Final Judgment (24 page)

“How was your relationship with Sylvia?” Kelly asked.

“Like brother and sister. She was always after me to lose weight.”

“Don’t do this,” Mason told Fish. “It’s too dangerous. They can’t make the murder charge against you and we can beat the mail fraud.”

Fish put his arm around Mason’s shoulder. “Such a good lawyer I’ve got. He tells me to take the deal before he knows what it is. Then he tells me not to take it after he finds out what it is. And I’m paying for this advice.”

“You told them you’d cooperate as long as it wasn’t dangerous. This is too dangerous.”

Fish shrugged. “Danger is a relative thing. When you’re an old man like me, there’s nothing as dangerous as going to sleep at night. Who knows if you’ll wake up the next day? I’m not so worried about my former partner. He likes money too much. And, when Miss FBI Holt says she’ll take good care of me, I believe her.”

“You don’t think Webb will be suspicious?”

“Of course he’ll be suspicious. People in my business are always suspicious. We don’t trust anybody. He’ll think I’m conning him, but he’ll go along to see how it plays out.”

“And you? Why are you doing it?”

“It’s what I do.” He turned to Kelly. “I assume you have Sylvia’s phone number.”

“She’s in the book,” Kelly said as she wrote the number on a napkin and slid it across the table to Fish. He studied it and grunted.

“Same old Sylvia.”

“What do you mean?” Kelly asked.

“She liked to play a lottery where you had to pick seven winning numbers. She’d always pick three pairs of two numbers. Each pair added up to the same number and the seventh was that number. Like sixty-three, twenty-seven, fifty-four, and nine. Each pair adds up to nine. Get it? Now, look at her phone number. It’s 445-3628. Break it down—forty-four, fifty-three, sixty-two, and eight. It’s the same pattern.”

“What’s your point?” Samuelson asked.

“Sylvia never won the lottery, but she’s still playing her system. I’ll bet she even requested the phone number. When I call, she’ll think she finally won.”

FORTY-NINE

Samuelson agreed to be at Fish’s house Tuesday morning at seven-thirty to place the call to Sylvia McBride before she left for work. He objected at first, wanting to use his office. Fish patiently explained that Sylvia probably had caller ID and would be suspicious if
Justice Department
flashed across the readout on her phone.

They left together, Samuelson helping Fish with his coat as if he were wrapping a fragile package. Fish played along, winking at Mason and letting Samuelson guide him by the elbow through the crowd. For effect, he added a deep cough that echoed like a parent’s worry on Samuelson’s furrowed brow.

“Fish will have that kid washing his car and cutting his grass before this is over,” Mason said to Kelly.

“Cut him some slack. He graduated first in his law school class.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll do a great job with Fish’s lawn. Buy you a beer?”

Kelly crinkled her nose. “Long day. Maybe we can catch up when this is over.”

Mason shook his head. He was more interested in their present than in their past. Detective Griswold’s warning about Kelly may have been nothing more than the usual collegial backstabbing between cops and feds, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. Kelly had left the FBI under a cloud, though the Bureau wouldn’t have taken her back if there was any doubt. Mason was certain of one thing. Their past was past. He couldn’t count on any favors from Kelly, especially if she was playing him in an elaborate game in which his client’s life was a chip to be tossed into the pot.

“I wasn’t thinking of catching up. We weren’t going to make it and we both knew that. You did the right thing breaking it off.”

Kelly leaned against the booth, her hands folded together on the table, her face cool. “I’m glad you feel that way, especially now that we both have our jobs to do.”

“I am a little curious about one thing.”

Kelly’s mouth twitched in a quick smile. “Really? Only one?”

Mason shrugged. “Maybe one or two. Why did you go back to the Bureau?”

“Unfinished business, I suppose. I didn’t leave on my own terms the first time. I’d been accused of something I didn’t do. I thought I could leave the accusation behind. But it didn’t work that way, even after I was cleared. It was like I could hear them whispering about me no matter how far away I was. I had to go back to show them they were wrong.”

Mason could have closed his eyes and imagined Judge Carter making the same speech. She wanted to silence the whispers too, except she was guilty, even if Mason had entrapped her.

