Final judgment

THIRTY-TWO

Feeling Mason’s stare, Webb gave him a quick look and a dismissive nod. Mason knew the combination was code for I see you, but I don’t want to talk to you. Mason responded with a broad smile and outstretched hand that said I know and I don’t give a shit.

“I’m Lou Mason,” he said, holding his ground until Webb shook his hand.

“Al Webb.”

“At least they got your name tag right,” Mason said, forcing the conversation. “They didn’t have one for me.”

Webb quit doing crowd reconnaissance and focused on Mason, taking his measure. “Maybe you weren’t invited,” Webb said with a wounded smile and a soothing voice.

The warm, rich timbre of Webb’s voice surprised Mason and blunted the sting of his comment. Mason wondered if Webb had cultivated his voice to compensate for his bloodless countenance. Man-made or natural, Webb’s voice was a weapon of mass deception.

“Actually, I wasn’t. I’m a guest of someone who was invited.”

“That’s better than buying an invitation. Mine cost a thousand dollars,” Webb deadpanned. He made it a charming self-deprecation, now drawing Mason close rather than pushing him away.

“I’d rather spend that kind of money at the craps table. I’ll take my chances against the house over a politician’s promise any day of the week.”

Webb laughed. “Then you’re the kind of gambler that keeps me in business.”

“I thought it was the gamblers who can’t resist betting on the long shots.”

Webb shook his head. “Gamblers who play the long shots are either hopelessly optimistic or secretly suicidal. I don’t understand them, but I’m grateful for them. Frankly, I wish there were more of them. Personally, I prefer the sporting player who understands the game. He accepts the odds, understands when he loses, and doesn’t take too much credit when he wins. That’s why he keeps coming back. The others don’t last long enough.”

Mason looked at him, the honey in Webb’s voice dulling Mason’s instinctively suspicious reaction to him. He was an unpleasant-looking man who’d added youth but not attraction to his appearance. His short dissertation on gambling sounded more like a parable about life than a beginner’s guide to dice.

“You know who I am?”

“We don’t sell newspapers in the casino, but I do read them. Were you looking for me or did you just get lucky?”

“Dumb luck. The only kind I have these days. One of your employees ends up dead in the trunk of my client’s car and you and I end up at the same party talking about it. Are those odds optimistic or suicidal?”

“It doesn’t matter since we aren’t talking about it. I wouldn’t take them either way.”

“I’d like to talk to you about Charles Rockley.”

“I don’t blame you. But it’s a police matter and I can’t involve my company in your client’s problems.”

“Rockley was your employee. Doesn’t that make his murder your problem?”

“We have hundreds of employees. Somebody is always getting married, getting divorced, getting sick, or getting well. Some of them die. We send them all a card.”

“Who are you sending a card to for Rockley?”

Webb put one hand in his pants pocket, running his other hand across his chest and under his neck. “I don’t know anything about his family. My HR director takes care of that.”

“Sure,” Mason said. “All those employees. Must be hard for you to get to know every one of them.”

“It’s part of my job. I do the best I can.”

“But you knew Charles Rockley better than most because another one of your employees, Carol Hill, sued him and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Vince Bongiovanni told me all about it.”

Webb blinked once, his only concession to the card Mason had played. “Then you should talk to Mr. Bongiovanni. He doesn’t have to keep personnel matters confidential. I do.”

“How about Johnny Keegan? Let’s talk about him. What are the odds that two of your employees would be murdered in the same week and that one of them was having an affair with Carol Hill and the other one wished he was?”

Webb cocked his head at Mason, applying a thin smile, his voice dropping to a frozen register. “Too long for you to play them,” he said.