The Last Witness

Chapter Twenty-nine

Mason believed that the TR-6 was the last great sports car ever built. He didn't believe it in the squishy way that some people believe that black is a slimming color, or that all good things come to those who wait. He believed it with the same bedrock certainty as the cinematic heavyweight Rocky Balboa when he told Mrs. Balboa that a man's got to do what a man's got to do.

In Mason's world, BMW, Porsche, and Audi roadsters were for cash-heavy baby boomers willing to overpay for the thrill of the wheel. The Corvette was a contender, but with its powerful engine and oversize tires, it was in another weight class. He conceded that those cars could outperform the TR-6, but they couldn't out-cool it. The brand name, Triumph, said it all for Mason. The TR-6's raw lines and hard look had captivated Mason the first time he had seen the car. By then, British Leyland had inexplicably abandoned the model, turning each of the 94,000 TR-6's it had made from 1969 to 1976 into instant classics.

Mason had never been much of a car guy. He'd always driven whatever he could afford until he couldn't afford to keep it running. He'd never gotten sweaty at the sight of a muscle car, nor had his head been turned by a sleek import. The TR-6 was different. It had snagged his automotive heart, lingering there unrequited until he'd succumbed years later, taking advantage of a neighbor's divorce to buy his dream car. It was a British racing-green, four-speed, six-cylinder real live ragtop trip.

Tuffy loved the car more than Mason, delighting in the endless scents that sped past her when the top was down and her nose was in the wind. Sitting in his garage, Mason resisted his dog's pleading, doleful eyes to put the top down. A man and his dog both blowing in the wind on a cold winter morning would garner too much attention, no matter how brightly the sun was shining.

Not that Mason was trying to be covert. The truth was, he didn't know what he was trying to be or how he was going to try to be it. As he drove toward Carl Zimmerman's neighborhood, he had a throat-tightening epiphany. He was in over his head in a death-penalty case that was as likely to cost his life as it was his client's. He needed help, and the one person who could help him the most was sitting in the county lockup. Mason tapped the clutch, downshifted, and opened the throttle. The burst of growling speed came at the same moment as did a crazy idea how he could get Blues out of jail.

Mason circled Zimmerman's block once, quietly relieved that there were no signs of life in the split-level, brick-front house. He circled again, this time parking at the curb on the street that intersected Zimmerman's. A minivan parked in front of him gave him added cover. Mason had a right-angle view of Zimmerman's house, which was in the middle of the block. He turned off his engine, and hoped that no one would notice the only classic sports car within miles even though a sign at the corner read

neighborhood watch!

WE CALL THE POLICE!

Tuffy pawed at her window, and Mason cranked the engine so he could put it down for her. She leaned the upper third of her body out the window and wagged her tail in Mason's face.

Mason knew a bad idea when he had one and said as much to the dog. "This is nuts. We're out of here."

Before Mason could put the car in gear, a lumbering black Chevy Suburban turned onto the street he was on. Mason blanched when he looked in his rearview mirror and saw Carl Zimmerman behind the wheel. Mason scrunched down in his seat while he racked his memory for any mention that he might have ever made to Zimmerman about owning the TR-6.

The Suburban slowly rolled past him toward the stop sign at the corner. Mason didn't look up, even though the driver's seat in the Suburban was considerably higher above the ground than the TR-6's, making it doubtful that Zimmerman could see Mason's face. Mason peeked at the Suburban, and saw a collection of young faces pressed against the passenger-side windows, mouths agape at the TR-6 and the dog riding shotgun, hanging out the window.

Mason watched as Zimmerman pulled into his driveway and a half dozen young boys dressed in Cub Scout uniforms piled out of the Suburban, some of them staring and pointing at his car parked half a block away. Carl Zimmerman herded them toward the front door, taking a long look at Mason's car before following his troop into the house.

"Brilliant," Mason told Tuffy. "Carl Zimmerman- homicide detective, Cub Scout leader, and murderer. That's the ticket!"

Tuffy ignored him and pointed her snout into the breeze as Mason headed for home.

