by Joel Goldman
"Because Fiora will also tell Zimmerman that his offer expires at midnight. After that, Fiora will put Zimmerman out of business himself."
Mickey said, "It's a cross-ruff. You figure Fiora won't wait for us to bring him the file. He'll go after Zimmerman. This way, you can take down both of them and get Fiora off of Lou's back."
"Not me," Blues said. "Harry will take them all down. He'll be the hero. I'll go back to being the bartender. Can you set it up with Harry and Fiora?" Blues asked Mason.
"Small potatoes. Where will you be while I'm running the snowstorm shuttle?"
Blues smiled. "Right here, nice and warm. Waiting for your call so I can go out and save our asses. You better take that gun I gave you. I didn't see it in the safe. Where is it?"
"My office, and you're right."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Mason's phone rang as he stuck his pistol in his jacket pocket.
"Lou Mason."
Rachel Firestone barked at him. "How did you do it?"
"How did I do what?"
"Don't give me that crap, Lou! How did you get Judge Carter to order bail for Blues?"
Mason wasn't surprised that Rachel had learned of Blues's release. He couldn't guess at the number of sources she'd cultivated over the years. Her sharp tone carried the unspoken complaint that he hadn't tipped her off.
"Off the record?"
"Not a chance."
"Fine. Judge Carter ordered Patrick Ortiz and me to appear for a status conference at eight o'clock this morning. I mentioned the prosecutor's opposition to bail. She said that she'd routinely granted bail in similar cases and saw no reason to treat Blues any differently."
"Didn't it strike you as odd that there was no formal hearing on bail, no opportunity for Ortiz to object on the record or present evidence?"
It was obvious that Rachel had already talked with Ortiz and gotten a taste of the prosecutor's fury.
"Judges have a lot of discretion. You'll have to ask Judge Carter why she handled it that way."
"No can do. Right after your conference, she turned in her resignation to the presiding judge and left the courthouse. No one answers the phone at her home and no one has seen her. She's disappeared. What's happening?"
Mason dropped into his desk chair and stared out the window at the blizzard. He'd been trying to navigate his way through a storm that had turned into an avalanche, an out-of-control cascading disaster.
"Lou!" Rachel demanded again. "What's going on?"
"I'll call you later," he said, and hung up.
Mason called Harry's cell. "Harry?" The urgency in Mason's voice was unmistakable.
"What's the matter?" Harry asked.
"Nothing," Mason lied, gathering himself. "I need to talk to you."
"I thought that's what we were doing."
"No. Not on the phone. Where are you?"
"Same place as the rest of the world. Stuck in traffic behind some moron with rear-wheel drive."
"Where?"
"On Main Street, between Thirty-Fifth and Thirty-Sixth."
"You alone?"
"Yeah. Lou, what's the matter?"
"Pull over and park. I'll be there in ten minutes."
Main was the next major thoroughfare east of Broadway. Though only four side streets separated them, Mason knew that he would make better time on foot than in his Jeep. Traffic was light on the side streets since most drivers had gotten stuck on the main roads before they could try alternate routes.
As he walked, Mason got a new perspective on the power of the storm. Tree limbs sagged under the heavy weight of ice and snow, some of the heavier ones fracturing and tumbling to the ground. He passed one house where a huge limb had broken and crashed through the roof. Mason gauged the strain on overhead power lines as they too bent in the wind. It wouldn't take much more for them to start snapping, adding another deadly special effect to the storm.
Mason found Harry's car in the middle of Main Street, surrounded by a flotilla of stranded drivers.
"Nice day for a drive," Mason said as he slid into the passenger seat.
"Thanks for dropping by. We're always open."
"How'd you get stuck on duty? Where's your partner?"
"He got lucky and had some personal stuff to take care of at home. He never made it in today," Harry said as he turned down the radio.
"Any updates on the storm?"
