The last witness lm-2

by Joel Goldman

  "No kidding? Tom Pendergast. When was this taken? Last question, I promise."

  "I'll tell you on your way out." She locked the door to Cullan's office and ushered him out into the hallway. "Nineteen forty-five," she said.

  Back in his car, Mason looked up at the window to Cullan's office. For an instant, he thought he saw Shirley Parker lingering in the shadows, but then dismissed the image as a trick of the sun against the glass and his own creeping paranoia.

  He started to pull away when he saw a barber pole bolted to the wall of a building across the street. The barbershop, and the rest of the block, was vacant, but the photograph in Cullan's office and the barber pole triggered his memory of a story his grandfather told him.

  Tom Pendergast ran Kansas City during Prohibition and after, ruling with a velvet hammer Cullan must have envied. He was ruthless to some, generous to others, handing down decrees and handing out favors from an office above the abandoned barber shop across the street from Cullan's office.

  Mason's grandfather, Mike, had gotten his start in the wrecking business when Pendergast had given his blessing to his grandfather's plan to salvage the scrap from the construction of Bagnel Dam at the Lake of the Ozarks and sell it. Afterward, his grandfather had gone to Pendergast's office to pay the man his respects and a cut of the profits. Pendergast had accepted the gratitude but not the cash, and Mason's grandfather had been on his way, though his patron eventually went to jail for tax evasion.

  By 1945, when the picture had been taken, Pendergast had been released from jail, his organization lay in ruins, and he had only a short time to live. The young Jack Cullan couldn't have known or cared about Pendergast's background. It must have been pure coincidence that he shook hands that day with the man whose career he would emulate. Looking back years later, Cullan probably saw it as a portent, his first step on a well-trod path.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  There was a small diner, another relic from pre-fast-food times, one block south on Main. It was the last building on the east side of the street and offered a handful of parking spaces in a lot on the south side of the building. Mason pulled into the parking lot and called Mickey Shanahan.

  "Law offices of Lou Mason. To whom may I direct your call?" Mickey said.

  "Are you auditioning for a job as a receptionist too?"

  "No job too small, no duty too great. Pay me soon; it's been a week since I ate."

  "I'm not surprised. Your shtick is from hunger. While you're cruising the Internet, go to the county's Web site and check property ownership records for 2010 Main. In fact, check the ownership records for that entire block. The west side of Main between Twentieth and Twenty-First. Call me back when you've got something."

  The Egg House Diner was a twenty-four-hour restaurant with a counter that seated eight and a row of booths along the front window, none of which were occupied when Mason picked one. A man of indeterminate age, wearing layers of soiled clothing and a strong odor, sat at the counter, stirring a cup of coffee. A large black plastic bag, stuffed to its limit, lay on the floor at his feet.

  Mason chose a booth that gave him a clear view of the vacant barbershop. He picked up a menu that had more stains than entries. A few moments later, a flat-faced woman with dull eyes and thin hair, wearing a lime-green-and-white-striped waitress uniform, brought him a glass of water and took his order for a turkey sandwich. He took the first bite when his phone rang, the caller ID telling him it was Mickey.

  "What do you have for me?"

  "The whole block is owned by New Century Redevelopment Corporation except for 2010 Main. Shirley Parker owns that building. Her name mean anything to you?"

  "Yeah. It means I'll be out the rest of the day."

  Mason spent the afternoon in the booth at the Egg House Diner. The man sitting at the counter did the same. The waitress, used to customers who spent little, talked less, and stayed forever, left him alone. He watched the traffic on Main Street, waiting for Shirley Parker to jaywalk from the People's Savings amp; Loan Building to the barbershop across the street.

  He wasn't good at sitting and waiting. He lacked the patience for a stakeout, though he wasn't certain whether sitting in a restaurant qualified. He figured a real stakeout meant sitting in a dark car, drinking cold coffee, peeing in a bottle, and scrunching down in the front seat whenever someone drove by. He was just killing time in a dumpy diner, kept company by people who had no place else to go.

