'Fine. I'll tell them that. I'm sure they'll just throw the fingerprints out. That will take care of everything.'
'I wasn't there that night or ever.'
Mason studied Blues as he spoke. There was no artifice, no subtle tics borne of a liar's stress. There never had been with Blues. Mason couldn't think of a single time that Blues had ever lied to him. About anything. Blues knew it would do him no good to lie now. Just as it would do Ortiz no good to lie. They couldn't both be telling the truth.
Mason shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe the forensics people just made a mistake. It wouldn't be the first time.'
'If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't. I told you they want me for this. They've got to make it be me.'
'I don't buy it. I don't care what happened between you and Harry. I don't buy it.'
'Doesn't matter if it is Harry. You've got to go after all of them. If you don't, I'm a dead man.'
Mason sighed, feeling the walls close in on him as if he were the prisoner. 'Campbell offered you a deal. Second degree, no recommendation on sentencing, out in seven years.'
'No.'
'I know. I told Campbell that was the worst that you would get in a trial. Campbell said it's the best deal you'll get and that it's off the table once the preliminary hearings starts.'
'No deals, Lou. Tell Campbell to go fuck himself. Tell him today-now. I don't want that punk bitch to believe I'm even thinking about it.'
Mason called Patrick Ortiz after he left the jail. 'My client says he'll take a pass on your deal.'
'Have a nice life,' Ortiz said, and hung up.
'Yeah,' Mason said to the dead phone. 'Whatever is left of it.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
New Year's Eve fell on a Monday. No one had tried to kill him since Blues had turned down the prosecutor's plea bargain. Mason didn't know whether that was just luck or whether thugs took off the week between Christmas and New Year's.
He sat at his desk late in the afternoon gazing out the window onto Broadway. It was a slate-gray day, the sky nearly the same color as the pavement. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Black ice made of frozen slush and grime was pocketed along curbs and buildings. It hadn't snowed in two weeks, but it hadn't been warm enough to melt the hard-core remnants of the last storm.
The week before, Mason took Mickey to visit Blues so they could discuss the plans for New Year's Eve. Mason explained to Mickey that he could go by himself, but Mickey declined, telling Mason that jail was a place you should never go without someone who knew how to get you out.
'I've got a terrific idea for New Year's,' Mickey told Blues.
Blues raised his eyebrows, doubting whether Mickey was capable of such a thought.
'It's a bar,' Blues said. 'I've got Pete Kirby's trio booked already. I've lined up extra bar and kitchen help. All you have to do is keep the booze and the food moving.'
Mickey waved both hands in protest. 'No, no, no. You've got it all wrong. This is an opportunity, a huge opportunity. We bill the night as a benefit for your legal defense fund. It'll be a knockout.'
He looked back and forth at Blues and Mason, who both shook their heads. 'No fund-raiser,' Blues said.
'Not a chance,' Mason added.
'Okay, okay. Plan B. You guys will love this. We do a murder mystery. You know, hire actors to stage a murder. Involve the people in the bar in solving the crime. Plant clues, stuff like that. Reveal the killer at midnight. I'm telling you guys, it will be fantastic!'
Blues had pressed his hands against the glass separating prisoners and visitors like he wanted to reach through and strangle Mickey.
'Just say hello to the people when they come in, take their money, and don't fuck it up.'
Mickey overcame his anxiety of going to the jail by himself, shuttling back and forth, pleading with Blues to approve one scheme after another. Blues finally told him that if he came back again, the guards would arrest him.
Today, Mickey called Mason a dozen times with last-minute pleas to approve one off-the-wall idea after another. Mason had said no to the first ten and hung up on the last two.
He spent the rest of the day going over his notes for the preliminary hearing. He didn't think Patrick Ortiz would reveal anything more about his case than was necessary to convince Judge Pistone to bind Blues over for trial. The evidence of Blues's fingerprints at the scene would be more than enough.
Mason had listed the witnesses he expected Ortiz to call on the dry-erase board. The maid would testify that she had found Cullan's body. The coroner would testify to the cause of death. Beth Harrell or Pete Kirby would testify about the fight at the bar and Blues's threat. Harry Ryman would testify about his investigation. A forensics investigator would testify about the fingerprints.
Mason had no evidence to work with. The last two weeks had yielded nothing that changed the core facts of the case. Judge Pistone would find probable cause to believe that Blues had murdered Jack Cullan. The press would have a field day, its monstrous appetite satisfied for the moment. Leonard Campbell would smile into the cameras on the courthouse steps and boast about doing the people's business. The image made Mason want to puke.
The phone rang again. He let it ring twice before picking it up.
'Listen, Mickey,' he said. 'Just do it the way Blues told you. It's not a carnival.'
Rachel Firestone said, 'What's not a carnival? Who's Mickey and what did Blues tell him to do? Are you planning a New Year's Eve jailbreak? Tell me what time and I'll get a photographer over there.'
'Shit. I told him not to call me at work. You reporters are too clever. I knew you'd figure it out.'
'I'll make certain it's front-page, above the fold. All seriousness aside, what's going on?'
'Mickey is running the bar while Blues is on vacation. He's been driving me crazy all day wanting to turn it into the Circus Maximus for New Year's. I figured it was him.'
'Sorry to disappoint you.'
'You didn't. What's on your mind?'
'New Year's Eve. What else? You have any plans?'
'It's against my religion. Besides, what happened to your girlfriend the rugby player?'
'Fear of commitment.'
'Hers or yours?'
'Mine. I figured you would be the perfect date. I'm on the rebound and I don't like guys. Who could be safer for a girl at the peak of her vulnerability?'
'You make it sound irresistible, but I think I'll pass. I'm not in a party mood.'
'I haven't told you about the party yet. You might change your mind.'
'Okay, where's the party?'
'The Dream Casino. Invitation only and I've got one. Does your tux still fit?'
Mason perked up. He doubted that Ed Fiora would talk to him about Cullan's murder, but he figured it couldn't hurt to ask. The worst Fiora could say was no. The preliminary hearing was in two days and Mason needed something. He couldn't think of any reason not to try and get it from Fiora, except for Tony Manzerio. Mason didn't think Fiora would whack him in the middle of his casino on New Year's Eve in front of hundreds of witnesses.
'I don't own a tux, but I've still got my bar mitzvah suit. Will that be formal enough?'
'Perfect. I'll pick you up at nine o'clock.'
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
