Final Judgment (36 page)

“Since when is skimming dough from a casino a matter of national security?”

“It isn’t,” Mickey said. “But dealing in phony IDs could be, especially if the IDs are sold to people that blow up buildings with airplanes.”

SEVENTY-ONE

Mason called Lila’s office phone and cell, but she didn’t answer. He tried again as he was driving downtown to meet with the homicide detectives with the same result.

She would call as soon as she could, he told himself. If she could, he added, getting the sick feeling that he got while a jury was deliberating and his gut told him that he’d lost even before the jury took a vote. It was a toxic blend of fear, frustration, and outrage coated with a paralyzing layer of helplessness that was an all-too-accurate barometer of the verdict. All that was left was second-guessing. If anything happened to Lila, he’d be answering those questions the rest of his life.

Mason told Fish to meet him in the parking lot across from the Jackson County Courthouse a little before eleven. They walked the long block to police headquarters together, keeping their chins tucked against the cold as Mason told Fish what he’d learned about Al Webb and what had happened at Lake Lotawana.

“Wayne—a terrorist?” Fish said, using Webb’s real name. “I don’t believe it!”

“I’m not saying he’s a terrorist. I’m saying that he and Sylvia are in the fake ID business. If they sell to underage college kids who want to buy beer, that’s one thing. If they sell to terrorists, their FBI file gets stamped
Top Secret
. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Unbelievable,” Fish said, shaking his head.

“Don’t forget. He got started by killing some poor bastard just so he could fake his own death and Sylvia helped him pull it off.”

“And what’s this all about?” Fish said, waving at the entrance to police headquarters. “Who is it I’m supposed to have killed this time?”

“Mark Hill. Carol Hill’s husband.”

“Why not? I haven’t not killed someone in a week. I might as well not have killed him too.”

Detective Griswold met them in the second-floor homicide bullpen.

“Thanks for coming down,” he began. “But turns out we don’t need to talk with Mr. Fish.”

“Did you make an arrest?” Mason asked.

“No,” Griswold said. “But the coroner fixed the time of death as Monday night between six and midnight.”

“I was home,” Fish said.

“We know that,” Griswold answered.

“By myself,” Fish added.

“We know that too. I had a meeting this morning with Kelly Holt. She’s the FBI’s liaison on Rockley’s murder. I told her you were coming down to talk about the Hill case. She made your alibi. Said they had you under surveillance and you didn’t leave the house Monday night. Sorry for the trouble.”

Fish lifted his hands in protest. “Trouble? What trouble? I’m delighted to be your guest, especially considering it was such a short visit. C’mon, Lou. I can’t afford to pay you to stand here and
kibbitz
.”

“You go ahead,” Mason told him. “I’m going to stick around for a few minutes.”

Fish crooked a finger at him. “A word,” he said, taking a few steps away. “What’s going on?” he whispered when Mason joined him.

“Nothing’s going on. I’ve got another case to talk about with Griswold. That’s all.”

“It wouldn’t be that business with Judge Carter, would it?”

Mason pursed his lips. “Nah. It’s a new case—armed robbery.”

“Such a terrible liar you are,
boytchik
. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mason said, forcing a grin.

“Remember one thing. The mark never feels the hook until it’s in too deep.”

“Don’t worry. Griswold will take the bait.”

Fish studied him, a sad smile spreading across his jowls. “Of course he will,
boytchik
. Of course he will.”

“Someplace quiet we can talk?” Mason asked Griswold.

“Sure. You’ve seen our deluxe private conference rooms. How about one of them?”

Mason followed Griswold to the interrogation room. Griswold stood at the open door, waiting for Mason to take a seat.

“You want an audience or is this private?” he asked Mason.

Mason had imagined that this moment would include Detective Cates and Samantha Greer, Cates relishing it while Samantha suffered through it with him. Now that the moment had arrived, he didn’t need either of them to make him feel worse. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“You’ll do. Close the door.”

Griswold sat across from him, hands in his lap, a curious glint in his eye. “I’m all yours.”

“Did you follow up with Lila Collins about Johnny Keegan needing a lawyer?”

“I did. She said Keegan told her he needed a lawyer; didn’t say why, and she gave him your name. Just like she told you. I didn’t get anything else out of her.”

