Lou Mason Mystery - 01 - Motion to Kill (25 page)

Mason didn’t want to go home until he had a lot better idea who his friends were. The only way he knew to figure that out was to put this puzzle together from the beginning.

Kelly agreed not to arrest Mason for homicide, obstruction of justice, illegal parking, or any of the other offenses he’d committed in the last twenty-four hours. With a look that said she knew she would regret it, she went outside to call McNamara. She returned a few minutes later with a briefcase she tossed on the sofa and a sack of groceries she deposited in the kitchen.

“What did he say?” Mason asked.

She didn’t answer until she had emptied the contents of the sack on the table. A dozen eggs, butter, a pound of bacon, a gallon of orange juice, a loaf of Ozark Home Style Honey & Wheat Bread, and a jar of strawberry preserves.

“I like my eggs scrambled and the bacon crisp. Butter the toast lightly. I’ll get my own orange juice.”

Mason saluted and went to work.

Kelly continued. “McNamara accused me of harboring a potential suspect in a kidnapping investigation and threatened to have my badge. I told him he could have it if I got to pin it on.” Her mouth opened in a half-moon smile, her first of the day.

Mason negotiated an “I’ll cook and you clean” package with Blues and Sandra. Within minutes, the small cabin was brimming with the fragrance of Ozark smoked bacon snapping in the frying pan.
Fresh air, hot food, and being alive,
he thought.
Things could be worse.

He sat on the sofa with Kelly while the dishes were washed. The fabric was rough tartan wool. The springs had long ago given up. The ones that still had some punch were pointed at odd angles guaranteed to poke where the sun didn’t shine. The floor was looking better to Mason all the time.

Mason retrieved his briefcase from Blues’s car and started reviewing the O’Malley summaries, looking for a thread to tie everything together. He was seeing the words without reading them. They were too familiar to him. He glanced at Kelly. She was equally glazed over, thumbing through reports she’d read a dozen times.

“Listen,” he suggested, “we both need a fresh approach. Let’s trade files. Maybe we’ll see something the other has missed.”

Kelly handed him her folder. Sullivan’s medical records from Charlie Morgenstern’s office were on top. The chart was organized chronologically with the most recent records on top. It was like reading Sullivan’s life story in reverse. He already knew the ending. He just hoped there was something useful in the past.

The first entry was impersonal.
Patient died in boating accident, Lake of Ozarks, July 3—date estimated—await autopsy from coroner.
No hint of a twenty-plus-year friendship. Mason hoped when his doctor made his final entry for him that he at least rated a “poor Lou” instead of the anonymous “patient died.”

There were weekly entries since Sullivan’s diagnosis of HIV, regular blood work and prescriptions. Mason expected to find records of multiple injections, but there weren’t any. He’d assumed that the needle marks found at autopsy were treatment related, but the records didn’t support that. He started writing a list of questions on a legal pad, beginning with
Needle marks?

Prior to the HIV diagnosis, Sullivan’s records were routine and uninteresting. His weight fluctuated between 150 and 160 pounds. His blood pressure was generally around 120/80. He never showed any signs of masses or lumps. His chest X-rays were clean. He rarely had a cold and had never been hospitalized in the twenty-two years that Morgenstern had been his doctor.

An entry dated September 29, 1987, caught Mason’s eye—
Sample drawn and delivered to Comm. B. B.
The next entry was three days later and was written in physician shorthand that he could only partly decipher:
TC from Dr. Ashland, Comm. B. B.—pt’s sample 95%+.

“Kelly, what do you think this means?” Mason handed her the chart and pointed out the entries.

She studied the entries, knitting her brow, double-checking for anything that would shed light on their meaning. The cabin resonated with the mixed scents of pine logs, remnants of breakfast, and musty upholstery. The potpourri couldn’t hide her fragrance. It was subtle, spicy, and elusive. He inhaled deeply and realized his last shower had been a day and a half ago. Not wanting to spoil the moment, he edged away from her.

“The records don’t explain it,” she said.

“Let me have a look,” Sandra said. “I used to spend half my time reading medical records. ‘Comm. B. B.’ is probably the community blood bank. My guess is they tested him for something and the results were ninety-five percent positive.”

