Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“Shit!” Mason said, ducking into the bottom of the boat. “We’re busted. Get the hell out of here!”

They’d been seen, though there was no way to know if they’d been recognized, the distance and darkness in their favor. Blues started the engine and flattened himself against the seat, steering with one hand while watching the bow rise as the boat picked up speed.

The shape of the lake worked against them. Webb had a perfect view of their escape. If they cut back across the lake to M Street, he would know where to find them and would probably get there before they did. If they continued on their present course, they would have to get out on the east side of the lake with no way to get back to the west side and their car other than a walk that would take the rest of the night. He made his choice, angling the boat hard toward M Street.

Mason tied the boat to the dock and followed Blues to the line of trees at the edge of the backyard. They listened for the sounds of another car or anything else that didn’t belong on a deserted street but heard nothing.

“Be quick but don’t hurry,” Blues told Mason, pointing toward the car.

They cracked the doors and slid in, closing them as quietly as German engineering made possible. Blues started the ignition, keeping the headlights off, just as a car skidded to a stop at the entrance to the street, blocking their exit. The bodyguards from the Galaxy Hotel got out carrying guns. They signaled to each other, pointing at the BMW, the only other car on the deserted block. The added shadow of the carport made it impossible for them to see Blues and Mason inside the car, though the engine was running.

The brick wall and split-rail fence bordering the entrance to the street, together with the car parked in the intersection, had Blues and Mason bottled up. The fence was the obstacle of least resistance, though the odds were good that they would be shot before they got that far. They would be even easier targets if they tried to escape on foot.

“I don’t suppose BMW equips these cars with guns,” Mason said.

“Nope,” Blues said. “Should have brought my pickup. Got a nice shotgun on the rack be the perfect equalizer for these boys.”

“Any ideas?”

“Ever play bodyguard pinball? Car doors make great flippers. When we get close enough, I’ll floor it. Stay down and be ready.”

When the bodyguards reached the end of the driveway, Blues shifted into drive, letting the BMW roll out of the carport. The bodyguards took aim and inched forward, lined up so that they would be on each side of the car as it passed.

In the same instant Blues stomped on the accelerator and hit the high beams, blinding the bodyguards. Mason and Blues flung the car doors open as they sped past, catapulting both bodyguards into the air before they could fire a shot.

Blues jammed on the brakes and they got out. Neither bodyguard was conscious, though both were breathing. Blues picked up their guns and their wallets, taking their driver’s licenses. He ran back to the lake and threw their guns into the water. When he came back, he handed Mason their driver’s licenses.

“These names mean anything to you?” he asked Mason.

The one who had worked Mason over at the hotel and picked up Fish’s coat was Bud Tenet; his partner was Frank Naughton.

“No, but with the phony IDs in this case, these probably aren’t the names their mamas gave them.”

Mason rifled their pockets until he found the keys to their car and a cell phone. Blues parked their car alongside them while Mason used their cell phone to call 911 and report that there were two drunks passed out on M Street.

They passed the Lake Lotawana police station as a cruiser pulled out, siren sounding and lights flashing, an ambulance right behind it. They were northbound on Highway 71 when Mason’s cell phone rang. It was Kelly Holt.

“How was dinner?” she asked.

“Nice and quiet.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Really?”

“Really. See you tomorrow,” she said.

Blues parked the BMW behind the bar, avoiding potholes as if he had radar. Driving back, they had dissected the possible explanations for what they’d witnessed. Both Kelly and Brewer could be dirty or both could be working undercover; or, only one of them may be on the take while the other was trying to bring him or her, and Webb, down. They exhausted the evidence and gave up, declaring themselves a hung jury of two. The only verdict they reached was that they couldn’t trust either one of them.

“So what about Fish?” Blues asked. “Why did Rockley’s killer dump the body in the trunk of his car?”

“Either it was a coincidence, and I don’t believe in coincidences, or the killer knew there was a connection between Fish and Webb and wanted to take advantage of it.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Once the body was identified, the cops would look for a connection to Galaxy since Rockley worked there and was in the middle of a sexual harassment suit. After they made the connection between Fish and Webb, they’d have to take a hard look at Webb.”

“But they haven’t made the connection,” Blues said. “You told me that the cops are only looking at Fish.”

“Griswold made some noise about Mark Hill, but that’s over since Hill was killed. Now they want to talk to Fish about that murder too.”

“The feds must not have told the cops about Webb.”

“You’re probably right,” Mason said. “Pete Samuelson and Kelly both said they had to protect their investigation. They wouldn’t tell the cops that Webb is really Fish’s old scam partner because the cops would go after Webb and Webb would figure out why. That would blow the lid off their investigation.”

“Only people that would know all of that have FBI Agent printed on their business cards. You thinking Kelly or Brewer killed Rockley?”

Mason shuddered at the image of Kelly hunched over Rockley’s body, sawing away at his neck and wrists. Whatever she may have become, he couldn’t accept that she was a killer. It was easier to imagine Brewer as the butcher.

“Not Kelly-maybe Brewer. Someone at Galaxy must have tipped off the FBI that Webb was really Wayne McBride. Maybe it was Rockley and that’s why he was killed. Or, maybe it was Johnny Keegan and that’s why he wanted to hire me. Either way, Brewer knew that Pete Samuelson was going to use Fish to close the loop on Webb.”

“Guys like Webb would give up their grandma to make a deal,” Blues said.

“Or their silent partner, especially if he happens to be an FBI agent.”

“So Brewer kills Rockley to slow down the investigation and cuts his head and hands off to slow it down even more. I can buy all of that, but why would Brewer dump Rockley’s body in Fish’s car?”

“Sends a powerful message to Webb to keep his mouth shut,” Mason said.

“Remind me about your plea negotiations on Fish’s mail fraud charge. When did the U.S. attorney demand that Fish help them with the investigation of Webb?”

“Officially, not until after they found Rockley’s body in the trunk of Fish’s car,” Mason said. “Up until then, we were just trading dollars and days. But I think Pete Samuelson was about to make the pitch when Brewer walked in and dropped the hammer. What’s your point?”

“Webb killed some dude and used the body to fake his own death. He got away with it until he started skimming from Galaxy. Rockley or Keegan tipped off the FBI that Webb was really McBride. Now, they don’t just want him for stealing. They want him for murder. They set up a reunion between Webb and Fish hoping that Webb will tell Fish all about it so they can make the murder case against Webb.”