Final judgment

NINETEEN

Cheating spouses deny infidelity with facile deceit. Con men nimbly tap-dance around implausibility. Criminals beat lie detector tests with steady breathing and beta blockers that control the involuntary tremors of a lie. Their survival depends on practiced deception. They are ready when the gun sounds and the games begin.

Mason was good, but not that good. Vanessa Carter had knocked him off track. Kelly Holt had resuscitated dormant memories he thought he had discarded. He hadn’t expected either woman to leap from his past into his present, though he managed to keep his game face on.

But writing Charles Rockley’s name on the toe tag for the corpse in Fish’s trunk took his breath away. It was like finding his pants down around his ankles in front of a disappointed audience. Certain that his eyes were bugging out as if he had a runaway thyroid, he wished for a sudden palsy that would subdue the quivering muscles in his face. Mason barely heard Fish say he didn’t know anyone by that name.

Kelly pulled a photograph from her file, sliding it across the table to Fish. “Do you know this man?”

It was a grainy color photo taken during the day in front of an apartment building. The man was tall and broad, his features well known to Mason though he was a stranger to Fish. Blues was the man in the picture.

The photograph shook Mason out of his stupor. “Where did you get this?” he asked before Fish could answer.

“That’s not important,” Kelly said.

“The hell it’s not!”

He quickly saw the alignment of the planets. The FBI had Rockley’s apartment under surveillance. Kelly recognized Blues in the photograph. She knew that Mason represented Fish and that Blues did Mason’s investigative legwork. Once the FBI identified Rockley’s body, she assumed that Mason had sent Blues to Rockley’s apartment because he knew that Rockley was the murder victim, something he could have learned only from Fish. The last piece was easy. Fish knew because he had killed Rockley.

It was obvious, logical, and wrong, but Mason couldn’t tell them why. If the FBI gave the photograph to the cops, school was out. Fish would be indicted. Blues would be subpoenaed and forced to testify. Blues could tell the truth and exonerate Fish. Or he could lie and save Mason.

Kelly looked at Mason, her eyes flickering with regret, though Mason knew her sympathies were misplaced. She turned toward Samuelson, a silent gesture telling Mason that it was out of her hands.

“We’ll let you talk privately,” Samuelson said. “When you’re ready, call my secretary at extension two-two-one.”

Fish waited until they left before picking up the photograph, pointing it at Mason. “You know this man?”

Mason took a deep breath, got up, and walked to the windows, leaning against the glass. For a moment, he wondered if he could push hard enough to force the glass from the frame. He already felt like he was falling.

“I’ll get you another lawyer.”

Fish swiveled in his chair toward Mason. “Why do I need another lawyer? Who is this man?”

Mason looked at Fish, hands in his pockets. “It’s complicated.”

“What’s so complicated? You know this man and you don’t want to tell me who he is or how you know him. Tell me and we’ll see how complicated it is.”

The practice of law was about lines. Some of them were bright. Some of them were blurred. Either way, lawyers made their living on the margins. Mason shook his head, unable to squeeze more room from the tangled lines wrapped around him. His problems with Vanessa Carter and Charles Rockley created the mother of all conflicts of interest for his representation of Avery Fish.

He couldn’t represent Fish any longer, but he couldn’t tell Fish why or anything else that might come back to haunt him. As much as he liked Fish, he had to assume that Fish would ultimately do what every other defendant in a tight spot does. Make a trade. Mason didn’t want to end up as the player to be named later. Still, he knew that Fish would eventually learn that Blues was the man in the photograph.

“His name is Wilson Bluestone, Jr. People call him Blues. He’s a friend of mine.”

Fish shrugged. “This friend of yours, did he kill Rockley?”

“No.”

“Then why does the FBI have his picture and why do I need a new lawyer?”

“The picture was taken outside Rockley’s apartment building. The FBI must have had Rockley under surveillance. Why, I don’t know. You need a new lawyer because that photograph means I have a conflict of interest that prevents me from continuing to represent you.”

Fish hauled himself from his chair, his face reddening with the effort. “So you’ve got another client you’d rather represent than me?”

Mason looked at Fish, surprised at the hurt in his eyes. “Believe me. If there was any way I could, I’d much rather represent you.”

Fish took Mason by the arm. It was a comforting grip, as if Fish realized that Mason was caught between things worse than conflicting clients.

“Don’t quit on me so easily. I need you. Tell Mr. Samuelson we’ll get back to him next week.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think there’s a way around this.”

Fish patted Mason on the cheek. “There’s always a way. Our people haven’t survived for over five thousand years by giving up. You think about it. Call Samuelson. Tell him to have a nice weekend.”

Mason left word with Samuelson’s secretary that they were leaving and that he didn’t need to talk with her boss. When she insisted on transferring his call to Samuelson, he assured her that wasn’t necessary. He and Fish were standing at the elevator when Kelly Holt caught up to them.

“Lou,” she said, arms folded across her chest. “We need to talk.”

Mason gave her a faint smile. “Next week. I’ll call you.”

“Now,” she said, leaving no room for negotiation.

The elevator arrived. Fish stepped in and turned around toward Mason. “Talk to her. What could it hurt? I’ll wait for you downstairs,” he said as the elevator door closed.