“Are they still whispering?”

“A few of them always will. I just don’t listen anymore. Besides, the Bureau moves me around a lot and that helps.”

“Why do they do that?”

“Sometimes I work on special cases.”

“How special?”

“The kind that doesn’t earn you many friends.”

Mason knew from Blues that the one cop other cops never liked or trusted was the cop from Internal Affairs. He assumed the same was true for the FBI. Kelly had gone back to the Bureau to prove they were wrong about her. Having been judged, she now judged others. He wondered whether her judgment was tempered with mercy born of her own experience or whether it was hardened by a desire to get even. Dennis Brewer couldn’t be happy to have Kelly involved in Fish’s case, especially if he had leaked Rockley’s ID.

“Sounds like the FBI version of Internal Affairs.”

“Let’s leave it at that. I’ve got to get our equipment installed in Fish’s house before he makes that phone call in the morning. Are you going to be there?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Before you come over, you might want to take a look at this,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket and handing her a flash drive.

“What’s on it? Photographs?”

“Yeah. Consider it a welcome-home present.”

She flipped the drive over in the palm of her hand. “Not of us, I take it.”

“I’m saving those for my website. These are more interesting. Your partner Dennis Brewer is in one of the shots. He’s got a couple of playmates. I was hoping you would tell me who they are.”

She looked at him, her voice even, barely interested. “Just because we’re both FBI agents doesn’t mean he’s my partner. Where were the pictures taken?”

“Outside a bar in Fairfax called Easy’s. Not far from where you picked Blues and me up last Friday night. Two of them were sitting in a car across the street from the bar. Brewer was backing them up. Either you were backing Brewer up or maybe he’s one of your special cases. Which is it?”

“Who took the pictures?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“Who took the picture of Blues outside Rockley’s apartment?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis and you don’t need to know.”

“I have a lot of needs. That’s one of them.”

“I can’t help you with your needs.”

“Sure you can, especially if that will help with your needs. I need to know who took Blues’s picture and you need to know who took the pictures of Brewer and his playmates. We need the same thing.”

“The difference is, I already know who took your pictures. If they were taken outside that bar, it had to be you or Blues.”

“Then why ask?”

“Confession is good for you. It builds rapport and trust with those to whom you confess. Cooperation follows confession and the next thing you know you’re actually telling the truth. I’m just helping you find your way,” she said.

“Then help me with this,” Mason said. “Someone tipped off Rachel Firestone that the corpse in Avery Fish’s car was Charles Rockley. The
Star
wouldn’t have printed her story without corroboration from the FBI or Justice, both of which officially declined to comment. Somebody confirmed the ID off the record. Was it you?”

“I was holding the ID back from the police while we tried to make a deal with you. Why would I leak that information?”

“What about Samuelson?”

“Be serious. He doesn’t go to the bathroom without double-checking the Justice Department manual.”

“Who else knew about Rockley?”

Kelly pursed her lips, ran through her mental list and shook her head.

“Let me help you,” he said. “That leaves Samuelson’s boss, Roosevelt Holmes, some DNA database jockey at Quantico who confirmed the match, and Dennis Brewer.”

She gave him a flat look that said she’d gone deaf. “Leaks are impossible to prevent and harder to trace.”

“Might be easier to trace this one if you start with who else was tipped off. A blackjack dealer at Galaxy named Carol Hill sued Rockley and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Rachel Firestone wasn’t the only one who got the tip. Carol’s lawyer, Vince Bongiovanni, got one too.”

The flicker in Kelly’s eyes told Mason he’d gotten her attention. “We talked to Rockley’s employer and found out about the lawsuit. How do you know that Bongiovanni was tipped off?”

“He told me. He knew that I represented Fish and he hoped I’d find out something that would help him with Carol Hill’s case.”

“What’s the point of telling him about Rockley?” Kelly asked.

She’d made it clear that Brewer wasn’t her partner. When she asked him about the pictures and the leak, he wouldn’t be her friend either.

“Ask Dennis Brewer. Tell him he could use a good confession. If he turns you down, I’d watch your back, Special Agent Holt.”