"It's gone past blizzard. It's now officially a whiteout, whatever that is. The expected accumulation is a guess. The real problems are the ice and the wind. A lot of people won't get home tonight. So what's so important?"
"I need a favor."
"So ask."
"I want you to compare Blues's fingerprint that was found on Cullan's desk to the print for the same finger in his personnel file."
Harry didn't respond. The wipers squeaked as they brushed back and forth, moving snow from one side of the windshield to the other.
"What would I be looking for if I was to do that?" Harry asked, not looking at Mason.
"To see if the two prints were identical."
"You mean to see if someone forged Blues's print and planted it at Cullan's house."
Mason lowered his head and studied his gloved hands. "Yeah."
"You've read the reports?"
"I've read them. I know that Carl Zimmerman asked Terrence Dawson to take a second look at the scene and that's when Blues's fingerprint was found."
"So you know what you're saying? You know what you're asking me to do?" Harry turned and met Mason's eyes.
"I know, Harry. It's like you always told me. Knowing the right thing to do is the easy part. I'll see you later."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO
Mason stopped at the bar long enough to tell Blues that Zimmerman was sitting out the storm at home. They agreed to keep in touch and Mason left again. He had almost finished scraping the newest layer of snow and ice from his car when Mickey opened the passenger door and climbed aboard.
"Damn, this weather blows!" he said when Mason finished scraping and joined him.
"What are you doing here?"
"Dude! Wingman riding shotgun."
"Any point in telling you to stay here?"
"None."
Mason put his gun in the glove compartment. "Did Blues give you a gun too, or are you just glad to see me?"
Mickey reached under his jacket and sheepishly removed a. 44-caliber pistol that he added to the glove compartment. "He didn't exactly give it to me."
"Does he know, exactly, that you took it?"
"Not exactly."
"Then you'll want to return it when we get back and hope Blues doesn't find out, or he'll break both your legs above the knees."
"Exactly."
"If you've got any more toys hidden in your pants or stuck up your ass, get them out now. We'll never get next to Fiora without being searched. If we get to the point that we need weapons, it'll be too late to use them."
Mickey put a switchblade knife and a lead sap in the glove compartment and closed it.
"Where did you get those?" Mason asked.
"Home Shopping Network."
Mason called the Dream Casino, leaving a message with Fiora's administrative assistant that he was on his way to watch Fiora's home movies. The drive to the casino was an adventure in urban off-road driving. Mason used side streets whenever he could, and sidewalks when he had to. Cops he passed shook their heads and fists at him, but they were too busy with car wrecks and traffic jams to chase him down.
Mason couldn't get the image of Judge Carter sitting behind her desk, frazzled and distracted, out of his mind. Now he understood why she had looked frayed at the edges. On the one hand, she had made herself vulnerable to Ed Fiora and paid the price. On the other, Mason had shoved her over the edge. It was another IOU that Mason would have to carry until he could find a way to pay it back.
The clanging, whistling, siren-sounding slot machines were getting a workout in spite of the weather, gamblers thankful fo
r the storm that gave them the perfect excuse for getting home late. Tony Manzerio escorted Mason and Mickey to Fiora's office.
"This weather is killing my business!" Fiora complained when Mason walked through the door.
"The storm's like a kidney stone. It'll pass-painfully-but it will pass."
"Is that the kind of legal advice you give? 'Cause if it is, I'd seriously consider another line of work."
"I'm close to figuring out who killed Jack Cullan. I need one more piece of the puzzle. It may be in the videotape you told me I should come see after this case ends. I need to see the tape now. If it shows what I think it does, it may help me close the loop on a suspect."
"Mason, you're starting to act like I'm your fairy godmother with all the favors you've been asking. You haven't even thanked me for the last one I did for you."
"As long as I'm asking, I want Judge Carter's account marked paid in full. Take her off your books."
"This is no time to get a conscience, Mason. Everybody's a player at some level. She played, she lost. What's the big deal?"
