Lou Mason Mystery - 01 - Motion to Kill (21 page)

“Buddy of mine handles impounded vehicles. I’ll check it out. Kelly, take Clarence Darrow home, and I’ll call you there.”

Two uniformed cops parked in the driveway of Mason’s house greeted them.

“Any more company?” Kelly asked them.

“Just a nosy neighbor from across the street,” one of them said.

“Good. Who’s that?” Kelly asked, pointing to a man getting out of a sedan parked across the street.

“I’m Nelson Sloane,” the man said, waving at them. “Senior casualty adjuster for the American Casualty Insurance Company. You must be Mr. Mason.” He handed Mason his card. “Well, Mr. Mason, I’ve seen worse. Vandals can’t hold a candle to a good old-fashioned hurricane.”

He looked up at Mason from thick black-framed glasses. A pencil rested above his right ear, a clipboard clenched under his left arm.

“How’d you find out about this? I haven’t turned in a claim yet.”

Sloane consulted his clipboard. “Telephone report of the claim came in last night about eleven. Source was a Mr. Bluestone. I asked him how he knew to call us and he said he’s your landlord and you asked him to find your insurance information in your office and make the call for you. The police let me have a look at your car this morning. It’s totaled. A few bullet holes can be hammered out and painted over, but your car looked like someone used it for target practice. Let’s have a look inside. I’m sure we can agree on a figure for your household contents.”

Kelly turned to the uniforms. “When he’s done with the adjuster, take him downtown.”

“Where are you going?” Mason asked.

“Public health department. I’m going to have a look at Sullivan’s records.”

Mason led Sloane inside, going room to room, wide-eyed at the destruction. No piece of furniture had been spared. Shattered stereo equipment and televisions lay on the floor. Cabinets and drawers were emptied and upended. Even his dishes had been broken.

The bedroom he’d converted to a study was a shambles. The only item untouched was his computer.

The lining of his suits and sport jackets had been sliced open. The rest of his clothes were scattered all over the floor of his bedroom. It reminded him of when he was sixteen.

“No regard, no regard,” Sloane said, taking notes on his clipboard. “I’ll wait for you at my car.”

Mason sifted through the piles until he found a pair of Dockers and a polo shirt in good enough condition to wear. Thirty minutes later, he was showered, shaved, dressed, and ready for Nelson Sloane.

Sloane laid out the claim form on the hood of his car and handed Mason a check.

“That’s for your Acura. Kelly Blue Book says that’s all we can pay.”

Mason looked at the check. “Ten thousand dollars? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“The car was eight years old and, even without the bullet holes, in poor condition.”

Mason glared at Sloane, but the adjuster was unmoved. “I’m afraid things aren’t as simple with the damage to your personal property.”

“Let me down gently. It’s been a bad day already.”

“Well, sir. It’s classic good news and bad news.” Sloane rocked back on the balls of his feet, a comedian dying for his straight man to deliver the setup.

Mason sighed. “Okay, Sloane. Give it to me. Both barrels.”

“I put your loss at fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Mason. But you’re only covered for twenty-five thousand. You should have increased your policy limits instead of trying to skimp. Never pays to skimp on insurance, Mr. Mason. No, sir, it never pays.”

“That’s it?”

Sloane stuttered. “Umm, well … actually, you are entitled to a hundred dollars a week for temporary living expenses for five weeks. Brings the total to twenty-five thousand five hundred. I can give you a check right now and we’ll have everything picked up and sold for salvage. Gives the company a chance to get some of its money back, if you know what I mean.”

He winked at Mason, who resisted the urge to yank Sloane’s eyelids down over his chin.

“Does that mean I get my premiums back too?” Sloane squinted at Mason, trying to decide if he was serious. “Forget it. I’ll keep my clothes, the pictures of my great-grandparents, their candlesticks, and my computer. You can have the rest.”

“Splendid, Mr. Mason. Splendid indeed!”

Sloane showed Mason where to sign, handing him checks for his car and his personal property as Anna Karelson strolled down her driveway and joined them.

