by Joel Goldman
“Long time, darling. How you been?”
“No complaints that count, Donna. How’s life treating you?”
“Same way I treat it. Neither one of us gives a shit about the other. What’ll you have on this lovely day?”
“Bring us a couple of burgers and the coldest beer you’ve got in a bottle.”
Donna wandered back toward the kitchen to turn in their order. Mason unzipped the black satchel he used as a briefcase and handed Blues his copies of the reports.
“I thought you’d want your own set.”
Blues left the reports on the table. “Did Leonard Campbell find religion and decide to let me out?”
Mason shook his head.
“I know Ortiz didn’t do it on his own.”
“It wasn’t the prosecutor’s office. It was the judge.”
“Judge Carter? You’re shitting me!”
Mason shook his head again, watching the replay of Kordell Stewart’s Hail Mary miracle pass against Michigan, instead of meeting Blues head-on.
Blues asked him, “You think that game is going to end differently this time?”
Mason gave up and faced his friend. “No, sorry.”
“How much trouble are we in?”
“It depends on whether we can prove that you didn’t kill Jack Cullan and I didn’t kill Shirley Parker.”
“What about Judge Carter and my bail?”
“Small potatoes compared to capital murder.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
Mason filled Blues in on his evening out with Beth Harrell that ended with him saving Ed Fiora’s life. He described how Mickey had hacked into Fiora’s bank records and been rewarded with a beating by Tony Manzerio. He explained his theory of how Beth could have hiked to Cullan’s house, killed him, and returned to her apartment undetected. He detailed his suspicions of Carl Zimmerman and James Toland, making light of his failed surveillance of Zimmerman. He finished with a broad-brush recitation of the scam he’d run on Fiora with the bank records and the favor he’d unnecessarily cashed in to get Blues released on bail.
“You need a keeper, you know that?” Blues told him when Mason had completed his report.
“Well, at least you’re out. Now we can sort this mess out.”
Blues picked up the reports and began reading. Mason waited, hoping for the insight that a fresh look often brings. Donna returned with their burgers and beer. They ate in silence.
“Look at this,” Blues said.
He placed the initial report on Cullan’s murder in front of Mason. It was dated December 10, the day the housekeeper had discovered Cullan’s body.
“Okay, what am I looking for?”
“The report is routine. It covers all the bases, including the location from which every fingerprint was lifted.”
Mason read the index of fingerprints. “Damn! There’s no record of any fingerprints found on the desk in Mason’s office. Terrence Dawson testified at the preliminary hearing that’s where he found your fingerprint.”
“Now, look at this,” Blues said, and handed Mason a supplemental report dated December 12, the day Blues was arrested.
“Dawson went back to the scene for a second look. That’s when he found your fingerprint.”
“Read the first sentence of Dawson’s report on that inspection,” Blues instructed.
Mason read it aloud. “At the request of Detective Carl Zimmerman, this examiner returned to the scene to determine if any other identifiable fingerprints were present.”
“Zimmerman was a busy boy.”
“How could Zimmerman have planted your fingerprint?”
“It’s not as hard as it sounds. Zimmerman could have made a photocopy of a fingerprint of mine. While the photocopy was still hot, he could have put fingerprint tape down on it and lifted the print. Powdered photocopier toner can be used as fingerprint powder. Then Zimmerman went back to the scene and put the tape down wherever he wanted Dawson to find my fingerprint.”
“So where did Zimmerman get your fingerprint?”
“From my personnel file.”
“Isn’t access to those files restricted? How did Zimmerman get ahold of it?”
“Once Harry started looking at me for the murder, they would have gotten my file without any problem.”
“How can we prove your fingerprint was forged?”
“Identification points are the same on all prints from the same finger. That’s why fingerprints are so reliable. But no two prints themselves should ever be identical since there’s always a difference in position or pressure when the print is put down. If the print Dawson found is identical to the print in my personnel file, Dawson will have to admit it was forged.”
“Unless Zimmerman was smart enough to get rid of the original print from your personnel file.”
“That would have been too risky. If that set of prints turned up missing, there would be a separate investigation of everyone who touched the file. Zimmerman was banking that no one would compare the prints since they had made a new set of my prints when they booked me.”
“Which gets us back to the real question. Why would Zimmerman take the risk of framing you?”
“It fits with your theory. Zimmerman and Toland were tired of working for Cullan. They wanted to go into business for themselves, so they killed Cullan. I was a convenient fall guy. Harry already hated me. The mayor wanted a quick arrest. No one wanted Cullan’s files to be found. It should have worked.”
Mason took the final swallow from his bottle of beer. “I’m going to talk to Harry.”
“No way. He’ll cover for Zimmerman. That’s what cops do.”
“Not this time. You find Cullan’s files and I’ll talk to Harry.”
Blues grabbed Mason’s wrists with both hands. “You’re taking a hell of a risk for both of us. If Harry tips him off, Zimmerman will come after both of us. He won’t have any choice. Are you carrying that gun I gave you?”
