get a search warrant before Shirley Parker had a chance to move the files.
Mason's deal with Ortiz would cancel the ones he'd made with Rachel Firestone and Amy White and more than disappoint Ed Fiora, but that couldn't be helped. He called Ortiz, not surprised that he was still working long after most county employees had gone home.
'Patrick Ortiz.'
'Patrick, it's Lou Mason. I've got a great deal for you.'
'Too late. I told you the plea bargain was off the table if we went to the preliminary hearing.'
'Forget the plea bargain. I'm going to make you the hero in this case. Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell and a lot of other people, maybe including the mayor. I've found the files he kept on those people.'
'So you're calling to report a crime committed by a dead man?'
'I'm calling to tell you to get a search warrant for those files so you can prevent them from disappearing. Those files are evidence in Cullan's murder. The killer is probably someone Cullan was blackmailing.'
'Your client is the killer. Did Cullan have a file on him?'
'I don't know. Listen to me. Cullan's secretary has those files squirreled away in Tom Pendergast's old office on Main Street. She's an accessory to Cullan's blackmail. She knows that I know about the files, and if you don't get a search warrant for them tonight, they'll be in a shredder before sunrise.'
'Sorry, Lou. I'm not going to bother Judge Carter tonight on a bullshit story like that. You want to take it up with the judge tomorrow, give me a call. I've got work to do.'
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Mason wanted to throw his phone across the room. Instead, he called the homicide division, hoping that Harry Ryman was working late. Carl Zimmerman answered instead.
'Carl, it's Lou Mason. Is Harry around?'
'Nope. He had to go see a witness, a guy he's been chasing for a couple of weeks. What's up?'
Mason hesitated. He intended to tell Harry the entire story and ask him to help babysit Cullan's files until Mason could talk to the judge in the morning. He even hoped that Harry would send a couple of uniformed cops to sit outside the barbershop all night. Mason didn't know Zimmerman well enough to ask for a favor like that, but he didn't have another choice. He decided to keep his story simple to convince Zimmerman that there was a good reason to help him out.
'Jack Cullan was blackmailing Beth Harrell. He kept secret files on her, the mayor, and Ed Fiora, plus a lot of other people. I've found Cullan's files but I can't get to them. The prosecutor won't ask Judge Carter for a search warrant tonight. If we wait until tomorrow, the files could be gone. I know you're convinced that my client killed Cullan, but there's a good chance something in those files will prove he didn't. I need your help to make sure nothing happens to them.'
'Where are the files?'
'In Tom Pendergast's old office above the barbershop at Twentieth and Main.'
'Anybody there now?'
'No.'
'Who else knows about the files?'
'Cullan's secretary, Shirley Parker. That cop, Toland, who was with you when you arrested Blues, knows that there's something in that office, but I don't think he knows what it is.'
'Where are you now?'
'In a diner up the street from the barbershop.'
'Sit tight, Lou. I just caught a case on a dead body in Swope Park. I'll meet you when I'm done with that. It may take me a couple of hours, but it's the best I can do.'
'Thanks.'
A couple of hours passed, and then another. Mason tried Harry's number again without any luck. He called the dispatcher, asking her to contact Harry and tell him to call Mason. When Harry didn't call, he left the same message for Zimmerman. He called his aunt Claire, who told him that she hadn't spoken to Harry all day. The waiter was eyeing Mason like he should start charging him rent for the booth when Mason's phone rang.
'Harry?'
'It's Zimmerman. What's going on?'
'I'm growing old in this diner. I think the waiter is about to add me to the menu.'
'Leave him a big tip. I'm stuck in the park. Stay where you are and wait for me.'
'Right,' Mason said, having decided in the same instant that he couldn't wait any longer.
Mason left a ten-dollar tip for a five-dollar meal and went to his car. His ex-wife had once given him a tool kit to keep in the trunk. It was one of the first indications that they didn't know each other as well as their glands would have liked. Mason's tool of choice to fix anything was a hammer he could use to beat whatever was broken into submission. The rest of the tools were for guys who knew the difference between a flat head, a Phillips head and a blackhead. He found a small flashlight, grabbed the hammer, and got ready to commit his second felony of the night.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Mason made his way to the alley that ran behind the barbershop, looking for a back door or a window, knowing that he had to be faster than the cops if he tripped the motion detector again. Clinging to the shadows in the alley, he hoped that Shirley Parker hadn't already taken Cullan's files out the back door, sticking him with a great case of he said, she said.
The possibility left Mason with a thin sweat and a twisted gut by the time he reached the rear of the barbershop. Sweeping the flashlight across the wall, he heaved a deep breath mixed with relief and frustration when he discovered there was no rear door or rear window on the first floor. There was, however, a second-story window next to a fire escape with a ladder that ended well beyond his reach.
There was a Dumpster in the alley a few yards away. Mason shoved it across the uneven pavement until it was beneath the ladder. Climbing on top, he reached for the ladder, finding himself still a foot shy of the bottom rung. He stuffed the flashlight and the hammer into his belt and backed up to the edge of the Dumpster. Measuring the short step to the wall, he took a running step and launched himself at the ladder.
The cold iron froze against Mason's hands as he held on to the bottom rung, gaining purchase with his feet against the brick wall. He pulled himself up, his breath coming in sharp gasps, until his feet found the bottom rung. A moment later he was on the catwalk beneath the window, certain that he was about to be caught in a cross fire of searchlights while some cop demanded that he throw down his hammer before they opened up on him.
The window was locked or nailed shut. He shined his flashlight through the glass and could make out the top of the stairs. He hoped the motion detector was at the bottom and not at the top.
He pulled off his sweater, using it to muffle the hammer, broke the window, and climbed inside, broken glass crunching under his shoes, assuming that he had set off the motion detector. He had no more than a couple of minutes to grab the files, get out, and make up an alibi.
He left the light in Pendergast's office off, feeling less exposed in the darkness. The flashlight beam glanced off something shiny in the center of the floor that Mason didn't remember seeing a few hours earlier. Dropping to one knee, he picked up a white, quarter-sized campaign button with the words Truman for Senator in blue. Tom Pendergast had been Harry Truman's political godfather.
He aimed his flashlight at the walk-in closet, certain that someone had dropped the button on the floor while removing other more current political souvenirs. He traced the flashlight beam up to the lock he had broken, when he was flattened by a blast that shattered the panel door, opened the floor like an earthquake, and dropped him into the barbershop.
He slammed into the outstretched barber chair, bounced off onto the floor, and crawled beneath the chair