Mason picked Mickey up at nine o'clock that night in front of Blues on Broadway. He was still driving the TR-6, counting on the cool to carry into the casino. Mickey had told Mason that he was working crowd control at the bar and that Mason should pick him up there instead of at his apartment. Mason was pretty certain that Mickey's apartment was also his office above the bar, but saw no reason to tell Mickey. At least, Mason figured, he'd always know where to find him.

Mickey was waiting on the sidewalk when Mason pulled up. "Is there a crowd inside that needs to be controlled?" Mason asked.

"Not unless you count three guys who don't have four teeth among them," Mickey answered. "If Blues doesn't get out soon, I doubt that any PR campaign will save this joint. It's going to shrivel up and blow away before spring."

"Did you do what I told you?" Mason asked as he pulled into the light traffic on Main Street.

"Piece of cake. I used a computer at the public library to print out a hard copy of Fiora's bank records, and I put it in your desk just like you told me."

"And what about the rest?" Mason asked.

"That's the part I don't understand," Mickey answered. "I e-mailed the file to Rachel Firestone just like you told me, but I delayed the actual transmission until ten o'clock Monday morning. What's up with that?"

"It's an insurance policy. We're going to trade the disk to Fiora. He'll suspect that we kept another copy of the disk or a hard copy of the records, and he'll send someone back to search my office. Hopefully, when he finds the copy you put in my desk, he'll be satisfied. If he doesn't hold up his end of the deal I'm going to make with him, Rachel will get the e-mail with the records. If Fiora comes through, we'll cancel the e-mail."

"And if he tries anything rough, we can tell him about the e-mail," Mickey said.

"That is a very bad idea. If he knows about the e-mail, he can force us to tell him how to cancel it."

"How?" Mickey asked. Mason pointed to Mickey's black eye. "Oh, yeah," Mickey said. "I forgot. So what do we do if he tries anything rough?"

"Duck," Mason said.

"I'll try to remember that. Does Fiora know we're coming?"

"Yeah. I called the casino this afternoon and left a message. I think we'll get the VIP treatment."

Mason used valet parking to give Fiora the added comfort of holding his car keys. Mason wanted Fiora to think the odds were all with the house on the game they were about to play. Mason had to press, but not too hard, take risks, but not too large.

Tony Manzerio was waiting for them when they walked in. He didn't speak, settling for the universal sign language of goons everywhere-a nod of the head that meant follow me and keep your mouth shut.

Mason and Mickey did as they were nodded to do, trailing a respectful five steps behind Manzerio. People moved out of Manzerio's way without being told or nodded. The man was large enough and his eyes were dead enough to trigger the flight side of the survival impulse in most people. Mason caught the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I expressions on the faces of many they passed.

The route to Fiora's office took them on an elevator marked private, through a door marked authorized personnel only, and down a corridor marked secure area. None of which made Mason feel any safer.

Manzerio knocked at an unmarked door, opened it, and led Mason and Mickey inside Fiora's office. The office was plain, almost spartan, a sharp contrast to the extravagance of the casino. The brown carpet, cream-colored painted walls, and unpretentious functional furniture looked more governmental than gaming. A window looked out over the Missouri River, a black view without dimension or detail.

Fiora sat at a poker table playing solitaire. "Did you search them?" he asked Manzerio without looking up.

Manzerio didn't answer. Instead, he ran his porterhouse-sized hands up and down their sides, torsos, legs, and arms. "Nothin'," he said.

"Good. Wait outside," Fiora told him.

Fiora turned over the cards that were still facedown until he found the one he wanted. Smiling, he ran through the rest of the cards and declared, "How about that! I won again."

"Odds always favor the house," Mason said. "Cheating takes the suspense out of it."

"I'm a businessman, Mason, not a gambler. The crap table is for suckers. I need an edge, I take it. I don't make business a game of chance."

"I like to think of it as supply and demand. The market moves buyers and sellers to the middle where they can make a deal," Mason said.

"Your message said you wanted to make a trade. What do I have that you would want?"

