by Joel Goldman
He opened the door and pointed down the stairs. The paramedic who had been holding him up led him toward an ambulance while her partner went back for Shirley Parker.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The police had blocked off traffic on Main Street except for emergency vehicles. The spectators who’d been first in line in front of the People’s Savings & Loan Building had been herded a safe distance away. Two fire department pumper trucks were pouring heavy streams of water into the burned-out shell that had been Pendergast’s office. Local television stations had dispatched live crews to the scene. Cops, firefighters, reporters, and rescuers did their dance.
No one noticed Mason and his paramedic escort when they first emerged from the alley and made their way to an ambulance parked half a block south of the barbershop. By the time the paramedic had persuaded Mason to get inside the ambulance so she could examine him, he’d been picked up on the media’s radar. Reporters clustered around the ambulance, jostling for an angle. Rachel Firestone squeezed through and sat down next to him. The paramedic started to order her to get out, but Mason said she could stay.
His hearing was gradually coming back, first a dull roar of unfiltered noise, then a steady ringing like a flatlined heart monitor, and then voices.
“I let you out of my sight for five minutes and you get into trouble!” Rachel told him. “Look at you. You’re a mess!”
“I forget. Are you my big sister or little sister?”
“I’m just a sister, and you’re still a mess. What in the hell happened?”
Before he could answer, Carl Zimmerman waded through the throng of reporters, trailed by a uniformed cop and the police department’s director of media relations, who politely but firmly ordered the reporters back behind the police line.
“You too, Miss Firestone,” Zimmerman told her. “You’ll get your shot at him if there’s anything left worth having, but we get to go first.”
“Detective, do I look the kind of girl who’d settle for sloppy seconds?”
Zimmerman didn’t let his cop face slip. “I wouldn’t know.”
Rachel gave Mason a peck on his ash-stained cheek. “Save something for me.”
Zimmerman glared at Mason. “You are one dumb-assed motherfucker, you know that? I don’t know whether to arrest you or just throw you back into that fire and save Harry Ryman the trouble of kicking your tail into next week.”
“You hold him down and I’ll kick him,” Harry said as he joined his partner.
Mason looked at both men and then at the paramedic. “Am I in any shape to have my ass kicked?” he asked her.
“In your condition, you probably won’t even notice. I get the impression that you deserve it, but don’t call me when they’re finished. I’m not interested in repeat business.” Turning to the detectives, she added, “He’ll be black and blue and shitting soot for a week, but he’s all yours.”
Mason climbed out of the ambulance as Harry and Zimmerman each took him by an arm.
“Am I under arrest?”
Harry answered. “Not until we figure out all the things to charge you with. Let’s get a cup of coffee first.”
Mason groaned as they led him to the Egg House Diner. “Too bad this place didn’t blow up.”
The waiter gave Mason his I’m-not-surprised look as they slid into a booth, Mason on one side facing Harry and Zimmerman. The homeless woman was back at the counter and giggled into her coffee cup as she exchanged a wink with the waiter.
Mason caught his reflection in the window. His face was camouflaged with soot; his hair was spiked with blood. He was draped in a thin blanket the paramedic had given him, his pants blackened and torn. He understood the homeless woman’s laughter. She looked better than he did. He wondered if she would offer to buy him dinner.
The waiter brought them three glasses of water. “Turkey sandwich?” he asked Mason.
“Two coffees, black,” Harry said. “What do you want Lou?”
“Nothing. I’ve had enough.”
“Why didn’t you wait for me, like I told you?” Zimmerman asked.
Mason had an answer that was good enough for him, though he doubted it would satisfy Harry and Zimmerman.
“Cullan’s files were the key to his murder. If I couldn’t get my hands on them, I couldn’t prove you guys were wrong about Blues. Ortiz hung up on me when I asked him to get a search warrant. The two of you were fighting crime. I was afraid someone would get to them before you were finished, so I went after them myself. Turned out I was right. Someone blew them up or stole them and made it look like they were blown up.”
“You better rethink that bullshit when the judge asks you to show remorse,” Zimmerman said.
“For what? Breaking and entering?”
“That’s chump change,” Zimmerman said. “I suppose you’re going to tell us that Shirley Parker invited you down into that basement so you could pop her?”
Mason looked at Harry, not believing what he was hearing. “Get real. You can’t possibly think I shot Shirley Parker.”
“Who said she was shot?” Zimmerman asked him, enjoying the role reversal from Mason’s cross-examination.
“Good for you, Carl. I had that coming. Maybe the killer just threw the bullet at her.”
Harry interrupted. “Lou, this is serious. Officer Toland reported that he caught you inside that building earlier tonight but that Shirley Parker refused to press charges. He says that you threatened her. Carl tells you to sit tight, which for you is not possible. You and Shirley are the only ones inside that building when it blows up, and you are the only one who comes out alive. Only Shirley is shot to death, not blown up. How does all that look to you?”
“It looks like head-up-your-ass police work that is a lot easier than figuring out what really happened. Like figuring out who blew up the damn building, who knew about the tunnel to get the files out before they blew up the building, and who would kill Shirley Parker to make sure nobody found out what was in those files.”
