Motion to Kill

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Mason felt weirdly self-conscious riding the elevator up to the office he’d been thrown out of the day before. There weren’t many places he had been thrown out of, especially ones that he wanted to leave anyway.

Yesterday, he had been angry and embarrassed. Today, he was angry and scared. He half hoped to be met by a welcome-back committee of former partners, led by Scott saying it had all been a mistake. It reminded him of kids who fantasized about their divorced parents getting remarried. His fantasy dissolved when a security guard wouldn’t let him off the elevator. He rode back down and walked outside looking for a can to kick.

Mason needed to talk to Scott. He still believed in the rule of reason, and he still trusted in the loyalty of friends, even when the friend had cut him off at the knees. He’d been trained to be a creative problem solver, but his training was for a different game, and he was running out of patience.

It was only eleven a.m. If Scott stuck to his routine, he’d spend the noon hour in the pool at the Mid-America Club, a couple of blocks from the office. Mason decided to wait for him there.

The Mid-America Club was a venerable Kansas City institution, which meant that it hadn’t been decorated since Eisenhower was president and didn’t accept Jews, blacks, and women as members until it didn’t have a choice.

Scott was the lone lunch-hour swimmer. His normal stroke was powerful, controlled, and precise, but today he was beating the water. Mason waited for him to surface at the shallow end. Five laps later, Scott stopped, pulled his goggles above his eyebrows, and shook his head at Mason.

“What do you want, Lou?” He sounded tired, as though he’d been worn down by something tougher than a mile swim.

“Answers. What’s going on with you and O’Malley?”

“You’re out of it. Keep it that way. It’s for your own good.”

“Okay. Let’s try something else. Why did Sullivan revoke his will?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know. I checked his file yesterday. He executed a codicil six months ago revoking all prior wills.”

“He never said a word.”

“Have it your way. Somebody shot up my car and ransacked my house last night. I’m starting to take this personally. You owe it to me to tell me what in the hell is going on!”

Scott didn’t answer. He shook the water from his face, wiped his bloodshot eyes, and pulled his goggles down, pushing off and clawing at the water as he kicked away from Mason.

Leaving the club, Mason grabbed a sandwich at the food court in another downtown office tower. He suppressed his fear of a repeat of last night’s drive-by shooting with the myth that there was safety in a crowd. He didn’t think Camaya would risk a shootout between McDonald’s and Panda Express.

He kept a watch for people shooting at him from speeding cars while he walked to the county courthouse. He checked the court file on O’Malley’s case to see if anything new had been filed. Nothing. It was the same story at the federal courthouse with St. John’s lawsuit. He decided to pay another unscheduled visit to St. John.

“Mr. Mason, you’re going to have to learn to make an appointment just like everybody else,” St. John said as Mason walked past his secretary.

McNamara was in his usual spot on the couch. Mason was beginning to wonder if he slept in a kennel at the foot of St. John’s bed every night.

“Look, Franklin, I don’t feel much like everybody else lately. I’d like some information.”

“Gee, Counselor, don’t you like getting shot at?” McNamara grinned, enjoying his keen wit.

“Can’t you housebreak this guy?” McNamara started to get up, but St. John pointed to the couch. “Good boy, Gene, that’s a good boy.”

“Mr. Mason, don’t press your luck. You may not have enough to go around, from what I understand.”

“I don’t understand any of this. Maybe you can educate me.”

“You’ve obviously aggravated the wrong person. Given your charming demeanor, I know you find that hard to believe.”

“What do you know about Jimmie Camaya?”

McNamara’s ears pricked up. Mason pictured him with his tongue out, humping St. John’s leg.

“No one’s ever been able to pin anything on him. He enjoys a rather celebrated reputation. If he’s involved, you’re in way over your head. We can give you protection if you’ll tell us what you know.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want, except that I’m dumber than dirt. Kelly Holt thinks he’s the guy who shot up my car last night.”

“If Camaya was shooting, he most assuredly wasn’t aiming at your car. My reports are that Holt returned fire. He’s not used to that.”

“Does he do floors and windows too?”

“I heard about your house. My sympathies. Such a violation. I assume that whoever did that and Camaya have the same employer. Why are you attracting all this attention?”

“I got into this mess when Scott Daniels asked me to check the firm’s exposure from Sullivan’s relationship with O’Malley. It’s been downhill since then.”

“Help us with that and maybe we can help you.”

Mason considered the implications of the offer. St. John thought Mason could help him nail O’Malley and the firm. Mason had mixed emotions on the subject. He didn’t like the idea of being a moving target. But he couldn’t get excited about putting himself in St. John’s hands.

“Thanks for your time. I’ll think it over.”

Mason tried the county courthouse again in the hopes that he might run into Kelly at the public health department. The clerk told him that he had missed her by an hour.

He started to call her when he realized his cell phone was on silent and he’d missed a message from her yelling at him for leaving without his police escort. There was also a message from Blues that he had retrieved his briefcase. He hung up and called his landline at home, checking his messages. There were three hang-ups. He couldn’t think of anyone who would call and not leave a message. Unless they just wanted to be certain he wasn’t home.