The Second Life of Nick Mason (Nick Mason #1)(54)

“If you’re the f*cking king of this city,” Sandoval said, “why are you soaking through your two-hundred-dollar shirt?”

Bloome waited a beat. Then he took one step closer.

“I’m gonna take an interest in you,” Bloome said. “You don’t want that, Sandoval, because there’s one thing I know about cops. Somewhere in your life, you got a big problem. A weakness. You got people in your life you care about. I’ll get to everything, every corner of your life and everybody else around you.”

You got him, Sandoval thought. You f*cking got him.

“I’m giving you one time-to-walk-away card,” Bloome said, stepping even closer so that the two men were just inches apart. “Because I am the last guy you want to put in a corner.”

“Wherever you are,” Sandoval said, “you put yourself there. Now step the f*ck back.” Sandoval was ready for whatever came next. One hand on your shoulder. Or two hands.

Then probably every other SIS cop in the room.

“What do you need?” Bloome said.

“What are you talking about?”

“You want the collar? This is a heater case, Sandoval. I’ll bring you in, make you the lead. We run it my way, but you can be the hero. They pin a medal on your chest, take your picture, give you a promotion, a nice raise. You’ll make sergeant by the end of the year.”

Sandoval didn’t answer him. He just shook his head. He’d already said no to the hammer.

Now he was saying no to the carrot.

But he was walking away with something a lot better. He had his answer. Bloome had already given away his connection to Quintero. Add to that these two cases and now this attempt to essentially buy him off . . .

If Bloome had speed-dialed Darius Cole and put him on the speakerphone, it wouldn’t have been any better.

“You’re making a big mistake,” Bloome finally said. “I hope you’re not too attached to your career.”

Sandoval looked him in the eye one last time.

“Do you even f*cking remember when you were a cop?”





25




Among the thirty parents watching the soccer game, Nick Mason was pretty sure he was the only two-time murderer.

He stood against the backstop again, behind the bleachers, but with the same good angle to see the entire field. He had his sunglasses on even though it was not sunny. It was a gray day, on the verge of being cold, but he couldn’t feel it. He stood there motionless, leaning against the rough wood, with his arms folded across his chest.

He kept seeing the face he saw in that mirror in the strip club. It was the face of another man. A man he didn’t know.

A man he didn’t want to know.

But I would do it again in a second, Mason thought, staring across the field. Give me a thousand different chances to get out of that place, to see this nine-year-old girl running around, chasing a ball, for a few minutes every week . . .

I would do it again. Every time.

The game developed on the field as Nick Mason focused on one player. He kept watching his daughter even when play stopped, even when she went out for a few minutes and stood along the far sideline, cheering on her teammates.

At halftime, some of the parents stood up to stretch or to go have a smoke somewhere far away or talk on their cell phones. Mason stayed where he was, his eyes on his daughter as she sat in the grass and talked to two other players. When the second half was about to begin, a thought struck Mason and it was enough to make him move. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. He dialed Lauren at the pet store, trying to remember if showing up at her place the night before had been a definite promise or just a maybe. Either way, he wanted to see her again. He wanted to walk down the street with her and become that other person again, if only for those few hours.

The players were running around the field again. As Mason listened to the phone ringing, he looked for his daughter and for one moment couldn’t locate her. Then he spotted her on the far corner of the field, lining up for a free kick. She sent the ball into play and it was quickly cleared and sent down to the other end of the field. Adriana stayed behind, kneeling down on the grass to tie her shoe. Everyone else followed the movement of the ball toward the other goal, but Mason couldn’t care less about who scored or didn’t score. He was the one man still watching his daughter on the opposite end of the field.

That’s when he saw the other man standing there at the edge of the parking lot, about twenty yards away from Adriana.

Jimmy McManus.

He was wearing his tight jeans and muscle shirt again, with the same gold chains around his neck. It took Mason a moment to process the fact that the man was here, in this same park. And now as McManus scanned the people watching the game, his eyes settled on Mason. McManus nodded to him, then to Adriana, back to him, as if verifying that this was really his daughter. He reached his own conclusion and gave Mason a thumbs-up.

Then McManus took out his cell phone and gave out a sharp whistle. Adriana looked up from where she was still kneeling on the grass and Mason could see a look of confusion on her face. McManus pointed his phone at her and pushed a button. He was taking her picture.

Mason was already in motion.

He came out from the shadow of the backstop and ran along behind the bleachers toward the parking lot. McManus put up his hands, like, what the hell is this, but then he turned and headed back into the heart of the lot. He moved fast, not exactly running, but not exactly waiting around to see what Mason was going to do to him, either.