by Lee Goldberg
"Maybe not."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I want to reopen your case. But I've got to find evidence to convince the judge to give you a new trial."
"How are you going to do that?"
"Philpott cheated on his wife and she filed for divorce. I'll start with her. Maybe she's mad enough to tell me something that will help. After that, I don't know. I can't promise you anything, so don't get your hopes up. But I think it's worth a shot."
"Any hope is more than we've had for a while now. Do what you can."
Tommy pulled the six-pack up into his lap and rolled his wheelchair back up the ramp, his arms and shoulders flexing with the climb. When he reached the top, he turned and gave Mason a slight wave. Not even breathing hard, Mason thought. He smiled and returned the wave.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kate was sitting on Mason's front step, scratching Tuffy behind her ears, when Mason pulled into his driveway. Scott had been waiting for him the night before. He couldn't wait to see who would show up tomorrow. He didn't see Kate's car, which meant that she and the dog had walked from her apartment on the Plaza, about a mile away.
Tuffy liked to have the back of her ears scratched, and once the scratching started, she devoted herself to the sensation, refusing every distraction except for one—Mason. The dog was infatuated with him, which infuriated Kate. It was the reason Kate had stolen Tuffy when they split up. All of which he remembered with jealous clarity when he stepped from the car, clapped his hands twice, and caught Tuffy as she bounded into his arms.
"Never doubt a dog's devotion," Kate said with a spare smile as she joined them on the driveway.
Mason had the same reaction each time he saw her. He'd do it again even if it turned out the same way.
Tuffy finished licking Mason's chin and moved on to sniffing his shoes, pants, and crotch to confirm her master's identity. A squirrel jumped from a tree onto the driveway, daring Tuffy to give chase. She didn't disappoint.
"She's a very faithful bitch," Mason answered.
Kate shrugged off the irony in Mason's comment. He marveled at her ability to shrug off things and people. He attributed it to her disengagement gene. It was never more apparent than on the day she left the divorce papers on top of the sports section. Mason tracked her down at her office, where she ran a web-design company.
"What the hell is this?"
He slapped the papers on her desk. She'd looked up at him, her perfect black eyebrows arched over her luminous blue eyes. They were the same eyes he was drawn to the night they met. They were an arresting blue that took him into custody on the spot. Then they seemed electric. Now they were ice.
"I'm done. That's all."
"Excuse me. You're done? Don't I get a vote?"
Kate pushed back in her chair, folded her arms, and shook her head like a teacher whose student just didn't get it.
"No, Lou. You don't get a vote. Love isn't an election. You're either in or you're out, and I'm out. Out of love with you and out of the marriage."
She said it without rancor. It was the way it was. She had disengaged.
It may have been simple to her, but not to him. They had been married three years. The first had been erotic and ecstatic. The second had been quiet and comfortable. The third had been dead and boring. Mason called it a slump. Kate declared it a dead end.
Afterward, he read an article by a marriage expert who said that successful couples developed rituals that helped bind them together. They had none. But he knew they had needed more than a few minutes spent lingering over coffee to trade stories of the day. After the passion, there wasn't enough purpose. He had been wracked by the breakup. She seemed to have dismissed it. That was the part he never got, though when she snatched the dog, he wondered if it was really just so much water off a duck's back.
"I need for you to keep the dog for a while."
They watched Tuffy tree the squirrel. A moment later, Tuffy lost interest when Anna Karelson whistled at her from her front yard and held a dog biscuit in the air. Tuffy flew across the street.
Anna's husband, Jack, had run off with a nineteen-year-old file clerk in his office and then resurfaced, begging her to take him back. She changed the locks. Worst of all, she wouldn't let him have his TR6, which she kept locked in the garage. Anna waved at Mason as Tuffy bounded back to his side of the street.
He scratched her behind the ears. "Not that I'm complaining, but why?"
"I'll be out of town for a month on a road show."
"You're going into show business?"
Kate gave him an exasperated smirk. "My company is very hot right now. We're one of the best in our space and we're starting to get national accounts. I'm going to a dozen cities to meet with potential clients."
"Umm. Sounds thrilling. Better sign them up before you lose interest and move on to something else."
"Keep drinking from that bitter cup and you'll give yourself an ulcer. I'll pick up Tuffy when I get back."
She walked away without a backward glance, arms swinging with a hunter's purposeful stride.
"Not if I see you first," he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY
At ten o'clock Tuesday morning, Mason and Sandra Connelly emptied their pockets for the deputy marshals guarding the federal courthouse before heading to Franklin St. John's sixth-floor office. Mason did a double take when the deputy gave Sandra a claim check for a three-inch knife she carried in her purse.
"I collect sharp things," she said in response. "It's a hobby."
"Ever hear of stamps?"
"No edge to it," she said with a shrug as they walked to the elevator.
Franklin St. John was a small, spare man, vain enough to comb the few remaining filaments of hair across his bald head. A high, shiny forehead dropped off to a narrow, long nose, thin lips, and a pointed chin. His upper lip curled into a sneer as he greeted them with a smile. Mason couldn't tell if it was intentional or a cruel trick played by involuntary facial muscles. He didn't look like a nice man, and Mason bet his face was a disappointment but not a surprise to those who knew him.
