Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness (6 page)

“How did he do it? Where did he get that kind of influence?”

“Cullan invested in the long term. Long-term relationships and long-term IOUs. One day, the city wakes up and peeks out from under its covers. Only the view is from Jack Cullan’s back pocket. I’ve been picking up threads. I can’t get anyone to corroborate it, but I’m convinced that Cullan took a page from J. Edgar Hoover’s playbook.”

“Files filled with secrets?”

“On everyone who is anyone.”

“You said you couldn’t corroborate that. What makes you think it’s true?”

“The same thing that makes you think your client is innocent. I can feel it.”

She picked up the red marker and wrote
Cullan’s Secret Files
on the board.

“Anyone who was in those files may have had a motive to kill Cullan,” Mason said. “And the rest of them would give anything to make certain the files stayed secret. The easiest way for that to happen is to make certain Blues is found guilty.”

“I’ll make you a deal. You find the files first, I get the exclusive. I find the files first, I’ll let you see them before I go public.”

“Deal. Why so generous?”

“Let’s just say that I’m a sucker for good-looking rugby players. In fact, I’m dating one now. She’s fabulous. I’ll be in touch,” she said as she left.

Mason finished studying the police reports without finding any daggers to throw at Harry on cross-examination. He had been as thorough as Mason had expected.

The crime scene had been preserved, none of the evidence contaminated. Photographs were taken from every angle, fingerprints lifted from every surface, and a meticulous search had been made for footprints and fibers that didn’t belong.

The contents of the house had been inventoried and double-checked against Cullan’s homeowner’s insurance records. No valuables were missing and there was no sign of forced entry. Cullan had opened the door to someone who had come there for one reason—to kill him.

The maid passed a polygraph exam and thirty people at a family reunion in Omaha confirmed her alibi that she was out of town when Cullan was killed.

Beth Harrell and the musicians at the bar gave statements that established Blues’s motive. And Blues didn’t have an alibi.

The case had shifted from catching Cullan’s killer to proving that Blues was guilty. If none of the witnesses saw Cullan scratch Blues’s hands during their scuffle at the bar, he would have to take the stand in his own defense. No matter how certain he was of Blues’s innocence, Mason knew that was a high-stakes gamble. Patrick Ortiz would come in his pants at the prospect of taking on Blues.

There was nothing Mason could do about any of the evidence the prosecutor already had against Blues. He wouldn’t make the mistake of trying to win the case on the prosecution’s ground. Instead, he’d have to find the killer.

He stared out the windows, listening to the icy wind swarm over the city, slip-sliding through weak spots in brick and mortar, seeping into cracks and faults, sucking out the warmth. He imagined that Jack Cullan had been that way, wrapping his own cold fingers around the weak spots in other people’s hearts until they became brittle and broke in his hands.

The warmth in his office was small comfort. He’d be out in the wind soon enough, playing catch-up with Oritz. The prosecutor was way out in front.

Mason wouldn’t get any help from the people who’d been under Cullan’s thumb. Though each would light a candle for the killer and ask God to reserve a special place in hell for Cullan, they’d let the wind sweep Blues away.

Mason picked up the black marker. Beneath his question
who else?
and Rachel Firestone’s note about Cullan’s secret files, he added the names of Ed Fiora, Billy Sunshine, and Beth Harrell. All three were tied to Jack Cullan. It was all he had.

Mason began with what he knew about each of them. Ed Fiora owned the Dream Casino. Though he’d passed the gaming commission’s background checks, Rachel’s newspaper stories had him only a sham corporation or two removed from his leg-breaking days.

Billy Sunshine was a charismatic mayor who’d steal your vote and your wife with equal aplomb. He was glib and charming, a native son with the ethos of a carpetbagger. More than anything else, he was ambitious. He’d been elected by a wide margin to a second term and, by law, couldn’t run again. The mayor had all but announced he would challenge Delray Shays, the black incumbent congressman, in the next election. Local wags had it that the casino scandal was the only thing holding up the formal announcement. When last asked about it, the mayor said he’d let the people of the Fifth Congressional District decide.

