Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

There would be no confession. Too much was at stake. The killer knew that, at best, the circumstantial evidence was as thin as yesterday’s soup. Mason would prepare the same way he prepared for trial. And that meant tying up a few more loose ends.

Tuffy’s barking announced Mason’s arrival at Blues’s house before Mason could knock on the door. Blues was standing at his kitchen sink, cutting slices from a fresh peach. Tuffy pawed happily at Mason’s side until he scratched her ears.

“Peach?” Blues offered.

“Pass. Here’s how I think Sullivan was murdered.”

Blues listened, probing, picking, and ripping at any weakness. When Mason finished, he dropped the peach pit in the sink and wiped his hands on his shorts.

“I believe you. But you can’t make it stick.”

“Why not? It’s all there.”

“On Sullivan, maybe. But where does Angela fit in?”

“Murdered the same way. Insulin overdose.” It was clear to him, why not to Blues?

“People get shot every day. Don’t mean it’s the same gun. If you’re right about the killer, why take out Angela?”

Mason sagged under the weight of the question. “Angela told Sandra she had something else to tell her about besides the money laundering. Something she could only tell her in private. It must have implicated the killer. Did the cops find anything at Angela’s apartment?”

“Harry Ryman told me they turned the place upside down. Nothing.”

“I thought you guys didn’t talk to each other.”

“We don’t. He’s helping you, not me.”

Mason’s phone rang. He answered, listened, and hung up.”

“Who was that?”

He looked at Blues, shaking his head. “That was the hospital. Man, I’ve got a new client.”

“Who?”

“Jimmie Camaya. He’s out of intensive care, and he’s asking for me. Says he won’t talk to anybody until he talks to me.”

“Where is he?”

“Truman Medical Center,” Mason said. “I’m guessing a private room with a cop on the door.”

“You better take something just in case Camaya is feeling frisky.”

Blues disappeared for a moment before coming back carrying a pistol he handed to Mason.

“What is it?” Mason asked as he held the gun.

“Thirty-eight caliber. Good enough for close range.”

“Camaya can’t be dangerous. I already shot him once. Plus the cops will be there.”

“Somebody might be hanging around the parking lot waiting for you to come visit. Stick it in your waistband in the small of your back. Less chance you’ll shoot your dick off.”

Blues followed Mason out to the driveway and tossed Vernon’s Bible onto the passenger seat of the TR6.

“Don’t leave the Good Book lying around.”

Mason drove away, uncertain whether he would agree to plead for justice and mercy on Camaya’s behalf. He alternated the lawyer’s litany that everyone was entitled to a defense with Claire’s corollary that he didn’t have to represent everyone.

When he arrived at the hospital, Mason got a text message from Kelly.

D’lessandro owns Vic Jr. Sending crew to clean up after Camaya. Be careful.

He tapped his reply.

No doubt. No surprise. No shit.

A uniformed officer sat outside the door to Camaya’s hospital room. He nodded when Mason identified himself and motioned him into the room.

Camaya was sitting up in bed, a drain sticking out of a bandaged hole in his chest and an IV line plugged into his arm.

“Hey, Mason, how do I look, man? It ain’t much, but it’s all I got.”

“What are you? The new Jimmie Camaya, repackaged and user friendly?”

Camaya’s laugh caught in his throat as he winced. “Don’t make me laugh, man. You’re killin’ me.”

“Well, you don’t look bad for a guy with a hole in him who’s looking at the death penalty. What do you want from me?”

“To talk. That’s all, just talk. Thought you might help me do some business with the boys out in the hall.”

“You forget that I shot you and I’m going to testify against you?”

Camaya dismissed his objections with a wave of the hand. “Old business. I think we can help each other.”

Mason walked to the window, looking at nothing in particular. Camaya laughed again and Mason turned around.

“What’s so funny?”

“You’re packin’, aren’t you?”

“I’m what?”

“Packin’, man. Carryin’ a gun. Man, you kill me!”

Mason flushed at the absurdity of it all. Camaya was recovering from a gunshot wound and surgery and Mason had a gun to protect himself from him. He laughed too.

“Yeah, Jimmie. I’ve got a gun. So don’t get out of bed. How’d you know?”

Camaya’s good eye narrowed, matching the other, as he drew his lips back, baring his teeth, almost hissing his words.

“You killed Julio and shot me. Lost your cherry big-time. No turning back now. Shit like that changes you forever. You walkin’ the walk now, and that piece belongs right where you got it.”

Mason nodded.

“Feels good, don’t it, Mason?”

The door swung open. No knock. Just company.

Franklin St. John and Gene McNamara could darken a room like a solar eclipse. They cast the biggest shadow on Camaya, who flipped from snake eyes to wide eyes.

Mason assumed that Camaya was a coward at the core, like all bullies. But he didn’t expect him to fold before the interrogation started. Particularly since he was holding a great trump card, the identity of his boss. Mason didn’t have anything to say, so he waited for somebody else to kick things off.

“What are you doing here, Mason?” McNamara demanded.

“Jimmie invited me over to watch TV.”

“Showtime’s over, wiseass. Take a walk.”

“No, thanks. Jimmie and I are going to watch an American Idol rerun.”

Mason couldn’t help but do the opposite of what McNamara wanted to him to do. It was a petty way of showing him up-and probably not too bright-but he couldn’t help himself. To make the point, he sat on the edge of the bed, facing McNamara with his back to Camaya.

“Mr. Mason,” St. John said, “we have to question Camaya. You can come back during regular visiting hours.”

“Franklin, you forget that Jimmie is entitled to have his lawyer present for any questioning.”

St. John smiled. “And you’re his lawyer. How convenient. Jimmie, do you really think the judge is going to let the man who put you in that bed and whose testimony is going to put you on death row represent you?”

“Nothin’ but the best for me.”

“I’m truly sorry to hear you say that, Jimmie. I thought you had better judgment.”

“I’ll make you a deal,” Mason said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know and you’ll tell me what I want to know.”

“Mr. Mason, you know what we want from your client. We want to know who hired him.”

“Come on, Franklin. You already know that. It was Carlo D’lessandro. Mr. Chicago Mob. No, what you want is for Jimmie to roll over and testify against D’lessandro. And, if he agrees, you’ll give him a nice new identity flipping burgers in Bumfuck, Montana. How’s that sound to you, Jimmie?”

“I ain’t flipping no fucking burgers, man. No way.”

St. John let out an exasperated sigh. “Mr. Mason, you are more than an inconvenience. What do you want?”

“A history lesson.”

“On what subject that wouldn’t exceed your limited grasp?”

“The migratory habits of Chicago mobsters.”

St. John looked at McNamara, who nodded. “Begin, Mr. Mason.”

“Why did you take Nick Theonis off of Vic Jr.’s case?”

McNamara lost his snarl as if he’d just been hit across the nose with a newspaper. St. John’s eyes fluttered in a momentary panic. Neither had expected Mason to bring up their dirty laundry.