“He won’t do either. I’m going to tell the police that I’m the one being blackmailed.”
“You? How does that solve anything?”
“I’ll tell them what I asked Fiori to do three years ago; that Fiori taped our conversation and the blackmailer found the tape. I’ll tell them that the blackmailer contacted me and threatened to go public if I didn’t pressure you into ruling for Galaxy.”
“I don’t see how that helps me,” she said. “What about the tape of my conversation with Fiori?”
“A friend of mine, Rachel Firestone, is a reporter for the Star. She’ll run the story. Once it’s public, you withdraw from Carol’s case and say that you’ll decline any more cases in which Galaxy is a party. The blackmailer will lose his leverage. He’s got nothing to gain by exposing your tape.”
“What if he comes after me again? He was in my garage the last time.”
“The police will provide protection for you and so will Blues. And I’ll take the heat. Consider it my apology.”
“You know what this will mean for you?”
“I’ll get a good lawyer.”
“I thought you would find the blackmailer and stop him. I never thought you would have to do something like this.”
“Neither did I,” Mason said.
SEVENTY
Dennis Brewer was on time. They met in the office Mickey used as his living room, sitting on folding chairs around a card table. Brewer was all business, slipping a transmitter the size of a flat aspirin into the collar of Mickey’s shirt and a tiny receiver into Mickey’s ear with practiced ease. He explained that they would have Mickey under surveillance at all times and would use the transmitter and receiver to coach him as well as to record his encounter with Sylvia McBride.
Finished, he handed Mickey two bank forms. One was a signature card confirming that he was authorized to use the safety deposit box registered in the name of Myron Wenneck, the alias Fish used to hide his ownership of the box. The second was a register signed and dated by owners of safety deposit boxes each time they used them. It bore two signatures of Myron Wenneck showing he had been in the box twice in the last six months. There were blank lines on either side of both signatures.
“Sign the signature card and then sign the access card three times,” he instructed, handing Mickey three different pens and pointing to lines on the card above and below where Fish had signed Myron Wenneck’s name.
Mickey looked at Mason.
“I thought Fish was going to execute a power of attorney,” Mason said to Brewer.
“This is simpler,” Brewer replied. “We’ll backdate Mickey’s signature on the signature card by six months and date the register so it looks like he’s been in the box before. Different pens will make it look like he signed on different dates. When he asks to be let into the box this afternoon, it will look like business as usual to Sylvia McBride.”
“You can do that?” Mickey asked.
“We’re the FBI,” Brewer answered. “All you have to do is show her the money. Let her count it if she wants to, as long as it’s all back in the box when you leave. Walk out together and go your separate ways. Got it?”
“Got it,” Mickey said.
“Good,” Brewer said.
That was it. There were no silent exchanges between Brewer and Mason filled with accusations or suspicions. They didn’t spar with one another and neither of them dropped hints about what he knew or thought he knew. Mason had found more hidden meaning in fortune cookies.
“Brewer doesn’t give much away,” Mickey said after Brewer left.
“What’s he going to do?” Mason asked from the doorway, watching Brewer show himself out. “Grill us? He’s got to play it cool.”
“Maybe he didn’t kill Rockley and maybe he isn’t in bed with Webb. Maybe he’s just doing his job.”
“Or maybe he’s just very good.”
“Not as good as we are,” Mickey said. “I called the businesses that should be next door to the companies that Rockley and Keegan claimed they worked for. Guess what? None of Rockley’s and Keegan’s former employers exist. They’re all fake.”
“That means you’re right about Sylvia’s call center,” Mason said. “She’s in the phony ID business.”
“Except Keegan’s name wasn’t phony, just his employment records. I got a call this morning from my girlfriend. Her friend at the FBI hit pay dirt.”
Mason returned to his folding chair. “Give.”
“You remember you told me that Sylvia McBride had a sister in Minneapolis?”
“Yeah. The one she went to live with after her husband supposedly drowned.”
“Her name was Olivia Corcoran. She was married to Tommy Corcoran’s father. That made her Tommy’s stepmother. Tommy’s aunt Sylvia gave him a new ID as Charles Rockley. Johnny Keegan was Olivia’s son by her first marriage. He didn’t need a new ID since he’d never been arrested. Aunt Sylvia only gave him a phony resume.”
Mason whistled. “How many laws were broken getting us that information?”
“None,” Mickey said. “Our friend’s job includes running checks through the FBI’s database. She ran Corcoran’s name and came up with his bio. There was an obit for Olivia Corcoran that listed Tommy, Johnny Keegan, and Sylvia McBride as her survivors. But here’s the weird part. She couldn’t get into the rest of Corcoran’s file or the file on Wayne McBride and his alter ego, Al Webb.”
“Why not?”
“She doesn’t have clearance for national security matters.”
“Since when is skimming dough from a casino a matter of national security?”
“It isn’t,” Mickey said. “But dealing in phony IDs could be, especially if the IDs are sold to people that blow up buildings with airplanes.”
SEVENTY-ONE
Mason called Lila’s office phone and cell, but she didn’t answer. He tried again as he was driving downtown to meet with the homicide detectives with the same result.
She would call as soon as she could, he told himself. If she could, he added, getting the sick feeling that he got while a jury was deliberating and his gut told him that he’d lost even before the jury took a vote. It was a toxic blend of fear, frustration, and outrage coated with a paralyzing layer of helplessness that was an all-too-accurate barometer of the verdict. All that was left was second-guessing. If anything happened to Lila, he’d be answering those questions the rest of his life.
Mason told Fish to meet him in the parking lot across from the Jackson County Courthouse a little before eleven. They walked the long block to police headquarters together, keeping their chins tucked against the cold as Mason told Fish what he’d learned about Al Webb and what had happened at Lake Lotawana.
“Wayne-a terrorist?” Fish said, using Webb’s real name. “I don’t believe it!”
“I’m not saying he’s a terrorist. I’m saying that he and Sylvia are in the fake ID business. If they sell to underage college kids who want to buy beer, that’s one thing. If they sell to terrorists, their FBI file gets stamped Top Secret. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Unbelievable,” Fish said, shaking his head.
“Don’t forget. He got started by killing some poor bastard just so he could fake his own death and Sylvia helped him pull it off.”
