Final Judgment (17 page)

“Well,” she said, hoisting the bottle to her lips and taking a drink. “He succeeded admirably.”

Mason looked around. Her office, like the rest of the offices, appeared untouched. Nothing had been ransacked, no papers tossed like confetti in a wild search for something special. The computers hummed, unharmed and unhacked.

“We must have surprised him before he could find whatever he was looking for.”

Lari set the bottle on her desk and stood, hands on hips. She was a bit unsteady, whether from fear or booze, Mason couldn’t tell. She straightened her dress, walked across her office, and took down a painting that hid a wall safe. She spun the lock to the right, then to the left, and then back to the right. The door swung open. The small vault was empty.

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” she said.

THIRTY-SIX

“What was in the safe?”

Lari shook her head, moving slowly back to her desk, picking up the bottle of scotch as she sat down, cradling it to her bosom. “I don’t know.”

Mason leaned over her, one hand on her bare shoulder, the other on the scotch. He gently pried her fingers from the neck of the bottle, setting it on the desk out of her reach. Her skin was warm. She leaned her cheek against his hand. She was used to fighting battles with different rules of engagement. No wounds were mortal and money forgave all sins. No one had ever shot at her.

“Stick with me, Lari. Whoever did this is gone. If he took something from your safe, you’ve got to tell me what it was.”

There was a framed photograph on her desk of two teenage girls, faces full of promise. She picked it up, caressing the images.

“I don’t know.”

“Does anyone else have the combination to the safe?”

“I’m the only one.”

He took the photograph from her and swiveled her chair hard around toward him, leaning in close again. “Then how could you not know what was in the safe?”

She closed her eyes, summoning her courtroom muscle. She opened them with a glare that backed him off. Mason retreated, relieved at her recovery.

“A client,” she began, hesitating as she assembled her answer, “gave me something to keep in my safe. I wasn’t told what it was.”

“You didn’t ask?”

“I only asked whether it was anything illegal, like drugs. I was assured that it wasn’t so I agreed to store it.”

“Who was the client? Someone at Galaxy?”

Lari folded her arms across her chest. “You know better than to ask.”

“You’ll have to tell the cops. You might as well tell me.”

“Who says the police have to know anything about this?”

Mason pointed down the hall from her office. “Someone broke in here, shot at you, and stole something belonging to your client and you’re not going to report it to the police?”

“If my client instructs me to file a burglary report, I will, though I doubt that will happen. If my client didn’t want me to know what was in my safe, I don’t expect my client will want the police to know either. As for the burglary, I’ll get a better lock. Maybe an alarm system as you suggested.”

Mason sighed in surrender. “Have it your way. What about your files on Rockley and Keegan? I might as well have a look as long as I’m here.”

She stood, still rocky but regaining command. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

Mason waited, taking in the view from the twenty-ninth floor. A long line of cars poured out of the Westin’s parking garage. The party was over. Cabs waited in front of the hotel. Mason pressed against the glass, wondering which one Abby was in.

Lari returned with two manila folders, one labeled
Rockley, Charles
and the other
Keegan, Johnny
. The name of the case to which the files belonged was printed on the side of the folders—
Hill v. Galaxy Gaming, Inc.
She handed them to Mason, reclaiming her desk chair while he paced and skimmed the files.

Keegan’s file was thin enough to slide under the door. It contained an employment application and two performance reviews covering the year he’d been employed at Galaxy. The details were bland. Keegan was a single, thirty-five-year-old high school graduate who’d been born in San Diego, worked his way east in a succession of bartending jobs until he landed in Kansas City. Now he was dead and there was nothing in his file that explained why or a hint of anyone who would care to know. He even left unanswered the question on his application of who to contact in the event of an emergency.

Rockley’s file was no more illuminating, especially since he’d already seen what was in it. He took his time reviewing the meager pages so as not to raise any questions in Lari’s mind.

