Motion to Kill

CHAPTER TWENTY

At ten o’clock Tuesday morning, Mason and Sandra Connelly emptied their pockets for the deputy marshals guarding the federal courthouse before heading to Franklin St. John’s sixth-floor office. Mason did a double take when the deputy gave Sandra a claim check for a three-inch knife she carried in her purse.

“I collect sharp things,” she said in response. “It’s a hobby.”

“Ever hear of stamps?”

“No edge to it,” she said with a shrug as they walked to the elevator.

Franklin St. John was a small, spare man, vain enough to comb the few remaining filaments of hair across his bald head. A high, shiny forehead dropped off to a narrow, long nose, thin lips, and a pointed chin. His upper lip curled into a sneer as he greeted them with a smile. Mason couldn’t tell if it was intentional or a cruel trick played by involuntary facial muscles. He didn’t look like a nice man, and Mason bet his face was a disappointment but not a surprise to those who knew him.

St. John was a career prosecutor from a political family whose connections reached to the White House. Originally from Kansas City, he’d been an assistant U.S. attorney in Chicago. When the U.S. attorney position opened up in Kansas City, he got the job.

He stood behind a massive desk, flanked by the seal of the United States and the official picture of the president. Tall floor lamps behind his desk cast an artificial aura behind him.

St. John introduced them to Gene McNamara, the FBI agent who was his chief investigator. McNamara’s face was beefy, with a drinker’s hazy red-veined pattern across his nose and cheeks. He nodded perfunctorily at them and took up a station at the end of the sofa opposite St. John’s desk, his coat opened casually enough to expose the service revolver holstered under his right arm.

“We’re all terribly sorry about Mr. Sullivan’s death,” St. John said.

Mason decided that the best approach was to make nice, put his cards on the table, and convince St. John that he wanted to cooperate.

“Thank you. We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice. We need your help sorting out several matters that Sullivan neglected to tell us about.”

“My office is always pleased to cooperate, Mr. Mason. What can I do for you?”

“We just found out that you’ve subpoenaed the firm’s files on Victor O’Malley and that we’re supposed to turn them over to you on Friday and that Sullivan and the firm are targets of your investigation. We need some idea of what you’re looking for and time to figure out what’s going on.”

St. John peered across the desk at Mason like a teacher whose student just told him that a squirrel climbed in his window and ate his homework.

“Mr. Mason, your late partner was O’Malley’s gatekeeper, and we’ve been banging on the gate for two years. Did you really think you could make a fortune off O’Malley and not step in his crap?”

Mason was done with nice.

“We don’t have the luxury of sitting around dreaming up conspiracies while sucking on the public tit. If Sullivan stepped on his dick, we’ll deal with it.”

“Stepping on his dick or your own may be the least of your concerns. Have the files here by five o’clock on Friday.”

“Why don’t we just go see the judge and ask him if he thinks an extension is appropriate since the person you served with the subpoena never told us about any of this and is now dead?”

St. John knew the judge would give them more time to respond and that he wouldn’t win any points for being a hard-ass.

“Very well, Mr. Mason. How much time do you want?”

“Thirty days.”

“Will that be all?”

“I want to know if you’re tapping our phones. Once the press gets hold of this, I want to reassure our clients that their communications remain confidential.”

“You’re not entitled to that information, Mr. Mason, and you know it. But, in the spirit of cooperation-Agent McNamara, what’s the status of our intercepts?”

“Holt handled the last round just before her partner was killed. Our authorizations expired after she quit. We don’t have anything in their offices.”

Holt’s name made no sense.

“Kelly Holt?”

“Yeah, why?” McNamara asked.

“She’s the sheriff investigating Sullivan’s death.”

“I wasn’t aware that she stayed in law enforcement,” St. John said as he glared at McNamara, reprimanding him for his oversight. “The paper said that Sullivan drowned.”

“He died during our firm retreat. I helped identify the body. That’s all I know. We’ll have a response to the subpoena in a month.”

Mason was silent on the walk back to the office, trying to piece together fragments that didn’t match. Sandra waited to interrupt his thoughts until they were in the conference room, surrounded by the O’Malley files.

“Are you going to tell me what Kelly Holt has to do with Sullivan’s death or do I have to use my knife?” No response. “Lou, it’s a very sharp knife.”

“Do you believe in coincidences?”

“No. I believe in chaos.”

“O’Malley, Sullivan, and the firm are being investigated by the FBI. Sullivan dies and the sheriff who is investigating his death just happens to be an ex-FBI agent who just happened to be in charge of wiretapping O’Malley. Coincidence or chaos?”

He didn’t add that the sheriff didn’t tell him she’d been involved in the investigation. He hadn’t had time to sort through that piece.

“Chaos-the rule of unintended consequences. Seemingly unconnected events run headlong into each other. It’s like God is using people to play bumper cars. Sullivan drowned. Where’s the connection?”

“Sullivan was murdered. That’s not what I would call an unintended consequence.”

Maggie Boylan and Phil Rosa pushed the door open, wheeling in a portable workstation with a PC, printer, paper, legal pads, calculators, and a lifetime supply of Post-its. Mason and Sandra exchanged looks, agreeing to table the discussion of murder.

“Do you have any idea how many trees will die before we’re done with the paper in this case?” Rosa asked.

“I don’t care,” Mason said, “as long as you finish reviewing O’Malley’s files by Sunday night. I want an analysis of all of the transactions we’ve handled for O’Malley. I want to know what each deal involved, who financed it, what changed hands, and the names of all past and present Sullivan amp; Christenson attorneys who worked on them.”

“We could really use a legal assistant to set up a database for all that information. We’ve got the software to sort the data, but we need someone who uses it all the time if we’re going to be ready for O’Malley on Monday,” Maggie Boylan said.

“Sorry, we’ve got to keep this team as small as possible. I can’t take the chance of leaks.”

“She’s right,” Sandra said. “There are thousands of documents to review. Diane Farrell was Sullivan’s paralegal. There can’t be anything in these files she doesn’t already know.”

Phil stiffened at the suggestion. “That woman is the biggest pain in the ass in four states. If she wasn’t screwing Sullivan, she had him by the short hairs some other way. Sullivan let her get away with murder. No one can stand to work with her.”

“For Christ’s sake, Phil,” Maggie said, “can’t we wait until the body’s cold before we start shitting all over the grave? She knows this stuff inside and out. Besides, I’d rather have her where I can watch her than wonder what she’s doing to get even for being left out.”

Mason gave in. “All right, I’m convinced by this underwhelming endorsement. Bring her in, but tell her she’s out of a job if she can’t keep her mouth shut. Sandra and I will be in Sullivan’s office.”