by Joel Goldman
Baker McKenzie sat comfortably at the top of the firm, worrying more about his putting stroke than about the firm's clients. He had hidden mediocre legal skills and a civil service work ethic beneath the legacy of his grandfather and father. Mason had run across him once or twice in cases where the client had expected the name partner to show his face. McKenzie had shown it just long enough to make certain he didn't get it dirty before begging off because of pressing matters in the case of Tee v. Green. He was a society-page regular, never seen in public without a beautiful woman on his arm.
McKenzie greeted Mason as if they were asshole buddies. "My God, man! How the hell are you? I swear to Jesus that you are turning our profession into one dangerous contact sport."
McKenzie gleamed as if he'd just been washed and waxed, his teeth and hair both bleached to a high sheen. McKenzie was Mason's height, broad where Mason was lean and fit for his age or any other, shaking Mason's hand vigorously enough to make the point.
He led Mason to his forty-first-floor corner office with a panoramic view of the city.
"You've got a helluva view."
"Hell, I can see from here to next week," he said, laughing at a line he'd used a thousand times. "It's really something during a lightning storm, especially at night. I'm telling you, Lou, it's like standing next to Zeus throwing thunderbolts. It electrifies women of a certain erotic sensibility-like, their nerve endings get supercharged and they've just got to plug something into all that current."
"And I'll bet you know how to throw the switch."
McKenzie took a deep breath, swelling his chest. "I could light up a Christmas tree, my friend."
"I'll bet those are some moments to remember."
"Indeed they are. Indeed they are."
"All that excitement, it must be hard to remember one woman from another. You ever keep any souvenirs?"
McKenzie's boasting gave way to suspicion. "You didn't ask to see me to talk about my love life. What's on your mind?"
It had taken Mason only a few minutes to bait Baker McKenzie and less time to hate him. Mason didn't want him to mistake diplomacy for deference.
"Beth Harrell says she's being blackmailed with some dirty pictures either you or her other ex-husband took and gave to Jack Cullan. If she's telling the truth, that means she's a suspect in Cullan's murder and the ex-husband is a shitbag. I need to know if the pictures are real and I need to know if you're the shitbag."
McKenzie looked out over the horizon for a moment before turning toward Mason, his face besotted with angry blood. He closed the distance between them before Mason realized that he wasn't coming to shake his hand again, and launched a right cross at Mason's chin. Mason couldn't get out of the way, and he spun around once before toppling at McKenzie's feet.
"Dartmouth boxing team, light-heavyweight division," McKenzie said as he stepped over a stunned but conscious Mason and opened the door to his office. "Call maintenance," McKenzie said to his secretary. "Tell them to clean up the shitbag on my floor."
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Al Douglas's office was in a suburban office park surrounded by woods and ringed by a bike path. Banners hung from light poles in the parking lot, depicting festive winter scenes that clashed with the barren trees. Mason sat in his car for half an hour, ministering to his chin with an ice bag he bought at a convenience store, before going inside.
He was prepared to take a more temperate approach to husband number two when Al Douglas looked up at him from a drafting table. Douglas worked in an office without walls, where no one had a private office. Mason assumed that the design was intended to build camaraderie, but judging from the beehive hum that greeted him, it bred whispers and rumors.
"You must be Lou Mason," Douglas said, extending his hand. "Baker called me. He said he'd already taken out your chin but that I could have the rest of your face unless I was the shitbag you were looking for. Let's talk someplace quiet."
Douglas slid off his drafting stool and led Mason into a break room where two other people were huddled over a crossword puzzle. Douglas cleared his throat and waited. The puzzle people took their cue and left, closing the door behind them.
He was round-shouldered, thin on top and thick around the middle. He wore half-glasses that had slid two thirds of the way down his nose. He took off the glasses, letting them drop to his chest, where they dangled from a thin chain that looped around his neck.
