Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness (19 page)

His insight produced Plan B, and in that moment he understood the curious reasoning that landed his clients in jail. It was a mix of overstated need, self-justification, and unfounded optimism that he could pull something off that a rational person would never consider.

Uncertain exactly when and where he had crossed that line, he was confident that it really was a good idea to hide in the basement until Shirley left the building, then search Pendergast’s office until he found the files. Tomorrow morning, he would serve Shirley with a subpoena for the files, and then sit back and watch Patrick Ortiz marvel at his resourcefulness.

His eyes adjusted to the dark as he felt his way along the hallway, soon coming to the backside of the stairway, where he found a door that he hoped led to the basement. Taking care not to aggravate squeaky hinges, he nursed the handle until he felt it release, then eased the door open just enough to slip through. Probing the black space with one foot, he confirmed his guess about a basement and stepped down onto the first stair, pulling the door closed behind him, sweating in spite of the cold that crept up the stairs.

He spent twenty minutes on the top stair until he heard Shirley coming down from the second floor. He opened the basement door a crack to make certain he would hear her leave, taking comfort in Shirley’s unhurried gait and unbroken march down the stairs and out the door. She didn’t hesitate as she would have if she had heard or sensed his presence.

Mason waited another five minutes before heading upstairs. Shirley had turned off the light at the top of the stairs, and Mason didn’t want to take the chance that she was watching from across the street for a light to come on, leaving him to feel his way along the wall with his hands. If he could have seen his feet, he would have kicked himself for not bringing a flashlight.

He found the door to Pendergast’s office and was relieved that Shirley had left it unlocked. The office was darker even than the stairwell, as if it had been sealed. Recalling that there was a double window overlooking Main Street and that he’d seen blinds on that window when he’d looked up from his car, he felt his way to the street side of the room to peek through the blinds. When his fingers found smooth drywall all along that surface, he became disoriented, so uncertain of direction that he circled the room twice as his mouth dried up in a blind man’s panic.

On his second pass, his knuckles brushed against a switch, flicking it on. He leaned against the wall, squinting until his pupils stopped dilating. The double window had been covered, the blinds still in place, so that the outside world would see the window, unchanged and unopened—but a window nonetheless. Inside, the light was captive, unable to illuminate the secrets behind the walls.

The room was empty. Mason imagined Pendergast sitting behind a desk, dispensing favors or broken legs as the moment required. He envisioned a couple of overfed cronies in snap-brimmed fedoras, smoking sour cigars, giving witness and protection to Pendergast’s patronage practice. He thought of his grandfather, genuflecting with a humble “Thank you, Mr. Pendergast.” There were no reminders of those times, no photographs on the walls, not even outlines in the dust on the floor where the furniture had been.

There was a sliding panel built into the wall, which Mason guessed would have been behind Pendergast’s desk, because that would have given him a straight-on view of each supplicant or sucker who crossed his threshold. A circular groove had been cut at one end of the panel into a finger hold with which to pull the panel open. A lock had been added directly above the groove. Mason tried it without success, not surprised when it didn’t yield.

There were no lock picks or crowbars lying on the floor, so Mason used his shoulder to loosen the lock. It gave on the third try, splintering the wood. He shoved the panel back along its track and stepped into a walk-in closet lined with wooden file cabinets. Expecting the drawers to also be locked, Mason yanked on the nearest one, almost falling over when it spilled into his arms.

The names on the files should have read
Pay Dirt
. Instead, they were labeled with the names of the rich and powerful, including Billy Sunshine, Ed Fiora, and Beth Harrell. He didn’t have time to read them before his career as a second-story man ended like a scene from a late-night rerun.

“Police! Freeze! Put your hands where I can see them, and turn around real slow!”

Mason left the drawer gaping open and did as he was told. A cop aimed his service revolver at Mason from the doorway. Mason could see Shirley Parker peering around the cop, her eyes drawn in beady satisfaction.

“I’m unarmed.”

