Lou Mason Mystery - 02 - The Last Witness (9 page)

Kansas City was dotted with ethnic pockets like the West Side. Decades earlier, Italian immigrants had settled in the North End. Though later generations had moved south to the suburbs, enough had stayed to preserve the identity of the area.

The East Side was called the urban core, code words meaning where the black people lived. It had the highest crime rate, the highest unemployment rate, and the worst schools. It was the recipient of the most lip service, campaign promises, and hand-wringing at city hall.

Midtown was a rough square bounded on the north by the Plaza at Forty-Seventh Street, on the east by Holmes Road, on the south by Seventy-Fifth Street, and on the west by State Line Road, the divider between Missouri and Kansas. It was home to the city’s power elite. Private schools made the dismal public schools irrelevant. Homes in Sunset Hills above the Plaza, where Cullan lived, and along Ward Parkway fetched seven figures. Fashionably fit white men and women jogged along Ward Parkway, comfortable in the belief that their lives were the ones the city was referring to when it claimed to be the most livable city in America.

His aunt Claire’s house, the house Mason had grown up in and later received as a wedding gift from her, was located in the heart of midtown between Ward Parkway and Wornall Road, two blocks south of Loose Park. Claire had made it one of her missions in life to expose Mason to the entire city lest he grow up thinking that everyone was white and drove a Land Rover.

Though they were Jewish, she had taken him to a black Methodist congregation, telling him that no one had the best corner of religious real estate. She took him to the City Union Mission to serve Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless, and then took him on a driving tour of the city’s underbelly, where they found those who wouldn’t come to the mission and gave them blankets and box dinners.

“You’re damn lucky, that’s all,” she told him after they’d completed their deliveries one particularly cold Thanksgiving when he was ten years old. It had rained all day, the kind of cold, relentless rain that erodes any trace of warmth hidden in the body. Their last stop had been a tarpaper shanty built into the side of a bridge abutment. A man and a woman lived there, although it was difficult to tell which was which. They both had greasy brown hair plastered to their heads with dirt and rain that had blown into their makeshift shelter. Their eyes were hollow, their cheeks splotched with broken blood vessels, and the few teeth they still had were yellow and rotted.

“Why?” Mason asked her. “Because we don’t live under a bridge?”

“Partly. Mostly because you’re an upper-middle-class white male and this country doesn’t like anything better than that. Just don’t confuse luck with brilliance. Don’t think because you were born on third base that you hit a triple. Do something with your life that makes a difference for someone beside yourself. Otherwise, you’ll never score. You’ll just die on third base.”

Mason envied Claire for her passion to do the right thing, fight the good fight. He had looked for the same spark in his own practice, first in a small firm that represented injured people, then in a big firm that protected people’s money, and now in his own practice, where he just protected people. He’d found the spark. Now he just hoped it wouldn’t start a fire that consumed everyone he cared about.

Mason was lousy at big social functions. He was no good at being a hail-fellow-well-met or assuring a new face that he was damn glad to meet him while the new face looked over his shoulder for a better deal.

He stood at the back of the Hyatt Hotel ballroom and listened as the mayor sang the praises of the Salvation Army. The speech had been written for him, but he made the words his own. He had the connection gene in his DNA that linked him to his audience, erasing any suggestion that both he and they were just going through the motions.

Billy Sunshine had been the quarterback for the Kansas City Chiefs, retiring after winning the Super Bowl on an eighty-yard bootleg as time expired. He announced his retirement and his candidacy for mayor the day after the ticker-tape parade. Women swooned at his chiseled good looks and men got teary eyed when he told football war stories on the campaign trail.

Even his critics conceded that he was more than another jock with a Super Bowl ring. He was bright, earnest, charming, and irresistible. Dogged by scandal, his cleats replaced with feet of clay, he pretended not to notice as he worked the crowd. No one else in the ballroom noticed either as he wove another football memory into his remarks, earning warm laughter and enthusiastic applause.

The ballroom was packed, at least a thousand people by Mason’s estimation, each table festooned with a placard identifying the corporate sponsor that had paid for lunch. Sponsors who wrote big enough checks watched their names and company logos scroll across a video loop projected above the head table.

Mason was Jewish, making Christmas a bystander holiday. His aunt Claire raised him on Jewish ethics, adopting as her personal creed the commandment to heal the world, while discarding the rituals and holidays as little more than historical relics. He wasn’t observant, though he occasionally acknowledged a spiritual itch in the back of his soul he wasn’t certain how to scratch.

“The gentiles sure know how to throw a party,” Rachel Firestone said.

He was so caught up in the mayor’s speech that he hadn’t noticed her until she tugged on his sleeve.

“Let me guess. You’re a Jewish lesbian.”

“Damn straight! Though I’m not. Too bad you can’t take me home to your mother.”

“More than you know. She would have wanted me to marry a nice Jewish girl, just not one who also wanted to marry a nice Jewish girl.”

“Oops. A past-tense mother is not a good thing. Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. She and my father were killed in a car wreck when I was three. My aunt Claire raised me.”

“Sounds like a feature story. Not my beat. What’s your plan to get to the mayor?”

“I was planning on waving a five-dollar bill over my head and whistling. What do you think?”

“That only works with the hookers on Independence Avenue. The mayor’s price is higher. See that woman standing over there next to the door to the kitchen?”

Mason followed the aim of Rachel’s extended hand, fixing on a dark-haired woman in a severe gray suit standing next to the kitchen door, watching the mayor and her watch, and tapping her foot against the thick carpet.

“Who is she?”

“Amy White, the mayor’s chief of staff. She ran Sunshine’s last campaign and is planning his run for Congress just in case he doesn’t get indicted.”

“What’s her story?”

“The usual political prodigy. Savvy, loves politics, and thinks Sunshine will take her a long way if he can stay out of jail.”

“Savvy enough to keep me from asking the mayor, in front of God and everybody, if he knows who killed Jack Cullan?”

“With one hand tied behind her back. Take your best shot.”

Mason winked at Rachel. “No time like the present.”

He weaved his way around the tables, ignoring the turned heads and murmurs that followed him. Last year, his picture had been in the newspaper and on television for weeks, accompanied by a media chorus flogging the deadly demise of his law firm, Sullivan & Christenson. He refused to play the celebrity, adding an unintended angle to the story. Rachel’s latest article on Cullan’s murder identified him as Blues’s attorney, reminding readers that he had been a suspect, killer, and hero in the Sullivan & Christenson case.

The mayor finished his remarks and made his way toward Amy White. Mason was on course to intercept him. The buzz increased as people sensed that something was about to happen that would make their $150-a-plate lunch worth the price of admission.

Amy White was the first hurdle Mason had to overcome. She had auburn hair that fell against the base of her neck, dark-rimmed glasses giving her unlined face a serious cast, her gray suit covering a slender build.

She watched as he approached, not flinching, her intense gaze more curious than concerned. Those closest to the scene surged a few steps closer, not wanting to miss anything. Billy Sunshine reached Amy a half step ahead of Mason.

“Merry Christmas, Lou,” the mayor boomed loud enough to be heard at Santa’s North Pole workshop and grasped Mason’s hand. “Glad you could make it. I want to talk with you about Jack Cullan’s murder. You’ve got a job to do. I understand that. But Jack was a good man and a good friend. He deserves justice and his killer deserves the maximum punishment the law allows. I know you want that as much as you want to help your client.”

Amy White permitted herself a small smile, satisfied that the TV cameras had captured the moment. She tilted her head toward the doors to the kitchen. Sunshine took his cue, cupping Mason’s elbow, leading him through the kitchen, stopping at the service elevator.

“You’re as good as people say you are, Mr. Mayor. You saw me coming the whole way,” Mason said.

“A good quarterback has to be able to pick up the blitz.”

“And it helps to have a good defensive coordinator.”

