by Joel Goldman
"God, I'm a mess," she said.
"Not if you like mascara streaks. I understand that's how Kiss got the idea for their makeup."
"Screw you," she said, finding half a smile.
"Let's go for a drive instead."
"Okay. Let me change."
She chose corduroy jeans, ankle-high boots, and a heavy red woolen sweater. She had washed her face and tied her hair back with a bandanna. Not bothering with more makeup, she was scrubbed clean and fresh, indifferent to the crow's-feet and laugh lines she'd left exposed. Relieved of the burdens of tears and seduction, she had a fresh vulnerability that pierced Mason's heart. She pulled on her parka, grabbed her purse, and marched to the door while he stared at her, transfixed.
"Let's go," she said. "I'm not going to spend my whole life waiting for you."
Mason did a lap under the Plaza lights and headed south. Neither of them spoke. When they left the city limits in the distance and the headlights ahead and behind them dwindled to a few, curiosity overcame her.
"Do we keep going until you run out of gas?"
"Not much farther."
A few minutes later, they pulled into the driveway of a farmhouse. Mason got a swift shot of paranoia until a car that had seemed to be following them continued on past the driveway. He got out and walked to the end of the driveway, looking to his west as the car's taillights disappeared over the next hill. Satisfied, he got back into the Jeep and drove around the farmhouse, down a rutted path, and into a small clearing in the woods.
"Let's go for a walk," he told her.
"Are you nuts? In the dark? In this cold?"
"It's invigorating. The Swedish do it all the time. If we had snow, we'd take our clothes off and roll around in it."
Mason grabbed his flashlight from the glove compartment and led her through the woods, back toward the farmhouse, quieting her with hand signals whenever she started to ask a question. Mason could make out the shape of the farmhouse when a pair of high-beam headlights bounced off the front windows and splashed back into the front yard. Mason turned off his flashlight and pulled Beth down to the ground.
Tony Manzerio stepped out of the car, silhouetted by the headlights, and took a quick tour of the grounds. Sound travels farther at night, and in the cold stillness he heard Manzerio invoke ghosts and godfathers in frustration at having lost them. They waited in the woods until Manzerio drove away, and another twenty minutes to make certain he wasn't coming back.
"Okay," Mason said. "Let's go." He helped her up and began walking toward the farmhouse.
"Wait a minute," Beth said. "The car is back the other way."
"We're not going to the car. We're spending the night here."
Mason walked to the back door of the farmhouse and knelt at the stoop, where he found a porcelain jug. He twisted the top off the jug and removed a key. He unlocked the door and returned the key to the jug.
"Lou Mason, international man of mystery," Beth said as they stepped inside. "Whose place is this?"
"It belonged to a former partner of mine who was killed when he got in over his head in a money-laundering scheme. He used to invite me out here. He was a nice man, gentle but weak, and it got him killed. I look after the place for his family, who live on the West Coast. They're waiting for suburbia to get here before they sell it."
"And you feel safer spending the night with me in an abandoned farmhouse in the middle of nowhere than in my nice, warm apartment on the Plaza where we can actually order room service from the Intercontinental Hotel? Don't tell me what drugs you're taking because I don't want any of it."
"I didn't intend to come here, but it looked like we were being followed. I'm not much good at playing hide-and-seek in traffic, so I tried a little misdirection and it worked. I don't know if Manzerio was following both of us or just one of us. There's no point in finding out by going back to either of our places tonight. No one will bother us here."
"What about keeping our clothes on?"
"Trust me. You'll want to keep every stitch on. There's no heat and no electricity."
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
"I am not spending the night in a freezing-cold abandoned farmhouse!"
"It's a long way to anywhere from here," Mason told her. He shined the flashlight around the kitchen, spotlighting a worn butcher-block table and two vinyl-upholstered chairs. "Let's talk first. Then we can decide about spending the night."
Beth stepped toward the back door. Mason cut her off, aiming the flashlight at the chairs.
"Oh, please! You aren't really going to hold me hostage here until I talk. Don't you remember anything from law school? Like kidnapping is against the law? Like coerced confessions are inadmissible?"
