Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness

by Joel Goldman

  “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 benefits 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 w
ith 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.

  “Yes, sir, Detective. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”

  Harry turned to Mason. “Are you satisfied with that story?”

  “It’ll do for now.”

  “Good, ‘cause it’s bullshit and we both know it, but if you don’t care, I don’t care. At least we don’t need anything else from Mr. Shanahan. Let’s you and me go have a talk before your aunt makes us take turns walking into the door and knocking ourselves out.”

  “Don’t think for one second that I’m going to clean up that mess for you,” Claire said as Mason closed the door behind him.

  Mason raised both hands in surrender, knowing better than to get in her way while she still had a head of steam going. Harry picked up the computer tower and peered inside.

  “The hard drive is gone. You back up your stuff?”

  “Not in the last six months.”

  “How long you had this computer?”

  “Six months.”

  “You’re screwed.”

  “Is that a professional opinion?”

  “Worth every cent of the tax dollars you paid for it. Who did it?”

  “Ed Fiora.”

  “Why?”

  “He objected to me checking out his personal affairs.”

  “Hacking? You couldn’t hack yourself. That kid, Shanahan—he do the hacking for you?”

  “Yup.”

  “Fiora probably has somebody who runs security for his computer systems, picked up the hacking, traced it back to your computer. Fiora values his privacy. So why does Shanahan give me that crap about running into his door?”

  “He’s like all law-abiding citizens. He doesn’t trust the cops and he thinks he’s doing me a favor.”

  “Why are you investigating Fiora?”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  Mason took two bottles of Budweiser out of his refrigerator and handed one to Harry. Claire gave him a long, threatening look, and he handed her the other bottle, then grabbed another one for himself. He threw his parka over his desk chair, sat down on the sofa, and put his feet up on the low table in front of it. Harry and Claire dumped their coats on top of his, and each took a chair at either end of the table. They raised their beers, Claire drinking the deepest.

  “Cullan’s murder, Shirley Parker’s murder, and the fire at the barbershop were all about one thing—Jack Cullan’s secret files,” Mason said. “I was looking for a link, something that would tie Fiora to the files and the murders, or at least the other suspects.”

  “And who might the other suspects be? Assuming, of course, that we don’t count your client.” Harry asked.

  Mason tipped his bottle at Harry. “You assume correctly. His Honor the mayor is on the take. He made at least one sweetheart deal with Fiora that lined the pockets of his old wide receiver Donovan Jenkins. Jenkins paid the mayor back by refinancing his house. That deal may have actually been legal, but I think there’s more. That’s what Mickey was looking for.”

  “Who else?”

  Mason hesitated, swirling the beer, concluding that he had only one client, not two. “Beth Harrell. She gets the Head Case of the Year award. On the outside, she’s a superachiever public servant. On the inside, she’s a bad girl who owned a .38-caliber pistol she threw away after Cullan was killed because she thought it would look bad. Especially since Cullan was blackmailing her with dirty pictures.”

  “Where’d Cullan get the pictures?”

  “She took them and gave them to her ex-husband before he was her ex. He sold them to Cullan.”

  “What kind of a woman would do that?” Claire asked.

  “A severely messed-up one,” Mason answered. “Beth claims she voted to give the license to the Dream Casino because it was the right thing to do. Then she got suspicious that Fiora had bribed the mayor. She was about to start an investigation when Cullan threatened her with the pictures.”

  “What makes you think she’s telling the truth?” Claire asked.

  Mason retrieved the envelope of pictures from an inside pocket in his parka. He dropped them on the table in front of Harry and Claire. “I’ve seen the pictures. Fiora gave them to me tonight. He was trying to convince me that he wasn’t blackmailing Beth and that he had nothing to do with Cullan’s or Shirley Parker’s deaths.”

  Harry reached for the envelope, but Claire snatched it and opened it first. “I am never surprised what we will do to get even with ourselves,” she said before passing the photographs to Harry.

