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Authors: Joel Goldman
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date.
“Nice place,” Mason said, gesturing with his bottle when she returned. “You a regular?”
She shook her head. “I figured we should avoid a cop bar or Blues’s place. Not likely we’ll see anyone here who gives a crap if they see us together.”
“Who would care?”
“Griswold and Cates, for starters. They know our history. They’d assume that I was talking to you about their case, telling you things I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Will you?” he asked, leaning back in the booth.
She twirled the neck of her bottle in one hand, flicking condensation off with the other. “No. I’m a cop. It’s not my case. I won’t screw it up for them.”
“Then why agree to meet me?”
She dipped her head, took a sip from her beer. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Sam.”
They sat for a moment, neither of them talking, the silence building to an awkward crest. Mason had called her to ask her to do exactly what she wouldn’t and shouldn’t do. She had said yes in the hopes he would do what he could but wouldn’t do. At least their disappointment was mutual.
Mason broke the silence. “Hey, let’s get some dinner.”
She shook her head again. “Can’t. I’ve got to finish up the paperwork on that domestic case. Take a rain check?”
“Sure. How about next week—Tuesday?”
He understood the message in her refusal. She was available, but not just so he could use her as an inside source. Dinner was a way of saying she was right, admitting that she deserved better from him.
She brightened again. “Tuesday would be great,” she said, getting up. “There is one thing I can tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Griswold and Cates still don’t know who the victim is, but they like your client for it anyway.”
“Why, other than where the body was found?”
“Because it works and cops like that better than anything else.”
SIXTEEN
Mason told Fish he would give him a ride to the Federal Courthouse on Friday morning. Fish protested it wasn’t necessary even though the police had impounded his Cadillac as evidence.
“I rented a car. A white Taurus. A schlepper ’s car,” he had explained when Mason called the day before to tell him about the meeting.
“There’s nothing wrong with a Taurus,” Mason said.
“I’m a successful businessman. It’s no car for a successful businessman.”
“Can you fit a body in the trunk?”
“Very funny. All right. You can pick me up. Be here at ten.”
“The meeting isn’t until eleven. It won’t take an hour to get downtown.”
“Look at it this way. If being a little early is a crime, we’ll be in the right place.”
A minivan was parked in the driveway when Mason pulled up in front of Fish’s house on Friday morning. He glanced in the windows as he walked up the driveway, noting the car seats inside. When Fish opened the door, Mason heard squeals of laughter coming from the living room. Fish smiled, clapped him on the back, and pulled him toward the noise.
Four toddlers, three boys and a girl, were chasing each other in circles until they crashed in a heap on the floor before jumping up and doing it again, breathless, giggling and glowing. Scraps of brightly colored wrapping paper littered an Oriental rug in the center of the room.
Two women, whom Mason took to be the mothers of the children, sat in chairs on one side of the room, their arms and legs tightly crossed. One wore jeans and a sweatshirt, the other a warm-up suit. They shared the same dark hair, thin faces, and tightly pinched mouths that pronounced them as sisters. A small pile of toys was bunched beneath each of their chairs, out of harm’s way.
Mason stood on the edge of the living room as Fish waded into the gang of kids. Their laughter reached an upper octave as they swarmed on Fish’s legs, one grabbing each knee, the others flinging their arms around his ankles. He carefully shook one leg at a time, casting them off in another game that was
“Nice place,” Mason said, gesturing with his bottle when she returned. “You a regular?”
She shook her head. “I figured we should avoid a cop bar or Blues’s place. Not likely we’ll see anyone here who gives a crap if they see us together.”
“Who would care?”
“Griswold and Cates, for starters. They know our history. They’d assume that I was talking to you about their case, telling you things I shouldn’t tell you.”
“Will you?” he asked, leaning back in the booth.
She twirled the neck of her bottle in one hand, flicking condensation off with the other. “No. I’m a cop. It’s not my case. I won’t screw it up for them.”
“Then why agree to meet me?”
She dipped her head, took a sip from her beer. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Sam.”
They sat for a moment, neither of them talking, the silence building to an awkward crest. Mason had called her to ask her to do exactly what she wouldn’t and shouldn’t do. She had said yes in the hopes he would do what he could but wouldn’t do. At least their disappointment was mutual.
Mason broke the silence. “Hey, let’s get some dinner.”
She shook her head again. “Can’t. I’ve got to finish up the paperwork on that domestic case. Take a rain check?”
“Sure. How about next week—Tuesday?”
He understood the message in her refusal. She was available, but not just so he could use her as an inside source. Dinner was a way of saying she was right, admitting that she deserved better from him.
She brightened again. “Tuesday would be great,” she said, getting up. “There is one thing I can tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“Griswold and Cates still don’t know who the victim is, but they like your client for it anyway.”
“Why, other than where the body was found?”
“Because it works and cops like that better than anything else.”
SIXTEEN
Mason told Fish he would give him a ride to the Federal Courthouse on Friday morning. Fish protested it wasn’t necessary even though the police had impounded his Cadillac as evidence.
“I rented a car. A white Taurus. A schlepper ’s car,” he had explained when Mason called the day before to tell him about the meeting.
“There’s nothing wrong with a Taurus,” Mason said.
“I’m a successful businessman. It’s no car for a successful businessman.”
“Can you fit a body in the trunk?”
“Very funny. All right. You can pick me up. Be here at ten.”
“The meeting isn’t until eleven. It won’t take an hour to get downtown.”
“Look at it this way. If being a little early is a crime, we’ll be in the right place.”
A minivan was parked in the driveway when Mason pulled up in front of Fish’s house on Friday morning. He glanced in the windows as he walked up the driveway, noting the car seats inside. When Fish opened the door, Mason heard squeals of laughter coming from the living room. Fish smiled, clapped him on the back, and pulled him toward the noise.
Four toddlers, three boys and a girl, were chasing each other in circles until they crashed in a heap on the floor before jumping up and doing it again, breathless, giggling and glowing. Scraps of brightly colored wrapping paper littered an Oriental rug in the center of the room.
Two women, whom Mason took to be the mothers of the children, sat in chairs on one side of the room, their arms and legs tightly crossed. One wore jeans and a sweatshirt, the other a warm-up suit. They shared the same dark hair, thin faces, and tightly pinched mouths that pronounced them as sisters. A small pile of toys was bunched beneath each of their chairs, out of harm’s way.
Mason stood on the edge of the living room as Fish waded into the gang of kids. Their laughter reached an upper octave as they swarmed on Fish’s legs, one grabbing each knee, the others flinging their arms around his ankles. He carefully shook one leg at a time, casting them off in another game that was
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