by Joel Goldman
Zimmerman stared at the water, then at each of them. Tony gave him a slight shove toward the water. Zimmerman shook off Tony's hand in a fainthearted protest before stripping down to a T-shirt and boxers. No one spoke as he disrobed or when he waded into the water.
"What'd you tell him, Tony?" Mickey asked.
"Hey, kid," Fiora answered. "It's like going to a fancy restaurant where they got menus without prices. If you got to ask, you got no business being there."
Zimmerman climbed onto the back of the truck, opened one side of the split rear door, and disappeared inside the Suburban. He emerged a few minutes later, carrying a hard plastic box under one arm. Bracing himself against the floor of the truck, Zimmerman heaved the box into the water, where it bobbed toward the shore. They all clambered to the water's edge, waiting eagerly for the box to arrive, not noticing as Zimmerman ducked back inside the Suburban.
In the same instant that the box reached Mason, Zimmerman leaned out the rear of the Suburban and opened fire with a pistol he'd hidden in the truck. The first two rounds caught Tony in the neck, spraying the others with warm blood. Tony grasped at his throat before collapsing into the water. Mason snatched the plastic box out of the water, holding it up as a shield against the next volley.
Fiora screamed at Zimmerman and struggled to pull his own gun from beneath his heavy coat. Bullets slapped into the snow at Fiora's feet, then traced a mortal path up his midsection, exploding inside his chest.
Mason, Mickey, and Blues scattered, and Zimmerman's next shots went wide in the dark. Blues dropped and rolled over, coming up on one knee, his gun drawn as Harry skidded to a stop with the Jeep's headlights spotlighted on Zimmerman, drops of water glistening like ice crystals against his dark skin.
Harry swung the door of the Jeep open and dropped to the ground, his own gun extended through the open driver's window.
"Put it down, Carl!" Harry demanded.
Zimmerman held one hand to his eyes, trying to block out the glare of the headlights. "Why, Harry? You got what you came for. I'm out of options, man. Either I kill all of you or you kill me. That's all that's left."
"No! That's not the way this is going to go down. Think about your family."
"Too late for that, Harry. You're gonna have to kill me!" he shouted, opening fire again.
Harry fired at the first flash from Zimmerman's gun, not stopping until Zimmerman fell face-forward out of the Suburban, folded over the open door at his waist, his arms and face dangling lifelessly in the black water.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
The blizzard suffocated the city for two days, keeping businesses, schools, and government in suspended animation, an emphatic reminder that nature's power to destroy was a match for man's worst instincts. The difference between nature and man was that nature looked good doing it. The city was draped in a thick white blanket that sparkled brilliantly under the cold rays of the sun. The snow reflected a painfully beautiful glare that polished the ice-blue sky with aching clarity.
Seventeen inches of snow had fallen on top of three inches of ice. One hundred thousand people had been left without power, and hundreds of electrical lines had gone down breaking the fall of limbs that had snapped off trees like matchsticks under the weight of ice and snow. Property damage had been estimated at close to eighty million dollars. Nineteen people had been killed in car accidents. Two men had suffered fatal heart attacks while shoveling snow over the vigorous objections of their wives. Four men-two of them cops and two of them hoods-had been killed at the lagoon in Swope Park.
The story of those last men had led every newscast, filled every front page, and clogged the phone lines of every radio call-in show, shoving the snowstorm of the century to the back page, proving that people preferred bloodshed to blizzards.
The chief of police suspended Harry the moment he got to the lagoon. He demanded Harry's gun and badge on the spot and came within a hairsbreadth of arresting Harry for something, anything. Every cop who shot someone to death was placed on administrative leave while the shooting was investigated. Almost all of them were ultimately welcomed back to duty with more thanks than reprimands.
Not one cop in the department's collective memory had killed his partner, let alone turned over crucial evidence to the FBI before summoning his brother officers to the scene. Not one, that is, until Harry Ryman.
