"I wasn't there," Blues repeated.

Mason studied Blues as he spoke. There was no artifice, no subtle tics born of a liar's stress. There never had been with Blues. Mason couldn't think of a single time that Blues had ever lied to him. About anything. Blues knew it would do him no good to lie now. Just as it would do Ortiz no good to lie. They couldn't both be telling the truth.

"Maybe the forensics people just made a mistake. It wouldn't be the first time," Mason said.

"If that's supposed to make me feel better, it doesn't," Blues said. "They want me for this, Lou. They've got to make it be me."

"I don't buy it, Blues. I don't care what happened between you and Harry. I don't buy it."

"Doesn't matter if it is Harry. You've got to go after all of them, Lou. If you don't, I'm a dead man."

Mason sighed deeply, feeling the walls close in on him as if he were the prisoner. " Campbell offered you a deal. Second degree, no recommendation on sentencing, out in seven years."

"No," Blues said without hesitation.

"I know. I told Campbell that was the worst that you would get in a trial. Campbell said it's the best deal you'll get and that it's off the table once the preliminary hearings starts."

"No deals, Lou. Tell Campbell to go fuck himself. Tell him today-now. I don't want that punk bitch to believe I'm even thinking about it."

"I will, Blues," Mason said.

Mason used his cell phone to call Patrick Ortiz after he left the jail.

"Patrick, it's Lou Mason. My client says he'll take a pass on your deal."

"Have a nice life," Ortiz told him and hung up the phone.

Sure thing, Mason thought to himself. Whatever is left of it.

New Year's Eve fell on a Monday. No one had tried to kill him since Blues had turned down the prosecutor's plea bargain. Mason didn't know whether that was just luck or whether thugs took off the week between Christmas and New Year's.

Mason sat at his desk late in the afternoon gazing out the window onto Broadway. It was a slate-gray day, the sky nearly the same color as the pavement. It was hard to tell where one ended and the other began. Black ice made of frozen slush and grime was pocketed along curbs and buildings the length of Broadway. It hadn't snowed in two weeks, but it hadn't been warm enough to melt the hard-core remnants of the last storm.

There was a strip shopping center across the street and a block south, the edge of which he could see from his window if he leaned forward far enough. Christmas lights had been strung along the outside of the stores in the center. The owner had turned them on even though it wasn't quite dark yet. The lights he could see-red, green, blue, and white- twinkled weakly in the fading light. They needed the night to shine.

There wasn't much traffic. Most people had already gone home to get their game faces on for the night of celebration that lay ahead. The only phone calls he'd had all day had been from Mickey Shanahan, asking Mason's advice for the last-minute preparations for the club. New Year's Eve was the biggest night of the year in the bar business, and Mickey had devoted himself to its success.

Mason had taken Mickey to visit Blues at the county jail so they could discuss Mickey's plans for New Year's Eve. Mason had explained to Mickey that he could go by himself, but Mickey had declined. Jail, he'd told Mason, was a place you should never go without someone who knew how to get you out. They had met Blues in the visiting room separated by the double-paned, bulletproof glass.

"Blues, I've got a terrific idea for New Year's," Mickey had bubbled.

Blues had raised his eyebrows and looked down at Mickey through the glass, doubting whether Mickey was capable of such a thought.

"It's a bar," he had told Mickey. "I've got Pete Kirby's trio booked already. I've lined up extra bar and kitchen help. All you have to do is keep the booze and the food moving."

Mickey had waved both hands in protest. "No, no, no. You've got it all wrong, Blues. This is an opportunity. A huge opportunity. We bill the night as a benefit for your legal defense fund. It'll be a knockout."

He had looked back and forth at Blues and Mason, who both had shaken their heads. "No fund-raiser," Blues had said.

"Not a chance," Mason had added.

"Okay, okay. Plan B. You guys will love this," Mickey had insisted. "We do a murder mystery. You know, hire actors to stage a murder. Involve the people in the bar in solving the crime. Plant clues, stuff like that. Reveal the killer at midnight. I'm telling you guys, it will be fantastic!"

Blues had pressed his hands against the glass like he wanted to reach through and strangle Mickey. "Just say hello to the people when they come in, take their money, and don't fuck it up."

Mickey had overcome his anxiety of going to the jail and had shuttled back and forth, pleading with Blues to approve one scheme after another. Blues had told Mickey that if he came back again, the guards would arrest him.

Mickey had called Mason a dozen times that day with last-minute pleas to approve one off-the-wall idea after another. Mason had said no to the first ten, and hung up on the last two.

He'd spent the rest of the day going over his notes for the preliminary hearing. He didn't think Patrick Ortiz would reveal anything more about his case than was necessary to convince Judge Pistone to bind Blues over for trial. The evidence of Blues's fingerprints at the scene would be more than enough.

Mason had listed the witnesses he expected Ortiz to call on the dry-erase board. The maid would testify that she had found Cullan's body. The coroner would testify to the cause of death. Bern Harrell or Pete Kirby would testify about the fight at the bar and Blues's threat. Harry Ryman would testify about his investigation. A forensics investigator would testify about the fingerprints.

Mason glumly admitted to himself that had no evidence to work with. The last two weeks had yielded nothing that changed the core facts of the case. He had no doubt that Judge Pistone would find probable cause to believe that Blues had murdered Jack Cullan. The press would have a field day, its monstrous appetite satisfied for the moment. Leonard Campbell would smile into the cameras on the courthouse steps and boast about doing the people's business. The image made Mason want to puke.

The phone rang again. The clock on Mason's computer screen said it was just after five. He let it ring twice before picking it up.

"Listen, Mickey," he said. "Just do it the way Blues told you. It's not a carnival."

Rachel Firestone said, "What's not a carnival? Who's Mickey and what did Blues tell him to do? Are you planning a New Year's Eve jailbreak? Tell me what time and I'll get a photographer over there."

"Shit," Mason said. "I told him not to call me at work. You reporters are too clever. I knew you'd figure it out."

"I'll make certain it's front-page, above the fold," she told him. "All seriousness aside, what's going on?"

"Mickey is a tenant in the building who's running the bar while Blues is on vacation. He wants to turn the bar into the Circus Maximus for New Year's. Since he's the only one who's called me today, I figured it was him."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You didn't. What's on your mind?"

"New Year's Eve. What else? You have any plans?"

"It's against my religion. Besides, what happened to your girlfriend the rugby player?"

"Fear of commitment."

"Hers or yours?"

"Mine. I figured you would be the perfect date. I'm on the rebound and I don't like guys. Who could be safer for a girl at the peak of her vulnerability?"

"You make it sound irresistible, but I think I'll pass. I'm not in a party mood."