Joel Goldman - Final judgment

A car was parked across the street from his house when he pulled into the driveway, the windows fogged, the motor running. Two men got out as he waited for his garage door to open. They walked toward his car, their hands in plain sight and empty, their faces red in the glow of his taillights. It was the homicide cops, Griswold and Cates.

The garage door rose. Mason parked, killed the engine, and took his time. Cates lit a cigarette and started for Mason’s car. Griswold took his arm, telling him something Mason couldn’t make out, though it was enough to make Cates wait a little longer. Mason thought about hitting the remote for the garage door, letting it slide back down the rails as if he hadn’t noticed the cops. It would have been worth it just to see Cates swallow his cigarette. He got out instead, meeting them on the driveway.

They wore dark suits and tan overcoats left open for quick access to the guns they wore under their jackets. Their shift had ended a while ago and the late hour showed in the sag of their faces. Cates had beer breath. Griswold had mustard on his white shirt. They were working Fish’s case off the clock, meaning they were close to arresting him or that it had gotten personal.

“Place is a mess or I’d invite you in,” Mason told them.

Griswold nodded. “You’re a compulsive smart-ass, Mason. Not that we mind. Sometimes you’re even halfway funny.”

“Like midnight on Valentine’s Day?”

“Not yet.”

“It’s been a long day. Give me a minute to get warmed up,” Mason said.

“We got an ID on the body in your client’s car,” Cates interjected.

Mason doubted they had camped out in front of his house just to tell him that.

“I’m listening.”

“Charles Rockley,” Cates said. “What do you know about him?”

“You think my client killed him and you expect me to answer that question? I should be asking whether you’ve got anything that links my client to this guy.”

Griswold put his hand on Cates’s arm again. “It’s late, we’re all tired. You could do your client some good if he’s got any reason for us to believe he’s not connected to Rockley.”

“You’re right about that, only I haven’t had a chance to tell him about Rockley. But you didn’t wait here just to tell me about Rockley. Monday would have been soon enough. What do you want?”

“We want anything you’ve got on Rockley,” Griswold answered, sticking to his story. “We know he worked at the Galaxy Casino.”

Cops didn’t ask a suspect’s lawyer for information on the victim unless they really had nothing to go on or they thought the lawyer was dumb enough to help them out. Mason rejected both possibilities, knowing the cops would get to the point when they were ready.

“That’s not much. A lot of people work at the casino. You’d do better to talk to them.”

“This guy worked there too, only he isn’t talking,” Cates said, handing Mason a photograph of a man lying on the pavement, the side of his face pressed against the ground, his one visible eye wide open, the back of his head blown away. The time and date stamp in the bottom right hand corner said the picture had been taken two hours ago.

“Who is it?” Mason asked.

“Thought you might know,” Cates said.

“Why would I know him?”

“He had a piece of paper in his hand with your name and phone number on it.”

This wasn’t the punch Mason had been expecting, though it rocked him. He had no explanation and couldn’t think of one he’d be happy about. He studied the picture more closely. A man who dies naturally and peacefully looks like he’s sleeping, not dead. Take the same man, excavate his skullcap with a bullet, and you get a death mask his mother wouldn’t recognize. Mason shook his head at the cops. Griswold’s expression was flat. Cates flashed a devil’s grin through cigarette smoke.

“I give up. Who is he?” Mason asked.

“A bartender at the Galaxy name of Johnny Keegan,” Cates said. “Why would he have had your name and number?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“With luck, it might,” Cates said. “Let us know if you think of something. Monday is soon enough.”

“Help me out,” Mason said. “When did it happen?”

Cates was halfway down the driveway, his back to Mason. Griswold watched him go. “He doesn’t like you.”

“Occupational hazard. How about you?”

“Doesn’t matter. All I want to know, are you part of the problem or part of the solution?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Glad to hear it. Keegan finished his shift at the casino at eight o’clock. His body was found in a vacant parking lot about a mile away around nine-thirty. So, you still got no idea why he had your name?”

“I wouldn’t have known him if he bit me on the ass.”

“I hear you lawyers are into that,” Griswold said. “Better watch out Keegan doesn’t get you from the grave.”

Two Galaxy employees murdered in one week was unusual enough. That they were both linked to Carol Hill was even more unlikely. That they were both linked to him was the trifecta of bad karma. Every rock turned over in this case uncovered something that made him look like a coconspirator.

Griswold and Cates suspected that Mason had known about the body in Fish’s car. They had said as much when they first interviewed Fish.

Kelly Holt suspected that Mason knew Rockley was the murder victim since he had sent Blues to check out Rockley’s apartment. She assumed that meant Fish was guilty, and she and Pete Samuelson were relying on that to pressure Fish to accept their offer of cooperation.

Now that they knew Rockley was the murder victim, the cops would find out about Carol Hill’s lawsuit as soon as they talked to Al Webb and Lila Collins. It wouldn’t take long for them to catch up to Mark Hill, who would happily spill the story about Mason and Blues bracing him in the parking lot at Easy’s. Even though Mason and Blues hadn’t identified themselves, the cops would make the connection from the descriptions Hill would provide.

Add Johnny Keegan to the mix, put Mason’s name in his hand and a bullet in his head, and stand back. Mason was lucky the cops didn’t take him downtown.

The truth was worse than what either the cops or the FBI believed. He could explain everything, make it all go away, and qualify for his civic duty merit badge. All he had to do was give up Vanessa Carter and himself. Then he realized how much worse the truth really was. If the cops found the tape of him asking Ed Fiori to blackmail Judge Carter and figured out that Rockley or Keegan were linked to the tape, Mason would shove Avery Fish from the top of the list of murder suspects.

Mason nearly tripped over Tuffy as he walked into the house. The sleeping dog yawned, rolled over, and opened one eye at him before going back to sleep.

He turned the light on in the kitchen, sat at the breakfast table, and massaged his temples, wondering if he could trade places with the dog. The message light on his answering machine was blinking. He pushed the play button and closed his eyes.

“I’m coming home for a few days. My plane gets in at ten, tomorrow morning. It would be nice if you could pick me up. Happy Valentine’s Day,” Abby Lieberman said.

“Perfect,” Mason said to the dog. “Just perfect.”

Mason wandered through the first floor of his house, stopping in the living room. The dining room table had been transplanted there to make room for his rowing machine. He sat at the head of the table, lights off, staring out the picture window at the street. Griswold and Cates had hit him with the photograph of Johnny Keegan’s body hoping he’d slip and give them something they could use. Mason had taken the punch but disappointed them.