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.
“Bingo,” Blues said. “There’s a traffic light coming up. Let it turn yellow, speed up like you’re going to run it. If the car stays on us, stop at the last second and we’ll get another picture.”
Mason gunned the SUV. The trailing sedan matched him, then quickly closed the gap, giving up any pretense of stealth. The light blinked from green to yellow when he was half a block away. Mason pushed harder before slamming on the brakes, skidding to a stop half a length into the intersection as the light turned red. The sedan screeched and shimmied, nearly kissing his bumper before it stopped.
“Anybody you recognize?” Blues asked, not turning around.
“Yeah,” Mason said, looking in his rearview mirror. “Kelly Holt.” He watched as she smacked her palm against the steering wheel and fumbled with something on the seat next to her.
“Old home week.”
“Yeah. Maybe I’ll just invite her over for dinner.”
Mason got out of the SUV, walking toward her as she opened her door, meeting him halfway.
“I’m taking Blues back to the bar and then I’m going home. You remember how to get there?” he said.
“That’s not the point.” She folded her arms like a vise across her chest.
“Sure it is. Since you know where I’m going, you don’t have to follow me. You can meet me there.”
“What you’re doing is really stupid,” she said.
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“Can’t be any more stupid than expecting my client to help you with an investigation too secret to tell us what it is.”
“You’ve got to trust me,” Kelly said.
“I never had a client with that much faith. Besides, I know that you’re after Galaxy, so you might as well tell me what you want from my client.”
Kelly glared at him. “You can’t possibly know that.”
“No? Well, you can’t instantly identify Rockley’s DNA if he’s spent his whole life bouncing from one company to another counting how many sick days he’s got left. Rockley worked at Galaxy. You monitored someone’s e-mail and snagged the picture of Blues. I haven’t figured out the rest of it, but I will.”
She held his gaze, not giving ground. That steeled look was one thing about her that hadn’t changed since they first met. There was no backing down in her. Not then, not now.
“I’ll talk to Samuelson on Monday,” she said. “Maybe we can work something out.”
Mason saw no reason to tell her that Fish would have a new lawyer on Monday. “See you around the ballpark,” he told her.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was past eight o’clock when Mason stopped in his office. He had three voice messages. The first was from Vince Bongiovanni, who left his cell phone number and a promise that his call was important enough to return as soon as possible even if he didn’t say why. The second was from his Aunt Claire inviting him to dinner on Sunday.
The third was from Rachel Firestone, a reporter for the Kansas City Star. Though they began as adversaries, each using the other to advance a case or a story, they’d become close friends. For a time, she backed off covering his cases to avoid any questions about her objectivity before deciding that she was a good enough reporter to know when to draw that line.
When Rachel told her editor that she wanted to resume covering Mason’s cases, he noted the rumors about their relationship and questioned whether she should write about someone she was sleeping with. When she showed the editor a picture of her girlfriend, the editor made a snide remark about lesbians who really wanted to change teams. It was his last official act. Her new boss told her he trusted her judgment but to remember who signed her paycheck.
Mason replayed her message to be certain he’d heard it right.
“Hey, babe. It’s me. I got an anonymous tip that the body found in Avery Fish’s car was some guy named Charles Rockley. I checked it out with the cops, who did their no comment thing, but I got the feeling it was news to them. Since when does someone leak the ID of a murder victim and leave the cops out of the loop? Call me. I’m on deadline.”
The phone rang before Mason could return any of the calls. It was Vanessa Carter.
“Where are we?” she asked.
“At the end of a long day and a longer week,” Mason said, glancing at his calendar. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
“Don’t waste your humor on me, Mr. Mason. I asked where we are.”
Mason let out a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, knowing that the story would be on the front page of tomorrow morning’s paper. “Charles Rockley is dead. Someone killed him, chopped off his head and his hands, and dumped the body in the trunk of a car owned by a client of mine named Avery Fish.”
“I’m aware of Mr. Fish’s case. It’s been all over the news. There’s been no mention of the identity of the victim.”
“You can read about it in tomorrow morning’s paper.”
Judge Carter didn’t respond. Mason heard her breathing softly and steadily. In judicial parlance, she had taken his information under advisement before issuing a ruling or, in his case, another ultimatum. He knew better than to interrupt.
“Charles Rockley wasn’t the one,” she finally said.
Mason realized that she was avoiding any mention of blackmail. Having once been burned by having her phone conversation recorded, she was not taking any chances.
“How do you know?”
“I just received another call.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He asked why I hadn’t issued a ruling. I reminded him that I had until March tenth, which is thirty days from the end of the hearing. He said they wanted the decision not later than a week from today, the twenty-first. I told him that wasn’t possible, that I had other cases besides this one. He said that this case was the only one that should matter to me and that they wouldn’t hesitate to convince me of that.”
“Where are you?” Mason asked.
“At home.”
“Is there someplace else you can go until this is over?”
“I will not be run out of my home and I will not have my life ruined again, Mr. Mason. Do your job. Make this go away.”
“It’s not that simple.”
