"Yes," she said with the same flat tone.

"Why?"

"My therapist said I have a self-destructive tape playing in my head because I had an abusive father and a disinterested mother, so I do crazy things to punish myself."

"Do you believe that?"

"I don't believe anything. That's all an excuse. I did it because I wanted to, not because I know why I wanted to."

"Then why ask me to get them back?"

"After Jack was killed, I was afraid the police would think I did it because of the pictures. I had to get them back."

"Where's the gun Baker McKenzie gave you?"

"I got rid of it after Jack was killed. The paper said he was shot with a.38-caliber gun. My gun was a.38. I thought it would look bad. I liked having a gun for protection, so I bought the Berretta."

"The police could have run ballistics tests on your gun and ruled it out as the murder weapon," Mason said.

Beth got up and paced around the living room, finding renewed energy. "I admit I wasn't setting records for clear thinking. I just wanted to get the pictures back and get rid of the gun. I wanted to be a good girl again." She stopped in front of Mason and looped her fingers into the collar of his sweater, pulling him up. "I wanted to be a good girl for you," she said.

She wrapped her arms around his neck, pressed her breasts hard against his chest, and ground her pelvis against his crotch. "You saved me," she murmured as she felt him grow hard.

Mason pushed her away. "What are you?" he asked.

"I'm just a girl who can't say no."

"I'm not asking you to say yes."

Mason picked up his coat and left her standing in her living room.

Chapter Twenty-seven

Friday nights were usually big nights at Blues on Broadway, but business had slowed considerably since New Year's Eve, and the joint was nearly dead when Mason arrived shortly before midnight. Mickey had turned out to be a lousy bartender, and Blues had hired a temp who wasn't much better. Pete Kirby's trio had taken a gig on the road, and Blues hadn't found anyone to take their place. Jazz musicians were used to oddball gigs, but working for someone sitting in jail on a murder rap hadn't proved to be very attractive.

Mason recognized Harry's off-duty car, an old Crown Victoria that had done time as an on-duty detective's ride. Mason made his way through the bar, where three customers were nursing flat beers while the bartender cleaned glasses, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, dribbling ashes into the soapy sink water.

He took the stairs two at a time, his concern for Mickey quickening his pace. Fiora was in the casino business, but he didn't strike Mason as a man who bluffed very often. Mason took Fiora at his word when he said that he'd paid Mickey a visit. Mason knew enough about computers to read his e-mail. He had no idea that an amateur hacker like Mickey would leave an electronic trail that could lead to a beating. Mason was mentally calculating Mickey's Worker's Compensation benefits when he saw Mickey standing in the hall with Harry and his aunt Claire.

"Harry," Mason said, "is everything all right?"

Harry was wearing a warm-up suit and athletic shoes underneath an open trench coat. Claire was also wearing a warm-up suit under her made-for-the-tundra topcoat. It took Mason a minute to realize that they were wearing identical warm-up suits, and that his aunt was wearing house slippers and that her car was not also parked outside. Both of them had a slightly rumpled, just-rousted-out-of-bed look. Mason wasn't certain, but he thought he saw a small hickey on Harry's neck. Mason flushed with a queasy jolt, like a teenager who'd walked in on his parents while they were doing it.

"No, everything is not all right!" Claire snapped. "Someone broke into your office and smashed your computer."

Mason stepped into his office. His computer tower was crumpled as if it had been in a head-on collision, and the top was peeled back as if it had been operated on with a can opener. His monitor was shattered. He looked around the rest of his office, confirmed that there wasn't any other damage, and came back out into the hallway.

"Thanks for coming over, Harry," Mason said.

"Is that all you've got to say?" Claire demanded. "Every time I turn around, you're this close to getting killed or robbed," she said, pinching her fingers together. "I won't have it!"

Mason hadn't seen his aunt this angry in years. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"Well, you have and so has he!" she said, jabbing her thumb at Harry. "It's time you two started working together on this case instead of against each other." Harry and Mason both studied their feet, waiting for Claire's outburst to subside. "I'll wait in your office," she said.

Mickey was grinning so widely that Mason practically forgot to ask if he was hurt. "I would not piss off that woman anymore if I was you," Mickey said.

Mason put his hand under Mickey's chin, tilting his head upward. "You look good with a black eye, Mickey. It gives you that mature look."

Harry referred to the notepad he always carried. "Your neighbor here, Mr. Shanahan, says he was asleep in his office when he heard a commotion next door. He jumped up to see what was going on, and ran into his door and knocked himself out. By the time he came to, whoever had broken into your office was gone. That still your story, Mr. Shanahan?" Harry asked with no effort to disguise his disbelief.

"Yes, sir, Detective. That's my story and I'm sticking to it."

Harry turned to Mason. "Are you satisfied with that story, Lou?"

"It'll do for now," Lou answered.

"Good, 'cause it's bullshit and we both know it, but if you don't care, I don't care. At least we don't need anything else from Mr. Shanahan. Let's you and me go have a talk in your office before your aunt makes us take turns walking into the door and knocking ourselves out."

"Don't think for one second that I'm going to clean up that mess for you," Claire said as Mason closed the door behind him.

Mason raised both hands in surrender, knowing better than to get in her way while she still had a head of steam going. Harry picked up the computer tower and peered inside.

"The hard drive is gone," he told Mason. "You back up your stuff?"

"Not in the last six months."

"How long you had this computer?" Harry asked.

"Six months."

"You're screwed."

"Is that a professional opinion?" Mason asked.

"Worth every cent of the tax dollars you paid for it. Who did it?"

"Ed Fiora."

"Why?"

"He objected to me checking out his personal affairs."

"Hacking? You couldn't hack yourself. That kid, Shanahan-he do the hacking for you?"

"Yup."

"Fiora probably has somebody who runs security for his computer systems, picked up the hacking, traced it back to your computer. Fiora values his privacy. So why does Shanahan give me that crap about running into his door?"

"He's like all law-abiding citizens. He doesn't trust the cops and he thinks he's doing me a favor."

"Why were you investigating Fiora?"

Mason took two bottles of Budweiser out of his refrigerator and handed one to Harry. Claire gave him a long, threatening look, and he handed her the other bottle, then grabbed another one for himself. He threw his parka over his desk chair, sat down on the sofa, and put his feet up on the low table in front of it. Harry and Claire dumped their coats on top of his, and each took a chair at either end of the table.

They all swallowed heavily from their bottles. Claire drank the deepest.

"Cullan's murder, Shirley Parker's murder, and the fire at the barbershop were all about one thing-the secret files Jack Cullan kept on his friends and enemies," Mason said. "Though I suspect he had a difficult time telling one from the other. I was looking for a link, something that would tie Fiora to the files and the murders, or at least the other suspects."