"My law practice," Mason said.

"How could I possibly have your law practice, Mason?"

"It's on the hard drive you ripped out of my computer last night. Client files, my receivables, my payables. The works."

"That must be inconvenient for you. What's the matter? Didn't you back your stuff up? I don't know much, but I know that much. I got people working for me that don't do nothing but back shit up."

"Actually, I did back up one thing," Mason said. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the disk. "It's not much really. Just some bank records you might be interested in."

Fiora's eyes hardened. "You are taking a hell of a risk coming to my place offering to trade my records to me. Why don't I just have Tony come in here and take that disk and throw your ass in the river?"

Mason didn't flinch. "You said it yourself, Ed. You're a businessman. Buy, sell, trade, but don't take chances. I'm the same way. I was out of line meddling in your business and I'm sorry. Last night, you convinced me that you had nothing to do with Jack Cullan's murder. I don't need to clutter up the defense of my client with extraneous bullshit that the judge won't let me get into evidence anyway. I'm offering you this disk in good faith, the same way you gave me the pictures of Beth Harrell. All I want is my hard drive. You can delete your bank records."

"And I'm supposed to believe that you don't have another copy of this stashed someplace?" Fiora asked.

"I can't help it if you're not a believer. I'm a lawyer, not a rabbi."

Fiora studied Mason for a minute. "Come over here, Rabbi Mason. I want to show you something."

Mason joined Fiora at the window. The light from inside the office and the lack of light outside made the view opaque.

"Is there something I should be looking at?" Mason asked.

"You might find this interesting," Fiora said. There were two switches next to the window. Fiora hit one, and the office went dark. He hit the other, and the prow of the boat where Mason had celebrated New Year's Eve was bathed in a spotlight. "Nice view, don't you think, Mason?"

Mason repressed an involuntary shudder. "It's terrific. What's your point?"

"Every public area of this boat is under constant video surveillance. Even if the state didn't require it, I'd do it. I want to know everything that happens on my boat. That prow is a very popular spot. Lovers like to make out there. Losers like to jump off. We got to watch it all the time."

"It must be tough to video in the dark," Mason said.

"Nah! We got these nighttime cameras make it practically like your living room. The technology is fantastic. This case of yours works out okay, you come back and we'll watch some home movies. What do you say?"

Fiora was giving Mason a mixed message. He was telling Mason that he knew what had happened on New Year's Eve and still had the proof. Maybe it was an offer to tell him who had tried to kill him, and maybe it was a not-so-subtle threat.

"You serve popcorn?"

Fiora laughed once without conviction. "You're good with the jokes. Don't be too funny, Rabbi Mason. You and your altar boy here, have a seat, make yourselves comfortable. I got to check with my computer people and see what they've done with your hard drive. It may be they already wiped it clean. In the meantime, why don't you give me that disk of yours so I can check it out?"

Mason grinned at Fiora and tossed the disk to him. "This one is blank. Bring me the hard drive and a desktop computer. Mickey will check out the hard drive. If everything is on it but your records, Mickey will get you the real disk."

Fiora chuckled. "Careful you don't hit on sixteen and go bust, Mason."

He left Mason and Mickey in his office. Mason picked up the deck of cards Fiora had been using and looked at Mickey.

"Gin rummy. A buck a point," Mason told him. "I'll charge your losses as an advance against your salary."

"That's really generous of you, Lou. I haven't played cards since I was a kid. You'll have to remind me of the rules."

Mason sat down in the chair Fiora had been using and motioned Mickey to the one across the table, all the time wondering how many scams Mickey could run at one time. "Am I about to get cleaned out?"

"Right down to your socks, boss," Mickey said. "Deal."

By the time Fiora and Manzerio returned an hour later, Mason was down 250 dollars. They watched as Mickey shuffled the cards as if he'd been born with them in his hands, fanning them, making bridges, palming top cards, bottom cards, and marking the corners of other cards with his thumbnail.

"Hey, kid," Fiora told him, "you get tired of working for this stiff, I got a place for you at one of our tables."

