Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness (31 page)

“So whose video are you going to show me?”

“Watch.”

He sat down in his desk chair and aimed a remote control at the DVD player. Beth Harrell materialized on the screen. The day and date were printed in the bottom right-hand corner. It was New Year’s Eve. Even with the camera’s grainy, long-distance perspective, she flowed across the casino floor, drawing stares and envy. The absence of sound added a surreal note to her movements.

“I’ll jump ahead to the good part,” Fiora said as he punched another button on his remote control.

Mason watched as the camera followed Beth to the rear of the casino, where she found him, then out to the prow of the boat, where they had embraced. Mickey poked Mason in the ribs when the video showed Mason pushing Beth away. Mason winced at the memory of that moment, seeing the bitterness in Beth’s expression as she had walked away.

The video jerked a bit as a different camera picked her up when she returned to the deck. Her face became indistinct as she slipped into shadows that made it impossible to see what she was doing or even to be certain that she was still the person on the video.

Mason recoiled as small flashes erupted from the darkness where the shooter was hidden. Then he saw his own image fill the screen, cowering in the prow and dodging bullets that ricocheted around him, shattering pale blue Christmas lights. He grimaced with sharp memory when he saw a bullet singe his side, touching the still healing wound, holding his breath as his video self vaulted into the river.

“I love happy endings,” Fiora said when the screen went blank.

“I want a copy,” Mason said.

He was past understanding or explaining Beth. She had fallen out of first place in the Jack Cullan murder sweepstakes, but she was ahead of the pack in the psycho competition. Mason didn’t know what he would do about her, only that he would do something.

“This is strictly pay-per-view. No more party favors. You get me the file; then we’ll talk.”

“You know a homicide detective named Carl Zimmerman?”

“Sure. He was one of Cullan’s guys. Cullan called him and that other cop, Toland, his golden retrievers. Any time some bigwig or his kid stepped in the bucket, those two guys fetched the bad news to Cullan.”

“I think they killed Cullan and went into business for themselves. They made Shirley Parker tell them where Cullan kept the files and then they stole the files and killed her.”

“They don’t call this the land of opportunity for nothing. Now you’re going to go up against two rogue cops and put them out of business while stealing my file back for me. Is that it?”

“I’ve got help.”

“Must be your client that I sprang from the county jail. That might even be a fair fight from what I understand. Are you keeping the good cops out of this?”

“We’ve got to until we get the files. After that, the good cops can have the bad cops.”

“Why tell me all of this?”

“We don’t know where Zimmerman and Toland have hidden the files. I want you to call Zimmerman and offer to buy your file and hire him as a security consultant. The only catch is that your offer expires at midnight. Tell him if you don’t have the file by then, you’ll send Tony to get it.”

“Your partner figures to follow Zimmerman to the files, pop him, and bring me my file. Then you have a come-to-Jesus meeting with the prosecutor, Blues pleads guilty to some bullshit misdemeanor, and the whole thing goes away.”

“You’re not the only one who loves happy endings.”

Fiora thought a minute, drumming his fingers on his desk, calculating the odds for the house.

“You got a phone number for this bum Zimmerman?”

Mason handed Fiora a slip of paper, and Fiora dialed Zimmerman’s number, putting the call on speaker. Zimmerman went through the stages of grief, denying that he had Cullan’s files, angrily accusing Fiora of blackmail, asking if Mason was in on the deal, and unsuccessfully negotiating better terms before accepting Fiora’s offer, agreeing to a meeting at nine o’clock in Swope Park at the shelter next to the lagoon and hanging up.

Fiora spread his arms wide. “As you heard, Detective Zimmerman is seriously pissed off and seriously suspicious.”

“Thanks. We’re out of here.”

“I don’t think so. You and junior are going to keep me company until tonight. We’ll go to the meeting together.”

“Ed, that’s not a good idea. This could get ugly. I don’t think you want to be anywhere near the park.”

“I don’t like the odds if I’m sitting here fat and unhappy hoping you keep up your end of the deal. I figure Tony gives us an edge, and I always take the edge. So sit down and sit tight.”

