Motion to Kill

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The Ward Parkway Episcopal Church was a massive limestone cathedral more suited to the Old World than to Kansas City. It was filled with several hundred mourners, many of whom were attorneys paying their last respects before picking off Sullivan amp; Christenson’s clients. Somber greetings and heartfelt condolences couldn’t hide their burgeoning appetites.

Mason saw his aunt Claire signing the guest book when he walked into the church. She was tall and big boned. She considered her size an advantage. There was nothing diminutive about her, in either appearance or demeanor. He caught her eye when she turned around and she nodded in reply, waiting for him to make his way through the line and add his name to the book.

“Thanks for coming,” he told her.

“I didn’t know the man, but he was your partner, so I decided to show the family flag.”

An older woman employed by the firm as a secretary interrupted their conversation and embraced Mason. “He’s gone to a better place, to paradise,” she said.

“I never knew a paradise that didn’t have a snake in it,” Claire said after the woman peeled herself away.

“That’s not a heaven-bound theology.”

“So what? I’m not heaven bound. Just plant me in the ground and call it a day. If I do enough in this life, I don’t much care about the next. And, by the way, next time your senior partner dies, tell me before I read about it in the paper.”

“Sorry. Things have been a little wild.”

“The paper said the police are investigating. What’s going on?”

Mason leaned into her to muffle his response. “It looks like he was murdered.”

“By whom?”

“The official position is person or persons unknown. Only the living are suspected.”

“Including you?”

“Including me.” Mason spotted Sandra Connelly heading for the seats cordoned off for members of the firm. “I’ll call you later.”

Mason joined Sandra in the third row, behind the family. The Sullivans had no children. Pamela, Diane Farrell at her side, and an array of anonymous siblings, in-laws, and cousins made their black-clothed entrance as the congregation silenced itself.

The minister invoked a boilerplate eulogy praising Sullivan’s many civic contributions, his devotion to family and church, and the tragic untimeliness of his death. When he left Sullivan one miracle short of sainthood, Mason figured they’d never met. Harlan Christenson spoke briefly but movingly of their years of practice and the brotherly bond that had held them together.

“What a crock!” Sandra whispered. “Harlan needed Sullivan, but Sullivan would have dropped him like a bad habit if he could have found a way.”

Mason turned toward her, but his eyes found Kelly Holt slipping into an empty seat across the aisle. She smiled at him as she sat down before looking away. He kept staring.

“My mother always told me it’s not polite to flirt at funerals. Who is she?” Sandra asked.

“Kelly Holt, the FBI agent who quit the bureau and landed in the Ozarks. What in the hell is she doing here?”

“Put your tongue back in your mouth before you ask her.”

“No subtly, huh?”

“Zero. And it doesn’t do much for my ego either.”

“Remember what your mother told you.”

Christenson finished, the organ played, and the congregation stood as the family followed the casket out of the church. Mason and Sandra left to join the procession to the cemetery and had reached their cars when Kelly caught up with them.

“Hello, Counselor. Got room for one more?”

Sandra stuck out her right hand. “I’m Sandra Connelly, one of Lou’s partners. We’re running the firm’s investigation into Sullivan’s death. Lou tells me you’re handling the Ozark end of things.”

“I wasn’t aware of the firm’s investigation. Perhaps we can help each other.”

Mason opened the passenger door to his car before their serve and volley moved to the net.

“I’ll just follow in my car,” Sandra said, slamming her door closed.