"He can't quit," Mason said. "He's got to give me a chance to win my money back."

"Those words are the secret of my success," Fiora told him. "That, and never trusting anybody, especially a schmuck lawyer who thinks he can come into my place and flimflam me like I was a refugee from a Shriners convention."

Mason matched Fiora's sudden intensity with his own self-righteousness. "I told you the disk was blank and that I'd get you the real one. I'm not trying to con you."

"Then you are a dumber cocksucker than I gave you credit for." Fiora stuck his hand out to Manzerio, who gave him a stack of papers. "Tony took another tour of your office. Seems you forgot to mention the copy of my bank records you printed out, you stupid fuck! I ought to have Tony beat you right up to the limit!"

Fiora's face turned purple as he bit off each word, casting flecks of spittle like confetti at a parade. Mason hung his head sheepishly, letting Fiora's outburst pass.

"Well, what the fuck do you have to tell me now, Rabbi Bullshit?" Fiora demanded.

"Look, I'm sorry," Mason began. "I'm out of my league here. It was my insurance policy, but that's it. You've got everything now. Let's finish our business and I'll get out of here."

"You'll be carried out of here! Why should I trade you anything but your fucking life?"

"Because you don't kill people, that's why. You said so yourself. I've got to have my files back or I'm out of business. You need your files back or you're out of business. It's not very complicated."

Fiora's natural color slowly seeped back into his face as he rolled the papers into a cylinder and thumped it against his palm. "Don't fuck with me, Mason. I'm telling you, don't fuck with me. You got that, Rabbi?" he asked, smacking the side of Mason's head with the rolled papers.

Mason grabbed Fiora's wrist and pulled his arm down to the table. Fiora winced, as much in shock as in pain. Manzerio took a step toward Mason, who released his grip. Fiora yanked his wrist from Mason's hand while motioning Manzerio to stay where he was with his other.

"I got it, Ed," Mason said so softly that Manzerio couldn't hear him. "Now you get this. You hit me again, and you can spend the rest of your fucking life wondering who's going to end up with that disk."

Fiora held Mason's sharp stare and quietly answered him. "You got balls, Mason. I give you that," Fiora told him. "I give you that. Tony," he said in a street-loud voice, "have that four-eyed geek bring the computer in here. Let's get this over with."

A short time later, Mickey booted up the computer and searched the hard drive for its contents. "It's got everything but the bank records, boss," he told Mason. "You want me to remove the hard drive?"

Mason said, "Give Fiora our other disk first, and let him see what's on it."

Mickey untucked his shirt and reached behind his back, where he had taped the disk. He popped it into the computer and stood back as Fiora's bank accounts flashed across the screen.

"Good enough?" Mason asked.

"Good enough," Fiora said. "You can pull the hard drive out. Tony, give the kid the tools."

Mason said, "I'm glad we were able to work this out."

"Don't press your luck," Fiora told him.

"There is one other thing," Mason said.

"It better not be another disk."

"It's not. It's a favor. The one you said you owed me."

Fiora pulled at his chin until Mason thought he would pull it off. "Mason, you are too much. You bust my balls on this bank account shit, and then you got even more balls to ask me for a favor."

"I saved your life last night. That was a favor. This was business. You owe me the favor."

Fiora sighed, trapped by his own curious ethics. "What is it?"

"I want my client released on bail."

"Sorry, I can't do it."

"I don't believe you. You're wired into the prosecutor's office. That's how you knew they were going to offer Blues a plea bargain. Hell, it may have been your idea to begin with. I think I may know who has Cullan's files. I can't get to them myself and it's just as risky for you. Blues can get them. If there's nothing in your file that links you to Cullan's murder, you can have it. No copies and no questions. My client is innocent. I need those files to prove it."

"You aren't asking for much, are you?" Fiora asked him.

"I need an edge, I take it," Mason said. "The assistant prosecutor and I are meeting with Judge Carter on Monday morning at eight o'clock. I want Blues released on bail before ten. Make it happen."