by Joel Goldman
“So you think she’s trying to con both of us so that I’ll take this cockamamie deal they’ve offered.”
“That’s the best I can come up with.”
“And Kelly Holt wants to believe I killed Rockley, but you’re the one with the better information.”
“That’s me.”
“And you won’t tell me what it is. So who’s conning whom?” Fish asked.
Mason looked at Fish, realizing that there was something else that made a good con. The mark had to trust the con man like a penitent trusts a priest. Mason fought the temptation to trust Fish. He was torn between wanting to tell him and worrying that he’d already told him too much.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry is for losers. And you’re no loser. Come for dinner on Sunday. Six o’clock. We’ll talk some more.”
“There’s nothing more I can tell you.”
Fish climbed out of the car, holding on to the door as he leaned back in. “Trust me, we’ll find something to talk about, eh, boytchik.”
Mason spent the rest of the afternoon looking for the path of least resistance to the truth about Charles Rockley. He was certain of one thing. The story laid out in Rockley’s employment records didn’t jibe with someone whose DNA was at the top of the FBI’s unidentified murder victims pile. The FBI’s DNA database was for convicted felons and suspected terrorists, not middle managers. Mason shifted his focus to proving that Rockley’s résumé was phony.
He pulled up Rockley’s application for employment at the Galaxy Casino on his computer. It listed the names, addresses, and phone numbers of five prior employers.
He picked up the phone and started dialing, betting that the companies were either out of business or had never heard of Charles Rockley. An hour later he was done. All five were still open for business. All five confirmed that Rockley had worked for them, just as Rockley had written on his application to Galaxy. All five gave him glowing references and said they had been sorry to see him go but had understood that he had to take a better job.
It didn’t make sense, but that didn’t matter. No con artist, not even the FBI, could get five different companies in five different states to lie about a former employee.
He studied the names on his dry erase board, looking for someone who would talk to him. Al Webb was the manager of the Galaxy Casino. Lila Collins was the HR director. Both knew Rockley. Carol Hill knew Rockley well enough to sue him for sexual harassment. Once word got out that Rockley had been murdered, their lawyers would wire their jaws so tight they’d have to learn sign language.
Mason was about to give up on the dry erase board as an oracle when Blues came into his office carrying two cold bottles of beer. He handed one to Mason and retired to the sofa with the other bottle.
“Happy Hour,” Blues said.
“Except I’m not happy.” He set the beer on his desk and leaned forward in his chair. “Charles Rockley is dead.”
“Then you ought to be happy if he was the one blackmailing Judge Carter.”
“Not if he was also the dead man in the trunk of Avery Fish’s car and not if the FBI has a picture of you outside Rockley’s apartment.”
Blues nodded. “I can see how that wouldn’t make either one of us happy. What’s the story?”
Mason laid out the day’s events, glad to have another perspective. Blues was a bloodless problem-solver even though his solutions were often bloody. He didn’t get hung up on sentiment or regret, which enabled him to see things others didn’t and do things others wouldn’t. When Mason finished, Blues walked to the dry erase board, picked up a red marker, and circled the name of Carol Hill’s husband, Mark.
“I’d say this cat is one seriously pissed-off motherfucker,” Blues said. “And I’ll bet you he doesn’t have a lawyer to shut him up or a friend who gives a shit.”
Mason grinned. “A man like that needs at least one friend.”
“Two would be even better.”
TWENTY-TWO
Carol Hill’s lawyer, Vince Bongiovanni, had asked her typical softball questions at the arbitration about how wonderful her marriage had been until Charles Rockley started harassing her. It was a standard tactic designed to elicit sympathy.
Mason knew it was lost on Vanessa Carter, who was more likely to find sympathy in the dictionary between shit and suicide than in a plaintiff’s well-rehearsed tears. Especially after Galaxy’s lawyer, Lari Prillman, shredded Carol’s warm and fuzzy story, ripping out the last thread with Carol’s admission that she’d had an affair with one of the casino bartenders.
