Harry swung the door of the Jeep open and dropped to the ground, his own gun extended through the open driver's window.

"Put it down, Carl!" Harry demanded.

Zimmerman held one hand to his eyes, trying to block out the glare of the headlights. "Why, Harry? You got what you came for. I'm out of options, man. Either I kill all of you or you kill me. That's all that's left."

"No! That's not the way this is going to go down. Think about your family."

"Too late for that, Harry. You're gonna have to kill me!" he shouted, opening fire again.

Harry fired at the first flash from Zimmerman's gun, not stopping until Zimmerman fell face-forward out of the Suburban, folded over the open door at his waist, his arms and face dangling lifelessly in the black water.

Chapter Thirty-five

The blizzard suffocated the city for two days, keeping businesses, schools, and government in suspended animation, an emphatic reminder that nature's power to destroy was a match for man's worst instincts. The difference between nature and man was that nature looked good doing it. The city was draped in a thick white blanket that sparkled brilliantly under the cold rays of the sun. The snow reflected a painfully beautiful glare that polished the ice-blue sky with aching clarity.

Seventeen inches of snow had fallen on top of three inches of ice. One hundred thousand people had been left without power, and hundreds of electrical lines had gone down breaking the fall of limbs that had snapped off from trees like matchsticks under the weight of ice and snow. Property damage had been estimated at close to eighty million dollars.

Nineteen people had been killed in car accidents. Two men had suffered fatal heart attacks while shoveling snow from their walks over the vigorous objections of their wives. Four men-two of them cops and two of them hoods-had been killed at the lagoon in Swope Park.

The story of those last men had led every newscast, filled every front page, and clogged the phone lines of every radio call-in show, shoving the snowstorm of the century to the back page. The people preferred bloodshed to blizzards.

The chief of police personally suspended Harry when he made it to the lagoon. He demanded Harry's gun and badge on the spot, and came within a hairsbreadth of arresting Harry for something, anything. Every cop who shot someone to death was placed on administrative leave while the shooting was investigated. Almost all of them were ultimately welcomed back to duty with more thanks than reprimands.

Not one cop in the department's collective memory had killed his partner, let alone turned over crucial evidence to the FBI before summoning his brother officers to the scene. Not one, that is, until Harry Ryman.

Harry had explained to the chief that the box containing Cullan's files was evidence of a federal crime of political corruption and that the Bureau's jurisdiction was obvious. The chief explained to Harry that he was full of shit and would be lucky not to be fired and convicted of murder. The exchange between the two men had been hot enough to nearly melt the snow at their feet.

"You were right to call the Feds," Mason told Harry later as they sat in the Jeep waiting for the crime-scene techs to finish up. "Nobody does a good job cleaning their own house."

"I know that, but it won't make things any easier if they let me come back. Did you find what you were looking for in Cullan's files?"

Harry had let Mason examine the contents of the plastic box while they waited for the FBI to arrive. Zimmerman and Toland had kept only the best of Cullan's files, limiting themselves to the dirt on the mayor, Beth Harrell, Ed Fiora, the prosecuting attorney, and a handful of influential business people. They could, Mason had concluded, have released the files on a CD titled Blackmail's Greatest Hits.

Mason studied the pictures of Beth, this time focusing on her face, searching for, but not finding, a clue that would bring her into focus. True to form, Cullan had given a set of Beth's pictures to Fiora, saving his own copy for another time.

The mayor's file was surprisingly thin, nothing more than a few ledger sheets that may or may not have been a record of payoffs. Though he had only had a few minutes to study Fiora's file, Mason hadn't found proof of any links between Fiora and the mayor.

Mason's calculation of the destruction caused by his search for these files rivaled the storm's devastation. Four men were dead, as many families were ruined. Judge Carter's career was in shambles. Harry had been suspended. Blues was still accused of Cullan's murder, and Mason was still under suspicion for the death of Shirley Parker.

Harry had repeated his question, not certain whether Mason had heard. "Any luck with Cullan's files?"

Mason had shaken his head. "There should have been something more in those files, but it wasn't there. Maybe Zimmerman and Toland were holding back." He hadn't known what else to say.

By Friday morning, the city was crawling back to life. Streets had been cleared, creating mini-canyons paved with asphalt and surrounded by curbside walls made of exhaust-blackened, plow-packed snow. Mason was in his office when he got a call from Patrick Ortiz.

"We're dropping the charges against your client," Ortiz said.

"Thanks," Mason told him. "Was it Zimmerman and Toland?"

"Doubtful," Ortiz answered. "Zimmerman's wife told us all about his deal with Cullan. They've got an autistic kid. She claims he did it because they needed the money to pay for a special school for the kid. Toland just liked the good life-big Harley, women by the hour, booze by the case. Zimmerman's wife and Toland's girlfriend of the week gave both of them alibis for Cullan's murder."

"Any other leads?"

"The truth is we don't have shit on anybody, but tell your client not to get too comfortable. We may refile the charges if we come up with something."

"What about Shirley Parker?"

"She and Cullan are dead-end bookends," Ortiz said.

Mason permitted himself a small sigh of relief and changed subjects. "What do you hear from the Feds?"

"They skipped the investigation and started with the inquisition," Ortiz answered. "Harry Ryman has as much chance of getting his shield back as I have of getting it on with Jennifer Lopez."

Mason said, "I don't know. My guess is that the chief will end up begging Harry to come back."

"Right," Ortiz said. "If Jennifer turns me down, I'll have her call you. See you around."

Mason found Blues in his office, adding up his losses over the last month.

"I'm going to have to hire strippers and give away whiskey just to pay my mortgage," Blues said when Mason walked in.

"Don't give up yet," Mason said. "Patrick Ortiz just called. They dropped the charges against you."

Blues leaned back in his chair and looked at Mason, then swiveled to get a look out the window. He stood up, scanning the view down Broadway, before turning back to Mason. He pursed his lips and nodded. "Good."

"That's it?" Mason asked. "That's not the reaction of a client who's happy enough to pay his lawyer."

Blues said, "I didn't belong in jail. Nighttime was the worst. My pillow felt like quicksand. Makes it hard to get excited when it never should have happened. Makes it harder to forget when I know how easily an innocent man can get put away."

"Man, you are one depressing son of a bitch when you get philosophical," Mason told him.

Blues laughed. "I'll tell you what will cheer me up. Let's go see Howard Trimble at Liquor Control and get my license reinstated so I can pay your bill or buy you lunch, whichever costs less."

Blues had recently bought a Ford F150 and insisted on driving. They parked in front of Rossi's bar and walked to City Hall.