Final judgment

TWENTY-ONE

Mason told Fish about his conversation with Kelly as they drove through downtown. People walking to lunch clutched their hats and scarves against a chill wind that whipped along at street level, channeled by office towers reaching for the high arched ceiling of thick clouds overhead. Fish listened without asking questions or offering any comments. The rest of the drive was a quiet one.

“It’s not about me. It’s about you,” Fish said when Mason pulled up in front of Fish’s house.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“That photograph. The one with your friend in it that means I need a new lawyer. That FBI agent-what was her name?”

“Kelly Holt.”

“She was showing that picture to you, not to me.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The two of you, there’s some history there. I can tell by the way you looked at her. Am I right?”

Mason hesitated. “Yeah, we were involved in a case five years ago.”

“So you were involved. Does she know this friend of yours, Mr. Blues?”

“She does.”

“Then it doesn’t matter if I know who he is since you already do. She wanted to see your reaction.”

“I wasn’t exactly cool.”

“You nearly plotz ed. Some poker player you are.”

“Maybe she wanted to see if you would lie about knowing Blues.”

“Why would I tell a lie that could be so easily exposed?” Fish asked.

“Crooks tell bad lies all the time.”

“Not me. It’s bad for business.”

Mason looked at Fish. The old man had been grinding away at Mason’s problem, considering it the way a con man would. What’s the angle? What doesn’t fit? Where’s the hook?

“You still need a new lawyer,” Mason told him.

“What will the government think if you quit?”

Mason shrugged. “That you didn’t pay me.”

“If that was the case, you would have already quit. What else?”

“That we disagreed over the deal they offered. You wanted to take it and I wouldn’t go along. Or maybe that you were going to perjure yourself on the witness stand.”

“I don’t think so. No. Your FBI agent, Miss Holt, she will think you quit because of the picture of your friend, Mr. Blues. She will think you know too much about Rockley to be my lawyer. That’s why this is all about you, not me.”

Fish was analyzing his case like the con man he was. That didn’t mean Fish was wrong, but it meant Mason had to understand Fish’s approach.

“What makes a good con?” Mason asked.

“Two things. The con man has to have better information than the mark and the mark has to want to believe the con.”

“That’s why this is about you and not me. Blues used to be a cop. He helps me with some of my cases. Kelly Holt knows that. She thinks you knew that Rockley was the murder victim because you killed him. You told me, and I told Blues and sent him to Rockley’s apartment. It’s what she wants to believe. If she shows that photograph to the cops, they’ll agree with her. She’s wrong, but I can’t tell her why.”

“So you think she’s trying to con both of us so that I’ll take this cockamamie deal they’ve offered.”

“That’s the best I can come up with.”

“And Kelly Holt wants to believe I killed Rockley, but you’re the one with the better information.”

“That’s me.”

“And you won’t tell me what it is. So who’s conning whom?” Fish asked.

Mason looked at Fish, realizing that there was something else that made a good con. The mark had to trust the con man like a penitent trusts a priest. Mason fought the temptation to trust Fish. He was torn between wanting to tell him and worrying that he’d already told him too much.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry is for losers. And you’re no loser. Come for dinner on Sunday. Six o’clock. We’ll talk some more.”

“There’s nothing more I can tell you.”

Fish climbed out of the car, holding on to the door as he leaned back in. “Trust me, we’ll find something to talk about, eh, boytchik.”

Mason spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the path of least resistance to the truth about Charles Rockley. He was certain of one thing. The story laid out in Rockley’s employment records didn’t jibe with someone whose DNA was at the top of the FBI’s unidentified murder victims pile. The FBI’s DNA database was for convicted felons and suspected terrorists, not middle managers. Mason shifted his focus to proving that Rockley’s resume was phony.

He pulled up Rockley’s application for employment at the Galaxy Casino on his computer. It listed the names, addresses, and phone numbers of five prior employers.

He picked up the phone and started dialing, betting that the companies were either out of business or had never heard of Charles Rockley. An hour later he was done. All five were still open for business. All five confirmed that Rockley had worked for them, just as Rockley had written on his application to Galaxy. All five gave him glowing references and said they had been sorry to see him go but had understood that he had to take a better job.

It didn’t make sense, but that didn’t matter. No con artist, not even the FBI, could get five different companies in five different states to lie about a former employee.

He studied the names on his dry erase board, looking for someone who would talk to him. Al Webb was the manager of the Galaxy Casino. Lila Collins was the HR director. Both knew Rockley. Carol Hill knew Rockley well enough to sue him for sexual harassment. Once word got out that Rockley had been murdered, their lawyers would wire their jaws so tight they’d have to learn sign language.

Mason was about to give up on the dry erase board as an oracle when Blues came into his office carrying two cold bottles of beer. He handed one to Mason and retired to the sofa with the other bottle.

“Happy Hour,” Blues said.

“Except I’m not happy.” He set the beer on his desk and leaned forward in his chair. “Charles Rockley is dead.”

“Then you ought to be happy if he was the one blackmailing Judge Carter.”

“Not if he was also the dead man in the trunk of Avery Fish’s car and not if the FBI has a picture of you outside Rockley’s apartment.”

Blues nodded. “I can see how that wouldn’t make either one of us happy. What’s the story?”

Mason laid out the day’s events, glad to have another perspective. Blues was a bloodless problem-solver even though his solutions were often bloody. He didn’t get hung up on sentiment or regret, which enabled him to see things others didn’t and do things others wouldn’t. When Mason finished, Blues walked to the dry erase board, picked up a red marker, and circled the name of Carol Hill’s husband, Mark.

“I’d say this cat is one seriously pissed-off motherfucker,” Blues said. “And I’ll bet you he doesn’t have a lawyer to shut him up or a friend who gives a shit.”

Mason grinned. “A man like that needs at least one friend.”

“Two would be even better.”