The Last Witness

Chapter Six

Mason finished studying the police reports without finding any daggers to throw at Harry on cross-examination. Harry had been as thorough as Mason had expected. The crime scene had been hermetically preserved. Photographs were taken from every angle, fingerprints lifted from every surface, and a meticulous search had been made for footprints and fibers that didn't belong. Two separate teams of detectives to check for inconsistencies or forgotten details interviewed every neighbor living in a two-block radius. The maid had passed a polygraph exam. The contents of the house had been inventoried and double-checked against Cullan's homeowner's insurance records. No valuables were missing and there was no sign of forced entry. Cullan had opened the door to someone who had come for one reason- to kill him.

The police and prosecutor had not finished their investigation. Although now their focus had shifted from catching Cullan's killer to proving that Blues was guilty. Mason had no doubt that the blood and tissue under Cullan's fingernails belonged to Blues. If none of the witnesses saw Cullan scratch Blues's hands at the bar, Blues would have to take the stand in his own defense. No matter how certain he was of Blues's innocence, Mason knew that was a high-stakes gamble. Patrick Ortiz would come in his pants at the prospect of taking on Blues.

There was nothing Mason could do about any of the evidence the prosecutor already had against Blues. He wouldn't make the mistake of trying to win the case on the prosecution's ground. Instead, he'd have to find the killer.

Mason listened to the icy wind as it swarmed over the city, slip-sliding through weak spots in brick and mortar, seeping into cracks and faults, sucking out the warmth. He imagined that Jack Cullan had been that way, wrapping his own cold fingers around the weak spots in other people's hearts until they became brittle and broken in his hands.

There was small comfort in the warmth of Mason's office since he knew that he had to go out into the wind. In the solitude of that moment, Mason conceded that the prosecutor was way out in front. Mason knew that he wouldn't get any help from the people who'd been under Cullan's thumb. Though each of them had probably lit a candle for the killer and asked God to reserve a special place in hell for Cullan, they'd let the wind sweep Blues away.

Mason returned to the dry-erase board and picked up the black marker. Beneath his question Who else? and Rachel Firestone's note about Cullan's secret files, he added the names of Ed Fiora, Billy Sunshine, and Beth Harrell. All three were tied to Jack Cullan. It was all he had.

Mason began with what he knew about each of them. Ed Fiora owned the Dream Casino. Though he'd passed the Gaming Commission's background checks, Rachel's news- paper stories had him only a sham corporation or two removed from his leg-breaking days.

Billy Sunshine was a charismatic mayor who'd steal your vote and your wife with equal aplomb. He was glib and charming, a native son with the ethos of a carpetbagger. More than anything else, he was ambitious. He'd been elected by a wide margin to a second term and, by law, couldn't run again. The mayor had all but announced he would challenge Delray Shays, the black incumbent congressman, in the next election. Local wags had it that the casino scandal was the only thing holding up the formal announcement. When last asked about it, the mayor said it was all water off a duck's back and he'd let the people of the fifth congressional district decide.

Beth Harrell was the piece of the puzzle that didn't fit. Ed Fiora was a thug posing as a gaming entrepreneur. Billy Sunshine was the poster boy for mamas not letting their babies grow up to be politicians. Beth Harrell was the good queen.

Mason remembered her from law school. She was only five years older than Mason, having practiced for two years after graduating before becoming a professor. Beth had dark blond hair that dangled above her shoulders, softening her bold walk and magnetic blue eyes. Her body was trim, her lips full, and her look said "authorized personnel only." She carried her beauty with the experience of someone used to taking advantage of it and wary of those who would. All of which made the class she taught the most popular one offered. Mason had resisted the temptation to sit in the front row with his tongue hanging out like his less subtle friends. He'd worked hard in her class, and she'd returned the effort with a good grade and a friendly handshake whenever they'd run into each other over the years.

Beth's reputation as an expert in ethics had brought her to the attention of the governor. When the previous chair of the Gaming Commission had been convicted of accepting kickbacks from owners of casinos in St. Louis, the governor had turned to Beth to restore credibility to the commission. The license for the Dream Casino was the first major piece of business for the commission after she took over. Mason found it hard to believe that she had stepped over the line.

Mason had learned from Harry that it was much more effective to question a witness when he showed up unexpectedly. Rachel Firestone had proven the point earlier in the day. He'd had great success waiting outside homes, offices, and bars to snag someone with a handful of well-chosen questions.

He doubted that the ambush interview would work with the three people on his list. A layer of muscle that he'd have to cut through would insulate Ed Fiora. The mayor would have a layer of bureaucrats guarding his gate. Mason wasn't certain which layer would be tougher. He doubted that Beth Harrell had a gatekeeper, but he knew better than to just drop by. Even in law school, she demanded that students make an appointment to see her outside of class.