In addition to its marginal value as soap opera, Carol’s testimony had included enough information for Blues and Mason to track down her husband, Mark, who worked at the GM plant in the Fairfax Industrial District and did his drinking at a bar not far from the plant called Easy’s. That’s where Blues and Mason found him just after six o’clock either winding down from the week or winding up for the weekend.
Easy’s was a one-room cinderblock dive with no windows, blue lights, and bar stools worn to the nails. Friday after work was prime time and the bar was full of men who had traded hard hats for cold beer. A jukebox pounded out country music, love-gone-bad songs sending some men home and others back to the bar. Two waitresses worked the room, their hard-bitten faces offering no comfort. The bartender, a dirty towel slung over his bony shoulder, made change and conversation.
Blues shouldered his way to the bar and paid ten dollars more than the price of two beers, the heavy tip a fair price for a line on Mark Hill. He navigated back to Mason, who was standing near the door, squinting while his eyes adjusted to the perpetual dusk.
“That’s him,” Blues said, aiming his bottle at the man sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar, shoulders hunched, head down. “Bartender says he’s a mean drunk. Likes to mix it up.”
Hill was husky, broad in the shoulders, heavy in the gut. He was wearing a barn jacket that padded his shoulders, giving him an even more rounded look. Mason guessed that he was in his mid-thirties, though he looked older. Probably been working the same assembly-line job long enough to be bitter, more so after his wife humiliated him.
He finished his beer, shoving the mug away from him, a silent signal to the bartender for a refill. He chased it with a shot of whiskey, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. He was drinking at a steady pace that would blind him before the night was over. No one talked to him. Even in the crowded bar, people kept their distance. The bartender had him pegged.
Mason slipped through the crowd, rested his elbow on the bar next to Hill, and waved a twenty-dollar bill at the bartender. Blues lingered a step behind him.
“A shot and a beer for my friend,” Mason said.
Hill turned his head toward Mason. “I know you?”
“Nope,” Mason said, taking a draw on his bottle.
“Then you ain’t my friend, so why you wanna buy me a drink?”
His eyes were glassy and his speech was slow, more suspicious than slurred.
“Because I want to talk to you.”
Hill narrowed his eyes, turning away. “I buy my own drinks.”
“Don’t you even want to know why I want to talk to you?”
“Don’t give a rat’s ass. Fuck off.”
“It’s about Charles Rockley.”
“Don’t know him,” Hill said, rapping his empty mug on the counter to summon the bartender.
“Sure you do. He’s the guy at Galaxy that screwed your wife—not to be confused with the bartender she was banging.”
Hill slumped toward the bar as if he’d been slapped. Mason took the fake and didn’t see Hill reach inside his coat, barely catching the flash of steel as Hill whipped a knife at his throat.
Blues grabbed Hill’s wrist as he cleared his jacket, twisting it until Hill dropped the knife on the bar. Mason scooped it up, closed the blade, and slipped it into his pocket. The bartender made a point of looking the other way. If anyone else noticed, they kept it to themselves. Bl
ues was right. Hill didn’t have a friend who gave a shit.
Blues leaned in against Hill’s face, still gripping his wrist. “Let’s get some air.”
Mason and Blues flanked Hill, impersonating three buddies ready to hit the road. They hustled him out to the parking lot and up against the side of Mason’s SUV. Blues frisked him, nodding to Mason that he was unarmed. Mason climbed into the backseat from the driver’s side as Blues shoved Hill in from the passenger side, slamming the door shut.
“Who the fuck are you guys?” Hill asked.
“Just a couple of sailors on leave looking for a good time,” Mason said.
“Bullshit! Lemme go,” Hill said, reaching for the door, changing his mind when he saw Blues on the other side.
“We’ll let you go just as soon as we’re done talking.”
“Well, I got nothing to say to you, asshole. So if you and your buddy are gonna bust me up, let’s get it over with.”
Mason believed him. The booze couldn’t mask the resignation and resentment in Hill’s voice. He’d been kicked so many times he expected it. The best he could hope for was to get in a few licks of his own before someone turned out his lights.
