by Joel Goldman
She pulled away from him, her eyebrows raised, her cross-examination instincts revived.
“You couldn’t possibly know that unless there’s something you aren’t telling me.”
He smiled at her. “That’s the difference between men and women. We pay attention to different things.”
On his way out, Mason stopped in the file room and plucked the laser pointer from the shelf. There wouldn’t be a police report and, even if there were, he would bet against finding any fingerprints on the pointer. He turned the red beam off and dropped it in his pocket.
Walking back to the parking garage, he turned his coat collar up against a bone-chilling wind that now whipped between the office buildings. The unseasonable warmth from the afternoon had vanished, the swift and brutal change in weather a reminder that paybacks are hell.
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was a measure of the way his weekend had gone that Mason was looking forward to having dinner on Sunday night at Avery Fish’s house. Fish would try to talk him out of resigning and Mason would have to smile, clean his plate, and quit even though it was the last thing he wanted to do.
Defending someone on a murder charge was unlike any other attorney-client relationship. All clients put their trust in their lawyers, but saving an innocent man’s life was the most sacred of trusts. No civil case could trump it, no matter the millions that might end up in his pocket. No mega-merger could match the stakes of life or death. There were times when Mason almost felt sorry for his legal brethren and their pedestrian practices. The burden of innocence and his duty to protect it sustained him as much as it weighed on him. Abandoning Avery Fish was contrary to everything Mason believed in, save one. He couldn’t allow his problems with Judge Carter to put Fish at greater risk.
Nothing that had happened since Friday changed Mason’s certainty that he had to withdraw as Fish’s lawyer. Though he couldn’t prove it, he was certain that the CD stolen from Lari Prillman’s safe contained the blackmail audio tapes. Its theft confirmed that he had no choice but to quit. The CD was like a virus. He had to destroy it before it spread, though he had no idea who might have stolen it or where to look for it.
Unlike Saturday, Sunday passed without him being overcome by lust and longing and forgetting a meeting with a critical witness. Nor had the woman he loved used him as a shield from a jealous wife. And, best of all, no one had shot at him since sunrise.
He started the day with a punishing run, during which he revisited his day with Abby. He refused to give women credit for the exclusive ability to read a relationship, no matter what caught their attention. It didn’t matter whether something was going on between Josh Seeley and Abby or whether the senator’s wife just believed they were having an affair. Well, it did matter. He was too in love with Abby to pretend otherwise. But it mattered just as much that Abby had used him.
When he got back there was a message from her asking him to call so she could explain. Her voice was laced with a mix of impatience and regret that ate at him. He erased it without returning her call.
He showered, paid bills, and watched a college basketball game as he ate lunch. It was an enforced normalcy that failed to take his mind off everything that had happened in the last week. When he realized that he had no idea which teams he was watching and didn’t care whether either team won, he turned off the television and gave up pretending that his life was normal.
He whistled to Tuffy and asked her if she wanted to go for a ride. She beat him to the car, paws on the door waiting to be let in. He lowered the front passenger window enough for the dog to stick her snout into the wind and turned up the heat to cut the chill from the cold air. He drove to Shawnee Mission Park, a vast expanse in western Johnson County.
Kansas City was more than the geopolitically correct unit of city government on the Missouri side of the state line it shared with Kansas. It was more than a sister to Kansas City, Kansas, a city that merged with Wyandotte County to form one governmental behemoth. It was an amalgam of cities and counties spread on either side of the state line in every direction, home to over a million and a half people of every clan and category ever imagined.
It was a place where people fought over who had the best barbecue and how much to spend on a new performing arts center. It was a place where people rooted for football Chiefs and baseball Royals and protested war in the name of peace. It was a place where some schools excelled and others struggled while too many kids got their education on the streets. It was a place like every other place—full of hopes and promises, some that soared and others that were crushed. It was Mason’s home and he wore it like a second skin.
