Motion to Kill

CHAPTER SEVEN

Kelly downshifted as they rolled into the center of the county seat, Starlight, Missouri. The Pope County Courthouse was a classic colonial edifice at least sixty years old. It rose from the center of the town square, with Missouri limestone columns guarding the entrances on all four sides. A Civil War cannon stood resolutely on the south quadrangle. Neatly manicured grass, still lush in spite of the midsummer heat, fanned out from the foundation, flanked by concrete sidewalks.

The courthouse reminded Mason of Tommy Douchant’s case. It had been his job to do well and do good for Tommy, and he had done neither. His slogan had never proven to be so empty. Afterward, he went over every detail of the trial with Claire.

“Do it over again,” she told him.

“I can’t get a new trial without new evidence. You know that.”

“Then get the evidence and quit feeling sorry for yourself and Tommy. I can’t stand pathetic.”

He promised himself that he would. It had been four months since Tommy’s trial and three months since he’d started at Sullivan amp; Christenson. He’d discussed the case at the first partners’ meeting he attended after joining the firm. No one was interested in investing time and money in a case that had already been lost. His promise was gathering dust.

Riley Brooks met them in the office of the register of deeds. He was well past six feet, with a skin-and-bones frame that made him appear even taller. A ring of gray hair circled his bald head like that of an ill-kempt tonsured monk. He sat on the edge of a table, his high-top sneakers tapping the linoleum.

“What’ll it be, Kelly? Drug smugglers? Terrorists?” he asked, rubbing his hands together, hoping for both.

Kelly feigned irritation, but her eyes said she was glad to see him.

“Just property ownership records, Riley. I’ll save the bad guys for regular office hours.”

Riley, disappointed but dutiful, dug up the plans for the coves that included Sullivan’s house and the four coves between it and the dam, which was the direction Pamela Sullivan had last seen her husband heading. The legal descriptions enabled him to print out the names of the owners from the county’s computer system. Reminding Kelly to lock up when they were done, Riley left them alone in the courthouse.

“If we divide the records, we’ll be done faster,” Mason suggested.

Kelly tore the printout in half. “Recognize any names?”

Mason recognized one name and wasn’t surprised when he saw it. He was willing to dodge her other questions, but he wouldn’t lie to her.

“Just one, SOM, Inc.”

“Who or what is that?”

“A company owned by Richard Sullivan and Victor O’Malley.”

“I don’t suppose O’Malley is one of those dangerously unhappy clients.”

“He pays his bills on time.”

“Thanks. I was beginning to think I’d have to torture you for information.”

“Does this mean I get a deputy’s badge?”

“Not yet. I don’t want the responsibility if you injure yourself pinning it on. Let’s go see if anyone is home at SOM’s condo.”

The condominium was two coves away from Sullivan’s. The condo was part of a garden-style project with two units on each of three floors. SOM’s was on the top floor. No one answered when they knocked. Kelly and Mason walked around to the back and peered through the sliding door on the balcony. They were about to give up when a woman appeared on the balcony of the other top-floor condo.

“It’s about time you people showed up. I’ve been complaining for months.”

She was short with the kind of fat that begins at the ankles and ends just below the ears. Her sundress billowed from her shoulders like a two-man tent.

“I’m Sheriff Holt. What have you been complaining about?”

“I know who you are, honey! I read the papers. Who’s your boyfriend?” She ran her eyes over Mason, shaking her head, and whispered loud enough to make certain he heard. “Nice looking but soft. Stick to the local talent, Sheriff. Ozark men got better staying power.”

Kelly swallowed her laughter and introduced Mason. Velma Marie Fouche invited them in for a cup of coffee and conversation, both of which were served in a living room furnished with one of the few remaining knotty-pine pit groups.

“I’m sorry, Velma, but I haven’t been told about your complaints. Bring me up to date.”

Velma warmed to Kelly’s easy manner. Mason was learning that she had a style for every occasion.

“It’s the women. Every week there’s a new batch. It’s disgusting!”

“Tell me about the women.”

“Oh, you know. They’re young and pretty and bouncy.”

“Who are they with?”

“Men old enough to be their fathers!”

“Have they bothered you?”

“Nope.”

Kelly smiled. “Then what’s the problem?”

“My husband. He sees these sweet young things and gets ideas. Won’t leave me alone, and I need my rest.”

Mason choked on his coffee, but Kelly didn’t miss a beat.

“I’ll see to it that we look into your complaints. Did you see any of these people last night?”

“Well, I couldn’t sleep, so I went out on the balcony for some air, and I seen two of ‘em walk down to the dock and get in a boat.”

“What time was it?”

“Close to midnight.”

“What kind of boat?”

“One of them powerboats, like the skiers use. Can’t stand ‘em-they’re too loud and they scare the fish off.”

“Can you describe the people you saw?”

“She was a long-legged blonde. Busty and crawlin’ all over him like ants at a picnic. He was one of the regulars. I couldn’t see him too well, but I recognized him from all the times I seen him here. Jockey size and suckin’ in his gut tryin’ to look sharp.”

“Did they come back?”

“Just her. Maybe an hour later. She was here and gone.”

Velma didn’t remember anything else. Kelly thanked her for the coffee and her help, gave her a business card, and told her to call if she remembered something more. They tried the rest of the units. No one else had seen the blonde or her jockey-sized companion.

“Sullivan fits the description of the man Velma saw,” Kelly said as they drove back to Buckhorn. “Does Cara Trent fit the description of the woman?”

“As much as any good-looking blonde.”

“Why was Sullivan staying at the hotel if he and his wife had a house at the lake, and he and O’Malley owned that condo?”

“The retreat is supposed to build camaraderie. Can’t do that if we don’t all stay in the same place.”

“Maybe, but so far it doesn’t sound like Sullivan spent much time in his room. Do you suppose that Victor O’Malley knew that Sullivan used their condo to cheat on his wife?”

Mason wasn’t surprised that Kelly kept changing the subject. He used the same technique when questioning a witness. It kept the witness from getting too comfortable with the questions.

“I don’t suppose anything, but O’Malley doesn’t strike me as someone who would care.”

“So why would O’Malley want Sullivan dead?”

“You don’t give up, do you? You can’t decide whether to arrest everyone in the firm or everyone the firm represents.”

“People get killed for a lot of reasons, including not telling the police what they need to know soon enough to save themselves.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Mason said.