Blues asked, 'And why not?'
Trimble shifted his weight and lifted his butt off his chair, grimacing as if he'd just given himself a wedgie. 'Amy-Ms. White-has your file.'
'Which regulation says it's okay to give my client's file to the mayor's chief of staff but not to my client?'
Trimble stuffed his hand down his pants, rearranged his balls, and wiped a thin film of sweat from above his lip.
'Listen to me,' Trimble said. 'I've known Amy White since she was a young girl. Her father, Donald Ray White, was the director of liquor control when I came to work here. Amy and her sister, Cheryl, used to come down here to visit their daddy. They took to me like I was some kind of an uncle. Then things turned bad for them. Amy had a hard road and has come a long way. I'm real proud of her, and I don't want her to get into any trouble.'
Mason's gut tightened as he wondered what Trimble was getting at. He chose a conciliatory tone, hoping it would keep Trimble talking.
'How could she get in any trouble over my client's liquor license? The file is a public record.'
Trimble let out a sigh. 'Her having the file isn't a problem. I mean, I know you want it right now, Mr. Bluestone. And I don't blame you.'
'Mr. Trimble, you sure sound like a man who's trying to tell us something without saying it. Like I told you, the charges against my client have been dropped. If that's what this is all about, you'll help yourself and Amy if you just tell me why she has the file.'
Trimble hesitated, struggling with his answer, uncertain whether he should give it up but not strong enough to hold it in.
'I hope you're right. Amy called me at home late one night last month. It was a Friday night.'
Blues looked at Mason, silently telling him to take the lead as he got up from his chair and took a slow tour of Trimble's office.
'You remember the date?' Mason asked.
'December seventh,' Trimble said. 'Pearl Harbor Day. I remember because my grandfather was killed at Pearl Harbor.' He kept his eyes firmly on the floor.
It was also the night of Blues's confrontation with Cullan at the bar, Mason thought to himself.
'Did she tell you why she wanted the file?'
Trimble shrugged, kneading his hands like a kid who'd been caught shoplifting. 'She only told me who wanted it, not why. She said Jack Cullan wanted it. It was late. I asked her why it couldn't wait until Monday morning. She said that Mr. Cullan wanted it right away. So, I met her down here and gave it to her.'
'What time was that?'
'Around midnight, a little after.'
Amy had told Mason that Cullan had called her that night and demanded that she get him Blues's liquor license file. She had told Mason that she had put Cullan off until the following Monday. Trimble's version could put Amy in Cullan's house the night he was killed if she had picked up Blues's file and taken it to Cullan. Yet that didn't square with Amy still having the file.
'Do you know what she did with the file?'
Trimble shook his head. 'I didn't talk to her about it again until today.'
'What did you mean that Amy had a hard road?'
Trimble looked up at Mason, uncomfortable with answering but more uncomfortable with being pushed.
'Amy's father died when she was fifteen. A tough time for a girl to lose her father even if he wasn't much of a father. That's when I took over this job. That was eighteen years ago.'
'How did he die?'
Trimble sighed again. Mason thought Trimble would hyperventilate and pass out if he did it one more time.
'Amy's sister, Cheryl, shot him to death.'
Mason had been trying to keep his interrogation casual. Blues was roaming around Trimble's small office, reading the diplomas and certificates that traced Trimble's career. Both of them came to attention at Trimble's explanation.
'What happened?' Mason asked.
'Cheryl was three years younger than Amy. Their father was arrested for abusing Cheryl. His lawyer got the charges dismissed and hushed the whole thing up so Donald could keep his job as director of this department.'
Trimble tilted his head back as if trying to expel his memory of Donald Ray White. He continued the story, biting off each word.
'When Donald Ray was released from jail, he beat Cheryl so severely that she was permanently brain- damaged. Somehow, Cheryl managed to get ahold of Donald Ray's pistol and killed her father. Amy's mother hired the same lawyer who got her husband off to get her daughter off. Cheryl wasn't prosecuted because she was a brain-damaged child. Their mother drank herself to death a few years later, and Amy has taken care of Cheryl ever since.'
'Who was the lawyer?'
'Jack Cullan,' Trimble answered, aiming his words at a blank spot on the wall.
Mason put his hand on Trimble's shoulder. He wanted to thank Trimble for telling him the truth, but from the broken expression on Trimble's face, Mason knew that he didn't want any thanks.
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Mason pushed the button for an elevator going up as Blues pushed another button for one going down.
'I'm going to see Amy White,' Mason said. 'Don't you want to come along?'
'My guess is that she bolted right after Trimble called her. I'll wait in the lobby just in case she decided to clean her desk out first. I'll follow her if I get the chance. You can call Mickey for a ride back to the bar.'
Mason stepped off the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor and into the mayor's suite of offices. Though the city was officially open, many people had taken another day off, leaving the office with a skeleton staff.
The one secretary who had come to work confirmed Blues's guess. Amy White had left without saying when or if she would be back. Mason was composing a lie he hoped would convince the secretary to give him Amy's home address when the mayor opened the door to his office.
'Your car is ready, Mr. Mayor,' the secretary told him.
'Thank you,' he said.
Though the mayor was known for his unflappable good humor and insistence on shaking every hand, he walked past Mason, his face cold, his smile buried in a snowdrift, his hands jammed in his coat pockets.
'I don't have time today, Mr. Mason,' he said over his shoulder.
Mason caught up with him at the elevator. 'Thanks all the same, Mr. Mayor. Actually, I was looking for Amy White, not you.'
A panel on the wall with columns for each elevator and numbers for each floor kept track of the vertical routes of the four elevators that serviced city hall. As each elevator passed a floor, the number for that floor was illuminated so that anyone waiting for an elevator could watch with growing frustration the tortoise-paced progress of the cars. The mayor gave his full attention to the flashing lights, shutting Mason out.
'Amy asked me to find the file Jack Cullan kept on you,' Mason said as if he and the mayor hung out together all the time. 'Ah, but she probably didn't bother you with stuff like that.'
The mayor chose not to hear Mason until he cleared his throat as if he were about to cough up a lung.
'Sorry about that. It's this damn weather. Makes me drain like a leaky faucet,' Mason explained. 'Anyway. I came by to tell her that I did find your file, but the FBI snagged it before I did. Man, you should have been at the lagoon when that cluster fuck broke out. I'll bet the chief of police, the prosecuting attorney, and Amy tripped all over each other to deliver that piece of good news to you. Luckily, I did get a chance to read your file. So tell Amy to give me a call and I'll tell her what's in it.'
The mayor turned to Mason, his mouth and eyes fighting over which could open wider. 'You read my file?'