Locals knew the difference between living in Raytown, Missouri, and Leawood, Kansas, but residents of both would probably tell out-of-towners that they lived in Kansas City. It was simpler than giving a lesson in geography or bragging rights. Johnson County was one of the Kansas-side pieces in the bi-state kaleidoscope with demographics that made high-end retailers slobber all over themselves.
Shawnee Mission Park took its name from the mission set up in the 1800s to help the Shawnee Indians find the white man’s religion. Blues rarely talked to Mason about being a full-blooded member of the Shawnee tribe, except to say that the Shawnee got the shaft and the white man got the mailing address. You could send mail to anyone in the twenty-plus cities located in Johnson County and address it to Shawnee Mission, KS, the one city that existed only in the minds of the Postal Service. There was no such place.
The park had miles of trails, a lake with a marina, and a leash-free haven where people turned their dogs loose for a wide-ranging romp, the occasional bump-and-run encounter with a good-looking dog-lover a side benefit for singles tired of the bar scene. Mason let Tuffy out of the car, interested in nothing more than a head-clearing walk while his dog wore herself out.
The cold was enough to discourage most people, pancake clouds layering an oppressive grayness on the day. Barren trees stood idly by, refusing to break the gusting wind. Frozen concrete ground hit back against his boots as he followed Tuffy up a slow rising hill, along the tree line and down toward a shallow inlet of the lake. He lost sight of the dog for a few minutes, picking up his pace until he saw her nose-to-butt with a golden retriever.
The golden’s owner, her blond hair sticking out from beneath a ski cap, stood with her back to Mason. She turned toward him as he made his way the last few yards to the water’s edge. He stopped for a moment, sucking in a cold breath when he realized that the woman was Judith Bartholomew. He’d only seen her a few times, always from a distance, but he’d thought often enough about the possibility that they shared the same father that he had no doubt it was her. He’d met her mother, Brenda Roth, just once. She wanted nothing to do with Mason, and he was confident that Brenda had never spoken to her daughter about him.
Mason was six feet tall, had dark hair, gray eyes, and a long, angular face. He’d broken his nose more than once, and his heavy beard cast a shadow on his cheeks and chin even if he shaved twice a day. Judith was no more than five-six, with a smooth, creamy complexion. Her eyes were hazel, her face more round than his. From a distance, he’d imagined, or wished for, more of a resemblance. Up close, he could see nothing that linked them, though he knew of many siblings who resembled one of their parents but not each other.
She smiled at him, though it was the kind of tentative smile reserved for strangers. There was no hint of recognition. His life was complicated enough at the moment without adding any new wrinkles.
“Your dog?” she asked, pointing to Tuffy.
“All mine.”
The dogs finished sniffing each other and started chasing along the rocky beach. Mason stuffed his hands in his pockets, avoiding introductions.
“I haven’t been here in ages. My kids were bouncing off the walls, the laundry was piled to the ceiling, and my husband was sleeping in front of the television. I had to get out of the house. Fortunately, my mother lives with us. I told her she was in charge and I
kidnapped the dog.”
The explanation was hurried as if she felt guilty leaving her domestic duties behind and wanted to be certain Mason knew she was only there to walk the dog.
He nodded. “Good to get away for a little while.”
She gave him a closer look, her eyes wrinkling with concentration. “I’m Judith,” she said, extending her hand. “Do I know you?”
Mason took her hand, disappointed he didn’t feel some genetic connection. “I’m Lou,” he said, glad that she omitted last names. “I don’t think we’ve met. I just have one of those naturally familiar faces like the ones on the wall at the post office.”
The dogs came back to them, tongues and tails wagging. She patted the golden, looked at her watch, and sighed.
“If I don’t get back, my mother will send out a search party.”
“Take it easy,” Mason said.
“I’ll do that,” she said. “You know, you do have one of those familiar faces, but it’s not from the post office. It will come to me.”
“Let me know. I’ll wait here.”
