"No can do," Rachel said. "Right after your conference, she turned in her resignation to the presiding judge and left the courthouse. No one answers the phone at her home and no one has seen her. She's disappeared. What's happening?"

Mason dropped into his desk chair and stared out the window at the blizzard. He'd been trying to navigate his way through a storm that had turned into an avalanche, an out-of-control cascading disaster.

"Lou!" Rachel demanded again. "What's going on?"

"I'll call you later," he said, and hung up.

Mason dialed Harry's pager, punched in his own number, and hung up again. Mason's phone rang a minute later.

"Harry?"

The urgency in Mason's voice was unmistakable. "What's the matter?" Harry asked.

"Nothing," Mason lied, gathering himself. "I need to talk to you."

"I thought that's what we were doing."

"No. Not on the phone. Where are you?"

"Same place as the rest of the world. Stuck in traffic behind some moron with rear-wheel drive."

"Where?"

"On Main Street, between Thirty-fifth and Thirty-sixth."

"You alone?"

"Yeah. Lou, what's the matter?"

"Pull over and park. I'll be there in ten minutes."

Main was the next major thoroughfare east of Broadway. Though only four side streets separated them, Mason knew that he would make better time on foot than in his Jeep. Traffic was light on the side streets since most drivers had gotten stuck on the main roads before they could try alternate routes.

As he walked, Mason got a new perspective on the power of the storm. Tree limbs sagged under the heavy weight of ice and snow, some of the heavier ones fracturing and tumbling to the ground. He passed one house where a huge limb had broken and crashed through the roof. Mason gauged the strain on overhead power lines as they too bent in the wind. It wouldn't take much more for them to start snapping, adding another deadly special effect to the storm.

Mason found Harry's car in the middle of Main Street, surrounded by a flotilla of stranded drivers.

"Nice day for a drive," Mason said as he slid into the passenger seat.

"Thanks for dropping by," Harry answered. "We're always open."

"How'd you get stuck on duty? Where's your partner?"

"He got lucky and had some personal stuff to take care of at home. He never made it in today," Harry said as he turned down the radio.

"Any updates on the storm?"

"It's gone past blizzard," Harry said. "It's now officially a whiteout, whatever that is. The expected accumulation is a guess. The real problems are the ice and the wind. A lot of people won't get home tonight. So what's so important?"

"I need a favor."

"So ask."

"I want you to compare Blues's fingerprint that was found on Cullan's desk to the print for the same finger in his personnel file."

Harry didn't respond. The wipers squeaked as they brushed back and forth, moving snow from one side of the windshield to the other.

"What would I be looking for if I was to do that?" Harry asked Mason, still without looking at him.

"To see if the two prints were identical."

"You mean to see if someone forged the print found at Cullan's house."

Mason lowered his head and studied his gloved hands. "Yeah," he said.

"You've read the reports?" Harry asked, still watching the snow fall and the traffic stall.

"I've read them. I know that Carl Zimmerman asked Terrence Dawson to take a second look at the scene and mat's when Blues's fingerprint was found."

"So, you know what you're saying? You know what you're asking me to do?" Harry turned and met Mason's eyes.

"I know, Harry. It's like you always told me. Knowing the right thing to do is the easy part. I'll see you later."

Mason stopped at the bar long enough to tell Blues that Zimmerman was probably sitting out the storm at home. They agreed to keep in touch by cell phone, and Mason left again. He had almost finished scraping the newest layer of snow and ice from his car when Mickey opened the passenger door and climbed aboard.

"Damn, this weather blows!" he said when Mason finished scraping and joined him.

"What are you doing here?" Mason asked.

"Wingman riding shotgun," Mickey answered.

"Any point in telling you to stay here?"

"None."

Mason took his gun from his jacket pocket and put it in his glove compartment. "Did Blues give you a gun too, or are you just glad to see me?"

Mickey reached under his jacket and sheepishly removed a.44-caliber pistol that he added to the glove compartment. "He didn't exactly give it to me," Mickey explained.

"Does he know, exactly, that you took it?"

"Not exactly."

"Then you'll want to return it when we get back and hope Blues doesn't find out, or he'll break both your legs above the knees."

"Exactly," Mickey said.

"If you've got any more toys hidden in your pants or stuck up your ass, get them out now. We'll never get next to Fiora without being searched. If we get to the point that we need weapons, it'll probably be too late to use them."

Mickey put a switchblade knife and a lead sap into the glove compartment and closed it. "Home Shopping Network," he explained.

Mason called the Dream Casino before they pulled out of the parking lot, leaving a message with Fiora's administrative assistant that he was on his way to watch Fiora's home movies. The drive to the casino was an adventure in urban off-road driving. Mason used side streets whenever he could, and sidewalks when he had to. Cops he passed shook their heads and fists at him, but they were too busy with car wrecks and traffic jams to chase him down.

Along the way, Mason couldn't get the image of Judge Carter sitting behind her desk, frazzled and distracted, out of his mind. Now he understood why she had looked frayed at the edges. On the one hand, she had made herself vulnerable to Ed Fiora and paid the price. On the other, Mason had shoved her over the edge. It was another IOU that Mason would have to carry until he could find a way to pay it back.

The clanging, whistling, siren-sounding slot machines were getting a workout in spite of the weather. Once inside, the gamblers were oblivious of the storm that gave them the perfect excuse for getting home late. Tony Manzerio escorted Mason and Mickey to Fiora's office.

"This weather is killing my business!" Fiora complained when Mason walked through the door.

"The storm's like a kidney stone. It'll pass-painfully- but it will pass."

"Is that the kind of legal advice you give, Mason? 'Cause if it is, I'd seriously consider another line of work," Fiora advised.

"I'm close to figuring out who killed Jack Cullan. I need one more piece of the puzzle. It may be in the videotape you told me I should come see after this case ends. I need to see the tape now. If it shows what I think it does, it may help me close the loop on a suspect."

"Mason, you're starting to act like I'm your fairy godmother with all the favors you've been asking. You haven't even thanked me for the last one I did for you."

"As long as I'm asking, I want Judge Carter's account marked paid in full. Take her off your books."

"This is no time to get a conscience, Mason. Everybody's a player at some level. She played, she lost. What's the big deal?"

"If you've got a marker with Judge Carter's name on it, I'd like to see it."

"It doesn't have her name on it. It has her son's name. She keeps him from getting a beating when he comes up short, which happens with some regularity."

"How much does the kid owe?"

"Doesn't matter. He pays up one week, he's down the next. We send him postcards about Gamblers Anonymous; makes us feel better."

"Clear the kid's marker and don't let him back in the casino. That's my deal."