by Joel Goldman
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
By the time Mason and Tuffy returned home, the prospect that Beth Harrell had covered the murder of Jack Cullan under a blanket of snow had robbed him of his enthusiasm for the beautiful morning. It also didn't jibe with his growing suspicion that James Toland and Carl Zimmerman had been dirt gofers for Cullan and might have killed Cullan to go into business on their own, as Claire had theorized.
When Mason called Zimmerman to ask for his help preserving Cullan's files, Zimmerman put him off with a lie about working a case involving a dead body in Swope Park. The lie had only one purpose-to keep Mason away from the files until Zimmerman and Toland could steal them and rig the bomb that would destroy the rest.
It was possible that Zimmerman and Toland hadn't known where the files were until Mason unwittingly tipped Zimmerman. Maybe Mason's phone call tipped Zimmerman, or maybe they had known all along, and Mason's call forced them to move the files. Maybe Shirley Parker made one last visit to check on the files and they killed her when she tried to stop them. There were too many maybes, but none of them made Toland and Zimmerman look clean to Mason.
Nor did Mason's suspicions prove anything. It would be difficult and dangerous to make a case against two cops, particularly when one of the cops was Harry's partner. He had gathered from Harry that it was a good partnership, though neither man had embraced the other as a blood brother. Still, they were cops and they were partners, and that was a stronger bond than most marriages.
Mason didn't even know where to begin. He couldn't talk to Harry, who would dismiss his theory as a malicious red herring Mason had fantasized to cast doubt on Blues's guilt. Even worse, Harry would consider it an unholy attempt to drive a wedge between him and Zimmerman and an unethical pitch to discredit their investigation. Mason couldn't go after Zimmerman without painting Harry with the same brush.
Mason's best and only idea was to keep an eye on Zimmerman. He had been to Zimmerman's house once before. Zimmerman lived in Red Bridge, a suburban subdivision in south Kansas City. Mason wouldn't stake out Zimmerman's house. That's what cops and PIs did, not lawyers. Besides, Mason didn't want to pee into a bottle on a cold day, even if the sun was shining.
All the same, a drive-by couldn't hurt. Mason looked at Tuffy. "Want to go for a ride?"
Tuffy ran him over racing to the garage. Mason opened the door to his TR6, and Tuffy vaulted the stick shift, landing in the passenger seat. It wasn't a top-down day, but it was close enough.
For Mason, the TR6 was the last great sports car ever built. He didn't believe it in the squishy way that some people believe that black is a slimming color, or that all good things come to those who wait. He believed it with the same bedrock certainty that Rocky Balboa believed when he told Mrs. Balboa that a man's got to do what a man's got to do.
In Mason's world, BMW, Porsche, and Audi roadsters were for cash-heavy baby boomers willing to overpay for the thrill of the wheel. The Corvette was a contender, but with its powerful engine and oversized tires, it was in another weight class. He conceded that those cars could outperform the TR6, but they couldn't outcool it. The brand name, Triumph, said it all for Mason.
The TR6's raw lines and hard look had captivated Mason the first time he had seen the car. By then, British Leyland had inexplicably abandoned the model, turning each of the ninety-four thousand TR6s it had made from 1969 to 1976 into instant classics.
Mason had never been much of a car guy. He'd always driven whatever he could afford until he couldn't afford to keep it running. He'd never gotten sweaty at the sight of a muscle car, nor had his head been turned by a sleek import. The TR6 was different. It had snagged his automotive heart, lingering there unrequited until he'd succumbed years later, taking advantage of a neighbor's divorce to buy his dream car. It was a British-racing-green, four-speed, six-cylinder, real live ragtop trip.
Tuffy loved the car more than Mason, delighting in the endless scents that sped past her when the top was down and her nose was in the wind. Sitting in his garage, Mason resisted his dog's pleading, doleful eyes to put the top down. A man and his dog both blowing in the wind on a cold winter morning would garner too much attention, no matter how brightly the sun was shining.