He was more impressed by what wasn’t in the files than what was. There were no attorney notes, no cross-examination outlines, no cross-references to important documents or the testimony of other witnesses. The files were too clean. She had sanitized them for his review, showing him something without giving him anything. He handed the files back to her and decided to compare her view of the case to Vince Bongiovanni’s.

“Ninety-five percent of all lawsuits settle,” Mason said. “Why didn’t this one?”

Lari shrugged. “It should have. The case is a push. Classic he-said, she-said. The woman usually gets the benefit of the doubt, which means my clients usually pay. Bongiovanni refused to negotiate. Said it was personal. I get paid either way, so we went to trial.”

“Ed Fiori was Bongiovanni’s and Carol’s uncle. He told me that Galaxy screwed Fiori’s estate when they bought the casino. I guess he saw Carol’s case as a chance to get even.”

“That’s what he told me too. I could care less. It doesn’t get personal for me. So,” she asked, pointing to the personnel files, “who did it?”

“The way you sanitized these files they don’t tell me anything. Let me see the stuff you pulled out and the rest of the files on Galaxy, and I may be able to tell you.”

“It would be easier if I just gave you my law license and all my money instead. That’s what Galaxy will want if I violate their attorney-client privilege.”

“Beats the hell out of a bullet in the head and a burial in the trunk of a car.”

“I told you. No one at Galaxy knows anything about Rockley and your client. Either your client killed Rockley or he’s a victim of circumstance.”

“You came within inches of being a victim of circumstance tonight. Next time may be different. The girls in that photograph will be proud to know that you died protecting the attorney-client privilege.”

Color flared in her cheeks. She pointed to the photograph, then swung her finger at him. “My daughters know the battles I’ve fought to get where I am. Their father walked out on us when they were little. They understand what it’s like for a woman alone.”

“Trust me,” Mason said, sitting on the edge of her desk, towering over her. “They won’t understand murder. Nobody does when it takes someone they love. Tell me what was in your safe.”

Lari rose and brushed past him. She inspected the safe once more, reconfirming that the combination still worked. She ran her hand over the inside of the vault, erasing any doubt that she had been robbed. She looked at Mason, her face pale and quivering, her courtroom bravado evaporated.

He handed her the photograph of her daughters. Lari snapped it out of his hand, hiding it beneath her arms as she hugged her sides. She squeezed her eyes shut, cringing as if a bullet had found her, turning her head so he wouldn’t see that a tear had escaped her defenses. He put a hand on her shoulder, but she shook it off, stepping around him and gently setting the picture back on her desk, her back to him. She took a deep breath, her eyes still on her daughters.

“A CD. I don’t know what was on it. I never listened to it.”

A cold chill flooded Mason’s gut. “How do you know it was a recording and not data or copies of documents?”

“I don’t, really. I just got that impression from my client. He called it a one-hit wonder.”

Lari had been careful up to that point to refer to her client without even a gender reference. Corporate clients don’t have a gender. Lawyers typically refer to the person they deal with at the company as their client.

Mason put his hand on her shoulder again. This time she didn’t object, leaning against him for support.

“Tell me his name. I need something to work with. Just a name.”

She picked up the photograph of her daughters again, cradling it in her hands. “Al Webb.”

“When did he give it to you?”

She turned to him, close enough that he could smell the perfume on her neck and the scotch on her breath.

“During the hearing on Carol Hill’s case. He said he’d call me if he needed it. It hasn’t been out of the safe since then.”

“Don’t tell him about the robbery or the shooting.”

“I have to tell him. The CD belongs to him.”

“Maybe not. Call me if he asks for it. We’ll figure out what to do then.”

“I can’t do that,” she said. “He’s my client. He gave me that CD for safekeeping.”

“He gave it to you to hide it and you almost got killed for your trouble. You can’t charge enough for that kind of work. Besides, I don’t think he’ll ask for it before the end of next week. I may have this figured out by then.”

She pulled away from him, her eyebrows raised, her cross-examination instincts revived.

“You couldn’t possibly know that unless there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

He smiled at her. “That’s the difference between men and women. We pay attention to different things.”