Kelly kept her cool as she slid out of the booth, pulled her coat over her shoulders, adjusting her scarf and pulling on her gloves. He watched as she walked away, head up, shoulders square, people making room for her as she passed.

FIFTY

A guy with Humvee-size shoulders bulled his way to the bar, empty bottles in each raised hand. Mason followed in the big man’s wake, resting one foot on the rail at the base of the bar; thinking again about the deal Fish had made, not liking it any better. Fish had agreed just to get even with Wayne McBride over the fifty thousand dollars McBride had scammed from him before resurrecting himself as Al Webb, casino manager. Revenge made people do stupid things.

Fish was walking into a minefield with no idea where the trip wires were buried. Though Pete Samuelson had promised to protect Fish, Mason detected in Kelly a coldness that made collateral damage an acceptable fact of life. Everyone takes their turn in the barrel. She’d had hers. Fish would have his. It was a side of her that Mason hadn’t seen before, and it made him realize he couldn’t ask for her help. He was naked, any control over his life having vanished when Vanessa Carter knocked on his door a week ago.

He leaned against the bar, conscious again of the music. Myles Cartwright finished the set with a flourish on the piano, the sound cool and crisp, the drummer, bass player, and sax giving him room. The audience exploded with applause as the musicians took their bows. Myles said they were taking a break and would be back for another set. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a familiar voice, and turned around.

“Hey,” Rachel Firestone said. “What does a girl have to do to get someone to buy her a beer?”

Rachel always stood out in a crowd. It wasn’t just her red hair or her striking looks. It was the way she carried herself, telling the world to bring it on. It made her a good reporter and a better friend, though lately she’d been more journalist than buddy. He understood her ambition and the pressure she felt from her boss to prove that she was independent enough to follow a story wherever it took her, even one that got into his kitchen. The glint in her eyes made him uneasy. He smiled and took a step back, trying to figure out which hat she was wearing.

“Ask nice and offer to buy the next round.” He caught Blues’s attention and held up two fingers. Blues handed him two cold long-necked bottles, and Mason gave one to Rachel. “Are you working or just looking for a good time?”

“I’m meeting a friend.”

“Anyone special?”

“Not for me. She’s involved with someone else. Girls’ night out.”

“Which means I get off cheap. I could have been stuck for another beer.”

“There’s still time. She’ll be here any minute. By the way, I didn’t know you were open for business this late.” Mason lowered the bottle from his lips, waiting for the shoe to drop. “I saw Avery Fish and Pete Samuelson walking out of here arm in arm. Two seconds later, I bumped into Kelly Holt. I haven’t seen her since your days at Sullivan and Christenson. I hear she’s back with the FBI and that she’s the liaison with the cops on the Rockley murder. She looks great, by the way.”

“This is a popular place.”

“Don’t feel bad, Lou. I mean, what are the odds? You have a private, late-night meeting with your client and the government. I stumble across it. But it’s not news unless you tell me what’s going on. How else will I find out if you made a deal or were just getting drunk together?”

“You could find out from somebody else.”

“There’s always that,” she said. “But, I’m off the clock. Don’t make me work for my beer or for my story.”

“You’re never off the clock and you’d never take a story you didn’t work for.” He couldn’t tell Rachel about the deal Fish had made, but he could aim her at Dennis Brewer. If he didn’t give her something, he’d be reading about his meeting in tomorrow’s paper. “Step into my office,” he said, motioning toward his booth.

“Not bad for a branch office,” Rachel said as they sat down.

“Low overhead. Look, you know I can’t talk to you about any conversations we may have had with the government.”

“Yet.”

“Or maybe ever. There’s no story here. Let it go.”

“Lou, do I look like a complete moron? You and your client meet with the Assistant U.S. attorney who’s prosecuting your client for mail fraud and the FBI agent handling the investigation of a murder in which your client is the prime suspect. You do all this late at night in a bar, and that’s not a story?”

“My office is upstairs.”

“Then what were the four of you doing in this booth? Buying a round of drinks to celebrate? I saw Fish and Samuelson when they left. When I said I bumped into Kelly, I meant that literally, and it wasn’t an accident. She said she was glad to see me, but believe me, I know when a woman means that. And she didn’t.”