Three To Get Deadly (54 page)

"Don't give me that. This is a murder investigation."

"Come on, Kelly. You went to law school. The privilege belongs to the client and lasts forever, even if he fires us."

"Except your firm is a target of a criminal investigation. If your defense requires you to disclose client confidences, the privilege is waived. Talk to me, Counselor."

"The firm hasn't been charged with a crime yet. Besides, the waiver may only apply to that case and not yours."

"Unless Sullivan's murder is related to the grand jury's investigation. There's a long history of witnesses who die on the eve of testifying."

"You're fishing. Pamela was arrested this morning because the DA thinks she killed Sullivan because he exposed her to AIDS. Now you want me to violate my client's confidences to prove he killed Sullivan to prevent him from testifying before the grand jury. Tell me what's wrong with this picture, Sheriff?"

"I'll tell you what's wrong with it, Counselor. There's an idiot named Lou Mason in the middle of it who thinks this is either just another game of cops and robbers or a law school hypothetical."

Her interrogation lasted long enough to get them to the Tuscany restaurant. Jammin, a jazz bar, was in the basement, and Blues played there on Monday nights. They chose a table near the stage beneath a black painted ceiling ringed by a violet neon ribbon. People were packed around small tables and along the bar. A middle-aged, heavyset man was stuffed in a chair, his chin on his chest, his fingers wrapped around an empty wineglass. The man was either dead or asleep. They would find out when the waiter brought the check.

Blues was finishing his first set. The man knew Oscar Peterson—heard his voice and spoke his music with his fingers. Mason always liked watching him play. He could tell when Blues was playing for the crowd. The music was there but he wasn't. When he played for himself, he moved from top to bottom. His shoe tapped and his face danced, all in time to the music. He'd look at his hands, eyes wide, eyebrows arched with surprise that they could do what they were doing—as if they had a life of their own. The sweet melancholy of "Autumn in New York" faded to appreciative applause. Blues brought three frosted long-necked bottles to their table.

"Man, you look like shit!" he said to Mason.

"Kelly, say hello to Wilson Bluestone. He gave up being a cop to play a mediocre piano."

Blues looked at Mason as if he were measuring him for a pine box. "You're the one who found Harlan Christenson? Newspaper said it was one of his partners but didn't say which one. Figured it was you."

He listened like the cop he used to be as Mason repeated the story, adding that they now knew that Sullivan had been murdered as well.

"You've got a real unhealthy practice. If I was you, I'd find another place to hang your shingle."

"I can't prove anything, but I've got to believe the murders are connected."

"Let the cops figure it out."

"She doesn't buy it," he said, nodding at Kelly.

"So what? I said let the cops figure it out."

"Sheriff, show Blues your badge and he'll be more polite."

Kelly smiled and showed him her badge—and her gun.

"Damn! What are you doing out with a cop instead of a nice Jewish girl?"

"Is this guy really a friend of yours?" Kelly asked.

"Yeah. He's just intimidated by heavily armed women."

"Well, Sheriff, do you think it's just bad luck that Lou's partners get whacked on back-to-back Sundays?"

"So far, that's all there is to connect them. It would help if Lou would tell me what his clients have to do with this."

"He's not going to tell you. It's privileged, and even though you've got his tongue dragging next to his shoes, you're on the other side."

"That's what he says—that it's privileged, I mean."

"Don't worry. He'll tell me, and I'll tell you."

"Why will he tell you?"

"Because I'm watching his back, and I can't do that if he doesn't tell me."

"But why will you tell me?"

"Because I'm likely to need help."

Mason was about to argue with both of them, when he realized that Blues was right. He would tell Blues. Blues would tell her, and Mason was in heat.

"So you're the one who searched the office for more bugs," she said to Blues as Mason drank his beer in silence and listened to them work the case.

