Final Judgment (21 page)

“I’ve got Rockley’s employment records from the arbitration. You’re welcome to them.”

“Thanks. Lari Prillman let me look at hers Saturday night. There’s nothing in either one of them. I even called Rockley’s previous employers. All five of them gave him great references—said he was a great guy, great employee, sorry to lose him.”

Bongiovanni studied Mason, his mouth curling at the corners again. It was a look that said
gotcha
.

“Mason. I’ve been handling personal injury and employment cases for fifteen years. I talk to employers all the time. They’re scared to death of lawyers and lawsuits. I’m lucky if they’ll confirm someone actually worked for them. No employer says a word about what kind of employee the person was. You got five employers to give you a goddamn reference over the phone. That sounds like a barking dog to me.”

“Yeah, but the dog is barking up the wrong tree. Each company was in a different city and there’s no connection between them. How do you make that work? Besides, I have very good telephone manners.”

“You ought to get a nine hundred number and start charging people. And another thing, you saw Prillman’s files Saturday night and you called me bright and early this morning to see Carol. What did you do, call Rockley’s former employers at home on Sunday?”

Mason realized his mistake. He didn’t answer, waiting to see how far Bongiovanni would push with his next question

“Okay. You don’t want to tell me. Fine. Here’s the way it looks to me. I got a phone call about Rockley around seven o’clock Friday night. First anonymous tip in my career. Very exciting. You called me after midnight, told me about Keegan, and warned me that Mark may go after Carol. This morning, you told Carol that you talked to Mark Friday evening and he told you that she and Keegan were having an affair. Am I right so far?”

“Right enough.”

“You couldn’t have called Rockley’s former employers between Saturday night and this morning. You had to have done that last week. Which means that you knew about Rockley long before I did. The article in Saturday’s newspaper made it look like the cops didn’t even know Rockley was the corpse in your client’s car until that reporter told them. Sounds like you have better sources than my anonymous tipster. Maybe your client told you. Frankly, I don’t give a shit. I just want to know one thing. How did you make the connection to Mark Hill?”

Mason didn’t answer because he didn’t want to tell Bongiovanni the truth and he didn’t have a lie that was good enough to fly under Bongiovanni’s bullshit radar.

“Better not to tell me than lie to me, huh, Mason? I can respect that. Let me answer for you. You had no reason to connect your client to my client until you knew that Rockley was the corpse in your client’s car. But that wasn’t enough to get you to Mark Hill. To make that jump, you had to know about Carol’s lawsuit against Galaxy. You didn’t get that from me, so you had to get it from Galaxy. Now that’s one big goddamn barking dog. So what the fuck is going on?”

Mason always reminded his clients that it wasn’t their job to straighten out the opposing lawyer if he got the facts wrong or jumped to the wrong conclusion. Let him wander around in the wilderness until he figures things out or gives up, Mason told them.

“Woof, woof.”

Bongiovanni stepped close to Mason, clipping his words. “Listen to me, Mason. Carol isn’t just my client; she’s family, which counts for a lot where I come from. I appreciate that you warned me about Mark, but don’t hold out on me if there’s something else I should know.”

“You said that you found a lot of interesting things when you searched Ed Fiori’s office after he was killed. Did you keep any souvenirs?”

Bongiovanni threw his hands into the air. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“The gate swings both ways. We may be able to help each other. You let me have a look at everything you took from your uncle’s office, and I’ll tell you what I know about Rockley.”

Bongiovanni chewed his lip. “That’s a pretty broad request. If you were asking me to produce documents for a lawsuit, I’d say you were on a fishing expedition.”

“Maybe I am. What do you care so long as I’ve got Rockley and Keegan for bait?”

“That stuff is more than just interesting reading. You have any idea what you’re looking for?”

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

“All right. Just remember this. Some of that stuff, if I let you see it, I’ll have to kill you. You don’t mind, do you?” Bongiovanni asked with a wry grin.

“I’ve got the same problem. I guess we’ll have to trust each other.”

“How’s that going to work? We’re both lawyers.”

“What’s the matter? Did you already forget about the Jew and the Italian?”

Bongiovanni laughed. “You are bent, Mason. I’ll give you that. Look. I’ve got a deposition this afternoon. You come by my office tomorrow morning. We’ll play another hand of liar’s poker.”