“Zimmerman has killed two people already. You don’t kill people, remember?”

“I don’t kill people. Tony kills people.”

Mason looked at Tony, who had planted himself in front of the door to Fiora’s office.

“I need to make a phone call.”

“I thought you might.”

Mason called Blues. “Nine o’clock at the shelter next to the lagoon in Swope Park.”

“Good. Meet me at the office. We’ll get ready.”

“Can’t do it.”

“Fiora got you on a leash?”

“You got it.”

“He and Tony figuring on coming along?”

“All the way.”

“Make for a helluva party,” Blues said, and hung up.

Mason closed his cell phone. “You got an unmarked deck of cards? I’m into Mickey for two hundred and fifty bucks. I might as well try and get my money back.”

Tony remained at the door, moving only to allow Fiora to go in or out. Mason and Blues had not discussed the possibility that Fiora would hold him and Mickey hostage and insist on coming along. Though unexpected, Fiora’s intervention would bring all the bad guys together. The combination would be volatile, unstable, and uncontrollable.

Fiora came back at six o’clock. “Let’s get going,” he said. “The roads are still a mess and I want to get there ahead of Zimmerman and Toland. What are you driving?”

“I’ve got my Jeep. It has four-wheel drive.”

“Perfect. You drive.”

The snow was still falling when they left the casino. Though city crews had been working for seven hours to clear the streets, they were fighting a losing battle. Fresh snow blanketed every plowed surface, erasing tire tracks and hiding the ice beneath like a land mine.

Tony sat in front next to Mason, leaving Mickey and Fiora in the back. Road conditions were treacherous, even for the Jeep. The wind blew snow across the roads in ground-level clouds, making it nearly impossible to see headlights or taillights.

Salt trucks outfitted with snowplows plodded along, clearing lanes while depositing a layer of salt in their wake. Mason crept steadily along, occasionally reaching speeds of thirty-five or forty miles per hour when he hit a stretch of clear tire tracks.

Mason entered Swope Park on Gregory Boulevard. The two-lane road ran ahead of them flanked by snow-laden trees looming like ghostly sentinels in the darkness. Irregularly spaced streetlights pointed the way, adding a halo to the falling and blowing snow. A concrete railroad bridge arched overhead as the boulevard funneled them into the park.

Colonel Tom Swope had donated Swope Park to the city in the early 1900s. The largest green space in the city, it was home to the zoo, an outdoor theater, two golf courses, and enough trails for anyone to get lost in. The lagoon was near the center of the park along Gregory Boulevard. Over the years it had been stocked with fish by the city and, occasionally, dead bodies by the less civic minded.

Mason eased to a stop along the curb where a bike path intersected with the road, and turned off his lights.

“Why are we stopping?” Fiora asked.

“The lagoon is around the next curve. If we go all the way in and Zimmerman is already in place, he’ll see us.”

“Tony.” Fiora spoke his name as a command.

Tony grunted as he opened the door and disappeared without a backward glance.

“Where’s he going?” Mickey asked.

“For a walk, Junior,” Fiora answered.

Mason turned onto the bike path, keeping the Jeep at a slow crawl and his headlights off, the automotive version of blindman’s bluff. The bike path emptied onto an unmarked service road that Mason followed another half mile before picking up the bike path again. This time, he backed the Jeep a hundred yards down the bike path and turned off the engine. If he was lucky, they hadn’t been seen. Mason looked at his watch. It was seven thirty.

“What now?” Mickey asked. “It’s cold enough to freeze-dry my nuts.”

Mason handed him the keys. “You can turn the heat on if you have to. Just remember, Zimmerman can find you a lot easier when the engine is running.”

“Hey, where are you going?” Fiora demanded.

Mason took his gun from the glove compartment. “For a walk.”

“That’s not our deal!”

“Mickey will keep you company, but don’t play gin with him. He cheats.”

“Like hell I’m waiting here. Zimmerman is expecting me, and if I don’t show, you guys shoot craps.”

