Motion to Kill

by Joel Goldman

Kelly gave him another annoyed glance. She seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

  “I was an FBI agent for ten years. My partner was killed last winter. I quit and came home. End of story. Now, tell me about the poker game. When did it start?”

  Mason didn’t blame her for being more interested in figuring out who killed Sullivan than in becoming his new best friend, so he didn’t mind changing the subject.

  “After dinner, about eight.”

  “Was Sullivan there when the game started?”

  “No, he didn’t get there until after nine.”

  “So we’ve got at least two hours unaccounted for. Give me the names of the players and, this time, leave out your imaginary playmates.”

  “Scott Daniels, Sandra Connelly, who runs the litigation department, Harlan Christenson, Angela Molina, Phil Rosa, and me.”

  “Who are Angela and Phil?”

  “Angela is the executive director of the firm, chief bean counter, and administrator. Phil Rosa is an associate. One of the rising stars in litigation.”

  “Was Sullivan alone when he left the card game?”

  Mason hesitated because he knew where she was headed. She was interested in more than tracking Sullivan’s movements in the hours before he died. She was making a list, probably a short one, of suspects. Mason didn’t know whether she would put his name on that list if she learned that Sullivan had asked Mason to commit a crime. He didn’t want to find out. All he could do was steer her investigation away from the O’Malley case until he knew if Sullivan had been murdered. If he had been, Mason would tell her everything and put his faith in the system.

  Kelly cut through his hesitation. “If you don’t tell me, Counselor, someone else will. Someone always sees something, and they’re always anxious to talk about it.”

  Mason knew she was right.

  “Sullivan left with Cara Trent, one of the law school students who work for us during the summer.”

  “I’ll need a list of the names, addresses, and phone numbers of everyone who was at the retreat, especially Cara Trent. I’ve only got the partners’ names so far. Chances are one of them will know where Sullivan was before and after the card game.”

  “I’ve got a firm directory at the hotel. You can have it.”

  “Fine. Let’s start with you. Where were you last night?”

  The color rose in Mason’s cheeks as he considered the tone of her question.

  “I was in my room before the card game, and I spent the rest of the night on the beach where you found me this morning.”

  “Alone?”

  “Alone. Before and after.”

  “Did you talk with anyone? Did anyone see you?”

  “I had room service. You can check with the hotel.”

  “What about when you were on the beach?”

  “Just a couple who were too busy with each other to notice me. You better take me in, Sheriff. I confess. The job was too good. I couldn’t stand all the money.”

  “Let’s hope everyone else is so helpful.”

  The corners of her mouth creased in a neat smile. Well, even the Berlin Wall eventually came down, Mason thought.

  “Was Sullivan working on anything that might make someone want to kill him?”

  He should have expected the question, but her smile had left him flat-footed. He had felt the same way in his last rugby match when a forward got past him with a fake pass. There was a reason that that move was called a dummy. And he was it.

  “The firm has a lot of clients. They have a lot of problems, and they are unhappy about all of them.”

  “I spent the last ten years sifting through more double-talk than you can imagine. Make this easy on both of us and tell me if any of those clients might want to kill him.”

  “I’m not going to speculate about any client. If it turns out that my partner was murdered, I’ll tell you everything I can. Until then, I can’t tell you anything because of the attorney-client privilege. I’m sure the FBI has heard of that.”

  “Mason, I’ll make this simple. If you withhold information in a murder investigation, I’ll shove your smart mouth right up your smart ass. Are we clear on that?”

  “They teach you how to do that at the FBI Academy?”

  “The first day.”

  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 & 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.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to the hotel. Kelly parked her truck in the circle drive at the hotel entrance and got out.

  “You don’t have to come in,” Mason told her. “I’ll get the firm directory from my room and bring it to you.”

  “I’m more interested in Sullivan’s room. And I’ve got the key.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant to search his room?”

  “Not if you let me in. Do you want the hotel maids to throw away any firm files Sullivan may have brought with him?”

  Mason knew that Kelly could have asked Pamela Sullivan or the hotel manager to let her in. Neither would have refused. His refusal would only add to her suspicion that he was holding back information. He realized that she wanted to see his reaction to anything they found in Sullivan’s room. Mason had spent the day reacting to events beyond his control, hoping to nudge the investigation away from O’Malley. It was like trying to hold back a rising river with a single sandbag.

  They stopped at his room first, and he gave Kelly the firm directory. It listed every employee’s name, direct-dial number, cell phone number, and e-mail address.

  “Here’s your list of suspects.”

  “Well, I can cross off one name.”

  “Whose?”

