devilish, take-your-best-shot angle. She was luminescent, inviting, and somehow unattainable. Mason felt a surge that had been dormant since he'd broken up with Kelly Holt, the woman who had investigated the murders of his former partners. It was the jolting combination of need, desire, and unexpected opportunity. He'd dated a few women since Kelly, but the only connection he made with them was glandular.
'And why would you do that? The testicles part, I mean.'
'Can't be helped, Lou. I'm gay. I'm a boots, jeans, flannel-shirt-wearing, short-haired lipstick lesbian, and I'm a knockout in a simple black dress I keep in my closet for special occasions. If women got me the way guys do, I'd be fighting them off.'
'That would do it,' he conceded as his rising sap retreated to its roots. 'Thanks for sparing me.'
'Not a problem. I like getting that out of the way up front. Fewer complications,' she added as she picked up the football and made a place for herself on the sofa. She tossed the ball back and forth between her hands, frowning at its odd feel.
'It's for rugby.'
'That's a hard-hitting game. You play?'
'Not as much as I used to. I'm getting a little old to dive into the middle of a bunch of maniacs going after the ball. I'll take you to a game in the spring,' he offered without understanding why.
'Great. I'd like that,' she said with a smile that filled him with regret. 'So Beth Harrell was with Jack Cullan the night he was killed,' Rachel said, pointing to Mason's board.
'You heard that too?'
'Yup. I tried to talk with her, but she keeps her door locked. Any idea why they were out together?'
Mason hesitated. He felt as if he were walking on an active fault line with Rachel that could cleave open and swallow him at any moment. She was beautiful, flirtatious, and completely unavailable. She knew she had him off balance and was enjoying his disadvantage.
'I think we need some ground rules.'
'So do I. Here's freedom-of-the-press rule number one. Everything's on the record unless you tell me in advance that it isn't on the record.'
Mason shook his head. 'Here's defense-lawyer rule number one. Nothing is on the record unless I say so. Rule number two-burn me and I'll cut you off at the knees.'
Rachel folded her arms over her chest. 'You're just angry about the lesbian thing. Hey, it wasn't my idea. A girl doesn't get to choose. Not that I'm complaining.'
Mason got up and started to close the doors to the dry-erase board.
'Okay, okay,' she told him. 'Nothing is on the record unless you say so.'
'Good. I don't know why they were at the bar, but I think she'll tell me.'
'Why?'
'First, because I'm not going to print it on the front page of the newspaper in a story accusing her of being a crook. Second, I can put her under oath and make her tell me, and third, we know each other.'
'How?'
'I took ethics from her when she taught at the law school. I was a first-year student and it was her first semester teaching. We hit it off pretty well, but I've only run into her a few times since I graduated. Alumni functions and that kind of thing.'
Rachel nodded. 'Is your client guilty?'
'No.'
'How do you know?'
'He told me so.'
'That's not good enough for an acquittal.'
'It's good enough for me. All I have to do is figure out who did kill Jack Cullan. The cops are done looking. Any suggestions?'
'I've been chasing Jack Cullan for three years. He was into everything important that happened or didn't happen in this town. Want to get elected? Go see Jack. Want to cut a deal with the city? Need tax increment financing? How about the concessions at the airport? Go see Jack. He always delivered the goods.'
'How did he do it? Where did he get that kind of influence?'
'Cullan invested in the long term. Long-term relationships and long-term IOUs. One day, the city wakes up and peeks out from under its covers. Only the view is from Jack Cullan's back pocket. I've been picking up threads. I can't get anyone to corroborate it, but I'm convinced that Cullan took a page from J. Edgar Hoover's playbook.'
'Files filled with secrets?'
'On everyone who is anyone.'
'You said you couldn't corroborate that. What makes you think it's true?'
'The same thing that makes you think your client is innocent. I can feel it.'
She picked up the red marker and wrote Cullan's Secret Files on the board.
'Anyone who was in those files may have had a motive to kill Cullan,' Mason said. 'And the rest of them would give anything to make certain the files stayed secret. The easiest way for that to happen is to make certain Blues is found guilty.'
'I'll make you a deal. You find the files first, I get the exclusive. I find the files first, I'll let you see them before I go public.'
'Deal. Why so generous?'
'Let's just say that I'm a sucker for good-looking rugby players. In fact, I'm dating one now. She's fabulous. I'll be in touch,' she said as she left.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mason finished studying the police reports without finding any daggers to throw at Harry on cross- examination. He had been as thorough as Mason had expected.
The crime scene had been preserved, none of the evidence contaminated. Photographs were taken from every angle, fingerprints lifted from every surface, and a meticulous search had been made for footprints and fibers that didn't belong.
The contents of the house had been inventoried and double-checked against Cullan's homeowner's insurance records. No valuables were missing and there was no sign of forced entry. Cullan had opened the door to someone who had come there for one reason-to kill him.
The maid passed a polygraph exam and thirty people at a family reunion in Omaha confirmed her alibi that she was out of town when Cullan was killed.
Beth Harrell and the musicians at the bar gave statements that established Blues's motive. And Blues didn't have an alibi.
The case had shifted from catching Cullan's killer to proving that Blues was guilty. If none of the witnesses saw Cullan scratch Blues's hands during their scuffle at the bar, he would have to take the stand in his own defense. No matter how certain he was of Blues's innocence, Mason knew that was a high-stakes gamble. Patrick Ortiz would come in his pants at the prospect of taking on Blues.
There was nothing Mason could do about any of the evidence the prosecutor already had against Blues. He wouldn't make the mistake of trying to win the case on the prosecution's ground. Instead, he'd have to find the killer.
He stared out the windows, listening to the icy wind swarm over the city, slip-sliding through weak spots in brick and mortar, seeping into cracks and faults, sucking out the warmth. He imagined that Jack Cullan had been that way, wrapping his own cold fingers around the weak spots in other people's hearts until they became brittle and broke in his hands.
The warmth in his office was small comfort. He'd be out in the wind soon enough, playing catch-up with Oritz. The prosecutor was way out in front.
Mason wouldn't get any help from the people who'd been under Cullan's thumb. Though each would light a candle for the killer and ask God to reserve a special place in hell for Cullan, they'd let the wind sweep Blues