"He really tagged you, didn't he? The sucker punch is Baker's specialty. He tried it once with me, but he misjudged how short I am and missed. If he misses the first punch, he's finished. I kicked him in the nuts and he cried like a girl."
Douglas's story about Baker McKenzie was a verbal sucker punch, letting Mason know he wouldn't be intimidated even though he looked like the only thing he'd ever thrown in anger was a fit.
"I'll try to remember that when we have the rematch."
"You really should put some ice on that before you grow a second chin."
"I'll do that. No offense, but you and Baker aren't exactly cut from the same cloth. Baker has two last names and you have two first names. Other than that, I can't see the connection. How did both of you end up married to Beth Harrell?"
"She's a woman of extremes, and Baker and I are at the opposite end of several masculine scales. She tried both ends. The next guy will probably be in the middle. Strong, tough, but likes sunsets. I suppose you want to know about the pictures."
"If you don't mind. Do the pictures really exist?"
Douglas poured a cup of coffee and took a chilled bottle of water from a refrigerator and handed it to Mason. "Here. Put that on your chin, and yes, the pictures are real."
Mason rolled the bottle across his chin. "Did Baker take the pictures?" Douglas shook his head. "You?"
"Neither one of us took them. Beth did. She put her camera on a tripod and used a timer. We were both into adult entertainment and she wanted to shock me, stir me up in some different way. I won't lie to you. It worked. She's a beautiful woman and the pictures were quite graphic. I hadn't gotten off like that since my first Playboy."
"Did she do the same thing with Baker?"
"I don't know, but I doubt it. Beth always said that Baker screwed around, but only in the missionary position."
"You sound awfully philosophical for a guy who got dumped. You don't even sound angry with her."
"Guys like me never end up with women like Beth for very long. When she left me, it was like the clock struck midnight and I was back to being Al, the invisible man with the boffo porn collection. Except I had the pictures. So I didn't get mad; I got off and then got even."
Douglas was blase enough about his relationship with Beth that Mason pegged him for a sociopath interested only in his own needs and indifferent to anyone else. His casual, unemotional vengeance was creepy.
"You gave the pictures to Jack Cullan?"
Douglas smiled. "I sold them. I guess that really makes me the shitbag."
Mason resisted the impulse to shove Douglas's chalky face into the back of his skull.
"When did you sell the pictures to Cullan?"
"You want to hit me. I can tell from the way your jugular vein is throbbing. But you won't do it. I can tell that too. You're stuck with your conventional ethics. That's why people like me are able to do the things we do."
Mason measured his breathing. Douglas was a gut-sucking parasite with a sunny disposition. He bellied up to Douglas, crowding him into a corner. Douglas backed up, his hands shaking, causing him to spill his coffee on the front of his pants.
"You don't know me, Douglas, so don't assume too much. When did you sell the pictures to Cullan?"
"Okay, okay," Douglas said, holding up his hand in protest. "I sold him the pictures a couple of months ago. Satisfied?"
"Barely. If I find out you kept any copies of those pictures, or sold them or gave them away or posted them on the Internet, I'll come back here and turn you inside out."
Douglas found more courage when
he realized Mason wasn't going to smack him. "I'd be more worried about Beth, if I were you. I kept the pictures, but she kept the gun."
Mason couldn't tell if Douglas was pimping him, but he couldn't resist the next question. "What gun?"
"Baker gave her a present when they got divorced, since she wouldn't take any money. He told her she should use it with her next husband to get a better settlement. I settled very cheaply."
"Do you know what kind of gun it was?"
"A. 38-caliber pistol," he answered with a grin that said he'd just gotten even with Beth all over again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Mason's new theory was that Ed Fiora, Billy Sunshine, and Beth Harrell had all killed Jack Cullan, drawing straws to see who would hold him down while one of them shot him. They had such a good time that they played their game again with Shirley Parker. As a theory, it sucked, but it was easier than trying to pick a favorite.
Returning to his car, Mason called his office, curious whether Mickey had ever come back.