He wasn't surprised when, earlier that day, one of Fiora's assistants had told him that Mr. Fiora would be unavailable until the next millennium, or when the mayor's scheduling secretary had said that he didn't have any openings until after his term expired. Beth Harrell just didn't call him back. It was a refreshing kind of rejection. By the time he'd finished catching up on his other cases, it was nearly eight o'clock.

Mason checked on Mickey Shanahan before leaving for the night. Mickey was behind the bar, gesturing directions to Pete Kirby's trio as they set up for another night. Pete looked at Mickey like he was a blind man directing traffic. Mason decided to take a crack at Kirby's memory.

"Hey, Pete, how you doing, man?" Mason said.

Pete Kirby was a fireplug whose feet barely touched the pedals when he played the piano. He never left home without a black beret that matched his goatee. Kirby moved like a man whose rhythm was always eight to the bar. Mason expected to find his picture in a catalogue of jazz miniatures.

"Everything's cool, Louie my boy. How's my man Blues?" Kirby was the only person who called Mason Louie, a list Mason wasn't anxious to expand.

"He's doing fine, Pete. I understand you were playing Friday night when Jack Cullan came in."

"That's right, I was. Me and the boys wouldn't have stuck around since it was such a shitty night and the joint was empty, but we figured, what the hell, we'll play a set for Blues. Then Cullan comes in with this good-looking broad and the next thing I know, the two of them are playing Frankie and Johnnie."

"Blues tells me he busted up the fight," Mason said.

"That he did. Blues grabbed that old man like he was gonna pile-drive the cat right into the goddamn ground. Don't pay to tussle in Blues's joint," Pete added with a deep laugh. "No, sir, it don't."

"I hear Cullan fought like a cat too. Scratched the hell out of Blues' hands."

Kirby tugged at the corner of his beret and stroked his goatee, measuring his response in a firm meter. "Like I told the detective, I didn't see any of that. Now, you lookin' like your woman just run off with the drummer makes me wish maybe I had, but I just didn't see it. Sorry, Louie."

"Don't worry about it, Pete. It's not important," Mason assured him.

The parking lot behind the bar was covered in old asphalt that had given birth to potholes big enough to swallow women and children. Blues was an easygoing landlord who believed in deferred maintenance. Mason stepped around the craters, afraid that if he fell into one, no one would find him until spring. His car was parked at the back of the lot; the front end aimed at the alley behind the bar. Though there was a curb between the lot and the street, Mason planned to ignore it. Otherwise, he told himself, what's the point of having a Jeep?

The wind had calmed from its all-day shriek to a steady howl, as if it were whining about working overtime. Though the walk to his car was short, it was long enough for the wind to rake tears from the corners of Mason's eyes. Fine crystals of sleet tattooed his face like asteroid dust, whipping around his right arm as he folded it over his face as a shield. Blues's deferred-maintenance program had extended to the parking lot floodlights that had been burnt out since Thanksgiving. The lights were off in the building across the alley, and the sky had been buttoned down with blackout clouds. Moonlight couldn't have found its way to Mason's dark patch even if it had a map.

Mason crunched his nearly closed eyes even tighter when a pair of high-beam headlights opened up on him like lasers as he reached his Jeep. Another car was parked almost nose-to-nose with his, the sound of its engine muffled by the wind. Heavy boots ground sand and salt into the pavement as a man bigger than Mason's Jeep stepped from the shadows and made his way toward Mason.

"Car trouble?" Mason asked, still unable to make out the man's features.

When he didn't get an answer, Mason's internal windchill hit bottom. His new best friend stepped in front of the headlights casting a nightmare's silhouette. He was wearing a full-length topcoat and a fedora jammed low on his brow.

Mason couldn't see the man's face except for the frozen gray breath that leaked from his mouth like poison gas.

Mason reached for his car door, hoping to put some steel between him and the man, but he was too slow. In the next instant, the man grabbed Mason and spun him around, pinning Mason's face flush to the side of the Jeep, the frozen surface burning Mason's jaw. Mason stiffened, trying to leverage his hands against the Jeep and drive his hips and back against the man, but the side of the Jeep was too slick and the man was too huge. He leaned in hard and close to Mason's face. The wet wool of his topcoat smelled like a dog left too long in the rain and his breath tasted of coffee, cigarettes, and licorice. He'd been standing in the storm waiting for Mason.

"You get one chance, you understand that?" the man said.

"Right. Sure. One chance. That's easy enough," Mason answered.

"Your client's gonna get a deal. Make sure he takes it."

"What kind of deal?" Mason asked.

The man jammed his knee into the small of Mason's back. Even partly cushioned by the man's topcoat, it sent a paralyzing jolt through Mason's kidneys. "The only deal that will keep him and you alive. Got that, smart boy?"

"Got it," Mason managed through clenched teeth.

The man released his grip and Mason crumpled to the pavement gasping for air. When he looked up, the man and the car were gone.