'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?'
