Final Judgment (15 page)

He was with a woman Mason assumed to be his wife. She was short, coppery skinned with bright eyes and dark hair. Her arm was wrapped comfortably over his, a plain gold band on her left hand.

“Business is slow. What better place to meet people likely to be charged with a crime than at a political fund-raiser?” He nodded to the woman, extending his hand. “I’m Lou Mason.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m Maggie Ortiz.”

“My campaign manager,” Ortiz said. “She makes me come to all these events.”

“I tell him he can stay home if he doesn’t want to run again,” she said. “He loves to prosecute, but he hates to politick.”

“But I’m getting used to it. There’s the governor,” he said, looking past Mason. “We better go say hello.”

They were gone before Mason could buttonhole Ortiz and ask him if there was anything new on Rockley’s murder. He didn’t expect Ortiz to tell him, but he might learn something from Ortiz’s denial. No didn’t always mean no. The way it was said and the body language that went with it were like radio traffic and troop movements—intelligence to be analyzed.

The crowd surrounding Mason melted away as if the tide had gone out, the current depositing a cluster of fresh faces. One of them belonged to a man who looked to be in his early fifties, though his hair was too dark to be natural. His eyes flicked across the crowd, his long face a barely lined serpentine mask. The skin beneath his chin was loose, his neck weathered, the contrast exposing that he’d had a facelift that had taken ten years off his appearance if you didn’t look too closely.

He was bony through the shoulders and sleek through the middle like a distance runner without the healthy glow; his skin was a subnormal chalk. His hands and fingers were elongated, as if he had stretched them while reaching for something—perfect for surgeons and stranglers. He ignored Mason, who read the man’s name tag—
Al Webb, General Manager, Galaxy Casino.

THIRTY-TWO

Feeling Mason’s stare, Webb gave him a quick look and a dismissive nod. Mason knew the combination was code for
I see you, but I don’t want to talk to you
. Mason responded with a broad smile and outstretched hand that said
I know and I don’t give a shit
.

“I’m Lou Mason,” he said, holding his ground until Webb shook his hand.

“Al Webb.”

“At least they got your name tag right,” Mason said, forcing the conversation. “They didn’t have one for me.”

Webb quit doing crowd reconnaissance and focused on Mason, taking his measure. “Maybe you weren’t invited,” Webb said with a wounded smile and a soothing voice.

The warm, rich timbre of Webb’s voice surprised Mason and blunted the sting of his comment. Mason wondered if Webb had cultivated his voice to compensate for his bloodless countenance. Man-made or natural, Webb’s voice was a weapon of mass deception.

“Actually, I wasn’t. I’m a guest of someone who was invited.”

“That’s better than buying an invitation. Mine cost a thousand dollars,” Webb deadpanned. He made it a charming self-deprecation, now drawing Mason close rather than pushing him away.

“I’d rather spend that kind of money at the craps table. I’ll take my chances against the house over a politician’s promise any day of the week.”

Webb laughed. “Then you’re the kind of gambler that keeps me in business.”

“I thought it was the gamblers who can’t resist betting on the long shots.”

Webb shook his head. “Gamblers who play the long shots are either hopelessly optimistic or secretly suicidal. I don’t understand them, but I’m grateful for them. Frankly, I wish there were more of them. Personally, I prefer the sporting player who understands the game. He accepts the odds, understands when he loses, and doesn’t take too much credit when he wins. That’s why he keeps coming back. The others don’t last long enough.”

Mason looked at him, the honey in Webb’s voice dulling Mason’s instinctively suspicious reaction to him. He was an unpleasant-looking man who’d added youth but not attraction to his appearance. His short dissertation on gambling sounded more like a parable about life than a beginner’s guide to dice.

“You know who I am?”

“We don’t sell newspapers in the casino, but I do read them. Were you looking for me or did you just get lucky?”

“Dumb luck. The only kind I have these days. One of your employees ends up dead in the trunk of my client’s car and you and I end up at the same party talking about it. Are those odds optimistic or suicidal?”

“It doesn’t matter since we aren’t talking about it. I wouldn’t take them either way.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Charles Rockley.”

“I don’t blame you. But it’s a police matter and I can’t involve my company in your client’s problems.”