"I'm not kidnapping you. You're free to go, but it is a long walk and Tony Manzerio is out there somewhere. Maybe he'll give you a ride. Just tell me the truth about you, Jack Cullan, your pictures, and his files, and then I'll take you home."
Mason held the flashlight in front of him, pointing the beam at the ceiling like a torch, illuminating their faces as if they were sitting at the edge of a campfire. Beth looked at him, her mouth clamped shut, her eyes narrowed, waiting for Mason to call off his parlor game. He tipped his head at the table and raised his eyebrows as if to say he wasn't kidding.
"Okay. You win. But turn off the light just in case Manzerio comes back."
"Good thinking."
He turned the flashlight off and sat in one of the chairs, his eyes adjusting to the dark, moonlight sneaking through a window as Beth rustled in her purse.
"Turn your flashlight on for a second. I've got a surprise for you."
Mason chuckled. "You were supposed to keep your clothes on." He aimed the beam at her chest. She pointed a gun at his. "Does that count as a mixed message?"
"Give me the keys to your car," she said.
"Is that the. 38 Baker McKenzie gave you?"
"Give me the goddamn car keys!"
"Or you'll shoot me like you shot Jack Cullan and Shirley Parker?"
Before Beth could answer, Tony Manzerio kicked in the back door, carrying a flashlight bigger than Mason's and a gun bigger than Beth's. Mason jumped to his feet.
"Steady, Batman," Manzerio told him. "I like you a lot better sitting down." Mason hesitated, weighing his chances. "Do it!"
Mason sat down, noticing that Beth was no longer pointing her gun at him. She wasn't pointing it at Manzerio either. Mason didn't know what she had done with her gun or whom she was likely to point it at next.
The momentary silence was broken by the sound of someone kicking the front door off its hinges. Ed Fiora and two men only slightly smaller than Manzerio made their way in the dark to the kitchen.
"Hey, Mason," Fiora said as his two goons flanked him. "It must be hard to tell who your friends are these days."
The goons laughed and pointed their flashlights and guns at him. Mason held his hands up to shade his eyes from the glare.
"Can't tell the players without a program."
"You are right about that."
"Why were you following me?"
"I got something for you that you been looking for. I wanted to give it to you so maybe you'd get off my back. I sent Tony here to deliver it, only he couldn't catch up to you. You gave him the drop, but I figured you stayed at the farmhouse when we didn't see any other cars on the road."
One of the goons handed Fiora a large envelope. He held it in one hand, tapped it against his other, and tossed it onto the table.
"Go ahead, open it."
Mason picked up the envelope, guessing at its contents. Beth hung her head, looking away. He put the envelope back on the table.
"Not interested."
"That's not what I hear. Tony," Fiora said to Manzerio, "Mason's dick has gone limp. Open that envelope for him."
Manzerio stuffed his gun in his pocket and his flashlight under his arm, ripping the envelope open and fanning out pictures of Beth Harrell across the table. Mason kept his eyes on Fiora. M
anzerio gripped the back of Mason's head like a melon, pushing his face at the pictures.
Beth was nude in each photograph, legs spread, squeezing and probing her body with her hands in some pictures, using a dildo in others. Her closed eyes and open mouth mimed a staged rapture that looked stag-film phony.
"Not bad for amateur stuff," Fiora said, nodding at Manzerio, who released his grip on Mason's head.
"What do you want?" Mason asked.
"Like I told you, I want you to back off. You think I'm blackmailing this bitch with these pictures. Cullan gave me the pictures after I got my casino license. I never used them except to make sure she came to my New Year's Eve party."
"So forcing her to come on to me while you watched on closed-circuit TV is just taking one of those edges you need every now and then? Is that it? Plus now I'm supposed to believe that you didn't have Cullan whacked so you could get rid of his file on you?"
"I knew all about Cullan's files. They didn't mean squat to me. Cullan couldn't take me down without taking himself down. Hell, I've got my own files. Everybody has files on everybody else. It's like nuclear bombs. Everyone wants them, but none of us can afford to use them."
