He couldn’t suppress the surprise in his voice but hoped he didn’t sound hurt that she hadn’t called or, worse that he didn’t sound like a whining ex-boyfriend who’d been dumped. He didn’t know what he would have done if she had called. His relationship with Abby was the real deal. Circumstantial lust didn’t figure in the equation. There was no room for old flames no matter how intensely they had once burned. Even now, he hung on to Abby though he knew she was drifting away from him. Still, the instinctive response of I can’t believe you didn’t call rippled through him.
“Occasionally. Special assignments.”
The door swung open again before Mason could ask if she was taking Dennis Brewer’s place and before he could assess what her involvement might mean for Fish or for him. An older black man dressed in pinstripes, his shoulders square and his pace more like a march than a walk, joined them. Samuelson didn’t salute, but he did stand. Mason and Fish followed suit.
“Roosevelt Holmes,” the man said, introducing himself and repeating the handshaking ritual.
He didn’t mention his title-United States attorney-because he didn’t have to. Mason knew who he was. Appointed two years ago, he’d established a reputation as a tough administrator who let his frontline lawyers, the assistant U.S. attorneys, make deals and try cases. He was a policy maker, not a trial lawyer. He got personally involved in cases that required the prestige or approval of his office or of his commanding officer in Washington, D.C., the attorney general.
Holmes had been an Army JAG lawyer before entering private practice. He’d given up his position as managing partner of a large downtown firm to take the U.S. attorney’s job. He knew how to give and take orders, and none of his assistants had any doubt about who was in charge.
Holmes was there so Mason would know that Fish’s case was no longer a small-time matter entrusted to a wet-behind-the-ears assistant U.S. attorney. Samuelson was the messenger, but the message came from the top. The price of poker had gone up. Mason glanced at Fish, whose eyes danced as he shook Holmes’s hand.
“This is a very impressive conference room, Mr. U.S. Attorney,” Fish said. “The government treats you well.”
“The government treats everyone the same, Mr. Fish,” Holmes answered. “Fairly and justly.”
“I couldn’t ask for anything more than that.”
Holmes sat at the head of the table flanked by Samuelson and Kelly on his right and Mason and Fish on his left. He pursed his lips, folded his hands together, and turned to Samuelson, giving him a barely perceptible nod.
“Yes, sir,” Samuelson said and cleared his throat. “The Kansas City Police Department has requested the FBI’s assistance in identifying the body found in Mr. Fish’s car. Agent Holt is directing the response to that request and has been designated as our liaison to the homicide investigation.”
Kelly took her cue, opening her manila folder, drawing Mason’s eyes to her hands. No rings. Still. He remembered how confidently those hands had gripped a shotgun and how tightly they had held him. Her crisp voice brought him back.
“The body was decapitated and the hands were amputated, which eliminated identification by facial features, dental records, and fingerprints. That made it difficult to identify the victim but not impossible.”
Mason listened as much for what Kelly said as what she didn’t say. If the killer wanted to be certain that the body wasn’t identified, he wouldn’t have left it in Fish’s car. He’d have hidden it where no one would ever find it. If the feds couldn’t explain why the killer dumped the body in Fish’s lap, they didn’t know as much as they wanted him to think they knew.
Samuelson picked up where Kelly left off. “The police provided us with a DNA sample the morning the body was discovered.”
“The Bureau maintains a DNA database,” Kelly added, their presentation tightly choreographed. “We found a preliminary match. A complete analysis won’t be finished until next week, but the prelim has a ninety-five-percent confidence level.”
EIGHTEEN
They let that bit of news hang in the air like a come-on in a singles bar. Fish leaned back in his chair, arms contentedly draped over his belly. Mason sat up straight. Fish was right. If the feds had information to exonerate Fish, they had to give it to the cops. If the information somehow incriminated Fish, they had to turn that over as well.
“I’m sure you’ve already shared that news with the police,” Mason said.
“Actually, not yet,” Samuelson said. “We just got the information yesterday. Agent Holt has been very busy, but I’m certain she’ll get together with the detectives as soon as she can.”
“You had time to invite us over to play Let’s Make a Deal, but you’re too busy to call the police and tell them whose body was in the trunk of my client’s car. Things must really be hopping down here,” Mason said.
Roosevelt Holmes raised one hand an inch off the table, stopping his subordinates from responding.
“Mr. Mason, you’d be surprised just how much things do hop down here. In fact, we can make just about anything or anyone hop, skip, or dance. You keep that in mind.” He glanced at his watch and stood. “You’ll excuse me. I have another meeting,” he said and left.
“This must be good,” Mason said. “Your boss wants us to know he’s behind whatever you’re about to offer, but he wants the plausible deniability that comes from not being here when you offer it. Makes it lonely in the middle.”
Samuelson leaned back in his chair, confident in the support from his boss.
“We will tell the police the identity of the victim. However, we do have some flexibility regarding when and what else we tell them because of an ongoing investigation being conducted by our office and the FBI. That’s where Mr. Fish comes in. We’d like his help. If he agrees, we’ll tell you what we know.”
“You’ll have to tell us what this other investigation is about and what you expect my client to do,” Mason said.
Samuelson shook his head. “I can’t do that without an agreement in advance that we have a deal. It’s too sensitive.”
“And if he refuses to sign on for a secret mission too secret to tell us what it’s about up front, you’ll let him be prosecuted for a crime you know he didn’t commit? Do you really think you can get away with that?”
“Let’s be clear about a couple of things,” Samuelson said. “We may know who the murder victim is, but we don’t know whether Mr. Fish is innocent or guilty. We won’t interfere with that investigation and we won’t set up your client to take the fall for a crime he didn’t commit. The murder is the state’s problem. Our concerns are at the federal level.”
“Mr. Holmes promised that you would treat me fairly and justly,” Fish said. “So you’ll tell the police the name of the dead man, who, by the way, I didn’t kill. When the police find out who the man was, they’ll realize I had nothing to do with it. So why should I be interested in your investigation?”
“There’s very little we can tell the police without compromising our investigation and we aren’t prepared to do that. But what we can tell them won’t be helpful to you,” Samuelson said.
Mason came out of his chair and leaned over the table. “How do you think this will play after I hold a press conference about your strong-arm tactics?”
Kelly stood, planting her palms on the table, squaring off against Mason and letting him know that the past was past. “Take your seat, Lou.”
Samuelson said, “I’d take her advice, Mason. Nothing you could tell the press will change Mr. Fish’s problems. He will be charged with murder and he will be convicted of mail fraud. Now mail fraud may not sound as bad as murder, but I guarantee it won’t help him with the jury in the murder case.”
Fish reached for Mason’s arm, tugging on his sleeve and gesturing for Mason to speak to him privately. Mason leaned toward Fish.
“The name,” Fish whispered in his ear. “Just get the name.”
Mason nodded, took his seat, and waited for Kelly to stand down. “You can turn the screws all you want, but at least you’ve got to give us the name. We’ve got to have something to go on besides faith in your compassion for