  After a while, he retrieved a yellow legal pad from his car and tried to reproduce the notes from his dry-erase board. He wrote the names and the questions again, adding order and precision to the notes without finding any new answers. He drummed his pen against the pad until the vagrant at the counter silenced him with an annoyed look. No one else came into the diner.

  At three o'clock, he ordered a slice of apple pie and a cup of coffee to be polite. He picked at the pie and stirred the coffee, then told the waitress to give it to his counter companion. The man gave him another annoyed look but didn't send the snack back to Mason's booth.

  By five o'clock, clouds had moved in, hastening the transition from dusk to dark. Headlights blinked on, slicing the gloom on Main Street as people began making their way home. As if on cue, the man at the counter grunted at the waitress, hoisted his plastic bag over his shoulder, and left, giving Mason a final silent stab on his way out the door.

  A pair of city buses, one northbound, the other southbound, stopped at the corner of Twentieth and Main, momentarily blocking his view. When the buses pulled away, he saw Shirley Parker jostling the lock on the door to the building that housed the barbershop. He waited until she was inside before leaving the diner, trying to remember when he'd had his last haircut.

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The door to Shirley Parker's building opened into a long, dark hallway that led to the back. Bare wooden stairs to the second floor narrowed the passage. No one was in the hall when Mason stepped inside. He stood still for a moment, listening, hearing nothing.

  A door to his right would have opened into the barbershop had it not been lying on its side, propped against the wall as an afterthought. The shop was empty except for an ancient barber chair tilted in the reclining position, as if its last occupant had come in for a shampoo and shave. Steel bars had been bolted to the storefront window frame, a stark concession to the uneasy plight of an abandoned building made too late to save anything but memories.

  A naked lightbulb at the top of the stairs cast shadows at Mason's feet. The silence was broken by the sound of shoes scraping overhead. Shirley Parker was upstairs in Tom Pendergast's old office.

  Mason had spent the afternoon in the Egg House Diner betting that Jack Cullan had hidden his secret files in Pendergast's office, the irony of using his hero's headquarters too delicious to pass up. Putting the ownership of the building in Shirley Parker's name was a thin dodge, arrogance mistaken for cleverness-a common weakness of bad guys. Superman never would have put Jimmy Olson's name on the deed to the Fortress of Solitude.

  Mason had also bet that his questions had unnerved Shirley Parker, forcing her to conduct her own stakeout of the barbershop to confirm that Mason didn't try to break in. When he didn't, she still couldn't resist checking on the files to be certain he hadn't somehow sneaked past her.

  Breaking and entering was a Class D felony, not an upward career move for most lawyers. Mason convinced himself that he was neither breaking nor entering; he was simply making a business visit knowing that Shirley was inside. Besides, he had no intent to commit any crime on the premises, at least not at that moment. He just wanted to talk with Shirley Parker.

  As he stood at the foot of the stairs, the plan that had made so much sense as he sat in the booth at the diner now struck him as foolhardy. Shirley had refused to answer his questions in Cullan's office during normal business hours. Popping up like the Pillsbury Doughboy in Pendergast's office after hours wouldn't loosen her tongue. She would call the police, and the files would disappear
overnight.

  His insight produced Plan B, and in that moment he understood the curious reasoning that landed his clients in jail. It was a mix of overstated need, self-justification, and unfounded optimism that he could pull something off that a rational person would never consider.

  Uncertain exactly when and where he had crossed that line, he was confident that it really was a good idea to hide in the basement until Shirley left the building, then search Pendergast's office until he found the files. Tomorrow morning, he would serve Shirley with a subpoena for the files, and then sit back and watch Patrick Ortiz marvel at his resourcefulness.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark as he felt his way along the hallway, soon coming to the backside of the stairway, where he found a door that he hoped led to the basement. Taking care not to aggravate squeaky hinges, he nursed the handle until he felt it release, then eased the door open just enough to slip through. Probing the black space with one foot, he confirmed his guess about a basement and stepped down onto the first stair, pulling the door closed behind him, sweating in spite of the cold that crept up the stairs.