“My goodness, Lou. What happened? Where’s Tuffy?”

She was wearing flowered capri pants and a halter top brimming over from a firmer time in her life. Her frosted hair was piled on top of her head. She’d been lying out in the sun but was one of those people who splotched instead of tanned. Mason felt a sudden sympathy for her husband, Jack.

“It was some crazy kids, Anna. They trashed the place. Tuffy and I are staying with a friend of mine. Anything new with you and Jack?” he asked to change the subject.

“The SOB still wants me to take him back. He just wants that damn TR6.”

Mason lusted for the car as much as Jack, but she’d ignored his hints in their previous conversations that he’d be happy to take the car off her hands.

“Why don’t you sell it?”

“Can I do that?”

“The car is titled in both of your names. You can do anything you want with it.”

“But I wouldn’t even know what to ask for it.”

Mason knew what he was doing, and he was only mildly ashamed of himself.

“Let my adjuster tell you. Sloane, what’s the Blue Book value on a low-mileage 1976 TR6 in excellent condition?”

Sloane consulted his book. “Ten thousand dollars.”

“Anna, you’ve let this car come between you and your husband. If you have any hope at all of reconciliation, you have to find out if he wants you more than the car.”

She looked at him with the pleading eyes of one who was lost and was about to be found. “Yes, that makes sense.”

“I need a car. Normally, I’d spend a lot of time researching in
Consumer Reports
and haggling with dealers. But I don’t have time for all that. Anna, we can help each other.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mason had endorsed his check for ten thousand dollars to Anna, she had signed the title to the TR6 over to Mason, and Sloane had sold Mason a policy on his new car. He was halfway to Sullivan & Christenson’s office, top down, wind in his hair, when he realized that he’d forgotten his police escort and that he hadn’t heard from Blues.

Mason felt weirdly self-conscious riding the elevator up to the office he’d been thrown out of the day before. There weren’t many places he had been thrown out of, especially ones that he wanted to leave anyway.

Yesterday, he had been angry and embarrassed. Today, he was angry and scared. He half hoped to be met by a welcome-back committee of former partners, led by Scott saying it had all been a mistake. It reminded him of kids who fantasized about their divorced parents getting remarried. His fantasy dissolved when a security guard wouldn’t let him off the elevator. He rode back down and walked outside looking for a can to kick.

Mason needed to talk to Scott. He still believed in the rule of reason, and he still trusted in the loyalty of friends, even when the friend had cut him off at the knees. He’d been trained to be a creative problem solver, but his training was for a different game, and he was running out of patience.

It was only eleven a.m. If Scott stuck to his routine, he’d spend the noon hour in the pool at the Mid-America Club, a couple of blocks from the office. Mason decided to wait for him there.

The Mid-America Club was a venerable Kansas City institution, which meant that it hadn’t been decorated since Eisenhower was president and didn’t accept Jews, blacks, and women as members until it didn’t have a choice.

Scott was the lone lunch-hour swimmer. His normal stroke was powerful, controlled, and precise, but today he was beating the water. Mason waited for him to surface at the shallow end. Five laps later, Scott stopped, pulled his goggles above his eyebrows, and shook his head at Mason.

“What do you want, Lou?” He sounded tired, as though he’d been worn down by something tougher than a mile swim.

“Answers. What’s going on with you and O’Malley?”

“You’re out of it. Keep it that way. It’s for your own good.”

“Okay. Let’s try something else. Why did Sullivan revoke his will?”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know. I checked his file yesterday. He executed a codicil six months ago revoking all prior wills.”

“He never said a word.”

“Have it your way. Somebody shot up my car and ransacked my house last night. I’m starting to take this personally. You owe it to me to tell me what in the hell is going on!”

Scott didn’t answer. He shook the water from his face, wiped his bloodshot eyes, and pulled his goggles down, pushing off and clawing at the water as he kicked away from Mason.

Leaving the club, Mason grabbed a sandwich at the food court in another downtown office tower. He suppressed his fear of a repeat of last night’s drive-by shooting with the myth that there was safety in a crowd. He didn’t think Camaya would risk a shootout between McDonald’s and Panda Express.

