Motion to Kill

CHAPTER EIGHTY

Diane punctured her jugular vein. The cops did what they could and the paramedics did more. She lived long enough to be pronounced dead in the emergency room.

The clouds were breaking up when Pamela and Mason left the hospital. It had been two weeks since he had identified Sullivan’s body at the lake. For the first time, the air was clear.

Pamela thanked him for the ride, for everything, she said. Mason promised to check in on her, but it was a promise neither of them wanted him to keep. It’s too hard to become friends after you’ve been stripped naked.

Mason believed that Pamela must have suspected Diane. At least that she was Sullivan’s daughter. Yet she allowed their relationship to become dangerously intimate. Perhaps had even encouraged it.

He’d read that some people stay in abusive relationships because they think they deserve it. Maybe Pamela knew what she was doing with Diane-punishing herself for taking Sullivan from Diane and her mother. He couldn’t wait for Jerry Springer to do a show on women who sleep with their stepdaughters who kill their husbands to get even with their fathers for abandoning them.

Sunday evening, Mason met Kelly at the airport. Other friends and lovers streamed past them, embracing one another, grabbing luggage, moving on. Mason and Kelly stood for a moment, holding hands, measuring where they were. She clutched him briefly, brushed his lips, and said she was glad he was all right. The intensity of the last two weeks had locked them together. Both sensed that the grip of those days was loosening. They had a quiet dinner, dancing small steps around the future.

“Blues is buying a bar,” he told her. “It comes complete with office space upstairs. I’m thinking about becoming his first tenant.”

“That’s great. Really great. You’ll be happier on your own.”

Mason knew that she was talking as much about herself as about him. She’d buried her partner, exhumed his memory, and had to bury him again. Another part of her had been lost when her cabin burned.

After dinner, they drove to the Plaza and parked in front of their fountain. The top was down on the TR6. The air was close, thick with humidity. Bugs danced in the fountain’s spray. Cars filled with teenagers sauntered past, rap and rock bellowing from open windows. Mason and Kelly smiled ruefully at each other, realizing that the magic had been in the moment, not the fountain, and the moment had passed.

Mason read her thoughts. “Nick was dirty, Kelly. That was about him, not about you.”

She sighed deeply, rubbed her hands in her lap, and nodded. “I didn’t see it,” she said. “That is about me.” A thin tear leaked from the corner of her eye. Mason reached to wipe it away. She took his hand. “The cabin was my hiding place, Lou. I hid everything there, including my feelings for Nick, for you, and for myself. I’ve got to rebuild before I can decide what I want.”

Mason dropped her at her hotel. Kelly stepped from the car, leaned back in, and kissed him. He watched her walk away until she disappeared through the revolving door.

The next day, he returned Vernon’s Bible to him. He was unchanged. A new nurse was caring for him and told Mason that he could last for years in that condition. He almost promised that he’d come back to visit, but he was tired of making promises meant to be broken.

When he got home, he called Webb Chapman. “Any news on the safety hooks?”

“I was getting ready to call you. The test results came back today. Several of the hooks have blood on them. One of the blood samples matches Tommy’s blood type. You need DNA tests to prove it was Tommy’s blood, and that’s not cheap to do.”

Mason quickly calculated how much money he had left from his insurance settlement. “Do it.”

“Have you told Tommy?”

“No. I want to be certain first.”

Blues on Broadway opened the week after Labor Day. It was a straight-ahead joint. No cutesy memorabilia from funkier times. A rectangular-shaped mahogany bar dominated the center. Glasses hung in racks from the ceiling. Single-malt Scotch got premier billing on the shelves behind the bar. Black leather booths lined the walls, and a handful of matching round tables dotted the floor.

Blues’s Steinway grand piano, its ebony wood buffed to a high sheen, sat a foot off the floor on a stage barely big enough for it and the big man who played it. Mason had an office upstairs and a part-time job tending bar.

Sandra Connelly dropped in one afternoon as he was wiping glasses. Her auburn hair was shaped, shortened, and highlighted for fall. A glistening diamond hung from the center of a gold necklace. She stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the sunshine.

“Come on in,” Mason told her. “You can sign up to be a charter regular.”

“What do I get? My own chair at the bar?”

“Any seat that isn’t taken.”

“Suits me. Give me a glass of your best house wine. And don’t open a fresh gallon on my account.”

Sandra had been at the center of a fierce recruiting battle among the major law firms in town. She didn’t discourage the soft exaggerations of her exploits by the media and leveraged her high profile into a corner office and a fat paycheck. Mason admired her ambition but didn’t envy her. He poured and she sipped.

“Victor O’Malley just wrote my firm a check for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Still paying for work his lawyers didn’t do.”

“Cute, for a bartender. This one is the real deal, Lou. I’m his lawyer. St. John is still going after him.”

“Any word on Vic Jr.?”

Sandra turned serious. “No. The cops assumed that Camaya killed him. His father wants me to keep looking. I came by to tell you something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Camaya escaped from the prison hospital last night. It looks like he had outside help.”

“I’m not worried. Jimmie and I have an understanding.”

“All the same, watch your back. Are you going to spend the rest of your life tending bar?”

“Nope. I’m just helping Blues. The DNA tests on one of the Philpott safety hooks turned up Tommy’s blood. I’m going to file a motion for a new trial next week. Then I’m going to hang my shingle out in an office upstairs and see what comes through the door.”

“Just remember, Lou. My door’s always open.” She left him a nice tip.

Mason wandered upstairs to his office. Tuffy was curled on a rug next to his desk chair, waiting for her ears to be scratched.

He settled into his chair, swiveled around to look out his windows onto Broadway. His office was in a part of town the mayor described as “in transition.” He felt the same way. There was nothing fancy about the office-just the basics. Blues had given him an office-warming gift. It was a metronome. He told Mason to just listen to the beat. It was good advice.