Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“Sam,” Mason said. “You can’t be serious.”

“Rockley isn’t my case, Lou. Hill belongs to me unless it turns out they’re related. If they are, Cates and Griswold will take it. Right now we don’t know one way or the other. Either way, we’re going to need to talk to Fish. Might as well make it tomorrow morning.”

Dennis Brewer was meeting with Mickey at 9 A. M. to prepare him for the tour of Fish’s safety deposit box. Mason wanted to sit in on that session, which shouldn’t take more than an hour.

“We’ll be there at eleven,” he said.

Mason told Rachel what he’d learned, thanked her for the tip, and declined her offer for a late dinner, telling her he was already late for dinner with Abby. His cell phone rang again before he reached his car. He let it ring while deciding whether to answer it or throw it in the lake, choosing the former when he saw Blues’s name on the screen.

“What do you have?” Mason asked him.

“One address for both cars at Lake Lotawana. Place is owned by someone named Ernie Fowler. Got the phone number too.”

“I’ll bet the rent money that Ernie Fowler’s phone is answered at Sylvia McBride’s call center in Minneapolis.”

“One way to find out,” Blues said. “Call him.”

“What if he doesn’t answer?”

“Then we knock on his door.”

“I was thinking of something more discreet. Besides, have you ever tried finding an address at a lake?” Mason asked. “You practically need a guide.”

“I’ve got one. This BMW has a GPS system. I’ve already punched in the address. It’s only twenty-four-point-thirty miles if we pick the route for the fastest time and the most use of freeways. Damn, being rich is a fine thing.”

“Pick me up at the office,” Mason said. “Ten minutes.”

Troost Lake was an oversized pond, home to no one. Lake Lotawana was the real deal: a pastoral haven far enough from Kansas City to feel like you left. Mason didn’t expect to find any bodies floating there, but that didn’t make him feel any better about making the trip. The case was swallowing him whole, the dark water lapping against his chin. He had an image of Abby turning her back as the water closed over his head.

The first twenty miles were easy. They took Highway 71 south, picked up I-470, and got off at Colbern Road. A handful of quick turns later, they were on Lake Lotawana Road, passing the Lake Lotawana Police Department, which served and protected the two thousand people who lived in homes surrounding the lake, according to the brightly lit sign outside the station.

“Look at that map,” Mason said, pointing to the GPS screen. “The lake looks like Italy and we just crossed the border from France. Ernie Fowler’s house is south of Rome. The way this road curves around, we are going to have to knock on his door. There’s no way we can get there without being seen.”

“You want to see his house from the outside in or the inside out?” Blues asked.

“I’ll settle for outside. My breaking-and-entering days are behind me.”

“Too much conscience is a bad thing for a man in our line of work,” Blues said.

“Maybe I need a new line of work. What about the lake? If we can find a boat, we can check the house out from the water.”

“I’ve got a pair of night vision binoculars in the trunk. But I didn’t have room for the boat.”

“We can borrow someone’s boat,” Mason said. Blues looked at him, eyebrows arched. “We’ll put it back and I’ll leave gas money, all right?”

“Need a new line of work, my ass.”

Lake Shore Drive circled Lake Lotawana. Side streets named with single letters led from Keystone to the homes at the water’s edge, the entrances to each flanked by long, curved brick walls that gave way to a split-rail fence, the fence connecting to the brick wall at the next side street. The wall and fence added an air of privacy to the residential area though they wouldn’t keep anyone out.

Ernie Fowler’s house was on L Street. They drove south on Keystone along the west flank of the lake, pulling onto the shoulder just beyond the entrance to L Street, not wanting to risk that someone was watching from the house for any unexpected traffic.

“Let’s see how close we can get without being shot at,” Blues said.

They took their time, Mason letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, Blues scanning the street with his night vision glasses. The street was laid out in a T shape with houses on both sides of the vertical leg and a row of houses on the horizontal bar at the top of the T. These were the lakefront houses and Fowler’s was at the south end, cut off from his neighbors by a row of evergreens grown to privacy heights.

There were no streetlights and all of the houses were dark, late February not a popular time at the lake. The houses were spread apart, divided by mature stands of trees.

Like the others, Fowler’s house was dark on the front, though they could see a glimmer of light through the front windows coming from the back of the house. The sedan and the minivan were parked in the driveway. The hoods of the cars were still warm, as was the hood of an SUV that was parked in front of the house next to Fowler’s. Back in the car, Blues studied the GPS screen.

“There,” he said. “The next road over is M. Let’s hope somebody left their boat in the water.”

M Street was laid out in the same fashion, the houses blacked out. There were no cars on the street or in the unattached carports. Blues picked the empty carport for the house at the top of the T, giving him a straight shot to Keystone. He backed in, unscrewed the bulb in the car dome light, and grabbed his night vision binoculars.

The yard behind the house was deep and wide open before reaching a forested tree line and sloping gently down to the water. Wooden stairs had been cut through the trees, leading to a dock where they found an aluminum fishing boat with its motor lifted out of the water.

“Just what we’re looking for,” Blues said. “Won’t be too noisy or noticeable. No running lights either. That’s even better.”

“The god of the slippery slope is smiling on us,” Mason said.

“Hey. No one is making you do this but you. I could be home with my feet up watching SportsCenter, you just say the word.”

Mason took a deep breath. “You’ll be the first to know. Let’s go.”

Blues kept the boat quiet, revving the engine barely above trolling speed. They crossed to the east side of the lake before turning north, hugging the eastern shore until they were directly across from Fowler’s house. A light was on inside the room adjoining the deck, probably the den or kitchen, Mason guessed. The light was bright enough that they could make out the shapes of people standing on the unlighted deck.

“How far away are we?” Mason asked Blues when they cut the engine.

“Five hundred yards, give or take,” Blues answered, studying the deck through the binoculars. “Looks like a party. Kelly and Brewer are there. I don’t recognize the others.”

“What’s Fowler’s phone number?” Mason asked, opening his cell phone.

“You sure you want to call right now? What if Fowler has caller ID? What are you going to say after you say hello?”

“You’re right. Give me the glasses.”

He adjusted the focus, capturing Kelly, Brewer, and Al Webb huddled at the deck rail. Even in the green glow of the night vision, there was no mistaking them. He swept the deck to see who else was there. The driver of the sedan stared back at him through his own binoculars, which he quickly lowered, rushing to Webb’s side and pointing at the boat across the water. Webb snatched the glasses from him and looked for himself.