Harry had let Mason examine the contents of the plastic box while they waited for the FBI to arrive. Zimmerman and Toland had kept only the best of Cullan's files, limiting themselves to the dirt on the mayor, Beth Harrell, Ed Fiora, the prosecuting attorney, and a handful of influential businesspeople. They could have released the files on a CD titled Blackmail's Greatest Hits.
Mason studied the pictures of Beth, this time focusing on her face, searching for, but not finding, a clue that would bring her into focus. True to form, Cullan had given a set of Beth's pictures to Fiora, saving his own copy for another time.
The mayor's file was surprisingly thin, nothing more than a few ledger sheets that may or may not have been a record of payoffs. Though he had had only a few minutes to study Fiora's file, Mason hadn't found proof of any links between Fiora and the mayor.
Mason's calculation of the destruction caused by his search for these files rivaled the storm's devastation. Four men were dead, as many families were ruined. Judge Carter's career was in shambles. Harry had been suspended. Blues was still accused of Cullan's murder, and Mason was still under suspicion for the death of Shirley Parker.
Harry had repeated his question, not certain whether Mason had heard. 'Any luck with Cullan's files?'
Mason had shaken his head. 'There should have been something more in those files, but it wasn't there. Maybe Zimmerman and Toland were holding back.' He hadn't known what else to say.
By Friday morning, the city was crawling back to life. Streets had been cleared, creating minicanyons paved with asphalt and surrounded by curbside walls made of exhaust-blackened, plow-packed snow. Mason was in his office when he got a call from Patrick Ortiz.
'We're dropping the charges against your client,' Ortiz said.
'Thanks. Was it Zimmerman and Toland?'
'Doubtful. Zimmerman's wife told us all about his deal with Cullan. They've got an autistic kid. She claims he did it because they needed the money to pay for a special school for the kid. Toland just liked the good life-big Harley, women by the hour, booze by the case. Zimmerman's wife and Toland's girlfriend of the week gave both of them alibis for Cullan's murder and they checked out.'
'Any other leads?'
'The truth is we don't have shit on anybody, but tell your client not to get too comfortable. We may refile the charges if we come up with something.'
'What about Shirley Parker?'
'You're off the hook too. She and Cullan are dead-end bookends.'
Mason permitted himself a small sigh of relief and changed subjects. 'What do you hear from the feds?'
'They skipped the investigation and started with the inquisition. Harry Ryman has as much chance of getting his shield back as I have of getting it on with Jennifer Lopez.'
'I don't know. My guess is that the chief will end up begging Harry to come back.'
'Right, and if Jennifer turns me down, I'll have her call you. See you around.'
Mason found Blues in his office, adding up his losses over the last month.
'I'm going to have to hire strippers and give away whiskey if I get my liquor license back just to pay my mortgage,' Blues said.
'Don't give up yet. Patrick Ortiz just called. They dropped the charges against you.'
Blues leaned back in his chair and looked at Mason, then swiveled to get a look out the window. He stood up, scanning the view down Broadway, before turning back to Mason. He pursed his lips and nodded.
'Good.'
'That's it? That's not the reaction of a client who's happy enough to pay his lawyer.'
'I didn't belong in jail. Nighttime was the worst. My pillow felt like quicksand. Makes it hard to get excited when it never should have happened. Makes it harder to forget when I know how easily an innocent man can get put away.'
'Man, you are one depressing son of a bitch when you get philosophical.'
Blues laughed. 'I'll tell you what will cheer me up. Let's go see Howard Trimble at Liquor Control and get my license reinstated so I can pay your bill or buy you lunch, whichever costs less.'
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
Howard Trimble's handshake was fleshy and moist when he greeted Mason and Blues. His office was a disorderly and disheveled, coffee cups and donuts competing for desk space with official business. Trimble gestured Mason and Blues to be seated in the two chairs opposite his desk.
Blues led off. 'I'm Wilson Bluestone. This is my attorney, Lou Mason. You sent me this notice that my liquor license has been suspended,' Blues added as he handed Trimble the notice he had received in the mail.
'That's because you violated our regulations. From what I've seen in the news, your liquor license is the least of your problems.'
Trimble showed no interest in Blues's situation. He was simply reporting the news with the inevitable disinterest of civil servants.
'I haven't violated any of your regulations.'
Mason heard the edge creeping into Blues's voice. Blues had less patience with regulations and regulators than Mason did.
'Well, now,' Trimble said, sensing the rising tension. 'Liquor control regulations require that a license holder be of good moral character. That generally excludes murder, don't you think?'
Mason stepped into the conversation between Trimble and Blues. 'Mr. Trimble, all charges against my client have been dropped. The city is about to erupt in a major political scandal. You've got a chance to avoid getting caught up in that mess by reinstating my client's license.'
Trimble considered Mason's advice. 'You don't mind if I check your story, do you, Mr. Mason?'
'By all means. Call Patrick Ortiz at the prosecutor's office.'
Trimble dismissed Mason's suggestion. 'I don't mess with the middleman, gentlemen. I go right to the top floor of city hall. The mayor's chief of staff is a personal friend of mine.'
Trimble called Amy White while Mason and Blues gazed around his office, examined their cuticles, and pretended not to eavesdrop. Trimble cupped his hand over the receiver and turned his head to muffle his end of the conversation.
'Good news, Mr. Bluestone,' he said after hanging up the phone. 'I'll reinstate your license just as soon as I can.'
He spoke as cheerfully as a man could who had just lost the perk of giving bad news.
'What's that supposed to mean?'
Trimble's hands fluttered in a failed effort to be casual. 'It's just a matter of completing the paperwork. It's all about forms, you know.'
'Well, let's get it done right now. I've got to be open tonight and I can't take the chance that some overexcited cop busts me because he didn't get the word.'
'Don't worry about it. I'll see to it myself.'
Blues wasn't satisfied, and Mason didn't blame him.
'I want to see my file,' Blues said.
A red stain began to creep up Trimble's neck as he tugged at his collar. He was devoted to the bureaucratic dodge but was running out of places to hide.
'I'm afraid that's not possible.'
Mason interjected, 'I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Bluestone's file is a public record and we have an absolute right to see it. My client has been held in jail for a month for a crime he didn't commit. You suspended his license and put him out of business. There's a lawsuit headed your way, Howard, if you don't come up with that file now.'
Trimble hitched up his pants to untangle his underwear. 'There's no need for threats, Mr. Mason. I'm not refusing to show you Mr. Bluestone's file. I just can't. Not right at this moment.'
