Final Judgment by Joel Goldman Page B

best to fill the void in Mason’s social calendar. Lately she had lost some of the fire that had first attracted him. Working homicide could do that, gradually sucking the life out of you until you ended up alone and drunk. That hadn’t happened to Harry Ryman, a veteran homicide cop who was Mason’s surrogate father, because he had Claire. Samantha didn’t have anyone.
    He still enjoyed her company but couldn’t give her the commitment she wanted, feeling guilty that he was stringing her along. The reason was the answer to the question in Tina Turner’s song. Love had everything to do with it. Somehow, they’d defied the odds against ex-lovers remaining friends, though Mason wondered whether that reflected Samantha’s wistful optimism that they would eventually end up together if she just hung in there.
    “Detective Greer,” she said, answering on the first ring.
    “Feeling official?”
    “Feeling beat. Long night on a domestic abuse case that finally hit the finish line. The husband divorced his wife with a baseball bat.”
    “Buy you a beer?”
    “Business or pleasure?”
    “Business first. My client, Avery Fish, a corpse, and your buddies Griswold and Cates.”
    “That’ll take two beers. Davey’s Uptown Rambler Club. Meet you there at six.”

FOURTEEN
    Mason ran into Blues in the parking lot behind Blues on Broadway. The potholes that Blues had filled the previous summer had returned, the asphalt giving way to the freezing, wet winter. The left front tire of Mason’s SUV rested in one crater, tilting it like a sinking ship. Only one of the two halogen lamps Blues had installed to light the back of the building was working. Blues was a much better piano player than he was a property manager.
    The parking lot was narrow, bordered by an alley that ran between the buildings that fronted Broadway and a string of old, three-story apartments one block to the east that backed up to the other side. The high walls on both sides kept out light and warmth except when the sun was directly overhead, the urban terrain making a cold, dark night colder and darker.
    They leaned against Mason’s SUV, Blues nearly invisible in a black leather jacket, Mason cupping his hands, blowing on them for warmth. Mason hadn’t seen or talked with him since their first conversation about Rockley.
    “Any luck?” Mason asked him.
    “Zero.”
    “Try his house?”
    Blues’s expression didn’t change, even though Mason knew it was a stupid question the moment he asked it.
    “Three times. Lives in an apartment up north. His mailbox is full. Nobody has seen him. But we’re not the only ones looking for him. One of the neighbors told me someone else came around yesterday.”
    “Get a name?”
    Blues shook his head. “I asked if he left a business card. The neighbor said no. Cops, FBI—always leave business cards. PIs almost always leave business cards.”
    “So who doesn’t leave a business card?”
    “Somebody who wants you for the wrong reason.”
    “Is Rockley still working at Galaxy?” Mason asked.
    “I don’t know. I called Galaxy and asked for him. The operator connected me to his extension and I got his voice mail. It said leave a message and I’ll get back to you. I called back, said I got his voice mail but it was important that I talk to him right away. The operator transferred my call to a woman named Lila Collins.”
    “She’s in charge of HR,” Mason said.
    “Or bullshit. She told me that she wasn’t permitted to release any information about employees. Talked like he still worked there.”
    “Did she ask you who you were or why you wanted to talk to Rockley?”
    “Not a word. It was like she was waiting for the call. Made her little speech and hung up without saying good-bye.”
    “What do you think?”
    “I think Rockley’s hiding out until Judge Carter issues her ruling and Galaxy is helping him do it.”
    “That fits with our theory that Rockley had help with the blackmail. What now?” Mason