Final Judgment (11 page)

“The bartender. You ever get his name?”

Hill’s face reddened. “Johnny Keegan.”

“How about Keegan? You going to cut his nuts off?”

Hill looked away from Mason as his eyes filled. “I’m done talking. Lemme outta here.”

Watching Hill die a little more made Mason feel ashamed for kicking him when he was down. “Sure. Sorry we hassled you.”

“Right. You and everybody else.”

Mason opened the door, got out, and stood aside. Hill slid out, drawing his coat around him. Mason couldn’t tell if the tears on Hill’s checks were from the booze, the cold, or the pain. Hill brushed them away and headed for his truck.

TWENTY-THREE

Blues and Mason watched from the front seat of Mason’s SUV as Hill floored his pickup and slalomed past parked cars on his way out of the lot. Turning sharply into the street, the truck fishtailed and clipped the front end of a sedan parked across from the bar. The impact spun Hill around until the two vehicles were nose to nose.

A man with a weight lifter’s build and a mop of blond hair hanging down his neck jumped out of the driver’s side of the sedan at the same moment Hill poured out of the pickup, the two of them trading shouts. Hill swung at the man, who stepped inside the punch, landing a left-right combination that put Hill down in a heap, the man standing over him, still cursing. A second man, smaller and wirier than his partner, got out from the passenger side, pulling the driver away before checking on Hill.

“What do you think?” Mason asked Blues.

“The guys in the car were looking for someone. Let’s wait a minute and see if they’re public or private.”

“Hill could be hurt.”

“Looks okay to me.”

The passenger helped Hill to his feet, brushed him off, and leaned him against the pickup. The driver slammed his hand on the hood of the sedan, pointing to the front left fender that had been crushed into the tire, disabling the car. He yanked a cell phone from his belt, punched a number, and yelled some more.

A moment later a second sedan pulled up and another man got out. He stepped into the glare of Hill’s headlights, his block-cut head and shoulders suddenly familiar to Mason.

“Son of a bitch,” Mason said.

“Friend of yours?”

“Dennis Brewer. He’s the FBI agent handling Fish’s case. He interrupted my meeting with Pete Samuelson to tell us that they’d found a body in the trunk of Fish’s car.”

“You recognize the other two?”

“No, but they look more private than public to me.”

“I doubt the Bureau has a side gig helping stranded motorists. What are they doing here?”

“Two choices,” Mason said. “Watching Hill or us. The feds already tied Rockley to you and me, but that’s because I represent Fish. Maybe they found out about Carol Hill’s lawsuit and decided to talk to her husband just like we did.”

“Hard to believe they’re as smart as we are.”

“You’ve got a point. I don’t remember seeing them at the last Mensa meeting.”

“Still doesn’t make sense. Rockley’s murder is for the local cops. Why is the FBI on it?”

“Kelly Holt told me that they got the picture of you outside Rockley’s apartment when they intercepted an e-mail that had the picture attached to it. Pete Samuelson wants Avery Fish to help with a government investigation he wants to keep a secret. Dennis Brewer shows up on Mark Hill’s tail. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but my guess is the feds are investigating Galaxy.”

“Which means that Rockley wasn’t just a guy who couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.”

Mason nodded. “That’s what I thought when the FBI made an instant DNA identification. Then I checked out Rockley’s prior employers and they all vouched for him.”

“Something was hinky with Rockley. I don’t care who vouched for him. And, we still don’t know if the FBI is watching Hill or us.”

“Let’s try the back side of the bar. Maybe there’s another way out.”

“Forget it. They already saw us with Hill.”

“You want me to wave as we drive by?” Mason said.

“It never hurts to be polite.”

Blues took his cell phone out of his pocket.

“I thought you hated those things,” Mason said.

“I do. They’re like an anchor wrapped around your neck. Doesn’t mean I won’t use one, especially one that takes pictures. Take it slow and I’ll get a set of mug shots.”

He lowered his window, resting his arm on the door, hiding the phone in his hand, the camera lens peeking between his fingers.

“Tell them to smile,” Mason said as he put the SUV in gear.

