by Joel Goldman
“Okay, I deserved that. Are you going to represent her?”
“No. That’s one case of malpractice I’m not going to commit. She’s talking with a friend of mine, B.J. Moore. He’s topflight. If she did it, why would she keep the vial of insulin lying around? She can’t be that stupid.”
“The jails are full of stupid criminals. That’s why cops have job security.”
He looked at her for some sign that she’d give him an honest answer to his next question, but he kept getting lost in her eyes.
“Do you have another question, Counselor?” she asked, grinning as if she could read his mind.
“Yeah,” he answered, clearing his throat and losing his nerve. “What are the odds that both named partners of a law firm under investigation by the Justice Department will be murdered within a week of each other in unrelated crimes?”
She lost her grin, glaring at him for an instant. “I thought of that, but there’s nothing to connect them. Pamela’s not strong enough to snap someone’s neck, and I don’t know of any reason she had to kill Harlan.”
“That’s my point. Maybe someone had a reason to kill both of them. That would exclude Pamela.”
“That’s the problem with you amateurs. How do you explain the syringe and the vial we found in her dresser drawer?” She couldn’t hold back a satisfied smile.
“How do you explain that there were break-ins at both homes?” He enjoyed her annoyed, tight-lipped response. “That’s the problem with you pros. You’re too smug. Pamela told me they had a break-in about a month ago.”
Their teasing had the familiar ring of a mating dance. They didn’t know each other well enough for serious emotions. But chemical reactions were as good a place to start as any.
“Don’t get cocky. I’ll follow up on the burglaries. If you’ve got any better suspects, you’d better tell me at dinner. If I don’t like them, you buy.”
“You’d better plan on a lengthy interrogation.”
“I warn you, Counselor, I’m very persuasive.”
She gave him a long, promising look before returning to the jail. He rode that look all the way back downtown.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Angela was planted at the receptionist’s desk, reviewing bills between phone calls, when Mason arrived at the office.
“How’s the radio traffic and troop movements?” he asked.
“Vic Jr. left with Scott about ten minutes after you did.”
“That kid is like a pimple on your butt. He’d be a lot less irritating if you could just squeeze him until he popped. Where’s Sandra?”
“Locked in on thirty-one.”
Mason took the stairs two at a time. Sandra was leaning back in a chair, feet up on the conference room table, staring out the window. He sat next to her, propping his feet alongside hers.
“Your eyes look fixed and dilated.”
She turned to him, frowning. “And you are positively glowing; hardly the look of a man whose partners are being picked off one by one. Tell me, Lou, is it her uniform or her handcuffs that have turned you to jelly?”
Mason laughed with none of the nonchalance he wished he had. “I’ll let you know when we get past the initial frisking. We’re having dinner tonight.”
“Does this mean you’re going to stand me up again this weekend? I’ll wear a uniform too if that will help.”
He was still trying to figure out Sandra’s interest in him. Mason was willing to believe that any woman could be attracted to him, but Sandra wasn’t on his list of Most Likely to Swoon. Maybe a murder investigation was the key to her heart. He enjoyed the attention, but Sandra had an air about her that said “look before you leap.” Still, the leap was very tempting.
“Come on, Sandra. Things have gotten pretty crazy around here lately. I don’t know if I’m coming or going.”
“Well, I definitely recommend coming before going.”
“Yeah, well, that’s good advice, but we better sort out this firm scandal before we start on the next one.”
Mason walked behind her, forcing her to change positions. She made him wait but finally put her feet down and swiveled her chair toward him. He gave her the rundown on the charges against Pamela.
“And she wanted you to represent her?”
“Until I told her I couldn’t and introduced her to B.J. Moore.”
“Just as well. Mooning over the finest sheriff from the Ozarks in front of the jury would look bad.”
“Okay, okay! Our partners are being knocked off like Kewpie dolls on the midway while gorgeous women beat a path to my door. I don’t know why the fantasy has to be screwed up by the nightmare.”
“Sometimes that’s the difference between dreaming the fantasy and living it.”
“So, you’re a philosopher and a tease. A combination not found in every law firm.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“Believe me, it is. I like you. You’re smart, you’re tough, and your legs make it very hard to concentrate. But there’s only so much I can deal with at one time. Let’s stay on track and figure out the rest when this is over.”
“Well, I’ll consider that a ‘not now’ instead of a ‘no.’ Fair enough?”
“Fair enough. So where are we?”
She switched from shameless flirt to killer litigator without breaking stride.
“We know that O’Malley has the loan limit problems, but it seems like there should be something else to bring all the feds’ firepower down on us.”
“I think you’re right. Maybe there’s some overall picture we’ve missed. Where are Diane’s summaries?”
Diane Farrell had written summaries of the O’Malley transactions on poster-sized post-its, one for each of the seven years they were investigating. Sandra stuck them to the walls in chronological order.
The summaries set out the date each transaction closed, the name of the project, a description of the assets involved, and the Sullivan amp; Christenson lawyer who handled the deal. She highlighted in yellow each deal involving Quintex.