As he drove toward Carl Zimmerman's neighborhood, he had a throat-tightening epiphany. He was in over his head in a death-penalty case that was as likely to cost him his life as it was his client's. He needed help, and the one person who could help him the most was sitting in the county lockup. Mason tapped the clutch, downshifted, and opened the throttle. The burst of growling speed came at the same moment as a crazy idea of how he could get Blues out of jail.
Mason circled Zimmerman's block once, relieved that there were no signs of life in the split-level, brick-front house. He circled again, this time stopping at the curb on the street that intersected Zimmerman's. A minivan parked in front of him gave him added cover and a right-angle view of Zimmerman's house, which was in the middle of the block. He turned off his engine and hoped that no one would notice the only classic sports car within miles, even though a sign at the corner read Neighborhood Watch! We Call the Police!
Tuffy pawed at her window, and Mason cranked the engine so he could put it down for her. She leaned the upper third of her body out the window and wagged her tail in Mason's face. He knew a bad idea when he had one and said as much to the dog.
"This is nuts. We're out of here."
Before Mason could put the car in gear, a lumbering black Chevy Suburban turned onto his street. Mason blanched when he looked in his rearview mirror and saw Carl Zimmerman behind the wheel. He scrunched down in his seat, racking his memory for any mention that he might have ever made to Zimmerman about owning the TR6.
The Suburban rolled past, slowing for the stop sign at the corner. Mason peeked at the Suburban and saw a collection of young faces pressed against the passenger-side windows, mouths agape at the TR6 and the dog riding shotgun, hanging out the window, relieved that Zimmerman ignored him.
He watched as Zimmerman pulled into his driveway and a half dozen young boys dressed in Cub Scout uniforms piled out of the Suburban, some of them staring and pointing at his car parked half a block away. Carl Zimmerman herded them toward the front door, taking a long look at Mason's car before following his troop into the house.
"Brilliant," Mason told Tuffy. "Carl Zimmerman-homicide detective, Cub Scout leader, and murderer. That's the ticket!"
Tuffy ignored him and pointed her snout into the breeze as Mason headed for home.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Mason picked Mickey up at nine o'clock, still driving the TR6, counting on the cool to carry into the casino and make them winners. Mickey had told Mason that he was working crowd control at the bar and that Mason should pick him up there instead of at his apartment. Mason was pretty certain that Mickey's apartment was also his office above the bar but saw no reason to tell Mickey. At least, Mason figured, he'd always know where to find him.
Mickey was waiting on the sidewalk when Mason pulled up. "Is there a crowd inside that needs to be controlled?"
"Not unless you count three guys who don't have four teeth among them. If Blues doesn't get out soon, I doubt that any PR campaign will save this joint. It's going to shrivel up and blow away before spring."
"Did you do what I told you?" Mason asked as he pulled into the light traffic on Main Street.
"Piece of cake. I printed out a hard copy of Fiora's bank records, and I put it in your desk just like you told me."
"And what about the rest?"
"That's the part I don't understand. I e-mailed the file to Rachel Firestone just like you told me, but I delayed the actual transmission until ten o'clock Monday morning. What's up with that?"
"It's an insurance policy. We're going to trade the flash drive to Fiora. He'll suspect that we kept another copy of the records, and he'll send someone back to search my office. Hopefully, when he finds the copy you put in my desk, he'll be satisfied. If he doesn't hold up his end of
the deal I'm going to make with him, Rachel will get the e-mail with the records. If Fiora comes through, we'll cancel the e-mail."
"And if he tries anything rough, we can tell him about the e-mail," Mickey said.
"That is a very bad idea. If he knows about the e-mail, he can cancel it."
"So what do we do if he tries anything rough?"
"Duck," Mason said.
"I'll try to remember that. Does Fiora know we're coming?"
"Yeah. I called the casino this afternoon and left a message. I'm expecting the VIP treatment."
Mason used valet parking to give Fiora the added comfort of holding his car keys, wanting Fiora to think the odds were all with the house on the game they were about to play. Mason had to press, but not too hard, take risks, but not too great.
