Final Judgment Page 28

  Mason nodded. “If you’ll open the door, I’ll let you in.”

  Abby smiled weakly. “God, I hate it when you do the charm thing. C’mon.”

  They sat across from each other, Abby’s bare feet curled beneath her, Mason’s elbows on his knees. He told her everything that had happened since Vanessa Carter had walked into his office a week ago. She listened silently, neither berating nor excusing him for what he’d done to secure Blues’s release from jail three years ago or the lengths he’d gone to over the last seven days to keep it secret.

  “Mickey is running down some leads, but none of them have anything to do with the blackmail. It’s the elephant in the room. I can’t talk to anyone about it.”

  “Sure you can,” Abby said. “You said it yourself. Go public. Take the blackmail away from the blackmailer. Even if you keep the lid on it this time, there’s no way for you to ever know if someone else isn’t out there with the same information. You’ll never be free. Trust me; I know what it’s like to live that way.”

  Mason looked at her. When they first met, she had confessed a secret she had carried since she was a teenager that nearly cost both of them their lives. The guilt and grief she carried with her secret added weight to her burden. She had shed some but not all of that baggage since moving to Washington.

  “I’ll probably lose my law license.”

  “Is that all you are. A guy with a law license?”

  He laughed. “On a good day. I may go to jail. How do you feel about a boyfriend with a record?”

  She walked over to his chair, pulling him up to her, arms around his back. “I don’t want a boyfriend with a record. But I can live with a man who made a mistake and set it right.”

  Two hours later, she lay sleeping while he stood in the kitchen dialing Lila Collins’s phone number. Blues’s contact had left an anonymous message on his cell phone, apologizing for the delay and explaining that it took longer than expected because Lila’s number was unlisted.

  “It’s Lou Mason,” he said when she answered, her voice thick with sleep.

  “It’s the middle of the night. What do you want?”

  She listened as he explained, telling her it might be dangerous, that she didn’t have to do it and he’d understand if she said no. When he finished, she made a promise that should have reassured him but didn’t.

  “I’ll go to the office now and call you as soon as I get something.”

  SIXTY-NINE

  Mason went home, knowing that he wouldn’t sleep while waiting for Lila to call. Clutching his cell phone, he paced the first floor of his house. The Kansas City Star hit the driveway at five-thirty. The air was icy and still when he went outside to pick it up, the plastic wrapper crackling as if it might crumble. He brought the paper in, glanced at the headlines, and tossed it onto the kitchen table, his face stinging from the cold.

  At six, he changed into athletic shorts and rowed eight thousand meters, his cell phone lying on the floor alongside the flywheel. His time was slow, his technique sloppy, but he didn’t die and the phone didn’t ring. Afterwards, resting on the hard seat, he listened as his ragged breathing slowly steadied. Hunched over the slide, he worried about the reasons Lila might not have called, none of which made him feel any better, his anxiety competing with his concerns for what else the day would bring. There may be fifty ways to leave your lover, but there was only one way to come clean.

  He remembered a conversation he had had with Fish about Fish’s life of crime. Atonement, Fish had said, required that you apologize to those you’ve wronged and ask for their forgiveness. It wasn’t enough just to ask for God’s forgiveness, though Fish did so each year on Yom Kippur, the Jewish holiday of atonement. He preferred confessing to God rather than to people because, he said, God was more understanding—wouldn’t send you to jail and would never hire a lawyer to get even.

  Mason had little experience with prayer but enough with people to accept Fish’s comparison, especially regarding Vanessa Carter. She was desperate to keep the remnants of her reputation intact. Mason had to tell her what he was going to do in advance so that they could get their stories straight since part of what he would admit would be a story. That was the only way he could protect her from the blackmailer.

  He and Fish would be at police headquarters at eleven to meet with Detectives Griswold and Cates. Samantha Greer would probably be there as well. When they were done with Fish, he would lay it out for them. It would be out of his hands after that.

  Working it out in his mind revealed another problem. What he considered a confession of a past crime, the police would hear as an admission to obstructing their investigation into the murders of Charles Rockley, Johnny Keegan, and Mark Hill. They wouldn’t be wrong.

  Mason had tried without success to prove that the blackmail and the murders were tied together. The cops had the resources to prove he was right. If he had told them about the blackmail sooner, they may have run with that angle instead of zeroing in on Fish.

  He was back to the conflict of interest that should have caused him to resign as Fish’s lawyer, another reason he would be disbarred. Once he laid the story out for the cops, he’d have no choice but to quit. Not even Fish could talk him out of that, though Mason wouldn’t give him the chance. The good news for Fish might be that if the government took down Al Webb, he wouldn’t need a lawyer any longer.

  He wiped the sweat from his face, draping a towel around his neck and following Tuffy into the kitchen. She pawed the back of his leg while he made her breakfast; Tuffy’s impatience was a comforting part of their daily routine. He scratched the back of her neck as she dipped her head to the bowl when his landline rang.

  “Good morning,” Vanessa Carter said when he answered. The magisterial timbre she usually brought to their conversations had been replaced by a brittle bravado.

  “I was about to call you,” he said. “How’s your eye?”

  “It’s black, yellow, and ugly. He called again this morning. He wants to see a draft of my opinion by the end of the day.”

  “How are you supposed to get it to him?”

  “He gave me the address for a website and a password that is only good for one use. Once I post the opinion, I can’t get back on the website.”

  Mason twisted the ends of his towel around his throat. “How would you rule if it wasn’t for all of this?

  “The evidence cuts both ways, but I can justify a ruling for Galaxy.”

