'Cover to cover, Mayor Sunshine. Though I have to tell you, it was a disappointment. I mean, I was expecting more than some lousy ledger sheets that a pencil-necked bean counter will probably weave into a money-laundering and bribery indictment. Still, it was almost like someone had taken the good stuff out of the file and left just enough behind to chap your ass.'
The mayor glared at Mason. 'What do you want?'
'Not much. At this point, I'd settle for Amy's home address.'
'Go fuck yourself.'
'Is that an apartment or a house?'
An elevator arrived. Mason stepped in, turned around, and waved good-bye to the mayor as the doors closed. Blues wasn't in the lobby, and Mason assumed that he was following Amy White. He tried Blues's cell but didn't get an answer, then called Harry with the same result. His next call was to Claire, and she answered.
'How's Harry doing?'
'Everybody takes their turn in the barrel. This is his turn,' she said. 'He went to see Carl Zimmerman's wife. She wouldn't let him in. He's out roaming and he doesn't want company.'
'Have him call me on my cell as soon as he surfaces. It's important.'
'It always is,' Claire said.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE
City hall had an ancient boiler that generated too much heat and an unbalanced ventilation system that created a worldwide array of climates throughout the building. The lobby felt like the tropics cooled with bursts of cold air drawn inside each time the revolving doors spun around.
Mason called Mickey, promising him lunch in return for a ride, lingering next to a cool marble column near the entrance. His cell phone rang, rupturing his fantasy of lying on a beach next to a suddenly heterosexual Rachel Firestone.
'You looking for me?' Harry asked.
'Yeah. Do you have any friends left in the department who would do you a favor?'
Harry snorted. 'Like what? Box up the stuff in my desk and mail it to me, postage due?'
'That's an option. Would they do you a favor that might make them unpack your box?'
'Talk to me.'
Mason explained to Harry what he wanted. 'Is that doable?'
'It's a long shot on a good day, and this ain't a good day. I'll see what I can do, but don't be in a hurry. This may take a while.'
Mason and Mickey stopped at Winsteads, home of the steakburger, and fortified themselves against the cold with double cheeseburgers with everything and grilled onions, crispy French fries, and chocolate shakes. They dipped their last fry into a pool of ketchup before navigating back to the office.
Mason tried returning some of the calls from lawyers on other cases he was handling but gave up when he realized they were using those cases as an excuse to talk about the shoot-out at the lagoon. Instead, he called Rachel and asked her to check the Star's clipping file for stories about the death of Donald Ray White.
'Who was Donald Ray White and why are you interested in that story?'
'Because.'
'Because it has something to do with the mayhem epidemic you started, or just because?'
'Donald Ray White was the director of liquor control until he was killed eighteen years ago.'
'If I ask you who killed him, will you tell me?'
'According to Howard Trimble, who inherited Donald Ray's job, he was killed by his brain-damaged daughter, Cheryl White.'
'Why aren't you convinced? Do you have another suspect in mind?'
'Yeah. Amy White.'
'Mayor Billy Sunshine's Amy White? Get out of town! Give it to me!'
'Do your homework first. I'm at the office.'
Mason sorted through his mail, the volume of which had doubled. Much of it was from cranks and kooks who wanted to hire him. One writer even asked Mason to sue the planet Zircon for bombarding him with radiation.
His phone rang so often, he let his answering machine screen calls. When Beth Harrell called, he nearly succumbed to the sound of her voice and picked up the phone. She sounded distant, almost as if she were adrift.
'Lou,' she said, 'it's Beth. I know things are crazy for you right now. They sure are crazy for me. Call me when you can. There's something I have to tell you.'
Mason ran down a mental list of what that could possibly be and didn't come up with anything he was anxious to find out. The sun was making its late afternoon exit, carpeting Broadway with shadows, when Mason's cell phone rang.
'Do you make house calls?' Blues asked.
'Depends on the patient's condition. Is it critical?'
'Could be. I followed Amy from city hall. She stopped at the Goodwill Industries sheltered workshop and picked up a woman who must be her sister. They went out to lunch, did some shopping, and came home.'
'Sounds very suspicious.'
'Wait till you hear about the snowman. The two of them came back outside and built a snowman and had a snowball fight. Then they got back in the car and went sledding on Suicide Hill on Brookside Boulevard, which isn't far from her house. Amy acted like she didn't have a care in the world. Her sister was a little slow. Amy had to help her with her mittens and show her how to steer the sled, things like that. They just got home.'
'Give me the address,' Mason said, jotting it down. 'Keep an eye on them. I'm waiting to hear from Harry on something. As soon as he calls, I'll be there.'
Mason stacked and unstacked the papers on his desk, rearranged the pencils in his drawer, and shot baskets with Mickey using wadded-up crank letters as basketballs and his trash can as a hoop. Mickey let him win the first two games before suggesting they play for money. Mason knew he was being set up but didn't mind. Mickey ran his scams with good humor, even making Mason feel charitable as the money changed hands.
Rachel rocketed into Mason's office at four o'clock with a set of clippings under her arm and high color in her cheeks. Mickey was bent over backward, making the winning basket in a game of H-O-R-S-E.
'Who's the contortionist?' Rachel asked.
Mickey looked up, sprang forward on one hand, and extended the other. 'Mickey Shanahan.'
'Beat it, Mickey,' Rachel told him in a sharp tone that left no room for argument. 'And close the door behind you.'
Mickey looked at Mason, who nodded and pointed at the door. 'She's usually a lot meaner. She's having a good day.'
After Mickey closed the door, Rachel and Mason had a staring contest. Mason caught a merry glint in her eye and a fragment of a smile that turned the corner of her mouth slightly upward.
'First one to smile is a weenie,' Mason said.
'Stand up and get over here.'
Mason did as he was told, stopping well inside her territorial imperative while he tried to decipher the mixed message that was scrambling his hormonal network. Before he was able to crack Rachel's code, she grasped the back of his neck with both of her hands, pulled his mouth to hers, and crushed him with a kiss that nearly sucked the life out of him. Mason couldn't decide whether to hold on or beg for mercy. He settled for the Issac Newton kissing principle of equal and opposite reaction.
CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO
