Mason had been trying to keep his interrogation casual. Blues was roaming around Trimble's small office, reading the diplomas and certificates that traced Trimble's career. Both of them came to attention at Trimble's explanation.

"What happened?" Mason asked.

"Cheryl was three years younger than Amy. Their father was arrested for abusing Cheryl. His lawyer got the charges dismissed and hushed the whole thing up so Donald could keep his job as director of this department." Trimble tilted his head back as if trying to expel his memory of Donald Ray White. He continued the story, biting off each word with obvious distaste.

"When Donald Ray was released from jail, he beat Cheryl so severely that she was permanently brain-damaged. Somehow, Cheryl managed to get a hold of Donald Ray's pistol and killed her father. Amy's mother hired the same lawyer who got her husband off to get her daughter off. Cheryl wasn't prosecuted because she was a brain-damaged child. Their mother drank herself to death a few years later, and Amy has taken care of Cheryl ever since."

"Who was the lawyer?" Mason asked.

"Jack Cullan," Trimble answered, aiming his words at a blank spot on the wall.

Mason put his hand on Trimble's shoulder. He wanted to thank Trimble for telling him the truth, but from the broken expression on Trimble's face, Mason knew that he didn't want any thanks.

Chapter Thirty-six

Mason pushed the button for an elevator going up as Blues pushed another button for an elevator going down.

"I'm going to see Amy White," Mason said. "Don't you want to come along?"

"My guess is that she bolted right after Trimble called her. I'll wait in the lobby just in case she decided to clean her desk out first," Blues answered. "I'll follow her if I get the chance. You can call Mickey for a ride back to the bar."

Mason walked off the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor and into the mayor's suite of offices. Though the city was officially open, many people had taken another day off, leaving the mayor's office with a skeleton staff.

The one secretary who had come into work confirmed Blues's guess. Amy White had left without saying when or if she would be back. Mason was composing a lie he hoped would convince the secretary to give him Amy's home address when the mayor opened the door to his office.

"Your car is ready, Mr. Mayor," the secretary told him.

"Thank you, Margaret," the mayor said.

Mason cringed at the sound of the secretary's name, and abandoned any hope that a secretary named Margaret would tell him anything other than to get lost. Mason was convinced that he'd done something in a past life to offend the goddess of bureaucrats, civil servants, and secretaries named Margaret. He was willing to make a sacrificial offering to appease the goddess, but was afraid that the opening bid would be one of his testicles.

Mayor Sunshine was wearing jeans, a Kansas City Chiefs sweatshirt, boots, and a down-filled parka. Mason assumed that Amy had advised him to maintain a workingman's look to identify with everyone else who was still digging out of the storm. Though the mayor was known for his unflappable good humor and insistence on shaking every hand, he walked briskly past Mason, his face cold, his smile buried in a snowdrift, his hands jammed in his coat pockets.

"I don't have time today, Mr. Mason," he said over his shoulder.

Mason caught up with him at the elevator. "Thanks all the same, Mr. Mayor. Actually, I was looking for Amy White, not you."

A panel on the wall with columns for each elevator and numbers for each floor kept track of the vertical routes of the four elevators that serviced City Hall. As each elevator passed a floor, the number for that floor was illuminated so that anyone waiting for an elevator could watch with growing frustration the tortoise-paced progress of the cars. The mayor gave his full attention to the flashing lights, shutting Mason out.

"Amy had asked me to find the file Jack Cullan kept on you," Mason said as if he and the mayor hung out together all the time. "Ah, but she probably didn't bother you with stuff like that."

The mayor chose not to hear Mason until he cleared his throat as if he were about to cough up a lung.

"Sorry about that. It's this damn weather. Makes me drain like a leaky faucet," Mason explained. "Anyway," he continued, "I came by to tell her that I did find your file, but the FBI snagged it before I did. Man, you should have been at the lagoon when that cluster fuck broke out. I'll bet the chief of police, the prosecuting attorney, and Amy tripped all over each other to deliver that piece of good news to you. Luckily, I did get a chance to read your file. So tell Amy to give me a call and I'll tell her what's in it."

The mayor turned to Mason, his mouth and eyes fighting over which could open wider. "You read my file?"

"Cover to cover, Mayor Sunshine. Though I have to tell you, it was a disappointment. I mean, I was expecting more than some lousy ledger sheets that a pencil-necked bean counter will probably weave into a money-laundering and bribery indictment. Still, it was almost like someone had taken the good stuff out of the file and left just enough behind to chap your ass."

The mayor glared at Mason, "What do you want?" he asked.

"Not much," Mason answered. "At this point, I'd settle for Amy's home address."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Is that an apartment or a house?" Mason asked as two elevators arrived at the same moment. Mason stepped into one and waved at the mayor as the doors closed.

Blues wasn't in the lobby, and Mason assumed that he was following Amy White. Blues carried a cell phone, but rarely left it on. If he wanted to be found, he told Mason one day, he'd make it easy. Mason tried his number anyway, and wasn't surprised when a digitized voice announced that the customer Mason had called was either out of the service area or had turned his phone off.

Mason called Harry at home and at his aunt Claire's, finding him at neither place.

"How's Harry doing?" Mason asked Claire.

"Everybody takes their turn in the barrel. This is his turn," she said. "He went to see Carl Zimmerman's wife. She wouldn't let him in. I think he's out roaming. He left his cell phone and pager at home."

"Have him call me on my cell phone as soon as he surfaces. It's important."

"It always is," Claire said with a mix of sarcasm and sadness.

Mason called Mickey, told him where to find a spare key to the Jeep, and promised him lunch in return for a ride. City Hall had an ancient boiler that generated too much heat and an unbalanced ventilation system that created a worldwide array of climates throughout the building. The lobby felt like the tropics cooled with bursts of cold air drawn inside each time the revolving doors spun around. Mason lingered against a cool marble column near the entrance waiting for Mickey. His cell phone rang, rupturing his fantasy of lying on a beach next to a suddenly heterosexual Rachel Firestone.

"You looking for me?" Harry asked.

"Yeah. Do you have any friends left in the department who would do you a favor?"

Harry snorted. "Like what? Box up the stuff in my desk and mail it to me postage-due?"

"That's an option," Mason answered. "Would they do you a favor that might make them unpack your box?"

"Talk to me."

Mason explained to Harry what he wanted. "Is that doable?"

"It's a long shot on a good day, and this ain't a good day. I'll see what I can do, but don't be in a hurry. This may take a while. Leave your cell phone on."

Mason and Mickey stopped at Winsteads, home of the steakburger, and fortified themselves against the cold with double cheeseburgers with everything and grilled onions, crispy french fries, and chocolate shakes. They dipped their last fry into a pool of ketchup, then navigated through traffic back to the office.