Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“Well, yeah,” Samuelson managed. “But not without us knowing it.”

Fish waved a hand at Samuelson. “First I’m a snitch and now I’m a movie star. I don’t want anybody seeing me naked.”

“We can’t make any room in the house off-limits,” Kelly said. “I’m sorry.”

“Tell you what,” Mason said. “Keep a camera on the briefcase at all times. That’s all you need to worry about. The man is entitled to some privacy.”

Kelly looked at Samuelson, nodding. “Okay. We’ll wire the house today,” Samuelson said.

“Good. Now give me the combination,” Fish said. Samuelson scratched the numbers on a piece of paper, handing it to Fish, who glanced at them and handed the paper back. “This is just seed money. Sylvia and Wayne won’t take my word about the rest of the money. They’ll want to see all of it before they take any chances.”

“How are you going to pull that off?” Samuelson asked. “You already told her you can’t go near the money.”

“I can’t, but he can,” Fish said, pointing to Mason. “I’m going to give him my power of attorney and the key to my safety deposit box.”

Three copper canisters labeled Flour, Sugar, and Salt sat on the kitchen counter against the wall. Fish opened one that said Flour, reached in, and pulled out a plastic bag caked in white powder. He unsealed the bag and removed a key, handing it to Mason.

“It’s for box number 4722 at the U.S. Bank branch at Fifty-first and Main. I’ve had it for years. It’s under the name of Myron Wenneck.”

“I can’t believe we didn’t find that key when we searched your house,” Kelly said. “Or that the police didn’t find it when they did their search.”

“Who’s going to look in the flour?” Fish asked. “You’re policemen, not cooks.”

“You’ve got a safety deposit box under a false name?” Samuelson asked. “That’s against federal bank regulations.”

Fish gave him a sheepish grin. “What are you going to do? Arrest me again? I can’t open a new box. They’ll see the signature card when Lou takes them into the vault to show them the money. If the box doesn’t have a history, we don’t have a story.”

“I don’t want you involved,” Kelly told Mason. “I’ll get an agent about your age and build. Sylvia won’t know the difference.”

“I’ve been on TV as much as Avery has. She’ll know it isn’t me before my double gives her one of my business cards. I’ve got to do it or it falls apart.”

“There has to be another way,” Kelly said, looking hard at Mason. “You’ll end up a witness in the case against Al Webb or Wayne McBride-whichever name we charge him under. Once you’re on the stand, who knows where the questions will go.”

Kelly’s comment and the piercing look she gave him were packed with warning, as if she somehow knew which questions he didn’t want to answer. He glanced at Fish, who was dissecting Kelly’s words and the mask she was wearing. Fish turned to him with narrowed eyes and a thin-lipped smile that said, Watch your step, boytchik.

Mason nodded. “I’ve got an alternative. My legal assistant, Mickey Shanahan, just got back in town. Fish can vouch for him and he can go to the bank.”

“Swell, but what about the money?” Samuelson asked again. “My boss is going to think I’m out of my mind.”

“You’re the government,” Fish said. “Print the money.”

Mason looked at his watch. He was supposed to be at Vince Bongiovanni’s office to swap information about Ed Fiori and Charles Rockley.

“I’ve got to get going. Let me know when you hear from Sylvia.”

Kelly said, “I’ll walk out with you.”

The sky was half clouds, half sun; the air held a tentative chill, ready to give way if the sun won the battle with the clouds or hold on if the contest went the other way. The breeze started and stopped as if it couldn’t make up its mind either.

They stood on the front porch. Kelly stuffed her hands under her arms to keep them warm.

“I think your client may have gotten the wrong idea.”

“Which wrong idea? The one about the government helping him out of a jam?”

Kelly smiled. “Not that one. I think he’s trying to figure out a way to steal our money.”

Mason spun toward her. “Between the federal and state charges, the man could spend the rest of his life in prison. Despite what he says, he’s got an ex-wife, kids, and grandkids he wants to reconnect with when this is all over. Besides, he’s not that stupid. You’re going to have cameras and microphones everywhere except up his ass, plus you’ll probably evict the neighbors across the street so you can spy on him in person.”

“We don’t evict them. We rent from them. And, it’s not about being stupid. It’s about habits-bad ones. People don’t change. He’s a con man. We just waved a boatload of money under his nose. He wasn’t kidding when he said he has too much respect for money to joke about it. Only it isn’t just respect, it’s greed and the charge he gets out of running a con. He can’t help himself. Plus, he wants to get even with his ex-partner.”

“Those are exactly the reasons you wanted his help. He’s good at what he does and he’s highly motivated. I’ll bet that’s a quote right out of the FBI recruiting manual,” Mason said, jabbing a finger at her.

“First page,” Kelly said, slapping his hand away. She looked up and down the street, Mason following her eyes.

“All clear?”

“Habit,” she said. “I like to see trouble before it gets here.”

Kelly stared at him again, this time her face open. She was ready to listen if he was ready to talk. He wasn’t, not until he understood her agenda.

“If you’re sending me a message, I need a translator,” Mason said.

Kelly did a slow circuit of the porch, poking her head around the corners of the house, coming back to Mason, who was standing at the top of the steps.

“Your client may be a con man, but I don’t think he killed Charles Rockley.”

“Did you tell that to the cops?”

“Detective Cates blew me off; made some noise that the Bureau should stick to catching terrorists and leave the street crime to the cops.”

“I’ve met Cates. He’s a wonderful conversationalist.”

“Typical macho cop. Confuses his dick with his gun and probably can’t fire either one. He likes Fish for the murder because they don’t have a better choice. He doesn’t care that there’s no connection between Fish and Rockley. Or that Fish is too old to have taken Rockley down, let alone cut off his head and hands. Rockley was killed by a professional or a psychopath and Fish doesn’t qualify for either, but Cates sees it the way he wants it to be.”

“Rockley was in the FBI’s database, which means he either had a record or he was a spook. I talked to his prior employers and they couldn’t wait to have him back. That doesn’t fit.”

Kelly furrowed her brow. “Where did you get his employment history?”

Mason told her part of the truth. “From Galaxy’s lawyer, Lari Prillman. Tell me who Rockley really was.”

Kelly folded her arms, dipped her chin to her chest, and did a slow half turn in place. Straightening, she clasped her hands behind her back and answered him.

“His real name was Tommy Corcoran. When he was in his twenties, he was a grifter-ran small-time cons. He had a mean side and did time for sexual assault. That’s how he got into our database. After he got out, he picked up a new identity and stayed off our radar until someone handed him his head.”

“Wait a minute. You mean to tell me that Wayne McBride is masquerading as Al Webb, skimming money from Galaxy Casino, and Tommy Corcoran, a.k.a. Charles Rockley, is also working at Galaxy? And the FBI can’t connect those dots?”