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.'
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
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.'
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
