by Joel Goldman
SIXTY-ONE
Mason’s Aunt Claire once told him that the world depended on both man-made and natural law. Man-made laws were elastic, adapting to special circumstance, acknowledging changing times or bending to clever argument. Natural laws were immutable, a gift of God or nature, depending on whether one’s compass pointed to faith or common sense as true north. The law of gravity was her favorite because, without it, everything on earth would hurtle into space in a cosmic instant.
Despite Detective Griswold’s innuendo, Mason considered the possibility that Kelly would bend the law—cross the line—as unlikely as God turning the gravity switch off in a fit of divine vandalism. Yet, as Mason walked toward her, he half-expected to be launched into the void by the centrifugal fling of a suddenly off-kilter planet.
From the moment Dennis Brewer had whispered in Pete Samuelson’s ear about the body in Fish’s car, Mason had suspected that Brewer was somehow stirring the pot. He’d been there when Rockley’s body was found. He’d been there when Mason and Blues had braced Mark Hill at the bar in Fairfax. He had the skill set to break into Lari Prillman’s office and safe and then escape under cover of darkness and gunfire. And, he was tied to both Ed Fiori and Al Webb.
Mason now knew that the same could be said about Kelly Holt. She’d had nothing to do with Fish’s case until Blues was photographed outside Rockley’s apartment. When Blues had predicted that another FBI agent was backing up Brewer that night in Fairfax, Kelly had been that agent. She was no less qualified than Brewer for the black bag job at Lari Prillman’s office. Lila Collins had placed her at the casino immediately after Fiori’s death and again, only a month ago, with Webb. And, she had persistently deflected Mason’s inquiries about Brewer, certain that Mason wouldn’t consider the flip side of the coin.
Brewer was an anonymous face with a badge and a gun and wouldn’t be the first good guy who turned out to be a bad guy. Mason couldn’t yet tie it all together, but if he kept bulling his way through the maze, he was confident that he’d nail Brewer and that the rest of the pieces would fall together. He would take his well-deserved lumps for what he’d done to Judge Carter, but the laws of man and nature would put everyone and everything where they belonged.
If Kelly was dirty, if she and Brewer were in this together or if she was in it alone, he didn’t know what he would do. Even if he wanted to turn a blind eye, he couldn’t. If she had Fiori’s tape and she wasn’t corrupt, she would have confronted him by now, maybe even arrested him. If she was corrupt, if she had the tape and was sitting on it, she was a threat to him that he couldn’t tolerate.
He blinked, testing his sight and his mind, making certain neither was hallucinating. Kelly was real. Standing in the cold, hands thrust in her pants pocket, the butt of her gun visible under her arm as her open jacket flapped in the wind.
“Friend of yours?” Kelly asked when Mason came close.
“Who?”
“The woman you were talking to. The one you followed into the parking lot and then down the path. The one you gave a five-minute head start to before you came back to your car.”
“Oh, that woman. Her name is Lila Collins. She’s the HR director at Galaxy. I called her and told her I wanted to meet with her. She suggested the park since it was close to the casino.”
“It’s a cold day in the park. What’s wrong with her office?”
Mason shrugged, ignoring the pin Kelly had stuck in his story. “I guess she wanted some fresh air.”
“She know anything?”
Mason followed his gut instinct to tell her what she would find out soon enough from the cops or on her own. The rest of his gut told him not to tell her another word more.
“Johnny Keegan had asked her for the name of a lawyer. Didn’t tell her why. She’d seen me on TV and gave him my name. I called Detective Griswold and told him. He’s going to follow up with her. That’s one mystery solved. How did you find me here?”
“I called your office. That Mickey is very protective. I practically had to fax him a copy of my badge. He told me you’d gone to the casino. I drove over to find you and saw you leaving. I was going the opposite direction. By the time I got turned around, and caught up, you were turning into the park. I saw the two of you get out of your cars and decided to wait.”
“You should have called me on my cell phone.”
“Then you should have given me the number, bonehead,” she said with a smile.
Mason’s suspicion retreated for a moment in deference to his stupidity and her charm. Her story made sense and he wanted to believe her, though he knew it was just as likely that she had another reason for coming to the casino.
“Point taken,” he said, writing it down on a slip of paper and handing it to her. “For future reference. What’s up?”
“Sylvia McBride called Fish back. She’s coming in town tomorrow and wants a look at Fish’s safety deposit box. It’s set for three p.m. at the bank.”
“What about the hundred grand?”
“She told him that someone would pick it up tonight.”
“At Fish’s house? Isn’t she worried about surveillance?”
“She is and that’s why it won’t happen there. He’s supposed to stuff it in his coat, go out to dinner tonight, get a table, and go to the bathroom. When he comes back, the coat will be gone.”
