offered panoramic views of the city.

"You've got a helluva view, Baker," Mason said.

"Hell, I can see from here to next week," Baker answered, permitting himself a hearty chuckle even though he'd obviously used the line a thousand times. "It's really something at night, especially during a lightning storm. I'm telling you, Lou, it's like standing next to Zeus throwing thunderbolts. It electrifies women of a certain erotic sensibility, like their nerve endings get supercharged and they've just got to plug something into all that current."

"I'll bet you know how to throw the switch," Mason said to humor him.

"I could light up a Christmas tree, my friend."

McKenzie's desk was an oval of smoky glass, devoid of a single piece of paper. A bold, brilliantly colored abstract painting hung on the wall behind his desk. Two sleek, low-backed chairs were paired with a small table in front of one wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. A sofa adorned with plush pillows and bathed in soft light beckoned only a few feet from a well-stocked bar that also housed a Bose sound system. The door to a private bathroom was barely discernible against the mahogany-paneled walls. Mason thought it was more fuck pad than law office.

"I'll bet those are some moments to remember," Mason said.

"Indeed they are. Indeed they are," McKenzie repeated to be certain that Mason knew what he was missing.

Mason said, "All that excitement, it must be hard to remember one woman from another. You ever keep any souvenirs?"

McKenzie's boasting gave way to suspicion. "You didn't really tell me why you wanted to see me, Lou. I'm sure it wasn't to hear about my love life. What's on your mind?"

It had taken Mason only a few minutes to bait Baker McKenzie and less time to hate him. McKenzie was, Mason decided, the kind of man who would mistake diplomacy for deference. Mason was not good at either.

"Beth Harrell says she was being blackmailed with some dirty pictures either you or her other ex-husband took and later gave to Jack Cullan. If that's true, she's a murder suspect and the ex-husband is a shit bag, although there's no law against being a shit bag. I need to know if the pictures are real, and I need to know if you're the shit bag, Baker."

McKenzie was standing next to the center panel of glass, six steps from Mason. He looked out over the horizon for a moment before turning toward Mason, his face besotted with angry blood. Without saying a word, McKenzie closed the distance between them before Mason realized that he wasn't coming to shake his hand again, and launched a right cross at Mason's chin. Mason couldn't get out of the way, and he spun around once before toppling at McKenzie's feet.

" Dartmouth boxing team, light-heavyweight division," McKenzie said as he stepped over a stunned but conscious Mason and opened the door to his office. "Call maintenance," McKenzie said to his secretary. "Tell them to clean up the shit bag on my floor."

After showing himself out, Mason stopped at a convenience store, where he bought plastic bags and ice to apply to his chin. Al Douglas's office was in a suburban office park surrounded by woods and ringed by a bike path. Banners hung from light poles in the parking lot, depicting festive winter scenes that clashed with the barren trees. Mason sat in his car for half an hour, ministering to his chin and his ego, before going inside.

He was prepared to take a more temperate approach to husband number two when Al Douglas looked up at him from a drafting table a short time later. Douglas worked in an office without walls where no one had a private office. Mason assumed that the design was intended to build camaraderie, but judging from the beehive hum that greeted him, it bred whispers and rumors.

"You must be Lou Mason," Douglas said, extending his hand. "Baker called me. He said he'd already taken out your chin, but that I could have the rest of your face unless I was the shit bag you were looking for. Let's talk someplace quiet."

Douglas 's handshake was flaccid and damp. He slid off his drafting stool and looked up at Mason from a distance of at least six inches before he led Mason into a break room where two other people were huddled over a crossword puzzle. Douglas cleared his throat and waited. The puzzle people took their cue and left, closing the door behind them.

Douglas was round-shouldered, thin on top and thick around the middle. He wore half glasses that had slid two thirds of the way down his nose. He took off the glasses, letting them drop to his chest, where they dangled from a thin chain that looped around his neck.

"He really tagged you, didn't he?" Douglas said. "The sucker punch is Baker's specialty. He tried it once with me, but he misjudged how short I am. If he misses the first punch, he's finished."

