Motion to Kill

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

On the way to Kansas City, Mason scanned every tractor-trailer rig they passed, looking for Sandra, alternating between feeling guilty for goading her into leaving and relieved that she was gone. When he felt guilty, he kept his eyes open for rape victims lying abandoned on the shoulder of the highway. When he felt relieved, he concentrated on what he would do next.

Blues left him to his thoughts until they reached the southern edge of Overland Park, the biggest of Kansas City’s suburban bedrooms.

“You make up your mind yet?” Blues asked.

“About what?”

“Whether you want to let trouble keep finding you or whether you want to start running the show.”

“I’m tired of running-that’s why we came back. I’ve got a short list-Pamela Sullivan, Scott Daniels, and Angela Molina. You got any preferences?”

“You’ve been set up. Scott picked you to investigate the firm because he figured he could control you. When you picked Sandra to help you, he knew that he was screwed.”

“There’s a big difference between trying to control the investigation and committing a murder.”

“One’s the beginning and the other’s the end. When Scott found out you had the disks, he told the wrong people. Maybe he knew what he was doing and maybe he didn’t. Either way, you’d have been just as dead.”

Mason didn’t want to confront the possibility that Scott would let him be killed. He could live with the O’Malleys being crooks. He could handle some unknown bad guy sending a slimeball like Camaya to punch his clock. These were people he didn’t know or care about. They presented problems that he would find a way to solve. But betrayal by a friend was another story. He was loyal to his friends and expected no less of a commitment in return. It seemed a modest standard in a world too often covered with shifting sands.

They stopped at a sporting goods store, where Blues bought two boxes of.45-caliber ammunition.

“Scott has a lot of questions to answer,” Mason said when they got back in the car. “He was in on the fixtures deals from the beginning. But he wouldn’t know what rock to turn over to find Camaya, so he’s got to be reporting to someone higher up.”

“If he’s scared enough, he might talk to us,” Blues said.

“Then we’ll give him a chance.”

Mason dialed Scott’s home number. His wife answered.

“Gloria, it’s Lou Mason. Is Scott around?”

She didn’t answer at first. When she did, she struggled to keep her composure. “No-Lou. He’s been working late-every night.”

“Friday nights too? You think he’s still downtown?”

“He called a little while ago-and said he was going for a swim and before he came home.”

“I’ll try him there. If I miss him, tell him I called, okay?”

“Lou-what’s happening? Will we be all right?”

She started to cry. He remembered the dead, flat look in Scott’s eyes the last time he saw him and thought again about what Scott had done to him. Mason owed Scott nothing, and he wouldn’t lie to her.

“I don’t know, Gloria,” he said and hung up.

“Any luck?”

“Not home. His wife is on the edge.”

“They have any kids?”

“Yeah. Three.” Then Mason felt sick as he remembered one of those loose threads, the elusive piece of the puzzle. “And the oldest is diabetic. Let’s try the Mid-America Club. Maybe we can catch him while he’s still wet.”

When Blues stopped in front of the Mid-America Club, he turned to Mason. “You got a plan? Or you just going to ask him to write it out nice and neat for you?”

“I’ll ask nicely, but he’s going to write it down.”

“This isn’t a game. You know that?”

“You forget I already killed someone?”

“Just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.” He opened the glove compartment and removed a blue-steel revolver. “It’s a Sig Sauer.45 caliber,” he explained as he loaded the clip, slid the safety to off, and handed it to Mason. “Just in case he doesn’t understand nice.”

Mason looked at Blues and the gun. A freak blow to a stranger trying to shoot him was one thing. Hiding in the woods with a shotgun to protect himself against a killer was doable. Pointing a gun at a friend, even one who’d betrayed him, was in a different league.

“Listen to me, Lou. Nobody is who you thought they were-at least not anymore. Blood changes everybody-there aren’t any rules. Don’t use it if you don’t have to. But don’t take the chance you won’t need it. I’ll catch up to you.”

Mason got out and stood in front of the revolving-door entrance to the club, shirt untucked to cover the gun stuck in his waist, pressed flat against his belly and pointed at his crotch. He was more afraid of tripping than anything else.

As the door spun around depositing him inside, Mason began to fear something else-his own anger. Knowing that someone wanted him dead scared him at first and still did. But his anger balanced his fear, giving him a chance to do what he had to if he was going to live. And that made him afraid of who he would be if he did survive. The gun was fast becoming an easy answer. Mason’s growing sense of the inevitability of that answer-and his acceptance of it-was terrifying. Blues was right. Nobody was who he thought they were anymore, including him.