“You’d been sitting on that building all day,” Zimmerman said. “You could have found the tunnel, found the files, and been caught again by Shirley Parker. Only this time she wasn’t going to let you off, so you killed her.”
“You left out that I also decided to blow my ass up along with the building to hide the evidence of my crime. Harry, if you guys are really looking at me for this, take me downtown, book me, and let’s go see a judge. I’ll crucify you in court and the media will pick at what’s left.”
Harry said, “You keep up this cowboy shit, and you won’t leave us any choice. Same as Bluestone.”
“Okay, I’ll be a good boy. But do your job. Check out the slug that killed Shirley Parker. Odds are that the same gun was used to kill Jack Cullan. That will clear Blues.”
“We don’t need you to tell us how to do our job, Counselor,” Zimmerman said. “If you killed Shirley Parker, I’ll see to it that you share the needle with your client.”
“Carl, you know it’s not safe to share needles. Leave the waiter a nice tip.”
Rachel was waiting for Mason when he got to his car. He was shivering under his blanket, envious of her warm parka.
“No,” he told her.
“No, what?”
“No, I’m not letting you take me home, patch me up, and put me to bed again unless you’re in it, and that ain’t likely.”
“You need to learn to value a woman’s friendship for more than her vagina, Lou. It would broaden your horizons immeasurably. How about you take me home, I wait for you to patch yourself up, and then you tell me what happened? After which, you can go to bed by yourself.”
“Rachel, you need to learn to value a man’s friendship for more than the stories you can squeeze out of him. It would broaden your horizons immeasurably.”
“I don’t know. Men have so little else to offer.”
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Friday morning, standing naked in front of his bathroom mirror, Mason’s body looked as i
f he’d been tattooed with a Rorschach test. He walked creakily around his house like the Tin Man in search of a lube job, trailed by Tuffy, whose whining and yelping Mason mistook for sympathy until he realized that the dog just wanted to be fed.
He tried rowing but gave up when he started to sink. He took a shower hot enough to parboil his skin, the heat loosening the kinks in his muscles and joints, and got back in bed long enough to read Rachel’s article in the morning paper.
She had followed him home the night before, tending to his wounds long enough to extract information she agreed to attribute only to a source close to the investigation.
“I don’t want you to think I’m a killer,” he told her.
“I don’t; a lousy burglar, yes, but a killer, not so much.”
“Thanks for the endorsement.”
“So who did it? Who killed Cullan, blew up the barbershop, and killed Shirley Parker? And what happened to the files?”
“Like GI Joe says, knowing is half the battle. The other half is proving it. Ed Fiora is the leader in the clubhouse. He may have been happy that Cullan worked his magic on the license for the Dream Casino. But who wants a lawyer with a file that could send him to the federal penitentiary? Plus he’s got the muscle. Tony Manzerio probably gets his rocks off blowing stuff up. Fiora killed Cullan—or had him killed—to preserve the attorney-client privilege. Then, he sent Tony to get the files from Shirley and killed her because she was the last of the loose ends.”
Rachel chewed on Mason’s theory. “Maybe, but killing Shirley is too messy. Threaten her, buy her off, and send her out of town. That would have made sense, but killing her turns up the heat hotter than the fire. Fiora isn’t that stupid.”
“No plan ever goes down the way it’s written. Something went wrong and Tony popped Shirley.”
“So Fiora has the files?”
“They ain’t at the public library.”
“So how do you prove it?”
“Beats the hell out of me.”
Her story ran alongside a color photograph of him clutching the bars on the barbershop window while flames danced a pirouette around him. A spectator had taken the photograph and sold it to a wire service, turning a quick profit on tragedy. Mason held the picture up for a closer look as he searched for a trace of courage in his bugged-out eyes and gaping trout mouth.
Rachel wove the Pendergast angle into the story, giving it a gangland flavor that linked two twenty-first-century murders with a long-dead twentieth-century kingpin. She noted the rumored existence of Cullan’s confidential files and the suspicion that they contained embarrassing information on the city’s leaders, speculating that the files may have been destroyed in the fire or stolen. She described Shirley Parker as a never-married woman with no survivors whose only known employment had been for Jack Cullan, making her life more tragic than her death.
As for him, Rachel played it straight. The caption under the photograph identified him as Blues’s lawyer. The article offered no explanation for his presence in the barbershop, noting that he had declined to comment on the record, as had Harry Ryman when she had asked him whether Mason was a suspect in Shirley Parker’s murder.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Mickey Shanahan was sitting in Mason’s desk chair, his feet propped on Mason’s desk, drinking from a bottle of fresh orange juice, when Mason arrived just before ten o’clock.
“Is that my orange juice?”
“Sorry, Lou.” Mickey wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This woman dropped it off a while ago. Said she was your aunt. Said you should call her so she could chew your ass. Whatever you did, she’s, like, totally pissed, man. What’s goin’ on?”
“First, that is my orange juice. Second, my aunt is probably upset that I got trapped in a burning barbershop with a dead body. Third, when did you move into my office?”
