Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

“Thanks. Say hello to Kelly Holt. She’s the sheriff from the lake who’s looking into Sullivan’s death.”

Cara took a deep breath as she set her mug on Mason’s desk and shook Kelly’s hand. To her credit, it was the only part of her that was shaking.

“It’s terrible. I didn’t know him well, but he seemed like such a fine man,” Cara managed to say.

“Yes, well, I’m certain it was terrible for all of you,” Kelly answered. “I hope to visit with you about it in the next few days.”

Cara looked away from Kelly’s steady gaze. “Sure. I’ll be around.”

Kelly watched her leave, giving no clues as to her impressions of Cara. Mason assumed that Cara had known Sullivan a lot better than she would admit. He figured Kelly made the same assumption after he told her they had left the poker game together, but Kelly gave her no cause to suspect that. She picked up Cara’s coffee mug by the handle, poured the contents into Mason’s trash can, slipped it into the paper bag his lunch had come in, and dropped it into her purse.

“Mind if I borrow this for a few days?”

“Is that the way you take fingerprints in the Ozarks? What do you use for mug shots? Home movies?”

“Very funny. If Cara were at the lake, I’d ask her to come in and give me a set of elimination prints.” Mason furrowed his brow at her explanation. Kelly continued. “I’d tell her that we found prints on the boat and at the condo and that we need to eliminate hers from those we found. Since I doubt that she’s going back to the lake anytime soon, this cup will have to do.”

“Be my guest.”

She was gone before he could use one of his “How about a drink?” lines.

Tommy Douchant bloodied Mason’s nose when he asked Tommy’s girlfriend to double skate at the roller rink. Crawling unseen under the table where Tommy and the girl were sitting, Mason tied the laces of Tommy’s skates together while blood dripped from his nose. They were ten. Neither of them got the girl. Friendships are born in strange ways.

Tommy was Catholic. Mason was Jewish. Tommy was hotheaded. Mason was sneaky. Tommy joined his father’s union. Mason went to college. Tommy broke his back. Mason lost his case. Friendships die in strange ways.

Mason thought about the parts of their lives that intersected and the parts that ran parallel to one another as he sat in his car in front of Tommy’s house, engine running, a six-pack of Bud on the seat next to him. Tommy and LeAnn and their five-year-old twins lived in a small, two-story Cape Cod in Prairie Village, a suburb just on the Kansas side of the state line that divided the metropolitan area.

Tommy’s subdivision was built after World War II, funded by low-rate mortgages for veterans. The house was originally a one-story ranch. Tommy finished the attic into a second floor, added dormers, and turned the ranch into a Cape Cod. Over the years, Mason watched him paint the inside and the outside, pour a new driveway, and rewire the house.

“Got a new project,” Tommy announced with a kid’s enthusiasm the week before his accident. “Gonna put up a basketball goal that I can raise and lower so the kids can use it. Wanna give me a hand?”

They were eating ribs and drinking beer at Bryant’s Barbecue before catching an early-season baseball game. Tommy always asked Mason if he wanted to help and Mason always turned him down.

“You remember those skills tests we took in junior high school?” Mason asked him.

“Yeah. What about ‘em?”

“You remember the section titled ‘Works Well with His Hands’? My results came back ‘has no hands.’”

“Then bring the beer and watch. You can’t screw that up.”

The bit was an old one they’d done dozens of times, still laughing at the punch line.

Mason studied the outside of the house, as if it could tell what had happened to the family who lived inside. The wheelchair ramp from the front stoop to the driveway was the only clue that things were different for them.

Fresh lawn-mower tracks partitioned the small front yard into neat twenty-one-inch slices. Day lilies, their blossoms leaning over like bowed heads, struggled in the heat beneath the dining room and living room windows on either side of the front door. A pink ball the size of a large grapefruit lay against the base of the basketball goal.

Mason looked at his watch. It was eight o’clock. LeAnn was probably giving the kids a bath, getting them ready for bed.

The front door opened. Tommy sat in his wheelchair, rolling forward and back over the threshold, as if he couldn’t decide whether to stay in or come out. They looked at each other, neither waving, just looking. Mason sighed, turned off the car, and got out, carrying the six-pack of Bud. Tommy rolled his wheelchair over the threshold, onto the front stoop, and down the ramp. They met in the driveway.

Mason didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Tommy that he looked good, though his upper body was still strong and the muscles in his arms still rippled against his T-shirt. But his legs were out of place, muscles wasted. So Mason wouldn’t tell Tommy that he looked good. Instead, he scanned the outside of the house again, stopping at the basketball goal.

“The kids must like shooting hoops.”

“Gives ‘em something to do.”

“That’s good.”

Mason wanted to get to the point and skip the awkward small talk. But it was easier to talk about anything other than what they had to talk about.

“I built that ramp.”

“Get out! Why didn’t you call me? I could have helped.”

“Remember those skills tests we took in junior high school?”

“Right. I brought the beer if it’s not too late.”

“Never too late as long as the beer’s cold.”

Mason handed him a bottle, took one, and set the six-pack on the driveway. They drank in silence, the awkwardness still lingering.

“You really built that ramp?”

“Yeah. The workers’ compensation people sent somebody out to put one in while I was still in the hospital. There wasn’t anything wrong with it. I just don’t like other people working on my house.”

Mason remembered that Tommy’s workshop was in the basement.

“How did you get down to your shop?”

“Didn’t have to. LeAnn moved my workbench into the garage. I cut the legs down so I could reach everything from my chair. When I finished cutting the boards for the ramp to size, she got me one of those little carts mechanics lie on to slide under cars and I just sat out here scooting around and hammering nails.”

“It looks great.”

“It looks like shit, but I built it. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”

“What about vocational rehab? I thought workers’ comp was going to retrain you.”

“They tried. Told me I should learn computers. So far, I’m better at ramp building, but I don’t know that there’s much demand for crippled carpenters.”

Tommy spoke without a trace of the bitterness he’d shown at the trial. He sounded more realistic than resigned.

Mason finished his beer as the last shadows of the day crept over them.

“I’m sorry about the trial-about the way everything turned out.”

Given enough time, Mason knew he would probably apologize for every disaster of this century and the last. Tommy shook his head and waved off Mason’s apology.

“I should have listened to you and taken the money.”

“I should have done a better job.”

“Quit kicking yourself. I was the one who screwed up. Your partner told me that Philpott would pay a lot more once the trial got started. I believed him because I was so mad about everything. You were right. All I cared about was getting even. It’s too late now.”