  He spent twenty minutes on the top stair until he heard Shirley coming down from the second floor. He opened the basement door a crack to make certain he would hear her leave, taking comfort in Shirley's unhurried gait and unbroken march down the stairs and out the door. She didn't hesitate as she would have if she had heard or sensed his presence.

  Mason waited another five minutes before heading upstairs. Shirley had turned off the light at the top of the stairs, and Mason didn't want to take the chance that she was watching from across the street for a light to come on, leaving him to feel his way along the wall with his hands. If he could have seen his feet, he would have kicked himself for not bringing a flashlight.

  He found the door to Pendergast's office and was relieved that Shirley had left it unlocked. The office was darker even than the stairwell, as if it had been sealed. Recalling that there was a double window overlooking Main Street and that he'd seen blinds on that window when he'd looked up from his car, he felt his way to the street side of the room to peek through the blinds. When his fingers found smooth drywall all along that surface, he became disoriented, so uncertain of direction that he circled the room twice as his mouth dried up in a blind man's panic.

  On his second pass, his knuckles brushed against a switch, flicking it on. He leaned against the wall, squinting until his pupils stopped dilating. The double window had been covered, the blinds still in place, so that the outside world would see the window, unchanged and unopened-but a window nonetheless. Inside, the light was captive, unable to illuminate the secrets behind the walls.

  The room was empty. Mason imagined Pendergast sitting behind a desk, dispensing favors or broken legs as the moment required. He envisioned a couple of overfed cronies in snap-brimmed fedoras, smoking sour cigars, giving witness and protection to Pendergast's patronage practice. He thought of his grandfather, genuflecting with a humble "Thank you, Mr. Pendergast." There were no reminders of those times, no photographs on the walls, not even outlines in the dust on the floor where the furniture had been.

  There was a sliding panel built into the wall, which Mason guessed would have been behind Pendergast's desk, because that would have given him a straight-on view of each supplicant or sucker who crossed his threshold. A circular groove had been cut at one end of the panel into a finger hold with which to pull the panel open. A lock had been added directly above the groove. Mason tried it without success, not surprised when it didn't yield.

  There were no lock picks or crowbars lying on the floor, so Mason used his shoulder to loosen the lock. It gave on the third try, splintering the wood. He shoved the panel back along its track and stepped into a walk-in closet lined with wooden file cabinets. Expecting the drawers to also be locked, Mason yanked on the nearest one, almost falling over when it spilled into his arms.

  The names on the files should have read Pay Dirt. Instead, they were labeled with the names of the rich and powerful, including Billy Sunshine, Ed Fiora, and Beth Harrell. He didn't have time to read them before his career as a second-story man ended like a scene from a late-night rerun.

  "Police! Freeze! Put your hands where I can see them, and turn around real slow!"

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Mason left the drawer gaping open and did as he was told. A cop aimed his service revolver at Mason from the doorway. Mason could see Shirley Parker peering around the cop, her eyes drawn in beady satisfaction.

  "I'm unarmed."

  There was no point in telling the cop that this was all a misunderstanding, that he hadn't really done what he'd so clearly done. He expected to be arrested and was more interested in not getting shot.

  "Up against the wall, legs and arms spread wide."

  Mason complied again, flinching as the cop ran one hand down his sides, up his legs to his crotch, under his jacket, and around his middle.

  "Okay. You can turn around now."

  The cop was tall, square shouldered, and vaguely familiar until Mason read the name beneath his badge, James Toland. He was the cop Blues had decked when Toland had tried to put cuffs on him, Mason understanding the impulse. He waited for Toland to pull out his handcuffs, read him his rights, and end his career. None of which happened.

  Shirley Parker stepped past them and into the closet, conducting a quick inventory. Toland broke the silence.

