The Last Witness

Chapter Thirty-two

Twelfth Street had become a frozen parking lot. Cars on the intersecting streets of Oak and Locust squirmed more than they moved. No one was any closer to home than when Mason and Blues had walked into Rossi's for lunch. The snow poured from the sky in thick, wet flakes heavily enough to reduce vision to a single block. Some drivers surrendered to the storm, abandoning their cars in the middle of the street to take refuge in City Hall or the courthouse.

Mason and Blues waded through the drifting, blowing snow to Mason's Jeep. They waited for the car to warm up and melt the ice on the windows while they considered their options.

"You giving any thought to just waiting this out?" Blues asked.

"Nope."

"You expecting a sudden heat wave to melt this shit and clear up this traffic just so we can go home?"

"Nope," Mason repeated. "And we're not going home. We're going to my office. By the way, how long has Mickey Shanahan been living in his office?"

"Since the day I rented it to him."

"Does he know that you know that?"

"I never asked him. He seems like a good kid."

"He's a con artist, cardsharp, computer hacker who doesn't have a pot to piss in."

"You hired him," Blues answered. "He must fit in. How are you going to get us out of here?"

"Don't try this at home, boys and girls," Mason said.

He engaged the Jeep's four-wheel drive and rolled over the concrete stop that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk on Twelfth Street. He stayed on the sidewalk and turned east, dodging parking meters until he reached Locust. He turned north on Locust, continuing to use the sidewalk as his personal lane until he found a narrow break in the traffic congestion on Locust. He goosed the Jeep across Locust, up onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. When he made it to Tenth Street, he turned east again, staying on the sidewalk until he was clear of the downtown traffic.

From there, the normally fifteen-minute drive to his office took an hour as he slalomed and cursed his way around one trapped driver after another. The streets were so slick, and the ice and snow so impenetrable that the slightest incline had become an impossible vertical ascent for any car that didn't have four-wheel drive. Mickey was waiting for them when they made it back to Blues on Broadway.

"This is the homecoming crowd?" Blues asked.

"The cook and the bartender called in well," Mickey answered. "They said they were staying home because of sick weather. We're as good as closed anyway in this snow.

The mailman is the only one who has come in through the front door all day."

Blues picked up a stack of mail that Mickey had left sitting on the bar and leafed through it, tearing open the last envelope.

"Son of a bitch!" he said, holding up the contents of the envelope. "The Director of Liquor Control has suspended my liquor license pending the outcome of my case."

"Who's the Director of Liquor Control?" Mason asked.

"Howard Trimble. I've got to go see him today."

"In this storm?" Mason asked. "He's probably stuck in traffic somewhere."

Blues dialed the phone number on the letter and listened as it rang for two minutes. He slammed the phone down, cursing Trimble and his ancestors in a Shawnee Indian dialect Blues reserved for special occasions.

"Cool!" Mickey said. "What's that mean?"

"Something about fire ants building a nest in your scrotum," Mason told him. "Trimble will have to wait until tomorrow. If this storm keeps up, everything will have to wait until tomorrow."

"We may not have that long," Blues said. "Once Zimmerman knows I'm out, he'll bury those files where no one will ever find them."

Mason and Mickey followed Blues upstairs to his office. Blues opened the floor safe and removed a.45-caliber Baer Stinger pistol and holster. He loaded the pistol, sliding it into the holster he'd attached to his belt, and dumped two extra ammunition clips into his jacket pocket.

"Are you going to talk to Zimmerman or just shoot him?" Mason asked.

"Depends on my mood," Blues said. "If Toland and Zimmerman stole Cullan's files, they had to have a new hiding place. It's got to be someplace secure that won't attract attention. Zimmerman wouldn't leave it up to Toland, so it's got to be someplace Zimmerman picked. I'm a lot better at watching without being seen than you are," he told Mason.

Mason asked, "Where do you start watching? You don't even know where Zimmerman is. What makes you think he's going to go look at those files in the middle of a blizzard?"

