The last witness lm-2

by Joel Goldman

  "You need to learn to value a woman's friendship for more than her vagina, Lou. It would broaden your horizons immeasurably. How about you take me home, I wait for you to patch yourself up, and then you tell me what happened? After which, you can go to bed by yourself."

  "Rachel, you need to learn to value a man's friendship for more than the stories you can squeeze out of him. It would broaden your horizons immeasurably."

  "I don't know. Men have so little else to offer."

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Friday morning, standing naked in front of his bathroom mirror, Mason's body looked as if he'd been tattooed with a Rorschach test. He walked creakily around his house like the Tin Man in search of a lube job, trailed by Tuffy, whose whining and yelping Mason mistook for sympathy until he realized that the dog just wanted to be fed.

  He tried rowing but gave up when he started to sink. He took a shower hot enough to parboil his skin, the heat loosening the kinks in his muscles and joints, and got back in bed long enough to read Rachel's article in the morning paper.

  She had followed him home the night before, tending to his wounds long enough to extract information she agreed to attribute only to a source close to the investigation.

  "I don't want you to think I'm a killer," he told her.

  "I don't; a lousy burglar, yes, but a killer, not so much."

  "Thanks for the endorsement."

  "So who did it? Who killed Cullan, blew up the barbershop, and killed Shirley Parker? And what happened to the files?"

  "Like GI Joe says, knowing is half the battle. The other half is proving it. Ed Fiora is the leader in the clubhouse. He may have been happy that Cullan worked his magic on the license for the Dream Casino. But who wants a lawyer with a file that could send him to the federal penitentiary? Plus he's got the muscle. Tony Manzerio probably gets his rocks off blowing stuff up. Fiora killed Cullan-or had him killed-to preserve the attorney-client privilege. Then, he sent Tony to get the files from Shirley and killed her because she was the last of the loose ends."

  Rachel chewed on Mason's theory. "Maybe, but killing Shirley is too messy. Threaten her, buy her off, and send her out of town. That would have made sense, but killing her turns up the heat hotter than the fire. Fiora isn't that stupid."

  "No plan ever goes down the way it's written. Something went wrong and Tony popped Shirley."

  "So Fiora has the files?"

  "They ain't at the public library."

  "So how do you prove it?"

  "Beats the hell out of me."

  Her story ran alongside a color photograph of him clutching the bars on the barbershop window while flames danced a pirouette around him. A spectator had taken the photograph and sold it to a wire service, turning a quick profit on tragedy. Mason held the picture up for a closer look as he searched for a trace of courage in his bugged-out eyes and gaping trout mouth.

  Rachel wove the Pendergast angle into the story, giving it a gangland flavor that linked two twenty-first-century murders with a long-dead twentieth-century kingpin. She noted the rumored existence of Cullan's confidential files and the suspicion that they contained embarrassing information on the city's leaders, speculating that the files may have been destroyed in the fire or stolen. She described Shirley Parker as a never-married woman with no survivors whose only known employment had been for Jack Cullan, making her life more tragic than her death.

  As for him, Rachel played it straight. The caption under the photograph identified him as Blues's lawyer. The article offered no explanation for his presence in the barbershop, noting that he had declined to comment on the record, as had Harry Ryman when she had asked him whether Mason was a suspect in Shirley Parker's murder.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Mickey Shanahan was sitting in Mason's desk chair, his feet propped on Mason's desk, drinking from a bottle of fresh orange juice, when Mason arrived just before ten o'clock.

  "Is that my orange juice?"

  "Sorry, Lou." Mickey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "This woman dropped it off a while ago. Said she was your aunt. Said you should call her so she could chew your ass. Whatever you did, she's, like, totally pissed, man. What's goin' on?"

  "First, that is my orange juice. Second, my aunt is probably upset that I got trapped in a burning barbershop with a dead body. Third, when did you move into my office?"

