Final judgment

TWENTY-SEVEN

This wasn’t the punch Mason had been expecting, though it rocked him. He had no explanation and couldn’t think of one he’d be happy about. He studied the picture more closely. A man who dies naturally and peacefully looks like he’s sleeping, not dead. Take the same man, excavate his skullcap with a bullet, and you get a death mask his mother wouldn’t recognize. Mason shook his head at the cops. Griswold’s expression was flat. Cates flashed a devil’s grin through cigarette smoke.

“I give up. Who is he?” Mason asked.

“A bartender at the Galaxy name of Johnny Keegan,” Cates said. “Why would he have had your name and number?”

“Beats the hell out of me.”

“With luck, it might,” Cates said. “Let us know if you think of something. Monday is soon enough.”

“Help me out,” Mason said. “When did it happen?”

Cates was halfway down the driveway, his back to Mason. Griswold watched him go. “He doesn’t like you.”

“Occupational hazard. How about you?”

“Doesn’t matter. All I want to know, are you part of the problem or part of the solution?”

“You’ll be the first to know.”

“Glad to hear it. Keegan finished his shift at the casino at eight o’clock. His body was found in a vacant parking lot about a mile away around nine-thirty. So, you still got no idea why he had your name?”

“I wouldn’t have known him if he bit me on the ass.”

“I hear you lawyers are into that,” Griswold said. “Better watch out Keegan doesn’t get you from the grave.”

Two Galaxy employees murdered in one week was unusual enough. That they were both linked to Carol Hill was even more unlikely. That they were both linked to him was the trifecta of bad karma. Every rock turned over in this case uncovered something that made him look like a coconspirator.

Griswold and Cates suspected that Mason had known about the body in Fish’s car. They had said as much when they first interviewed Fish.

Kelly Holt suspected that Mason knew Rockley was the murder victim since he had sent Blues to check out Rockley’s apartment. She assumed that meant Fish was guilty, and she and Pete Samuelson were relying on that to pressure Fish to accept their offer of cooperation.

Now that they knew Rockley was the murder victim, the cops would find out about Carol Hill’s lawsuit as soon as they talked to Al Webb and Lila Collins. It wouldn’t take long for them to catch up to Mark Hill, who would happily spill the story about Mason and Blues bracing him in the parking lot at Easy’s. Even though Mason and Blues hadn’t identified themselves, the cops would make the connection from the descriptions Hill would provide.

Add Johnny Keegan to the mix, put Mason’s name in his hand and a bullet in his head, and stand back. Mason was lucky the cops didn’t take him downtown.

The truth was worse than what either the cops or the FBI believed. He could explain everything, make it all go away, and qualify for his civic duty merit badge. All he had to do was give up Vanessa Carter and himself. Then he realized how much worse the truth really was. If the cops found the tape of him asking Ed Fiori to blackmail Judge Carter and figured out that Rockley or Keegan were linked to the tape, Mason would shove Avery Fish from the top of the list of murder suspects.

Mason nearly tripped over Tuffy as he walked into the house. The sleeping dog yawned, rolled over, and opened one eye at him before going back to sleep.

He turned the light on in the kitchen, sat at the breakfast table, and massaged his temples, wondering if he could trade places with the dog. The message light on his answering machine was blinking. He pushed the play button and closed his eyes.

“I’m coming home for a few days. My plane gets in at ten, tomorrow morning. It would be nice if you could pick me up. Happy Valentine’s Day,” Abby Lieberman said.

“Perfect,” Mason said to the dog. “Just perfect.”

Mason wandered through the first floor of his house, stopping in the living room. The dining room table had been transplanted there to make room for his rowing machine. He sat at the head of the table, lights off, staring out the picture window at the street. Griswold and Cates had hit him with the photograph of Johnny Keegan’s body hoping he’d slip and give them something they could use. Mason had taken the punch but disappointed them.

He didn’t blame them for trying since Keegan had left this life clutching a scrap of paper with Mason’s name on it. Turning over the possibilities, Mason suspected that Keegan must have known about Mason and Judge Carter. He and Rockley could have been partners in the blackmail scam.

That scenario raised more questions. Was Keegan about to call Mason when he was killed? If so, why? Maybe Keegan had been planning to put the squeeze directly on Mason, leaving Mason to wonder if the killer was a homicidal guardian angel who had killed Keegan to protect Mason.

There was something else that didn’t fit. Keegan was a bartender. Rockley was a middle manager. How did two guys from the rank and file get their hands on something as explosive as the tape of Ed Fiori’s conversations with Vanessa Carter and with him?

Remembering that Mark Hill had all but blamed Rockley and Keegan for ruining his life, Mason pegged him as the early favorite for double-murderer of the week. If he was right, Carol Hill could be her husband’s next victim.

He had been ready to convict Carol of being her husband’s accomplice the minute Vince Bongiovanni assured him of her innocence. One murder later, Mason was worried that she was the third name on her husband’s hit list. Not that those two scenarios were mutually exclusive.

He marveled at how little it took for him to slap the labels of innocent and guilty or killer and next victim on someone he’d yet to meet. It was no surprise then that the cops and the FBI didn’t hesitate to brand Fish on less information. He dialed Bongiovanni’s cell phone.

“Yeah,” Bongiovanni answered.

Music and loud voices made it hard to hear. “It’s Lou Mason. Where’s Carol Hill?”

“How the hell should I know? I’m her lawyer, not her nanny,” Bongiovanni shouted over the din.

“Johnny Keegan’s body was found a couple of hours ago. Somebody blew the back of his head into next week.”

Mason listened to the music, waiting for Bongiovanni to answer. It was hard-driving country. He didn’t figure Bongiovanni for honky-tonk. He knew his phone call would raise questions he didn’t want to answer, but that couldn’t be helped. Not if he was right about Mark Hill. The music faded to a low buzz, heavy on the bass. Bongiovanni had found a quieter place to talk.

“What do you know about Johnny Keegan?” he asked Mason.

“Enough to tell you that if he and Charles Rockley end up dead in the same week, you better be damn sure you know where your client is and it better be someplace her husband can’t find her.”

“Are you telling me that Mark Hill killed Rockley and Keegan?”

“I’m telling you to take care of your client. One other thing. I can’t make it tomorrow morning. How about two o’clock?”

“I’ll make it work,” Bongiovanni said. “And thanks for the heads-up.”