Beth Harrell was the piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit. Ed Fiora was a thug posing as a gaming entrepreneur. Billy Sunshine was the poster boy for mamas not letting their babies grow up to be politicians. Beth Harrell was the good queen.

Mason remembered her from law school. She was only five years older, having practiced for two years after graduating before becoming a professor. She had dark blond hair that dangled above her shoulders, softening her bold walk. Her body was trim, her lips full, and her eyes said, “Authorized personnel only.” She carried her beauty with the experience of someone used to taking advantage of it and wary of those who would.

All of which made the class she taught the most popular one offered. Mason resisted the temptation to sit in the front row with his tongue hanging out like his less subtle friends. He worked hard in her class, and she rewarded his effort with a good grade and a friendly handshake whenever they ran into each other over the years.

Beth’s reputation as an expert in ethics had brought her to the attention of the governor. When the previous chair of the gaming commission was convicted of accepting kickbacks, the governor turned to Beth to restore credibility to the commission. The license for the Dream Casino was the first major piece of business for the commission after she took over. Mason found it hard to believe that she had stepped over the line.

Mason had learned from Harry that it was much more effective to question a witness when he showed up unexpectedly. Rachel Firestone had proven the point earlier in the day.

He doubted that the ambush interview would work with the three people on his list. He’d have to cut through a layer of muscle to get next to Ed Fiora, and a regiment of bureaucrats guarded the mayor. He doubted that Beth Harrell had a gatekeeper, but he knew better than to just drop by. Even in law school, she demanded that students make an appointment to see her outside of class.

He called Fiora’s office and was told that Mr. Fiora would be unavailable until the next millennium. The mayor’s scheduling secretary said that he didn’t have an opening until after his term expired. He left a message for Beth Harrell. She just didn’t call him back.

Mason checked on Mickey Shanahan before leaving for the night. It was past eight and Mickey was behind the bar, giving directions to Pete Kirby’s trio as they set up. Pete looked at Mickey like he was a blind man directing traffic. Mason decided to take a crack at Kirby’s memory.

“Hey, Pete, how you doing, man?” Mason said.

Pete Kirby was short and squat, like a fireplug. He played the piano with the enthusiasm of a man whose natural rhythm was eight to the bar.

“Everything’s cool, Louie, my boy. How’s my man Blues?”

Kirby was the only person who called Mason Louie, a list Mason wasn’t anxious to expand.

“He’s doing fine, Pete. I understand you were playing Friday night when Jack Cullan came in.”

“That’s right, I was. Me and the boys wouldn’t have stuck around since it was such a shitty night and the joint was empty, but we figured, what the hell, we’ll play a set for Blues. Then Cullan comes in with this good-looking broad and the next thing I know, the two of them are playing Frankie and Johnnie.”

“Blues tells me he busted up the fight.”

“That he did. Blues grabbed that old man like he was gonna pile-drive the cat right into the goddamn ground. Don’t pay to tussle in Blues’s joint,” Pete added with a deep laugh. “No, sir, it don’t.”

“I hear Cullan fought like a cat too. Scratched the hell out of Blues’s hands.”

Kirby tugged at the corner of his beret and stroked his goatee, measuring his response in a firm meter.

“Like I told the detective, I didn’t see any of that. Now, you lookin’ like your woman just run off with the drummer makes me wish maybe I had, but I just didn’t see none of that. Sorry, Louie.”

“Don’t worry about it, Pete. It’s not important,” Mason said and left.

The parking lot behind the bar was covered in old asphalt that had given birth to potholes big enough to swallow women and children. Blues was an easygoing landlord who believed in deferred maintenance. Mason stepped around the craters, afraid that if he fell into one, no one would find him until spring.

His car was parked at the back of the lot; the front end aimed at the alley behind the bar. Though there was a curb between the lot and the street, Mason planned to ignore it. Otherwise, what was the point of driving a Jeep?

The wind had calmed from its all-day shriek to a steady howl strong enough to rake tears from the corners of Mason’s eyes. Fine crystals of sleet tattooed his face like asteroid dust. Blues’s deferred-maintenance program extended to the parking lot floodlights, which had been burned out since Thanksgiving. The lights were off in the building across the alley, and the sky had been buttoned down with blackout clouds. Moonlight couldn’t have found its way to Mason’s dark patch even if it had a GPS.