  Harry looked at the photographs without betraying any reaction. “Shirley Parker was killed with a .38-caliber bullet, but it was fired from a different gun than the one that was used to kill Jack Cullan. It sure would have been nice to have a look at Beth Harrell’s gun. Where does all this leave Ed Fiora?”

  “Fiora says he wasn’t worried about Cullan’s files because Cullan couldn’t take Fiora down without taking himself down. That makes sense. Fiora wants his file before it winds up with someone he can’t do business with. That also makes sense. He tried to hire me to find the file for him. That makes sense too. Killing Cullan and Shirley Parker doesn’t make sense.”

  “What about the mayor?” Claire asked.

  “Yeah,” Mason said to Harry. “Did you ask the mayor if he had an alibi for the time of Cullan’s murder?”

  “Sure. Right after we asked him for semen samples so we could clear up some open rape cases.”

  Mason finished his beer in a final swallow. “All I’ve done in this case is chase my tail. I’m getting absolutely nowhere.”

  “Maybe you’re just digging up a lot of dirt but no killers because your client is guilty,” Harry said.

  “Maybe. And maybe you and Zimmerman and the prosecuting attorney and the mayor are sweeping a lot of dirt under the rug because you want Blues to be guilty. It’s obvious that the mayor was pressuring you to make a quick arrest.”

  “Sure he wanted a quick arrest. He also wanted a conviction, not a botched case.”

  “When did you first talk to the mayor about Cullan’s murder?”

  “Right after we got to the murder scene. I called the chief and the chief called the mayor. The mayor told the chief he wanted to meet with me and Carl, which really frosted the chief.”

  “Because that made the chief look like he wasn’t running the investigation?” Claire asked.

  “Exactly. There’s more politics in the police department than the Catholic Church,” Harry said. “The mayor told me and Carl that he wanted daily reports on the case until the son of a bitch who killed his lawyer was found guilty.”

/>   “So you’ve been on the phone with the mayor every day?” Mason asked.

  “Not me and not the mayor. My partner, Carl, is a better politician than me. The mayor told Carl to report to his chief of staff, Amy White. She told Carl he was on twenty-four hour call and his cell phone better be on all the time.” Harry laughed. “She’s driving Carl crazy.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t get,” Claire said. “Where did Cullan get all his dirt? I doubt that everyone was as stupid as Beth Harrell. Maybe whoever was supplying Cullan with information decided to go into business for himself—or herself—which meant putting Cullan out of business.”

  Mason and Harry stared at Claire, slack jawed at her insight. Claire smiled, careful not to smile too much, and set her empty bottle on the table. “I love both of you, but sometimes you are thick as fence posts. Let’s go home, Harry, before that beer drowns out what little spark I’ve got left.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Mickey walked into Mason’s office as soon as Harry and Claire hit the street. “Hey, boss,” he said before Mason cut him off with a raised hand.

  Claire had come at the case from a completely different angle than Mason or Harry. Both of them had made the mistake of focusing on the explanations that best suited their biases. Harry wanted it to be Blues. Mason wanted it to be someone Cullan was blackmailing. They both wanted it to be easy, and the truth was seldom that easy.

  Mason opened the doors to the dry-erase board, wiped out a week’s worth of now meaningless notes, wrote Cullan’s source for dirt in large red letters on the board, and sat in his desk chair. He rocked and swiveled, fingers steepled beneath his chin, then rubbed his temples and thumped his desk with the palms of his hands.

  Mickey tried again, “Lou, I’ve got—”

  “It’ll have to wait. Have a seat.”

  Mason shuffled through the papers on his desk until he found the initial police report on Cullan’s murder. The dispatcher had recorded the call from Cullan’s maid, Norma Hawkins, at 8:03 a.m. Mason remembered that the first cop on the scene had been a uniformed patrol officer. Mason scanned the report for his name, finding it at the bottom of the report. Officer James Toland had arrived at the scene at 8:10 a.m. Harry and Carl Zimmerman had arrived at 8:27 a.m.