"You," he said to Mason, "are going to find out where Zimmerman is when you call Harry to tell him about my fingerprint. I'd ask where Zimmerman is first, since Harry will probably stop speaking to you after you tell him about the fingerprint. Then I'll go sit on Zimmerman while you go visit Ed Fiora."

Mason asked, "What for?"

"Fiora said he's got videotape to show you. Odds are he has the person who shot at you on that tape. Tell him you think you know who killed Cullan, but you need to see the videotape to be certain."

"You think Zimmerman was the shooter?"

"Probably not. My money is on Beth Harrell, but it doesn't matter. The videotape is just a pretext for your meeting. You'll remind Fiora that you promised to give him his file if you found it. Tell him that Zimmerman has his file. Tell him to call Zimmerman and offer to buy the file and to hire Zimmerman as a security consultant."

"Why can't I just do that over the phone?" Mason asked.

Blues explained patiently. "Because you've got to make certain that Fiora actually calls Zimmerman. You can't take his word for it."

"Why do you think Fiora will be able to flush Zimmerman out on a day like this?" Mason asked.

"Because Fiora will also tell Zimmerman that his offer expires at midnight. After that, Fiora will put Zimmerman out of business himself."

Mickey said, "It's a cross-rough. You figure Fiora won't wait for us to bring him the file. He'll go after Zimmerman. This way, you can take down both of them and get Fiora off of Lou's back."

"Not me," Blues said. "Harry will take them all down. He'll be the hero. I'll go back to being the bartender. Can you set it up with Harry and Fiora?" Blues asked Mason.

"Small potatoes," Mason said. "Where will you be while I'm running the snowstorm shuttle?"

Blues smiled. "Right here, nice and warm. Waiting for your call so I can go out and save our asses! You better take that gun I gave you. I didn't see it in the safe. Where is it?"

"My office," Mason said. "You're probably right."

Mason's phone rang as he stuck his pistol into his jacket pocket. "Lou Mason," he answered.

Rachel Firestone barked at him. "How did you do it?"

"How did I do what?"

"Don't give me that crap, Lou! How did you get Judge Carter to order bail for Blues?"

Mason wasn't surprised that Rachel had learned of Blues's release. He couldn't guess at the number of sources she'd cultivated over the years. Her sharp tone carried the unspoken complaint that he hadn't tipped her off.

"Off the record?" he asked.

"Not a chance."

"Fine. Judge Carter ordered Patrick Ortiz and me to appear for a status conference at eight o'clock this morning. I mentioned the prosecutor's opposition to bail. She said that she'd routinely granted bail in similar cases and saw no reason to treat Blues any differently."

"Didn't it strike you as odd that there was no formal hearing on bail, no opportunity for Ortiz to object on the record or present evidence?"

It was obvious to Mason that Rachel had already talked with Ortiz and gotten a taste of the prosecutor's fury. "Judges have a lot of discretion," he told her. "You'll have to ask Judge Carter why she handled it that way."

"No can do," Rachel said. "Right after your conference, she turned in her resignation to the presiding judge and left the courthouse. No one answers the phone at her home and no one has seen her. She's disappeared. What's happening?"

Mason dropped into his desk chair and stared out the window at the blizzard. He'd been trying to navigate his way through a storm that had turned into an avalanche, an out-of-control cascading disaster.

"Lou!" Rachel demanded again. "What's going on?"

"I'll call you later," he said, and hung up.

Mason dialed Harry's pager, punched in his own number, and hung up again. Mason's phone rang a minute later.

"Harry?"

The urgency in Mason's voice was unmistakable. "What's the matter?" Harry asked.

"Nothing," Mason lied, gathering himself. "I need to talk to you."

"I thought that's what we were doing."

"No. Not on the phone. Where are you?"

"Same place as the rest of the world. Stuck in traffic behind some moron with rear-wheel drive."

"Where?"

"On Main Street, between Thirty-fifth and Thirty-sixth."

"You alone?"