There was no point in telling the cop that this was all a misunderstanding, that he hadn’t really done what he’d so clearly done. He expected to be arrested and was more interested in not getting shot.

“Up against the wall, legs and arms spread wide.”

Mason complied again, flinching as the cop ran one hand down his sides, up his legs to his crotch, under his jacket, and around his middle.

“Okay. You can turn around now.”

The cop was tall, square shouldered, and vaguely familiar until Mason read the name beneath his badge, James Toland. He was the cop Blues had decked when Toland had tried to put cuffs on him, Mason understanding the impulse. He waited for Toland to pull out his handcuffs, read him his rights, and end his career. None of which happened.

Shirley Parker stepped past them and into the closet, conducting a quick inventory. Toland broke the silence.

“Do you want to press charges, Miss Parker?”

“There doesn’t seem to be anything missing. You can let Mr. Mason go.”

Toland looked like a kid whose Christmas had been canceled. “Must be your lucky day, pal.”

Mason felt his blood start circulating again as he realized why Shirley had granted him a reprieve. He might have been guilty of breaking and entering, but she was sitting on the mother lode of blackmail, which would make her the next front-page defendant. Whatever Shirley intended to do with the files, exposing their existence wasn’t an option.

She stepped back into the room, her face bleak and ashen. She knew she was in over her head. She had gone through life doing what Jack Cullan had told her to do, maybe nursing a quiet love that was never noticed or returned, resigned to her life at his side, loyal and lonely. She’d been angry and afraid enough at Mason’s intrusion to call the cops, but she’d outsmarted herself and could only let him go.

Mason had more questions for her that he was certain she wouldn’t answer, but he couldn’t resist the most obvious.

“How did you know I was here?”

“There’s a motion detector on the stairs. Satisfied, Mr. Mason?”

“Completely. I’ll be back in the morning with a subpoena for those files, so take very good care of them tonight. You’ve got enough problems without adding a charge for obstruction of justice.”

Mason hurried back up the street to the Egg House Diner, checking over his shoulder to see when Shirley Parker and Toland left the building. He’d just slid into his booth when they emerged. Shirley locked the door, pulling a steel bar across it that he hadn’t noticed before.

Toland watched her cross the street back to the People’s Savings & Loan Building before climbing into his squad car and driving away. Mason waved as Toland passed the diner, pleased with his escape and happy for Toland to know that he was still keeping his eye on the files.

A second shift had come on duty during his absence. A waiter had replaced the waitress, and a homeless woman seated at the counter had taken the place of the homeless man. Though he couldn’t be certain, Mason suspected that the waitress and the homeless man had simply traded places. The waiter’s pale skin looked even paler against his two-day growth of beard when he shoved a glass of water across Mason’s table. Not wanting to push his luck, Mason ordered another turkey sandwich. The woman huddled inside her tattered overcoat and scarves as if she were in a cocoon for the winter.

“Give her some dinner and put it on my check,” he told the waiter.

The waiter returned to the counter, leaned over to the woman, and spoke too softly for Mason to hear. A moment later, the woman shuffled off the stool, gave Mason a poisonous glare, and disappeared down Main Street. The waiter shook his head as if cursing himself for not knowing any better. Mason had tried taking a page from his aunt Claire’s book, only to realize that it was now a different book, titled
No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
.

Mason didn’t trust Shirley Parker to leave Cullan’s files where they were until he showed up with a subpoena the next morning. He didn’t know whether there was another entrance to the barbershop, and he couldn’t watch both Shirley and the barbershop all night. Nor was Mason thrilled at the prospect of spending the night in the diner, pissing off homeless people. The simplest solution was to make a deal with the prosecutor. Mason would tell Ortiz about the files in return for Ortiz’s promise to share the contents with him. Ortiz would track down Judge Carter and get a search warrant before Shirley Parker had a chance to move the files.

Mason’s deal with Ortiz would cancel the ones he’d made with Rachel Firestone and Amy White and more than disappoint Ed Fiora, but that couldn’t be helped. He called Ortiz, not surprised that he was still working long after most county employees had gone home.

