Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“You know I won’t reveal my sources.”

“I’ll settle for a place. Keep the name to yourself.”

Rachel leaned back against the booth, thinking and nodding. “Okay. Now tell me what you’ve got to trade.”

“Another anonymous tip.

“And what tip would that be?”

“That an FBI agent may be freelancing.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “You give me a name and a reason not to think you’re blowing smoke up my skirt, and I’ll make that trade.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll give you a name and pictures,” Mason said, reaching into his coat pocket and fanning the photographs Blues had taken in an arc across the table. He shoved the FBI agent’s toward her. “His name is Dennis Brewer. I don’t know who the others are.”

Rachel picked up the photograph, studying the image. “What makes you think Brewer is dirty?”

“The company he keeps. These guys have short tempers and bad manners.”

“Where should I look?”

“Anyplace but the FBI.”

“That leaves a lot of ground to cover. Can’t you do better than that?”

Mason hesitated. He only had one lead to give her and it could threaten Fish, him, and her. But it was the only card he had to play. He needed help that he wasn’t going to get from Kelly.

“This could be dangerous. Two people are already dead.”

Rachel didn’t flinch. “One of them is Charles Rockley. Who’s the other one?”

“Johnny Keegan. Guy was a bartender at the Galaxy Casino.”

“I saw that story. It sounded like a robbery gone bad. What’s the connection between Rockley, Keegan, and Brewer? And why didn’t you tell me this sooner? I should be kicking you in the ass for that instead of bargaining with you.”

Mason had to give her something to work with even if it risked leading her back to him and Judge Carter. She couldn’t do her job in a vacuum, and the story would leak eventually, whether from the cops or the FBI.

“Keegan was having an affair with a blackjack dealer named Carol Hill. Carol is married to an unpleasant guy named Mark. Rockley knew she was fooling around and figured to take his turn. Carol wasn’t interested. Rockley pushed harder and she sued him and Galaxy for harassment. What I don’t know is whether Brewer is mixed up with Rockley or Keegan. And I didn’t tell you because I don’t know which side you’re on these days-mine or your paper’s.”

“That’s a cheap shot!”

“But accurate. I liked things the way they used to be.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. No. It’s not okay. You’re using me to find the connection between these guys and I don’t like being used.”

“Then let it all go. Enjoy your night out on the town, forget about it and forget who you saw here.”

Rachel shook her head. “Like there’s any chance of that.”

“I know. It’s what you do. What about our trade?”

Rachel scooped up the rest of the photographs, stacked them like playing cards, and dropped them in her purse. She looked squarely at Mason, her eyes narrow and cautious.

“The FBI officially declined to comment about Rockley, but not everyone there is quite so official.”

Mason reached across the table, his hand on her wrist. “Who was it?”

She delicately removed his hand. “I’d sooner give up my virtue than give up a source.”

“You gave up your virtue years ago.”

“But I’ve never given up a source and I’m not starting now.”

Mason followed Rachel from the booth back to the bar. Myles Cartwright and the rest of the trio, sans the sax player, were back onstage, easing into a gentle number that would pull the crowd along like a lazy current before shooting the rapids. Chatter receded into the background as the music swept the room.

Rachel raised her arm, waving toward the entrance. Mason couldn’t see who she was waving at but assumed it was her friend. He was glad she’d finally arrived because now he could gracefully bow out. The day had been so long that he would have to check the fossil record to reconstruct what had happened before lunch.

He glanced around for Blues to tell him he was leaving, not paying attention as Rachel and her friend embraced. When he looked back at them, Abby was standing next to Rachel, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wet from the wind, and her mouth an expectant half-moon.

“Hey,” he said, instinctively taking her hand.

“Hey, you,” she answered, covering his with hers.

It was what they’d said the first time they’d met. He’d taken her hand then as well, not giving it back until she told him he’d have to feed her if he didn’t. Since then, it had become their special way of greeting one another reserved for the end of a hard day, or after they’d been apart or had a fight. It was code for Let’s pick up where we started.

“Whew,” Rachel said. “I didn’t realize how late it was. I’m sorry, but I’ve got an early day tomorrow. I’ve got to get going.”

Mason and Abby traded grins. Mason looked at Rachel, about to apologize for questioning her loyalty. He opened his mouth and she shook her head, telling him to forget about it.

“Okay, then,” Rachel said, clapping her hands. “Am I good or what?”

“Very good,” Mason answered.

“The best,” Abby said.

Mason led Abby through the crowd, up the back stairs and to his office. He closed the door and turned on the light. Abby turned it off, leaving them bathed in the glow of yellow streetlights and purple neon shimmering through the large window overlooking Broadway. She slipped her arms around his back, her face against his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Me too,” she said.

“Overs?” he asked, invoking the playground plea for second chances.

“Over and over,” she said, nudging him to the sofa, knocking files and a crumpled sweatshirt and sweatpants to the floor.

They made love and, afterwards, lay tangled together as much by the narrow reach of the sofa as by their fear of letting the other go. They whispered more apologies and explanations.

Abby said that she had told Rachel what had happened Saturday night at the Republican Party dinner and about Mason’s phone message that morning. Rachel said that Mason would probably end up at Blues on Broadway if he was working late and offered to go with her so she wouldn’t look desperate if he didn’t show up.

She told him that Senator Seeley fooled around, that his wife knew it and was suspicious of all the women on his staff, especially her after she’d made the mistake of hugging Seeley on camera on election night. Since then she had kept her boss at arm’s length, telling herself that nobody was perfect, that the work was important and she needed a job. None of the excuses made her proud, she admitted.

She had invited Mason to the dinner to discourage Seeley and reassure his wife and should have told him so. More than that, she should have told him how much she missed him-that though she didn’t want to live in his violent and desperate world, she didn’t want to live in her world, where he was only a distant image.

Mason stroked her face, lacing her hair around his fingers. He wanted to tell her that he had until Friday to stop a blackmailer from destroying his career and Vanessa Carter’s; that he wished he’d stayed at the dinner so that he and Lari Prillman wouldn’t have been shot at; and that if he lost her again he wouldn’t care about blackmail or bullets. He was afraid that if he pulled her back into his world her love would finally drown in his dark water. Instead he told her he was sorry about everything, cloaking his sins in vague regret.

“Rachel told me about your client, the one named Fish,” she said.