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. Blues 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.