"If you've got a marker with Judge Carter's name on it, I'd like to see it."
"It has her son's name on it. She keeps him from getting a beating when he comes up short, which happens with some regularity."
"How much does the kid owe?"
"Doesn't matter. He pays up one week, he's down the next. We send him postcards about Gamblers Anonymous; makes us feel better."
"Clear the kid's marker and don't let him back in the casino. That's my deal."
"In return for which I get what?"
"Jack Cullan's file on you."
"You're squeezing an awful lot of mileage out of that file."
"Just show me the videotape, and then I'll get you the file. You've probably got me on tape asking you to get Blues released. You can keep that, but I want the judge off the books."
Fiora shrugged. "That will work. Trade a judge for a lawyer. Too bad you can't throw in a player to be named later."
Fiora opened a cabinet behind his desk, revealing a television and DVD player. He popped a disk into the DVD player and pushed a button, and the screen came to life.
"Like I told you before," Fiora reminded Mason, "anyone comes into the casino, they are picked up on video before they've lost their first quarter. They move out of range of one camera, another camera picks them up. We can even create a video of any one person from the minute they set foot in the parking lot to the minute they leave."
"So whose video are you going to show me?"
"Watch."
He sat down in his desk chair and aimed a remote control at the DVD player. Beth Harrell materialized on the screen. The day and date were printed in the bottom right-hand corner. It was New Year's Eve. Even with the camera's grainy, long-distance perspective, she flowed across the casino floor, drawing stares and envy. The absence of sound added a surreal note to her movements.
"I'll jump ahead to the good part," Fiora said as he punched another button on his remote control.
Mason watched as the camera followed Beth to the rear of the casino, where she found him, then out to the prow of the boat, where they had embraced. Mickey poked Mason in the ribs when the video showed Mason pushing Beth away. Mason winced at the memory of that moment, seeing the bitterness in Beth's expression as she had walked away.
The video jerked a bit as a different camera picked her up when she returned to the deck. Her face became indistinct as she slipped into shadows that made it impossible to see what she was doing or even to be certain that she was still the person on the video.
Mason recoiled as small flashes erupted from the darkness where the shooter was hidden. Then he saw his own image fill the screen, cowering in the prow and dodging bullets that ricocheted around him, shattering pale blue Christmas lights. He grimaced with sharp memory when he saw a bullet singe his side, touching the still healing wound, holding his breath as his video self vaulted into the river.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE
"I love happy endings," Fiora said when the screen went blank.
"I want a copy," Mason said.
He was past understanding or explaining Beth. She had fallen out of first place in the Jack Cullan murder sweepstakes, but she was ahead of the pack in the psycho competition. Mason didn't know what he would do about her, only that he would do something.
"This is strictly pay-per-view. No more party favors. You get me the file; then we'll talk."
"You know a homicide detective named Carl Zimmerman?"
"Sure. He was one of Cullan's guys. Cullan called him and that other cop, Toland, his golden retrievers. Any time some bigwig or his kid stepped in the bucket, those two guys fetched the bad news to Cullan."
"I think they killed Cullan and went into business for themselves. They made Shirley Parker tell them where Cullan kept the files and then they stole the files and killed her."
"They don't call this the land of opportunity for nothing. Now you're going to go up against two rogue cops and put them out of business while stealing my file back for me. Is that it?"
"I've got help."
"Must be your client that I sprang from the county jail. That might even be a fair fight from what I understand. Are you keeping the good cops out of this?"
"We've got to until we get the files. After that, the good cops can have the bad cops."
"Why tell me all of this?"
"We don't know where Zimmerman and Toland have hidden the files. I want you to call Zimmerman and offer to buy your file and hire him as a security consultant. The only catch is that your offer expires at midnight. Tell him if you don't have the file by then, you'll send Tony to get it."