"Then who killed Jack Cullan?"
"I don't know and I don't care. It wasn't me or my boys. I may rough some chump up that tries to stiff me on a tab at the casino, but I got too good a thing going to whack my own lawyer or anybody else."
"What about Shirley Parker?"
"Not my problem. Not my solution."
"If you are so uninterested in Cullan's files, why did you make me that offer if I found them first?"
"That offer still stands. I knew who I was dealing with when Cullan had his files. I don't know who or what I'm dealing with if somebody else gets them. I got one more tip for you, Counselor."
"What's that?"
"Cut out all that computer shit your wiseass gofer has been doing. I don't understand that shit, but my people tell me that anyone tries to get in my computer records leaves electronic footprints that lead right back to them. I had a little talk with that kid tonight. What's his name? Mickey something or other. By the way, I think you're going to need a new computer."
"You hurt that kid and I'll-"
"You'll what, Mr. Big Shot? Kill me? Give it a rest. Like I told you, I might rough somebody up, but I don't whack anybody. I'm a businessman and I'm done doing business with you. Let's go, boys."
As Fiora turned to leave, Beth whipped her gun from inside her coat and aimed at Fiora. Mason lunged across the table, shoving her gun hand high just as she fired. The bullet lodged in the ceiling.
"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" Mason screamed as he tumbled on top of Beth and wrestled the gun from her.
Manzerio and the other two goons showered their flashlights on Mason and Beth as they lay in a tangle on the floor. Beth wept as Mason covered her body with his, looking over his shoulder at Fiora and his men.
"I owe you, Mason," Fiora conceded, "but I wouldn't turn my back on that crazy bitch if I was you."
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Mason kept Beth's gun but offered the photographs to her. She shook her head, saying that it didn't matter anymore. She stared out the window on the drive back to town, silent and wiping away an occasional tear.
Beth's gun was a. 45-caliber Beretta autopistol, not the. 38 Baker McKenzie had given her and not the. 38 used to kill Jack Cullan. He decided to hold onto the. 45 until he knew what kind of gun was used to kill Shirley Parker.
Mason called Mickey from the car. When he didn't answer, Mason called Harry and asked him to check out a possible break-in at his office and promised to meet him there as soon as possible.
When he parked in the garage at the Intercontinental Hotel, Beth made no move to get out of the car. Mason wasn't certain she could move at all.
"I'll take you upstairs," he offered.
Beth got out of the car without answering and started toward the elevator. He caught up to her, cupping her elbow with his hand, a gesture she ignored. He followed her inside her apartment, turning on lights as she slumped onto a sofa. After making certain they were alone, Mason sat next to her.
He didn't know what to think or feel about her. He didn't understand why she would have taken the pictures, though he did understand why she tried to shoot Ed Fiora and wondered if the same thing had happened with Jack Cullan. Whatever the answers, he was afraid to leave her alone, but he had to make certain Mickey was okay.
"Don't worry," she said, sensing his concern. "I don't need to kill myself. I'm already dead."
"Self-pity is a luxury for someone in your shoes."
She lifted her chin from her chest, focusing her blank eyes on him. "What do you suggest?"
"Start with the truth. How did your fingerprints end up in Cullan's bedroom?"
Beth looked away, biting her lower lip. "You want me to tell you that I was holding on to the headboard while he fucked me doggie-style?"
"I don't care if the two of you got naked and howled at the moon. Just once, I'd like the truth. Did you take those pictures?"
"Yes," she said with a resigned, flat tone.
"Why?"
"According to my therapist, I have a self-destructive tape playing in my head because I had an abusive father and a disinterested mother, so I do crazy things to punish myself."
"Do you believe that?"
"I don't believe anything. That's all an excuse. I did it because I wanted to, not because I know why I wanted to."
"Then why ask me to get them back?"
"After Jack was killed, I was afraid the police would think I did it because of the pictures. I had to get them back."
"Where's the gun Baker McKenzie gave you?"
