Motion to Kill

by Joel Goldman

  Mason dropped the newspaper in the trash can next to the bed and saw a Bible that had been hidden beneath it. The Bible was bound in black leather, Phillips Family Bible embossed in small gold filigree letters on the spine.

  Tommy Douchant’s family also had a Bible embossed with the family name. He remembered Tommy showing him the family tree on the inside cover that traced his clan back five generations. Be there, baby, Mason prayed as he picked up Vernon’s Bible.

  And so it was written. Vernon Phillips and his wife had been married in 1956. Four years later, a daughter, Meredith, was born. She died in 1990. Beneath her name was the inscription Alice, born to Meredith July 3, 1977. Alice made no sense. There was no Alice. Mason went back to the beginning, to Vernon and his wife. He read her maiden name. Then he knew.

  He said good-bye to Vernon and tucked the Bible under his arm. Promising himself that he’d return it when everything was over, he drove straight to Blues’s house, struggling with the last hurdle in solving Sullivan’s and Angela’s murders. How to prove it? A brilliant trial lawyer once told him not to bother him with the facts, just tell him what the evidence was. Now he knew what the evidence was, but he wasn’t certain that he could prove the facts.

  He flashed back to the chalkboard at The Limit announcing the symposium on alternative AIDS therapies. He conjured the haunting image of Sullivan injecting himself, thinking it was some experimental AIDS treatment, not realizing he was killing himself. The killer had watched from a safe distance, not wanting to betray any undue interest, content in the knowledge that Sullivan would die by his own hand.

  And that would be the killer’s defense, that somehow Sullivan had made a terrible mistake. Whoever Sullivan had bought the phony AIDS meds from had made the mistake.

  There would be no confession. Too much was at stake. The killer knew that, at best, the circumstantial evidence was as thin as yesterday’s soup. Mason would prepare the same way he prepared for trial. And that meant tying up a few more loose ends.

  Tuffy’s barking announced Mason’s arrival at Blues’s house before Mason could knock on the door. Blues was standing at his kitchen sink, cutting slices from a fresh peach. Tuffy pawed happily at Mason’s side until he scratched her ears.

  “Peach?” Blues offered.

  “Pass. Here’s how I think Sullivan was murdered.”

  Blues listened, probing, picking, and ripping at any weakness. When Mason finished, he dropped the peach pit in the sink and wiped his hands on his shorts.

  “I believe you. But you can’t make it stick.”

  “Why not? It’s all there.”

  “On Sullivan, maybe. But where does Angela fit in?”

  “Murdered the same way. Insulin overdose.” It was clear to him, why not to Blues?

  “People get shot every day. Don’t mean it’s the same gun. If you’re right about the killer, why take out Angela?”

  Mason sagged under the weight of the question. “Angela told Sandra she had something else to tell her about besides the money laundering. Something she could only tell her in private. It must have implicated the killer. Did the cops find anything at Angela’s apartment?”

  “Harry Ryman told me they turned the place upside down. Nothing.”

  “I thought you guys didn’t talk to each other.”

  “We don’t. He’s helping you, not me.”

  Mason’s phone rang. He answered, listened, and hung up.”

  “Who was that?”

  He looked at Blues, shaking his head. “That was the hospital. Man, I’ve got a new client.”

  “Who?”

  “Jimmie Camaya. He’s out of intensive care, and he’s asking for me. Says he won’t talk to anybody until he talks to me.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Truman Medical Center,” Mason said. “I’m guessing a private room with a cop on the door.”

  “You better take something just in case Camaya is feeling frisky.”

  Blues disappeared for a moment before coming back carrying a pistol he handed to Mason.

  “What is it?” Mason asked as he held the gun.

  “Thirty-eight caliber. Good enough for close range.”

  “Camaya can’t be dangerous. I already shot him once. Plus the cops will be there.”

  “Somebody might be hanging around the parking lot waiting for you to come visit. Stick it in your waistband in the small of your back. Less chance you’ll shoot your dick off.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  Blues followed Mason out to the driveway and tossed Vernon’s Bible onto the passenger seat of the TR6.

  “Don’t leave the Good Book lying around.”