  "Sorry again, boss," Mickey said, this time taking his feet off of Mason's desk. "I give on the OJ. But you've got to tell me about the barbershop and the body. That is too much! And you're the one who hired me to check out Ed Fiora. That was yesterday. You left me here without the key. I didn't want to leave the place unlocked and I didn't know when you were coming back, so I stayed."

  "All night?"

  "That sofa's not bad. And the orange juice is pretty good."

  Mickey was wearing the same faded jeans, denim shirt and black crew-neck sweater he'd worn the day before. He had scruffy stubble on his chin, and his unwashed hair looked like it had been finger combed.

  "Mickey, where do you live?"

  He brushed his sweater, freshening his dignity. "I've got a place not far from here."

  "What about clients? I haven't seen a single client in or out of your office in six months. What's up with that?"

  "It's been a little slow. I'm expecting things to pick up. This case will give me a big boost."

  Mason got a quick picture of a kid barely off the street who thought he had scammed Blues on the office lease and had probably been living at the bar ever since. Mason doubted that Mickey had fooled Blues from the moment he'd said hello. Mason reached into his wallet and took out a twenty.

  "I haven't had breakfast. Would you mind picking something up for me? Get yourself something too if you want."

  "Hey, no problem, boss. I'll probably stop at home and get cleaned up if that's okay."

  "You bet. Did you find anything out about Fiora?"

  "A lot of smoke, not much fire. It's all here in a report I did for you."

  "Give me the highlights."

  "I've covered the public-record stuff, property ownership, lawsuits, stuff like that. The gaming commission files could be the real bonanza."

  "Why?"

  "I found two things in those records that are the keys to the information universe. Fiora's social security number and bank accounts. It will take some time, but I'll eventually be able to follow the money."

  "Is that legal?"

  "Hey, you're the lawyer. Do you really want to know?"

  "No, I really don't. What's the bottom line?"

  "Fiora is a big football fan. Just like the mayor. I did some checking on him too."

  Mickey handed him a typed report with printouts attached. Mason thumbed through it, impressed by the level of detail and organization. He reached into his wallet again and handed Mickey two fifties.

  "We haven't talked salary yet. This will cover yesterday until we have time to work out the details."

  Mickey folded the fifties and stuck them in his pocket with a nonchalance that clashed with the hunger in his eyes.

  "Works for me. I'll have to see where I'm at with my other clients before I can commit to anything full-time."

  "Sure. I understand. Check your schedule and let me know. I'm probably going to need somebody at least until Blues's case is over. If you're not available, I'll have to run an ad. That's always a pain in the ass."

  Mickey pursed his lips and nodded, realizing that they were playing each other. "So what's the story on the barbershop and the body?"

  "Buy yourself a newspaper and read all about it. Come to work for me full-time and we'll talk."

  Mickey smiled. "Catch you later, boss."

  Mason, certain that he would, settled into his desk chair, checked out the traffic on Broadway, and read Mickey's report.

  The relationship between Fiora and the mayor was more complicated than a backwoods family tree and was filled with enough smoke that there had to be a fire somewhere. The Dream C
asino bought a wide array of goods and services to make dreams come true for its customers, including food, laundry, carpets, paint, security equipment, slot machines, lighting, liquor, and beer.

  The Dream had an exclusive contract with a local beer distributor owned by Donovan Jenkins, a former wide receiver for the Kansas City Chiefs who had been Billy Sunshine's favorite target. Jenkins had been a steady supporter of his old quarterback, making modest campaign contributions. A month after Jenkins inked the exclusive deal with Fiora, Mayor Sunshine refinanced the $250,000 mortgage on his house. The mayor's new lender was Donovan Jenkins. Mickey speculated at the end of his report that the mayor wasn't making house payments like regular folks.

  Mason picked up his phone and dialed Rachel Firestone's number at the Star.

  "What do you know about the mortgage on Mayor Sunshine's house?" he asked her.