“Suit yourself,” Mason said, knowing there was no way to make Fiora wait in the Jeep.

“Wingman on your flank,” Mickey said to Mason as he climbed into the front seat, grabbed his gun, and joined Mason and Fiora.

“Give me that,” Mason said to Mickey, pointing to the gun.

“Are you kidding me?”

“You don’t know how to use a gun. You’ll shoot yourself or one of us. Give me the gun.”

Mickey held the pistol up with both hands, and before Mason could reach for it, he unloaded it, disassembled it, and put it back together.

“Oh, ye of little faith,” he said.

“That’s pretty good, kid,” Fiora said. “Where’d you learn to do that?”

“Video games—the perfect home-school curriculum.”

They hugged the edge of the woods, walking briskly and single file along the service road, the storm concealing them. Before reaching the lagoon, they stepped into the woods. Mason took off his gloves and wrapped his fingers around his gun. The steel was icy and refused to warm against his hand. He found the safety with his thumb and switched it off.

“Let the games begin,” Mickey whispered.

If Fiora had insisted on being early, Mason had to assume that Zimmerman and Toland would do the same and that Blues would not be the last one to arrive. Tony had gotten out of the Jeep twenty minutes ago. No one was going to be late for this party. Everyone was probably already there, each man fighting off the wind chill, waiting for someone else to make the first move.

“Why in the hell would Zimmerman set the meeting out here?” Fiora asked.

“Look around,” Mason answered. “It makes sense. The interior of the park is isolated but accessible. There’s not much chance of other traffic on a night like this. The shelter is out in the open. The nearest woods are far enough away that you’d have to be an incredible marksman to shoot someone from the trees.”

Fiora wasn’t convinced. “You think Zimmerman had that all figured out. How would he know about this place?”

“He’s a cop who knows where bodies are dumped. Plus, he’s a Cub Scout den leader. He’s probably brought his troop here.”

“You’re shitting me? This hump is a Cub Scout leader? I’d pop him myself except I don’t kill people.”

Mason studied the wind-driven waves breaking along the snow-packed shoreline of the lagoon, moving his gaze outward to the road. There were no tire tracks, meaning that everyone else had walked in.

The shelter stood twenty-five feet from the southern edge of the lagoon. There was a streetlight close enough to outline it, but too far away to illuminate what was beneath it. The shelter was little more than a roof supported by four stout poles, a shelter from sun and gentle rain, but no port in a snowstorm. A bright light came on at the center of the shelter’s ceiling, startling Mason and the others. Neither Zimmerman nor Toland was camped out beneath the shelter.

The light turned off a few minutes later, only to come on again in an irregular cycle. Mason could make out an electrical line that ran from the roof of the shelter to a utility pole to the west. The line bowed, heavy with ice.

“It’s a motion light,” Mason said. “It’s for security. Any movement near the light turns it on for a preset period. Then it goes off. If the wind blows hard enough, that will turn it on. We’ll be able to see Zimmerman and Toland when they get close enough to activate the sensor.”

“Then what do we do, Counselor?” Fiora asked.

“I don’t know.”

“In the meantime,” Fiora complained, “I’m freezing my ass off. Where the hell is Tony?”

Mason ignored Fiora’s complaint and his question. Fiora was used to running the show and didn’t like being a spectator. Though Mason wondered where both Tony and Blues were waiting. Fiora had been standing on Mason’s left. Mason turned to his right to talk to Mickey only to discover that Mickey was gone.

Mason hissed Mickey’s name, but the sound died in the wind. Mason remembered Mickey’s announcement as he got out of the car—
Wingman on your flank
. Mason silently cursed himself for getting Mickey involved.

A moment later, he cursed aloud when he saw Mickey emerge from the woods closest to the shelter, being pushed ahead by a tall figure poking Mickey in the back with a shotgun. Mickey stumbled and fell. The gunman prodded him with the barrel of the shotgun until Mickey got to his feet.

As the pair reached the shelter, the light came on again. In the instant before the gunman smashed the light, Mason saw Mickey’s panicked face and the block-cut jawline of James Toland.

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.”