“She worked for Ed Fiori when he owned the casino. You remember him?”

“I remember. It was called the Dream in those days,” Griswold answered. “Fiori went out the hard way. You and your buddy Blues were there, if memory serves.”

“We were there.”

It went like that for more than an hour. When it became clear what Mason was doing, Griswold interrupted to give him a Miranda warning, making him sign a statement that he declined counsel. Griswold teased the details out of Mason, who didn’t want to appear too eager to confess. He wanted Griswold to believe that Vanessa Carter was innocent, and nothing undermined a witness’s credibility more than being too prepared, too rehearsed.

“I’ve got a problem here,” Griswold said when Mason finished laying it out. “You asked Fiori to put the arm on Judge Carter to get Blues released on bail. He says okay. She releases Blues. Looks like she’s got as big a problem as you do. But you keep telling me she didn’t know what was going on. You understand my problem here?”

Mason knew his story would fall apart if the blackmailer went public with the tape of Fiori and Judge Carter. He was counting on the blackmailer staying private once the leverage of the tape was gone. Disclosing it would only increase the risk the blackmailer would be caught, getting him nothing in return.

“Fiori told me he never made the call,” Mason said, improvising a detail he hoped would close the deal, especially since Fiori couldn’t contradict him from the grave. “Judge Carter confirmed that. She said she made her decision to grant bail strictly on the merits. That’s why I couldn’t pressure her to rule in Galaxy’s favor. She told me the blackmailer was my problem, not hers.”

“Rockley could have been part of the blackmail scheme—trying to save his ass and instead got himself killed by whoever was running the show. Who do you like for the blackmail?”

“Al Webb is the only one left,” Mason said. “Rockley and Keegan are dead.”

“Which reminds me,” Griswold said. “I talked to Lila Collins again. She told me the same thing she told you about Keegan. He said he needed the name of a lawyer to give to a friend so she gave him your name. If you’re involved in this blackmail scheme, that could have been enough to get Keegan killed.”

“I’ve thought of that.”

“You should have come to me sooner,” Griswold said. “Now you’re looking at attempted bribery, extortion, corruption of a public official, and obstruction of justice. Not what I’d call a good day, Counselor. What happened, you get a conscience transplant?”

“Something like that,” Mason answered. “What now?”

Griswold let out a sigh. “It’s not every day that a member of the bar walks in here and hands me his nuts. I’ve got to talk to the prosecuting attorney. In the meantime, I’d hire a couple of lawyers. One for you and one for your client.”

The morning cold had stiffened with blunt gusts of wind, each one like a hard right hand. Mason took the blows without feeling them as he walked back to his car. For an instant, he thought he saw Fish waiting for him in the parking lot. He hurried toward him, waving and calling his name, ready to tell him what he’d done until he realized the old man he saw was a bum scouring the asphalt for lucky pennies. Confession was supposed to be good for his soul. He hadn’t known it would also cloud his vision.

SEVENTY-TWO

Mason tried Lila’s numbers again. When she didn’t answer, he drove to the casino and surveyed the parking lot until he found Lila’s car in the section marked off for employees. He kept going, not stopping until he found a side street just off the casino grounds and out of range of its ubiquitous video cameras. If Lila wouldn’t answer her phone, he’d have to flush her out. He called Galaxy’s main number and asked for Al Webb.

“It’s Lou Mason,” he said.

“What can I do for you that you shouldn’t be talking to my lawyer about instead of me?” Webb asked.

“You’re blackmailing Judge Carter. I don’t think you want me to talk to your lawyer about that.”

Webb laughed. “We’re back to that, are we? Why would I blackmail Judge Carter over a lousy sexual harassment claim? For which the casino has ample insurance coverage, I might add. Sorry, not interested.”

“The last time we talked you were interested enough to ask my price for telling you what I know.”

“You’re confusing two different commodities. I’m not interested in talking to you about whether I’m blackmailing Judge Carter because I’m not blackmailing Judge Carter. If someone else is, or if someone like that two-legged turd Vince Bongiovanni is spreading a rumor that I am blackmailing her, that’s information I would gladly pay for.”

