Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“But if Fish is convicted of Rockley’s murder, he makes a lousy witness against Webb,” Mason said. “That’s why Brewer left Rockley’s body in the trunk of Fish’s car-to frame Fish and ruin his credibility as a witness against Webb.”

“Makes sense for Brewer to kill Rockley, but it doesn’t make sense for him to leak the identification of the body. It was going to come out in a few days anyway.

“Actually, it does,” Mason said. “Rachel wouldn’t have run that story without corroboration from two sources. She already had it from one source when she went to Brewer. He gave it to her because it was going to come out anyway and he knows the killer wouldn’t do that. At the right time, he’ll probably admit to being the source.”

“Maybe so. But the whole thing makes my hair hurt. Most people don’t plan so carefully when they kill someone unless they’re a serial killer or a pro. Usually, it’s all about hot money, hot blood, or hot pussy. They shoot first, then do something really stupid and get caught. We’re trying too hard to make everything hang together.”

Mason let out a sigh. “You got any better ideas?”

“The FBI got my picture when they opened up somebody’s e-mail. Had to be Webb’s. When I was checking out Rockley’s apartment, one of his neighbors told me that someone else had been asking around for him. Could be that was the cat that took my picture and e-mailed it to Webb. We find out who sent that e-mail we might find out something worth knowing.”

“I imagine one of your people could hack into Webb’s computer, but that’s going to take time,” Mason said.

“We won’t have to do that if Lila Collins does it for us,” Blues said.

“That’s taking a big chance. You think she’d do it?”

“You said she loved Ed Fiori and she hates Al Webb.”

“I’ll call her in the morning,” Mason said.

“Morning may be too late. Call her now.”

“I don’t have a phone number for her.”

“Got a name, don’t you? That’s enough for my man that ran the license tags,” Blues said. He flipped open his cell phone, punched in the number, and explained what he needed. “I hear you, brother man,” he said before hanging up.

“Done?”

“Gonna be done. The tags were on his account. This one is on yours. He’ll leave you a message on your cell phone. What about Judge Carter? What are you going to do about her?”

Mason shook his head, looking at his watch. It was just past midnight, Wednesday morning.

“I’m about out of options. She’s going to issue her decision on Friday. We’re caught in the middle of a clusterfuck that’s getting us no closer to the blackmailer. If I don’t come up with something better, I’ll go public with what I did, take the responsibility, and do my best to cover for her.”

“They’ll punch your ticket, you know that.”

Mason smiled at Blues. “Yeah, well. I can always tend bar for you or write mysteries like every other lawyer who burns out on the practice.”

“I was you,” Blues said, “I’d study up on mixing drinks.”

It was close to 2 A. M. when Mason knocked on Abby’s door. He hadn’t called because he didn’t want to give her the chance to tell him not to come over. He would have come anyway, adding one more offense to his charge sheet. She didn’t answer and he knocked again, uncertain whether she was asleep or too angry to open the door, though both were possible. He knocked again as she unlocked the door.

She was wearing washed-out jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was matted from sleep and her eyes were puffy. A lamp was on in the small living room. She leaned against the doorframe, holding the edge of the door in her other hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means that I’m sorry I’m late and that I screwed up our evening.”

“Now I know what it means. Good-bye.”

She started to close the door and he caught it with the flat of his hand. “Abby, give me a break. Let me explain.”

“You mean there’s more?” she asked, running one hand through her hair, dropping her arms to her sides.

She was angry, but not in the volcanic style of their past fights. She was too subdued, as if she’d said good-bye before he got there. The prospect that he’d already lost her drained the blood from his heart.

“Yeah. A lot more.”

“If it’s about attorney-client privilege or cases that have a life of their own or any of the other bullshit you eat and drink to justify your life, I’m not interested.”

“What are you interested in?”

“Nothing anymore, really. Except for one thing. What’s so much more important than us?”

“It’s complicated,” he began, stopping when she raised her hand.

“I’ve heard that one too. Try the truth, which, in my experience, is usually pretty simple.”

“Okay, then. I’m in trouble.”

“That’s not new either. I figured that out. That’s why I asked Mickey to come home. What I can’t figure out is why you make this so hard. I’m not a little girl to be protected from the truth. If you want me in your life, you’ve got to put me in your life.”

Mason nodded. “If you’ll open the door, I’ll let you in.”

Abby smiled weakly. “God, I hate it when you do the charm thing. C’mon.”

They sat across from each other, Abby’s bare feet curled beneath her, Mason’s elbows on his knees. He told her everything that had happened since Vanessa Carter had walked into his office a week ago. She listened silently, neither berating nor excusing him for what he’d done to secure Blues’s release from jail three years ago or the lengths he’d gone to over the last seven days to keep it secret.

“Mickey is running down some leads, but none of them have anything to do with the blackmail. It’s the elephant in the room. I can’t talk to anyone about it.”

“Sure you can,” Abby said. “You said it yourself. Go public. Take the blackmail away from the blackmailer. Even if you keep the lid on it this time, there’s no way for you to ever know if someone else isn’t out there with the same information. You’ll never be free. Trust me; I know what it’s like to live that way.”

Mason looked at her. When they first met, she had confessed a secret she had carried since she was a teenager that nearly cost both of them their lives. The guilt and grief she carried with her secret added weight to her burden. She had shed some but not all of that baggage since moving to Washington.

“I’ll probably lose my law license.”

“Is that all you are. A guy with a law license?”

He laughed. “On a good day. I may go to jail. How do you feel about a boyfriend with a record?”

She walked over to his chair, pulling him up to her, arms around his back. “I don’t want a boyfriend with a record. But I can live with a man who made a mistake and set it right.”

Two hours later, she lay sleeping while he stood in the kitchen dialing Lila Collins’s phone number. Blues’s contact had left an anonymous message on his cell phone, apologizing for the delay and explaining that it took longer than expected because Lila’s number was unlisted.

“It’s Lou Mason,” he said when she answered, her voice thick with sleep.

“It’s the middle of the night. What do you want?”

She listened as he explained, telling her it might be dangerous, that she didn’t have to do it and he’d understand if she said no. When he finished, she made a promise that should have reassured him but didn’t.

“I’ll go to the office now and call you as soon as I get something.”

Mason went home, knowing that he wouldn’t sleep while waiting for Lila to call. Clutching his cell phone, he paced the first floor of his house. The Kansas City Star hit the driveway at five-thirty. The air was icy and still when he went outside to pick it up, the plastic wrapper crackling as if it might crumble. He brought the paper in, glanced at the headlines, and tossed it onto the kitchen table, his face stinging from the cold.