  “But that’s not the ruling you think you should make, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. I believe Carol Hill is telling the truth.”

  “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to do what’s right. No one would think twice if I rule in Galaxy’s favor. But if I do, Galaxy will own me forever and they’ll steer every case to me knowing that I have to rule for them again. I can’t live that way and I’m afraid of what they’ll do if I rule against them. You’re my only hope.”

  Mason let out a long sigh. “Write the opinion the way you think you should. Write another version finding in favor of Galaxy and post it on the website. That will buy us a little time.”

  “Have you found the blackmailer?”

  “No.”

  “Then I can’t do that. Even if I rule for the plaintiff, he’ll be able to use the draft opinion against me. He’ll ruin me or kill me. At the moment, I don’t know which would be worse.”

  “He won’t do either. I’m going to tell the police that I’m the one being blackmailed.”

  “You? How does that solve anything?”

  “I’ll tell them what I asked Fiori to do three years ago; that Fiori taped our conversation and the blackmailer found the tape. I’ll tell them that the blackmailer contacted me and threatened to go public if I didn’t pressure you into ruling for Galaxy.”

  “I don’t see how that helps me,” she said. “What about the tape of my conversation with Fiori?”

  “A friend of mine, Rachel Firestone, is a reporter for the Star.
She’ll run the story. Once it’s public, you withdraw from Carol’s case and say that you’ll decline any more cases in which Galaxy is a party. The blackmailer will lose his leverage. He’s got nothing to gain by exposing your tape.”

  “What if he comes after me again? He was in my garage the last time.”

  “The police will provide protection for you and so will Blues. And I’ll take the heat. Consider it my apology.”

  “You know what this will mean for you?”

  “I’ll get a good lawyer.”

  “I thought you would find the blackmailer and stop him. I never thought you would have to do something like this.”

  “Neither did I,” Mason said.

  SEVENTY

  Dennis Brewer was on time. They met in the office Mickey used as his living room, sitting on folding chairs around a card table. Brewer was all business, slipping a transmitter the size of a flat aspirin into the collar of Mickey’s shirt and a tiny receiver into Mickey’s ear with practiced ease. He explained that they would have Mickey under surveillance at all times and would use the transmitter and receiver to coach him as well as to record his encounter with Sylvia McBride.

  Finished, he handed Mickey two bank forms. One was a signature card confirming that he was authorized to use the safety deposit box registered in the name of Myron Wenneck, the alias Fish used to hide his ownership of the box. The second was a register signed and dated by owners of safety deposit boxes each time they used them. It bore two signatures of Myron Wenneck showing he had been in the box twice in the last six months. There were blank lines on either side of both signatures.

  “Sign the signature card and then sign the access card three times,” he instructed, handing Mickey three different pens and pointing to lines on the card above and below where Fish had signed Myron Wenneck’s name.

  Mickey looked at Mason.

  “I thought Fish was going to execute a power of attorney,” Mason said to Brewer.

  “This is simpler,” Brewer replied. “We’ll backdate Mickey’s signature on the signature card by six months and date the register so it looks like he’s been in the box before. Different pens will make it look like he signed on different dates. When he asks to be let into the box this afternoon, it will look like business as usual to Sylvia McBride.”

  “You can do that?” Mickey asked.

  “We’re the FBI,” Brewer answered. “All you have to do is show her the money. Let her count it if she wants to, as long as it’s all back in the box when you leave. Walk out together and go your separate ways. Got it?”

  “Got it,” Mickey said.

  “Good,” Brewer said.

  That was it. There were no silent exchanges between Brewer and Mason filled with accusations or suspicions. They didn’t spar with one another and neither of them dropped hints about what he knew or thought he knew. Mason had found more hidden meaning in fortune cookies.

  “Brewer doesn’t give much away,” Mickey said after Brewer left.

  “What’s he going to do?” Mason asked from the doorway, watching Brewer show himself out. “Grill us? He’s got to play it cool.”

  “Maybe he didn’t kill Rockley and maybe he isn’t in bed with Webb. Maybe he’s just doing his job.”

  “Or maybe he’s just very good.”

  “Not as good as we are,” Mickey said. “I called the businesses that should be next door to the companies that Rockley and Keegan claimed they worked for. Guess what? None of Rockley’s and Keegan’s former employers exist. They’re all fake.”

  “That means you’re right about Sylvia’s call center,” Mason said. “She’s in the phony ID business.”

  “Except Keegan’s name wasn’t phony, just his employment records. I got a call this morning from my girlfriend. Her friend at the FBI hit pay dirt.”

  Mason returned to his folding chair. “Give.”

  “You remember you told me that Sylvia McBride had a sister in Minneapolis?”

  “Yeah. The one she went to live with after her husband supposedly drowned.”

  “Her name was Olivia Corcoran. She was married to Tommy Corcoran’s father. That made her Tommy’s stepmother. Tommy’s aunt Sylvia gave him a new ID as Charles Rockley. Johnny Keegan was Olivia’s son by her first marriage. He didn’t need a new ID since he’d never been arrested. Aunt Sylvia only gave him a phony résumé.”

  Mason whistled. “How many laws were broken getting us that information?”

  “None,” Mickey said. “Our friend’s job includes running checks through the FBI’s database. She ran Corcoran’s name and came up with his bio. There was an obit for Olivia Corcoran that listed Tommy, Johnny Keegan, and Sylvia McBride as her survivors. But here’s the weird part. She couldn’t get into the rest of Corcoran’s file or the file on Wayne McBride and his alter ego, Al Webb.”

  “Why not?”

  “She doesn’t have clearance for national security matters.”

  “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.”