Douglas 's story about Baker McKenzie was a verbal sucker punch; showing up Mason by telling Mason that he had ducked the same punch that had decked Mason. Though Douglas looked like the only thing he'd ever thrown in anger was a fit, Mason realized he had his own way of sneaking up on the opposition. Mason flashed on an image of Douglas hanging around an elementary school offering kids a ride home. Mason already disliked him.

Mason gently rubbed his tender jaw, feeling a knot beginning to swell beneath the skin. "I'll try to remember that when we have the rematch."

"You really should put some ice on that before you grow a second chin," Douglas suggested.

Mason said, "I'll do that. No offense, but you and Baker are not exactly cut from the same cloth. Baker has two last names and you have two first names. Other than that, I can't see the connection. How did both of you end up married to Beth Harrell?"

"She's a woman of extremes, and Baker and I are at the opposite end of several masculine scales. She tried both ends. The next guy will probably be in the middle. Strong, tough, but likes sunsets. I suppose you want to know about the pictures."

"If you don't mind," Mason said. "Do the pictures really exist?"

Douglas poured a cup of coffee and took a chilled bottle of water from a refrigerator. "Here," he said, handing the bottle to Mason. "Put that on your chin. Yes," he continued, "the pictures are real."

Mason rolled the bottle across his chin, increasingly wary of the soft predator look in Douglas 's eyes. He was tempted to offer Douglas a drink just to be sure the water wasn't poisoned. "Did Baker take the pictures?" Mason asked. Douglas shook his head. "You?" Mason asked.

"Neither one of us took them. Beth did. She put her camera on a tripod and used a timer. We were both into adult entertainment and she wanted to shock me, stir me up in some different way. I won't lie to you. It worked. She's a beautiful woman and the pictures were quite graphic. I hadn't gotten off like that since my first chat room."

"Did she do the same thing with Baker?"

"I don't know, but I doubt it. Beth always said that Baker screwed around, but only in the missionary position."

"You sound awfully philosophical for a guy who got dumped. You don't even sound angry with her."

"Guys like me never end up with women like Beth for very long. When she left me, it was like the clock struck midnight and I was back to being Al, the invisible man with the boffo porn collection. Except I had the pictures. So, I didn't get mad, I got off and then got even."

Douglas was blase enough about his relationship with Beth that Mason pegged him for a sociopath interested only in his own needs and indifferent to anyone else. His casual, unemotional vengeance was creepy. "You gave the pictures to Jack Cullan?"

Douglas shook his head again, permitting himself a smug satisfaction. "I sold them. I guess that really makes me the shit bag."

Mason resisted the impulse to shove Douglas 's chalky face into the back of his skull. He swallowed hard and forced the next question. "When did you sell the pictures to Cullan?"

"You want to hit me. I can tell from the way your jugular vein is throbbing. But you won't do it. I can tell that too. You're stuck with your conventional ethics. That's why people like me are able to do the things we do."

Mason measured his breaming. Douglas was a gut-sucking parasite with a sunny disposition. He bellied up to Douglas, crowding him into a corner. Douglas backed up, his hands suddenly shaking, causing him to spill his coffee on the front of his pants.

"You don't know me, Douglas, so don't assume too much. When did you sell the pictures to Cullan?"

"Okay, okay," Douglas said, holding up his hand in protest. "I sold him the pictures a couple of months ago. Satisfied?"

"Barely. If I find out you kept any copies of those pictures, or sold them or gave them away or posted them on the Internet, I'll come back here and turn you inside out."

Douglas found more courage when he realized Mason wasn't going to smack him. "I'd be more worried about Beth, if I were you. I kept the pictures, but she kept the gun."

Mason couldn't tell if Douglas was pimping him or not, but he couldn't resist the next question. "What gun?"

"Baker gave her a present when they got divorced since she wouldn't take any money or property. He told her she should use it with her next husband to get a better settlement. I settled very cheaply."

"Do you know what kind of gun it was?"

"A.38-caliber pistol," he answered with a grin that said he'd just gotten even with Beth all over again.