A pair of high-beam headlights opened up on him as he reached his Jeep, the lights coming from a car parked near his, the sound of its engine muffled by the wind. Heavy boots ground sand and salt into the pavement as a man bigger than Mason’s Jeep stepped from the shadows.

“Car trouble?” Mason asked, still unable to make out the man’s features.

When he didn’t get an answer, Mason’s internal wind chill hit bottom. His new best friend stepped in front of the headlights, casting a nightmare’s silhouette. He was wearing a full-length topcoat and a fedora jammed low on his brow, which covered his face but not the frozen gray breath leaking from his mouth like poison gas.

Mason reached for his car door, hoping to put some steel between him and the man, but he was too slow. In the next instant, the man grabbed Mason and spun him around, pinning his face flush to the side of the Jeep, the frozen surface burning Mason’s jaw.

Mason stiffened, trying to leverage his hands against the Jeep and drive his hips and back against the man, but the side of the Jeep was too slick and the man was too huge. He leaned in hard and close to Mason’s face. The wet wool of his topcoat smelled like a dog left too long in the rain, and his breath tasted of coffee, cigarettes, and licorice.

“You get one chance, you understand that?” the man said.

“Right. Sure. One chance. That’s easy enough.”

“Your client’s gonna get an offer. Make sure he takes it.”

“What kind of offer?”

The man jammed his knee into the small of Mason’s back, sending a paralyzing jolt through Mason’s kidneys.

“The only offer that will keep him and you alive. Got that, smart boy?”

“Got it,” Mason managed through clenched teeth.

The man released his grip and Mason crumpled to the pavement gasping for air. When he looked up, the man and the car were gone.

Mason crawled out of bed Friday morning feeling as if he’d slept in the middle of a rugby scrum. The blow he’d taken to his back had scrambled his internal organs and hardened his soft tissue. He was relieved that there was no blood in his urine. His kidneys had been shaken but not stirred.

Ed Fiora was the only person Mason knew who had been involved with Jack Cullan and had a charge account at Thugs R Us. When Mason called the Dream Casino the day before and asked for Fiora, his call was transferred to an enthusiastic telemarketer named Dawn.

“This is Dawn. May I make your dream come true today?”

Mason had told her, “Absolutely, Dawn. Just connect me to Ed Fiora.”

“We have a fabulous special offer today. I can sign you up for the Dream Casino’s free Super Slot Ultra-Gold New Millennium Frequent Player Bonus Point card. It’s personal and confidential.”

“So is my business with Mr. Fiora.”

“Just swipe your card through the card reader on any of the Dream’s fabulous slot machines, and each time you pull the handle, you’ll receive, absolutely free, ten bonus points. You can redeem your bonus points for fabulous prizes, beginning with two nights at the Dream’s Riverboat Casino Resort in Lake Winston, Mississippi, for only twenty-five thousand points. Isn’t that fabulous?”

“No, Dawn, it isn’t. Fabulous would be not spending two minutes in Lake Winston, Mississippi. Fabulous would be you putting down your script, listening to me, and connecting me to Mr. Fiora. That would be really fabulous.”

Dawn sputtered into the phone, caught somewhere between tears and ticked off. “One moment, please.”

The next voice Mason heard was all New Jersey bent nose. “Sir, do we have a problem here?”

“Who’s this? One of Frank Nitti’s boys?”

“This is Carmine Nucci, guest relations. Who the fuck is this?”

“You’re making that up, aren’t you, Carmine? I mean your name’s not really Carmine and the accent is phony. This is like part of the entertainment. Am I right?”

Mason was certain that none of it was made up. Not Dawn. Not the bonus points, and not the threat laced through Carmine’s voice like battery acid.

“Hey, pal. You want to make jokes, call Comedy Central. You want an Ultra-Gold slot card, we’ll give you one. You want to bust my girl’s chops, I’ll stick this phone up your ass you come around here.”