Joel Goldman - Final judgment

Samuelson beamed. Kelly looked at Fish with newfound respect and permitted herself a small grin. Mason shook his head.

“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.”

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.