Harry explained to the chief that the box containing Cullan's files was evidence of a federal crime of political corruption and that the bureau's jurisdiction was obvious. The chief explained to Harry that he was full of shit and would be lucky not to be fired and convicted of murder. The exchange between the two men had been hot enough to melt the snow at their feet.
"You were right to call the feds," Mason told Harry later as they sat in the Jeep waiting for the crime-scene techs to finish up. "Nobody does a good job cleaning their own house."
"I know that, but it won't make things any easier if they let me come back. Did you find what you were looking for in Cullan's files?"
Harry had let Mason examine the contents of the plastic box while they waited for the FBI to arrive. Zimmerman and Toland had kept only the best of Cullan's files, limiting themselves to the dirt on the mayor, Beth Harrell, Ed Fiora, the prosecuting attorney, and a handful of influential businesspeople. They could have released the files on a CD titled Blackmail's Greatest Hits.
Mason studied the pictures of Beth, this time focusing on her face, searching for, but not finding, a clue that would bring her into focus. True to form, Cullan had given a set of Beth's pictures to Fiora, saving his own copy for another time.
The mayor's file was surprisingly thin, nothing more than a few ledger sheets that may or may not have been a record of payoffs. Though he had had only a few minutes to study Fiora's file, Mason hadn't found proof of any links between Fiora and the mayor.
Mason's calculation of the destruction caused by his search for these files rivaled the storm's devastation. Four men were dead, as many families were ruined. Judge Carter's career was in shambles. Harry had been suspended. Blues was still accused of Cullan's murder, and Mason was still under suspicion for the death of Shirley Parker.
Harry had repeated his question, not certain whether Mason had heard. "Any luck with Cullan's files?"
Mason had shaken his head. "There should have been something more in those files, but it wasn't there. Maybe Zimmerman and Toland were holding back." He hadn't known what else to say.
By Friday morning, the city was crawling back to life. Streets had been cleared, creating minicanyons paved with asphalt and surrounded by curbside walls made of exhaust-blackened, plow-packed snow. Mason was in his office when he got a call from Patrick Ortiz.
"We're dropping the charges against your client," Ortiz said.
"Thanks. Was it Zimmerman and Toland?"
"Doubtful. Zimmerman's wife told us all about his deal with Cullan. They've got an autistic kid. She claims he did it because they needed the money to pay for a special school for the kid. Toland just liked the good life-big Harley, women by the hour, booze by the case. Zimmerman's wife and Toland's girlfriend of the week gave both of them alibis for Cullan's murder and they checked out."
"Any other leads?"
"The truth is we don't have shit on anybody, but tell your client not to get too comfortable. We may refile the charges if we come up with something."
"What about Shirley Parker?"
"You're off the hook too. She and Cullan are dead-end bookends."
Mason permitted himself a small sigh of relief and changed subjects. "What do you hear from the feds?"
"They skipped the investigation and started with the inquisition. Harry Ryman has as much chance of getting his shield back as I have of getting it on with Jennifer Lopez."
"I don't know. My guess is that the chief will end up begging Harry to come back."
"Right, and if Jennifer turns me down, I'll have her call you. See you around."
Mason found Blues in his office,
adding up his losses over the last month.
"I'm going to have to hire strippers and give away whiskey if I get my liquor license back just to pay my mortgage," Blues said.
"Don't give up yet. Patrick Ortiz just called. They dropped the charges against you."
Blues leaned back in his chair and looked at Mason, then swiveled to get a look out the window. He stood up, scanning the view down Broadway, before turning back to Mason. He pursed his lips and nodded.
"Good."
"That's it? That's not the reaction of a client who's happy enough to pay his lawyer."
"I didn't belong in jail. Nighttime was the worst. My pillow felt like quicksand. Makes it hard to get excited when it never should have happened. Makes it harder to forget when I know how easily an innocent man can get put away."
