by Joel Goldman
Fiora started toward the shelter, but Mason grabbed him by the arm. “Don’t. “That’s exactly what they want us to do. They’ll try to take us one at a time. Mickey can handle himself.”
Mason knew that he was right about everything except Mickey. The kid could deal cards, field strip a pistol, and hustle a rent-free pad, but Mason knew he was out of his league against Toland. Besides, sending Fiora to rescue Mickey was like telling the Dutch boy to put a bigger finger in the dike. Without Tony to back him up, Fiora was just a street-wise punk. Toland wouldn’t be impressed. Fiora puffed himself up, as if sensing Mason’s dismissive appraisal.
“Why not? I’m the guy they’re expecting. If I don’t go, they’ll know they’re being set up. I’ll tell Toland that the kid is my driver and that he wandered off. You go find Tony and Blues.”
Mason couldn’t argue with Fiora’s reasoning or stop him. Fiora chose a slow, casual walk, raising his right hand in greeting as he neared the shelter. Mickey and Toland were hidden in plain sight under the shelter, swallowed by the dark. When Fiora reached the edge of the shelter, he suddenly collapsed to the ground. Mason couldn’t tell whether he’d been shot or struck, but Fiora didn’t move as the snow gathered around him. In the same instant, Mason felt the icy sting of cold steel against his neck.
“I had a feeling you were in on this, Mason.” Carl Zimmerman pressed the barrel of his gun tightly against the base of Mason’s skull. “You should have told your client to take the plea.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
Zimmerman jammed his gun hard against Mason’s neck. “Hands behind your back.”
Mason knew that Zimmerman was going to cuff him, taking him out of the game. He had size on Zimmerman, but Zimmerman had a gun on Mason’s brain stem. Mason obeyed and winced when Zimmerman caught his flesh in the cuffs.
“Stand real still,” Zimmerman instructed. Keeping his gun in place, Zimmerman patted the pockets on Mason’s coat and found his pistol. “Hope you’ve got a permit for this concealed weapon, Counselor. Otherwise, I’ll have to issue you a citation.”
“You shouldn’t have lied about the body in Swope Park. Otherwise, you might have gotten away with it.”
“I’m getting away with it now.”
“You killed Cullan, forged Blues’s fingerprint, stole Cullan’s secret files, and killed Shirley Parker. That’s a lot to get away with.”
“You don’t know shit. And I didn’t kill anybody. At least not yet.”
“It doesn’t matter what I know. Harry knows you used Blues’s fingerprint in his personnel file to forge the one on Cullan’s desk. That will be enough for him. He’ll hunt you down like a dog. You won’t be able to use Cullan’s files to wipe your ass.”
Zimmerman spat into the snow. “Ryman’s too old and too slow.”
“We’ll put that on your tombstone.”
Zimmerman gave Mason a sharp shove in the small of the back. “Move it!”
Mason marched toward the shelter, squinting against the snow. There was no sign of Tony or Blues. Fiora was still down. Zimmerman shoved Mason again as they stepped beneath the shelter, knocking him into Mickey, who was handcuffed and sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Toland pressed the barrel of his shotgun under Mason’s chin, dragging it down to Mason’s chest until Mason joined Mickey. Toland crouched down to Mason’s eye level, keeping the shotgun flush against Mason. Mason smiled at the trickle of blood frozen on the side of Toland’s face.
“Cut yourself shaving?” he asked Toland.
“That big moose you had chasing us in the woods scratches like a girl. I had to damn near kill him just so I could tie him to a tree. Don’t make me tie you to a tree.”
Zimmerman said, “We’ve got these three. Tony is out of commission, which leaves Bluestone.”
High-beam headlights flooded the shelter as a vehicle bore down on them, make and model invisible in the dark.
“Who in the hell is that?” Toland yelled.
The vehicle was aiming directly at them as it picked up speed over the fresh snow. The engine was revving hard as if the driver had floored the accelerator.