“Brewer was backing up those guys. Let’s see if someone is backing up Brewer. Just drive by like it’s none of our business. If no one else picks us up, they’re probably babysitting Hill. If we find a friend, we’re it.”

Mason eased the SUV out of the lot, crawling past the accident, Brewer and the two other men turning their heads away from them. Mason laid on the horn, chuckling as they whipped around toward the SUV, letting Blues snap their pictures in full piss-off mode.

“Nice,” Blues said.

Mason had a straight shot for almost a mile before he would have to make a turn, plenty of time for a third crew to play catch-up. The neighborhood was industrial except for an occasional bar or convenience store. It was lightly traveled and well lit, making it an easy stretch of road on which to find someone. Mason took his time. Six blocks later, another sedan fell in behind them, keeping its distance. The driver was alone.

“Bingo,” Blues said. “There’s a traffic light coming up. Let it turn yellow, speed up like you’re going to run it. If the car stays on us, stop at the last second and we’ll get another picture.”

Mason gunned the SUV. The trailing sedan matched him, then quickly closed the gap, giving up any pretense of stealth. The light blinked from green to yellow when he was half a block away. Mason pushed harder before slamming on the brakes, skidding to a stop half a length into the intersection as the light turned red. The sedan screeched and shimmied, nearly kissing his bumper before it stopped.

“Anybody you recognize?” Blues asked, not turning around.

“Yeah,” Mason said, looking in his rearview mirror. “Kelly Holt.” He watched as she smacked her palm against the steering wheel and fumbled with something on the seat next to her.

“Old home week.”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll just invite her over for dinner.”

Mason got out of the SUV, walking toward her as she opened her door, meeting him halfway.

“I’m taking Blues back to the bar and then I’m going home. You remember how to get there?” he said.

“That’s not the point.” She folded her arms like a vise across her chest.

“Sure it is. Since you know where I’m going, you don’t have to follow me. You can meet me there.”

“What you’re doing is really stupid,” she said.

“Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Can’t be any more stupid than expecting my client to help you with an investigation too secret to tell us what it is.”

“You’ve got to trust me,” Kelly said.

“I never had a client with that much faith. Besides, I know that you’re after Galaxy, so you might as well tell me what you want from my client.”

Kelly glared at him. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“No? Well, you can’t instantly identify Rockley’s DNA if he’s spent his whole life bouncing from one company to another counting how many sick days he’s got left. Rockley worked at Galaxy. You monitored someone’s e-mail and snagged the picture of Blues. I haven’t figured out the rest of it, but I will.”

She held his gaze, not giving ground. That steeled look was one thing about her that hadn’t changed since they first met. There was no backing down in her. Not then, not now.

“I’ll talk to Samuelson on Monday,” she said. “Maybe we can work something out.”

Mason saw no reason to tell her that Fish would have a new lawyer on Monday. “See you around the ballpark,” he told her.

TWENTY-FOUR

It was past eight o’clock when Mason stopped in his office. He had three voice messages. The first was from Vince Bongiovanni, who left his cell phone number and a promise that his call was important enough to return as soon as possible even if he didn’t say why. The second was from his Aunt Claire inviting him to dinner on Sunday.

The third was from Rachel Firestone, a reporter for the
Kansas City Star
. Though they began as adversaries, each using the other to advance a case or a story, they’d become close friends. For a time, she backed off covering his cases to avoid any questions about her objectivity before deciding that she was a good enough reporter to know when to draw that line.

When Rachel told her editor that she wanted to resume covering Mason’s cases, he noted the rumors about their relationship and questioned whether she should write about someone she was sleeping with. When she showed the editor a picture of her girlfriend, the editor made a snide remark about lesbians who really wanted to change teams. It was his last official act. Her new boss told her he trusted her judgment but to remember who signed her paycheck.

Mason replayed her message to be certain he’d heard it right.

“Hey, babe. It’s me. I got an anonymous tip that the body found in Avery Fish’s car was some guy named Charles Rockley. I checked it out with the cops, who did their no comment thing, but I got the feeling it was news to them. Since when does someone leak the ID of a murder victim and leave the cops out of the loop? Call me. I’m on deadline.”

