Motion to Kill

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Sandra Connelly followed Mason into his office and closed the door.

“Nicely done, Louis. I didn’t think you had the balls.”

“Thanks for the endorsement. I need you. You cut through the crap and get to the bottom line. I don’t care if you like me. That’s not required. Now, which of the associates do you think we should use?”

She folded her arms and gave him an appraising look as if she’d never seen him before. Mason wondered if she really thought he’d been ballsy or whether he put her on the team as a prelude to surrendering to her.

“Phil Rosa is the best litigation associate we’ve got. He’s a workhorse and he never misses anything in his research. Maggie Boylan is the top corporate associate.”

“Sounds good. Assemble all of the O’Malley files, including personal files from everyone’s offices, in the thirty-first-floor conference room. Lock the door. Skip Sullivan’s office. We’ll do that together. There’ll be no more solo searches.”

“You may have some pretty big balls after all,” she said on her way out.

Mason pounded down the internal staircase to the thirty-first-floor office of Angela Molina, the firm’s executive administrator. Angela could figure more angles than Rubik’s Cube had, and she used them to squeeze every penny of profit out of the practice and into the partners’ pockets. Together with a legendary office intelligence system, she kept things on an even keel. Angela had jet-black wavy hair, olive skin, and a fiery disposition. She was attractive, divorced, and in her midforties. Office gossip linked her with Sullivan. But that story followed most women who worked for the firm.

She and Mason hadn’t gotten off on the right foot when he insisted on bringing his custom-made furniture that had to be bolted to the wall. Angela objected because it limited her options for future office assignments, one of her chief patronage plums. The initial chill between them had barely thawed over the last three months.

“Angela, I need your help. This is absolutely confidential. The firm has-”

“-been named a target of the grand jury’s investigation into O’Malley, and you’re in charge of the cleanup. What do you have left to tell me, Lou?”

Her instant intelligence bothered him, but he’d learned a long time ago that there are no secrets in a law office, especially one managed by Angela Molina.

“Change the locks on Sullivan’s office and the thirty-first-floor conference room. Sandra Connelly and I get the only keys. Don’t have the property manager do it. I don’t want any passkeys floating around.”

“O’Malley’s property managers won’t like it if they can’t get into that office to clean, and they’ll complain about security.”

“Your job is to make them like it, and I know you have the charm to do it. I want the locks changed by noon. Send out a memo that those rooms are off-limits except to authorized personnel.”

“Who are?”

“Sandra Connelly, Phil Rosa, Maggie Boylan, and me. Anyone objects, tell them to talk to me.”

Halfway out the door, he told her to send him copies of all the O’Malley bills for the last five years, including the most current, plus work in progress.

Mason’s next stop was Scott’s office. He was on the phone but waved him in with a signal that said to close the door. He hung up and unloaded.

“I thought we had a deal on how we would handle this. The last thing in the world I want is for that bitch Sandra to be involved. How could you pull a bonehead stunt like that?”

“St. John would rather have a live target than a dead one. You and Sullivan were joined at the hip, which means that you’re available. I’m your friend. Sandra wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire. If she believes you’re not involved, she’ll have more credibility with St. John than I will.”

“You’re acting like you think I’m in trouble. That worries me.”

“We’re all in trouble. We’ve got to put some distance between you and our investigation. You and Harlan shouldn’t be at the meeting with O’Malley except to make the introductions.”

“Sounds like you’ve got it figured out.” His shoulders drooped as if Mason had let the air out of him.

“Not even close, my friend; not even close.”