Tony Manzerio was waiting for them. He didn't speak, settling for the universal sign language of goons everywhere-a nod of the head that meant follow me and keep your mouth shut.
Mason and Mickey did as they were nodded to do, trailing a respectful five steps behind Manzerio. People moved out of Manzerio's way without being told or nodded. The man was large enough and his eyes were dead enough to trigger the flight side of the survival impulse, Mason catching a few there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I expressions.
They took an elevator marked Private, opened a door marked Authorized Personnel Only, and walked down a corridor marked Secure Area. None of which made Mason feel safe.
Manzerio led Mason and Mickey into Fiora's office. A window looked out over the Missouri River, a black view without dimension or detail. Fiora sat at a poker table playing solitaire.
"Did you search them?" he asked without looking up.
Manzerio didn't answer. Instead, he ran his porterhouse-sized hands up and down their sides, torsos, legs, and arms.
"Nothin'. No guns. No wires."
"Wait outside."
Fiora turned over the facedown cards until he found the one he wanted. Smiling, he ran through the rest of the cards until they were all arranged in order.
"How about that! I won again."
"Odds always favor the house, but cheating takes the suspense out of it," Mason said.
"I'm a businessman, Mason, not a gambler. The craps table is for suckers. I need an edge, I take it. I don't make business a game of chance."
"I like to think of it as supply and demand. The market moves buyers and sellers to the middle, where they can make a deal."
"Your message said you wanted to make a trade. What do I have that you would want?"
"My law practice."
"How could I possibly have your law practice?"
"It's on the hard drive you ripped out of my computer last night. Client files, my receivables, my payables. The works."
"That must be inconvenient for you. What's the matter? Didn't you back your stuff up? I don't know much, but I know that much. I got people working for me that don't do nothing but back shit up."
"Actually, I did back up one thing." He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the flash drive. "It's not much, really. Just some bank records you might be interested in."
Fiora's eyes hardened. "You're taking a hell of a risk coming to my place offering to trade my records to me. Why don't I just have Tony come in here and take that drive and throw your ass in the river?"
Mason didn't flinch. "You said it yourself. You're a businessman. Buy, sell, trade, but don't take chances. I'm the same way. I was out of line meddling in your business and I'm sorry. Last night, you convinced me that you had nothing to do with Jack Cullan's murder. I don't need to clutter up the defense of my client with extraneous bullshit that the judge won't let me get into evidence anyway. I'm offering you this flash drive in good faith, the same way you gave me the pictures of Beth Harrell. All I want is my hard drive."
"And I'm supposed to believe that you don't have another copy of this stashed someplace?"
"I can't help it if you're not a believer. I'm a lawyer, not a rabbi."
Fiora studied Mason for a minute. "Come over here, Rabbi Mason. I want to show you something."
Mason joined Fiora at the window. The light from inside the office and the lack of light outside made the view opaque.
"Is there something I should be looking at?"
"You might find this interesting." There were two switches next to the window. Fiora hit one, and the office went dark. He hit the other, and the prow of the boat where Mason had celebrated New Year's Eve was bathed in a spotlight. "Nice view, don't you think?"
Mason repressed an involuntary shudder. "It's terrific. What's your point?"
"Every public area of this boat is under constant video surveillance. I want to know everything that happens on my boat. That prow is a very popular spot. Lovers like to make out there. Losers like to jump off. We got to watch it all the time."
"It must be tough to get good video in the dark."
"Nah! We got these low-light cameras make it practically like your living room. The technology is fantastic. This case of yours works out okay, you come back and we'll watch some home movies. What do you say?"
Fiora was giving Mason a mixed message. He was telling Mason that he knew what had happened on New Year's Eve and still had the proof. Maybe it was an offer to tell him who had tried to kill him, and maybe it was a not-so-subtle threat.
"You serve popcorn?"