“That’s a lot of money to stuff into a coat.”
“Not really. A million dollars in hundred-dollar bills only weighs forty-four pounds. A hundred thousand weighs a little over four pounds. I sliced an opening in the liner of Fish’s topcoat and dumped the money in. The coat is a little lumpy, but on him, everything looks lumpy.”
“What restaurant and when?”
“An Italian place in Overland Park called Cinzetti’s. It’s a big buffet-style place. People are always up walking around. He’s supposed to be there at seven. The place will be packed. No one will notice a thing. It’s a smart choice. Webb must have told her about it.”
“Once Fish leaves his house with that coat, I want the surveillance cameras and microphones pulled. We agreed to that only so long as the money was in the house.”
Kelly smiled. “I’m one step ahead of you, Counselor. I already gave the order. We’ll have our equipment out of there before Fish gets home from dinner.”
“Who’s going with Fish for the drop?”
“I’ll be there. Having dinner like everyone else,” she said. “Are you okay with that?”
Mason swallowed his doubts, knowing that suspicion infected everything and that being right mattered less than believing that he was right.
“Works for me. I’ve already got two dinner dates tonight.”
“Take my advice. Don’t break either one of them. Leave this to me.”
“Who’s handling the safety deposit box?”
“Fish offered up Mickey, just like you told him. Said he was grooming him to take over the business. There’s no connection to you. Sylvia went for it.”
“I better get back to the office and brief him. Are you going to cover the bank too?”
“Not by myself. Dennis Brewer will be there too. Tell Mickey that Brewer wants to meet with him in the morning to get him ready. He’ll be at your office at nine.”
They studied each other in a face-mask standoff, neither giving any ground. “Did you ever talk to Brewer about who leaked the identity of Rockley’s body?” he asked her.
“I told you before,” she said. “I’ll take care of Brewer. Just trust me.”
SIXTY-TWO
Since Abby moved to Washington, Mason hadn’t had many dinner dates and he’d never had two for the same night. Double booking had not been a problem for his social calendar.
He was supposed to meet Samantha Greer at eight o’clock. It was her birthday and their dinner her only celebration. Standing her up would turn her birthday party into a pity party she would spend staring into the bottom of a bottle.
His relationship with Abby had been revived—again�
��last night and there was more on the menu tonight than dinner. If he broke their date to keep Samantha company, they would be back to Code Blue.
Being in two places at once with two different women didn’t bother him nearly as much as wanting to be at a third place instead—Cinzetti’s. He wanted to see who walked out of the restaurant wearing Fish’s hundred-thousand-dollar coat.
It was past five as he drove across the Paseo Bridge, taking the south side of the downtown loop, and exited on Broadway before heading south again. The evening rush hour was picking up. People were heading home to families, dinner, and must-see TV. It was a life he’d never had, though one he now thought about having with Abby. He could be late for their dinner, but he couldn’t miss it. He called Samantha Greer first.
“Glad you called,” she said. “We’re shorthanded and I just caught a homicide. Dead body in Troost Lake. You know what I don’t get? Troost Lake is on Paseo, not Troost. Why don’t they call it Paseo Lake?”
“Why do they call it a lake? It’s barely a pond.”
“You’ve got a point. Some birthday present, huh? Not the kind of stiff I was looking for tonight,” she added with a bitter laugh. “Rain check?”
“Sure, Sam. Happy birthday.”
Fifteen minutes later, he was sitting in his office with Blues and Mickey, laying out the day’s events.
“So, I’m supposed to show Sylvia the money in the safe deposit box; then what?” Mickey asked.
“Then you say nice to meet you, enjoy your stay in Kansas City and don’t forget to try the barbecue,” Mason answered.
“What if she tries to make a withdrawal?” Mickey asked.
“Get out of the way,” Mason said. “That’s the FBI’s problem.”
“What if Kelly or Brewer try to make a withdrawal?” Blues asked. “From what you’ve said, the two of them might end up fighting over the money.”
Mason looked at Mickey dead-on. “Duck and get the hell out of there. Any luck finding Mark Hill?” he asked Blues.
“I’ve checked his job, the bar in Fairfax, and a few other places. No luck, but I’ve got a feeling where he is.”
“Where’s that?”
“Thin air, man. That cat is gone. I can feel it.”
“Vertical or horizontal?”
“Flip a coin, you ask me. Either way, he isn’t coming back.”
Mason drew a red circle around Mark Hill’s name on the dry erase board, adding Gone? Where? beneath his name.
“If I was you,” Blues said, “I’d pin the blackmail label on Webb. Rockley’s dead, Keegan’s dead, and Judge Carter is still getting pressured. Webb is the only one left at Galaxy who has a stake in what happens.”