“We just want some information about Charles Rockley, and don’t tell me you don’t know who he is or my friend will get very annoyed.”
Hill peered out the window at Blues, who stared back before turning around and blotting out the window with his back. He looked at Mason, who gave him no room.
“What do you want to know?”
“All I know is that Rockley worked at the Galaxy and harassed your wife. She sued him. Fill in the blanks.”
“That fucking cousin of hers, the smartass lawyer. It was his idea.”
“You mean Vince Bongiovanni? Your wife’s lawyer?”
“Yeah. Vince said he was dying to pop the Galaxy on account of what happened after Ed got killed.”
“Ed who?” Mason asked.
“Ed Fiori. He owned the boat when it was called the Dream Casino. Got himself killed a few years ago. Hell of a thing. Galaxy bought the boat out of Fiori’s estate. Vince said they screwed Ed’s family on the deal.”
“Why does Bongiovanni care what happened to Ed Fiori?”
“Who the fuck knows? They’re all related. Carol and Vince are cousins; Fiori was their uncle. Anyway, Carol bitches to Vince that this guy Rockley is coming on to her at work. Won’t take no for an answer. Vince says how bad is it? Carol, she says it’s bad, but it ain’t so bad. Vince says the worse it is the more it’s worth. Next thing I know, she says the guy raped her. Vince, he says ka-ching.”
“What did you say?”
“I said I’m gonna cut Rockley’s nuts off. Vince tells me to sit tight ’cause there’s more than one way to get money out of a casino. So I go along like a dumbass and she makes a fool out of me at that hearing when that bitch lawyer gets her to admit that she was hosing one of the bartenders all this time I’m wantin’ to kill Rockley to protect her honor. Fuck her and the bartender and Rockley! You satisfied?”
Mason nodded. “Almost. When was the last time you saw Rockley?”
Hill tugged at his chin, stalling. “At the hearing. Guy’s a punk. Him and me ended up in the head at the same time. He sees me and grabs his crotch. Tells me you want some, come get some. Vince showed up or I woulda popped the little shit.”
“How about Carol? Did she run into him at work after the hearing?”
“She’s been off since before the hearing. Too much mental anguish,” Hill explained, not hiding his sarcasm.
“You don’t buy her mental anguish?”
“Hey, I’m buying whatever Vince and Carol are selling long as I get my share of the money.”
Carol’s claim against Galaxy included a claim on behalf of her husband for loss of consortium, a quaint legal term that meant loss of a spouse’s services caused by the defendant’s wrongful conduct. Services was loosely translated as sex. How frequent before compared to how frequent after. Then put a price on it. Carol testified that she and Mark screwed like rabbits until having sex with Rockley made her hate to be touched. Lari Prillman asked how she found the time when she was spending so much of it shacked up with the bartender. Mason doubted Mark would see a nickel for loss of his wife’s services even if Judge Carter weren’t being blackmailed. Rather than break that news to Hill, Mason changed subjects.
Lari Prillman had never identified the bartender by name during the hearing. Mason thought that was unusual but attributed it to Galaxy’s desire to avoid dragging another employee’s name into the case. Carol Hill didn’t volunteer her lover’s name, which made sense to Mason.
“The bartender. You ever get his name?”
Hill’s face reddened. “Johnny Keegan.”
“How about Keegan? You going to cut his nuts off?”
Hill looked away from Mason as his eyes filled. “I’m done talking. Lemme outta here.”
Watching Hill die a little more made Mason feel ashamed for kicking him when he was down. “Sure. Sorry we hassled you.”
“Right. You and everybody else.”
Mason opened the door, got out, and stood aside. Hill slid out, drawing his coat around him. Mason couldn’t tell if the tears on Hill’s checks were from the booze, the cold, or the pain. Hill brushed them away and headed for his truck.
TWENTY-THREE
Blues and Mason watched from the front seat of Mason’s SUV as Hill floored his pickup and slalomed past parked cars on his way out of the lot. Turning sharply into the street, the truck fishtailed and clipped the front end of a sedan parked across from the bar. The impact spun Hill around until the two vehicles were nose to nose.
