Twenty minutes passed, made longer and slower by the stiffness that seeped from his neck downward and his feet upward, merging into an electrified knot in the small of his back. The sound of Shirley's footsteps coming down the stairs drowned out the protests his body was filing with his brain. He opened the basement door a crack to make certain he would hear the front door opening and closing. He took comfort in Shirley's unhurried gait and unbroken march down the stairs and out the door. She didn't hesitate, as she would have if she had heard or sensed his presence.

Mason waited another five minutes after Shirley left before heading upstairs. Shirley had turned off the light at the top of the stairs, and Mason didn't want to take the chance that she was watching from across the street for a light to come on. The glow from the streetlight and passing headlights scarcely permeated the frame of the front door, leaving him to feel his way along the wall with his hands. If he could have seen his feet, he would have kicked himself for having failed to bring a flashlight.

Still using his hands as his eyes, Mason located the door to Pendergast's office and was relieved that Shirley had left it unlocked. The office was darker even than the stairwell, as if it had been sealed. Recalling that there was a double window overlooking Main Street, and that he'd seen blinds on that window when he'd looked up from his car, Mason felt his way to the street side of the room to peek through the blinds. When his fingers found smooth drywall all along that surface, he became disoriented, so uncertain of direction that he circled the room twice as his mouth dried up in a blind man's panic.

On his second pass, just beyond the door, his knuckles brushed against a switch, flicking it on and blinding himself a second time, though with light rather than darkness. He leaned against the wall, squinting until his pupils stopped dilating. The double window had been covered, the blinds still in place, so that the outside world would see the window, unchanged and unopened-but a window nonetheless. Inside, the light was captive, unable to illuminate the secrets behind the walls.

The room was empty. Mason imagined Pendergast sitting behind a desk, dispensing favors or broken legs, as the moment required. He envisioned a couple of overfed cronies in snap-brimmed fedoras, smoking sour cigars, giving witness and protection to Pendergast's patronage practice. He thought of his grandfather, genuflecting with a humble "Thank you, Mr. Pendergast." There were no reminders of those times, no photographs on the walls, not even outlines in the dust on the floor where the furniture once sat.

There was a sliding panel that had been built into the wall Mason guessed would have been behind Pendergast's desk. It was the wall that would have afforded Pendergast a straight-on view of each supplicant or sucker who crossed his threshold. A circular groove had been cut at one end of the panel into a finger hold with which to pull the panel open. A lock had been added directly above the groove. Mason tried it without success; not surprised when it didn't yield.

There were no lock picks or crowbars lying on the floor, so Mason used his shoulder to loosen the lock. It gave on the third try, splintering the wood that housed the bolt. He shoved the panel back along its track and stepped into a walk-in closet lined with wooden file cabinets. Expecting the drawers to also be locked, Mason yanked on the nearest one, almost falling over when it easily spilled into his arms. The names on the files should have read Pay Dirt. Instead, the files were labeled with the names of the rich and powerful. Skimming the names, Mason found Cullan's files on Billy Sunshine, Ed Fiora, and Beth Harrell. He almost had time to read them before his career as a second-story man ended like a scene from a late-night rerun.

"Freeze, mister! Put your hands where I can see them and turn around real slow!"

Mason left the drawer gaping open and did as he was told. A police officer aimed his service revolver at Mason from the doorway. Mason could see Shirley Parker peering around the cop, her eyes drawn in beady satisfaction.

"I'm unarmed," Mason said. He didn't think there was any point in telling the cop that this was all a misunderstanding; that he hadn't really done what he'd so clearly done. He expected to be arrested, and was more interested in not getting shot.

"Up against the wall, legs and arms spread wide," the cop instructed.

Mason complied again, flinching as the cop ran one hand down his sides, up his legs to his crotch, under his jacket, and around his middle.

Satisfied, the cop said, "Okay. You can turn around now."

The cop was tall, square-shouldered, and vaguely familiar until Mason read the name beneath his badge. Blues had decked Officer James Toland when Toland had tried to put cuffs on him. Mason understood Blues's impulse as Toland looked him over. Mason waited for Toland to pull out his handcuffs, read him his rights, and end his career. None of which happened.

Shirley Parker stepped past them and into the closet, conducting a quick inventory.

Toland broke the silence. "Do you want to press charges, Miss Parker?"

"There doesn't seem to be anything missing," she said. "You can let Mr. Mason go," she answered from inside the closet.

Toland looked like a kid whose Christmas had been canceled. "Must be your lucky day, Counselor," Toland told him.

Mason felt his blood start circulating again as he realized why Shirley had granted him a reprieve. He may have been guilty of breaking and entering, but she was sitting on the mother lode of blackmail that would make her the next frontpage defendant. Whatever Shirley intended to do with the files, exposing their existence wasn't an option.

Shirley stepped back into the room, her face suddenly bleak and ashen. She knew she was in over her head. Mason imagined that she had gone through life doing what Jack Cullan had told her to do, maybe nursing a quiet love that was never noticed or returned, resigned to her life at his side, loyal and lonely. She'd been angry enough at Mason's intrusion to call the cops, summoning righteous indignation, wielding the authority her boss had carried. Now she'd outsmarted herself and could only let him go.

Mason had more questions for her that he was certain she wouldn't answer, but he couldn't resist the most obvious.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked her.

Shirley faced him. "There's a motion detector on the stairs. Satisfied, Mr. Mason?"

"Completely," Mason answered. "I'll be back in the morning with a subpoena for those files, so take very good care of them tonight. You've got enough problems without adding a charge for obstruction of justice."

Mason hurried back up the street to the Egg House Diner, checking over his shoulder to see when Shirley Parker and Toland left the building. He'd just slid into his booth when they emerged. Shirley locked the door, pulling a steel bar across it that he hadn't noticed before.

Toland watched her cross the street back to the People's Savings Building before climbing into his squad car and driving away. Mason waved as Toland passed the diner, pleased with his escape and happy for Toland to know that he was still keeping his eye on the files.

Mason looked around the diner. A second shift had come on duty during his absence. A waiter had replaced the waitress, and a homeless woman seated at the counter had taken the place of the homeless man. Though he couldn't be certain, Mason suspected that the waitress and the homeless man had simply traded places. The waiter's pale skin looked even paler against his two-day growth of beard when he shoved a glass of water across Mason's table. Not wanting to push his luck, Mason ordered another turkey sandwich. The woman huddled inside her tattered overcoat and scarves as if she were in a cocoon for the winter.