Mason nodded, putting the tag under Webb’s name in large blue letters. “What about you, Mickey?” Mason asked. “Any epiphanies from reading my file or did you just search the Internet for clues and come up with all the answers?”
Mickey laughed. “I haven’t had a good epiphany since I went to Washington, but I have found a better way to get what I’m looking for than the Internet. It’s called the staffers’ network. I’ve been seeing a woman who’s a staffer on the Senate Judiciary Committee. She has a cousin who works at the FBI. By tomorrow, I’ll have a rundown on Charles Rockley, a.k.a. Tommy Corcoran, and Al Webb, a.k.a. Wayne McBride.”
“Whatever happened to privacy and government security? Don’t you have to have security clearances to get that kind of information?”
“There are no secrets in our nation’s capital—just people who know them and people who know the people that know them. D.C. is the ultimate upstairs/downstairs world. All the politicians are busy running for reelection while grunts like me work the information black market finding the stuff that helps them win or lose.”
“Makes me feel better about paying my taxes.”
“I did see one thing in your file that may be kind of interesting,” Mickey said. “This Sylvia McBride works at a call center, right?”
“Right. But you’ve been in D.C. too long if you think working at a call center is interesting.”
“No, man,” Mickey said. “Check this out. Senator Seeley is on the telecommunications subcommittee. A lot of companies are shipping their call center operations overseas because it’s cheaper to hire someone in New Delhi to give bad customer service than it is to hire someone in New Jersey. The committee staff is investigating because outsourcing jobs to foreign countries has become a real voter hot button.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“Bongiovanni made a big deal out of the fact that you got Rockley’s employers to give you detailed references for him over the phone. You said Lari Prillman was able to get references over the phone for Johnny Keegan.”
“So?” Blues said.
“So,” Mason explained, “employers won’t talk about their ex-employees anymore because they’re all afraid of getting sued. What are you getting at, Mickey?”
“Okay,” Mickey said. “Here’s how it could work. We know that Rockley and Webb had fake IDs. That means they’ve got to use fake references too. When someone calls the phone numbers for the fake references, the calls are answered at Sylvia’s call center. The operator knows what to say and the caller thinks he’s getting the straight story. Pretty slick, huh?”
Mason came out of his chair, flipped through his file until he found Rockley’s employment application. “Look. His prior employers are in three different states. How would that work?”
“Simple. The calls go through a router set up in the area code for the phone number. The equipment doesn’t cost much, especially if it’s not handling a lot of calls; doesn’t even require an office. You call a number in Ohio and it gets routed to Sylvia McBride’s call center in Minneapolis. She gets a readout that tells her the name of the company being called so she knows who she’s supposed to be when she answers the phone.”
“But I talked to a different person on each call.”
“So she’s got a few people working for her. No big deal.”
“Easy enough to find out if the phone numbers are legit,” Blues said. “Use a reverse directory to find out who owns the numbers. If it’s not the companies on Rockley’s application, I’d say Mickey’s got it nailed.”
“Where do we get a reverse directory?” Mason asked.
“Now that’s what the Internet is for,” Mickey answered. “If you don’t mind spending a few bucks and getting a lifetime of spam.” He opened the browser on Mason’s desktop, did a search for reverse directory, and pushed his chair away from the monitor. “Pick any site you want. Plug in the phone numbers you’re interested in and your credit card.”
It only took a few minutes to confirm that each employer on Rockley’s application was the owner of the phone number Rockley had given for them.
“Shit,” Mickey said. “It seemed like a great idea at the time.”
“Still is,” Mason said. “All you need for a phone number is an address and a place to put the phone or the router to handle the calls. If you’re in the fake identity business, that’s just overhead. Can you use the reverse directory to check out addresses?”
“Sure,” Mickey said. “Put in an address and you get a phone number that goes with it.”
“Fine. Try some addresses close to the ones on Rockley’s application. Start calling until someone answers. When they do, ask them about their neighbors.”
“What about Fish?” Blues asked. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on Judge Carter.”
“And I’m supposed to have dinner with Abby,” Mason said. “We’re both going to be late. I want you inside the restaurant with Fish and Kelly. I’ll be in the parking lot.”
“How’s that supposed to work?” Blues asked. “Kelly will ID me in a heartbeat.”
“I’ll do it,” Mickey said. “I can make the calls in the morning. Kelly and I have never met so she won’t recognize me. Just give me a description of her and Fish and I’ll get lost in the crowd. You guys wait outside. I’ll
call you when the money walks out the door.”
“Then what?” Blues asked.
“Follow the money,” Mason said.
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.