"Man, you are one depressing son of a bitch when you get philosophical."
Blues laughed. "I'll tell you what will cheer me up. Let's go see Howard Trimble at Liquor Control and get my license reinstated so I can pay your bill or buy you lunch, whichever costs less."
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Howard Trimble's handshake was fleshy and moist when he greeted Mason and Blues. His office was a disorderly and disheveled, coffee cups and donuts competing for desk space with official business. Trimble gestured Mason and Blues to be seated in the two chairs opposite his desk.
Blues led off. "I'm Wilson Bluestone. This is my attorney, Lou Mason. You sent me this notice that my liquor license has been suspended," Blues added as he handed Trimble the notice he had received in the mail.
"That's because you violated our regulations. From what I've seen in the news, your liquor license is the least of your problems."
Trimble showed no interest in Blues's situation. He was simply reporting the news with the inevitable disinterest of civil servants.
"I haven't violated any of your regulations."
Mason heard the edge creeping into Blues's voice. Blues had less patience with regulations and regulators than Mason did.
"Well, now," Trimble said, sensing the rising tension. "Liquor control regulations require that a license holder be of good moral character. That generally excludes murder, don't you think?"
Mason stepped into the conversation between Trimble and Blues. "Mr. Trimble, all charges against my client have been dropped. The city is about to erupt in a major political scandal. You've got a chance to avoid getting caught up in that mess by reinstating my client's license."
Trimble considered Mason's advice. "You don't mind if I check your story, do you, Mr. Mason?"
"By all means. Call Patrick Ortiz at the prosecutor's office."
Trimble dismissed Mason's suggestion. "I don't mess with the middleman, gentlemen. I go right to the top floor of city hall. The mayor's chief of staff is a personal friend of mine."
Trimble called Amy White while Mason and Blues gazed around his office, examined their cuticles, and pretended not to eavesdrop. Trimble cupped his hand over the receiver and turned his head to muffle his end of the conversation.
"Good news, Mr. Bluestone," he said after hanging up the phone. "I'll reinstate your license just as soon as I can."
He spoke as cheerfully as a man could who had just lost the perk of giving bad news.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Trimble's hands fluttered in a failed effort to be casual. "It's just a matter of completing the paperwork. It's all about forms, you know."
"Well, let's get it done right now. I've got to be open tonight and I can't take the chance that some overexcited cop busts me because he didn't get the word."
"Don't worry about it. I'll see to it myself."
Blues wasn't satisfied, and Mason didn't blame him.
"I want to see my file," Blues said.
A red stain began to creep up Trimble's neck as he tugged at his collar. He was devoted to the bureaucratic dodge but was running out of places to hide.
"I'm afraid that's not possible."
Mason interjected, "I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Bluestone's file is a public record and we have an absolute right to see it. My client has been held in jail for a month for a crime he didn't commit. You suspended his license and put him out of business. There's a lawsuit headed your way, Howard, if you don't come up with that file now."
Trimble hitched up his pants to untangle his underwear. "There's no need for threats, Mr. Mason. I'm not refusing to show you Mr. Bluestone's file. I just can't. Not right at this moment."
Blues asked, "And why not?"
Trimble shifted his weight and lifted his butt off his chair, grimacing as if he'd just given himself a wedgie. "Amy-Ms. White-has your file."
"Which regulation says it's okay to give my client's file to the mayor's chief of staff but not to my client?"
Trimble stuffed his hand down his pants, rearranged his balls, and wiped a thin film of sweat from above his lip.
"Listen to me," Trimble said. "I've known Amy White since she was a young girl. Her father, Donald Ray White, was the director of liquor control when I came to work here. Amy and her sister, Cheryl, used to come down here to visit their daddy. They took to me like I was some kind of an uncle. Then things turned bad for them. Amy had a hard road and has come a long way. I'm real proud of her, and I don't want her to get into any trouble."
