He paused and shook his head.
“Now we’re the same,” he said. “Cops, agents, don’t matter. All the fucking same. So my partner and me, we got to the harbor and they’re taking his body away. Wheeling him away with a sheet over him. They don’t want to leave a dead agent lying there in the road. But I saw the pictures later. Read the reports. Man didn’t even have his gun drawn. He gets out of the car and he’s already dead.”
Mason kept watching the man. He kept listening. He didn’t react in any way.
“I know there’s four of you in the trucks. Two trucks, two men each, one-in-four chance you pulled that trigger, right? One-in-four chance you gunned down a federal agent while you were running away. But you know it don’t matter. I don’t care. The law don’t care. You’re in the middle of a felony when he’s killed, so it’s felony murder. All four of you guys.”
Sandoval paused to look around the restaurant like he was checking to make sure nobody else was listening.
“So two of you guys get away,” he said in a slightly lower voice. “A third man gets shot in the truck. That leaves one man to stand up for everybody. That’s you. Not how we want to close the case, but that’s what we got. It was something, right? We got one guy who can be accountable. One guy I can take back to Sean Wright’s family, say, Here, this guy’s gonna pay for it. Your whole family got torn apart, and this don’t bring him back. But here’s one man. You can see him pay for it.”
Sandoval leaned back in his chair and took a breath. Then he leaned forward again.
“Elizabeth Wright,” he said. “That’s his wife. Married seven years then. They got two kids. Sean Junior, he’s nine years old. Sarah’s eight. They’re four years old, three years old when their father got killed. You can’t imagine, Mason, what that’s like, seeing those kids when we got that case. I got a boy and a girl, too. Exact same ages. My son and Sean, they play ball together now. This team I coach, I got Sean on there. I talk to him all the time, make sure he’s doing okay. Sarah, I don’t get to talk to. She still don’t say much to anybody. Eight years old, Mason, girl just sitting there, staring off into space. Breaks your heart.”
Sandoval leaned forward even farther and lowered his voice again.
“So here’s what I wanna know, Mason. I see this family all the time. Five years later, I still see them. So what am I supposed to say to them?”
Mason picked up the glass of beer, but he didn’t drink. Never talk to cops, he told himself. Never talk to fucking cops.
“Because as far as I know,” Sandoval said, “they have no idea. I don’t think anybody called them. And it didn’t make the newspapers yet. The real crime reporters in this town are all dead or they took buyouts because nobody buys a fucking newspaper anymore, but someone will find the story eventually, go knock on their door with a camera crew . . . For now, that leaves me to give them the news. So how do I do that, Mason? How do I tell them you’re out of prison already? You got any ideas for me?”
Mason held his glass and looked at the amber liquid.
“Yes?” Sandoval said. “You look like you wanna say something.”
Mason put the glass back down.
This is why you stay off a cop’s radar, Mason thought. Especially a cop like this. You give him any kind of reason and suddenly you’re the one man he can’t stop thinking about. When he’s working another case, having lunch with his partner, doing his paperwork, waiting in line at the courthouse. Packing up for the day and going out for a splash with his cop friends.
Even at home, having dinner with his family, watching television, helping his kids with their homework. Going out to a Sox game on the weekend, having a hot dog and a beer.
You open up that guy’s head at any minute and there you are, living somewhere inside it.
“Wasn’t easy finding you,” Sandoval said. “No parole, so no address. I looked in a few different places, nothing for Nick Mason. Nothing new. Then I remember this guy over at Social Security. They got this database, there’s a new W-4 for Nick Mason, working at a restaurant. Let me guess, Darius Cole own this place?”
Mason looked at him.
“Got your address, too,” Sandoval said. “I’ve been there, just taking a look, and you gotta be fucking kidding me, right? From federal prison to Lincoln Park West?”
Sandoval scanned the restaurant again, shaking his head slowly.
“You don’t even have to hide it,” Sandoval said. “This so-called job you got. That town house you’re living in. It’s all legit on paper. Hell of a nice life, huh?”
Yeah, Mason thought, hell of a nice life.
“If I’m in your place, I’m not sure how I sleep at night. But I guess you’re a different kind of man.”
“His name was Finn,” Mason said, officially saying fuck you to rule number ten. “Finn O’Malley.”
“The one who got killed?”