  “Sullivan’s. I don’t think he committed suicide.”

  “That’s very funny for a sheriff.”

  “Wait until you hear my good material.”

  She sounded coy, which confused Mason. He studied her for a clue. She offered none. She cycled through the good cop, bad cop routine so often that he thought she might be schizophrenic. If she was trying to keep him off balance, she was succeeding. Kelly was smart and attractive and gave fleeting suggestions that she liked him—all of which he could succumb to if she gave him a chance. But he knew that she’d put his head on a pike outside the village gates if she thought he was involved in Sullivan’s murder.

  She led the way to Sullivan’s room and handed Mason the key. They smiled at each other and Mason fantasized for an instant that they had checked in for a more pleasant purpose.

  “Not in your dreams, Counselor,” Kelly said.

  “If man doesn’t dream, he has nothing.”

  “A man whose dreams will never come true still has nothing. Open the door.”

  Sullivan had a suite instead of the single room Mason had been assigned. A briefcase sat on a desk in one corner of the living room. Mason walked past a sofa and entertainment center and picked up the briefcase while Kelly checked out the bedroom.

  He popped the latches on the briefcase, surprised that it wasn’t locked. Once he saw the contents, he knew why. It was an inventory of insignificance: Friday’s Wall Street Journal, the agenda for the retreat, a paperback copy of a John Grisham novel, a CD case titled Johnny’s Greatest Hits, containing a lifetime supply of Johnny Mathis. He left it open for Kelly to see.

  “Find anything interesting?” she called from the bedroom.

  “Nothing. How about you?”

  “Just this,” she said as she returned to the front room, holding a letter-sized sheet of white paper by one corner. She set it on the desk next to the briefcase. “Don’t touch it. Just read it.”

  It was a typewritten memo from Sullivan to Harlan Christenson dated two days earlier. Mason read it, aware that Kelly was watching each twitch he was fighting to control.

  “Lou told me today that Victor O’Malley would be convicted unless we lost certain documents that he had found in our files. I told him no. I’m not going to take any chances with him. I’ll fire him on Monday after the retreat. There’s no reason to ruin the weekend because of one person. If he tries to cause any trouble, I’ll report him to the state bar and he’ll be disbarred.”

  He looked up, expecting her to have drawn her gun and her Miranda card at the same time. Instead, he caught a glimpse of sadness before she resumed her official tone with a single question.

  “Is it true?”

  “I realize that we’ve only known each other a few hours, but do I look stupid to you?”

  Mason slammed the briefcase shut, stood st
raight, arms half-cocked toward her, daring her to say yes.

  “A lot of killers look pretty smart. They just do stupid things that get them caught.”

  “So how am I supposed to prove that I didn’t have a conversation with a dead man?”

  “Tell me about O’Malley’s case and tell me you didn’t advise Sullivan that the firm should lose those documents.”

  Mason let out an exasperated breath, clasped his hands behind his head, and did a quick circuit of the room. Kelly stood still, watching him orbit around her, while he decided how much of the truth to tell her. He decided to stick with what had already been reported by the press.

  “Victor O’Malley was Sullivan’s biggest client. Franklin St. John is about to indict him for bank fraud. I’m defending him.”

  “That’s half an answer. Tell me the rest of it.”

  Mason didn’t care about Sullivan anymore. Sullivan was dead and had set him up with the memo. But O’Malley was still his client, and if he told Kelly too much, he could lose his license. He drew a line only a lawyer could stand on without crossing.

  “Sullivan and I had lunch on Friday and talked about the case. The rest of it is bullshit.”

  “And you won’t tell me what you talked about because you’re more concerned about attorney-client privilege than going to jail for murder. That memo reads like a good motive. You kill Sullivan and you keep your job.”

  “Give me a break, Sheriff. That memo reads like a good example of libel, which is a motive for a lawsuit, not murder.”

  “So Sullivan struck first and you struck back. Malice begets malice. Libel to kill.”

  “That’s poetic, but, believe me, Sullivan wasn’t worth it and the job wasn’t worth it. I’d already decided to quit.”

  “Why? Because of your lunchtime chat with Sullivan?”

  Mason stopped pacing. “That’s only part of it. I’ve got a case that the firm won’t take. I’m going out on my own so I can handle it.”

  “That’s your idea of a defense?”

  “I’ll tell you what. You subpoena every memo Sullivan ever wrote about O’Malley. This is the only one you’ll find, if he even wrote it. I’ve been through those files. Sullivan got things done. He didn’t write memos. And he wouldn’t wait to fire me or his mother because of the damn retreat.”