"Yeah. Lou, what's the matter?"

"Pull over and park. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Main was the next major thoroughfare east of Broadway. Though only four side streets separated them, Mason knew that he would make better time on foot than in his Jeep. Traffic was light on the side streets since most drivers had gotten stuck on the main roads before they could try alternate routes.

As he walked, Mason got a new perspective on the power of the storm. Tree limbs sagged under the heavy weight of ice and snow, some of the heavier ones fracturing and tumbling to the ground. He passed one house where a huge limb had broken and crashed through the roof. Mason gauged the strain on overhead power lines as they too bent in the wind. It wouldn't take much more for them to start snapping, adding another deadly special effect to the storm.

Mason found Harry's car in the middle of Main Street, surrounded by a flotilla of stranded drivers.

"Nice day for a drive," Mason said as he slid into the passenger seat.

"Thanks for dropping by," Harry answered. "We're always open."

"How'd you get stuck on duty? Where's your partner?"

"He got lucky and had some personal stuff to take care of at home. He never made it in today," Harry said as he turned down the radio.

"Any updates on the storm?"

"It's gone past blizzard," Harry said. "It's now officially a whiteout, whatever that is. The expected accumulation is a guess. The real problems are the ice and the wind. A lot of people won't get home tonight. So what's so important?"

"I need a favor."

"So ask."

"I want you to compare Blues's fingerprint that was found on Cullan's desk to the print for the same finger in his personnel file."

Harry didn't respond. The wipers squeaked as they brushed back and forth, moving snow from one side of the windshield to the other.

"What would I be looking for if I was to do that?" Harry asked Mason, still without looking at him.

"To see if the two prints were identical."

"You mean to see if someone forged the print found at Cullan's house."

Mason lowered his head and studied his gloved hands. "Yeah," he said.

"You've read the reports?" Harry asked, still watching the snow fall and the traffic stall.

"I've read them. I know that Carl Zimmerman asked Terrence Dawson to take a second look at the scene and mat's when Blues's fingerprint was found."

"So, you know what you're saying? You know what you're asking me to do?" Harry turned and met Mason's eyes.

"I know, Harry. It's like you always told me. Knowing the right thing to do is the easy part. I'll see you later."

Mason stopped at the bar long enough to tell Blues that Zimmerman was probably sitting out the storm at home. They agreed to keep in touch by cell phone, and Mason left again. He had almost finished scraping the newest layer of snow and ice from his car when Mickey opened the passenger door and climbed aboard.

"Damn, this weather blows!" he said when Mason finished scraping and joined him.

"What are you doing here?" Mason asked.

"Wingman riding shotgun," Mickey answered.

"Any point in telling you to stay here?"

"None."

Mason took his gun from his jacket pocket and put it in his glove compartment. "Did Blues give you a gun too, or are you just glad to see me?"

Mickey reached under his jacket and sheepishly removed a.44-caliber pistol that he added to the glove compartment. "He didn't exactly give it to me," Mickey explained.

"Does he know, exactly, that you took it?"

"Not exactly."

"Then you'll want to return it when we get back and hope Blues doesn't find out, or he'll break both your legs above the knees."

"Exactly," Mickey said.

"If you've got any more toys hidden in your pants or stuck up your ass, get them out now. We'll never get next to Fiora without being searched. If we get to the point that we need weapons, it'll probably be too late to use them."

Mickey put a switchblade knife and a lead sap into the glove compartment and closed it. "Home Shopping Network," he explained.

Mason called the Dream Casino before they pulled out of the parking lot, leaving a message with Fiora's administrative assistant that he was on his way to watch Fiora's home movies. The drive to the casino was an adventure in urban off-road driving. Mason used side streets whenever he could, and sidewalks when he had to. Cops he passed shook their heads and fists at him, but they were too busy with car wrecks and traffic jams to chase him down.