Fiora laughed once without conviction. "You're good with the jokes. Don't be too funny, Rabbi Mason. You and your altar boy have a seat, make yourselves comfortable. I got to check with my computer people and see what they've done with your hard drive. It may be they already wiped it clean. In the meantime, why don't you give me that flash drive of yours so I can have them check it out?"
Mason grinned at Fiora and tossed the drive to him. "This one is blank. Bring me my hard drive and a computer. Mickey will check it out. If everything is on it but your records, Mickey will get you the real flash drive."
Fiora chuckled. "Careful you don't hit on sixteen and go bust."
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Fiora left Mason and Mickey in his office. Mason picked up Fiora's deck of cards and looked at Mickey.
"Gin rummy. A buck a point. I'll charge your losses as an advance against your salary."
"That's really generous of you. I haven't played cards since I was a kid. You'll have to remind me of the rules."
Mason sat at the poker table and motioned Mickey to do the same, wondering how many scams Mickey could run at one time. "Am I about to get cleaned out?"
"Right down to your socks, boss. Deal."
By the time Fiora and Manzerio returned an hour later, Mason was down two hundred and fifty dollars. They watched while Mickey shuffled the cards as if he'd been born with them in his hands, fanning them, making bridges, palming top cards and bottom cards, and marking the corners of other cards with his thumbnail.
"Hey, kid," Fiora said, "you get tired of working for this stiff, I got a place for you at one of our tables."
"He can't quit," Mason said. "He's got to give me a chance to win my money back."
"Those words are the secret of my success," Fiora said. "That, and never trusting anybody, especially a schmuck lawyer who thinks he can come into my place and flimflam me like I was a refugee from a Shriners convention."
"I told you the flash drive was blank and that I'd get you the real one. I'm not trying to con you."
"Then you are a dumber cocksucker than I gave you credit for." Fiora stuck his hand out to Manzerio, who gave him a stack of papers. "Tony took another tour of your office. Seems you forgot to mention the copy of my bank records you printed out, you stupid fuck! I ought to have Tony beat you right up to the limit!"
Fiora's face turned purple as he bit off each word, casting flecks of spittle like confetti at a parade. Mason hung his head sheepishly, letting Fiora's outburst pass.
"Well, what the fuck do you have to tell me now, Rabbi Bullshit?"
"Look, I'm sorry," Mason began. "I'm o
ut of my league here. It was my insurance policy, but that's it. You've got everything now. Let's finish our business and I'll get out of here."
"You'll be carried out of here! Why should I trade you anything but your fucking life?"
"Because you don't kill people, that's why. You said so yourself. I've got to have my files back or I'm out of business. You need your files back or you're out of business. It's not very complicated."
Fiora's natural color seeped back into his face as he rolled the papers into a cylinder and thumped them against his palm. "Don't fuck with me, Mason. I'm telling you, do not fuck with me. You got that, Rabbi?"
He smacked Mason's head with the rolled papers. Mason grabbed Fiora's wrist and pulled his arm down to the table, Fiora wincing, as much in shock as in pain. Manzerio took a step toward Mason, who released his grip. Fiora yanked his wrist from Mason's hand while motioning Manzerio to stay where he was with his other.
"I got it, Ed," Mason said so softly that Manzerio couldn't hear him. "Now you get this. You hit me again, and you can spend the rest of your fucking life wondering who's going to end up with that flash drive."
Fiora held Mason's sharp stare. "You got balls, Mason. I give you that. I give you that. Tony, have that four-eyed geek bring the computer in here. Let's get this over with."
A short time later, Mickey booted up the computer and searched the hard drive for its contents. "It's got everything but the bank records, boss. You want me to remove the hard drive?"
"Give Fiora the other flash drive first, and let him see what's on it."
Mickey un-tucked his shirt and reached behind to the small of his back where he had taped the drive. He popped it into the computer and stood back as Fiora's bank accounts flashed across the screen.
"Good enough?" Mason asked.
"Good enough," Fiora said. "You can pull the hard drive out. Tony, give the kid the tools."
Mason said, "I'm glad we were able to work this out."
