The Last Witness

Chapter Thirty-four

Zimmerman jammed his gun hard against Mason's neck. "Hands behind your back," he ordered.

Mason knew that Zimmerman was going to cuff him, taking him out of the game. He had size on Zimmerman, but Zimmerman had a gun on Mason's brain stem. Mason obeyed, and winced when Zimmerman caught his flesh in the cuffs.

"Stand real still," Zimmerman instructed. Keeping his gun in place, Zimmerman patted the pockets on Mason's coat and found his pistol. "Hope you've got a permit for this concealed weapon, Counselor. Otherwise, I'll have to issue you a citation."

"You shouldn't have lied about the body in Swope Park," Mason told him. "Otherwise, you might have gotten away with it."

"I'm getting away with it now," Zimmerman told him.

"You killed Cullan, forged Blues's fingerprint, stole Cullan's secret files, and killed Shirley Parker. That's a lot to get away with."

"You don't know shit," Zimmerman told him. "And I didn't kill anybody. At least not yet."

"It doesn't matter what I know. Harry knows you used Blues's fingerprint in his personnel file to forge the one on Cullan's desk. That will be enough for him. He'll hunt you down like a dog. You won't be able to use Cullan's files to wipe your ass."

Zimmerman spat into the snow. "Ryman's too old and too slow."

"We'll put that on your tombstone," Mason said.

Zimmerman gave Mason a sharp shove in the small of the back. "Move it," he snapped.

Mason marched toward the shelter, squinting against the snow. There was no sign of Tony or Blues. Fiora was still down. Zimmerman shoved Mason again as they stepped beneath the shelter, knocking him into Mickey, who was handcuffed and sitting cross-legged on the floor of the shelter. It was too dark to see Mickey clearly, but it was enough for Mason to know that he was there and still breathing.

Toland pressed the barrel of his shotgun under Mason's chin, dragging it down to Mason's chest until Mason joined Mickey. Toland crouched down to Mason's eye level, keeping the shotgun flush against Mason. Mason smiled inwardly at the trickle of blood frozen on the side of Toland's face.

"Cut yourself shaving?" he asked Toland.

"That big moose you had chasing us in the woods scratches like a girl. I had to damn near kill him just so I could tie him to a tree. Don't make me tie you to a tree."

Zimmerman said, "We've got these three. Tony is out of commission, which leaves Bluestone," Zimmerman said to Toland.

The shelter was suddenly flooded with high-beam head- lights coming from an approaching vehicle. The lights blinded Mason's view of the vehicle and its driver.

"Who in the hell is that?" Toland yelled.

The vehicle was coming at them from the west on Gregory Boulevard and was aiming directly at them as it picked up speed over the fresh snow. The engine was revving hard as if the driver had floored the accelerator.

"Damn!" Zimmerman shouted. "That's my Suburban."

"It's got to be Bluestone," Toland said. "He's going to ram us. Shoot him!"

Toland fired his shotgun, pumped, and fired three more rounds while Zimmerman emptied his clip into the Suburban. Mason and Mickey jumped to their feet and ran to Fiora. Crouching down with their hands behind their backs, they each grabbed Fiora by the shoulders and dragged him out of the path of the Suburban.

The windshield on the Suburban shattered, but the truck roared on like an enraged beast made angrier by the gunfire, crunching and packing the snow beneath its tires, oblivious of the barrage of firepower. Zimmerman and Toland leaped out of the way at the last moment as the Suburban crashed into one of the poles supporting the shelter, toppling the roof. The car flew past them, becoming airborne before plunging headfirst into the lagoon, sizzling and bubbling as it found the muddy bottom.

Harry and Blues had been following on foot behind the Suburban. Blues ran low and straight at Toland, colliding with him and rolling across the snow. Toland managed to get to his feet first while Blues was on one knee. Toland launched a booted kick at Blues's head. Blues caught Toland's boot and sprang up, sending Toland tumbling onto his back.

The power line had snapped off the roof of the shelter with the impact from the Suburban, its deadly blue current dancing and writhing across the snow, measuring Toland like a cobra as he struggled to get to his feet. Toland slipped in the snow, clawed at the ground on all fours, and screamed as the power line stung him with a lethal jolt. The power line lay across Toland's electrocuted body as the snow sizzled around him.