“Who are the shareholders, officers, and directors of Quintex?” Mason asked.
“Vic Jr. is the president, Harlan was secretary, and Scott is treasurer. Father and son are the only shareholders and directors.”
He noted her correct usage of the past tense to describe Harlan.
“Were they the original officers?”
“I’ll have to check.” Sandra leafed through the Quintex corporate minute book. “The corporation was formed in 1984. Daddy was the sole shareholder, director, and president. Sullivan was the secretary, and there were no other officers. Fast-forward to 2008 and the current slate is swept into office.”
“Look at the transactions since then. Sullivan was the lawyer on almost all of them until early 2008. Then Scott took over and all the transactions are fixtures deals. What are they about?”
“Quintex bought fixtures and leased them back to someone else.”
“What kind of fixtures?”
“According to the lease documents, display racks, countertops, stuff like that. Phil Rosa did an analysis of the key deal points.”
She handed him Rosa’s memo. He studied it and the summaries on the wall.
“That explains what but not why or who. Quintex bought from one corporation and leased back to another. All those companies have alphabet soup names like NKC Corporation and EPT Enterprises.”
“I’d say that someone on one end or the other, if not both ends, wanted to make it hard to trace the connection between them.”
“We’re focusing too much on the deals and not enough on who was making them. I want to know who the real players are, and I’ll bet the O’Malleys know.”
“The two might not have anything to do with each other. Vic Jr. may be doing his own deals just to prove to his father that he can make it on his own. Vic Sr. may not be involved in or know much about what he’s doing.”
“Yeah, but Scott and Harlan were involved and they would be
a direct pipeline to O’Malley.”
“Not necessarily. Scott wants out of Sullivan’s orbit. Harlan’s slipping further behind Sullivan every year in the amount of business he’s generating for the firm. They both need a boost. Maybe they’re working with Vic Jr. and don’t want Sullivan or O’Malley Sr. to know what they’re doing.”
“If you’re right, there’s no connection between Senior’s loan problems and Junior’s fixtures deals.”
“No intentional connection-but remember chaos?”
“God and bumper cars.”
“Exactly. We know St. John is investigating Quintex, but we don’t know if it’s Sullivan’s side or Scott’s side or both.”
“Meaning anything is possible. Great theory.”
“You don’t get it, Lou. We’re assuming that things are happening for reasons we understand. But we may be completely off base.”
“And we don’t know what Sullivan knew and we don’t know what Harlan knew, since they are both conveniently and permanently unavailable.”
“All I’m saying is we have to be willing to look at things a little differently,” she said. “We have to look for the unintended connections, not the grand conspiracies.”
“Fine, but I’m sticking with what we know and what we don’t know. And we don’t know enough about the fixtures deals, and I’m going to change that.”
Mason called Angela. “Find Diane, Phil, and Maggie. I want them back down here as soon as possible. Tell them to plan on a long night. Then call Victor O’Malley and tell him I’ll be in his office in twenty minutes.”
He hung up before Angela had a chance to remind him that she wasn’t his secretary, and gave Sandra her instructions.
“Tell the troops to peel the onion and find out who owns those corporate layers and what kind of businesses are using those fixtures. I want you to talk with Vic Jr. about these deals. We’ll compare notes in the morning before the partners’ meeting.”
“Don’t you think we should synchronize our watches, Commander?”
“I’ll settle for as close to seven as you can make it. Listen, Sandra, two people are dead already. We may step on the wrong toes with all of this, so please be careful.”
“Lou, I’m touched.”
“Let’s just say that beautiful legs are a terrible thing to waste.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
When Mason started working on Victor O’Malley’s case, he asked Sullivan why O’Malley paid rent instead of moving into one of his own office towers. Sullivan explained that O’Malley had the space tied up at rock-bottom rates through a series of long-term options, which was better than losing out on market-rate rents on his own property. Mason recalled the conversation as he walked to the Union Energy Building and took the ancient elevator to O’Malley’s twentieth-floor office, knowing that his client was a man who didn’t miss a trick.
O’Malley shook Mason’s hand with both of his, patting Mason’s back and smiling like a proud father. He ran his empire from a scraped and scarred desk too small for his frame. The walls were lined with photographs of his projects, leaving no room for pictures of his family or any other sentiment.
His office faced south and west, overlooking the site for the new performing arts center that would open next year. A fierce battle had been waged in the corridors of city hall by competing developers, each of whom had invested in pockets of property on the southern fringe of the downtown in the hopes that the city would choose their site for the project. Millions of dollars had been at stake, with each contestant promising to build a world-class facility. O’Malley outprepared and outfought the competition. Gleaming and buoyant, he drew Mason to the windows to show off his victory.
“Goddammit, Lou, just look at that! It’s magnificent! Five years ago that land south of the highway was worthless. Half the buildings were abandoned and the few businesses that were left were thrilled to sell so they could pay their back taxes. You know what their problem was? No vision. No ability to look down the road and see what might happen-and not enough balls to take the risk they might be wrong.”