"I got rid of it after Jack was killed. The paper said he was shot with a. 38-caliber gun. My gun was a. 38, and I knew that would look bad. I liked having a gun for protection, so I bought the Beretta."
"The police could have run ballistics tests on your gun and ruled it out as the murder weapon."
Beth got up and paced around the living room, finding renewed energy. "I admit I wasn't setting records for clear thinking. I just wanted to get the pictures back and get rid of the gun. I wanted to be a good girl again." She stopped in front of Mason and looped her fingers into the collar of his sweater, pulling him up. "I wanted to be a good girl for you."
She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her breasts hard against his chest, and ground her pelvis against his crotch. "You saved me," she murmured as she felt him grow hard.
Mason pushed her away. "What are you?"
She opened her eyes wide and licked her lips. "I'm just a girl who can't say no."
"And I'm not interested in yes," Mason said and left her standing in her living room.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Friday nights were big nights at Blues on Broadway, but business had slowed since New Year's Eve, and the joint was dead when Mason arrived shortly before midnight. Mickey had turned out to be a lousy bartender, and Blues had hired a temp who wasn't much better. Pete Kirby's trio had taken a gig on the road, and Blues hadn't found anyone to take their place. Jazz musicians were used to oddball gigs, but working for someone sitting in jail on a murder rap hadn't proved to be very attractive.
Mason recognized Harry's off-duty car, an old Crown Victoria that had done time as an on-duty detective's ride. Mason made his way through the bar, where three customers were nursing flat beers while the bartender cleaned glasses, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, dribbling ashes into the soapy sink water.
He took the stairs two at a time, his concern for Mickey quickening his pace. Fiora was in the casino business, but he didn't strike Mason as a man who bluffed very often. He took Fiora at his word when he said that he'd paid Mickey a visit. Mason knew enough about computers to read his e-mail. He had no idea that an amateur hacker like Mickey would leave an electronic trail that could lead to a beating. Mason was mentally calculating Mickey's workers' compensation bene
fits when he saw Mickey in the hall with Harry and his aunt Claire.
"Harry," Mason said, "is everything all right?"
Harry was wearing a warm-up suit and athletic shoes underneath an open trench coat. Claire was also wearing a warm-up suit under her made-for-the-tundra topcoat. It took Mason a minute to realize that they were wearing identical warm-up suits and that his aunt was wearing house slippers and that her car was not also parked outside. Both of them had a slightly rumpled, just-rousted-out-of-bed look. Mason wasn't certain, but he thought he saw a small hickey on Harry's neck. Mason flushed with a queasy jolt, like a teenager who'd walked in on his parents while they were doing it.
"No, everything is not all right!" Claire snapped. "Someone broke into your office and smashed your computer."
Mason stepped into his office. His computer tower was crumpled as if it had been in a head-on collision, and the top was peeled back as if it had been operated on with a can opener. His monitor was shattered. He looked around the rest of his office, confirmed that there wasn't any other damage, and came back out into the hallway.
"Thanks for coming over, Harry."
"Is that all you've got to say?" Claire demanded. "Every time I turn around, you're this close to getting killed or robbed," she said, pinching her fingers together. "I won't have it!"
Mason hadn't seen his aunt this angry in years. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
"Well, you have, and so has he!" she said, jabbing her thumb at Harry. "It's time you two started working together on this case instead of against each other." Harry and Mason both studied their feet, waiting for Claire's outburst to subside. "I'll wait in your office."
Mickey was grinning so widely that Mason forgot to ask if he was hurt. "I would not piss off that woman anymore if I was you."
Mason put his hand under Mickey's chin, tilting his head upward. "You look good with a black eye, Mickey. It gives you that mature look."
Harry referred to the notepad he always carried. "Your neighbor here, Mr. Shanahan, says he was asleep in his office when he heard a commotion next door. He jumped up to see what was going on and ran into his door and knocked himself out. By the time he came to, whoever had broken into your office was gone. That still your story, Mr. Shanahan?" Harry asked with no effort to disguise his disbelief.
