Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“Then help me with this,” Mason said. “Someone tipped off Rachel Firestone that the corpse in Avery Fish’s car was Charles Rockley. The Star wouldn’t have printed her story without corroboration from the FBI or Justice, both of which officially declined to comment. Somebody confirmed the ID off the record. Was it you?”

“I was holding the ID back from the police while we tried to make a deal with you. Why would I leak that information?”

“What about Samuelson?”

“Be serious. He doesn’t go to the bathroom without double-checking the Justice Department manual.”

“Who else knew about Rockley?”

Kelly pursed her lips, ran through her mental list and shook her head.

“Let me help you,” he said. “That leaves Samuelson’s boss, Roosevelt Holmes, some DNA database jockey at Quantico who confirmed the match, and Dennis Brewer.”

She gave him a flat look that said she’d gone deaf. “Leaks are impossible to prevent and harder to trace.”

“Might be easier to trace this one if you start with who else was tipped off. A blackjack dealer at Galaxy named Carol Hill sued Rockley and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Rachel Firestone wasn’t the only one who got the tip. Carol’s lawyer, Vince Bongiovanni, got one too.”

The flicker in Kelly’s eyes told Mason he’d gotten her attention. “We talked to Rockley’s employer and found out about the lawsuit. How do you know that Bongiovanni was tipped off?”

“He told me. He knew that I represented Fish and he hoped I’d find out something that would help him with Carol Hill’s case.”

“What’s the point of telling him about Rockley?” Kelly asked.

She’d made it clear that Brewer wasn’t her partner. When she asked him about the pictures and the leak, he wouldn’t be her friend either.

“Ask Dennis Brewer. Tell him he could use a good confession. If he turns you down, I’d watch your back, Special Agent Holt.”

Kelly kept her cool as she slid out of the booth, pulled her coat over her shoulders, adjusting her scarf and pulling on her gloves. He watched as she walked away, head up, shoulders square, people making room for her as she passed.

A guy with Humvee-size shoulders bulled his way to the bar, empty bottles in each raised hand. Mason followed in the big man’s wake, resting one foot on the rail at the base of the bar; thinking again about the deal Fish had made, not liking it any better. Fish had agreed just to get even with Wayne McBride over the fifty thousand dollars McBride had scammed from him before resurrecting himself as Al Webb, casino manager. Revenge made people do stupid things.

Fish was walking into a minefield with no idea where the trip wires were buried. Though Pete Samuelson had promised to protect Fish, Mason detected in Kelly a coldness that made collateral damage an acceptable fact of life. Everyone takes their turn in the barrel. She’d had hers. Fish would have his. It was a side of her that Mason hadn’t seen before, and it made him realize he couldn’t ask for her help. He was naked, any control over his life having vanished when Vanessa Carter knocked on his door a week ago.

He leaned against the bar, conscious again of the music. Myles Cartwright finished the set with a flourish on the piano, the sound cool and crisp, the drummer, bass player, and sax giving him room. The audience exploded with applause as the musicians took their bows. Myles said they were taking a break and would be back for another set. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a familiar voice, and turned around.

“Hey,” Rachel Firestone said. “What does a girl have to do to get someone to buy her a beer?”

Rachel always stood out in a crowd. It wasn’t just her red hair or her striking looks. It was the way she carried herself, telling the world to bring it on. It made her a good reporter and a better friend, though lately she’d been more journalist than buddy. He understood her ambition and the pressure she felt from her boss to prove that she was independent enough to follow a story wherever it took her, even one that got into his kitchen. The glint in her eyes made him uneasy. He smiled and took a step back, trying to figure out which hat she was wearing.

“Ask nice and offer to buy the next round.” He caught Blues’s attention and held up two fingers. Blues handed him two cold long-necked bottles, and Mason gave one to Rachel. “Are you working or just looking for a good time?”

“I’m meeting a friend.”

“Anyone special?”

“Not for me. She’s involved with someone else. Girls’ night out.”

“Which means I get off cheap. I could have been stuck for another beer.”

“There’s still time. She’ll be here any minute. By the way, I didn’t know you were open for business this late.” Mason lowered the bottle from his lips, waiting for the shoe to drop. “I saw Avery Fish and Pete Samuelson walking out of here arm in arm. Two seconds later, I bumped into Kelly Holt. I haven’t seen her since your days at Sullivan and Christenson. I hear she’s back with the FBI and that she’s the liaison with the cops on the Rockley murder. She looks great, by the way.”

“This is a popular place.”

“Don’t feel bad, Lou. I mean, what are the odds? You have a private, late-night meeting with your client and the government. I stumble across it. But it’s not news unless you tell me what’s going on. How else will I find out if you made a deal or were just getting drunk together?”

“You could find out from somebody else.”

“There’s always that,” she said. “But, I’m off the clock. Don’t make me work for my beer or for my story.”

“You’re never off the clock and you’d never take a story you didn’t work for.” He couldn’t tell Rachel about the deal Fish had made, but he could aim her at Dennis Brewer. If he didn’t give her something, he’d be reading about his meeting in tomorrow’s paper. “Step into my office,” he said, motioning toward his booth.

“Not bad for a branch office,” Rachel said as they sat down.

“Low overhead. Look, you know I can’t talk to you about any conversations we may have had with the government.”

“Yet.”

“Or maybe ever. There’s no story here. Let it go.”

“Lou, do I look like a complete moron? You and your client meet with the Assistant U.S. attorney who’s prosecuting your client for mail fraud and the FBI agent handling the investigation of a murder in which your client is the prime suspect. You do all this late at night in a bar, and that’s not a story?”

“My office is upstairs.”

“Then what were the four of you doing in this booth? Buying a round of drinks to celebrate? I saw Fish and Samuelson when they left. When I said I bumped into Kelly, I meant that literally, and it wasn’t an accident. She said she was glad to see me, but believe me, I know when a woman means that. And she didn’t.”

Mason gave her a hard look. Not to change her mind about what she’d seen. That wasn’t possible. But to let her know he was serious.

“I can’t talk about the case, Rachel. It’s that simple. If you write a story about seeing us together, people’s lives could be in danger.”

Rachel leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, deciding whether to believe him. She nodded and straightened.

“Then tell me something that I can give my editor when I tell him that I can’t write this story.”

“How do you feel about a trade?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve sexual favors, I have an open mind.”

“When did you raise your standards?”

“When you were born male. What do you want?”

“You got an anonymous tip about Charles Rockley. The Star wouldn’t have run the story without corroboration. The FBI and the Justice Department officially declined to comment. Who corroborated the story?”