"Your partner figures to follow Zimmerman to the files, pop him, and bring me my file. Then you have a come-to-Jesus meeting with the prosecutor, Blues pleads guilty to some bullshit misdemeanor, and the whole thing goes away."
"You're not the only one who loves happy endings."
Fiora thought a minute, drumming his fingers on his desk, calculating the odds for the house.
"You got a phone number for this bum Zimmerman?"
Mason handed Fiora a slip of paper, and Fiora dialed Zimmerman's number, putting the call on speaker. Zimmerman went through the stages of grief, denying that he had Cullan's files, angrily accusing Fiora of blackmail, asking if Mason was in on the deal, and unsuccessfully negotiating better terms before accepting Fiora's offer, agreeing to a meeting at nine o'clock in Swope Park at the shelter next to the lagoon and hanging up.
Fiora spread his arms wide. "As you heard, Detective Zimmerman is seriously pissed off and seriously suspicious."
"Thanks. We're out of here."
"I don't think so. You and junior are going to keep me company until tonight. We'll go to the meeting together."
"Ed, that's not a good idea. This could get ugly. I don't think you want to be anywhere near the park."
"I don't like the odds if I'm sitting here fat and unhappy hoping you keep up your end of the deal. I figure Tony gives us an edge, and I always take the edge. So sit down and sit tight."
"Zimmerman has killed two people already. You don't kill people, remember?"
"I don't kill people. Tony kills people."
Mason looked at Tony, who had planted himself in front of the door to Fiora's office.
"I need to make a phone call."
"I thought you might."
Mason called Blues. "Nine o'clock at the shelter next to the lagoon in Swope Park."
"Good. Meet me at the office. We'll get ready."
"Can't do it."
"Fiora got you on a leash?"
"You got it."
"He and Tony figuring on coming along?"
"All the way."
"Make for a helluva party," Blues said, and hung up.
Mason closed his cell phone. "You got an unmarked deck of cards? I'm into Mickey for two hundred and fifty bucks. I might as well try and get my money back."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR<
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Tony remained at the door, moving only to allow Fiora to go in or out. Mason and Blues had not discussed the possibility that Fiora would hold him and Mickey hostage and insist on coming along. Though unexpected, Fiora's intervention would bring all the bad guys together. The combination would be volatile, unstable, and uncontrollable.
Fiora came back at six o'clock. "Let's get going," he said. "The roads are still a mess and I want to get there ahead of Zimmerman and Toland. What are you driving?"
"I've got my Jeep. It has four-wheel drive."
"Perfect. You drive."
The snow was still falling when they left the casino. Though city crews had been working for seven hours to clear the streets, they were fighting a losing battle. Fresh snow blanketed every plowed surface, erasing tire tracks and hiding the ice beneath like a land mine.
Tony sat in front next to Mason, leaving Mickey and Fiora in the back. Road conditions were treacherous, even for the Jeep. The wind blew snow across the roads in ground-level clouds, making it nearly impossible to see headlights or taillights.
Salt trucks outfitted with snowplows plodded along, clearing lanes while depositing a layer of salt in their wake. Mason crept steadily along, occasionally reaching speeds of thirty-five or forty miles per hour when he hit a stretch of clear tire tracks.
Mason entered Swope Park on Gregory Boulevard. The two-lane road ran ahead of them flanked by snow-laden trees looming like ghostly sentinels in the darkness. Irregularly spaced streetlights pointed the way, adding a halo to the falling and blowing snow. A concrete railroad bridge arched overhead as the boulevard funneled them into the park.
Colonel Tom Swope had donated Swope Park to the city in the early 1900s. The largest green space in the city, it was home to the zoo, an outdoor theater, two golf courses, and enough trails for anyone to get lost in. The lagoon was near the center of the park along Gregory Boulevard. Over the years it had been stocked with fish by the city and, occasionally, dead bodies by the less civic minded.
Mason eased to a stop along the curb where a bike path intersected with the road, and turned off his lights.