“Sorry again, boss,” Mickey said, this time taking his feet off of Mason’s desk. “I give on the OJ. But you’ve got to tell me about the barbershop and the body. That is too much! And you’re the one who hired me to check out Ed Fiora. That was yesterday. You left me here without the key. I didn’t want to leave the place unlocked and I didn’t know when you were coming back, so I stayed.”
“All night?”
“That sofa’s not bad. And the orange juice is pretty good.”
Mickey was wearing the same faded jeans, denim shirt and black crew-neck sweater he’d worn the day before. He had scruffy stubble on his chin, and his unwashed hair looked like it had been finger combed.
“Mickey, where do you live?”
He brushed his sweater, freshening his dignity. “I’ve got a place not far from here.”
“What about clients? I haven’t seen a single client in or out of your office in six months. What’s up with that?”
“It’s been a little slow. I’m expecting things to pick up. This case will give me a big boost.”
Mason got a quick picture of a kid barely off the street who thought he had scammed Blues on the office lease and had probably been living at the bar ever since. Mason doubted that Mickey had fooled Blues from the moment he’d said hello. Mason reached into his wallet and took out a twenty.
“I haven’t had breakfast. Would you mind picking something up for me? Get yourself something too if you want.”
“Hey, no problem, boss. I’ll probably stop at home and get cleaned up if that’s okay.”
“You bet. Did you find anything out about Fiora?”
“A lot of smoke, not much fire. It’s all here in a report I did for you.”
“Give me the highlights.”
“I’ve covered the public-record stuff, property ownership, lawsuits, stuff like that. The gaming commission files could be the real bonanza.”
“Why?”
“I found two things in those records that are the keys to the information universe. Fiora’s social security number and bank accounts. It will take some time, but I’ll eventually be able to follow the money.”
“Is that legal?”
“Hey, you’re the lawyer. Do you really want to know?”
“No, I really don’t. What’s the bottom line?”
“Fiora is a big football fan. Just like the mayor. I did some checking on him too.”
Mickey handed him a typed report with printouts attached. Mason thumbed through it, impressed by the level of detail and organization. He reached into his wallet again and handed Mickey two fifties.
“We haven’t talked salary yet. This will cover yesterday until we have time to work out the details.”
Mickey folded the fifties and stuck them in his pocket with a nonchalance that clashed with the hunger in his eyes.
“Works for me. I’ll have to see where I’m at with my other clients before I can commit to anything full-time.”
“Sure. I understand. Check your schedule and let me know. I’m probably going to need somebody at least until Blues’s case is over. If you’re not available, I’ll have to run an ad. That’s always a pain in the ass.”
Mickey pursed his lips and nodded, realizing that they were playing each other. “So what’s the story on the barbershop and the body?”
“Buy yourself a newspaper and read all about it. Come to work for me full-time and we’ll talk.”
Mickey smiled. “Catch you later, boss.”
Mason, certain that he would, settled into his desk chair, checked out the traffic on Broadway, and read Mickey’s report.
The relationship between Fiora and the mayor was more complicated than a backwoods family tree and was filled with enough smoke that there had to be a fire somewhere. The Dream Casino bought a wide array of goods and services to make dreams come true for its customers, including food, laundry, carpets, paint, security equipment, slot machines, lighting, liquor, and beer.
The Dream had an exclusive contract with a local beer distributor owned by Donovan Jenkins, a former wide receiver for the Kansas City Chiefs who had been Billy Sunshine’s favorite target
. Jenkins had been a steady supporter of his old quarterback, making modest campaign contributions. A month after Jenkins inked the exclusive deal with Fiora, Mayor Sunshine refinanced the $250,000 mortgage on his house. The mayor’s new lender was Donovan Jenkins. Mickey speculated at the end of his report that the mayor wasn’t making house payments like regular folks.
Mason picked up his phone and dialed Rachel Firestone’s number at the Star.
“What do you know about the mortgage on Mayor Sunshine’s house?” he asked her.
“Good morning to you too. Nice of you to call, and you’re welcome for last night.”
“I’m sure it was as good for you as it was for me.”
“As good as it gets. How did you find out about the mortgage?”
“You aren’t my only source,” he told her. “What do you know about the relationship between Fiora, Donovan Jenkins, and the mayor?”
“Fiora made Jenkins his exclusive beer supplier. Jenkins loaned the mayor a quarter of a million bucks. It’s dirty, it sucks, but it’s legal. I’ve talked to the U.S. attorney about it. Jenkins’s loan is a matter of public record. Amy White, the mayor’s chief of staff, showed me canceled checks for the monthly house payment Mayor Sunshine makes to Jenkins. The interest rate is a market rate. End of story, but I’ve got something you might be interested in on that tunnel you found in the basement of the barbershop.”
“Are you going to make me sit up and beg?”
“Not over the phone. I can’t tell if you’re really sitting up. I checked the paper’s archives. During Prohibition, Pendergast owned a speakeasy that was on the other side of the alley from the barbershop. He built the tunnel so his boys could escape in case the feds raided the joint.”
“Who owns the building?” Mason asked.
“Donovan Jenkins. He bought it from Jack Cullan a year ago.”
“That’s handy. Who does Jenkins lease the space to?”
