Final judgment

FIFTY

A guy with Humvee-size shoulders bulled his way to the bar, empty bottles in each raised hand. Mason followed in the big man’s wake, resting one foot on the rail at the base of the bar; thinking again about the deal Fish had made, not liking it any better. Fish had agreed just to get even with Wayne McBride over the fifty thousand dollars McBride had scammed from him before resurrecting himself as Al Webb, casino manager. Revenge made people do stupid things.

Fish was walking into a minefield with no idea where the trip wires were buried. Though Pete Samuelson had promised to protect Fish, Mason detected in Kelly a coldness that made collateral damage an acceptable fact of life. Everyone takes their turn in the barrel. She’d had hers. Fish would have his. It was a side of her that Mason hadn’t seen before, and it made him realize he couldn’t ask for her help. He was naked, any control over his life having vanished when Vanessa Carter knocked on his door a week ago.

He leaned against the bar, conscious again of the music. Myles Cartwright finished the set with a flourish on the piano, the sound cool and crisp, the drummer, bass player, and sax giving him room. The audience exploded with applause as the musicians took their bows. Myles said they were taking a break and would be back for another set. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a familiar voice, and turned around.

“Hey,” Rachel Firestone said. “What does a girl have to do to get someone to buy her a beer?”

Rachel always stood out in a crowd. It wasn’t just her red hair or her striking looks. It was the way she carried herself, telling the world to bring it on. It made her a good reporter and a better friend, though lately she’d been more journalist than buddy. He understood her ambition and the pressure she felt from her boss to prove that she was independent enough to follow a story wherever it took her, even one that got into his kitchen. The glint in her eyes made him uneasy. He smiled and took a step back, trying to figure out which hat she was wearing.

“Ask nice and offer to buy the next round.” He caught Blues’s attention and held up two fingers. Blues handed him two cold long-necked bottles, and Mason gave one to Rachel. “Are you working or just looking for a good time?”

“I’m meeting a friend.”

“Anyone special?”

“Not for me. She’s involved with someone else. Girls’ night out.”

“Which means I get off cheap. I could have been stuck for another beer.”

“There’s still time. She’ll be here any minute. By the way, I didn’t know you were open for business this late.” Mason lowered the bottle from his lips, waiting for the shoe to drop. “I saw Avery Fish and Pete Samuelson walking out of here arm in arm. Two seconds later, I bumped into Kelly Holt. I haven’t seen her since your days at Sullivan and Christenson. I hear she’s back with the FBI and that she’s the liaison with the cops on the Rockley murder. She looks great, by the way.”

“This is a popular place.”

“Don’t feel bad, Lou. I mean, what are the odds? You have a private, late-night meeting with your client and the government. I stumble across it. But it’s not news unless you tell me what’s going on. How else will I find out if you made a deal or were just getting drunk together?”

“You could find out from somebody else.”

“There’s always that,” she said. “But, I’m off the clock. Don’t make me work for my beer or for my story.”

“You’re never off the clock and you’d never take a story you didn’t work for.” He couldn’t tell Rachel about the deal Fish had made, but he could aim her at Dennis Brewer. If he didn’t give her something, he’d be reading about his meeting in tomorrow’s paper. “Step into my office,” he said, motioning toward his booth.

“Not bad for a branch office,” Rachel said as they sat down.

“Low overhead. Look, you know I can’t talk to you about any conversations we may have had with the government.”

“Yet.”

“Or maybe ever. There’s no story here. Let it go.”

“Lou, do I look like a complete moron? You and your client meet with the Assistant U.S. attorney who’s prosecuting your client for mail fraud and the FBI agent handling the investigation of a murder in which your client is the prime suspect. You do all this late at night in a bar, and that’s not a story?”

“My office is upstairs.”

“Then what were the four of you doing in this booth? Buying a round of drinks to celebrate? I saw Fish and Samuelson when they left. When I said I bumped into Kelly, I meant that literally, and it wasn’t an accident. She said she was glad to see me, but believe me, I know when a woman means that. And she didn’t.”

