'Do you know what kind of gun it was?'
'A. 38-caliber pistol,' he answered with a grin that said he'd just gotten even with Beth all over again.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Mason's new theory was that Ed Fiora, Billy Sunshine, and Beth Harrell had all killed Jack Cullan, drawing straws to see who would hold him down while one of them shot him. They had such a good time that they played their game again with Shirley Parker. As a theory, it sucked, but it was easier than trying to pick a favorite.
Returning to his car, Mason called his office, curious whether Mickey had ever come back.
'Lou Mason and Associates,' Mickey said.
'Associates are young lawyers who are overpaid and underworked. I don't recall hiring any associates. I'm sure I would have remembered.'
'Chill out, boss. It's branding, like Coke or Kleenex. Gives the name some flair. Tells people we're going places.'
'I catch you playing lawyer, I'll give you some real branding. Understood?'
'No problemo, dude. Hey, you got a call from Judge Carter's administrative assistant, reminding you that she wants to see you and Ortiz first thing Monday morning, eight o'clock.'
'The judge's assistant wasn't named Margaret, was she?'
'She didn't say. Why, do you think you know her?'
'Only if her name is Margaret. Are you still following Fiora's money trail?'
'Inside and outside, boss. I may have something for you tonight.'
Mason stopped at the jail to talk with Blues. The sheriff's deputy who brought Blues into the visiting attorney room pointed his thumb and forefinger at Mason, dropped the hammer on his imaginary gun, and told Mason he was saving a cell for him.
'Talk inside is that the cops are looking at you for the Shirley Parker thing.'
'They can look all they want. Harry knows I didn't do it.'
'Who did?'
'Tony Manzerio is my choice.' Mason briefed Blues about Cullan's files, the fire, and Shirley Parker. He told Blues about Donovan Jenkins's contract with Ed Fiora and Jenkins's loan to the mayor. He finished up with his visits to Baker McKenzie and Al Douglas.
'You think the same person killed Cullan and Parker?' Blues asked.
'Makes sense. If the ballistics tests show that the bullets were fired from the same gun, you'll be out of here with a refund. I'll check with Harry as soon as I can.'
Blues nodded silently, got up from his seat, and knocked on the door, signaling the guard that he was ready to return to his cell. He cocked his fist at his side, making imaginary contact with Mason, who returned the gesture.
Mason worried as the door closed behind Blues. His face never betrayed what he was thinking or what he might do. That unpredictability made him particularly dangerous. Even a rattlesnake rattled before it struck.
Blues had been in jail for more than three weeks, charged with a murder that could take his own life. Mason had looked for signs that he was bending to the grind of incarceration. He had seen none, no tic at the corner of his eyes, no tightening of his mouth, no tremor in his hands. Yet Mason knew that Blues's rage simmered just beneath the surface and that he would make someone pay for putting him behind bars. Mason worried that getting him out of jail might just be the first step down a path that brought him back to the same place.
December's subzero wind chills and snowstorms had given way to a raw January. Each day brought a thin mist or a thicker sleet that whipped and whirled into every body pore and open space. The sun was being held hostage behind a slate-gray sky. It was the kind of weather that kept heads down and chins tucked against chests. By spring, the entire city would need a chiropractor just to stand up straight.
Mason's phone rang as he got behind the wheel of the Jeep, rubbing his hands against the cold.
'Lou Mason,' he said, his breath vaporizing before disappearing.
'I didn't think you would answer.' It was Beth Harrell. She sounded breathless and shaky.
'That makes us even. I didn't think you would call.'
It was a small lie. Mason had expected that one of Beth's ex-husbands, or both, would tell her about his visits. She was the kind of woman who kept a hold on a man long after the last kiss. He wondered which ex- husband had called. Baker McKenzie would call to brag about decking him. Al Douglas would call to hear her cry.
'I'm sorry. Calling you was an impulse, another bad one, I guess.'
Her voice triggered a crotch-centered impulse. Beth was a dangerous woman under the best of circumstances, and they were a long way from that ground. Still, she managed to reach inside him.
'Don't apologize. What's on your mind?'
'I'm practically a prisoner in my apartment. If I go out, the press won't leave me alone. I guess I was just feeling lonely and I couldn't think of anyone else to call.' She hesitated, waiting for Mason to reply. He didn't. 'Bad idea, huh?' she asked in a low, throaty, bad-girl voice.
'Not the best, but I haven't heard many good ideas lately. The last guy you went out with on a Friday night ended up with a bullet in his eye. I don't want to make page one again anytime soon.'
'Neither do I. Although I don't think we could top your picture in this morning's paper unless we were caught having sex on Main Street.'
Mason laughed, disarmed by her earthy humor. 'You haven't seen my good side.'
'Show me. I'll make us dinner. You can park at the hotel and take the walkway across to my building. No one will see you. You'll be safe.'
'Give me an hour.'
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Mason had a hard time using the words safe and Beth in the same sentence, but he had to talk to her about the pictures and about the gun. He stopped at home, showered, shaved, fed the dog, and listened to his messages, including one from his aunt Claire demanding that he call her. He promised the answering machine that he would and left the lights on so that Tuffy wouldn't be left in the dark.
There were two entrances to the hotel's parking garage, one on the north and one on the east. Beth's apartment was in a high-rise on the south side of the Intercontinental. Mason chose the north entrance to the parking garage to minimize the chance that some reporter staking out Beth's apartment would see him.
It took him longer than he expected to find the walkway that connected the hotel and the apartment building, and it was past seven o'clock when he knocked on her door. He heard the sharp clack of heels on hardwood as Beth walked hurriedly to the door, opening it with a sigh mixed with relief and anticipation.
Mason stood in the doorway, deciding whether to cross her threshold. Beth waited, one hand on the door, the other on her hip, wearing black linen slacks and a bloodred silk shirt unbuttoned far enough to get his attention. A sly smile creased her cheeks. She looked like a woman who'd never known trouble she hadn't asked for and who was ready to ask again.
'Come on in, Lou. I won't bite.'
'Hardly worth the effort, then,' he said as he walked past her.
The entrance hall opened into a living room with a wall of glass that faced north, looking over the top of the Intercontinental Hotel to the Plaza fifteen stories below, its eight square blocks of shops sparkling in a quarter of a million Christmas lights. Long, tapered candles lit with perfect ovals of yellow flame beckoned from the dining room table. Mellow jazz filled the corners from hidden speakers.
Mason stopped in front of the windows, taking in the view, Beth nestling against his back, her hands on his shoulders, drawing his coat halfway off. He turned toward her and she pushed his coat onto the floor, resting her
