Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

“Pretty funny for a cop. I don’t think Pamela did it. Sullivan wouldn’t let her inject him with anything-he wasn’t the type.”

“So who does that leave?”

“You mean other than the unnumbered women whom he exposed to AIDS?”

“I want the short list, not the long list.”

Mason took a deep breath and jumped in. “Angela Molina says Sullivan was blackmailing her because she embezzled from the firm.”

“Angela qualifies.”

“Angela also says that Sullivan billed O’Malley half a million bucks for work that was never done-and O’Malley paid for it.”

“Add O’Malley to the list. Anyone else?”

Mason hesitated. Scott Daniel’s name was the next obvious one. He struggled to find a reason not to add it to the list. Loyalty was the only one. On almost any other day, that would have been reason enough. But Mason’s suspicion of Scott was growing like a bad seed. Mason hoped he was wrong.

“And Scott Daniels. He hated Sullivan and wants me to convince St. John that Sullivan was the only bad guy in the firm.”

“Was he?”

“I don’t know. Scott handled a series of transactions for O’Malley that we haven’t figured out yet. They may not pass the smell test.”

“With Cara Trent and Pamela Sullivan, that’s not such a short list. Do any of them have access to insulin?” Kelly asked.

“Pamela’s the only possibility I can think of, based on what you said about her volunteer work at the hospital.”

“There’s always money. What do you know about Sullivan’s estate?”

“Not much. Scott wrote the estate plan. He say’s Pamela’s in good shape, but I haven’t seen the will.”

“Where is it?”

“Probably in the safe at the office. I’ll check with Pamela and B.J. Moore. If they don’t object, you can come by tomorrow morning and I’ll go over it with you.”

“Tell me more about your review of O’Malley’s files.”

“O’Malley fired us today. Other than that, I can’t talk about it because it’s privileged.”

“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.