Zimmerman was in a shooter's crouch, knees bent, arms extended, aiming Mason's gun in a rapid arc, looking for a target. Harry tackled him from behind, flattening him against the pavement and pressing his face into the snow. He planted his knee in the middle of Zimmerman's back and wrapped his hand around Zimmerman's gun hand, forcing the barrel against Zimmerman's ear.

"Pull the trigger, you piece of garbage. Blow your fucking brains out!" Harry screamed. "Pull it, goddammit! Pull it!"

Blues ran to Harry's side, reached down, and covered Harry's hand with his own. "Let it go, Harry. You got him. Let it go," he said.

Harry was heaving. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay." Harry cuffed Zimmerman. "Don't move, partner," Harry told him.

Mason looked at the lagoon, where the back end of the Suburban barely broke above water. He staggered to his feet and made his way over to Blues and Harry.

"How did you do that?" he asked them.

"I'll bet Blues hot-wired the Suburban, put a rock on the gas pedal, and steered with the door open while he ran alongside it," Mickey said.

"Good call, kid," Blues told him. "How'd you know?"

"That's exactly the way I would have done it," Mickey said.

"Next, he'll tell people it was his idea," Mason said.

"That's public relations," Mickey replied. "Get us out of these cuffs."

Harry unlocked their handcuffs and asked, "What's with Fiora? Did Toland clock him or shoot him or did the putz just have a heart attack?"

Fiora was still lying prone in the snow, not moving from the spot where Mason and Mickey had dragged him.

"I think he fainted," Mickey said. "When he walked up to the shelter, he raised his hand as if we were having a reunion. Next thing I knew, he took a dive. Toland didn't touch him."

They walked over to Fiora. Mason nudged him with his shoe. "Looks dead to me," Mason said.

"It's a real shame," Mickey added. "He didn't live to see us kick the crap out of those guys."

"Weather like this," Harry said, "it could be hours before an ambulance gets here. Guess it doesn't matter since he's already gone."

Fiora stirred, groaned, and slowly rolled over on his back. He blinked the snow off his eyelids, and groaned some more. "What happened?" he managed to ask.

"Back from the dead. It's a miracle," Blues said. "I'll go find Tony. We may really need an ambulance for him."

Mason turned to Harry. "So I was right. Zimmerman forged Blues's fingerprint."

"Yeah," Harry said softly. "We took a new set of prints when we arrested Blues. Forensics compared the one found on Cullan's desk to the new prints and got a match. No one ever would have checked Blues's print against the ones in his personnel file if you hadn't asked me."

It was the first time in years that Mason had heard Harry refer to Blues by his nickname. Harry had always insisted on calling him Bluestone, rejecting any closer ties to their days as partners. Harry's face was drawn by more than the cold, and he was shivering from more than the wind.

"Zimmerman counted on that," Mason said. "Don't be too hard on yourself."

Harry shook his head. "Carl counted on me wanting it to be Blues."

"Why'd you come out here with Blues?"

"I figured I owed him that," Harry said. "And I had to see Carl for myself. I had to be sure. If I was wrong, it would stay private."

"What happens now?" Mason asked.

"It's up to the prosecutor. The case against Blues is pretty weak without the fingerprint. Carl has a lot of explaining to do. I guess we're back to square one."

"Zimmerman told me that he didn't kill anybody. You think he's telling the truth?"

Harry thought for a moment. "I'm the wrong one to ask. I was his partner and I didn't see anything that made me think he was dirty."

Mason said, "Toland was killed while he and Zimmerman were committing a felony. Under the felony-murder statute, Zimmerman will be charged with Toland's death. That's a capital-murder charge. Zimmerman is looking at the needle. He'll talk."

"That's not what worries me," Harry said. "It's who's going to be listening."

"Zimmerman will use Cullan's files," Mason replied. "Instead of getting the bum's rush like Blues did, he'll put it all on Toland and offer to keep his mouth shut in return for a citation. He'll probably claim that he was investigating Toland and that we stumbled into his sting operation and screwed it up. Before he's finished, we'll be charged with Toland's death."

"How's he going to explain working a sting operation behind my back?" Harry demanded.

"Simple. You were too close to me. That's why Ortiz didn't put you on the stand at the preliminary hearing. If there was enough dirt in those files to scare Leonard Campbell into going so hard after Blues, Campbell will make that deal in a heartbeat."

"You have any suggestions?" Harry asked.

"Just one. My Jeep is parked about a half mile down that service road. I backed it down a bike path. I'd appreciate it if you'd go get it for me." Mason handed Harry the keys. "Take your time. It's real slippery."

