from the booze, the cold, or the pain. Hill brushed them away and headed for his truck.
TWENTY-THREE
Blues and Mason watched from the front seat of Mason’s SUV as Hill floored his pickup and slalomed past parked cars on his way out of the lot. Turning sharply into the street, the truck fishtailed and clipped the front end of a sedan parked across from the bar. The impact spun Hill around until the two vehicles were nose to nose.
A man with a weight lifter’s build and a mop of blond hair hanging down his neck jumped out of the driver’s side of the sedan at the same moment Hill poured out of the pickup, the two of them trading shouts. Hill swung at the man, who stepped inside the punch, landing a left-right combination that put Hill down in a heap, the man standing over him, still cursing. A second man, smaller and wirier than his partner, got out from the passenger side, pulling the driver away before checking on Hill.
“What do you think?” Mason asked Blues.
“The guys in the car were looking for someone. Let’s wait a minute and see if they’re public or private.”
“Hill could be hurt.”
“Looks okay to me.”
The passenger helped Hill to his feet, brushed him off, and leaned him against the pickup. The driver slammed his hand on the hood of the sedan, pointing to the front left fender that had been crushed into the tire, disabling the car. He yanked a cell phone from his belt, punched a number, and yelled some more.
A moment later a second sedan pulled up and another man got out. He stepped into the glare of Hill’s headlights, his block-cut head and shoulders suddenly familiar to Mason.
“Son of a bitch,” Mason said.
“Friend of yours?”
“Dennis Brewer. He’s the FBI agent handling Fish’s case. He interrupted my meeting with Pete Samuelson to tell us that they’d found a body in the trunk of Fish’s car.”
“You recognize the other two?”
“No, but they look more private than public to me.”
“I doubt the Bureau has a side gig helping stranded motorists. What are they doing here?”
“Two choices,” Mason said. “Watching Hill or us. The feds already tied Rockley to you and me, but that’s because I represent Fish. Maybe they found out about Carol Hill’s lawsuit and decided to talk to her husband just like we did.”
“Hard to believe they’re as smart as we are.”
“You’ve got a point. I don’t remember seeing them at the last Mensa meeting.”
“Still doesn’t make sense. Rockley’s murder is for the local cops. Why is the FBI on it?”
“Kelly Holt told me that they got the picture of you outside Rockley’s apartment when they intercepted an e-mail that had the picture attached to it. Pete Samuelson wants Avery Fish to help with a government investigation he wants to keep a secret. Dennis Brewer shows up on Mark Hill’s tail. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but my guess is the feds are investigating Galaxy.”
“Which means that Rockley wasn’t just a guy who couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.”
Mason nodded. “That’s what I thought when the FBI made an instant DNA identification. Then I checked out Rockley’s prior employers and they all vouched for him.”
“Something was hinky with Rockley. I don’t care who vouched for him. And, we still don’t know if the FBI is watching Hill or us.”
“Let’s try the back side of the bar. Maybe there’s another way out.”
“Forget it. They already saw us with Hill.”
“You want me to wave as we drive by?” Mason said.
“It never hurts to be polite.”
Blues took his cell phone out of his pocket.
“I thought you hated those things,” Mason said.
“I do. They’re like an anchor wrapped around your neck. Doesn’t mean I won’t use one, especially one that takes pictures. Take it slow and I’ll get a set of mug shots.”
He lowered his window, resting his arm on the door, hiding the phone in his hand, the camera lens peeking between his fingers.
“Tell them
TWENTY-THREE
Blues and Mason watched from the front seat of Mason’s SUV as Hill floored his pickup and slalomed past parked cars on his way out of the lot. Turning sharply into the street, the truck fishtailed and clipped the front end of a sedan parked across from the bar. The impact spun Hill around until the two vehicles were nose to nose.
A man with a weight lifter’s build and a mop of blond hair hanging down his neck jumped out of the driver’s side of the sedan at the same moment Hill poured out of the pickup, the two of them trading shouts. Hill swung at the man, who stepped inside the punch, landing a left-right combination that put Hill down in a heap, the man standing over him, still cursing. A second man, smaller and wirier than his partner, got out from the passenger side, pulling the driver away before checking on Hill.
“What do you think?” Mason asked Blues.
“The guys in the car were looking for someone. Let’s wait a minute and see if they’re public or private.”
“Hill could be hurt.”
“Looks okay to me.”
The passenger helped Hill to his feet, brushed him off, and leaned him against the pickup. The driver slammed his hand on the hood of the sedan, pointing to the front left fender that had been crushed into the tire, disabling the car. He yanked a cell phone from his belt, punched a number, and yelled some more.
A moment later a second sedan pulled up and another man got out. He stepped into the glare of Hill’s headlights, his block-cut head and shoulders suddenly familiar to Mason.
“Son of a bitch,” Mason said.
“Friend of yours?”
“Dennis Brewer. He’s the FBI agent handling Fish’s case. He interrupted my meeting with Pete Samuelson to tell us that they’d found a body in the trunk of Fish’s car.”
“You recognize the other two?”
“No, but they look more private than public to me.”
“I doubt the Bureau has a side gig helping stranded motorists. What are they doing here?”
“Two choices,” Mason said. “Watching Hill or us. The feds already tied Rockley to you and me, but that’s because I represent Fish. Maybe they found out about Carol Hill’s lawsuit and decided to talk to her husband just like we did.”
“Hard to believe they’re as smart as we are.”
“You’ve got a point. I don’t remember seeing them at the last Mensa meeting.”
“Still doesn’t make sense. Rockley’s murder is for the local cops. Why is the FBI on it?”
“Kelly Holt told me that they got the picture of you outside Rockley’s apartment when they intercepted an e-mail that had the picture attached to it. Pete Samuelson wants Avery Fish to help with a government investigation he wants to keep a secret. Dennis Brewer shows up on Mark Hill’s tail. I may not be the sharpest knife in the drawer, but my guess is the feds are investigating Galaxy.”
“Which means that Rockley wasn’t just a guy who couldn’t keep his zipper zipped.”
Mason nodded. “That’s what I thought when the FBI made an instant DNA identification. Then I checked out Rockley’s prior employers and they all vouched for him.”
“Something was hinky with Rockley. I don’t care who vouched for him. And, we still don’t know if the FBI is watching Hill or us.”
“Let’s try the back side of the bar. Maybe there’s another way out.”
“Forget it. They already saw us with Hill.”
“You want me to wave as we drive by?” Mason said.
“It never hurts to be polite.”
Blues took his cell phone out of his pocket.
“I thought you hated those things,” Mason said.
“I do. They’re like an anchor wrapped around your neck. Doesn’t mean I won’t use one, especially one that takes pictures. Take it slow and I’ll get a set of mug shots.”
He lowered his window, resting his arm on the door, hiding the phone in his hand, the camera lens peeking between his fingers.
“Tell them
Similar Books