“Rockley was your employee. Doesn’t that make his murder your problem?”

“We have hundreds of employees. Somebody is always getting married, getting divorced, getting sick, or getting well. Some of them die. We send them all a card.”

“Who are you sending a card to for Rockley?”

Webb put one hand in his pants pocket, running his other hand across his chest and under his neck. “I don’t know anything about his family. My HR director takes care of that.”

“Sure,” Mason said. “All those employees. Must be hard for you to get to know every one of them.”

“It’s part of my job. I do the best I can.”

“But you knew Charles Rockley better than most because another one of your employees, Carol Hill, sued him and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Vince Bongiovanni told me all about it.”

Webb blinked once, his only concession to the card Mason had played. “Then you should talk to Mr. Bongiovanni. He doesn’t have to keep personnel matters confidential. I do.”

“How about Johnny Keegan? Let’s talk about him. What are the odds that two of your employees would be murdered in the same week and that one of them was having an affair with Carol Hill and the other one wished he was?”

Webb cocked his head at Mason, applying a thin smile, his voice dropping to a frozen register. “Too long for you to play them,” he said.

THIRTY-THREE

Webb walked past Mason before he could respond, the crowd swallowing him. Mason parsed their conversation, looking for what was meant even if it hadn’t been said. Webb had a ready answer to Mason’s questions about Rockley. No doubt the cops had been to see him and Webb surely had told them about Carol Hill’s sexual harassment claim. All that made sense. And it made sense that Mason would take advantage of their meeting to ask Webb about Rockley. Webb could anticipate all that and be ready for Mason’s questions knowing he’d have to answer them sooner or later.

Webb wasn’t ready to talk about Johnny Keegan, although the cops would have tied Keegan back to Galaxy by now—probably talked to Webb, maybe even told Webb that Mason’s name had been found on a piece of paper in Keegan’s dead hand. They would have asked Webb what he knew about Keegan, Webb saying not much, that his HR director would send a card. Then, Mason wondered, why did Webb’s temperature drop when he asked him about Keegan?

Unable to answer his question, Mason elbowed and shouldered his way past pockets of people, renewing his search for Abby. He reached the center of the foyer without finding her, pressing on toward the name tag tables. He was about to ask one of the young women if she’d seen Abby when he saw Lari Prillman pick up her name tag.

She was a head shorter than Mason; her harvest-colored hair was swept back, a stunning white gold and diamond chain cradling her bare neck. Her dress was off the shoulder, the look favoring her well-toned arms and slender frame. She was older than Mason, five to ten years, he guessed, but she hadn’t conceded anything to the calendar. She looked fresh, full, and vital, carrying herself with the square-shouldered assurance of a woman who knew it. Mason had never met her but understood the lasting impression she made on clients and jurors.

“You don’t have one,” she said to him.

“One what?” Mason asked.

“A name tag. I hate these bloody things. I can’t pin it on a dress like this without stabbing my breast. Here,” she said, returning the name tag to the woman who’d given it to her. “Save it for next time.”

“I’m Lou Mason.”

“Lari Prillman,” she said, extending her hand.

“I know. I read your name tag.”

He shook her hand. Her grasp was cool and firm, though she quickly let go.

“And I’ve read your press clippings. You represent Avery Fish. I would have been here earlier except the police stopped by to tell me that an employee of one of my clients was found dead in the trunk of your client’s car. Is our meeting a coincidence or were you looking for me?”

“Your client asked me the same thing not ten minutes ago.”

“Al and I are sitting at the same table tonight. I’ll have to remind him not to talk to lawyers. What did you tell him?”

He smiled. She didn’t. He cocked his head, tried the smile again. She didn’t melt. He’d blown the chance to talk with Carol Hill earlier in the day, hadn’t learned much from Al Webb, and didn’t want to waste his chance with Lari Prillman. Charm wasn’t working. Pragmatism might.

“Our meeting is strictly coincidence, but opportunity is usually like that. Your client is too good a poker player to have told me anything. But you and I may be able to help each other.”

She smiled at last. “Straightforward answers and a straightforward proposition. I like that. It’s a little crowded here. Let’s find someplace to talk.”