By Tuesday morning, the thirty-first floor had become an obstacle course of copy machines, banker's boxes, and stacks of files. Phil Rosa was asleep in the conference room, stretched between two chairs, snoring softly under a Pizza Hut box planted like a teepee over his face. Mason picked up the box, waving away Phil's pepperoni morning breath, the fresh air enough to wake him.

"Any survivors, Phil?"

"Barely. Two of our copiers went down after midnight. We ran out of paper at three. Maggie and I tried to organize the leftovers. Everyone else went home."

"How far did you get?"

"About two-thirds of the way through. We'll have to send the rest out to be copied if we're going to get the files delivered to O'Malley today."

"I don't like it, but we don't have a choice."

"Well, well, the prodigal partner returns. I hope you can find some new assignment to keep us challenged today," Diane Farrell said as she sauntered in.

"Diane, I'm glad you're here. Phil—take the day off. Diane will finish up."

"And the horse you rode in on, boss," she said.

"I didn't know you were an animal lover, Diane," Mason said on his way out.

Sandra stood him up for their seven o'clock meeting. He hoped that meant they were even. At nine, Mason's secretary delivered a memo announcing that the partners' meeting had been moved to one thirty. Scott's secretary answered Mason's call to his office and told him that Scott wouldn't be in until noon.

"Do you know where he is?"

"No, sir."

"Can you check with the other partners?"

"Sorry, Mr. Mason. You're the only partner here."

He should have seen it coming then, but he was too busy to pay attention to the firm's radio traffic and troop movements.

Kelly was a welcome sight when she walked into his office. He knew when he had a crush on someone. In high school, he called it being in deep like. In his twenties, he called it magic. Now in his midthirties, he called it dumb luck and hoped it would last long enough to fill the crater Kate left.

"Wait here," Mason told her, motioning to a small, round conference table. "Pamela and B.J. gave me permission to show you Sullivan's will. I'll be right back."

"Your office is too masculine," she told him when he returned. "You need some flowers."

"Since when is masculine a bad thing?"

"It's almost my favorite thing," she answered. "But you need more hormonal balance."

"I'll rent you space," he said, pulling his chair next to hers.

"The will was signed on August 31, 1997," Kelly noted as she began reading.

"There's a trust agreement that runs twenty-five pages. Fortunately, Scott included a summary."

"What's the bottom line?"

"Sullivan's estate is worth about twenty million dollars. Pamela gets half, and half goes to charity."

"Unfortunately for Pamela, ten million dollars is a hell of a motive for murder."

Mason started to put the will and trust back into the file when a sealed envelope he hadn't noticed before slipped out. Kelly grabbed it and tore it open before he could claim another privilege.

"I don't get it," she said as she handed it to him.

Mason studied it for a few minutes. "I don't get it either. This is a codicil, an amendment revoking his will."

"So he died without a will?"

"Which makes no sense. He might change his will. But he'd never revoke it. That would cost his estate a fortune in taxes. He'd spent his entire career making sure his clients avoided taxes. I wonder if Scott knew about this."

"What happens to the estate now?"

"In Kansas, if you die without a will, the entire estate, after taxes, goes to your heirs. Your spouse gets one-half and your kids share the rest equally. Pamela and Sullivan didn't have any children, so she gets it all."

"And the charities get screwed. Just in case ten million bucks wasn't enough to see her through her golden years, now she gets twenty million. I think the DA's case just got a little better."

"Not if Pamela didn't know that Sullivan revoked his will. In Kansas, a spouse has to give written consent to the terms of the other spouse's will, which Pamela did. She didn't have to consent to the codicil, and she didn't."

"Who witnessed the will?"

Mason flipped to the last page and read the names. "Maggie Boylan and Sullivan's secretary."

"And the codicil?"

"Diane Farrell and Angela Molina."

"I'll talk to them later," Kelly said. "The hearing on Pamela's bail is this afternoon. Let's have dinner at J.J.'s. Blues told me he's playing there tonight. Meet me at seven thirty?"

