Even though Sandoval and Higgins made the arrest, the feds ultimately took the case away because it was a DEA agent who’d been killed. Neither man cared. What mattered was that Nick Mason drew twenty-five-to-life and went to Terre Haute.
But now, five years later, sixty fucking months later, Detective Sandoval was sitting here in his car waiting for Nick Mason to show up, a man who was free only because his old partner stood up in court and told the judge that he had taken blood evidence from the scene, brought it with him, carried it around for hours—for hours—then found some way to plant it in Nick Mason’s car.
That’s the way it was written. That was the official fucking record. And his partner’s life was destroyed.
? ? ?
He felt his cell phone buzzing in his pocket. He took it out and read the text. It was Sean Wright’s wife, Elizabeth, widow of a dead federal agent, single mother trying to raise two kids on her own, asking if the two families would still be getting together that weekend.
Sandoval texted back a reply. Yes, looking forward to it. Which was true. It was his one chance to see his own kids that week. His one chance to pretend the job hadn’t cost him everything else in his life.
He took one more look at Nick Mason’s new address. Then he drove away.
10
When the call Mason had been dreading finally came, he knew his life would never be the same. He just didn’t know exactly what Darius Cole had in store for him.
The sun was just coming up as Mason left the car on Columbus Drive and walked toward Grant Park. He’d never seen the park this empty.
He saw Quintero standing on the lake side of the fountain. Lake Shore Drive ran behind him, and beyond that were a hundred tarp-covered sailboats all anchored in the open water. The breakwater formed a straight line behind the boats and then beyond that was the rumor of Lake Michigan, disappearing into the morning fog. The rising sun started to break through, painting the city behind them in brilliant hues of gold and blue.
Mason hesitated for a moment, looking up at the buildings, the reflections so bright they made his eyes hurt. He remembered the morning he and Gina flew back home from their honeymoon in Las Vegas, an overnight flight that circled the city and came around from the east just as the sun was coming up behind them. Gina was in the window seat and she grabbed Nick’s arm tightly as the plane banked. He assumed it was her usual airplane jitters, but she gestured for him to look out the window. He pressed his face close to hers and saw that the city of Chicago was completely obscured by the morning clouds and yet somehow the reflection was still cast perfectly against the surface of the lake.
It was an amazing sight, the upside-down image of this city they both knew so well, where they’d try to find a real life together. So long ago, it seemed, even though barely a decade had passed. Now Mason walked here on the shore of the same lake, the same city behind him, glowing with the same colors, and yet everything else had been changed forever.
It was his own life that was upside down.
As he got closer, he saw that Quintero was wearing a black sweatshirt this morning. None of his tattoos were visible. His eyes were hidden behind dark sunglasses. He looked at his watch.
“I said five thirty,” he said.
“I’ve got five thirty-two.”
“That’s not five thirty.”
Mason looked out at the boats. “Which one of these is Cole’s?”
“How about we make a rule here? Don’t say his name out loud when we’re on the street.”
“Fine,” Mason said. “I know all about rules.”
“We both know who we’re talking about. You make it a habit, then you don’t fuck up when it really matters.”
“Speaking of habits,” Mason said, “how much time are you going to spend following me around?”
“I knew you’d be looking for your ex-wife and your daughter.”
“Let me make this real clear,” Mason said. “My ex-wife and my daughter have nothing to do with this. With any of this. To you, they don’t exist.”
“That’s not how this works, Mason. You made this deal. You think you get to make the rules now? I’ll go move into their fucking guest room if I want to.”
Mason stood there for a moment, staring the man down. Then Quintero handed him a motel room key on an old-fashioned plastic key fob. The name and address of the motel was written on one side along with the room number: 102. On the other side was a promise to pay the return postage if you dropped the key into any mailbox.
“The room will be empty,” Quintero said. “You go there and you park in front of this room. Nowhere else. Get there at eleven thirty p.m. No earlier, no later. Go inside and you’ll find everything you need in the top drawer of the nightstand. Then go around and up the stairs to Room 215. Your man will be there. Call me when you’re done.”
Mason took a moment to process that. “Done with what?” he said.
“You’re helping him check out. What the fuck you think you’re doing?”
This is it, Mason said to himself. I made this deal. I didn’t give him any exceptions. I didn’t say there are certain things I will not do.