“Most doctors send their lab work out, but not to the community blood bank. Why would Morgenstern use them?” Mason asked.

“Could be a lot of things, I guess; hepatitis, special blood counts, paternity. The easiest way to find out is to ask Charlie Morgenstern.”

“I’ll make the call,” Kelly said. “In the meantime, Lou, do us all a favor and take a shower.”

Mason coaxed a thin, lukewarm stream from the single-setting showerhead. Julio’s boot had left an angry inkblot on his left side. Raising his arm above his head, he peered at his side, examining the yellow and purple tinges that were forming in the blood pooled beneath his skin. He fingered the area gingerly, afraid to discover what fractured ribs were supposed to feel like. He was encouraged when his palpations didn’t produce shivers of pain.

An odorless scrap of soap was stuck like a piece of gum on the underside of the soap dish. It yielded a pale film that was harder to rinse off than it was to scrub on. The total effect was like an economy car wash—one pass without the undercarriage blast. Putting yesterday’s clothes back on made the entire effort a break-even proposition. He was half clean, uncombed and unshaven, and starting to blend in with the logs.

When he came back into the front room, Kelly and Blues were deep into the O’Malley papers. They had spread the summaries on the floor and were taking notes. Sandra was rereading Sullivan’s medical records.

Kelly’s phone rang, interrupting the study group. She listened, said thank you, and hung up, smiling. This one was wide, toothy, and satisfied.

“That was Dr. Morgenstern. Sullivan took a paternity test and passed. He’s a daddy.”

“So who’s the lucky heir?” Mason asked.

“He doesn’t know. In 1987, some woman contacted Sullivan and claimed that he was the father of her ten-year-old child. Sullivan didn’t deny it but wanted a blood test to confirm it. Afterward, he never mentioned it again.”

“Call the blood bank,” said Blues. “They keep their records forever.”

“Forget it,” answered Sandra. “I’ve dealt with them on other cases. You won’t get anything out of them voluntarily. They’re too worried about confidentiality. You’ll need a court order.”

“That’s what assistant prosecuting attorneys are for,” Kelly said.

She grabbed her phone, punched in a number, and asked for Tina DeVoy, telling what she wanted and that she wanted it yesterday. Even though they could hear only one end of the conversation, it was easy enough to piece it together.

DeVoy followed standard rank-and-file procedure, explaining why she couldn’t get the order before Monday and why it would take another week to get the records after she got the order.

“Not good enough,” Kelly told her. “You’ll get the order, serve it, and bring me the records before the sun comes up in the morning or you’ll spend the rest of your career plea-bargaining traffic tickets. Are we clear?” Kelly listened and nodded. “Good. I’m sure you will.”

“That prosecutor surely knows you aren’t her boss, doesn’t she?” Blues asked when Kelly hung up.

“She’s brand-new and figures that anyone who yells at her might also sign her paycheck. She’ll get the order today, but we’ll be lucky to get the records before Monday. But at least it’s a start.”

Sullivan’s blood tests triggered a memory from Tommy Douchant’s trial. Tommy’s hip was lacerated by one of the I beams he hit on his way down to the pavement. Mason had used his bloody clothes as trial exhibits.

“How long will dried blood last?” he asked.

“Why? Are you planning to start a collection?” Sandra asked.

“Just trying to revive a lost cause. Any ideas, Kelly?”

“There are too many variables to generalize. Depends on the surface, the temperature—a lot of things.”

“Who would you use in Kansas City to analyze a safety hook for dried blood?”

“Virginia Norville. She’s the county medical examiner, and she does freelance forensic work if it’s interesting enough.”

Mason called Webb Chapman, leaving him a message to take the box of hooks to Dr. Norville for analysis. Sandra grabbed the phone as Mason was about to hang up, telling Chapman to also have the hooks checked for fingerprints.

“Good enough,” Mason said. “Let’s see if we can figure anything out in the O’Malley records. The fixtures deals are the key. Quintex invested in a series of sale and leasebacks of store fixtures. Scott Daniels did all the legal work.”

“Who signed off on the deals for the corporations?” Blues asked.