  Mason drove away, uncertain whether he would agree to plead for justice and mercy on Camaya’s behalf. He alternated the lawyer’s litany that everyone was entitled to a defense with Claire’s corollary that he didn’t have to represent everyone.

  When he arrived at the hospital, Mason got a text message from Kelly.

  D’lessandro owns Vic Jr. Sending crew to clean up after Camaya. Be careful.

  He tapped his reply.

  No doubt. No surprise. No shit.

  A uniformed officer sat outside the door to Camaya’s hospital room. He nodded when Mason identified himself and motioned him into the room.

  Camaya was sitting up in bed, a drain sticking out of a bandaged hole in his chest and an IV line plugged into his arm.

  “Hey, Mason, how do I look, man? It ain’t much, but it’s all I got.”

  “What are you? The new Jimmie Camaya, repackaged and user friendly?”

  Camaya’s laugh caught in his throat as he winced. “Don’t make me laugh, man. You’re killin’ me.”

  “Well, you don’t look bad for a guy with a hole in him who’s looking at the death penalty. What do you want from me?”

  “To talk. That’s all, just talk. Thought you might help me do some business with the boys out in the hall.”

  “You forget that I shot you and I’m going to testify against you?”

  Camaya dismissed his objections with a wave of the hand. “Old business. I think we can help each other.”

  Mason walked to the window, looking at nothing in particular. Camaya laughed again and Mason turned around.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You’re packin’, aren’t you?”

  “I’m what?”

  “Packin’, man. Carryin’ a gun. Man, you kill me!”

  Mason flushed at the absurdity of it all. Camaya was recovering from a gunshot wound and surgery and Mason had a gun to protect himself from him. He laughed too.

  “Yeah, Jimmie. I’ve got a gun. So don’t get out of bed. How’d you know?”

  Camaya’s good eye narrowed, matching the other, as he drew his lips back, baring his teeth, almost hissing his words.

  “You killed Julio and shot me. Lost your cherry big-time. No turning back now. Shit like that changes you forever. You walkin’ the walk now, and that piece belongs right where you got it.”

  Mason nodded.

  “Feels good, don’t it, Mason?”

  The door swung open. No knock. Just company.

  Franklin St. John and Gene McNamara could darken a room like a solar eclipse. They cast the biggest shadow on Camaya, who flipped from snake eyes to wide eyes.

  Mason assumed that Camaya was a coward at the core, like all bullies. But he didn’t expect him to fold before the interrogation started. Particularly since he was holding a great trump card, the identity of his boss. Mason didn’t have anything to say, so he waited for somebody else to kick things off.

  “What are you doing here, Mason?” McNamara demanded.

  “Jimmie invited me over to watch TV.”

  “Showtime’s over, wiseass. Take a walk.”

  “No, thanks. Jimmie and I are going to watch an American Idol rerun.”

  Mason couldn’t help but do the opposite of what McNamara wanted to him to do. It was a petty way of showing him up—and probably not too bright
—but he couldn’t help himself. To make the point, he sat on the edge of the bed, facing McNamara with his back to Camaya.

  “Mr. Mason,” St. John said, “we have to question Camaya. You can come back during regular visiting hours.”

  “Franklin, you forget that Jimmie is entitled to have his lawyer present for any questioning.”

  St. John smiled. “And you’re his lawyer. How convenient. Jimmie, do you really think the judge is going to let the man who put you in that bed and whose testimony is going to put you on death row represent you?”

  “Nothin’ but the best for me.”

  “I’m truly sorry to hear you say that, Jimmie. I thought you had better judgment.”

  “I’ll make you a deal,” Mason said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know and you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

  “Mr. Mason, you know what we want from your client. We want to know who hired him.”

  “Come on, Franklin. You already know that. It was Carlo D’lessandro. Mr. Chicago Mob. No, what you want is for Jimmie to roll over and testify against D’lessandro. And, if he agrees, you’ll give him a nice new identity flipping burgers in Bumfuck, Montana. How’s that sound to you, Jimmie?”

  “I ain’t flipping no fucking burgers, man. No way.”