Along the way, Mason couldn't get the image of Judge Carter sitting behind her desk, frazzled and distracted, out of his mind. Now he understood why she had looked frayed at the edges. On the one hand, she had made herself vulnerable to Ed Fiora and paid the price. On the other, Mason had shoved her over the edge. It was another IOU that Mason would have to carry until he could find a way to pay it back.

The clanging, whistling, siren-sounding slot machines were getting a workout in spite of the weather. Once inside, the gamblers were oblivious of the storm that gave them the perfect excuse for getting home late. Tony Manzerio escorted Mason and Mickey to Fiora's office.

"This weather is killing my business!" Fiora complained when Mason walked through the door.

"The storm's like a kidney stone. It'll pass-painfully- but it will pass."

"Is that the kind of legal advice you give, Mason? 'Cause if it is, I'd seriously consider another line of work," Fiora advised.

"I'm close to figuring out who killed Jack Cullan. I need one more piece of the puzzle. It may be in the videotape you told me I should come see after this case ends. I need to see the tape now. If it shows what I think it does, it may help me close the loop on a suspect."

"Mason, you're starting to act like I'm your fairy godmother with all the favors you've been asking. You haven't even thanked me for the last one I did for you."

"As long as I'm asking, I want Judge Carter's account marked paid in full. Take her off your books."

"This is no time to get a conscience, Mason. Everybody's a player at some level. She played, she lost. What's the big deal?"

"If you've got a marker with Judge Carter's name on it, I'd like to see it."

"It doesn't have her name on it. It has her son's name. She keeps him from getting a beating when he comes up short, which happens with some regularity."

"How much does the kid owe?"

"Doesn't matter. He pays up one week, he's down the next. We send him postcards about Gamblers Anonymous; makes us feel better."

"Clear the kid's marker and don't let him back in the casino. That's my deal."

"In return for which I get what?"

"Jack Cullan's file on you."

"You're squeezing an awful lot of mileage out of that file, Mason."

"Just show me the videotape and then I'll get you the file. You've probably got me on tape. You can keep that. I want the judge off the books."

Fiora shrugged. "That will work. Trade a judge for a lawyer. Too bad you can't throw in a player to be named later."

Fiora opened a cabinet behind his desk, revealing a television and DVD player. He took a video disk from the shelf beneath the television and popped it into the DVD player. After he pushed a button, the screen came to life.

"Like I told you before," Fiora reminded Mason, "anyone comes into the casino, they are picked up on video before they've lost their first quarter. They move out of range of one camera, another camera picks them up. The videotapes are transferred to disks that are easier to store and that lets us reuse the videotapes. The great thing about disks is that you can edit them to create a video of any one person from the minute they set foot in the parking lot to the minute they leave."

"So whose video are you going to show me?" Mason asked.

"Watch," Fiora answered. He sat down in his desk chair and aimed a remote control at the DVD player.

Beth Harrell materialized on the screen. The day and date were printed in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen. It was New Year's Eve. Even with the grainy, long-distance perspective of the video cameras, her beauty was obvious. She flowed across the casino floor, drawing stares and envy. The absence of sound added a surreal note to her movements.

"I'll jump ahead to the good part," Fiora said as he punched another button on his remote control.

Mason watched as the camera followed Beth to the rear of the casino, where she had found Mason, then out to the prow of the boat, where they had embraced. Mickey poked Mason in the ribs when the video showed Mason pushing Beth away. Mason winced at the memory of that moment, seeing more clearly the bitterness in Beth's expression that had been captured by the camera as she had walked away.

The video jerked a bit as a different camera picked her up when she returned to the deck. Her face became indistinct as she slipped into shadows that made it impossible to see what she was doing or even to be certain that she was still the person on the video.

Mason recoiled as small flashes erupted from the darkness where the shooter was hidden. Then, Mason saw his own image fill the screen, cowering in the prow and dodging bullets that ricocheted around him, shattering pale blue Christmas lights. He grimaced with sharp memory when he saw a bullet singe his side. Mason touched the healed wound through his clothes and held his breath as his video self vaulted into the river.