“A Chicago law firm with power of attorney for the corporations. The real players are anonymous.”

“What’s the name of the law firm?” Kelly asked.

“Caravello and Landusky,” Mason said.

The light drained from Kelly’s eyes as she grabbed Mason’s file and tore through the pages. Dropping the file, she balled her fists under her arms and paced around the room.

“What’s the matter? It’s only a law firm. Did they turn you down for a job?”

She stopped with her back to the stone fireplace, her expression grim. “Caravello and Landusky is Carlo D’lessandro’s personal law firm. They don’t sharpen their pencils unless it’s to cover for the mob. Jimmie Camaya has always been freelance, but D’lessandro is one of his best customers.”

“What else do we know?” Blues asked.

Mason answered. “Quintex invested fifty thousand to seventy-five thousand dollars in each deal. Annual rent was around sixty thousand. The first group of deals have recouped the initial investment and threw off about a half million dollars in the last year.”

“Anything else?” Kelly asked.

“In the last twelve months, O’Malley paid Sullivan & Christenson a half million dollars for work it never did.”

“Who controlled the billing?” Kelly was boring in.

“Angela Molina on the administrative side. She planted bugs in Sullivan’s, Harlan’s, and Scott’s offices to try and get something she could use on them.”

“Where in the hell does that news come from, and when were you planning on telling me?”

Kelly strapped her arms down with her hands to keep from strangling Mason. Blues just grinned, enjoying the show.

Even Mason couldn’t believe that he hadn’t told them everything he’d found out. Then he remembered that he’d spent most of the time since he talked with Angela being beat up and shot at, hitting bad guys with toilets, and sneaking out of town in the back of a car. It was easy to forget petty stuff like blackmail, wiretapping, and fraud when he got caught up in the fun and excitement of dodging bullets. Still, he felt sheepish—well, actually, stupid, but he thought he could sell sheepish easier than stupid.

“Okay, look. I’ve been kind of busy the last couple of days, what with being beat up, held prisoner, shot at, rescuing Sandra, and killing a guy. I know I should keep you guys more up to date, and I’ll try to do better from here on out.”

Blues grimaced as if he had gas. Sandra stuck two fingers down her throat. Kelly wasn’t buying any of it. All he could do was finish the story.

“Okay. Here it is. Angela and I had a drink at a gay bar called The Limit. She admitted the bugging and said the recordings were in a safe place. She was about to tell me where when Diane Farrell showed up.”

“Sounds like somebody is laundering money through Quintex and the law firm,” Kelly said. “Probably drug money. We need to talk to someone who can tell us if the lease payments are way above market value. If they are, I’ll bet that’s how they’re washing the cash.”

“Might be easier to trace the money after it leaves the law firm than try to backtrack it to where it started,” Blues said.

“How do we do that?” Mason asked.

“The first thing to do is examine the firm’s expenses. Are there any new, large expenses that aren’t easily explained? Do they match up in time with the receipt of the fees from O’Malley?” Kelly explained.

“We’ll have to get into the firm’s records to figure that out. I doubt if Scott will just turn the books over to us,” Mason said.

“That’s assuming he’s still running the show,” Sandra added. “Last we heard, the firm was the prize in a dogfight between St. John, with his federal court order freezing the firm’s assets, and O’Malley, with the receiver appointed by the state court.”

“Don’t leave anything else out, Counselor,” Kelly said.

“There is one other thing. Diane Farrell had Angela witness Sullivan’s codicil revoking his will, except Angela never saw Sullivan sign it.”

“So we charge Angela with murder, wiretapping, and falsely witnessing a document. Great.” Kelly said.

She picked up Mason’s file and started to return it to his briefcase when she hesitated, reached inside, and pulled out three CDs. “I thought you said you told us everything, Lou. What are these?”

“Souvenirs from Sullivan,” Mason said. “Two porn DVDs and the Johnny Mathis CD that was in his briefcase when we searched his room at the lake. His wife didn’t want them, so I kept them.”

“Why? You like a Johnny Mathis soundtrack with your porn?”

“Yeah, the moaning and groaning get old after a while.”

“Where did you find the porno DVDs?”

“One of them was in Sullivan’s office and the other was at his house.”