  "Good morning to you too. Nice of you to call, and you're welcome for last night."

  "I'm sure it was as good for you as it was for me."

  "As good as it gets. How did you find out about the mortgage?"

  "You aren't my only source," he told her. "What do you know about the relationship between Fiora, Donovan Jenkins, and the mayor?"

  "Fiora made Jenkins his exclusive beer supplier. Jenkins loaned the mayor a quarter of a million bucks. It's dirty, it sucks, but it's legal. I've talked to the U.S. attorney about it. Jenkins's loan is a matter of public record. Amy White, the mayor's chief of staff, showed me canceled checks for the monthly house payment Mayor Sunshine makes to Jenkins. The interest rate is a market rate. End of story, but I've got something you might be interested in on that tunnel you found in the basement of the barbershop."

  "Are you going to make me sit up and beg?"

  "Not over the phone. I can't tell if you're really sitting up. I checked the paper's archives. During Prohibition, Pendergast owned a speakeasy that was on the other side of the alley from the barbershop. He built the tunnel so his boys could escape in case the feds raided the joint."

  "Who owns the building?" Mason asked.

  "Donovan Jenkins. He bought it from Jack Cullan a year ago."

  "That's handy. Who does Jenkins lease the space to?"

  "An art gallery. They had a big opening last month. It was vacant a long time before that. Care to guess who the last tenant was before the art gallery?"

  "And rob you of the pleasure of telling me? Never."

  "You are so thoughtful. Would you believe it was the Committee to Reelect Billy Sunshine?"

  "Get out!"

  "Get in and get in deep."

  "Man, is there anybody in this whole mess who isn't in bed with one another?"

  "Just you and me, babe. Just you and me."

  "Don't you hate being left out?"

  "No. Deal with it."

  He laughed. "That should be my biggest problem. Thanks again for last night."

  "It was nothing. Keep in touch," she added before hanging up.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  With Cullan's files either destroyed or stolen, Mason was back at the bottom of the hill, still trying to push the boulder to the top. He would let Mickey continue plowing fields in cyberspace while he dug at ground level.

  He logged on to the county's civil-lawsuit database and punched in Beth Harrell's name. Both of her divorce cases showed up. Husband number one was Baker McKenzie. Mason recognized his name. He was the senior partner in the McKenzie, Strachan law firm. Husband number two was Al Douglas, a name Mason didn't recognize. According to Beth, one of her ex-husbands had snapped nasty pics of her and had given them to Jack Cullan. Mason's best idea of the day was to find the exes and ask which one of them was the shitbag.

  Mason didn't want to ask Beth which of her ex-husbands was the shitbag because he wasn't convinced that she was telling the truth. If Beth knew he was checking out her story and she was lying, she would backpedal or find some way to distract him, and he wasn't up to being distracted. If she were telling the truth, she would start crowding Ed Fiora's pole position on the suspect track.

  He called the clerk of the circuit court to locate Beth's divorce files. The voice-mail system cast him into a menu of choices that he accepted and rejected until a human being answered. When the woman said her name was Margaret, he knew she didn't mean it when she asked how she could help him.

  "My name is Lou Mason. I'm a lawyer and I'm trying to locate two divorce files."

  "Are they on-site or off-site?"

  Mason swallowed. "I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me."

  "If they are on-site, they might only be available on microfilm. That would mean that we shipped the hard copy off-site. If the files are off-site and you want the hard copy, it will take one to three business days to retrieve the files from off-site storage. Hold, please," she added before he could respond.

  Mason imagined dozens of different torture scenarios for bureaucrats named Margaret during the three minutes and twenty-seven seconds she left him on hold.

  "This is Margaret. May I help you?" she asked when she returned to his call.

  "Margaret this is Lou Mason. We've already met. I'm looking for two divorce files and I know the on-site, off-site drill. Let me give you the case numbers so you can find out where they are."

  "We can't give that information out over the phone. You'll have to come to the clerk's office and sign a form."