Mason's gut tightened as he wondered what Trimble was getting at. He chose a conciliatory tone, hoping it would keep Trimble talking.
"How could she get in any trouble over my client's liquor license? The file is a public record."
Trimble let out a sigh. "Her having the file isn't a problem. I mean, I know you want it right now, Mr. Bluestone. And I don't blame you."
"Mr. Trimble, you sure sound like a man who's trying to tell us something without saying it. Like I told you, the charges against my client have been dropped. If that's what this is all about, you'll help yourself and Amy if you just tell me why she has the file."
Trimble hesitated, struggling with his answer, uncertain whether he should give it up but not strong enough to hold it in.
"I hope you're right. Amy called me at home late one night last month. It was a Friday night."
Blues looked at Mason, silently telling him to take the lead as he got up from his chair and took a slow tour of Trimble's office.
"You remember the date?" Mason asked.
"December seventh," Trimble said. "Pearl Harbor Day. I remember because my grandfather was killed at Pearl Harbor." He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.
It was also the night of Blues's confrontation with Cullan at the bar, Mason thought to himself.
"Did she tell you why she wanted the file?"
Trimble shrugged, kneading his hands like a kid who'd been caught shoplifting. "She only told me who wanted it, not why. She said Jack Cullan wanted it. It was late. I asked her why it couldn't wait until Monday morning. She said that Mr. Cullan wanted it right away. So, I met her down here and gave it to her."
"What time was that?"
"Around midnight, a little after."
Amy had told Mason that Cullan had called her that night and demanded that she get him Blues's liquor license file. She had told Mason that she had put Cullan off until the following Monday. Trimble's version could put Amy in Cullan's house the night he was killed if she had picked up Blues's file and taken it to Cullan. Yet that didn't square with Amy still having the file.
"Do you know what she did with the file?"
Trimble shook his head. "I didn't talk to her about it again until today."
"What did you mean that Amy had a hard road?"
Trimble looked up at Mason, uncomfortable with answering but more uncomfortable with being pushed.
"Amy's father died when she was fifteen. A tough time for a girl to lose her father even if he wasn't much of a father. That's when I took over this job. That was eighteen years ago."
"How did he die?"
Trimble sighed again. Mason thought Trimble would hyperventil
ate and pass out if he did it one more time.
"Amy's sister, Cheryl, shot him to death."
Mason had been trying to keep his interrogation casual. Blues was roaming around Trimble's small office, reading the diplomas and certificates that traced Trimble's career. Both of them came to attention at Trimble's explanation.
"What happened?" Mason asked.
"Cheryl was three years younger than Amy. Their father was arrested for abusing Cheryl. His lawyer got the charges dismissed and hushed the whole thing up so Donald could keep his job as director of this department."
Trimble tilted his head back as if trying to expel his memory of Donald Ray White. He continued the story, biting off each word.
"When Donald Ray was released from jail, he beat Cheryl so severely that she was permanently brain-damaged. Somehow, Cheryl managed to get ahold of Donald Ray's pistol and killed her father. Amy's mother hired the same lawyer who got her husband off to get her daughter off. Cheryl wasn't prosecuted because she was a brain-damaged child. Their mother drank herself to death a few years later, and Amy has taken care of Cheryl ever since."
"Who was the lawyer?"
"Jack Cullan," Trimble answered, aiming his words at a blank spot on the wall.
Mason put his hand on Trimble's shoulder. He wanted to thank Trimble for telling him the truth, but from the broken expression on Trimble's face, Mason knew that he didn't want any thanks.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Mason pushed the button for an elevator going up as Blues pushed another button for one going down.
"I'm going to see Amy White," Mason said. "Don't you want to come along?"
"My guess is that she bolted right after Trimble called her. I'll wait in the lobby just in case she decided to clean her desk out first. I'll follow her if I get the chance. You can call Mickey for a ride back to the bar."
