Joel Goldman - Final judgment

The alcove was deep and dark enough to swallow Mason when he made his way there after parking his car. The kitchen door was propped open, a triangle of light spilling onto the asphalt, garlic breeze escaping the kitchen and seasoning the air. He leaned against the rough brick wall, checking his watch, waiting for Mickey’s call.

Follow the money, he’d told Blues before they left his office. It was an axiom made famous in political scandals that served equally well in solving crimes. Whether it was the money Webb was skimming from the casino, the money Kelly had hidden in Fish’s coat, or the money Bongiovanni wanted from Galaxy, all he had to do was follow it. When it stopped moving, he’d have his answers.

Mason’s cell phone rang. “What’s happening?” Mason asked.

“The coat is moving,” Mickey said.

“Who has it?”

“A white guy, mid-thirties, wearing khaki pants and a gray sweater. He’s headed for the front door.”

Mason called Blues. “Khaki pants, gray sweater and a hundred-thousand-dollar coat coming right at you.”

“I’ve got him,” Blues said. “Only he’s not carrying or wearing a coat. He’s banging on the door of a minivan. Someone opened up, he got in, and they’re taking off. Here come Fish and Kelly. She’s patting him on the back. He’s squeezing her ass. I’m on the van.”

“Shit!” Mason said, punching the buttons on the phone again. “Mickey! Where the hell are you?”

“Here, boss. How we doin’?”

“Lousy. The guy didn’t have the coat when he got outside. Could he have passed it to someone else?”

“I don’t know. There was a table full of women wearing red hats. They all got up at the same time as he did and I lost him. He could have handed it off to someone and I wouldn’t have known it.”

“What’s the next thing you saw after the women got out of the way?”

Mickey waited a moment before answering. “Not much. Just a busboy carrying a garbage bag.”

Mason peered at the back door to the restaurant just as the man in the kitchen coat emerged with another garbage bag, adding it to the top of the pile in the Dumpster, looking both ways before he went back inside. A moment later, a sedan pulled up alongside the Dumpster. One of Lila Collins’s bodyguards-the one who had gut-punched him at the hotel-got out, grabbed the garbage bag, and tossed it into the trunk of the car.

Mason crouched on the ground, pressing himself against the base of the alcove as the car eased past. He stuck his head out far enough to read the license tag on the car, repeating it until he was certain he wouldn’t forget it.

His car was parked too far away for him to follow the sedan. He doubted the bodyguard would take the money to the casino since video cameras recorded everyone who came or left. His best bet was to trace the tag on the car. He called Blues again.

“Are you still following the van?” Mason asked him.

“Yeah. They’re taking their time, stopping for all the yellow lights.”

“Write the plate number down and let them go,” Mason said, explaining what had happened. “You know anyone who can run a couple of plates after hours?”

“After hours costs extra.”

“The guy who charges extra, does he owe you for anything?”

“All my people owe me. That’s why they’re my people.”

“Then tell him he’s paid up if he gets us names and addresses tonight.”

Mason checked his watch. He had fifteen minutes to make it to Abby’s apartment. He’d be late but not too late. He called and told her he was on the way, the relief in her voice enough to warm them both.

A long line of cars was stacked up almost the length of the parking lot waiting to turn onto Metcalf. Mason decided to look for another exit on the west side of the strip center. He drove back down the service road past the entrance to the kitchen and into the drive around the outer edge of the storefronts. He turned left away from the traffic, trailing a few other drivers who’d adopted the same exit strategy.

The driver of the car in front of him had a change of heart and turned around, his headlights framing a man and woman standing in the darkened entrance of a vacant storefront. Kelly Holt and Dennis Brewer were wrapped around each other like braided snakes.

Mason turned his head from them and drove past as if he hadn’t noticed a thing, resisting the temptation to speed away as that would surely draw their attention. He glanced in his rearview mirror, wondering if they had recognized him or memorized his license tag.

He held his course, turning out of the lot, crossing into a residential neighborhood, and losing himself in the winding streets. No backup cars appeared behind him or cut him off, his cautious meandering giving him cover and time to think.

When he’d first met Kelly, she had recently left the FBI after becoming involved with another agent who’d turned out to be on the take. Her lover had been killed and she’d been suspected of being corrupt as well. Though she was eventually cleared, the suspicion and her lover’s death were enough to make her quit. Now she was back with the FBI, involved with another agent, both of them with too much to explain. She reminded him of a woman who kept marrying alcoholics and complained that all the good ones were taken, not realizing that she was the one who was making the same mistake again.

He remembered her differently, as beautiful, brave, and unfairly accused. It was who he wanted to see and, at the time, who he had wanted to love. She’d walked away from him then; Mason had believed that she had too many wounds to heal to make a permanent place for him in her life. Now he realized he just wasn’t her type. He checked his bitterness with the knowledge that she might think otherwise if she knew about Judge Carter. If he was going to step on the toes of people with clay feet, he’d have to start with himself.

The side street he’d chosen led him into a subdivision. He didn’t think Kelly or Brewer was following him and he doubted they had backup for that purpose. Whatever they were up to, they had to be doing it on their own. Still, he didn’t want to take any chances. His cell phone rang as he made another unnecessary turn.

It was Kelly Holt. “Where are you?”

“Just leaving my office.”

“For a guy with two dinner dates, you’re getting a late start.”

“Lucky for me, one of them cancelled.”

“Cancel the other one. We need to talk.”

“Call Mickey and make an appointment. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow. Maybe end of the week.”

“Stubborn and stupid could get you hurt,” she said.

“Then you should be right there with me.”

“It was you!”

“Yeah,” he said softly, dropping any pretense. “And it was you too.”

“It’s not the way it looks.”

“Like the song says, who should I believe? You or my lying eyes?”

“It’s complicated,” she said.

“I’ve hung too many things on that hook and I don’t have room for anything else.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Too late. We already did,” he said and hung up.

His cell rang a moment later, this time Rachel Firestone’s name was displayed on the screen. He’d turned her loose on Dennis Brewer the night before but doubted that she’d found out more in the last twenty-four hours than he had found out in the last twenty minutes.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“That seems to be everyone’s favorite question. What happened to hello?”

“What’s the matter? Are you lost? Who else is looking for you?”

“You’re the only one that matters. I was lost until you found me. Any luck with Dennis Brewer?”

“You know what happens when a reporter starts asking if anyone knows whether an FBI agent might be dirty? Phones start ringing and none of them are mine. The publisher doesn’t like hearing from the U.S. attorney.”