Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

In spite of everything, Mason was relieved at Scott’s answer. Whatever else Scott had done, unless he had another source for insulin, the odds were against him having murdered Sullivan.

“I’m glad to hear that. Did Sullivan know about Quintex?”

“Not until St. John’s subpoena. That’s when Sullivan started digging into the Quintex files. He must have figured it out, because Harlan and I were supposed to meet with him Sunday night after the retreat.”

“Did Sullivan tell you that he knew?”

“He didn’t have to. He told us about the subpoena and St. John’s target letter and said we needed to talk about the work we’d been doing for Vic Jr. That was enough.”

“How could you have kept it from Sullivan and O’Malley?”

“Sullivan only cared about his own work. He gave me Quintex and forgot about it. Junior convinced his old man to do the same thing. Said he needed a chance to prove himself.”

“If Sullivan was on to your scam, that’s a good motive for murder.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t do it and I don’t know who did,” Scott said, raising his arms and dropping them in his lap, signaling his surrender.

“Why did you and Harlan leave so early Sunday morning? And don’t tell me it was to get ready for your closing.”

“We wanted to search Sullivan’s office to find out how much he knew. I got there before Harlan. He called me when he found out that Sullivan was dead.”

“Who did you call from the office that afternoon to talk about Sullivan’s death?”

“How do you know about that?”

“Angela bugged your office, you schmuck. You were screwing her, but she was fucking you.”

Scott shook his head. “I trusted her.”

“Imagine that. Who did you call?”

“It was just a number and a voice. No names.”

“And you didn’t find the disks?”

“Didn’t know about the disks on Sunday.”

“When did you find out about them?”

“At Sullivan’s funeral. Angela told me she walked into Sullivan’s office the week before. He was talking to O’Malley about having the records they needed on a CD. Angela was worried that some of our legitimate work for O’Malley would get screwed up and, with Sullivan gone, he’d fire us. None of us could afford to lose O’Malley’s business.”

“You mean she didn’t know what was on the CD?”

“If she did, she didn’t say anything about it. She was just looking after the firm’s biggest client.”

“So how did you know there was anything on the CD?”

“I didn’t know for certain. But it was the only thing that made sense. I knew Sullivan had the information and I couldn’t find it anywhere else. Everyone in the office knew you had the disks.”

“So you told your anonymous business partners I had the disks even though you knew it could get me killed?”

“I didn’t know!”

A husky voice interrupted. “Sure you did.”

It was Jimmie Camaya, standing at the opposite end of the benches, pointing a pistol at them, a silencer screwed into the barrel. Mason tightened his grip on his gun, holding it next to his thigh out of Camaya’s view.

“How do you do it, Jimmie? You always show up just when I’m getting to the good part.”

Camaya flashed his serpentine smile. “You just got bad luck, Mason. I came here to tell Scott about his retirement. Looks like you both can have a going-away party now. Too bad I didn’t get here before Scott got so talkative. But it don’t matter since you’re both dead.”

“If it doesn’t matter, then let me hear the rest of it; maybe you’ll learn something.”

Mason turned back to Scott, hoping to distract Camaya long enough to gain the edge he needed. “Jimmie says you’re lying, Scott. Says you knew they’d kill me? Is that right?”

“I don’t know which one of you is crazier!” Scott shouted. “I didn’t want you to get hurt, Lou, but I was in too deep. They told me to get the disks back-”

“Or else?” Mason asked.

“Or else Scott would end up like your partner, Harlan Christenson,” Camaya said.

Scott’s face froze. The unspeakable meaning of what Camaya said hit Mason head-on.

“You told them Harlan was being audited, and they were afraid he’d make a deal with the feds and turn all of you in, so they killed him,” Mason said.

Scott didn’t answer, but Camaya did.

“Julio snapped that old man’s neck like it was a chicken’s leg. You should have got there early, like Scotty here did. He had a front-row seat.”

Mason listened in disbelief. The tears rolling off Scott’s face and the retreating look in his eyes said it was true.

“He made me watch-,” Scott said. “So I wouldn’t forget to do what I was told.”

“And then you took Julio out with a goddamn toilet! What a fucked-up world, huh, Mason? So, Scott, you want to go first this time or watch another one of your friends die?”

Camaya pointed his gun at Scott. Mason estimated the distance between them at about ten feet.

“Jimmie, do me a favor, come a little closer, will you?”

“Why?”

“Better odds at seven feet,” Mason said, raising his gun and firing three quick rounds.

Mason didn’t know which round hit Camaya, but only one did, the others shattering the mirror behind him. Camaya squeezed off a shot as he fell to the floor, wounding Scott, who toppled onto Mason, knocking him off the bench. Mason looked up to see Blues standing over Camaya.

“He ain’t dead, but he sure bleeds a lot.”

Camaya wheezed from the round that caught him in the right side of his chest, pressing a towel Mason gave him against the wound, slowing the bleeding.

“Hey, Mason,” he whispered in a feathery voice. “Why’d you shoot me, man?”

“Gee, Jimmie, I don’t know. Seemed like a better idea than letting you shoot me.”

“Aw, man! I was gonna shoot Scott-I hadn’t made up my mind about you.”

“Yeah, how come?”

“Friend of mine wants to talk to you-besides, you was gettin’ to be good company.”

“Who’s your friend, Jimmie?”

“Man-you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“No way-it’s all I got to deal with-”

He started to gag and cough blood just as the paramedics arrived. Mason went to look for Scott when they started talking about establishing an airway.

Camaya’s shot had grazed Scott’s shoulder. One of the paramedics was cleaning a crimson furrow along his upper back when Mason found him sitting mannequin-like on a bench, expressionless as an EMT tended him.

“Scott,” Mason said.

“Forget it, buddy,” the EMT said. “The guy is zoned out.”

“What do you mean? Is he in shock?”

“Way past that. The shrinks got a name for it. I call it ‘zoned.’ Sometimes they come back. Sometimes they don’t.”

He finished bandaging Scott and unfolded him onto a stretcher. Scott never blinked as they rolled him out to the elevator.

Harry Ryman questioned Mason in one corner of the locker room while another detective quizzed Blues in a different corner. A forensics team methodically gathered evidence, taking photographs and measurements to preserve the scene. An hour later, they were ushered downstairs through a gauntlet of reporters. Their police scanners had picked up the report of the “Mid-America Club Shoot-out,” as one overheated journalist dubbed it. Mason managed a tight-lipped “no comment” before their squad car pulled away.

The homicide squad room was a collection of grimy steel desks, gunmetal gray chairs, and matching filing cabinets overstuffed with the statistical residue of the city’s violence. Mason sat in a chair next to Harry Ryman’s desk while Ryman banged away on his keyboard.