Harry nodded as they both looked at the sunken Suburban. "Glad to do it. You be careful not to get wet out here. Your aunt will raise hell if you end up with pneumonia. And don't let my prisoner get away while I'm gone."

Harry ambled away as Blues and Tony appeared from the far side of the lagoon. Tony helped Fiora to his feet, dusted the snow from Fiora's topcoat, and listened impassively as his boss berated him for getting coldcocked by Toland.

"Where's Harry going?" Blues asked Mason.

"To get my Jeep."

"You have to tip him for valet service?"

"That depends on what we find in the Suburban. Let's have a look."

Mason and Blues found Mickey at the edge of the lagoon. The Suburban was twenty feet from shore in water that was at least half as deep. They looked at the truck, the water, and each other, none of them anxious to go for a swim.

"It's too dangerous," Mason said at last. "A man wouldn't last ten minutes in that water without getting hypothermia. We don't know if the files are in the truck, and even if they are, it would be too easy to get stuck inside."

Fiora and Tony joined them. "You think my file is in that truck?" he asked Mason.

"I'd bet the house on it," Mason said. "Trouble is, the odds of us getting it out are a little steep. The cops will have it towed out of there, and we'll never see the files until after the grand jury indictments are handed down."

Fiora pulled Tony aside. The massive man leaned down to hear Flora's whispered instructions. Tony straightened up and walked over to Carl Zimmerman, who was still lying facedown in the snow. Tony grabbed Zimmerman by the collar of his coat, yanked him to his feet as if he were dusting off a rug, and spun him once around. Keeping his body between Zimmerman and the others, like a solar eclipse blocking the sun, Tony found Zimmerman's handcuff key and removed the cuffs from Zimmerman's wrist. He clamped his viselike hands on Zimmerman's shoulders and delivered the message Fiora had given him. Tony held on to Zimmerman's left arm as they returned to the edge of the lagoon.

Zimmerman stared at the water, then at each of them. Tony gave him a slight shove toward the water. Zimmerman shook off Tony's hand in a fainthearted protest before stripping down to a T-shirt and boxers. No one spoke as he disrobed or when he dove into the water.

"What'd you tell him, Tony?" Mickey asked.

"Hey, kid," Fiora answered. "It's like going to a fancy restaurant where they got menus without prices. If you got to ask, you got no business being there."

Zimmerman climbed onto the back of the truck, opened one side of the split rear door, and disappeared inside the Suburban. He emerged a few minutes later, carrying a hard plastic box under one arm. Bracing himself against the floor of the truck, Zimmerman heaved the box into the water, where it bobbed toward the shore. They all clambered to the water's edge, waiting eagerly for the box to arrive, not noticing as Zimmerman ducked back inside the Suburban.

In the same instant that the box reached Mason, Zimmerman leaned out the rear of the Suburban and opened fire with a pistol he'd hidden in the truck. The first two rounds caught Tony in the neck, spraying the others with warm blood. Tony grasped at his throat before collapsing into the water. Mason snatched the plastic box out of the water, holding it up as a shield against the next volley.

Fiora screamed at Zimmerman and struggled to pull his own gun from beneath his heavy coat. Bullets slapped into the snow at Fiora's feet, then traced a mortal path up his midsection, exploding inside his chest.

Zimmerman had fired his first shots into the clustered target of his five captors, claiming Tony and Fiora with fatal indifference. Mason, Mickey, and Blues had scattered, and Zimmerman's next shots went wide in the dark. Blues dropped and rolled over, coming up on one knee, his gun drawn as Harry skidded to a stop with the Jeep's headlights spotlighted on Zimmerman, drops of water glistening like ice crystals against his dark skin.

Harry swung the door of the Jeep open and dropped to the ground, his own gun extended through the open driver's window.

"Put it down, Carl!" Harry demanded.

Zimmerman held one hand to his eyes, trying to block out the glare of the headlights. "Why, Harry? You got what you came for. I'm out of options, man. Either I kill all of you or you kill me. That's all that's left."

"No! That's not the way this is going to go down. Think about your family."

"Too late for that, Harry. You're gonna have to kill me!" he shouted, opening fire again.

Harry fired at the first flash from Zimmerman's gun, not stopping until Zimmerman fell face-forward out of the Suburban, folded over the open door at his waist, his arms and face dangling lifelessly in the black water.