described how Mickey had hacked into Fiora's bank records and been rewarded with a beating by Tony Manzerio. He explained his theory of how Beth could have hiked to Cullan's house, killed him, and returned to her apartment undetected. He detailed his suspicions of Carl Zimmerman and James Toland, making light of his failed surveillance of Zimmerman. He finished with a broad-brush recitation of the scam he'd run on Fiora with the bank records and the favor he'd unnecessarily cashed in to get Blues released on bail.
'You need a keeper, you know that?' Blues told him when Mason had completed his report.
'Well, at least you're out. Now we can sort this mess out.'
Blues picked up the reports and began reading. Mason waited, hoping for the insight that a fresh look often brings. Donna returned with their burgers and beer. They ate in silence.
'Look at this,' Blues said.
He placed the initial report on Cullan's murder in front of Mason. It was dated December 10, the day the housekeeper had discovered Cullan's body.
'Okay, what am I looking for?'
'The report is routine. It covers all the bases, including the location from which every fingerprint was lifted.'
Mason read the index of fingerprints. 'Damn! There's no record of any fingerprints found on the desk in Mason's office. Terrence Dawson testified at the preliminary hearing that's where he found your fingerprint.'
'Now, look at this,' Blues said, and handed Mason a supplemental report dated December 12, the day Blues was arrested.
'Dawson went back to the scene for a second look. That's when he found your fingerprint.'
'Read the first sentence of Dawson's report on that inspection,' Blues instructed.
Mason read it aloud. 'At the request of Detective Carl Zimmerman, this examiner returned to the scene to determine if any other identifiable fingerprints were present.'
'Zimmerman was a busy boy.'
'How could Zimmerman have planted your fingerprint?'
'It's not as hard as it sounds. Zimmerman could have made a photocopy of a fingerprint of mine. While the photocopy was still hot, he could have put fingerprint tape down on it and lifted the print. Powdered photocopier toner can be used as fingerprint powder. Then Zimmerman went back to the scene and put the tape down wherever he wanted Dawson to find my fingerprint.'
'So where did Zimmerman get your fingerprint?'
'From my personnel file.'
'Isn't access to those files restricted? How did Zimmerman get ahold of it?'
'Once Harry started looking at me for the murder, they would have gotten my file without any problem.'
'How can we prove your fingerprint was forged?'
'Identification points are the same on all prints from the same finger. That's why fingerprints are so reliable. But no two prints themselves should ever be identical since there's always a difference in position or pressure when the print is put down. If the print Dawson found is identical to the print in my personnel file, Dawson will have to admit it was forged.'
'Unless Zimmerman was smart enough to get rid of the original print from your personnel file.'
'That would have been too risky. If that set of prints turned up missing, there would be a separate investigation of everyone who touched the file. Zimmerman was banking that no one would compare the prints since they had made a new set of my prints when they booked me.'
'Which gets us back to the real question. Why would Zimmerman take the risk of framing you?'
'It fits with your theory. Zimmerman and Toland were tired of working for Cullan. They wanted to go into business for themselves, so they killed Cullan. I was a convenient fall guy. Harry already hated me. The mayor wanted a quick arrest. No one wanted Cullan's files to be found. It should have worked.'
Mason took the final swallow from his bottle of beer. 'I'm going to talk to Harry.'
'No way. He'll cover for Zimmerman. That's what cops do.'
'Not this time. You find Cullan's files and I'll talk to Harry.'
Blues grabbed Mason's wrists with both hands. 'You're taking a hell of a risk for both of us. If Harry tips him off, Zimmerman will come after both of us. He won't have any choice. Are you carrying that gun I gave you?'
'No, and you can't carry one either without violating the conditions of your bail.'
'Small potatoes compared to capital murder.'
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Twelfth Street had become a frozen parking lot. Cars on the intersecting streets of Oak and Locust squirmed more than they moved. No one was any closer to home than when Mason and Blues had walked into Rossi's for lunch. The snow poured from the sky in thick, wet flakes heavy enough to reduce vision to a single block. Some drivers surrendered to the storm, abandoning their cars in the middle of the street to take refuge in city hall or the courthouse.
Mason and Blues waded through the drifting, blowing snow to Mason's Jeep. They waited for the car to warm up and melt the ice on the windows while they considered their options.
'You giving any thought to just waiting this out?' Blues asked.
'Nope.'
'You expecting a sudden heat wave to melt this shit and clear up this traffic just so we can go home?'
'Nope. And we're not going home. We're going to my office. By the way, how long has Mickey Shanahan been living in his office?'
'Since the day I rented it to him.'
'Does he know that you know that?'
'I never asked him. He seems like a good kid.'
'He's a con artist, cardsharp, and computer hacker who doesn't have a pot to piss in.'
'You hired him. He must fit in. How are you going to get us out of here?'
'Don't try this at home, boys and girls,' Mason said.
He engaged the Jeep's four-wheel drive and rolled over the concrete stop that separated the parking lot from the sidewalk. Dodging parking meters, he stayed on the sidewalk until he was clear of the downtown traffic.
The normally fifteen-minute drive to his office took an hour as he slalomed and cursed his way around one trapped driver after another. The streets were so slick, and the ice and snow so impenetrable, that the slightest incline had become an impossible vertical ascent for any car that didn't have four-wheel drive. Mickey was waiting for them when they made it back to Blues on Broadway.
'This is the homecoming crowd?' Blues asked.
'The cook and the bartender called in well,' Mickey answered. 'They said they were staying home because of sick weather. We're as good as closed anyway in this snow. The mailman is the only one who has come through the door all day.'
Blues picked up a stack of mail that Mickey had left sitting on the bar and leafed through it, tearing open the last envelope.
'Son of a bitch!' he said, holding up the contents of the envelope. 'The director of liquor control has suspended my liquor license pending the outcome of my case.'
'Who's the director of liquor control?' Mason asked.
'Howard Trimble. I've got to go see him today.'
'In this storm?' Mason asked. 'He's probably stuck in traffic somewhere.'
Blues dialed the phone number on the letter and listened as it rang for two minutes. He slammed the phone down, cursing Trimble and his ancestors in a Shawnee Indian dialect Blues reserved for special occasions.
'Dude!' Mickey said. 'What's that mean?'
'Something about fire ants building a nest in your scrotum,' Mason told him. 'Trimble will have to wait until tomorrow. If this storm keeps up, everything will have to wait until tomorrow.'
'We may not have that long,' Blues said. 'Once Zimmerman knows I'm out, he'll bury those files where no one