  He took a deep breath. "Should I ask for you, Margaret?"

  "Yes. I'll be at lunch."

  Thirty minutes later, Mason cautiously approached the court clerk's office. He was less concerned that Margaret would actually be at lunch than he was that she would be there and he'd end up a suspect in another homicide. He passed through the double glass doors of the court clerk's office. A long white counter laminated with Formica separated Mason from the employees processing the county's civil and criminal cases.

  He had concluded from past experiences that they had been trained not to look up unless it was at the clock. It was ten minutes to noon when Mason rang the bell on the counter under the sign that read Ring for Service. The woman at the nearest desk raised her eyes at him; her resentment at his interruption shot through her glare.

  "I'm here to see Margaret."

  She picked up her phone, stealing glances at him until he was certain that she'd called the sheriff's office. She hung up, put the cap on her pen, and disappeared to the back of the office.

  Mason waited. There was a large clock on the wall to his right. He watched the second hand sweep around the dial and the incremental march of the minute hand to twelve o'clock high. The other people in the office, as if in response to an inner clock, rose in turn from their desks, vanishing into the depths of the clerk's office.

  One woman remained. She walked slowly to the counter, eyeing the clock, timing her advance.

  "I'm Margaret."

  "I'm Lou Mason. We spoke on the phone. You said I had to fill out a form to request a couple of divorce files."

  She reached into a drawer and handed Mason two forms, one for each file. He filled them out and flashed her his best smile when he handed them back to her. He followed her gaze to the clock.

  "It's noon. I'm on my lunch break. Come back at one o'clock."

  Mason watched helplessly as Margaret carried the forms back to her desk, dropping them on her chair, never looking back.

  He returned exactly sixty minutes later. Seventy minutes later, Margaret presented him with both files, neither of which had been off-site or on microfilm. He filled out additional forms to check out the files, which meant that he could take them into a small adjoining room and look at them. He would have to fill out another form to request copies, and he could not under any circumstances, Margaret explained in the severest of tones, remove the files from the clerk's office.

  The files were one-dimensional ledgers of dates and dollars, the final accounting of dead relationships. He thought about his own marriage, about the passion and pain that had swept both him and Kate alo
ng for three years until Kate called it quits, depriving him of the choice to fight or surrender.

  There was no exuberance in the dry recitation of the dates of Beth's marriages and no regret in the hollow entries of the decrees of divorce. It was history without humanity, irreconcilable differences code words for hearts empty and broken.

  Beth Harrell had married Baker McKenzie shortly after graduating from law school. She was twenty-five and he was twenty-five years her senior. They had met when Beth worked as a summer intern at McKenzie's firm. The marriage had lasted two years. There had been no children, and she hadn't sought alimony or any of his property, asking only for the restoration of her maiden name.

  Five years later, she married Al Douglas, an architect fifteen years older than her. She kept her maiden name, and they signed a prenuptial agreement that prohibited either of them from seeking any monetary settlement from the other in the event of a divorce, with the exception of child support if they had a family. Irreconcilable differences had again been diagnosed, like a recurring cancer. The court entered the decree of divorce on their fourth wedding anniversary.

  It was impossible to draw any conclusions about Beth's marriages other than that they had had a beginning and an end. What had taken place in the middle was not a matter of public record. Mason would have to ask Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas to find out which of them was the shitbag.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Mason had learned one thing about celebrity. It cleared a lot of scheduling conflicts. Both Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas agreed to see him that afternoon. He started with McKenzie.

  Baker McKenzie was the third generation of McKenzies in the firm his grandfather and Matthew Strachan had founded seventy-five years earlier. None of Strachan's heirs had followed their ancestor in the law, though no later generations of interloping partners had suggested removing the Strachan name from the door. McKenzie, Strachan was the oldest and largest law firm in the city, its bloodlines were the bluest, and its stockings were woven of the finest silk.