“No, and you can’t carry one either without violating the conditions of your bail.”
“Small potatoes compared to capital murder.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Twelfth Street had become a frozen parking lot. Cars on the intersecting streets of Oak and Locust squirmed more than they moved. No one was any closer to home than when Mason and Blues had walked into Rossi’s for lunch. The snow poured from the sky in thick, wet flakes heavy enough to reduce vision to a single block. Some drivers surrendered to the storm, abandoning their cars in the middle of the street to take refuge in city hall or the courthouse.
Mason and Blues waded through the drifting, blowing snow to Mason’s Jeep. They waited for the car to warm up and melt the ice on the windows while they considered their options.
“You giving any thought to just waiting this out?” Blues asked.
“Nope.”
“You expecting a sudden heat wave to melt this shit and clear up this traffic just so we can go home?”
“Nope. And we’re not going home. We’re going to my office. By the way, how long has Mickey Shanahan been living in his office?”
“Since the day I rented it to him.”
“Does he know that you know that?”
“I never asked him. He seems like a good kid.”
“He’s a con artist, cardsharp, and computer hacker who doesn’t have a pot to piss in.”
“You hired him. He must fit in. How are you going to get us out of here?”
“Don’t try this at home, boys and girls,” Mason said.
He engaged the Jeep’s four-wheel drive and rolled over the concrete stop that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk. Dodging parking meters, he stayed on the sidewalk until he was clear of the downtown traffic.
The normally fifteen-minute drive to his office took an hour as he slalomed and cursed his way around one trapped driver after another. The streets were so slick, and the ice and snow so impenetrable, that the slightest incline had become an impossible vertical ascent for any car that didn’t have four-wheel drive. M
ickey was waiting for them when they made it back to Blues on Broadway.
“This is the homecoming crowd?” Blues asked.
“The cook and the bartender called in well,” Mickey answered. “They said they were staying home because of sick weather. We’re as good as closed anyway in this snow. The mailman is the only one who has come through the door all day.”
Blues picked up a stack of mail that Mickey had left sitting on the bar and leafed through it, tearing open the last envelope.
“Son of a bitch!” he said, holding up the contents of the envelope. “The director of liquor control has suspended my liquor license pending the outcome of my case.”
“Who’s the director of liquor control?” Mason asked.
“Howard Trimble. I’ve got to go see him today.”
“In this storm?” Mason asked. “He’s probably stuck in traffic somewhere.”
Blues dialed the phone number on the letter and listened as it rang for two minutes. He slammed the phone down, cursing Trimble and his ancestors in a Shawnee Indian dialect Blues reserved for special occasions.
“Dude!” Mickey said. “What’s that mean?”
“Something about fire ants building a nest in your scrotum,” Mason told him. “Trimble will have to wait until tomorrow. If this storm keeps up, everything will have to wait until tomorrow.”
“We may not have that long,” Blues said. “Once Zimmerman knows I’m out, he’ll bury those files where no one will ever find them.”
Mason and Mickey followed Blues upstairs to his office. Blues opened the floor safe and removed a .45-caliber Baer Stinger pistol and holster. He loaded the pistol, slid it into the holster he’d attached to his belt, and dumped two extra ammunition clips into his jacket pocket.
“Are you going to talk to Zimmerman or just shoot him?” Mason asked.
“Depends on my mood. If Toland and Zimmerman stole Cullan’s files, they had to have a new hiding place. It’s got to be someplace secure that won’t attract attention. Zimmerman wouldn’t leave it up to Toland, so it’s got to be someplace Zimmerman picked. I’m a lot better at watching without being seen than you are.”
“Where do you start watching? You don’t even know where Zimmerman is. What makes you think he’s going to go look at those files in the middle of a blizzard?”
“You are going to find out where Zimmerman is when you call Harry to tell him about my fingerprint. I’d ask where Zimmerman is first, since Harry will probably stop talking after you tell him about the fingerprint. Then I’ll go sit on Zimmerman while you go visit Ed Fiora.”
Mason asked, “What for?”
“Fiora said he’s got videotape to show you. Odds are he has the person who shot at you on that tape. Tell him you think you know who killed Cullan, but you need to see the videotape to be certain.”
“You think Zimmerman was the shooter?”
“Probably not. My money is on Beth Harrell, but it doesn’t matter. The videotape is just a pretext for your meeting. Remind Fiora that you promised to give him his file if you found it. Tell him that Zimmerman has his file. Tell him to call Zimmerman and offer to buy the file and make Zimmerman a highly paid security consultant.”
“Why can’t I just do that over the phone?”
“Because you’ve got to make certain that Fiora actually calls Zimmerman. You can’t take his word for it.”
“Why do you think Fiora will be able to flush Zimmerman out on a day like this?”
“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 t
he 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?”