He kept a watch for people shooting at him from speeding cars while he walked to the county courthouse. He checked the court file on O’Malley’s case to see if anything new had been filed. Nothing. It was the same story at the federal courthouse with St. John’s lawsuit. He decided to pay another unscheduled visit to St. John.

“Mr. Mason, you’re going to have to learn to make an appointment just like everybody else,” St. John said as Mason walked past his secretary.

McNamara was in his usual spot on the couch. Mason was beginning to wonder if he slept in a kennel at the foot of St. John’s bed every night.

“Look, Franklin, I don’t feel much like everybody else lately. I’d like some information.”

“Gee, Counselor, don’t you like getting shot at?” McNamara grinned, enjoying his keen wit.

“Can’t you housebreak this guy?” McNamara started to get up, but St. John pointed to the couch. “Good boy, Gene, that’s a good boy.”

“Mr. Mason, don’t press your luck. You may not have enough to go around, from what I understand.”

“I don’t understand any of this. Maybe you can educate me.”

“You’ve obviously aggravated the wrong person. Given your charming demeanor, I know you find that hard to believe.”

“What do you know about Jimmie Camaya?”

McNamara’s ears pricked up. Mason pictured him with his tongue out, humping St. John’s leg.

“No one’s ever been able to pin anything on him. He enjoys a rather celebrated reputation. If he’s involved, you’re in way over your head. We can give you protection if you’ll tell us what you know.”

“I’ll tell you anything you want, except that I’m dumber than dirt. Kelly Holt thinks he’s the guy who shot up my car last night.”

“If Camaya was shooting, he most assuredly wasn’t aiming at your car. My reports are that Holt returned fire. He’s not used to that.”

“Does he do floors and windows too?”

“I heard about your house. My sympathies. Such a violation. I assume that whoever did that and Camaya have the same employer. Why are you attracting all this attention?”

“I got into this mess when Scott Daniels asked me to check the firm’s exposure from Sullivan’s relationship with O’Malley. It’s been downhill since then.”

“Help us with that and maybe we can help you.”

Mason considered the implications of the offer. St. John thought Mason could help him nail O’Malley and the firm. Mason had mixed emotions on the subject. He didn’t like the idea of being a moving target. But he couldn’t get excited about putting himself in St. John’s hands.

“Thanks for your time. I’ll think it over.”

Mason tried the county courthouse again in the hopes that he might run into Kelly at the public health department. The clerk told him that he had missed her by an hour.

He started to call her when he realized his cell phone was on silent and he’d missed a message from her yelling at him for leaving without his police escort. There was also a message from Blues that he had retrieved his briefcase. He hung up and called his landline at home, checking his messages. There were three hang-ups. He couldn’t think of anyone who would call and not leave a message. Unless they just wanted to be certain he wasn’t home.

Mason decided to try his luck with Angela. He was certain that he hadn’t been restored to the office guest list, so he waited for her in the parking garage. It was a confusing maze of levels going up and down in opposite directions at the same time that even a cheese-starved rat couldn’t navigate, but it made a great hiding place.

He waited in a dark corner near Angela’s car, until she had her back to him before approaching her as she opened her car door.

“How’s the radio traffic and troop movements, Angela?”

He caught her elbows when she jumped, falling backward into him.

“Jesus Christ, Lou! You scared the shit out of me.”

He may have, but that didn’t explain why she was pressing her bottom against his crotch instead of running away.

“Sorry. I’m just trying to be more careful in my efforts to reach old age. Can I buy you a drink?”

She turned around but didn’t back up. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. You’ve got official leprosy, and it may be contagious.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve had my shots. And we made a deal. I’ll be straight with you if you’ll be straight with me.”

“Okay, get in. But I pick the bar.”

She chose a place called The Limit on downtown’s West Side. Dim lighting left him almost blind until his eyes adjusted. He was the only man in the place. The chalkboard sign at the door announced a seminar on alternative treatments for AIDS.