Final judgment

SEVENTY-ONE

Mason called Lila’s office phone and cell, but she didn’t answer. He tried again as he was driving downtown to meet with the homicide detectives with the same result.

She would call as soon as she could, he told himself. If she could, he added, getting the sick feeling that he got while a jury was deliberating and his gut told him that he’d lost even before the jury took a vote. It was a toxic blend of fear, frustration, and outrage coated with a paralyzing layer of helplessness that was an all-too-accurate barometer of the verdict. All that was left was second-guessing. If anything happened to Lila, he’d be answering those questions the rest of his life.

Mason told Fish to meet him in the parking lot across from the Jackson County Courthouse a little before eleven. They walked the long block to police headquarters together, keeping their chins tucked against the cold as Mason told Fish what he’d learned about Al Webb and what had happened at Lake Lotawana.

“Wayne-a terrorist?” Fish said, using Webb’s real name. “I don’t believe it!”

“I’m not saying he’s a terrorist. I’m saying that he and Sylvia are in the fake ID business. If they sell to underage college kids who want to buy beer, that’s one thing. If they sell to terrorists, their FBI file gets stamped Top Secret. That’s all I’m saying.”

“Unbelievable,” Fish said, shaking his head.

“Don’t forget. He got started by killing some poor bastard just so he could fake his own death and Sylvia helped him pull it off.”

“And what’s this all about?” Fish said, waving at the entrance to police headquarters. “Who is it I’m supposed to have killed this time?”

“Mark Hill. Carol Hill’s husband.”

“Why not? I haven’t not killed someone in a week. I might as well not have killed him too.”

Detective Griswold met them in the second-floor homicide bullpen.

“Thanks for coming down,” he began. “But turns out we don’t need to talk with Mr. Fish.”

“Did you make an arrest?” Mason asked.

“No,” Griswold said. “But the coroner fixed the time of death as Monday night between six and midnight.”

“I was home,” Fish said.

“We know that,” Griswold answered.

“By myself,” Fish added.

“We know that too. I had a meeting this morning with Kelly Holt. She’s the FBI’s liaison on Rockley’s murder. I told her you were coming down to talk about the Hill case. She made your alibi. Said they had you under surveillance and you didn’t leave the house Monday night. Sorry for the trouble.”

Fish lifted his hands in protest. “Trouble? What trouble? I’m delighted to be your guest, especially considering it was such a short visit. C’mon, Lou. I can’t afford to pay you to stand here and kibbitz.”

“You go ahead,” Mason told him. “I’m going to stick around for a few minutes.”

Fish crooked a finger at him. “A word,” he said, taking a few steps away. “What’s going on?” he whispered when Mason joined him.

“Nothing’s going on. I’ve got another case to talk about with Griswold. That’s all.”

“It wouldn’t be that business with Judge Carter, would it?”

Mason pursed his lips. “Nah. It’s a new case-armed robbery.”

“Such a terrible liar you are, boytchik. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’ll do my best,” Mason said, forcing a grin.

“Remember one thing. The mark never feels the hook until it’s in too deep.”

“Don’t worry. Griswold will take the bait.”

Fish studied him, a sad smile spreading across his jowls. “Of course he will, boytchik. Of course he will.”

“Someplace quiet we can talk?” Mason asked Griswold.

“Sure. You’ve seen our deluxe private conference rooms. How about one of them?”

Mason followed Griswold to the interrogation room. Griswold stood at the open door, waiting for Mason to take a seat.

“You want an audience or is this private?” he asked Mason.

Mason had imagined that this moment would include Detective Cates and Samantha Greer, Cates relishing it while Samantha suffered through it with him. Now that the moment had arrived, he didn’t need either of them to make him feel worse. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“You’ll do. Close the door.”

Griswold sat across from him, hands in his lap, a curious glint in his eye. “I’m all yours.”

“Did you follow up with Lila Collins about Johnny Keegan needing a lawyer?”

“I did. She said Keegan told her he needed a lawyer; didn’t say why, and she gave him your name. Just like she told you. I didn’t get anything else out of her.”

“She worked for Ed Fiori when he owned the casino. You remember him?”

“I remember. It was called the Dream in those days,” Griswold answered. “Fiori went out the hard way. You and your buddy Blues were there, if memory serves.”

“We were there.”

It went like that for more than an hour. When it became clear what Mason was doing, Griswold interrupted to give him a Miranda warning, making him sign a statement that he declined counsel. Griswold teased the details out of Mason, who didn’t want to appear too eager to confess. He wanted Griswold to believe that Vanessa Carter was innocent, and nothing undermined a witness’s credibility more than being too prepared, too rehearsed.

“I’ve got a problem here,” Griswold said when Mason finished laying it out. “You asked Fiori to put the arm on Judge Carter to get Blues released on bail. He says okay. She releases Blues. Looks like she’s got as big a problem as you do. But you keep telling me she didn’t know what was going on. You understand my problem here?”

Mason knew his story would fall apart if the blackmailer went public with the tape of Fiori and Judge Carter. He was counting on the blackmailer staying private once the leverage of the tape was gone. Disclosing it would only increase the risk the blackmailer would be caught, getting him nothing in return.

“Fiori told me he never made the call,” Mason said, improvising a detail he hoped would close the deal, especially since Fiori couldn’t contradict him from the grave. “Judge Carter confirmed that. She said she made her decision to grant bail strictly on the merits. That’s why I couldn’t pressure her to rule in Galaxy’s favor. She told me the blackmailer was my problem, not hers.”

“Rockley could have been part of the blackmail scheme-trying to save his ass and instead got himself killed by whoever was running the show. Who do you like for the blackmail?”

“Al Webb is the only one left,” Mason said. “Rockley and Keegan are dead.”

“Which reminds me,” Griswold said. “I talked to Lila Collins again. She told me the same thing she told you about Keegan. He said he needed the name of a lawyer to give to a friend so she gave him your name. If you’re involved in this blackmail scheme, that could have been enough to get Keegan killed.”

“I’ve thought of that.”

“You should have come to me sooner,” Griswold said. “Now you’re looking at attempted bribery, extortion, corruption of a public official, and obstruction of justice. Not what I’d call a good day, Counselor. What happened, you get a conscience transplant?”

“Something like that,” Mason answered. “What now?”

Griswold let out a sigh. “It’s not every day that a member of the bar walks in here and hands me his nuts. I’ve got to talk to the prosecuting attorney. In the meantime, I’d hire a couple of lawyers. One for you and one for your client.”

The morning cold had stiffened with blunt gusts of wind, each one like a hard right hand. Mason took the blows without feeling them as he walked back to his car. For an instant, he thought he saw Fish waiting for him in the parking lot. He hurried toward him, waving and calling his name, ready to tell him what he’d done until he realized the old man he saw was a bum scouring the asphalt for lucky pennies. Confession was supposed to be good for his soul. He hadn’t known it would also cloud his vision.