Joel Goldman - Final judgment

Mason always voted but rarely contributed to campaigns, telling Claire it was risky enough to trust a candidate with his vote, let alone his money. Claire was a straight-ticket Democrat and chided Mason for failing to have any real convictions. He told her that he’d seen too many politicians with criminal convictions to put much faith in the political variety.

After a while, he abandoned his post and went to look for Abby. The place was thick with lawyers, more than a few throwing their arms over his shoulder telling him they were glad that he was there and that the party could use his support. He spun free of their grasp, telling them that he was freeloading and that no political party could long survive with him as a member. He saw no sign of Abby and gave up for the moment, making his way back to his friendly bartender.

“Mason! You’re about the last person I expected to see here,” someone said before he could get to the bar.

The voice came from behind him, though he had no trouble recognizing it. He turned around. It was Patrick Ortiz. Dressed in his tux, Ortiz had the clothes for the high rollers but couldn’t shake the rumpled look that juries loved. He tugged at his bow tie, ill at ease in his outfit and his surroundings.

He was with a woman Mason assumed to be his wife. She was short, coppery skinned with bright eyes and dark hair. Her arm was wrapped comfortably over his, a plain gold band on her left hand.

“Business is slow. What better place to meet people likely to be charged with a crime than at a political fund-raiser?” He nodded to the woman, extending his hand. “I’m Lou Mason.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m Maggie Ortiz.”

“My campaign manager,” Ortiz said. “She makes me come to all these events.”

“I tell him he can stay home if he doesn’t want to run again,” she said. “He loves to prosecute, but he hates to politick.”

“But I’m getting used to it. There’s the governor,” he said, looking past Mason. “We better go say hello.”

They were gone before Mason could buttonhole Ortiz and ask him if there was anything new on Rockley’s murder. He didn’t expect Ortiz to tell him, but he might learn something from Ortiz’s denial. No didn’t always mean no. The way it was said and the body language that went with it were like radio traffic and troop movements-intelligence to be analyzed.

The crowd surrounding Mason melted away as if the tide had gone out, the current depositing a cluster of fresh faces. One of them belonged to a man who looked to be in his early fifties, though his hair was too dark to be natural. His eyes flicked across the crowd, his long face a barely lined serpentine mask. The skin beneath his chin was loose, his neck weathered, the contrast exposing that he’d had a facelift that had taken ten years off his appearance if you didn’t look too closely.

He was bony through the shoulders and sleek through the middle like a distance runner without the healthy glow; his skin was a subnormal chalk. His hands and fingers were elongated, as if he had stretched them while reaching for something-perfect for surgeons and stranglers. He ignored Mason, who read the man’s name tag- Al Webb, General Manager, Galaxy Casino.

Feeling Mason’s stare, Webb gave him a quick look and a dismissive nod. Mason knew the combination was code for I see you, but I don’t want to talk to you. Mason responded with a broad smile and outstretched hand that said I know and I don’t give a shit.

“I’m Lou Mason,” he said, holding his ground until Webb shook his hand.

“Al Webb.”

“At least they got your name tag right,” Mason said, forcing the conversation. “They didn’t have one for me.”

Webb quit doing crowd reconnaissance and focused on Mason, taking his measure. “Maybe you weren’t invited,” Webb said with a wounded smile and a soothing voice.

The warm, rich timbre of Webb’s voice surprised Mason and blunted the sting of his comment. Mason wondered if Webb had cultivated his voice to compensate for his bloodless countenance. Man-made or natural, Webb’s voice was a weapon of mass deception.

“Actually, I wasn’t. I’m a guest of someone who was invited.”

“That’s better than buying an invitation. Mine cost a thousand dollars,” Webb deadpanned. He made it a charming self-deprecation, now drawing Mason close rather than pushing him away.

“I’d rather spend that kind of money at the craps table. I’ll take my chances against the house over a politician’s promise any day of the week.”

Webb laughed. “Then you’re the kind of gambler that keeps me in business.”

“I thought it was the gamblers who can’t resist betting on the long shots.”

Webb shook his head. “Gamblers who play the long shots are either hopelessly optimistic or secretly suicidal. I don’t understand them, but I’m grateful for them. Frankly, I wish there were more of them. Personally, I prefer the sporting player who understands the game. He accepts the odds, understands when he loses, and doesn’t take too much credit when he wins. That’s why he keeps coming back. The others don’t last long enough.”

Mason looked at him, the honey in Webb’s voice dulling Mason’s instinctively suspicious reaction to him. He was an unpleasant-looking man who’d added youth but not attraction to his appearance. His short dissertation on gambling sounded more like a parable about life than a beginner’s guide to dice.

“You know who I am?”

“We don’t sell newspapers in the casino, but I do read them. Were you looking for me or did you just get lucky?”

“Dumb luck. The only kind I have these days. One of your employees ends up dead in the trunk of my client’s car and you and I end up at the same party talking about it. Are those odds optimistic or suicidal?”

“It doesn’t matter since we aren’t talking about it. I wouldn’t take them either way.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Charles Rockley.”

“I don’t blame you. But it’s a police matter and I can’t involve my company in your client’s problems.”

“Rockley was your employee. Doesn’t that make his murder your problem?”

“We have hundreds of employees. Somebody is always getting married, getting divorced, getting sick, or getting well. Some of them die. We send them all a card.”

“Who are you sending a card to for Rockley?”

Webb put one hand in his pants pocket, running his other hand across his chest and under his neck. “I don’t know anything about his family. My HR director takes care of that.”

“Sure,” Mason said. “All those employees. Must be hard for you to get to know every one of them.”

“It’s part of my job. I do the best I can.”

“But you knew Charles Rockley better than most because another one of your employees, Carol Hill, sued him and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Vince Bongiovanni told me all about it.”

Webb blinked once, his only concession to the card Mason had played. “Then you should talk to Mr. Bongiovanni. He doesn’t have to keep personnel matters confidential. I do.”

“How about Johnny Keegan? Let’s talk about him. What are the odds that two of your employees would be murdered in the same week and that one of them was having an affair with Carol Hill and the other one wished he was?”

Webb cocked his head at Mason, applying a thin smile, his voice dropping to a frozen register. “Too long for you to play them,” he said.

Webb walked past Mason before he could respond, the crowd swallowing him. Mason parsed their conversation, looking for what was meant even if it hadn’t been said. Webb had a ready answer to Mason’s questions about Rockley. No doubt the cops had been to see him and Webb surely had told them about Carol Hill’s sexual harassment claim. All that made sense. And it made sense that Mason would take advantage of their meeting to ask Webb about Rockley. Webb could anticipate all that and be ready for Mason’s questions knowing he’d have to answer them sooner or later.