Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

When he got home, he called Webb Chapman. “Any news on the safety hooks?”

“I was getting ready to call you. The test results came back today. Several of the hooks have blood on them. One of the blood samples matches Tommy’s blood type. You need DNA tests to prove it was Tommy’s blood, and that’s not cheap to do.”

Mason quickly calculated how much money he had left from his insurance settlement. “Do it.”

“Have you told Tommy?”

“No. I want to be certain first.”

Blues on Broadway opened the week after Labor Day. It was a straight-ahead joint. No cutesy memorabilia from funkier times. A rectangular-shaped mahogany bar dominated the center. Glasses hung in racks from the ceiling. Single-malt Scotch got premier billing on the shelves behind the bar. Black leather booths lined the walls, and a handful of matching round tables dotted the floor.

Blues’s Steinway grand piano, its ebony wood buffed to a high sheen, sat a foot off the floor on a stage barely big enough for it and the big man who played it. Mason had an office upstairs and a part-time job tending bar.

Sandra Connelly dropped in one afternoon as he was wiping glasses. Her auburn hair was shaped, shortened, and highlighted for fall. A glistening diamond hung from the center of a gold necklace. She stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the sunshine.

“Come on in,” Mason told her. “You can sign up to be a charter regular.”

“What do I get? My own chair at the bar?”

“Any seat that isn’t taken.”

“Suits me. Give me a glass of your best house wine. And don’t open a fresh gallon on my account.”

Sandra had been at the center of a fierce recruiting battle among the major law firms in town. She didn’t discourage the soft exaggerations of her exploits by the media and leveraged her high profile into a corner office and a fat paycheck. Mason admired her ambition but didn’t envy her. He poured and she sipped.

“Victor O’Malley just wrote my firm a check for a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Still paying for work his lawyers didn’t do.”

“Cute, for a bartender. This one is the real deal, Lou. I’m his lawyer. St. John is still going after him.”

“Any word on Vic Jr.?”

Sandra turned serious. “No. The cops assumed that Camaya killed him. His father wants me to keep looking. I came by to tell you something else.”

“What’s that?”

“Camaya escaped from the prison hospital last night. It looks like he had outside help.”

“I’m not worried. Jimmie and I have an understanding.”

“All the same, watch your back. Are you going to spend the rest of your life tending bar?”

“Nope. I’m just helping Blues. The DNA tests on one of the Philpott safety hooks turned up Tommy’s blood. I’m going to file a motion for a new trial next week. Then I’m going to hang my shingle out in an office upstairs and see what comes through the door.”

“Just remember, Lou. My door’s always open.” She left him a nice tip.

Mason wandered upstairs to his office. Tuffy was curled on a rug next to his desk chair, waiting for her ears to be scratched.

He settled into his chair, swiveled around to look out his windows onto Broadway. His office was in a part of town the mayor described as “in transition.” He felt the same way. There was nothing fancy about the office-just the basics. Blues had given him an office-warming gift. It was a metronome. He told Mason to just listen to the beat. It was good advice.