  St. John let out an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Mason, you are more than an inconvenience. What do you want?”

  “A history lesson.”

  “On what subject that wouldn’t exceed your limited grasp?”

  “The migratory habits of Chicago mobsters.”

  St. John looked at McNamara, who nodded. “Begin, Mr. Mason.”

  “Why did you take Nick Theonis off of Vic Jr.’s case?”

  McNamara lost his snarl as if he’d just been hit across the nose with a newspaper. St. John’s eyes fluttered in a momentary panic. Neither had expected Mason to bring up their dirty laundry.

  “Sorry, time’s up,” Mason said. “No answer? I get to go again. Vic Jr. was small-time. How does he hook up with a mob mouthpiece like Caravello and Landusky?”

  The corners of St. John’s mouth began to quiver as he and McNamara exchanged glances. Mason was getting warmer. He loved body language. Still no answer.

  “Somebody had to refer Junior to Caravello,” Mason continued. “Somebody who could be certain that the case against him would evaporate and that he would show the proper appreciation. Nick Theonis could have done that. Screw up the bust just enough to get Vic Jr. off. Then Vic Jr.’s lawyer tells him that Mr. D’lessandro has a small favor to ask. He wants to use Daddy’s bank to launder money.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Both their faces went taut, their eyes narrowing, boring in on Mason. McNamara held his arms at his sides, balling his hands into fists. St. John crossed his arms, hiding his hands in his armpits. Still, neither man spoke.

  “You guys must have known that Theonis was dirty, but you kept him in play. Then Theonis gets whacked and you lose control. Bet that was a tough one to explain to the organized crime boys in the Justice Department.”

  McNamara broke their silence. “You’re full of shit.”

  St. John pressed himself against the wall.

  “That’s an artful response, Gene. Your ass was on the line. What did you think you were doing with Theonis? Turning him into a double agent?”

  Mason had released the brakes on Sandra’s bumper cars. All he could do now was wait; let them try to restore order. St. John composed himself and sat in a hardback chair on the opposite side of the room. McNamara held his ground.

  “You’re to be congratulated for doing your homework, Mr. Mason,” St. John said. “Or perhaps it was Sheriff Holt. No matter. Nick Theonis arrested young O’Malley. The case involved drugs. We suspected that Theonis was dirty, and we removed him from all drug cases while we continued to investigate him. Quite simple.”

  He brushed his hands together. End of story.

  “Then why bring Theonis and Kelly to Kansas City?” Mason asked. They didn’t answer. “Theonis had compromised both of you. You didn’t know which side of the street he was really working, so you had to hold on to him in the hope he’d help you nail D’lessandro without giving the bureau a black eye.”

  “We take care of our own problems. Privately,” McNamara said.

  “Except D’lessandro took care of it first. He had Jimmie hit Theonis. I guess he didn’t want Theonis working for two bosses. Or maybe it was just a salary-cap problem.”

  “Are you admitting that your client murdered an FBI agent?” St. John asked.

  “Not me. I’m just thinking out loud. You guys interrupted us before Jimmie could tell me a thing. Here’s the way I see it. You lost Theonis but you still had Vic Jr.’s old man. He was already under the microscope for his banking problems. You figured he was also in on the money-laundering scheme. You planned to pressure him to roll over or his son would take the fall.”

  “An investigation has its own life, Mr. Mason,” St. John said. “We just follow it.”

  “But you screwed up. O’Malley wouldn’t cave. So you tried to squeeze his lawyer. Then somebody killed Richard Sullivan and you were fucked again.”

  “If you mean by that that we ended up dealing with you, I would quite agree,” St. John said.

  “And everyone says you have no sense of humor, Franklin. Sullivan’s murder knocked everything off track. You had threatened to prosecute Sullivan so that he would put pressure on O’Malley to cooperate. If O’Malley wouldn’t give up his son to save himself, did you really think he’d do it to save his lawyer?”

  “I didn’t care,” St. John answered. “Richard Sullivan was involved in the senior O’Malley’s bank fraud and he knew about the money laundering. We were negotiating a plea bargain when he was killed.”

