Chapter Thirty-two

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 heavily 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," Mason repeated. "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, computer hacker who doesn't have a pot to piss in."

"You hired him," Blues answered. "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 on Twelfth Street. He stayed on the sidewalk and turned east, dodging parking meters until he reached Locust. He turned north on Locust, continuing to use the sidewalk as his personal lane until he found a narrow break in the traffic congestion on Locust. He goosed the Jeep across Locust, up onto the sidewalk on the other side of the street. When he made it to Tenth Street, he turned east again, staying on the sidewalk until he was clear of the downtown traffic.

From there, 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 in through the front 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.

"Cool!" 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 will ever find them."

Mason and Mickey followed Blues upstairs to his office. Blues opened the floor safe and removed a.45-caliber Baer Stinger pistol and holster. He loaded the pistol, sliding it into the holster he'd attached to his belt, and dumped two extra ammunition clips into his jacket pocket.

"Are you going to talk to Zimmerman or just shoot him?" Mason asked.

"Depends on my mood," Blues said. "If Toland and Zimmerman stole Cullan's files, they had to have a new hiding place. It's got to be someplace secure that won't attract attention. Zimmerman wouldn't leave it up to Toland, so it's got to be someplace Zimmerman picked. I'm a lot better at watching without being seen than you are," he told Mason.

Mason asked, "Where do you start watching? You don't even know where Zimmerman is. What makes you think he's going to go look at those files in the middle of a blizzard?"

"You," he said to Mason, "are going to find out where Zimmerman is when you call Harry to tell him about my fingerprint. I'd ask where Zimmerman is first, since Harry will probably stop speaking to you after you tell him about the fingerprint. Then I'll go sit on Zimmerman while you go visit Ed Fiora."

Mason asked, "What for?"

"Fiora said he's got videotape to show you. Odds are he has the person who shot at you on that tape. Tell him you think you know who killed Cullan, but you need to see the videotape to be certain."

"You think Zimmerman was the shooter?"

"Probably not. My money is on Beth Harrell, but it doesn't matter. The videotape is just a pretext for your meeting. You'll remind Fiora that you promised to give him his file if you found it. Tell him that Zimmerman has his file. Tell him to call Zimmerman and offer to buy the file and to hire Zimmerman as a security consultant."

"Why can't I just do that over the phone?" Mason asked.

Blues explained patiently. "Because you've got to make certain that Fiora actually calls Zimmerman. You can't take his word for it."

"Why do you think Fiora will be able to flush Zimmerman out on a day like this?" Mason asked.

"Because Fiora will also tell Zimmerman that his offer expires at midnight. After that, Fiora will put Zimmerman out of business himself."

Mickey said, "It's a cross-rough. You figure Fiora won't wait for us to bring him the file. He'll go after Zimmerman. This way, you can take down both of them and get Fiora off of Lou's back."

"Not me," Blues said. "Harry will take them all down. He'll be the hero. I'll go back to being the bartender. Can you set it up with Harry and Fiora?" Blues asked Mason.

"Small potatoes," Mason said. "Where will you be while I'm running the snowstorm shuttle?"

Blues smiled. "Right here, nice and warm. Waiting for your call so I can go out and save our asses! You better take that gun I gave you. I didn't see it in the safe. Where is it?"

"My office," Mason said. "You're probably right."

Mason's phone rang as he stuck his pistol into his jacket pocket. "Lou Mason," he answered.

Rachel Firestone barked at him. "How did you do it?"

"How did I do what?"

"Don't give me that crap, Lou! How did you get Judge Carter to order bail for Blues?"

Mason wasn't surprised that Rachel had learned of Blues's release. He couldn't guess at the number of sources she'd cultivated over the years. Her sharp tone carried the unspoken complaint that he hadn't tipped her off.

"Off the record?" he asked.

"Not a chance."

"Fine. Judge Carter ordered Patrick Ortiz and me to appear for a status conference at eight o'clock this morning. I mentioned the prosecutor's opposition to bail. She said that she'd routinely granted bail in similar cases and saw no reason to treat Blues any differently."

"Didn't it strike you as odd that there was no formal hearing on bail, no opportunity for Ortiz to object on the record or present evidence?"

It was obvious to Mason that Rachel had already talked with Ortiz and gotten a taste of the prosecutor's fury. "Judges have a lot of discretion," he told her. "You'll have to ask Judge Carter why she handled it that way."