helps.”
“Why do they do that?”
“Sometimes I work on special cases.”
“How special?”
“The kind that doesn’t earn you many friends.”
Mason knew from Blues that the one cop other cops never liked or trusted was the cop from Internal Affairs. He assumed the same was true for the FBI. Kelly had gone back to the Bureau to prove they were wrong about her. Having been judged, she now judged others. He wondered whether her judgment was tempered with mercy born of her own experience or whether it was hardened by a desire to get even. Dennis Brewer couldn’t be happy to have Kelly involved in Fish’s case, especially if he had leaked Rockley’s ID.
“Sounds like the FBI version of Internal Affairs.”
“Let’s leave it at that. I’ve got to get our equipment installed in Fish’s house before he makes that phone call in the morning. Are you going to be there?”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Before you come over, you might want to take a look at this,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket and handing her a flash drive.
“What’s on it? Photographs?”
“Yeah. Consider it a welcome-home present.”
She flipped the drive over in the palm of her hand. “Not of us, I take it.”
“I’m saving those for my website. These are more interesting. Your partner Dennis Brewer is in one of the shots. He’s got a couple of playmates. I was hoping you would tell me who they are.”
She looked at him, her voice even, barely interested. “Just because we’re both FBI agents doesn’t mean he’s my partner. Where were the pictures taken?”
“Outside a bar in Fairfax called Easy’s. Not far from where you picked Blues and me up last Friday night. Two of them were sitting in a car across the street from the bar. Brewer was backing them up. Either you were backing Brewer up or maybe he’s one of your special cases. Which is it?”
“Who took the pictures?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“Who took the picture of Blues outside Rockley’s apartment?”
“That’s on a need-to-know basis and you don’t need to know.”
“I have a lot of needs. That’s one of them.”
“I can’t help you with your needs.”
“Sure you can, especially if that will help with your needs. I need to know who took Blues’s picture and you need to know who took the pictures of Brewer and his playmates. We need the same thing.”
“The difference is, I already know who took your pictures. If they were taken outside that bar, it had to be you or Blues.”
“Then why ask?”
“Confession is good for you. It builds rapport and trust with those to whom you confess. Cooperation follows confession and the next thing you know you’re actually telling the truth. I’m just helping you find your way,” she said.
“Then help me with this,” Mason said. “Someone tipped off Rachel Firestone that the corpse in Avery Fish’s car was Charles Rockley. The Star wouldn’t have printed her story without corroboration from the FBI or Justice, both of which officially declined to comment. Somebody confirmed the ID off the record. Was it you?”
“I was holding the ID back from the police while we tried to make a deal with you. Why would I leak that information?”
“What about Samuelson?”
“Be serious. He doesn’t go to the bathroom without double-checking the Justice Department manual.”
“Who else knew about Rockley?”
Kelly pursed her lips, ran through her mental list and shook her head.
“Let me help you,” he said. “That leaves Samuelson’s boss, Roosevelt Holmes, some DNA database jockey at Quantico who confirmed the match, and Dennis Brewer.”
She gave him a flat look that said she’d gone deaf. “Leaks are impossible to prevent and harder to trace.”
“Might be easier to trace this one if you start with who else was tipped off. A blackjack dealer at Galaxy named Carol Hill sued Rockley and Galaxy for sexual harassment. Rachel Firestone wasn’t the only one who got the tip. Carol’s lawyer, Vince Bongiovanni, got one too.”
The flicker in Kelly’s eyes told Mason he’d gotten her attention. “We talked to Rockley’s employer and found out about the lawsuit. How do you know that Bongiovanni was tipped off?”
“He told me. He knew that I represented Fish and he hoped I’d find out something that would help him with Carol Hill’s case.”
“What’s the point of telling him about Rockley?” Kelly asked.
She’d made it clear that Brewer wasn’t her partner. When she asked him about the pictures and the leak, he wouldn’t be her friend either.
“Ask Dennis Brewer. Tell him he could use a good confession. If he turns you down, I’d watch your back, Special Agent Holt.”
Kelly kept her cool as she slid out of the booth, pulled her coat over her shoulders, adjusting her scarf and pulling on her gloves. He watched as she walked away, head up, shoulders square, people making room for her as she passed.
FIFTY
A guy with Humvee-size shoulders bulled his way to the bar, empty bottles in each raised hand. Mason followed in the big man’s wake, resting one foot on the rail at the base of the bar; thinking again about the deal Fish had made, not liking it any better. Fish had agreed just to get even with Wayne McBride over the fifty thousand dollars McBride had scammed from him before resurrecting himself as Al Webb, casino manager. Revenge made people do stupid things.
Fish was walking into a minefield with no idea where the trip wires were buried. Though Pete Samuelson had promised to protect Fish, Mason detected in Kelly a coldness that made collateral damage an acceptable fact of life. Everyone takes their turn in the barrel. She’d had hers. Fish would have his. It was a side of her that Mason hadn’t seen before, and it made him realize he couldn’t ask for her help. He was naked, any control over his life having vanished when Vanessa Carter knocked on his door a week ago.
He leaned against the bar, conscious again of the music. Myles Cartwright finished the set with a flourish on the piano, the sound cool and crisp, the drummer, bass player, and sax giving him room. The audience exploded with applause as the musicians took their bows. Myles said they were taking a break and would be back for another set. He felt a hand on his shoulder, heard a familiar voice, and turned around.
“Hey,” Rachel Firestone said. “What does a girl have to do to get someone to buy her a beer?”
Rachel always stood out in a crowd. It wasn’t just her red hair or her striking looks. It was the way she carried herself, telling the world to bring it on. It made her a good reporter and a better friend, though lately she’d been more journalist than buddy. He understood her ambition and the pressure she felt from her boss to prove that she was independent enough to follow a story wherever it took her, even one that got into his kitchen. The glint in her eyes made him uneasy. He smiled and took a step back, trying to figure out which hat she was wearing.
“Ask nice and offer to buy the next round.” He caught Blues’s attention and held up two fingers. Blues handed him two cold long-necked bottles, and Mason gave one to Rachel. “Are you working or just looking for a good time?”
“I’m meeting a friend.”
“Anyone special?”
“Not for me. She’s involved with someone else. Girls’ night out.”
“Which means I get off cheap. I could have been stuck for another beer.”
“There’s still time. She’ll be here any minute. By the way, I didn’t know you were open for business this late.”
