Final judgment

SIXTY-THREE

They took separate cars and drove different routes so they wouldn’t arrive at the same time. Mason called Abby from the car, assuring her that he would be at her place by eight. She promised to chill the wine, not able to disguise the worry in her voice. It was nothing, he told her-a late appointment. Hurry, she said. He’d picked the wrong night to be late.

Cinzetti’s was in Overland Park, the biggest city in Johnson County, a sprawling suburban enclave on the Kansas side of the state line that divided the metropolis between Kansas Jayhawks and Missouri Tigers. The restaurant occupied a large slab of the parking lot in an upscale strip mall on the west side of Metcalf Avenue, faux Roman columns flanking the entrance.

Blues was driving a BMW, a car that fit his personality as uncomfortably as a promise fit a politician. Both couldn’t wait to get out of them. He preferred his pickup truck, but the BMW was a thank-you from a twentysomething trust fund baby who had gotten in too deeply with a drug dealer until Blues had separated them. When Blues turned the gift down, the grateful heir dropped the keys, title, and registration on the bar and walked out.

The BMW was perfect for surveillance in Johnson County, where driving a car worth more than the average person made in a year wasn’t bragging-it was expected. Blues had backed into a parking place along the far row of the lot, giving him a clear view of the front and both sides of the restaurant and easy access to the street.

A service road separated the rear of the building from the back side of a row of shops, the door to each illuminated by halogen lamps that bathed the road in purple-white daylight. There was no place to park, and the only inconspicuous place from which to watch the back door of the restaurant was a rectangular alcove big enough for a soda machine between two of the stores. Mason drove slowly past as a man wearing a white kitchen coat kicked the door open, dragged two black garbage bags to a nearby Dumpster, and tossed them in before lighting a cigarette and watching Mason go by.

The alcove was deep and dark enough to swallow Mason when he made his way there after parking his car. The kitchen door was propped open, a triangle of light spilling onto the asphalt, garlic breeze escaping the kitchen and seasoning the air. He leaned against the rough brick wall, checking his watch, waiting for Mickey’s call.

Follow the money, he’d told Blues before they left his office. It was an axiom made famous in political scandals that served equally well in solving crimes. Whether it was the money Webb was skimming from the casino, the money Kelly had hidden in Fish’s coat, or the money Bongiovanni wanted from Galaxy, all he had to do was follow it. When it stopped moving, he’d have his answers.

Mason’s cell phone rang. “What’s happening?” Mason asked.

“The coat is moving,” Mickey said.

“Who has it?”

“A white guy, mid-thirties, wearing khaki pants and a gray sweater. He’s headed for the front door.”

Mason called Blues. “Khaki pants, gray sweater and a hundred-thousand-dollar coat coming right at you.”

“I’ve got him,” Blues said. “Only he’s not carrying or wearing a coat. He’s banging on the door of a minivan. Someone opened up, he got in, and they’re taking off. Here come Fish and Kelly. She’s patting him on the back. He’s squeezing her ass. I’m on the van.”

“Shit!” Mason said, punching the buttons on the phone again. “Mickey! Where the hell are you?”

“Here, boss. How we doin’?”

“Lousy. The guy didn’t have the coat when he got outside. Could he have passed it to someone else?”

“I don’t know. There was a table full of women wearing red hats. They all got up at the same time as he did and I lost him. He could have handed it off to someone and I wouldn’t have known it.”

“What’s the next thing you saw after the women got out of the way?”

Mickey waited a moment before answering. “Not much. Just a busboy carrying a garbage bag.”

Mason peered at the back door to the restaurant just as the man in the kitchen coat emerged with another garbage bag, adding it to the top of the pile in the Dumpster, looking both ways before he went back inside. A moment later, a sedan pulled up alongside the Dumpster. One of Lila Collins’s bodyguards-the one who had gut-punched him at the hotel-got out, grabbed the garbage bag, and tossed it into the trunk of the car.

Mason crouched on the ground, pressing himself against the base of the alcove as the car eased past. He stuck his head out far enough to read the license tag on the car, repeating it until he was certain he wouldn’t forget it.

His car was parked too far away for him to follow the sedan. He doubted the bodyguard would take the money to the casino since video cameras recorded everyone who came or left. His best bet was to trace the tag on the car. He called Blues again.

“Are you still following the van?” Mason asked him.

“Yeah. They’re taking their time, stopping for all the yellow lights.”

“Write the plate number down and let them go,” Mason said, explaining what had happened. “You know anyone who can run a couple of plates after hours?”

“After hours costs extra.”

“The guy who charges extra, does he owe you for anything?”

“All my people owe me. That’s why they’re my people.”

“Then tell him he’s paid up if he gets us names and addresses tonight.”

Mason checked his watch. He had fifteen minutes to make it to Abby’s apartment. He’d be late but not too late. He called and told her he was on the way, the relief in her voice enough to warm them both.

A long line of cars was stacked up almost the length of the parking lot waiting to turn onto Metcalf. Mason decided to look for another exit on the west side of the strip center. He drove back down the service road past the entrance to the kitchen and into the drive around the outer edge of the storefronts. He turned left away from the traffic, trailing a few other drivers who’d adopted the same exit strategy.

The driver of the car in front of him had a change of heart and turned around, his headlights framing a man and woman standing in the darkened entrance of a vacant storefront. Kelly Holt and Dennis Brewer were wrapped around each other like braided snakes.