Final judgment

TWENTY-FOUR

It was past eight o’clock when Mason stopped in his office. He had three voice messages. The first was from Vince Bongiovanni, who left his cell phone number and a promise that his call was important enough to return as soon as possible even if he didn’t say why. The second was from his Aunt Claire inviting him to dinner on Sunday.

The third was from Rachel Firestone, a reporter for the Kansas City Star. Though they began as adversaries, each using the other to advance a case or a story, they’d become close friends. For a time, she backed off covering his cases to avoid any questions about her objectivity before deciding that she was a good enough reporter to know when to draw that line.

When Rachel told her editor that she wanted to resume covering Mason’s cases, he noted the rumors about their relationship and questioned whether she should write about someone she was sleeping with. When she showed the editor a picture of her girlfriend, the editor made a snide remark about lesbians who really wanted to change teams. It was his last official act. Her new boss told her he trusted her judgment but to remember who signed her paycheck.

Mason replayed her message to be certain he’d heard it right.

“Hey, babe. It’s me. I got an anonymous tip that the body found in Avery Fish’s car was some guy named Charles Rockley. I checked it out with the cops, who did their no comment thing, but I got the feeling it was news to them. Since when does someone leak the ID of a murder victim and leave the cops out of the loop? Call me. I’m on deadline.”

The phone rang before Mason could return any of the calls. It was Vanessa Carter.

“Where are we?” she asked.

“At the end of a long day and a longer week,” Mason said, glancing at his calendar. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“Don’t waste your humor on me, Mr. Mason. I asked where we are.”

Mason let out a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that the story would be on the front page of tomorrow morning’s paper. “Charles Rockley is dead. Someone killed him, chopped off his head and his hands, and dumped the body in the trunk of a car owned by a client of mine named Avery Fish.”

“I’m aware of Mr. Fish’s case. It’s been all over the news. There’s been no mention of the identity of the victim.”

“You can read about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”

Judge Carter didn’t respond. Mason heard her breathing softly and steadily. In judicial parlance, she had taken his information under advisement before issuing a ruling or, in his case, another ultimatum. He knew better than to interrupt.

“Charles Rockley wasn’t the one,” she finally said.

Mason realized that she was avoiding any mention of blackmail. Having once been burned by having her phone conversation recorded, she was not taking any chances.

“How do you know?”

“I just received another call.”

“Tell me about it.”

“He asked why I hadn’t issued a ruling. I reminded him that I had until March tenth, which is thirty days from the end of the hearing. He said they wanted the decision not later than a week from today, the twenty-first. I told him that wasn’t possible, that I had other cases besides this one. He said that this case was the only one that should matter to me and that they wouldn’t hesitate to convince me of that.”

“Where are you?” Mason asked.

“At home.”

“Is there someplace else you can go until this is over?”

“I will not be run out of my home and I will not have my life ruined again, Mr. Mason. Do your job. Make this go away.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It’s your tangled web, Counselor. Do whatever you have to do or I will,” she said and hung up.

Mason put the phone down as Blues opened the door to his office.

“What?” Mason asked, exasperated by the new deadline.

“Don’t shoot me, man. I’m only the piano player.” Blues handed Mason prints of the digital photographs he’d taken. “The light was bad and the angle wasn’t great, but at least I got their faces.”

Mason studied the photographs. Blues had caught them in an unguarded moment, their faces screwed up in surprise. He didn’t recognize the two men in the car Mark Hill had struck. All three were wearing heavy jackets over jeans or khakis. Nothing with FBI stenciled on the back.

Mason dropped the photographs on his desk and pointed to the phone. “That was Judge Carter. She got another call and a new deadline for her ruling. A week from today or the tape makes the top forty.”

“I guess that rules out Rockley as the blackmailer.”

“Not necessarily. The way she described the call, it sounds like more than one person is involved. The caller kept referring to ‘they,’ not just to himself. Rockley could have been one of them. On top of that, I got a message from Rachel. Someone leaked the news that Rockley was the guy in Fish’s trunk.”

“Only the FBI and the killer knew Rockley’s identity and the killer sure as hell isn’t going to call the Star. Why would the Bureau leak it before they told the cops?” Blues asked. “Why go out of their way to make them look bad?”

“Beats me. Plus, I also had a message from Vince Bongiovanni to call him as soon as possible. Even left me his cell phone number.”

“What time was that call?”

Mason checked the log of calls stored in his phone. “Seven p.m.”

“We left Hill at close to seven. Brewer and his buddies didn’t look like they were in the mood to let him call his lawyer so it’s probably not about that.”

“I never told Hill who I was and I doubt he recognized me,” Mason said. “Brewer could have told him, but he wouldn’t have had any reason to. I think Vince got the same tip Rachel did. Makes me wonder why.”

“When did Rachel call?”

“Seven-oh-five.”

“That fits and it explains one other thing.”

“What’s that?”

“Why Bongiovanni is waiting for you downstairs. He’s in the back booth.”