St. John was a career prosecutor from a political family whose connections reached to the White House. Originally from Kansas City, he'd been an assistant U.S. attorney in Chicago. When the U.S. attorney position opened up in Kansas City, he got the job.
He stood behind a massive desk, flanked by the seal of the United States and the official picture of the president. Tall floor lamps behind his desk cast an artificial aura behind him.
St. John introduced them to Gene McNamara, the FBI agent who was his chief investigator. McNamara's face was beefy, with a drinker's hazy red-veined pattern across his nose and cheeks. He nodded perfunctorily at them and took up a station at the end of the sofa opposite St. John's desk, his coat opened casually enough to expose the service revolver holstered under his right arm.
"We're all terribly sorry about Mr. Sullivan's death," St. John said.
Mason decided that the best approach was to make nice, put his cards on the table, and convince St. John that he wanted to cooperate.
"Thank you. We appreciate you seeing us on such short notice. We need your help sorting out several matters that Sullivan neglected to tell us about."
"My office is always pleased to cooperate, Mr. Mason. What can I do for you?"
"We just found out that you've subpoenaed the firm's files on Victor O'Malley and that we're supposed to turn them over to you on Friday and that Sullivan and the firm are targets of your investigation. We need some idea of what you're looking for and time to figure out what's going on."
St. John peered across the desk at Mason like a teacher whose student just told him that a squirrel climbed in his window and ate his homework.
"Mr. Mason, your late partner was O'Malley's gatekeeper, and we've been banging on the gate for two years. Did you really think you could make a fortune off O'Malley and not step in his crap?"
Mason was done with nice.
"We don't have the luxury of sitting around dreaming up conspiracies while sucking on the public tit. If Sullivan stepped on his dick, we'll deal with it."
"Stepping on his dick or your own may be the least of your concerns. Have the files here by five o'clock on Friday."
"Why don't we just go see the judge and ask him if he thinks an extension is appropriate since the person you served with the subpoena never told us about any of this and is now dead?"
St. John knew the judge would give them more time to respond and that he wouldn't win any points for being a hard-ass.
"Very well, Mr. Mason. How much time do you want?"
"Thirty days."
"Will that be all?"
"I want to know if you're tapping our phones. Once the press gets hold of this, I want to reassure our clients that their communications remain confidential."
"You're not entitled to that information, Mr. Mason, and you know it. But, in the spirit of cooperation—Agent McNamara, what's the status of our intercepts?"
"Holt handled the last round just before her partner was killed. Our authorizations expired after she quit. We don't have anything in their offices."
Holt's name made no sense.
"Kelly Holt?"
"Yeah, why?" McNamara asked.
"She's the sheriff investigating Sullivan's death."
"I wasn't aware that she stayed in law enforcement," St. John said as he glared at McNamara, reprimanding him for his oversight. "The paper said that Sullivan drowned."
"He died during our firm retreat. I helped identify the body. That's all I know. We'll have a response to the subpoena in a month."
Mason was silent on the walk back to the office, trying to piece together fragments that didn't match. Sandra waited to interrupt his thoughts until they were in the conference room, surrounded by the O'Malley files.
"Are you going to tell me what Kelly Holt has to do with Sullivan's death or do I have to use my knife?" No response. "Lou, it's a very sharp knife."
"Do you believe in coincidences?"
"No. I believe in chaos."
"O'Malley, Sullivan, and the firm are being investigated by the FBI. Sullivan dies and the sheriff who is investigating his death just happens to be an ex–FBI agent who just happened to be in charge of wiretapping O'Malley. Coincidence or chaos?"
He didn't add that the sheriff didn't tell him she'd been involved in the investigation. He hadn't had time to sort through that piece.
"Chaos—the rule of unintended consequences. Seemingly unconnected events run headlong into each other. It's like God is using people to play bumper cars. Sullivan drowned. Where's the connection?"
"Sullivan was murdered. That's not what I would call an unintended consequence."
Maggie Boylan and Phil Rosa pushed the door open, wheeling in a portable workstation with a PC, printer, paper, legal pads, calculators, and a lifetime supply of Post-its. Mason and Sandra exchanged looks, agreeing to table the discussion of murder.
"Do you have any idea how many trees will die before we're done with the paper in this case?" Rosa asked.
"I don't care," Mason said, "as long as you finish reviewing O'Malley's files by Sunday night. I want an analysis of all of the transactions we've handled for O'Malley. I want to know what each deal involved, who financed it, what changed hands, and the names of all past and present Sullivan & Christenson attorneys who worked on them."
"We could really use a legal assistant to set up a database for all that information. We've got the software to sort the data, but we need someone who uses it all the time if we're going to be ready for O'Malley on Monday," Maggie Boylan said.
"Sorry, we've got to keep this team as small as possible. I can't take the chance of leaks."
"She's right," Sandra said. "There are thousands of documents to review. Diane Farrell was Sullivan's paralegal. There can't be anything in these files she doesn't already know."
