Mickey peered over his shoulder at Mason, taking care to look for the gun, before turning completely around.
'Hey, you still look like shit. You know that, man. That's not good, not good.'
'I'm not interested in your fashion advice. How good are you on the Web?'
Mickey brightened as if he'd just added a thousand gigabytes to his game. 'A Web site is just what you need. I can have it up for you by the end of the day.'
'I don't want a Web site, Mickey. I want every word ever written about Ed Fiora. Can you do that?'
Mickey locked his fingers together and stretched his arms out. 'Any six-year-old can do that in his sleep. I can do better than that.'
'How much better?'
'Asset search, bank accounts, anything you want. There are no secrets anymore. Everyone's life is floating in cyberspace, waiting to be bought or sold.'
'Do it.'
'Does this mean I'm on the team?'
Mason thought for a moment, hoping he wasn't making the wrong choice, not just for him but for Mickey.
'Sure.'
'Do we get T-shirts? T-shirts would be cool. Great way to build the brand.'
'Only if we win,' Mason said.
A shower and a shave later, Mason parked in front of what was once the People's Savings amp; Loan Building on the corner of Twentieth and Main. The bank had owned the six-story building until it went under during the thrift crisis in the 1990s. Jack Cullan bought the building and moved into a second-floor office.
Many law firms spent lavishly on impressive entrances to their offices, with carefully designed logos, nameplates, and eye-catching art, one local firm bragging that the paneling in its office had been made from a rare tree found only in the Amazon rain forest. Mason appreciated the simple inscription painted on the solid oak door to Jack Cullan's office-Attorney.
Shirley Parker looked up from her desk as Mason closed the door behind him. She had a buoyant, upswept hairstyle that had been fashionable decades ago but was now a silvery-blue-tinted artifact. She was a stout woman with stiff posture and disbelieving eyes, going through the motions because she didn't know what else to do.
'Yes, may I help you?' she asked.
'My name is Lou Mason,' he said, as if that would be explanation enough.
'I'm Shirley Parker, Mr. Cullan's secretary.'
Mason wasn't certain where to start. He guessed that Shirley had been Cullan's secretary long enough to know his secrets and how to keep them and wouldn't surrender them just because her boss was dead.
'I'm the attorney for Wilson Bluestone.'
'Yes. I know who you are.'
She gave no hint whether she cared who he was or whether she resented him, as she must have hated his client.
'I'm sorry for your loss.'
It was a clumsy gesture, and Mason regretted he hadn't been more sincere, though Shirley was gracious.
'That's very kind of you.'
Mason looked around, nodding. The furniture in the outer office was nearly as old as he was, though it had fewer nicks and scratches. Framed prints from a Monet exhibit hung on the walls. A stack of unread magazines sat on a corner table at the junction of a short couch and a chair.
'It must be difficult closing up a law practice under these circumstances. I imagine you've been going nuts trying to get clients placed with new lawyers, files transferred, and all those other things.'
'Yes,' was all she said, not agreeing or disagreeing.
There were only a handful of papers on Shirley's desk, no more than would have come in the mail on an ordinary day. Her computer screen was on CNN's home page. The phone hadn't rung since Mason walked in.
He realized that there were no storage cabinets, no places to keep client files or the secret files. Maybe Shirley had already transferred the clients and their files and was just coming in each day to open the mail until there was no more mail.
'It looks like you've pretty much cleaned things up. You must have already shipped out the client files.'
Shirley didn't respond, waiting for Mason to say something that warranted another polite acknowledgment.
They smiled at one another for a long minute, neither speaking until Mason quickstepped past her and opened Cullan's private office. He was through the door before she could try to stop him.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
'You can't go in there!' she said, and was on his heels before he could turn on the light.
The office was a mirror of Mason's, down to the oversized sofa with shoes and clothes strewn across the cushions and a refrigerator parked next a desk littered with papers. Mason was certain that Shirley had removed anything confidential, leaving the rest in the grief-driven hope that Cullan would walk through the door one day as if nothing had happened.
Shirley stood in the doorway, arms folded across her chest. Mason took a step toward her. She didn't back up.
'Where are they, Shirley?'
'Where are what?'
'Your boss's secret files. The dirty pictures and other trash he collected all these years.'
'I don't know what you're talking about.'
'Sure you do. How long did you work for Jack? Twenty years, thirty years? You had to know about the files and you had to know where he kept them.'
She didn't flinch. 'I'll have to ask you to leave.'
'Of course you do. That's your job even though your boss isn't here to tell you. Maybe you didn't know what he was up to. Maybe he liked you well enough not to make you an accessory to blackmail, extortion, and racketeering. All things considered, you'd be better off helping me now than answering all these questions in court, under oath.'
'As I said, Mr. Mason. I don't know what you're talking about. Please leave now.'
Mason stopped in front of a black-and-white photograph of an old man and a young boy. They were shaking hands in front of a barbershop, the barber's pole framed between their outstretched hands. It was on a wall covered with photographs of Cullan with politicians and celebrities, but he didn't recognize either the man or the boy.
'Who are they?'
Shirley sighed, her hands hard on her hips. 'I'm going to call the police if you don't leave now.'
Mason raised his hands in surrender. 'Okay, I'm convinced. Just tell me who's in the picture and I'll leave. That can't be a state secret.'
'Very well. The young boy is Mr. Cullan. The other gentleman is Tom Pendergast. Now, please leave.'
'No kidding? Tom Pendergast. When was this taken? Last question, I promise.'
'I'll tell you on your way out.' She locked the door to Cullan's office and ushered him out into the hallway. 'Nineteen forty-five,' she said.
Back in his car, Mason looked up at the window to Cullan's office. For an instant, he thought he saw Shirley Parker lingering in the shadows, but then dismissed the image as a trick of the sun against the glass and his own creeping paranoia.
He started to pull away when he saw a barber pole bolted to the wall of a building across the street. The barbershop, and the rest of the block, was vacant, but the photograph in Cullan's office and the barber pole