FORTY-FOUR

Mason called Lari Prillman as soon as he got back to his SUV.

“You still have Johnny Keegan’s personnel file handy?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I’d like you to do me a favor. Call his former employers and ask for a reference.”

“Who needs a reference for a dead man?”

“I do. Write down everything they tell you and call me back.”

A moment later his cell phone rang. It was one of the homicide detectives, Kevin Griswold.

“Hey, Mason, your week off to a flying start?”

“A-plus.”

“Glad to hear that. I’d appreciate it if you’d drop by. We’ve got a few things we’d like to go over with you.”

“Sure. I can do that. Middle of the week be soon enough?”

“Make me wait that long and I’ll have to send someone to get you. My partner, Detective Cates, he misses you. Says he’d like it a lot if you got your ass down here right now.”

“I can do that too.”

Police headquarters was a monument to Missouri limestone and the public works projects of the Depression. It was on the east side of the downtown, one corner of a triangle that included City Hall and the Jackson County Courthouse. Homicide was on the second floor. An outer ring of cramped offices surrounded the detective’s bullpen, a collection of wooden and metal desks older than a lot of the department’s cold cases that had been shoved together to make sure no one had a private conversation about anything. There were three witness rooms down one hallway that ended with a lineup room on one side and a holding cage on the other.

Detectives on different shifts shared the same desks and offices, each one adding their own personal touches. Pictures of spouses and kids competed for space with those of boyfriends and girlfriends. The mismatched images fit in perfectly with homicide, where relationships often didn’t made sense but usually explained everything.

Griswold and Cates were sitting at their desks when Mason arrived. Griswold, who was on the phone, waved Mason toward them. Cates swung his feet from the desk to the floor and brushed past Mason on his way to the interrogation rooms, not apologizing for stepping on Mason’s foot. Cates was a little smaller than Mason, but he was looking for trouble. Mason knew better than to tease the bear on the bear’s home court. Griswold hung up the phone, smiling and shaking his head at the same time.

“I told you Detective Cates missed you. Follow me.” Griswold led him down the hall, past the witness rooms. Cates was waiting at the door to the lineup room. “Do me a favor before we get started. We’re one short for a lineup. Usually, we get one of the rookies to fill in, but everyone’s out. Only take a minute.”

The invitation made Mason uneasy. It was a reflex hesitation picked up from defending people after they’d been fingered in a lineup. Positive identification was rarely positive and often wrong. Five people who witness the same crime will tell five different versions from who did it to what they were wearing. Put someone who’s been beaten, robbed, or raped behind a two-way mirror with a zealous cop at her elbow giving a nudge when the suspect steps forward and don’t be surprised when she says,
That’s the one
. Mason didn’t want to be part of that process, but Griswold was giving him a
C’mon, be a pal
smile and Cates was giving him a
What kind of pussy are you anyway?
glare.

“I live to serve,” Mason said, and stepped into the room, taking his place at the end of the row nearest to the door.

Five men were standing around, shifting their weight back and forth, glancing at the two-way mirror. Two of them were young and black, both with shaved heads, gold jewelry, and attitudes. A third was mid-thirties, Hispanic, short, and fat. The other two were white guys in their fifties, soft around the middle like desk jockeys killing time until their next heart attack. They were all casually dressed, from blue jeans to khakis, their clothing the only similarity to Mason.

A lineup was supposed to consist of a group of people who were neither so similar nor dissimilar as to prejudice the ability of the witness to accurately identify the criminal. A defendant picked out of a lineup that was intended to make him stand out from the crowd had a good defense that the lineup was rigged against him. Stepping into the room, Mason concluded that the lineup was aimed at the Hispanic. He was the one who clearly stood out from the others by ethnicity, age, and physical condition. Even if the victim identified the Hispanic, the lineup would be easy to challenge in court.

One of the black men tried to intimidate everyone else with his ghetto glare. The fat Hispanic studied the floor as if he was hoping to get a glimpse of his feet. The other three looked around, impatient and uninterested. Griswold’s voice came over a speaker mounted in a corner. He told them to line up against the wall, take one step forward and back again when their number was called. Griswold was right. It only took a minute.

