Motion to Kill

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

The rumbling growl of an engine in low gear scattered his thoughts. Mason resisted the urge to run for cover, not believing Camaya could find him in the wilderness.

The engine belonged to Kelly’s maroon, middle-aged Chevy pickup. She swung the truck in a tight arc, braking so that the Chevy’s nose was pointed downhill.

She climbed out, took four brisk strides to the porch, folded her arms across her chest, and glared at him. The dust hadn’t settled around the truck tires. She was ready to pick up where she’d left off last night when Blues opened the cabin door. He was wearing a ratty T-shirt and boxer shorts and was engaged in the male morning scratching ritual when Kelly turned her high-intensity eyes on him.

“Morning, Sheriff,” he said. “Glad you could join us for breakfast-hope you brought enough for everybody.”

With an easy stretch and a wide yawn, he pivoted half a turn and slid back inside.

“Well, you can take the cop out of the country but you can’t take the country-”

“Save it, Counselor! It’s going to take a lot more than smart-ass punch lines to clean up this mess.”

Kelly was back in uniform, body and soul. She had a real knack for spoiling magic moments. Mason pulled himself up from the love seat and followed her inside.

Blues had brewed coffee, and the aroma filtered into the bedroom, bringing Sandra back out with it. Mason had never developed a taste for coffee and still felt like a kid when he was the only one sucking on apple juice. Since the cabin didn’t have a fully stocked minibar, he rinsed his mouth with tap water while the others drank their attitude adjustment.

They each stood their ground in the cramped kitchen, no one talking, sorting their muddled feelings for each other and their circumstances. Kelly stood at parade rest, shoulders drawn back, fingers of both hands wrapped around her mug, eyes fixed on a watermark on the wall. Blues hunched over the sink, humming something unidentifiable under his breath, pausing only long enough to take an occasional sip. Sandra lounged against the refrigerator, drawing invisible circles on the hardwood floor with her bare toes. Mason filled the doorway between the kitchen and the den, bottling them up. Steam rose from coffee cups. Nothing else moved.

“Kelly-,” Blues began, his back still to her. “Lou and Sandra were in a jam. We had to get them out of there before Camaya came back.”

“Goddammit, Bluestone! You were a cop! How could you be so stupid? You let him run around until he almost gets himself and Sandra killed and then you leave the scene of a homicide! And just for kicks, you drop the whole mess in my lap!”

Blues placed his cup on the Formica countertop and watched a pair of squirrels chase each other in the grass.

“You called it in, didn’t you?”

“The body, the one you called Julio? You knew I would the minute you told me what happened.”

“Kansas City cops or the feds?”

“Kansas City-it’s their jurisdiction.”

“They told you someone had already called it in.”

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“Because I called it in from the car. You call them back this morning to find out what went down?”

“Yes.” The edge was gone from her answer.

Blues turned around, facing Kelly, and raised himself onto the counter. “And they told you they checked it out and didn’t find a body.”

Kelly’s face softened as she nodded her reply.

“Wait a minute!” Mason said. “I killed that son of a bitch and his body disappears?”

He dropped onto the lone kitchen chair, a metal-backed model with torn, red vinyl upholstery.

“I told you Camaya would clean up his own mess,” Blues said to him. Turning back to Kelly, he continued, “Camaya was coming back to finish up with Sandra and Lou. If the cops got there first, it was Jimmie’s problem. If he cleaned house first, it stayed private. Either way, Sandra and Lou had to get out of town.”

Satisfied for the moment, Kelly changed course. “Camaya isn’t the only one looking for you, Lou. Gene McNamara called first thing this morning wanting to know if I knew where you were.”

“What did Fido want with me?”

“Victor O’Malley’s son is missing. McNamara wants to talk with you about that. I told him I would let you know the next time I saw you.”

Mason knew that if he talked to McNamara, he would have to tell him all about last night. Body or no body, he’d killed a man. He knew it was self-defense, but he also knew that he wasn’t ready to talk to McNamara about it. He’d probably end up on the receiving end of one of B.J. Moore’s comforting chats. Trouble was, if he didn’t tell McNamara what he knew about Junior’s disappearance, he could be in more trouble for obstructing justice. While that sounded fairly puny compared to homicide, it appealed to his lawyerly sense of duty. Since McNamara had sent his question through Kelly, he decided to use her for the reply.

“Tell him to look for a black Ford Escalade. Last time I saw Junior, one of Camaya’s boys was loading him in the back like a sack of groceries.”

“I don’t suppose you noticed the tag number?”

“It’s an Illinois plate,” Sandra said. “I caught the first three numbers-735-before they put me in the car.”

Kelly looked at Sandra, unable to thank her for the information or fire a shot across her bow. She was saving her ammunition for Mason. She wrote the information down without a reply before stuffing her notepad into her shirt pocket

“You’ll have to talk to him eventually; you know that.”

Anger takes a lot of energy to sustain, especially if the other side won’t fight back. She’d had all night to work herself up. Mason hoped that her anger was partly out of concern for him. That, plus the realization that he’d screwed up big-time and was lucky to be alive, kept him from firing back.

“Yeah, I know. Only not yet. You can tell him everything I know, which isn’t much, and his investigation won’t be stalled.”