“Damn!” Zimmerman shouted as it got closer. “That’s my Suburban!”
“It’s got to be Bluestone,” Toland said. “He’s going to ram us. Shoot him!”
Toland fired his shotgun, pumped, and fired three more rounds while Zimmerman emptied his clip into the Suburban. Mason and Mickey jumped to their feet and ran to Fiora. Crouching down with their hands behind their backs, they each grabbed him by the shoulders and dragged him out of the path of the Suburban.
The windshield on the Suburban shattered, but the truck roared on like an enraged beast made angrier by the gunfire, crunching and packing the snow beneath its tires, oblivious of the barrage of firepower. Zimmerman and Toland leaped out of the way at the last moment as the Suburban crashed into one of the poles supporting the shelter, toppling the roof. The car flew past them, becoming airborne before plunging headfirst into the lagoon, sizzling and bubbling as it found the muddy bottom.
Harry and Blues were following on foot behind the Suburban. Blues ran low and straight at Toland, colliding with him and rolling across the snow. Toland managed to get to his feet first while Blues was on one knee. Toland launched a booted kick at Blues’s head. Blues caught Toland’s boot and sprang up, sending Toland tumbling onto his back.
The power line had snapped off the roof of the shelter with the impact from the Suburban, its deadly blue current dancing and writhing across the snow, measuring Toland like a cobra as he struggled to get to his feet. Toland slipped in the snow, clawed at the ground on all fours, and screamed as the power line stung him with a lethal jolt, the line lying across Toland’s electrocuted body as the snow sizzled around him.
Zimmerman was in a shooter’s crouch, knees bent, arms extended, aiming Mason’s gun in a rapid arc, looking for a target. Harry tackled him from behind, flattening him against the pavement and pressing his face into the snow. He planted his knee in the middle of Zimmerman’s back and wrapped his hand around Zimmerman’s gun hand, forcing the barrel against Zimmerman’s ear.
“Pull the trigger, you piece of garbage! Blow your fucking brains out!” Harry screamed. “Pull it, goddammit! Pull it!”
Blues ran to Harry’s side, reached down, and covered Harry’s hand with his own. “Let it go, Harry. You got him. Let it go.”
Harry was heaving. “Okay,” he said at last. “Okay.” Harry cuffed Zimmerman. “Don’t move, partner.”
Mason looked at the lagoon, where the back end of the Suburban barely broke the surface. He staggered to his feet and made his way over to Blues and Harry.
“How did you do that?”
“I’ll bet Blues hot-wired the Suburban, put a rock on the gas pedal, and steered with the door open while he ran alongside it,” Mickey said.
“Good call, kid,” Blues told him. “How’d you know?”
“That’s exactly the way I would have done it,” Mickey said.
“Next he’ll tell people it was his idea,” Mason said.
“That’s public relations. Get us out of these cuffs.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN
Harry unlocked their handcuffs.
“What’s with Fiora? Did Toland clock him or shoot him or did the putz just have a heart attack?”
Fiora was still lying prone in the snow, not moving from the spot where Mason and Mickey had dragged him.
“I think he fainted,” Mickey said. “When he walked up to the shelter, he raised his hand as if we were having a reunion. Next thing I knew, he took a dive. Toland didn’t touch him.”
They walked over to Fiora. Mason nudged him with his shoe. “Looks dead to me.”
“It’s a real shame,” Mickey added. “He didn’t live to see us kick the crap out of those guys.”
“Weather like this,” Harry said, “it could be hours before an ambulance gets here. Guess it doesn’t matter since he’s already gone.”
> Fiora stirred, groaned, and slowly rolled over on his back. He blinked the snow off his eyelids and groaned some more. “What happened?”
“How about that. Back from the dead. It’s a miracle,” Blues said. “I’ll go find Tony. We may really need an ambulance for him.”
Mason turned to Harry. “So I was right. Zimmerman forged Blues’s fingerprint.”
Harry hung his head for a moment. “Yeah. No one ever would have checked Blues’s print against the ones in his personnel file if you hadn’t asked me.”