He put his arm around Mason as they turned from the windows and eased themselves into cane-backed chairs facing each other across a small round conference table opposite his desk.
“I’m still in shock about Harlan,” O’Malley said in low tones, slowly shaking his head. “He was a good man, not the brightest lawyer that ever practiced, but good and loyal.”
Mason was surprised at the speed with which the news had spread.
“How did you find out?”
“The press. It’s how I find out everything about myself these days. All I have to do is wait for St. John to leak his latest story and the phone rings off the hook. That’s why I was calling you this morning-I figured you’d want to reschedule our meeting.”
“Scott said he told you about Pamela’s arrest.”
“I don’t know which is more of a shock, Pamela and Sullivan or poor Harlan. Murder-that’s too far beyond me to even seem real. Can I get you something to drink?”
“No thanks. We know that St. John has been focusing on the loans by the bank to companies you controlled. If you’re convicted, that can mean anything from civil penalties to jail time. But there are two other problem areas that I need your help to figure out.”
O’Malley looked at Mason without expression. “What are they?”
“One of your companies, Quintex, has been involved in a series of sale and leaseback arrangements. The return cash flow was tremendous in comparison to the amount invested. Your son put those deals together. St. John may be interested in them and I need to know why.”
“And the other?” O’Malley prodded.
“Sullivan billed you half a million dollars for work the firm didn’t do. You paid us and I don’t think you’re that generous.”
“Lou, I appreciate all you’ve done, but with Richard Sullivan and Harlan both gone, I’ve decided to change counsel. Under the circumstances, I don’t think we should be discussing specifics.”
Mason fought the urge to tell O’Malley that he was a no-good slime ball who’d decided to can them because they were too close to figuring out what he was doing. He didn’t look forward to telling Scott they’d been fired. The murders of Sullivan and Harlan, an unfunded million-dollar liability to Pamela, the FBI investigation, and the loss of their biggest client would be too much for the firm to handle. Clients would abandon them in droves if the staff didn’t beat them to it. He was tired of being pushed around and he was ready to fight back. He hadn’t suddenly fallen in love with the law or the firm. He was just in the mood to step on someone’s throat.
“I understand your concerns, but I thought we’d agreed that we’re both better off trying to work through this together. Besides, it’ll cost you a fortune to bring someone else up to speed. This is the wrong time to make that sort of a decision.”
O’Malley’s eyes narrowed to cold bands. “I’ve made the decision and it’s simple enough that even you should understand it. You’re fired. I want a final bill on all my matters tomorrow morning, and you’ll be paid by noon. Have my files delivered to this office within twenty-four hours.” He stood to signal the end of the meeting.
Mason remained seated. “You’ll have the bills in the morning. If we aren’t paid by noon, the lawsuit for our fees will be filed by five o’clock.”
Then he got up. O’Malley’s face darkened as Mason walked to the door. He wasn’t used to people talking to him the way he talked to them.
“And,” Mason added, “the files belong to the firm, not you, but you’re entitled to copies. It’ll probably take a couple of weeks for a job that size, and we’ll require payment in advance. Have a nice day.”
Mason smiled as O’Malley slammed the door in his face.
Back at the office, he explained to Angela, Maggie, Phil, and Diane what had happened.
“Angela, how many copiers do we have?”
“Three upstairs and one down.”
“That won’t be enough. Call one of the copy companies and have them bring over as many portables as they can. Get as many staff people as you need. I want every scrap of paper in the O’Malley files copied by morning.”
“Do you want them bound and organized like the original files?” Diane Farrell asked.
“No, just stacks of paper in expandable folders with the name of the matter on them. Copy the attorneys’ notes and memorandums sections, but don’t include them in O’Malley’s copies. We’ll hold on to those until a court tells us O’Malley is entitled to them.”
“There’s no way we can finish that tonight. It’s already four o’clock,” Angela said.
“O’Malley will probably file a lawsuit against us first thing in the morning. We’ll give him the copies tomorrow. His new lawyers will spend weeks figuring things out. In the meantime, we can start looking out for our own asses. I’m outta here.”
“Where the hell are you going?” Diane asked. “You leave us with the shit work and head for the nearest bar! No way!”
“Just do your job while you still have it. I have a date with a cop.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Mason liked the cocky grin staring back at him in his rearview mirror. It had been a while since he’d felt the jolt of a new relationship, and he was savoring the sensation as he headed for the Country Club Plaza, six square blocks of Spanish architecture and high-end shopping in the center of the city.
Mason was glad that Kelly had chosen Brentano’s, a comfortable, sophisticated restaurant with an attentive but discreet staff. Tables buzzed with conversations that remained private.
He found a seat at the bar, positive that the rest of the world was revolving around him. He waved nonchalantly to Kelly, who brought the sun inside with her.
Mason signaled the bartender for two cold bottles of Boulevard Beer. As he raised his to his lips, a thin stream splashed down his chin, splattering in his lap and washing away his reign as the king of cool. Hope and humility were restored when Kelly laughed and pressed her napkin against his thigh, soaking up the beer.
