Mason shook his head at the possibility. The night Cullan was murdered had been brutal, with a lacerating windchill and hard-driven snow. Even a cold-blooded killer wouldn't have made that hike. Unless, he conceded, the killer was convinced that no one else would think she might have done exactly that.

By the time Mason and Tuffy returned home, the prospect that Beth Harrell had covered the murder of Jack Cullan under a blanket of snow had robbed him of his enthusiasm for the beautiful morning. It also didn't jibe with his growing suspicion that James Toland and Carl Zimmerman had been dirt gofers for Cullan, and might have killed Cullan to go into business on their own, as his aunt Claire had theorized.

When Mason had called Zimmerman to ask for his help to preserve Cullan's files, Zimmerman had put him off with a lie about working a case involving a dead body in Swope Park. The lie had only one purpose-to keep Mason away from the files until Zimmerman and Toland could steal the ones they wanted and rig the bomb that would destroy the rest.

It was possible that Zimmerman and Toland hadn't known where the files were kept until Mason tipped Zimmerman. Although Shirley Parker had not hesitated to let Toland into Pendergast's office so he could kick Mason out of it. Maybe Mason's phone call tipped Zimmerman, or maybe they had known all along, and Mason's call forced them to move the files. Maybe Shirley Parker made one last visit to check on the files, and they killed her when she tried to stop them. There were too many maybes, but none of them made Toland and Zimmerman look clean to Mason.

Neither did Mason's suspicions prove anything. Mason knew it would be difficult and dangerous to try to make a case against two cops, particularly when one of the cops was Harry's partner. Over the years, Mason had gathered from Harry and Claire that it was a good partnership, though neither man had embraced the other as a blood brother. Still, they were cops and they were partners, and that was a stronger bond than most marriages.

Mason didn't even know where to begin. He couldn't talk to Harry, who would dismiss his theory as a malicious red herring Mason had fantasized to cast doubt on Blues's guilt. Even worse, Harry would consider it an unholy attempt to drive a wedge between Harry and Zimmerman and an unethical pitch to discredit their investigation. Mason couldn't go after Zimmerman without painting Harry with the same brush.

Mason's best and only idea was to keep an eye on Zimmer- man. Mason had been to Zimmerman's house once before to pick up Harry. Zimmerman lived in Red Bridge, a suburban subdivision in south Kansas City. Mason wouldn't stake out Zimmerman's house. That's what cops and PIs did, not lawyers. Besides, Mason didn't want to pee into a bottle on a cold day, even if the sun was shining.

All the same, a drive-by couldn't hurt. Mason looked at Tuffy. "Want to go for a ride?" he asked her.

Tuffy practically ran him over racing to the garage. Mason opened the door to his TR-6, and Tuffy vaulted the stick shift, landing in the passenger seat. It wasn't a top-down day, but it was close enough.

Chapter Twenty-nine

Mason believed that the TR-6 was the last great sports car ever built. He didn't believe it in the squishy way that some people believe that black is a slimming color, or that all good things come to those who wait. He believed it with the same bedrock certainty as the cinematic heavyweight Rocky Balboa when he told Mrs. Balboa that a man's got to do what a man's got to do.

In Mason's world, BMW, Porsche, and Audi roadsters were for cash-heavy baby boomers willing to overpay for the thrill of the wheel. The Corvette was a contender, but with its powerful engine and oversize tires, it was in another weight class. He conceded that those cars could outperform the TR-6, but they couldn't out-cool it. The brand name, Triumph, said it all for Mason. The TR-6's raw lines and hard look had captivated Mason the first time he had seen the car. By then, British Leyland had inexplicably abandoned the model, turning each of the 94,000 TR-6's it had made from 1969 to 1976 into instant classics.

Mason had never been much of a car guy. He'd always driven whatever he could afford until he couldn't afford to keep it running. He'd never gotten sweaty at the sight of a muscle car, nor had his head been turned by a sleek import. The TR-6 was different. It had snagged his automotive heart, lingering there unrequited until he'd succumbed years later, taking advantage of a neighbor's divorce to buy his dream car. It was a British racing-green, four-speed, six-cylinder real live ragtop trip.

Tuffy loved the car more than Mason, delighting in the endless scents that sped past her when the top was down and her nose was in the wind. Sitting in his garage, Mason resisted his dog's pleading, doleful eyes to put the top down. A man and his dog both blowing in the wind on a cold winter morning would garner too much attention, no matter how brightly the sun was shining.

Not that Mason was trying to be covert. The truth was, he didn't know what he was trying to be or how he was going to try to be it. As he drove toward Carl Zimmerman's neighborhood, he had a throat-tightening epiphany. He was in over his head in a death-penalty case that was as likely to cost his life as it was his client's. He needed help, and the one person who could help him the most was sitting in the county lockup. Mason tapped the clutch, downshifted, and opened the throttle. The burst of growling speed came at the same moment as did a crazy idea how he could get Blues out of jail.

Mason circled Zimmerman's block once, quietly relieved that there were no signs of life in the split-level, brick-front house. He circled again, this time parking at the curb on the street that intersected Zimmerman's. A minivan parked in front of him gave him added cover. Mason had a right-angle view of Zimmerman's house, which was in the middle of the block. He turned off his engine, and hoped that no one would notice the only classic sports car within miles even though a sign at the corner read

neighborhood watch!

WE CALL THE POLICE!

Tuffy pawed at her window, and Mason cranked the engine so he could put it down for her. She leaned the upper third of her body out the window and wagged her tail in Mason's face.

Mason knew a bad idea when he had one and said as much to the dog. "This is nuts. We're out of here."

Before Mason could put the car in gear, a lumbering black Chevy Suburban turned onto the street he was on. Mason blanched when he looked in his rearview mirror and saw Carl Zimmerman behind the wheel. Mason scrunched down in his seat while he racked his memory for any mention that he might have ever made to Zimmerman about owning the TR-6.

The Suburban slowly rolled past him toward the stop sign at the corner. Mason didn't look up, even though the driver's seat in the Suburban was considerably higher above the ground than the TR-6's, making it doubtful that Zimmerman could see Mason's face. Mason peeked at the Suburban, and saw a collection of young faces pressed against the passenger-side windows, mouths agape at the TR-6 and the dog riding shotgun, hanging out the window.

Mason watched as Zimmerman pulled into his driveway and a half dozen young boys dressed in Cub Scout uniforms piled out of the Suburban, some of them staring and pointing at his car parked half a block away. Carl Zimmerman herded them toward the front door, taking a long look at Mason's car before following his troop into the house.

"Brilliant," Mason told Tuffy. "Carl Zimmerman- homicide detective, Cub Scout leader, and murderer. That's the ticket!"

Tuffy ignored him and pointed her snout into the breeze as Mason headed for home.