"Lou Mason and Associates," Mickey said.
"Associates are young lawyers who are overpaid and underworked. I don't recall hiring any associates. I'm sure I would have remembered."
"Chill out, boss. It's branding, like Coke or Kleenex. Gives the name some flair. Tells people we're going places."
"I catch you playing lawyer, I'll give you some real branding. Understood?"
"No problemo, dude. Hey, you got a call from Judge Carter's administrative assistant, reminding you that she wants to see you and Ortiz first thing Monday morning, eight o'clock."
"The judge's assistant wasn't named Margaret, was she?"
"She didn't say. Why, do you think you know her?"
"Only if her name is Margaret. Are you still following Fiora's money trail?"
"Inside and outside, boss. I may have something for you tonight."
Mason stopped at the jail to talk with Blues. The sheriff's deputy who brought Blues into the visiting attorney room pointed his thumb and forefinger at Mason, dropped the hammer on his imaginary gun, and told Mason he was saving a cell for him.
"Talk inside is that the cops are looking at you for the Shirley Parker thing."
"They can look all they want. Harry knows I didn't do it."
"Who did?"
"Tony Manzerio is my choice." Mason briefed Blues about Cullan's files, the fire, and Shirley Parker. He told Blues about Donovan Jenkins's contract with Ed Fiora and Jenkins's loan to the mayor. He finished up with his visits to Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas.
"You think the same person killed Cullan and Parker?" Blues asked.
"Makes sense. If the ballistics tests show that the bullets were fired from the same gun, you'll be out of here with a refund. I'll check with Harry as soon as I can."
Blues nodded silently, got up from his seat, and knocked on the door, signaling the guard that he was ready to return to his cell. He cocked his fist at his side, making imaginary contact with Mason, who returned the gesture.
Mason worried as the door closed behind Blues. His face never betrayed what he was thinking or what he might do. That unpredictability made him particularly dangerous. Even a rattlesnake rattled before it struck.
Blues had been in jail for more than three weeks, charged with a murder that could take his own life. Mason had looked for signs that he was bending to the grind of incarceration. He had seen none, no tic at the corner of his eyes, no tightening of his mouth, no tremor in his hands. Yet Mason knew that Blues's rage simmered just beneath the surface and that he would make someone pay for putting him behind bars. Mason worried that getting him out of jail might just be the first step down a path that brought him back to the same place.
December's subzero wind chills and snowstorms had given way to a raw January. Each day brought a thin mist or a thicker sleet that whipped and whirled into every body pore and open space. The sun was being held hostage behind a slate-gray sky. It was the kind of weather that kept heads down and chins tucked against chests. By spring, the entire city would need a chiropractor just to stand up straight.
Mason's phone rang as he got behind the wheel of the Jeep, rubbing his hands against the cold.
"Lou Mason," he said, his breath vaporizing before disappearing.
"I didn't think you would answer." It was Beth Harrell. She sounded breathless and shaky.
"That makes us even. I didn't think you would call."
It was a small lie. Mason had expected that one of Beth's ex-husbands, or both, would tell her about his visits. She was the kind of woman who kept a hold on a man long after the last kiss. He wondered which ex-husband had called. Baker McKenzie would call to brag about decking him. Al Douglas would call to hear her cry.
"I'm sorry. Calling you was an impulse, another bad one, I guess."
Her voice triggered a crotch-centered impulse. Beth was a dangerous woman under the best of circumstances, and they were a long way from that ground. Still, she managed to reach inside him.
"Don't apologize. What's on your mind?"
"I'm practically a prisoner in my apartment. If I go out, the press won't leave me alone. I guess I was just feeling lonely and I couldn't think of anyone else to call." She hesitated, waiting for Mason to reply. He didn't. "Bad idea, huh?" she asked in a low, throaty, bad-girl voice.
"Not the best, but I haven't heard many good ideas lately. The last guy you went out with on a Friday night ended up with a bullet in his eye. I don't want to make page one again anytime soon."