  "Do you want to press charges, Miss Parker?"

  "There doesn't seem to be anything missing. You can let Mr. Mason go."

  Toland looked like a kid whose Christmas had been canceled. "Must be your lucky day, pal."

  Mason felt his blood start circulating again as he realized why Shirley had granted him a reprieve. He might have been guilty of breaking and entering, but she was sitting on the mother lode of blackmail, which would make her the next front-page defendant. Whatever Shirley intended to do with the files, exposing their existence wasn't an option.

  She stepped back into the room, her face bleak and ashen. She knew she was in over her head. She had gone through life doing what Jack Cullan had told her to do, maybe nursing a quiet love that was never noticed or returned, resigned to her life at his side, loyal and lonely. She'd been angry and afraid enough at Mason's intrusion to call the cops, but she'd outsmarted herself and could only let him go.

  Mason had more questions for her that he was certain she wouldn't answer, but he couldn't resist the most obvious.

  "How did you know I was here?"

  "There's a motion detector on the stairs. Satisfied, Mr. Mason?"

  "Completely. I'll be back in the morning with a subpoena for those files, so take very good care of them tonight. You've got enough problems without adding a charge for obstruction of justice."

  Mason hurried back up the street to the Egg House Diner, checking over his shoulder to see when Shirley Parker and Toland left the building. He'd just slid into his booth when they emerged. Shirley locked the door, pulling a steel bar across it that he hadn't noticed before.

  Toland watched her cross the street back to the People's Savings amp; Loan Building before climbing into his squad car and driving away. Mason waved as Toland passed the diner, pleased with his escape and happy for Toland to know that he was still keeping his eye on the files.

  A second shift had come on duty during his absence. A waiter had replaced the waitress, and a homeless woman seated at the counter had taken the place of the homeless man. Though he couldn't be certain, Mason suspected that the waitress and the homeless man had simply traded places. The waiter's pale skin looked even paler against his two-day growth of beard when he shoved a glass of water across Mason's table. Not wanting to push his luck, Mason ordered another turkey sandwich. The woman huddled inside her tattered overcoat and scarves as if she were in a cocoon for the winter.

  "Give her some dinner and put it on my check," he told the waiter.

  The waiter returned to the counter, leaned over to the woman, and spo
ke too softly for Mason to hear. A moment later, the woman shuffled off the stool, gave Mason a poisonous glare, and disappeared down Main Street. The waiter shook his head as if cursing himself for not knowing any better. Mason had tried taking a page from his aunt Claire's book, only to realize that it was now a different book, titled No Good Deed Goes Unpunished.

  Mason didn't trust Shirley Parker to leave Cullan's files where they were until he showed up with a subpoena the next morning. He didn't know whether there was another entrance to the barbershop, and he couldn't watch both Shirley and the barbershop all night. Nor was Mason thrilled at the prospect of spending the night in the diner, pissing off homeless people. The simplest solution was to make a deal with the prosecutor. Mason would tell Ortiz about the files in return for Ortiz's promise to share the contents with him. Ortiz would track down Judge Carter and get a search warrant before Shirley Parker had a chance to move the files.

  Mason's deal with Ortiz would cancel the ones he'd made with Rachel Firestone and Amy White and more than disappoint Ed Fiora, but that couldn't be helped. He called Ortiz, not surprised that he was still working long after most county employees had gone home.

  "Patrick Ortiz."

  "Patrick, it's Lou Mason. I've got a great deal for you."

  "Too late. I told you the plea bargain was off the table if we went to the preliminary hearing."

  "Forget the plea bargain. I'm going to make you the hero in this case. Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell and a lot of other people, maybe including the mayor. I've found the files he kept on those people."

  "So you're calling to report a crime committed by a dead man?"

  "I'm calling to tell you to get a search warrant for those files so you can prevent them from disappearing. Those files are evidence in Cullan's murder. The killer is probably someone Cullan was blackmailing."

  "Your client is the killer. Did Cullan have a file on him?"