“Funny and familiar. Not a bad combination,” she said. “Let’s go, dog.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
Avery Fish could cook. He served Mason baked tilapia encrusted with cashews, wild rice, fresh green beans, and a spinach salad with mandarin oranges. Dessert was a persimmon cake.
“I’ve never had anything like that,” Mason said of the dessert.
“That’s because you can’t get persimmons here. This friend of mine in California, her name is Patty, makes them and sends me one every year.”
“Well,” Mason said, pushing back from the table. “Tell Patty to put me on her list after you die. I wouldn’t have guessed you were such a good cook.”
Fish shrugged. “You live alone long enough and you learn to cook. When I was married, we’d have dinner every Sunday night with my wife’s family. Kids running all over the place, people laughing and talking. It was a beautiful noise and the food was always good. So now, at least, I’ve still got the food.”
They didn’t talk about Fish’s case during dinner. Fish waited until after they’d eaten and were sitting in the living room. He had brewed tea for Mason and strong black coffee for himself. The lighting was soft, casting a warm glow against the walls; the furniture sagged but not too much. The walls were decorated with family photos Mason hadn’t noticed on his last visit. The house was like a favorite old sweater, a bit worn but too comfortable to trade in for a newer version.
“So, should I take this deal the U.S. attorney is offering me?” He held his cup of coffee beneath his lips, blowing on it.
“I’d rather you talk about that with your new lawyer.”
“You’re still my lawyer until I get somebody new. Am I right?”
Mason shrugged. “Technically, I suppose that’s correct.”
“Then we’ll talk about my case first and your problems second. Who knows? By the time we’re done, maybe both of our problems will be solved. What about this deal? I don’t even know what it is they want me to do.”
“They want you to help them with a case, but they won’t tell us what it is or what you would have to do. That’s not much of a deal. But, I may know what they have in mind. Charles Rockley worked for the Galaxy Casino. Late Friday night, the cops made a house call to tell me that another Galaxy employee named Johnny Keegan had been shot to death.”
“Oy! When did that happen?”
“Friday night, sometime after eight. That’s when Keegan got off work.”
“Why did the police tell you about this Keegan? Surely they don’t think I had anything to do with it.”
Mason felt like he was tiptoeing through a minefield. He had to be careful that he didn’t tell Fish anything that would raise questions he couldn’t answer. The cops would tell Fish’s new lawyer about Keegan. He wouldn’t be surprised if Rachel Firestone picked up the story as well.
“When Keegan’s body was found, he had a piece of paper in his hand with my name and phone number on it.”
“Which gets us back to your problems while we’re supposed to be talking about my problems.”
“Exactly.”
“This Keegan, did you know him?”
“Never met,” Mason said.
“So why would he have your name and phone number?”
“The easy answer is that he needed a lawyer. I don’t know most of my clients before they walk through my door.”
“But you’re uneasy with the easy answer and you can’t tell me why.” Fish blew again on his coffee as he took a sip.
“The point is that the two murders could be connected to the FBI’s investigation. If they are, it means the FBI is after someone at Galaxy.”
“I don’t know how I can help the FBI. I’m no undercover agent. I’m a businessman. I sell opportunities to people who want them at discount prices. To do that, people have to trust me and be greedy enough not to look at the fine print. Who’s going to trust me after I’m accused of being a thief and a murderer?”
“I don’t know either, unless the feds are after someone at Galaxy who doesn’t care if you are a thief and a murderer. Know anyone who fits that description?”
“No, and I’ve never been to the Galaxy. I never bet against the house and I always make sure I am the house. Did you read the story in yesterday’s newspaper? That reporter—she’s a nice Jewish girl named Rachel Firestone. Do you know her?”
“I do. We’re good friends, as a matter of fact.”
“Some friend. She called me on the phone Friday night. On Shabbos! To ask me if I’d like to explain how this Rockley’s body ended up in my car and did his murder have anything to do with the mail fraud charges against me.”