“Amy is the best in the business. You’ve got five minutes. Don’t waste them and don’t darken my door again. You do and I’ll tell the press that you’re harassing me. You can call me to testify at the trial if you think I’ve got anything to say, but you won’t hear anything different then from what I’ll tell you now.”

“I’ll have a lot more than five minutes at trial.”

Sunshine looked at his watch. “Four minutes. I hope you’re better in court.”

“Let’s make it the two-minute drill. Did Jack Cullan ever represent you?”

“Yes. On private matters that are protected by the attorney-client privilege.”

“Did he bribe you to approve the license for the Dream Casino?”

“No. One minute.”

“Who killed him?”

“According to the police, your client. Thirty seconds. Time for one last play.”

“What’s in Jack Cullan’s secret file on you?”

Sunshine didn’t answer. His involuntary glance at Amy and the twitch in his eye told Mason he’d scored.

“Maybe you don’t know,” Mason said. “I guess you’ll find out in court. Merry Christmas.”

Mason was parked on the third level of the Hyatt’s covered parking garage. Melting snow laced with dirt and debris gave the garage a dank taste, like a flooded basement. As he turned the key in the ignition, Amy White rapped a gloved hand on the front passenger window, opened the door, and slid in beside him.

“If you lost the mayor, don’t look at me. I left him with you.”

“Cute. We need to talk.”

“I tried that. It didn’t work too well.”

“I’m sorry about what happened in the hotel. Blame me, not the mayor. I read Rachel Firestone’s article in today’s paper. She practically accused the mayor of trying to railroad your client onto death row. I had a feeling you might show up at one of the mayor’s public appearances since he wouldn’t see you at his office. I handled it the only way I could without having another incident.”

“Wouldn’t it have been a lot easier to make an appointment?”

“The mayor’s schedule is so tight I can barely get in to see him.”

“That’s bullshit. You just hoped I didn’t have the balls to nail your boss in public. I’ve got to hand it to you, though. You guys were ready. Made it look like I was at the top of the mayor’s Christmas list.”

“I can put you there.”

She arched an eyebrow and cocked her head to one side. It wasn’t exactly a come-hither look. She didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who would wet her lower lip with her tongue and open her thighs a provocative inch or two to make an offer he couldn’t refuse.

“Of course you can. In return for what? My firstborn male child?”

“Nothing so dramatic. Besides, Rachel Firestone would just write a story that the mayor had fathered another child out of wedlock.”

“She really gets under your skin, doesn’t she?”

“No. She just creates work for me to do. The mayor has done tremendous things for this city, and she can’t stand that.”

“Save it. The mayor isn’t George Washington or even George Bush. He won the Super Bowl and should have gone to Disney World instead of city hall. I thought he’d be more interested in who killed Jack Cullan since they were so tight.”

“The mayor believes that the killer has been caught. But he wants to be fair to your client. He’s opposed to any rush to judgment.”

“You can’t possibly believe that, and even if you do, you can’t possibly expect me to believe it. If half of what Rachel Firestone has written about your boss and the Dream Casino is true, the odds are two to one that Cullan’s murder is tied to that deal. We both know the best thing that could happen to the mayor is for my client to be convicted or plead guilty before Cullan’s secret files end up on the front page of the
Star
.”

“Do you have the files?”

“What do you think?”

“I think if you did, they would already have been on the front page.”

“And you can’t let that happen, can you? If I keep the mayor out of my case, will he name a street after me?”

“The mayor had nothing to do with Jack Cullan’s death. There’s no reason to throw mud at him. That won’t save your client.”

“Finding the killer will save my client. If the mayor wants to stay above the fray, I need his help. I need to know the whole story about the Dream Casino.”

“The mayor can’t help you. Even if he wanted to, I wouldn’t let him. But I’ll help you on one condition. If you find Cullan’s files—assuming they really exist—I want to see the mayor’s file before anyone else. If there’s anything in it that will help your client, use it. If there isn’t, I get the file and you agree that you never saw it.”

Amy was the second person to make him an offer if he found the files. Like the deal he had made with Rachel, this one could also help Blues.