Mason followed her through the crowd. She managed to greet and be greeted without slowing down as people made way for her. They took the escalator down two flights to the lobby, finding a pair of softly padded leather chairs angled on either side of a pie-slice-shaped table hidden in a far corner of the bar. A lamp muted by an opaque shade separated and shadowed them. They couldn’t have had more privacy unless they rented a room.

“What did Al Webb really tell you?” she asked Mason.

“Not much. He said his HR director sends out lots of cards to the employees. You should tell him that doesn’t count as a fringe benefit. I was hoping you’d tell me something useful about Charles Rockley.”

“I’ll tell you what I told the police. Charles Rockley worked for the Galaxy Casino for the last year. No one at Galaxy knows anything about his murder, and no one has ever heard of Mr. Fish.”

“That’s very helpful. Saves me the trouble of asking all those employees what they know about Rockley and my client. Must be a couple of thousand of them. The cops tell you about Rockley while you’re getting dressed for the party and you manage to interview all of the employees and still make it here on time. That’s good work.”

She clenched her jaw, straining her makeup.

“I charge my clients too much money to screw around every time an employee gets into trouble, and I contribute too much to the Republican Party to spend my evening trading shots with you. A gaming company can’t afford to be drawn into a murder investigation. I can’t help you with yours. Nice to meet you,” she said, and stood, ready to go.

“How about two murder investigations?”

She looked down at him, the color fading from her cheeks for an instant before she recovered. Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m listening.”

“A bartender who worked at the Galaxy named Johnny Keegan was killed last night after he got off work.”

She drew a short breath at the mention of Keegan’s name. “The police didn’t say anything about that.”

“Imagine that; the police not telling a lawyer everything. You and your client should have a lot to talk about over dinner. Did you give the police Rockley’s personnel file?”

“I told them we’d respond to a subpoena.”

“Just the kind of cooperation the cops love. Make them jump through hoops. That’s what you call not screwing around. You’ll get a subpoena Monday morning for everything Galaxy has on Rockley and Keegan. They won’t just draw you and your client into these murders; they’ll shrink-wrap you in them.”

She planted a hand on her hip. “If you’ve got something to say, get to the point. I paid for that rubber chicken dinner upstairs.”

“Vince Bongiovanni told me that Rockley, Keegan, and Carol Hill were playing she loves me, she loves me not. Carol said loves me to Keegan and loves me not to Rockley. Rockley was a sore loser. Carol sued Rockley and Galaxy for sexual harassment.”

“If you talked to Vince then you know I defended the case for Galaxy. The arbitration was last week. We’ll have a decision next month.”

“Then you know that Carol’s husband is seriously pissed. Both boyfriends end up dead. It won’t take the cops long to connect the dots.”

“From what I read in the paper, they’ve already connected Rockley’s dots to your client. Why do I care if he or the husband did it?”

“Sometimes the sure thing is a sucker bet. The cops are going to be crawling all over your client’s boat and your office as soon as they can get a judge to sign the search warrants. I’d clear my calendar for next week if I was you.”

She took her seat again and leaned toward him, the glow of the lamp softening her features. “What do you want?”

“I want to see those files before the cops do.”

“Why?”

“Whoever killed Rockley dumped the body in my client’s car. There may be something in them that helps me find out why.”

“And how does that help my client?”

“It might not. I won’t know until I see the files. If there’s nothing in there that points to someone besides Carol Hill’s husband, the cops will treat the whole thing as a cheap domestic drama. That’s good for my client and it keeps Galaxy out of the mix except for the bad luck of hiring those losers.”

“Then I should give the police what they want and tell you to piss off.”

Mason smiled, this time drawing a venomous one from her. “Unless the cops are wrong about my client and the husband. Then it’s all about Galaxy. We both need to know what’s in those files.”

“You forget. I already know what’s in the files.”

“You were defending a sexual harassment case. This is murder. Everything looks different.”

She studied him for a moment, giving nothing away. If she knew about the conversations Fiori taped with him and Judge Carter, she wouldn’t let him see the files. It would make more sense to cooperate with the police than give Mason access to anything. Especially after she found out that Keegan had died with his hand around Mason’s name and phone number—something Mason assumed she would eventually learn.