“Patrick Ortiz.”

“Patrick, it’s Lou Mason. I’ve got a great deal for you.”

“Too late. I told you the plea bargain was off the table if we went to the preliminary hearing.”

“Forget the plea bargain. I’m going to make you the hero in this case. Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell and a lot of other people, maybe including the mayor. I’ve found the files he kept on those people.”

“So you’re calling to report a crime committed by a dead man?”

“I’m calling to tell you to get a search warrant for those files so you can prevent them from disappearing. Those files are evidence in Cullan’s murder. The killer is probably someone Cullan was blackmailing.”

“Your client is the killer. Did Cullan have a file on him?”

“I don’t know. Listen to me. Cullan’s secretary has those files squirreled away in Tom Pendergast’s old office on Main Street. She’s an accessory to Cullan’s blackmail. She knows that I know about the files, and if you don’t get a search warrant for them tonight, they’ll be in a shredder before sunrise.”

“Sorry, Lou. I’m not going to bother Judge Carter tonight on a bullshit story like that. You want to take it up with the judge tomorrow, give me a call. I’ve got work to do.”

Mason wanted to throw his phone across the room. Instead, he called the homicide division, hoping that Harry Ryman was working late. Carl Zimmerman answered instead.

“Carl, it’s Lou Mason. Is Harry around?”

“Nope. He had to go see a witness, a guy he’s been chasing for a couple of weeks. What’s up?”

Mason hesitated. He intended to tell Harry the entire story and ask him to help babysit Cullan’s files until Mason could talk to the judge in the morning. He even hoped that Harry would send a couple of uniformed cops to sit outside the barbershop all night. Mason didn’t know Zimmerman well enough to ask for a favor like that, but he didn’t have another choice. He decided to keep his story simple to convince Zimmerman that there was a good reason to help him out.

“Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell. He kept secret files on her, the mayor, and Ed Fiora, plus a lot of other people. I’ve found Cullan’s files but I can’t get to them. The prosecutor won’t ask Judge Carter for a search warrant tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, the files could be gone. I know you’re convinced that my client killed Cullan, but there’s a good chance something in those files will prove he didn’t. I need your help to make sure nothing happens to them.”

“Where are the files?”

“In Tom Pendergast’s old office above the barbershop at Twentieth and Main.”

“Anybody there now?”

“No.”

“Who else knows about the files?”

“Cullan’s secretary, Shirley Parker. That cop, Toland, who was with you when you arrested Blues, knows that there’s something in that office, but I don’t think he knows what it is.”

“Where are you now?”

“In a diner up the street from the barbershop.”

“Sit tight, Lou. I just caught a case on a dead body in Swope Park. I’ll meet you when I’m done with that. It may take me a couple of hours, but it’s the best I can do.”

“Thanks.”

A couple of hours passed, and then another. Mason tried Harry’s number again without any luck. He called the dispatcher, asking her to contact Harry and tell him to call Mason. When Harry didn’t call, he left the same message for Zimmerman. He called his aunt Claire, who told him that she hadn’t spoken to Harry all day. The waiter was eyeing Mason like he should start charging him rent for the booth when Mason’s phone rang.

“Harry?”

“It’s Zimmerman. What’s going on?”

“I’m growing old in this diner. I think the waiter is about to add me to the menu.”

“Leave him a big tip. I’m stuck in the park. Stay where you are and wait for me.”

“Right,” Mason said, having decided in the same instant that he couldn’t wait any longer.

Mason left a ten-dollar tip for a five-dollar meal and went to his car. His ex-wife had once given him a tool kit to keep in the trunk. It was one of the first indications that they didn’t know each other as well as their glands would have liked. Mason’s tool of choice to fix anything was a hammer he could use to beat whatever was broken into submission. The rest of the tools were for guys who knew the difference between a flat head, a Phillips head and a blackhead. He found a small flashlight, grabbed the hammer, and got ready to commit his second felony of the night.