Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

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.

Over dinner, Kelly told him about growing up in the Ozarks, in Pope County. Her mother wasn’t ready for marriage or motherhood and walked out on her and her father when she was an infant. Her father was killed in a farming accident when she was sixteen. She lived with relatives until she went to college at Missouri State in Springfield. The FBI recruited her during her third year of law school at the University of Missouri. When she went to Washington, D.C., for her training, it was her first trip out of the state. Since then, she had seen the country’s underbelly in tours with the organized-crime strike force in New York, the gang strike force in Los Angeles, and the drug strike force in Chicago. Her last assignment was Kansas City’s financial fraud unit.

“What was your partner’s name?” Mason asked.

Kelly paused, looked at the bottom of her glass. “Nick. Nick Theonis.”

“Did you ever find out who killed him?”

Her eyes shone with a coldness he didn’t expect. “It was a drive-by hit. I saw the shooter’s face. His left eye was only a slit-like he’d been cut. His smile was the worst. He enjoyed it.”

“Could you identify him?”

“Jimmie Camaya. He’s from Chicago and started out there working for the Jamaicans as a drug courier and graduated to freelance killer. The mob likes him because he takes risks nobody else will. The FBI’s shrinks say he gets off on it.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

Kelly laughed. “You really are a Boy Scout, aren’t you, Counselor?”

“I just figured the good guys are supposed to win a few.”

“Yeah, well, we do win a few every now and then. But Camaya stays a step ahead. He goes underground after every hit, and no one sees him again until the next victim goes down.”

“So who hired Camaya to kill your partner?”

“That part’s just speculation. We were working in Chicago. After he was killed, we found out that Nick was taking bribes to tip off the mob about drug busts. Nobody was suspicious because we nailed enough of the lower-level dealers to keep the bureaucrats happy.”

“How’d you find out?”

“After his death, Gene McNamara searched Nick’s apartment and found records of the payoffs. He put me on administrative leave until he finished the investigation to make certain I was clean.”

“Gene McNamara? St. John’s lapdog?”

“We were all in Chicago together. St. John was appointed U.S. attorney right after Nick was killed. He wanted McNamara to be his chief investigator and McNamara wanted to keep his eye on me until I was cleared or indicted.”

“What did McNamara come up with?”

“Carlo D’lessandro runs the Chicago mob. Nick was on his payroll. Carlo must have gotten worried about Nick’s loyalty and had him hit. The bureau didn’t want to hang its dirty laundry out in public. So Nick was dead and Camaya disappeared. I quit the day McNamara gave me the report.”

“But you were exonerated.”

“McNamara said I was cleared because they couldn’t pin anything on me-not because he thought I was innocent. I’d have spent the rest of my career in Alaska.”

“Charming guy. Which reminds me. You never told me about your ride with St. John after Sullivan’s funeral.”

“Vintage St. John. He wanted to know what I knew about Sullivan’s death and reminded me in his usual subtle way that I had left under a cloud that could rain on me at any time. He promised me sunny skies if I kept him informed.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I suggested that he and McNamara try some anatomically impossible dance steps.”

“Did you suspect Nick was moonlighting?”

She played with her spoon, swirling the remnants of her coffee. “You’ve got to trust your partner completely or it doesn’t work. I’d invested an awful lot into the relationship. It bought a lot of loyalty, maybe the wrong kind.” The mist in her eyes said there were layers of meaning in her words.

“Were you in love with him?”

“Sometimes.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Do you always have to be so damn sensitive?”

“I’m just not jealous of the dead.”

She laughed and swept her hair back. “So much for sensitive. And I just thought you were trying to get in my pants!”

“How am I doing?”

“Well, rehashing old murders is an interesting approach. Does that normally work for you?”

“I never know what works for me. Might as well give it a run.”

They left, strolling past the outdoor sculptures, weaving in and out of the crowd that jammed the shop-filled streets. Mason remembered the first night he walked on the Plaza with a girl and tried to hold hands with her. They were sweaty-palmed teenagers whose fingers accidentally brushed together. He was so proud when she didn’t pull her hand away.

Kelly slipped her hand into his like they’d done it a thousand times before. Mason squeezed her hand and told her about life in his aunt Claire’s house. When he tried to make excuses for screwing up, Claire cut him off, insisting that life was about causes and not becauses. She spent more time feeding him values than vegetables, setting the bar high and expecting him to do backflips over it. He ended up with her house, great memories, and a lifetime supply of rules to remember.

“Ever been married?” Kelly asked.

Mason gave her the highlights on Kate and turned the questions back to her.

“Why did you go back home after you quit the bureau?”

“I wanted out of city life. I know that the country isn’t pure. But it seemed like all I ever saw in any city was the dirt that people did to each other. But with this case, it looks like my exit strategy has a few holes in it.”

They wandered to the eastern edge of the Plaza, hands intertwined, arms swaying slightly to their newfound rhythm. Sitting on the edge of a fountain, they watched as the mist fractured the fading sunlight into miniature rainbows. Last week’s heat had marched east, leaving the city host to a cool front. The air cleared as the temperature dropped, turning the evening into one that demanded sleeping under the stars.

Their life stories exhausted, they filled the space with a stream-of-consciousness zigzag through baseball, modern art, and celebrity look-alikes.

“So who do you look like?” she asked.

“When I was eighteen, older women said I looked like Dustin Hoffman. Fifteen years later, a girl at Baskin-Robbins told me I was a dead ringer for Tom Cruise. Go figure.”

“They saw what they wanted to see. Who do I remind you of?”

“No one I’ve ever known.”

“Now, there’s a good approach, Counselor.”

First kisses are promises. Hers was moist and soft. Second kisses are offers. His was plain. Third kisses are answers. Hers would have to wait.

“So who’s on your short list of suspects?” she asked, pulling back.

“You really know how to keep a guy’s interest.”

“I told you I was a tough interrogator. I was just softening you up.”

“Soft is not where I was headed.”

The fountain lost its magic, and they started walking again-west this time.

“Come on,” she said, consoling his hormones. “A deal is a deal. I paid for dinner and now you turn in all your friends.”