"Neither do I. Although I don't think we could top your picture in this morning's paper unless we were caught having sex on Main Street."
Mason laughed, disarmed by her earthy humor. "You haven't seen my good side."
"Show me. I'll make us dinner. You can park at the hotel and take the walkway across to my building. No one will see you. You'll be safe."
"Give me an hour."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Mason had a hard time using the words safe and Beth in the same sentence, but he had to talk to her about the pictures and about the gun. He stopped at home, showered, shaved, fed the dog, and listened to his messages, including one from his aunt Claire demanding that he call her. He promised the answering machine that he would and left the lights on so that Tuffy wouldn't be left in the dark.
There were two entrances to the hotel's parking garage, one on the north and one on the east. Beth's apartment was in a high-rise on the south side of the Intercontinental. Mason chose the north entrance to the parking garage to minimize the chance that some reporter staking out Beth's apartment would see him.
It took him longer than he expected to find the walkway that connected the hotel and the apartment building, and it was past seven o'clock when he knocked on her door. He heard the sharp clack of heels on hardwood as Beth walked hurriedly to the door, opening it with a sigh mixed with relief and anticipation.
Mason stood in the doorway, deciding whether to cross her threshold. Beth waited, one hand on the door, the other on her hip, wearing black linen slacks and a bloodred silk shirt unbuttoned far enough to get his attention. A sly smile creased her cheeks. She looked like a woman who'd never known trouble she hadn't asked for and who was ready to ask again.
"Come on in, Lou. I won't bite."
"Hardly worth the effort, then," he said as he walked past her.
The entrance hall opened into a living room with a wall of glass that faced north, looking over the top of the Intercontinental Hotel to the Plaza fifteen stories below, its eight square blocks of shops sparkling in a quarter of a million Christmas lights. Long, tapered candles lit with perfect ovals of yellow flame beckoned from the dining room table. Mellow jazz filled the corners from hidden speakers.
Mason stopped in front of the windows, taking in the view, Beth nestling against his back, her hands on his shoulders, drawing his coat halfway off. He turned toward her and she pushed his coat onto the floor, resting her hands on his chest. He held her arms, not trusting his hands.<
br />
"We're alone, if you were wondering," she said.
"That's what worries me." He took her by the wrists and pulled her hands of him. "Get your coat."
Her face reddened as if he had slapped her. "Why?"
"We need to talk, and the chances of keeping our clothes on while we do it are much better outside than inside."
She backed up a few steps, hugging herself. "You are the master of the mixed message. I'm at the end of my rope and you take advantage of me every time we're together. I can't keep playing these games with you."
"That's good, Beth. That's very good. The best defense is a good offense. Let's stay on task. If I can prove that both you and Blues are innocent, you'll only get one message from me. In the meantime, I don't trust either one of us unless we're standing up with our clothes on and it's too cold to take them off."
"I won't go with you," she said, adopting a pout. "You can't make me."
"Would you prefer your own front-page story? I don't have a photograph to go with it yet, but sometimes it's better for the reader to create his own picture. Especially when it's a story of a woman taking nude pictures of herself, then claiming a dead man was blackmailing her with the pictures."
"You wouldn't!" she said, wheeling around, her hands planted on her hips.
"Without pleasure and with regret, I assure you, but I will do it the moment I walk out of here. Rachel Firestone would love to have the story."
"I saw you with her on New Year's Eve. I don't know what you see in a woman like that! She can't love you!" Tears pooled at the corners of her eyes, spilling down past her nose and tracing a wet line along her lips. "Damn you!" she said as she stood crying, her arms limp, her shoulders heaving.
Her world was collapsing around her and Mason was pushing her to the brink. Each time she reached out her hand, he was afraid to take it because he didn't know if she would take him down with her. But for now, he needed her to hold on. He wrapped his arms around her and she muffled her cries against his chest, gathering herself, wiping her eyes.