"Are you serving dessert?"

Third kisses are answers, and Mason didn't have any more questions.

After Kelly left, Mason's secretary told him that Sandra was waiting for him in her office.

"Sorry about this morning, Lou. I had a late night," she said.

Sandra's desk was an oval-shaped slab of blood-veined marble supported by shiny silver pedestals at each end. The effect was simultaneously cold and passionate.
We are our furniture,
Mason thought as he sat across from her.

A bookcase held a collection of reference books. He noticed a copy of the
PDR
, the
Physicians' Desk Reference
, which explained how drugs acted, how they should be used, and the risks of misuse. The library at his old firm had a copy, but no one at Sullivan & Christenson had ever chased an ambulance.

"Do you have any personal injury cases?"

"No, why?"

"I just wondered about your
PDR
. I didn't know anyone around here had one."

"I sold pharmaceuticals and medical equipment before I went to law school. It's a leftover from those days."

Her long legs, crossed at the ankles, reached under the marble slab. She dropped a dangling shoe and brushed her toes against his pant leg, the effect swimming upstream against the lingering sensation of Kelly's kiss. Mason decided to ignore her toes.

"O'Malley fired us. I hope you had better luck with the son."

"Vic Jr. isn't so bad if you keep his hands busy. I'll know all his secrets by the end of the week."

"That's not a fair fight."

"And I don't like fair fights. He's picking me up for lunch. I'll be back in time for the partners' meeting."

The receptionist called, announcing that Vic Jr. had arrived. Mason walked with Sandra to the front desk, where Angela was pretending to be entertained by him. He left her hanging in midsentence when Sandra flashed her melting-point smile before taking him by the arm and heading for the elevator. He was grinning as if he'd just gotten a date with the homecoming queen.

"Don't tell me?" Angela said.

"Yep. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

"How can she stand the creep?"

"She put a leash on his dick and told him to heel."

Turning around, Mason saw Scott watching Sandra and Vic Jr.'s dating game from inside the conference room behind him. Scott shifted his gaze to Mason for a moment before turning away, his eyes as cold as Sandra's marble slab.

Diane Farrell was waiting for Mason in his office. "You want to talk about the fixtures deals or try and figure them out on your own?" She was sitting in the chair Kelly had occupied an hour earlier, holding a sandwich in one hand and a bottle of root beer in the other. "I brought you a sandwich. Consider it a peace offering," she said as she shoved a brown paper bag toward him.

"Do I need a food taster?"

"Don't be such a tight-ass. Try living on the edge. It's turkey and horseradish on rye. Same as me." She took a bite of her sandwich and washed it down with root beer.

Mason examined the sandwich and resisted the temptation to sniff it before he bit into it. "Thanks," he managed to force out before the horseradish lit a fire in the back of his throat.

Diane laughed, reached beneath the table, and produced another bottle of root beer. She twisted the top off and handed it to Mason.

"You don't like me, do you?" she asked him.

Mason wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Nope."

Diane laughed again. "Good. I don't like you either. Makes us even."

"Then why did you buy my lunch and offer to help me with the fixtures deals?"

"Sullivan was my boss. I still work here. It's my job. Take your pick."

"Works for me. Tell me what I need to know."

"Quintex started investing in these deals in 2008."

"How many deals?"

"Twenty. In each transaction, Quintex purchased fifty thousand to seventy-five thousand dollars' worth of fixtures."

"What kind of fixtures?"

"Retail store and entertainment fixtures. They could be used to display merchandise, serve food, or house televisions and stereos in bars and restaurants."

"What were the economics?"

"Quintex leased the fixtures to other companies for thirty-five hundred to six thousand dollars a month on a ten-year lease with two ten-year options. Quintex usually got its money back in eighteen months. Ten of the deals have paid back the initial investment and just over half a million dollars in profit in the last year."

Mason finished his sandwich and his root beer and jotted some figures on a legal pad.