Phil stiffened at the suggestion. "That woman is the biggest pain in the ass in four states. If she wasn't screwing Sullivan, she had him by the short hairs some other way. Sullivan let her get away with murder. No one can stand to work with her."
"For Christ's sake, Phil," Maggie said, "can't we wait until the body's cold before we start shitting all over the grave? She knows this stuff inside and out. Besides, I'd rather have her where I can watch her than wonder what she's doing to get even for being left out."
Mason gave in. "All right, I'm convinced by this underwhelming endorsement. Bring her in, but tell her she's out of a job if she can't keep her mouth shut. Sandra and I will be in Sullivan's office."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Sullivan had a corner office with glass on three sides, giving him a panoramic view stretching from downtown to the horizon. Bookshelves mounted above file drawers stood behind his wraparound desk.
Mason tackled the file drawers and Sandra poked through the desk. When they were finished, they were no closer to any answers. There was nothing pertaining to O'Malley or St. John's subpoena.
"Scott said he found St. John's subpoena on Sullivan's desk. If Sullivan was hiding that from us, I don't think he would have left it lying around and I don't think he would have put it in his out basket so his secretary could file it. He would have hidden it, probably with whatever other files on O'Malley he didn't want anyone else to see," Sandra said.
"Makes sense, but it doesn't look like he kept them in his office."
"Maybe somebody got here ahead of us or maybe he kept them in an office at home. We should have a look after the funeral. I did find this DVD, but it's not labeled."
She handed it to Mason. He booted up Sullivan's desktop PC and inserted the disk into the CD/DVD drive.
"Man-O-Manischewitz," Mason said.
They watched as a half dozen naked men and women mixed and matched parts as if they were playing a deviant version of Mr. Potato Head.
"Look at those angles. I better take some notes," Sandra said.
"That's all the excitement I can stand," Mason announced. His face was flushed as he punched the disk out of the computer and returned it to its case.
"What's the matter?" Sandra teased. "Afraid to walk down the hall with Johnny Rocket ready for liftoff?"
She made a show of letting her eyes slide down his chest to his zipper.
"You are brutal. You know that? But watching a porno flick together is not my idea of bonding with you."
Sandra wouldn't let up. "You sure those big boys aren't making you insecure?"
"Of all people, Sandra, I thought you would know."
"Know what?"
"Like the song says, it ain't the meat. It's the motion." Mason enjoyed Sandra's silent, red-faced response. "Let's go," he added, grabbing the DVD. "I think I'll keep this so it doesn't show up in the stuff we turn over to St. John."
"Just a minute. Let's try a reality check with St. John." Sandra unscrewed the mouthpiece of the telephone receiver on Sullivan's desk. "You're going to love this," she said, showing him the miniature microphone attached to the mouthpiece.
Mason ripped the receiver from the phone and fifteen minutes later slammed open St. John's office door with Sandra and St. John's secretary on his heels.
"You really are a piece of work, St. John. Did you think we wouldn't check for bugs just because you said there weren't any?"
He jammed the mouthpiece under St. John's nose. Two deputy marshals ran into the office, weapons drawn.
"Sorry, Mr. St. John, but your secretary pushed the panic button," one of the deputies said.
"They didn't have an appointment, Mr. St. John. They wouldn't even let me buzz you first," his secretary said.
"It's quite all right, Paula. You did the right thing. Deputies, I'm sorry to trouble you. Mr. Mason and Miss Connelly will be leaving shortly, either with or without your assistance. It makes no difference to me."
Mason pretended not to notice the guards as they advanced toward them.
"All I want is some answers, Frank. Why a
re you bugging our offices?"
St. John took the receiver from Mason, studied it, and handed it back to him.
"Mr. Mason, I'm afraid you may have more problems than either of us thought. Even those of us on the public tit can afford better equipment than this. It's not one of ours. Good day, Counselors."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Wilson Bluestone's friends called him "Blues," a name he'd earned playing piano in jazz clubs around Kansas City after he quit his day job as a cop. He and Mason became friends when Mason quit taking piano lessons from him at the Conservatory of Music.
Mason signed up for lessons a couple of years after he'd graduated from law school, and Blues was assigned as his teacher. At his first lesson, Mason told him that if he could play like Oscar Peterson, he'd think he'd died and gone to heaven. After four lessons, Blues told him to go home, listen to the metronome, and find another route to the pearly gates.
When Mason didn't show up for his next lesson, Blues called demanding an explanation. Mason told him he got the metronome message and Blues reminded him that he had paid for the first five lessons and that he ought to get his money's worth.
"Why are you giving up?" he asked when Mason walked into the studio.
It was a small, spare room furnished with an upright piano and a gray metal folding chair. Blues straddled the chair, his arms folded over the back. Mason took the bench, his back to the piano.
"Like I told you over the phone. I got your message. I wasn't born to be a genius jazz pianist."
"Why did you sign up in the first place?"
"I love jazz and I think the piano is God's gift to music."
"Yeah, but why did you think you could learn to play?"
Mason hadn't expected this question. "I just assumed anyone who wanted to play could learn to play."
"What do you like about the music?"