On his way out, Mason stopped in the file room and plucked the laser pointer from the shelf. There wouldn’t be a police report and, even if there were, he would bet against finding any fingerprints on the pointer. He turned the red beam off and dropped it in his pocket.

Walking back to the parking garage, he turned his coat collar up against a bone-chilling wind that now whipped between the office buildings. The unseasonable warmth from the afternoon had vanished, the swift and brutal change in weather a reminder that paybacks are hell.

THIRTY-SEVEN

It was a measure of the way his weekend had gone that Mason was looking forward to having dinner on Sunday night at Avery Fish’s house. Fish would try to talk him out of resigning and Mason would have to smile, clean his plate, and quit even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

Defending someone on a murder charge was unlike any other attorney-client relationship. All clients put their trust in their lawyers, but saving an innocent man’s life was the most sacred of trusts. No civil case could trump it, no matter the millions that might end up in his pocket. No mega-merger could match the stakes of life or death. There were times when Mason almost felt sorry for his legal brethren and their pedestrian practices. The burden of innocence and his duty to protect it sustained him as much as it weighed on him. Abandoning Avery Fish was contrary to everything Mason believed in, save one. He couldn’t allow his problems with Judge Carter to put Fish at greater risk.

Nothing that had happened since Friday changed Mason’s certainty that he had to withdraw as Fish’s lawyer. Though he couldn’t prove it, he was certain that the CD stolen from Lari Prillman’s safe contained the blackmail audio tapes. Its theft confirmed that he had no choice but to quit. The CD was like a virus. He had to destroy it before it spread, though he had no idea who might have stolen it or where to look for it.

Unlike Saturday, Sunday passed without him being overcome by lust and longing and forgetting a meeting with a critical witness. Nor had the woman he loved used him as a shield from a jealous wife. And, best of all, no one had shot at him since sunrise.

He started the day with a punishing run, during which he revisited his day with Abby. He refused to give women credit for the exclusive ability to read a relationship, no matter what caught their attention. It didn’t matter whether something was going on between Josh Seeley and Abby or whether the senator’s wife just believed they were having an affair. Well, it did matter. He was too in love with Abby to pretend otherwise. But it mattered just as much that Abby had used him.

When he got back there was a message from her asking him to call so she could explain. Her voice was laced with a mix of impatience and regret that ate at him. He erased it without returning her call.

He showered, paid bills, and watched a college basketball game as he ate lunch. It was an enforced normalcy that failed to take his mind off everything that had happened in the last week. When he realized that he had no idea which teams he was watching and didn’t care whether either team won, he turned off the television and gave up pretending that his life was normal.

He whistled to Tuffy and asked her if she wanted to go for a ride. She beat him to the car, paws on the door waiting to be let in. He lowered the front passenger window enough for the dog to stick her snout into the wind and turned up the heat to cut the chill from the cold air. He drove to Shawnee Mission Park, a vast expanse in western Johnson County.

Kansas City was more than the geopolitically correct unit of city government on the Missouri side of the state line it shared with Kansas. It was more than a sister to Kansas City, Kansas, a city that merged with Wyandotte County to form one governmental behemoth. It was an amalgam of cities and counties spread on either side of the state line in every direction, home to over a million and a half people of every clan and category ever imagined.

It was a place where people fought over who had the best barbecue and how much to spend on a new performing arts center. It was a place where people rooted for football Chiefs and baseball Royals and protested war in the name of peace. It was a place where some schools excelled and others struggled while too many kids got their education on the streets. It was a place like every other place—full of hopes and promises, some that soared and others that were crushed. It was Mason’s home and he wore it like a second skin.

Locals knew the difference between living in Raytown, Missouri, and Leawood, Kansas, but residents of both would probably tell out-of-towners that they lived in Kansas City. It was simpler than giving a lesson in geography or bragging rights. Johnson County was one of the Kansas-side pieces in the bi-state kaleidoscope with demographics that made high-end retailers slobber all over themselves.