It was the first time in years that Mason had heard Harry refer to Blues by his nickname. Harry had always insisted on calling him Bluestone, rejecting any closer ties to their days as partners. Harry’s face was drawn and he was shivering from more than the wind.
“Zimmerman counted on that. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”
Harry shook his head. “Carl counted on me wanting it to be Blues.”
“Why’d you come out here with Blues?”
“I figured I owed him that. And I had to see Carl for myself. I had to be sure. If I was wrong, it would stay private.”
“What happens now?”
“It’s up to the prosecutor. The case against Blues is pretty weak without the fingerprint. Carl has a lot of explaining to do. I guess we’re back to square one.”
“Zimmerman told me that he didn’t kill anybody. You think he’s telling the truth?”
Harry thought for a moment. “I’m the wrong one to ask. I was his partner and I didn’t see anything that made me think he was dirty.”
“Toland was killed while he and Zimmerman were committing a felony. Under the felony-murder statute, Zimmerman will be charged with Toland’s death. That’s a capital-murder charge. Zimmerman is looking at the needle. He’ll talk.”
“That’s not what worries me. It’s who’s going to be listening.”
“Zimmerman will use Cullan’s files. Instead of getting the bum’s rush like Blues did, he’ll put it all on Toland and offer to keep his mouth shut in return for a citation. He’ll probably claim that he was investigating Toland and that we stumbled into his sting operation and screwed it up. Before he’s finished, we’ll be charged with Toland’s death.”
“How’s he going to explain working a sting operation behind my back?” Harry demanded.
“Simple. You were too close to me. That’s why Ortiz didn’t put you on the stand at the preliminary hearing. If there was enough dirt in those files to scare Leonard Campbell into going so hard after Blues, Campbell will make that deal in a heartbeat.”
“You have any suggestions?”
“Just one. My Jeep is parked about a half mile down that service road. I’d appreciate it if you’d go get it for me.” Mason handed Harry the keys. “Take your time. It’s real slippery.”
Harry nodded as they both looked at the sunken Suburban. “Glad to do it. You be careful not to get wet out here. Your aunt will raise hell if you end up with pneumonia. And don’t let my prisoner get away while I’m gone.”
Harry ambled away as Blues and Tony appeared from the far side of the lagoon. Tony helped Fiora to his feet, dusted the snow from Fiora’s topcoat, and listened impassively as his boss berated him for getting coldcocked by Toland.
“Where’s Harry going?” Blues asked.
“To get my Jeep.”
“You have to tip him for valet service?”
“That depends on what we find in the Suburban. Let’s have a look.”
Mason and Blues found Mickey at the edge of the lagoon. The Suburban was twenty feet from shore in water that was at least half as deep. They looked at the truck, the water, and each other, none of them anxious to go for a swim.
“It’s too dangerous,” Mason said at last. “A man wouldn’t last ten minutes in that water without getting hypothermia. We don’t know if the files are in the truck, and even if they are, it would be too easy to get stuck inside.”
Fiora and Tony joined them. “You think my file is in that truck?” he asked Mason.
“I’d bet the house on it. Trouble is, the odds of us getting it out are a little steep. The cops will have it towed out of there, and we’ll never see the files until after the grand jury indictments are handed down.”
Fiora pulled Tony aside. The massive man leaned down to hear Fiora’s whispered instructions. Tony straightened up and walked over to Carl Zimmerman, who was still lying facedown in the snow. Tony grabbed Zimmerman by the collar of his coat, yanked him to his feet as if he were dusting off a rug, and spun him once around. Keeping his body between Zimmerman and the others, like a solar eclipse blocking the sun, Tony found Zimmerman’s handcuff key and removed the cuffs from his wrists. He clamped his viselike hands on Zimmerman’s shoulders and delivered the message Fiora had given him. Tony held on to Zimmerman’s left arm as they returned to the edge of the lagoon.
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?”
