He was bony through the shoulders and sleek through the middle like a distance runner without the healthy glow; his skin was a subnormal chalk. His hands and fingers were elongated, as if he had stretched them while reaching for something-perfect for surgeons and stranglers. He ignored Mason, who read the man’s name tag- Al Webb, General Manager, Galaxy Casino.
THIRTY-TWO
Feeling Mason’s stare, Webb gave him a quick look and a dismissive nod. Mason knew the combination was code for I see you, but I don’t want to talk to you. Mason responded with a broad smile and outstretched hand that said I know and I don’t give a shit.
“I’m Lou Mason,” he said, holding his ground until Webb shook his hand.
“Al Webb.”
“At least they got your name tag right,” Mason said, forcing the conversation. “They didn’t have one for me.”
Webb quit doing crowd reconnaissance and focused on Mason, taking his measure. “Maybe you weren’t invited,” Webb said with a wounded smile and a soothing voice.
The warm, rich timbre of Webb’s voice surprised Mason and blunted the sting of his comment. Mason wondered if Webb had cultivated his voice to compensate for his bloodless countenance. Man-made or natural, Webb’s voice was a weapon of mass deception.
“Actually, I wasn’t. I’m a guest of someone who was invited.”
“That’s better than buying an invitation. Mine cost a thousand dollars,” Webb deadpanned. He made it a charming self-deprecation, now drawing Mason close rather than pushing him away.
“I’d rather spend that kind of money at the craps table. I’ll take my chances against the house over a politician’s promise any day of the week.”
Webb laughed. “Then you’re the kind of gambler that keeps me in business.”
“I thought it was the gamblers who can’t resist betting on the long shots.”
Webb shook his head. “Gamblers who play the long shots are either hopelessly optimistic or secretly suicidal. I don’t understand them, but I’m grateful for them. Frankly, I wish there were more of them. Personally, I prefer the sporting player who understands the game. He accepts the odds, understands when he loses, and doesn’t take too much credit when he wins. That’s why he keeps coming back. The others don’t last long enough.”
Mason looked at him, the honey in Webb’s voice dulling Mason’s instinctively suspicious reaction to him. He was an unpleasant-looking man who’d added youth but not attraction to his appearance. His short dissertation on gambling sounded more like a parable about life than a beginner’s guide to dice.
“You know who I am?”
“We don’t sell newspapers in the casino, but I do read them. Were you looking for me or did you just get lucky?”
“Dumb luck. The only kind I have these days. One of your employees ends up dead in the trunk of my client’s car and you and I end up at the same party talking about it. Are those odds optimistic or suicidal?”
“It doesn’t matter since we aren’t talking about it. I wouldn’t take them either way.”
“I’d like to talk to you about Charles Rockley.”
“I don’t blame you. But it’s a police matter and I can’t involve my company in your client’s problems.”
“Rockley was your employee. Doesn’t that make his murder your problem?”
“We have hundreds of employees. Somebody is always getting married, getting divorced, getting sick, or getting well. Some of them die. We send them all a card.”
“Who are you sending a card to for Rockley?”
Webb put one hand in his pants pocket, running his other hand across his chest and under his neck. “I don’t know anything about his family. My HR director takes care of that.”
“Sure,” Mason said. “All those employees. Must be hard for you to get to know every one of them.”
“It’s part of my job. I do the best I can.”
“But you knew Charles Rockley better than most because another one of your employees, Carol Hill, sued him and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Vince Bongiovanni told me all about it.”
Webb blinked once, his only concession to the card Mason had played. “Then you should talk to Mr. Bongiovanni. He doesn’t have to keep personnel matters confidential. I do.”
“How about Johnny Keegan? Let’s talk about him. What are the odds that two of your employees would be murdered in the same week and that one of them was having an affair with Carol Hill and the other one wished he was?”
Webb cocked his head at Mason, applying a thin smile, his voice dropping to a frozen register. “Too long for you to play them,” he said.
THIRTY-THREE
Webb walked past Mason before he could respond, the crowd swallowing him. Mason parsed their conversation, looking for what was meant even if it hadn’t been said. Webb had a ready answer to Mason’s questions about Rockley. No doubt the cops had been to see him and Webb surely had told them about Carol Hill’s sexual harassment claim. All that made sense. And it made sense that Mason would take advantage of their meeting to ask Webb about Rockley. Webb could anticipate all that and be ready for Mason’s questions knowing he’d have to answer them sooner or later.
Webb wasn’t ready to talk about Johnny Keegan, although the cops would have tied Keegan back to Galaxy by now-probably talked to Webb, maybe even told Webb that Mason’s name had been found on a piece of paper in Keegan’s dead hand. They would have asked Webb what he knew about Keegan, Webb saying not much, that his HR director would send a card. Then, Mason wondered, why did Webb’s temperature drop when he asked him about Keegan?
Unable to answer his question, Mason elbowed and shouldered his way past pockets of people, renewing his search for Abby. He reached the center of the foyer without finding her, pressing on toward the name tag tables. He was about to ask one of the young women if she’d seen Abby when he saw Lari Prillman pick up her name tag.
She was a head shorter than Mason; her harvest-colored hair was swept back, a stunning white gold and diamond chain cradling her bare neck. Her dress was off the shoulder, the look favoring her well-toned arms and slender frame. She was older than Mason, five to ten years, he guessed, but she hadn’t conceded anything to the calendar. She looked fresh, full, and vital, carrying herself with the square-shouldered assurance of a woman who knew it. Mason had never met her but understood the lasting impression she made on clients and jurors.
“You don’t have one,” she said to him.
“One what?” Mason asked.
“A name tag. I hate these bloody things. I can’t pin it on a dress like this without stabbing my breast. Here,” she said, returning the name tag to the woman who’d given it to her. “Save it for next time.”
“I’m Lou Mason.”
“Lari Prillman,” she said, extending her hand.
“I know. I read your name tag.”
He shook her hand. Her grasp was cool and firm, though she quickly let go.
“And I’ve read your press clippings. You represent Avery Fish. I would have been here earlier except the police stopped by to tell me that an employee of one of my clients was found dead in the trunk of your client’s car. Is our meeting a coincidence or were you looking for me?”
“Your client asked me the same thing not ten minutes ago.”
“Al and I are sitting at the same table tonight. I’ll have to remind him not to talk to lawyers. What did you tell him?”
He smiled. She didn’t. He cocked his head, tried the smile again. She didn’t melt. He’d blown the chance to