When they finished, Cates pointed Mason toward the nearest witness room, followed him inside, and closed the door. Cates was smiling so Mason didn’t, figuring anything that made Cates happy shouldn’t make him happy. A moment later, Griswold opened the door carrying a cup of coffee. He reached behind him with his free hand to close the door, but missed the knob. He grabbed for it a second time, the delay long enough for Mason to see Detective Samantha Greer escort Mark Hill from the other side of the lineup room.

FORTY-FIVE

Mason didn’t know whether his glimpse of Samantha and Mark Hill was intentional or accidental. Either way, he didn’t like it. That he’d been set up was plain, though the purpose was not. He decided to pretend he’d seen nothing and let Griswold and Cates spin it out for him.

The witness room was furnished with police chic: a wooden table with uneven legs scarred with initials and cigarette burns, metal folding chairs, and windows covered with chicken wire. The sun warmed the room and the wire, casting a checkerboard shadow on the surface of the table. Mason sat with his back to the windows. Cates stood behind him, leaning against the glass. Griswold sat across from Mason.

“Appreciate the help with the lineup,” Griswold said.

“I’ll waive my normal appearance fee.”

“All smart-ass all the time,” Cates said.

“And I thought you were just jealous of my good looks,” Mason said without turning around.

Griswold raised his hands. “My kids aren’t as big a pain in the ass as you two are. Give it a rest, why don’t you.”

Mason held up his right hand in a fist except for his extended little finger. “Hey, Cates. Pinky truce?”

“Asshole,” Cates said, smacking Mason’s hand. “This is a waste of time. Let me know when you get a good idea,” he said to Griswold. “I’ve got better things to do.”

“What can I do for you, Detective Griswold?” Mason asked after Cates left.

“You’re like a cold sore with a personality, you know that, Mason? Annoying as hell but amusing on someone else. Don’t tell Cates, but I liked the pinky truce.”

“Your secret is safe with me. What do you want?”

“Answers. Information. A road map. We know that somebody killed Charles Rockley and left him in your client’s car. Maybe it was your client and he was so busy playing let’s make a deal with the feds that he didn’t have time to get rid of the body. Maybe it was someone who wanted us to look at your client. You got any ideas who might want to set up your client?”

“I’ve got no idea. He’s a nice old man. Doesn’t bother anyone.”

“Cut the crap for five minutes, Mason. From what I hear, your nice old man has been fleecing people all his life, including a bunch that isn’t getting their Florida dream vacation.”

“Those people aren’t out enough money to kill someone and try to pin it on Avery Fish. Give me a break.”

Griswold ignored the holes in his theory and changed tacks. “Why was Johnny Keegan carrying around your name and number when he got clipped?”

“Must have needed a good lawyer.”

“You ever talk to him?”

“Nope. The guy was only a bartender. He couldn’t have afforded me anyway.”

“We talked to the manager of the Galaxy, guy named Al Webb,” Griswold said, consulting the spiral notepad he carried in his shirt pocket. “Webb says Rockley got himself sued in a sexual harassment case over a woman named Carol Hill, who, it turns out according to Webb, was banging Keegan. How about that?”

“Shocks the conscience.”

“Pissed off her husband, too, from what Webb told us.”

“Then why wasn’t Hill in the lineup instead of me?”

“We picked him up for questioning yesterday. He had a lousy alibi and a fat lip so naturally we ask him if Rockley gave it to him and that’s why he popped him, plus the fact that Rockley was pawing his wife. He says he didn’t kill Rockley. Says he was minding his own business, drinking his sorrows away at a bar in Fairfax last Friday night. Said he got into it with someone and that’s how he got the lip.”

“And you think I gave it to him and now you’re going to arrest me for assault?”

Griswold gave him an indulgent smile. “Putting a lawyer away would be a public service, but we’ll wait for something with real bite. We went to the bar to check on Hill’s story. The bartender confirmed that Hill was there last Friday when two guys braced him. Said Hill pulled a knife on one of the guys and the other guy took it away from him and then they hustled Hill outside. One of the waitresses said she recognized one of the two guys from seeing his picture in the paper and on TV. Said his name was Lou Mason. So Detective Cates calls Hill and asks him if he’d like to press charges against the guy who beat him up. Hill says sure and Cates says we’ve got a suspect we want to put in a lineup.”