Joel Goldman - Final judgment

“Got it,” Mickey said.

“Good,” Brewer said.

That was it. There were no silent exchanges between Brewer and Mason filled with accusations or suspicions. They didn’t spar with one another and neither of them dropped hints about what he knew or thought he knew. Mason had found more hidden meaning in fortune cookies.

“Brewer doesn’t give much away,” Mickey said after Brewer left.

“What’s he going to do?” Mason asked from the doorway, watching Brewer show himself out. “Grill us? He’s got to play it cool.”

“Maybe he didn’t kill Rockley and maybe he isn’t in bed with Webb. Maybe he’s just doing his job.”

“Or maybe he’s just very good.”

“Not as good as we are,” Mickey said. “I called the businesses that should be next door to the companies that Rockley and Keegan claimed they worked for. Guess what? None of Rockley’s and Keegan’s former employers exist. They’re all fake.”

“That means you’re right about Sylvia’s call center,” Mason said. “She’s in the phony ID business.”

“Except Keegan’s name wasn’t phony, just his employment records. I got a call this morning from my girlfriend. Her friend at the FBI hit pay dirt.”

Mason returned to his folding chair. “Give.”

“You remember you told me that Sylvia McBride had a sister in Minneapolis?”

“Yeah. The one she went to live with after her husband supposedly drowned.”

“Her name was Olivia Corcoran. She was married to Tommy Corcoran’s father. That made her Tommy’s stepmother. Tommy’s aunt Sylvia gave him a new ID as Charles Rockley. Johnny Keegan was Olivia’s son by her first marriage. He didn’t need a new ID since he’d never been arrested. Aunt Sylvia only gave him a phony resume.”

Mason whistled. “How many laws were broken getting us that information?”

“None,” Mickey said. “Our friend’s job includes running checks through the FBI’s database. She ran Corcoran’s name and came up with his bio. There was an obit for Olivia Corcoran that listed Tommy, Johnny Keegan, and Sylvia McBride as her survivors. But here’s the weird part. She couldn’t get into the rest of Corcoran’s file or the file on Wayne McBride and his alter ego, Al Webb.”

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t have clearance for national security matters.”

“Since when is skimming dough from a casino a matter of national security?”

“It isn’t,” Mickey said. “But dealing in phony IDs could be, especially if the IDs are sold to people that blow up buildings with airplanes.”

Mason called Lila’s office phone and cell, but she didn’t answer. He tried again as he was driving downtown to meet with the homicide detectives with the same result.

She would call as soon as she could, he told himself. If she could, he added, getting the sick feeling that he got while a jury was deliberating and his gut told him that he’d lost even before the jury took a vote. It was a toxic blend of fear, frustration, and outrage coated with a paralyzing layer of helplessness that was an all-too-accurate barometer of the verdict. All that was left was second-guessing. If anything happened to Lila, he’d be answering those questions the rest of his life.

Mason told Fish to meet him in the parking lot across from the Jackson County Courthouse a little before eleven. They walked the long block to police headquarters together, keeping their chins tucked against the cold as Mason told Fish what he’d learned about Al Webb and what had happened at Lake Lotawana.

“Wayne-a terrorist?” Fish said, using Webb’s real name. “I don’t believe it!”

“I’m not saying he’s a terrorist. I’m saying that he and Sylvia are in the fake ID business. If they sell to underage college kids who want to buy beer, that’s one thing. If they sell to terrorists, their FBI file gets stamped Top Secret. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Unbelievable,” Fish said, shaking his head.

“Don’t forget. He got started by killing some poor bastard just so he could fake his own death and Sylvia helped him pull it off.”

“And what’s this all about?” Fish said, waving at the entrance to police headquarters. “Who is it I’m supposed to have killed this time?”

“Mark Hill. Carol Hill’s husband.”

“Why not? I haven’t not killed someone in a week. I might as well not have killed him too.”

Detective Griswold met them in the second-floor homicide bullpen.

“Thanks for coming down,” he began. “But turns out we don’t need to talk with Mr. Fish.”

“Did you make an arrest?” Mason asked.

“No,” Griswold said. “But the coroner fixed the time of death as Monday night between six and midnight.”

“I was home,” Fish said.

“We know that,” Griswold answered.

“By myself,” Fish added.

“We know that too. I had a meeting this morning with Kelly Holt. She’s the FBI’s liaison on Rockley’s murder. I told her you were coming down to talk about the Hill case. She made your alibi. Said they had you under surveillance and you didn’t leave the house Monday night. Sorry for the trouble.”

Fish lifted his hands in protest. “Trouble? What trouble? I’m delighted to be your guest, especially considering it was such a short visit. C’mon, Lou. I can’t afford to pay you to stand here and kibbitz.”

“You go ahead,” Mason told him. “I’m going to stick around for a few minutes.”

Fish crooked a finger at him. “A word,” he said, taking a few steps away. “What’s going on?” he whispered when Mason joined him.

“Nothing’s going on. I’ve got another case to talk about with Griswold. That’s all.”

“It wouldn’t be that business with Judge Carter, would it?”

Mason pursed his lips. “Nah. It’s a new case-armed robbery.”

“Such a terrible liar you are, boytchik. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mason said, forcing a grin.

“Remember one thing. The mark never feels the hook until it’s in too deep.”

“Don’t worry. Griswold will take the bait.”

Fish studied him, a sad smile spreading across his jowls. “Of course he will, boytchik. Of course he will.”

“Someplace quiet we can talk?” Mason asked Griswold.

“Sure. You’ve seen our deluxe private conference rooms. How about one of them?”

Mason followed Griswold to the interrogation room. Griswold stood at the open door, waiting for Mason to take a seat.

“You want an audience or is this private?” he asked Mason.

Mason had imagined that this moment would include Detective Cates and Samantha Greer, Cates relishing it while Samantha suffered through it with him. Now that the moment had arrived, he didn’t need either of them to make him feel worse. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“You’ll do. Close the door.”

Griswold sat across from him, hands in his lap, a curious glint in his eye. “I’m all yours.”

“Did you follow up with Lila Collins about Johnny Keegan needing a lawyer?”

“I did. She said Keegan told her he needed a lawyer; didn’t say why, and she gave him your name. Just like she told you. I didn’t get anything else out of her.”

“She worked for Ed Fiori when he owned the casino. You remember him?”

“I remember. It was called the Dream in those days,” Griswold answered. “Fiori went out the hard way. You and your buddy Blues were there, if memory serves.”

“We were there.”

It went like that for more than an hour. When it became clear what Mason was doing, Griswold interrupted to give him a Miranda warning, making him sign a statement that he declined counsel. Griswold teased the details out of Mason, who didn’t want to appear too eager to confess. He wanted Griswold to believe that Vanessa Carter was innocent, and nothing undermined a witness’s credibility more than being too prepared, too rehearsed.