“It’s your tangled web, Counselor. Do whatever you have to do or I will,” she said and hung up.
Mason put the phone down as Blues opened the door to his office.
“What?” Mason asked, exasperated by the new deadline.
“Don’t shoot me, man. I’m only the piano player.” Blues handed Mason prints of the digital photographs he’d taken. “The light was bad and the angle wasn’t great, but at least I got their faces.”
Mason studied the photographs. Blues had caught them in an unguarded moment, their faces screwed up in surprise. He didn’t recognize the two men in the car Mark Hill had struck. All three were wearing heavy jackets over jeans or khakis. Nothing with FBI stenciled on the back.
Mason dropped the photographs on his desk and pointed to the phone. “That was Judge Carter. She got another call and a new deadline for her ruling. A week from today or the tape makes the top forty.”
“I guess that rules out Rockley as the blackmailer.”
“Not necessarily. The way she described the call, it sounds like more than one person is involved. The caller kept referring to ‘they,’ not just to himself. Rockley could have been one of them. On top of that, I got a message from Rachel. Someone leaked the news that Rockley was the guy in Fish’s trunk.”
“Only the FBI and the killer knew Rockley’s identity and the killer sure as hell isn’t going to call the Star. Why would the Bureau leak it before they told the cops?” Blues asked. “Why go out of their way to make them look bad?”
“Beats me. Plus, I also had a message from Vince Bongiovanni to call him as soon as possible. Even left me his cell phone number.”
“What time was that call?”
Mason checked the log of calls stored in his phone. “Seven p.m.”
“We left Hill at close to seven. Brewer and his buddies didn’t look like they were in the mood to let him call his lawyer so it’s probably not about that.”
“I never told Hill who I was and I doubt he recognized me,” Mason said. “Brewer could have told him, but he wouldn’t have had any reason to. I think Vince got the same tip Rachel did. Makes me wonder why.”
“When did Rachel call?”
“Seven-oh-five.”
“That fits and it explains one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Why Bongiovanni is waiting for you downstairs. He’s in the back booth.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Juries like different kinds of lawyers. Patrick Ortiz, the prosecuting attorney, was a rumpled everyman, the kind of lawyer jurors imagined going bowling with or having over for chili. Mason was a street fighter, ready with a killer cross-examination or a devastating one-liner, but always ready. He was the lawyer jurors wanted to represent them if their life was on the line.
Vince Bongiovanni had the chiseled chin, penetrating eyes, and smoky cool that made women want to take him home and men want to be his pal, hoping some of what he had would rub off on them. He was tall, sandy- haired, and trim and dressed like the million bucks he routinely racked up in fees. One local magazine did a feature on eligible bachelors and labeled him the total package.
“Hey, Lou,” he said, as Mason slid into the booth opposite him. “Buy you a drink?”
“I’ll pass. Sorry I didn’t return your call earlier. I just got your message.”
“Don’t worry about it. I figured I might catch you here. Nice place.”
Mason looked around. Myles Cartwright’s trio was playing mellow sounds on the small stage, the drummer and bass player taking their lead from Cartwright’s piano. The music complemented the soft buzz of conversation. Some people came to hear the music, others just to be near it.
“Your message said it was important.”
Bongiovanni nodded. “It is important. I understand you represent Avery Fish.”
“It’s been in the papers.”
Bongiovanni grinned. “You kill me, man. You get more ink than I do.”
“Ah, but you get the big bucks.”
“Somebody’s got to do it.”
Bongiovanni delivered the practiced punch line, grinning again. Mason didn’t envy Bongiovanni’s success. He’d learned the hard way to stick to the cases that suited him best. He dabbled occasionally in representing plaintiffs, always coming back to the higher stakes of life and death.
“Might as well be you,” Mason said.
“Might as well. I got an anonymous tip that the body found in your client’s car has been identified.”
Mason could understand a newspaper getting an anonymous tip. The tipster got off on seeing his story in print. Feeding the news to the lawyer who was suing the victim smacked of inside baseball. He wondered who would gain by leaking to Bongiovanni.
Mason saw no reason to deny something that would be reported in the morning paper. He’d only look foolish if he did. However, that was no reason to tell Bongiovanni anything else. Bongiovanni would eventually find out what had happened between Mason and Mark Hill, but that would be a tap dance for another day. This was the time to listen.
“I heard that too.”
“Guy named Charles Rockley. You know him?”
“Never met,” Mason said.
“You didn’t miss anything. He worked at the Galaxy Casino. In his spare time, he sexually harassed a client of mine, a woman named Carol Hill. I sued him and the Galaxy. The case was arbitrated last week in front of Judge Carter. We’re waiting for a ruling.”
“That’s good to know. The cops think Fish had something to do with Rockley’s death. I’d like to talk with Carol about Rockley.”
Bongiovanni leaned forward in the booth. “I already talked to her. She had nothing to do with it.”
Mason figured it had been little more than an hour since Bongiovanni was tipped off about Rockley. That wasn’t much time to cross-examine Carol Hill about the murder and hustle down to Blues on Broadway to wait for him. The timing made him wonder if Bongiovanni had known Rockley had been murdered before he got the tip.
The quick denial of Carol’s involvement raised, rather than lowered, Mason’s suspicion. He hadn’t considered Carol as a suspect until her lawyer assured him she wasn’t one. Mason could picture Mark Hill angry and drunk enough to kill Rockley especially if his wife egged him on. None of that led to the trunk of Avery Fish’s car. Still, Bongiovanni’s assurance of Carol’s innocence gave Mason an opening.
“I’m glad to know that. Then she won’t mind talking to me.”
Bongiovanni hesitated, rubbing his palm against his bottle of beer. He frowned long enough to convince Mason that his indecision was rehearsed. “I’ll make her available, but I want whatever you come up with on Rockley.”
“Why? Your case is over. Mine is just beginning.”
“My case is a toss-up. Rockley claimed to be a choirboy, said my client was lying. Carol took some hits on cross-examination. If I can get something good on Rockley, I’ll ask Judge Carter to let me add it to the record before she rules.”
Mason remembered Judge Carter’s comment that Carol and her lawyer were out for blood, not money. He knew that lawyers and clients often changed their appetite after the harsh realities of the courtroom set in.
“Why not settle?”
Bongiovanni tightened his jaw. “Not a chance.”
“You said it was a close case. Sometimes a bad settlement is better than a bad verdict.”
“Carol is family. This isn’t ever going to be one of those times.”
Judge Carter’s assessment had been dead-on. If the case was a toss-up, Bongiovanni’s deal made sense except for one thing. The better his case got, the harder it would be on Judge Carter to rule in Galaxy’s favor. Still,
