Motion to Kill

CHAPTER FIFTY

“Fuck you! What the fuck you think you’re doing?”

Sandra pushed her way into the bathroom and knelt at Julio’s body, searching for a pulse.

“He’s dead,” she said. “How’d you do it?”

Mason stood. “I hit him with the tank lid.”

“I don’t fucking believe it. You killed the son of a bitch with a toilet!”

Blues shook his head and walked out. Mason and Sandra followed him.

“Let’s get out of here before Camaya comes back,” she said.

“They took Sandra’s car. Where’s yours?” Blues asked as they stepped outside into the driving rain.

“In an alley. What do we do about Julio?”

“Let Camaya clean up his own mess. Follow me back downtown. We’ll leave your car in a tow zone.”

“Why do we have to leave it anywhere?” Mason asked.

“You’re getting out of town. You can’t go back to your place. The cops will tow your car and at least you’ll know where to find it.”

Mason parked the TR6 in a handicapped spot in front of city hall and got in Blues’s car, smiling when he saw his briefcase. Blues had made good on his promise to retrieve it from Mason’s Acura.

“Thanks for that,” Mason said, pointing to the briefcase. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I was minding my own business, waiting for you to show up for dinner, when Sandra called and told me what happened. I swear to Jesus, both of you are too stupid to live! What in the hell were you thinking? Never mind. I know the answer to that question. You weren’t thinking!”

They knew better than to argue so they kept quiet as he wound through a maze of inner-city side streets, doubling back several times to make certain they weren’t followed, before finally reaching the interstate.

Wiped out by the post-adrenaline letdown, Mason closed his eyes, thinking about the fraternity of killers he’d joined. Camaya was a charter member. He’d just been initiated.

When he woke up, they were at the intersection of Highways 50 and 65 in Sedalia, Missouri. Blues turned south on Highway 65 in front of a sign that pointed to the Lake of the Ozarks.

Blues called Kelly, told her what had happened and that they were on their way to the lake. She met them at one a.m. on Highway 5 just after they crossed the Camden County line south of Laurie, Missouri.

Mason rode with her as she led Blues through the woods. Her stony silence told him all he needed to know. She crushed the one attempt he made at explaining with an attack on civilians who tried to play cops and robbers.

They stopped at a cabin so isolated and hidden that Mason half expected it to be a bed-and-breakfast run by the seven dwarfs. After handing out blankets, Kelly left, threatening more than promising to return in the morning.

They drew straws and Sandra won the only bedroom. Blues claimed the couch, and Mason got the wooden floor. Claire had always claimed that sleeping on a board was good for a bad back. Mason decided that she must have cheated and used a mattress. He woke up at first light, heard Blues snoring, and stepped outside.

The only log cabins he had ever seen were on bottles of maple syrup. Studying this one was easier than thinking about Julio.

Rough-hewn logs, sculpted at each end to mate with another log, were laid one on top of the other. Gaps between the logs were filled with mortar made from clay and mud. Windows and doors had been cut into the logs, each ninety-degree angle sharp and precise. The roof was made from split rails raised to a modest pitch that extended over the front porch, a limestone chimney on the south side adding a homey finish.

The cabin was set on the side of a hill in a clearing ringed by trees. The untamed grass formed a green belt roughly a hundred feet wide between the trees and the cabin. Long-stemmed purple stalks, sunflowers, and deep blue pansies painted the grass in a natural palate.

A fifty-gallon propane tank on the north side fueled the hot-water heater, kitchen appliances, and an electrical generator. Along with the bathroom, they were the only concessions to modern living.

Mason sat on the wooden bench on the front porch, letting the rising sun warm him as he relived last night. Hallmark has a card for almost every occasion. There’s one for birthdays, remembered or forgotten, comings and goings of all kinds, friends and loved ones gained or lost. There’s even one for Mother-in-Law’s Day, but he was certain there was no card for killing someone. After all, what would it say? Congrats on hitting the big one! Or maybe, The bigger they are, the harder they fall!

He was just tugging at the fringes. He didn’t know how this was going to feel now or in the future. He knew three things for certain. The first was that he had responded to the most basic instinct of survival. The second was that killing came more easily than he would have ever imagined possible. And the third was that the threat was still there.

Everything began with Sullivan’s death. Harlan’s murder and the latest efforts to add him to the obituary list connected events since then.

Sullivan had been poisoned, which is a chancy way to kill someone. The killer can’t be certain that the poison is going to be consumed or that the dose is sufficient for the size of the victim. Unless the poison acts instantly, there is always the possibility the victim will fall ill and get to a hospital before it’s too late.

Sullivan had been poisoned with insulin. According to the autopsy report, the reaction time can vary from a few hours to a few days. Even if the killer was present when Sullivan took the fatal dose, he or she could not have known where he would be when the stuff hit him.

Poisoning was like drawing to an inside straight when compared to the pat hand used with Harlan. His neck had been snapped like a dried branch. Nothing left to chance. Poisoners and neck snappers weren’t cut from the same cloth. The difference was enough to convince Mason there were two killers. Probably.

Someone in a black Escalade tried to run him off the road. The next time he saw it, Jimmie Camaya was shooting out a window at him. The last time he saw it, Vic Jr. was driving it but Camaya was in it. That was enough to convince him that there was a connection between the two killers. Probably.

He didn’t have a favorite on the short list of suspects he’d given Kelly. Pamela Sullivan had enough motives for a miniseries and probable access to insulin.

Without his own clients, Scott Daniels’s best chance of securing his future was to inherit Sullivan’s practice. Angela was squirming enough under Sullivan’s blackmail to risk bugging the offices. Either one-or both-could have rented a ski boat, met Sullivan at the condo, and poisoned him. As long as Sullivan agreed to sit still while they injected him with a fatal dose of insulin.

With the feds closing in, O’Malley may have decided Sullivan was the weak link in his defense-or maybe he really didn’t like paying for work that nobody did. He wasn’t at the lake when Sullivan was murdered, but he was the type who hired people to cut his grass, shovel his snow, and do his killing.

Even if one of them killed Sullivan, Mason couldn’t guess at a reason to kill Harlan or-better yet-to hire Camaya to kill him. What did he have that was worth killing for?

Mason thought about it as if he were preparing for trial. Putting a case together meant building a puzzle, tearing it apart, and putting it back together again until any jury can understand and believe it. No matter how many times he prepared a case, he always worried that he’d forgotten something that would unravel his case faster than a loose thread on a cheap suit. This case was all loose threads-each one leaving a hole when he pulled it out.