Free Final Judgment by Joel Goldman

cheer. His faith rested in the firm belief that he could sell everyone something. All he had to do was figure out what they wanted. He repeated his cheerful wave to his neighbor.
    “Good morning, Morty,” he bellowed across the street. Morty hurried back inside as if he was afraid Fish’s greeting was contagious. Fish climbed into Mason’s SUV, huffing with the effort. “Sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch, that no-goodnik Morty.”
    “Friend of yours?”
    “Cheats on his wife and his taxes and then treats me like I’ve got the plague.”
    “These are the times when you find out who your friends are.”
    “All my friends are dead. And you met my daughters.”
    “What about their mother?”
    “My girls like me better than their mother does. We got divorced twenty-five years ago. Not that I blame her, or the girls for that matter. No one would confuse me with Father of the Year, making the kind of living I did. But those grandkids are my second chance. You get me out of this mess and maybe my family will give me a break.”
    “Is that why you told me to be an hour early?”
    “I just wanted you to know. That’s all,” Fish answered.
    “We’ll see what Pete Samuelson has in mind.”
    “Tell me again what he said.”
    Mason repeated the conversation, adding his commentary at the end. “I talked to a homicide detective who’s a good friend. She said that the body hasn’t been identified yet. The only way Samuelson can help you is if he knows something that eliminates you as the killer.”
    “He wants to trade that for something from me?”
    “That’s what it sounds like. What do you have that he wants?”
    “I don’t know, but I don’t think I’m going to help him.”
    “Why not? You’re facing a prison term for mail fraud and a possible murder charge. You should be willing to do back flips naked down Broadway if we can make a deal with Samuelson that gets you back with your grandkids.”
    “Listen to me, boytchik . Samuelson is playing a game with us, but I’m much better at these games than he is. If Samuelson has proof I didn’t kill that poor bastard and he doesn’t turn it over to the police, he’s the one who will end up behind bars. Once he tells you that he has that kind of information, he has to give it up. So why should I give him something in return when I’ll end up with it anyway?”
    “So what will you tell him?”
    “I’ll tell him no. At least to his first offer. That’s never the best offer anyway.”

SEVENTEEN
    Samuelson’s secretary ushered them into a large conference room. Unlike the bleak room from earlier in the week, this one had windows that looked north over the Missouri River, past the downtown airport and halfway to Iowa. A picture of the president hung on one wall.
    This time there was a pot of hot coffee and half a dozen bottles of water arranged on a credenza beneath the Great Seal of the United States. The secretary promised that Samuelson would be right there and he was, appearing at her side as she finished uttering his name.
    “Thank you, Evelyn,” Samuelson said, dismissing her. “Gentlemen, thanks for coming down on such short notice,” he added, beaming his best government smile at them and taking a seat near the head of the long, rectangular conference table.
    Mason grabbed a bottle of water and sat in a chair across from Samuelson with his back to the windows. Fish, a wry grin creeping from the corners of his mouth, walked the length of the room as if he was measuring it, stopping to admire the view from the windows, before sitting next to Mason.
    There was a sharp knock at the door. Mason looked up as Kelly Holt walked in carrying a thin manila folder. She stood next to Samuelson, her smile polite and professional. Her piercing blue eyes held him in check as she studied his reaction to seeing her for the first time in five years.
    “Hello, Lou,” she said.
    “Kelly,” he managed, coming to his feet and nearly knocking over his water bottle.
    Her