Mason wasn’t surprised that Rachel hadn’t said anything to him about calling Fish. That was the new Rachel, he thought, remembering how much he preferred the old version.
“What did you tell her?”
“Nothing. Just like you told me. I was Mr. No Comment.”
Mason had been so caught up in Saturday’s whirlwind that he’d overlooked the most important consequence of Rachel’s story. Pete Samuelson, the U.S. attorney, had offered to keep the photograph of Blues outside Rockley’s apartment under wraps. He wasn’t doing Fish a favor. He was using the photograph as leverage to persuade Fish to take their deal. Rachel’s article said nothing about Blues, but the bad press was worse than the photograph.
“That article may have cost you the deal with the feds. It forced their hand with the cops. Now, they’ll be under a lot of pressure to turn over everything they’ve got including the photograph of Blues. They can’t take the chance of being accused of withholding evidence.”
“I thought they didn’t want the police to know about their secret investigation. If they turn over the photograph of Mr. Blues, won’t they have to explain how they got it?”
“Maybe. That doesn’t mean the explanation has to be true. It just has to be an explanation.”
“So, I don’t need another lawyer. See, I told you we could work this out.”
Mason put his cup on the table next to his chair. “I’m sorry, Avery. I don’t see any way around it. Things will only get worse for you when the cops get that picture. They’ll want an explanation from you. You’ll have to tell them that you couldn’t have told me to send Blues to Rockley’s apartment because you didn’t know Rockley was the dead man or where he lived. If they believe you, they’ll want an explanation from me.”
“And you can’t give them one. Am I right?”
“You’re right. I can’t. That’s why I don’t see any way around this.”
“Then keep looking. I don’t want another lawyer.”
Mason shook his head. “I’m glad you feel that way, but I don’t have a choice. I’ve got to get out.”
“You can’t quit without telling me why. It’s not right. Besides, maybe I won’t mind that you’ve got a conflict of interest. My whole life has been a conflict of interest and thing
s haven’t worked out so bad for me.”
“You’re divorced. Your daughters will barely let you see your grandkids. You’re facing a federal felony conviction for mail fraud and a state charge for murder. What’s so good about that?”
“Yes, but I can cook,” Fish said. “And, I can think and I’ve been thinking about Mr. Blues and your problem, whatever it is. Someone takes his picture outside the apartment of this dead man, this Rockley. Mr. Blues works for you. He’s your gumshoe. The FBI thinks you sent Mr. Blues to Rockley’s apartment because I told you that Rockley was the dead man in the trunk of my car. How could I have known that unless I killed Rockley? Am I right so far?”
“On the money.”
“But, I didn’t kill Rockley so I didn’t know who he was before or after someone put him in my trunk. That means you had some other reason to send Mr. Blues to Rockley’s apartment. You say that Mr. Blues didn’t kill Rockley and I assume that you didn’t kill him either. So whatever is going on between you and Rockley has nothing to do with me. Still right?”
“Still right.”
“Then what’s the problem? I’ll tell you what’s the problem. You’re in some kind of trouble because of this Rockley and you can’t get out of it and represent me at the same time.”
Mason looked at his watch. “It’s getting late.”
Fish narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got that right, boytchik. I’ve been in my share of tight spots. I know what it’s like to get squeezed. Tell me what this is all about. If I can’t help you, I’ll get another lawyer. Don’t worry. Everything we talk about is confidential anyway.”
THIRTY-NINE
Fish sat with his hands on his knees, his fleshy face pinched with seriousness, his eyes filled with worry. Mason sensed that Fish was as concerned about him as he was himself. Mason didn’t understand this, but it made him want to answer Fish’s questions.
Fish’s pitch was tempting. It was the same one he’d made to Lari Prillman. She had turned him down and he needed to do the same to Fish. Though, if anyone would understand Mason’s predicament without judging him, it was Fish. A con man’s instincts may be just what Mason needed. Yet he couldn’t forget that Fish was a con man, someone not to be trusted. Claire had warned him.