The phone rang before Mason could return any of the calls. It was Vanessa Carter.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“At the end of a long day and a longer week,” Mason said, glancing at his calendar. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t waste your humor on me, Mr. Mason. I asked where we are.”

Mason let out a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that the story would be on the front page of tomorrow morning’s paper. “Charles Rockley is dead. Someone killed him, chopped off his head and his hands, and dumped the body in the trunk of a car owned by a client of mine named Avery Fish.”

“I’m aware of Mr. Fish’s case. It’s been all over the news. There’s been no mention of the identity of the victim.”

“You can read about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

Judge Carter didn’t respond. Mason heard her breathing softly and steadily. In judicial parlance, she had taken his information under advisement before issuing a ruling or, in his case, another ultimatum. He knew better than to interrupt.

“Charles Rockley wasn’t the one,” she finally said.

Mason realized that she was avoiding any mention of blackmail. Having once been burned by having her phone conversation recorded, she was not taking any chances.

“How do you know?”

“I just received another call.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He asked why I hadn’t issued a ruling. I reminded him that I had until March tenth, which is thirty days from the end of the hearing. He said they wanted the decision not later than a week from today, the twenty-first. I told him that wasn’t possible, that I had other cases besides this one. He said that this case was the only one that should matter to me and that they wouldn’t hesitate to convince me of that.”

“Where are you?” Mason asked.

“At home.”

“Is there someplace else you can go until this is over?”

“I will not be run out of my home and I will not have my life ruined again, Mr. Mason. Do your job. Make this go away.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s your tangled web, Counselor. Do whatever you have to do or I will,” she said and hung up.

Mason put the phone down as Blues opened the door to his office.

“What?” Mason asked, exasperated by the new deadline.

“Don’t shoot me, man. I’m only the piano player.” Blues handed Mason prints of the digital photographs he’d taken. “The light was bad and the angle wasn’t great, but at least I got their faces.”

Mason studied the photographs. Blues had caught them in an unguarded moment, their faces screwed up in surprise. He didn’t recognize the two men in the car Mark Hill had struck. All three were wearing heavy jackets over jeans or khakis. Nothing with FBI stenciled on the back.

Mason dropped the photographs on his desk and pointed to the phone. “That was Judge Carter. She got another call and a new deadline for her ruling. A week from today or the tape makes the top forty.”

“I guess that rules out Rockley as the blackmailer.”

“Not necessarily. The way she described the call, it sounds like more than one person is involved. The caller kept referring to ‘they,’ not just to himself. Rockley could have been one of them. On top of that, I got a message from Rachel. Someone leaked the news that Rockley was the guy in Fish’s trunk.”

“Only the FBI and the killer knew Rockley’s identity and the killer sure as hell isn’t going to call the
Star
. Why would the Bureau leak it before they told the cops?” Blues asked. “Why go out of their way to make them look bad?”

“Beats me. Plus, I also had a message from Vince Bongiovanni to call him as soon as possible. Even left me his cell phone number.”

“What time was that call?”

Mason checked the log of calls stored in his phone. “Seven p.m.”

“We left Hill at close to seven. Brewer and his buddies didn’t look like they were in the mood to let him call his lawyer so it’s probably not about that.”

“I never told Hill who I was and I doubt he recognized me,” Mason said. “Brewer could have told him, but he wouldn’t have had any reason to. I think Vince got the same tip Rachel did. Makes me wonder why.”

“When did Rachel call?”

“Seven-oh-five.”

“That fits and it explains one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Bongiovanni is waiting for you downstairs. He’s in the back booth.”

TWENTY-FIVE

Juries like different kinds of lawyers. Patrick Ortiz, the prosecuting attorney, was a rumpled everyman, the kind of lawyer jurors imagined going bowling with or having over for chili. Mason was a street fighter, ready with a killer cross-examination or a devastating one-liner, but always ready. He was the lawyer jurors wanted to represent them if their life was on the line.