Mason gave her a hard look. Not to change her mind about what she’d seen. That wasn’t possible. But to let her know he was serious.

“I can’t talk about the case, Rachel. It’s that simple. If you write a story about seeing us together, people’s lives could be in danger.”

Rachel leaned forward, her elbows on the table, her chin in her hands, deciding whether to believe him. She nodded and straightened.

“Then tell me something that I can give my editor when I tell him that I can’t write this story.”

“How do you feel about a trade?”

“As long as it doesn’t involve sexual favors, I have an open mind.”

“When did you raise your standards?”

“When you were born male. What do you want?”

“You got an anonymous tip about Charles Rockley. The Star wouldn’t have run the story without corroboration. The FBI and the Justice Department officially declined to comment. Who corroborated the story?”

“You know I won’t reveal my sources.”

“I’ll settle for a place. Keep the name to yourself.”

Rachel leaned back against the booth, thinking and nodding. “Okay. Now tell me what you’ve got to trade.”

“Another anonymous tip.

“And what tip would that be?”

“That an FBI agent may be freelancing.”

Rachel’s eyes widened. “You give me a name and a reason not to think you’re blowing smoke up my skirt, and I’ll make that trade.”

“I’ll do better than that. I’ll give you a name and pictures,” Mason said, reaching into his coat pocket and fanning the photographs Blues had taken in an arc across the table. He shoved the FBI agent’s toward her. “His name is Dennis Brewer. I don’t know who the others are.”

Rachel picked up the photograph, studying the image. “What makes you think Brewer is dirty?”

“The company he keeps. These guys have short tempers and bad manners.”

“Where should I look?”

“Anyplace but the FBI.”

“That leaves a lot of ground to cover. Can’t you do better than that?”

Mason hesitated. He only had one lead to give her and it could threaten Fish, him, and her. But it was the only card he had to play. He needed help that he wasn’t going to get from Kelly.

“This could be dangerous. Two people are already dead.”

Rachel didn’t flinch. “One of them is Charles Rockley. Who’s the other one?”

“Johnny Keegan. Guy was a bartender at the Galaxy Casino.”

“I saw that story. It sounded like a robbery gone bad. What’s the connection between Rockley, Keegan, and Brewer? And why didn’t you tell me this sooner? I should be kicking you in the ass for that instead of bargaining with you.”

Mason had to give her something to work with even if it risked leading her back to him and Judge Carter. She couldn’t do her job in a vacuum, and the story would leak eventually, whether from the cops or the FBI.

“Keegan was having an affair with a blackjack dealer named Carol Hill. Carol is married to an unpleasant guy named Mark. Rockley knew she was fooling around and figured to take his turn. Carol wasn’t interested. Rockley pushed harder and she sued him and Galaxy for harassment. What I don’t know is whether Brewer is mixed up with Rockley or Keegan. And I didn’t tell you because I don’t know which side you’re on these days-mine or your paper’s.”

“That’s a cheap shot!”

“But accurate. I liked things the way they used to be.”

She took a deep breath. “Okay. No. It’s not okay. You’re using me to find the connection between these guys and I don’t like being used.”

“Then let it all go. Enjoy your night out on the town, forget about it and forget who you saw here.”

Rachel shook her head. “Like there’s any chance of that.”

“I know. It’s what you do. What about our trade?”

Rachel scooped up the rest of the photographs, stacked them like playing cards, and dropped them in her purse. She looked squarely at Mason, her eyes narrow and cautious.

“The FBI officially declined to comment about Rockley, but not everyone there is quite so official.”

Mason reached across the table, his hand on her wrist. “Who was it?”

She delicately removed his hand. “I’d sooner give up my virtue than give up a source.”

“You gave up your virtue years ago.”

“But I’ve never given up a source and I’m not starting now.”