“In that case, I’ve got something you want and I’m ready to do business. When can I meet with you and Lila?”

“Lila? What’s she got to do with this?”

“I’ll tell you when we get together. I can be at your office in ten minutes.”

“Won’t work,” Webb blurted. “Lila’s not here. She called in sick. You and I can make a deal without her.”

“You can, but I can’t. No Lila, no deal. Call me when she’s feeling better,” he said, reciting his cell phone number.

Mason had a good view of the main road leading into the casino parking lot. He was parallel parked in a row of cars similar enough in color and style that his didn’t stand out. He could sit there the rest of the day and wait for Lila or Webb to drive by, except he didn’t have the rest of the day.

Mickey was due to meet Sylvia McBride at the bank branch on Fifty-first Street in an hour. Mason had promised Fish he would wait with him at Fish’s house until Mickey and Sylvia finished their business. He took a long look toward the casino parking lot. It was impossible to choose winners and losers from the handful of people he could see coming and going or tell if Lila was among those leaving. His cell phone rang as he put his car in gear.

“Seven o’clock tonight,” Al Webb said.

“With or without Lila?”

“She’ll be there.”

“Where?”

“Lake Lotawana. Ever been?”

“Nope, but I hear that it’s nice and quiet this time of year.”

“Can’t beat it,” Webb said and gave Mason directions to the house on L Street titled in Ernie Fowler’s name. “You think you can find it?”

Mason listened closely but didn’t hear any sarcasm that meant Webb knew Mason had found the house once before.

“How hard can it be? See you at seven.”

SEVENTY-THREE

Pete Samuelson was at Fish’s house when Mason arrived, accompanied by the technician who had set up the equipment for Fish’s phone call to Sylvia McBride. Samuelson and the technician were seated at the kitchen table, the technician tapping keys on a laptop computer and adjusting the sound on a pair of speakers. Fish was standing behind Samuelson, looking over his shoulder at the computer screen.

Samuelson looked up as Mason walked in. “You’re just in time,” he said. “We thought Mr. Fish might be able to help us with this. We’re tapped into the bank’s closed-circuit monitors and the transmitter and receiver Mickey is wearing.”

“You don’t call ahead for an appointment with my client anymore? You just show up. You forget that he has a lawyer?”

“We didn’t forget,” Samuelson said. “We don’t have to tell you and we don’t need your permission. It’s all in the deal Mr. Fish signed. He belongs to us. You’re welcome to stay, but don’t interfere.”

“It’s all right,” Fish said. “They haven’t asked me to confess to anything else and I have no secrets left anyway.”

Mason didn’t like it but knew that didn’t matter. It would be a problem for Fish’s next lawyer, something he would have to wait to explain to Fish.

“Who’s covering the bank?” Mason asked.

“Kelly Holt is inside the bank with two other agents. Dennis Brewer is in a van across the street,” Samuelson said. “Plus we’ve got backup in the parking lot. That money isn’t going anywhere except back in the vault.”

“That’s her,” Fish said. “That’s Sylvia.”

A small, slender woman wearing a winter coat and gloves appeared on the screen, the high angle of the camera distorting her image. She was in the lobby of the bank. Mason looked at his watch. It was 2:45
P
.
M
.

“She’s early,” he said.

Fish smiled. “Like I told you—either early or late, but never exactly on time. Watch what she does. She’ll take a tour of the lobby.”

“What’s that she’s carrying?” Mason asked

Samuelson leaned into the screen. “Bring that up,” he told the technician, who enlarged the picture.

Sylvia was carrying a large shopping bag adorned with images of famous books. She set the bag on the floor next to a round countertop where customers could fill out deposit slips.

“Get me inside that bag,” Samuelson instructed the technician, who cycled through the bank’s cameras until he found the one that was directly over the countertop, zooming in until the contents of the bag were visible.

“Books,” Mason said. “It’s a bag of books.”

A man entered the picture, but the overhead camera didn’t capture his features. Sylvia picked up the bag and the two of them walked toward the desk nearest the vault holding the safety deposit boxes. The technician switched cameras again, this time getting a head-on view of Mickey and Sylvia.

“Where the hell is the volume?” Samuelson snapped. “Why can’t we hear what they’re saying?”