A man with a weight lifter’s build and a mop of blond hair hanging down his neck jumped out of the driver’s side of the sedan at the same moment Hill poured out of the pickup, the two of them trading shouts. Hill swung at the man, who stepped inside the punch, landing a left-right combination that put Hill down in a heap, the man standing over him, still cursing. A second man, smaller and wirier than his partner, got out from the passenger side, pulling the driver away before checking on Hill.
“What do you think?” Mason asked Blues.
“The guys in the car were looking for someone. Let’s wait a minute and see if they’re public or private.”
“Hill could be hurt.”
“Looks okay to me.”
The passenger helped Hill to his feet, brushed him off, and leaned him against the pickup. The driver slammed his hand on the hood of the sedan, pointing to the front left fender that had been crushed into the tire, disabling the car. He yanked a cell phone from his belt, punched a number, and yelled some more.
A moment later a second sedan pulled up and another man got out. He stepped into the glare of Hill’s headlights, his block-cut head and shoulders suddenly familiar to Mason.
“Son of a bitch,” Mason said.
“Friend of yours?”
“Dennis Brewer. He’s the FBI agent handling Fish’s case. He interrupted my meeting with Pete Samuelson to tell us that they’d found a body in the trunk of Fish’s car.”
“You recognize the other two?”
“No, but they look more private than public to me.”
“I doubt the Bureau has a side gig helping stranded motorists. What are they doing here?”
“Two choices,” Mason said. “Watching Hill or us. The feds already tied Rockley to you and me, but that’s because I represent Fish. Maybe they found out about Carol Hill’s lawsuit and decided to talk to her husband just like we did.”
“Hard to believe they’re as smart as we are.”
“You’ve got a point. I don’t remember seeing them at the last Mensa meeting.”
“Still doesn’t make sense. Rockley’s murder is for the local cops. Why is the FBI on it?”
“Kelly Holt told me that they got the picture of you outside Rockley’s apartment when they intercepted an e-mail that had the picture attached to it. Pete Samuelson wants
Avery Fish to help with a government investigation he wants to keep a secret. Dennis Brewer shows up on Mark Hill’s tail. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but my guess is the feds are investigating Galaxy.”
“Which means that Rockley wasn’t just a guy who couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.”
Mason nodded. “That’s what I thought when the FBI made an instant DNA identification. Then I checked out Rockley’s prior employers and they all vouched for him.”
“Something was hinky with Rockley. I don’t care who vouched for him. And, we still don’t know if the FBI is watching Hill or us.”
“Let’s try the back side of the bar. Maybe there’s another way out.”
“Forget it. They already saw us with Hill.”
“You want me to wave as we drive by?” Mason said.
“It never hurts to be polite.”
Blues took his cell phone out of his pocket.
“I thought you hated those things,” Mason said.
“I do. They’re like an anchor wrapped around your neck. Doesn’t mean I won’t use one, especially one that takes pictures. Take it slow and I’ll get a set of mug shots.”
He lowered his window, resting his arm on the door, hiding the phone in his hand, the camera lens peeking between his fingers.
“Tell them to smile,” Mason said as he put the SUV in gear.
“Brewer was backing up those guys. Let’s see if someone is backing up Brewer. Just drive by like it’s none of our business. If no one else picks us up, they’re probably babysitting Hill. If we find a friend, we’re it.”
Mason eased the SUV out of the lot, crawling past the accident, Brewer and the two other men turning their heads away from them. Mason laid on the horn, chuckling as they whipped around toward the SUV, letting Blues snap their pictures in full piss-off mode.
“Nice,” Blues said.
Mason had a straight shot for almost a mile before he would have to make a turn, plenty of time for a third crew to play catch-up. The neighborhood was industrial except for an occasional bar or convenience store. It was lightly traveled and well lit, making it an easy stretch of road on which to find someone. Mason took his time. Six blocks later, another sedan fell in behind them, keeping its distance. The driver was alone.