  “So you must have known that Vic Jr. was washing the mob’s money through the law firm with the help of Scott Daniels and Harlan Christenson and that O’Malley had nothing to do with it.”

  “Apparently so. Sullivan had proposed giving us the evidence on his partners and Vic Jr. in return for a free pass for himself and O’Malley.”

  “So that’s why Sullivan didn’t tell anyone about the subpoena for the firm’s records. He was going to give you the records, claim ignorance of the money laundering, and let Scott and Harlan take the fall along with Vic Jr. Did O’Malley know what Sullivan was doing?”

  “A detail in which I had no interest.”

  “With Sullivan dead, you were stuck with Vic Jr. to make the case against D’lessandro, but he disappeared. Harlan Christenson is dead and Scott Daniels is going to be the next poster boy for electroshock therapy. Camaya is your last chance.”

  “It pains me to admit that you’re right.”

  “There’s one thing I still don’t get,” Mason said. “How did Jimmie find Kelly’s cabin?” Mason asked the question, almost forgetting that Camaya was lying in bed behind him.

  Camaya answered. “I found a map in Theonis’s apartment after—”

  “That’s enough,” Mason interrupted. “Don’t confess to anything yet.”

  The door to Camaya’s hospital room flew open. The police officer that had been on guard was shoved inside and onto the floor, his hands cuffed behind his back. Two men dressed in black, silenced pistols drawn, followed. One was tall, the other about Mason’s height, only broader. Both had the slack appearance of men who aren’t impressed by much and who care about less.

  “Hey, Jimmie,” the taller man said. “You don’t look so good.”

  Camaya sat up, using Mason as a shield. “Feel better than I look, Tony.” Mason could feel Camaya’s labored breath on the back of his neck.

  “Carlo said we should come down. Check on you. If you was feeling bad, he said we should put you out of your misery. So how you feelin’?”

  McNamara made a poorly disguised move for his gun.

  “Hey, fat boy,” Tony warned. “Don’t be stupid. Gino,” he said to his companion, “get this dickhead’s piece.”<
br />
  Gino shoved McNamara against the wall, grabbing his gun. McNamara offered no resistance when Gino yanked his wallet from his pocket. St. John’s face twisted with disgust, though he remained silent.

  Mason felt Camaya’s hand slide under the back of his shirt onto the butt of his gun. He couldn’t move without giving Camaya away. He hoped Camaya knew which side he was on.

  “This guy’s fucking FBI,” Gino said after opening McNamara’s wallet.

  Tony turned to St. John. “And who are you, J. Edgar Hoover?”

  “You should see him in a dress,” Mason said.

  “Shut the fuck up,” Tony told Mason. “Jimmie, you got all these visitors. Carlo don’t like that. He’s worried you might talk to the wrong people. Maybe say the wrong thing.”

  St. John couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “My name is Franklin St. John and I’m the United States attorney. Put your guns down. You’re under arrest.”

  Tony laughed. “Jimmie, where did you get these guys? And who are you?” he asked Mason.

  “I’m Jimmie’s lawyer.”

  “So that’s the way it is, huh, Jimmie?” Tony said. “You got your lawyer, the FBI, and the U.S. attorney in your room all at the same time. Smells like you’re selling out. I guess we got here just in time.”

  Gino pulled St. John from his chair and shoved him against McNamara, leaving them huddled in a corner next to the window. He took a step back, keeping out of McNamara’s reach and keeping his pistol pointed at the two of them.

  Camaya lifted the gun from behind Mason’s back and nudged Mason with the barrel. Mason edged forward until he was on the edge of the bed, the balls of his feet pressed to the floor like loaded springs. He braced his hands against the mattress for added leverage.

  Tony stood at the door, about five feet in front of Mason. Gino was closer to Mason, but at an angle to Mason’s left. He knew that Tony would shoot him before he got close to him, but he’d have a chance with Gino if Camaya took care of Tony.

  “Listen, Tony,” Mason began. “This isn’t working out like you expected. You probably counted on the cop outside the door but no way could you figure on an FBI agent, the U.S. attorney, and me being here. You kill everyone in this room and your boss is going to catch so much heat you’ll never be able to go home again.”