Three To Get Deadly

by Lee Goldberg

  "If we divide the records, we'll be done faster," Mason suggested.

  Kelly tore the printout in half. "Recognize any names?"

  Mason recognized one name and wasn't surprised when he saw it. He was willing to dodge her other questions, but he wouldn't lie to her.

  "Just one, SOM, Inc."

  "Who or what is that?"

  "A company owned by Richard Sullivan and Victor O'Malley."

  "I don't suppose O'Malley is one of those dangerously unhappy clients."

  "He pays his bills on time."

  "Thanks. I was beginning to think I'd have to torture you for information."

  "Does this mean I get a deputy's badge?"

  "Not yet. I don't want the responsibility if you injure yourself pinning it on. Let's go see if anyone is home at SOM's condo."

  The condominium was two coves away from Sullivan's. The condo was part of a garden-style project with two units on each of three floors. SOM's was on the top floor. No one answered when they knocked. Kelly and Mason walked around to the back and peered through the sliding door on the balcony. They were about to give up when a woman appeared on the balcony of the other top-floor condo.

  "It's about time you people showed up. I've been complaining for months."

  She was short with the kind of fat that begins at the ankles and ends just below the ears. Her sundress billowed from her shoulders like a two-man tent.

  "I'm Sheriff Holt. What have you been complaining about?"

  "I know who you are, honey! I read the papers. Who's your boyfriend?" She ran her eyes over Mason, shaking her head, and whispered loud enough to make certain he heard. "Nice looking but soft. Stick to the local talent, Sheriff. Ozark men got better staying power."

  Kelly swallowed her laughter and introduced Mason. Velma Marie Fouche invited them in for a cup of coffee and conversation, both of which were served in a living room furnished with one of the few remaining knotty-pine pit groups.

  "I'm sorry, Velma, but I haven't been told about your complaints. Bring me up to date."

  Velma warmed to Kelly's easy manner. Mason was learning that she had a style for every occasion.

  "It's the women. Every week there's a new batch. It's disgusting!"

  "Tell me about the women."

  "Oh, you know. They're young and pretty and bouncy."

  "Who are they with?"

  "Men old enough to be their fathers!"

  "Have they bothered you?"

  "Nope."

  Kelly smiled. "Then what's the problem?"

  "My husband. He sees these sweet young things and gets ideas. Won't leave me alone, and I need my rest."

  Mason choked on his coffee, but Kelly didn't miss a beat.

  "I'll see to it that we look into your complaints. Did you see any of these people last night?"

  "Well, I couldn't sleep, so I went out on the balcony for some air, and I seen two of 'em walk down to the dock and get in a boat."

  "What time was it?"

  "Close to midnight."

  "What kind of boat?"

  "One of them powerboats, like the skiers use. Can't stand 'em—they're too loud and they scare the fish off."

  "Can you describe the people you saw?"

  "She was a long-legged blonde. Busty and crawlin' all over him like ants at a picnic. He was one of the regulars. I couldn't see him too well, but I recognized him from all the times I seen him here. Jockey size and suckin' in his gut tryin' to look sharp."

  "Did they come back?"

  "Just her. Maybe an hour later. She was here and gone."

  Velma didn't remember anything else. Kelly thanked her for the coffee and her help, gave her a business card, and told her to call if she remembered something more. They tried the rest of the units. No one else had seen the blonde or her jockey-sized companion.

  "Sullivan fits the description of the man Velma saw," Kelly said as they drove back to Buckhorn. "Does Cara Trent fit the description of the woman?"

  "As much as any good-looking blonde."

  "Why was Sullivan staying at the hotel if he and his wife had a house at the lake, and he and O'Malley owned that condo?"

  "The retreat is supposed to build camaraderie. Can't do that if we don't all stay in the same place."

  "Maybe, but so far it doesn't sound like Sullivan spent much time in his room. Do you suppose that Victor O'Malley knew that Sullivan used their condo to cheat on his wife?"

  Mason wasn't surprised that Kelly kept changing the subject. He used the same technique when questioning a witness. It kept the witness from getting too comfortable with the questions.

  "I don't suppose anything, but O'Malley doesn't strike me as someone who would care."

  "So why would O'Malley want Sullivan dead?"

  "You don't give up, do you? You can't decide whether to arrest everyone in the firm or everyone the firm represents."

  "People get killed for a lot of reasons, including not telling the police what they need to know soon enough to save themselves."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Mason said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They drove in silence the rest of the way to the hotel. Kelly parked her truck in the circle drive at the hotel entrance and got out.

  "You don't have to come in," Mason told her. "I'll get the firm directory from my room and bring it to you."

  "I'm more interested in Sullivan's room. And I've got the key."

  "Don't you need a warrant to search his room?"

  "Not if you let me in. Do you want the hotel maids to throw away any firm files Sullivan may have brought with him?"

  Mason knew that Kelly could have asked Pamela Sullivan or the hotel manager to let her in. Neither would have refused. His refusal would only add to her suspicion that he was holding back information. He realized that she wanted to see his reaction to anything they found in Sullivan's room. Mason had spent the day reacting to events beyond his control, hoping to nudge the investigation away from O'Malley. It was like trying to hold back a rising river with a single sandbag.

  They stopped at his room first, and he gave Kelly the firm directory. It listed every employee's name, direct-dial number, cell phone number, and e-mail address.

  "Here's your list of suspects."

  "Well, I can cross off one name."

  "Whose?"

  "Sullivan's. I don't think he committed suicide."

  "That's very funny for a sheriff."

  "Wait until you hear my good material."

  She sounded coy, which confused Mason. He studied her for a clue. She offered none. She cycled through the good cop, bad cop routine so often that he thought she might be schizophrenic. If she was trying to keep him off balance, she was succeeding. Kelly was smart and attractive and gave fleeting suggestions that she liked him—all of which he could succumb to if she gave him a chance. But he knew that she'd put his head on a pike outside the village gates if she thought he was involved in Sullivan's murder.

  She led the way to Sullivan's room and handed Mason the key. They smiled at each other and Mason fantasized for an instant that they had checked in for a more pleasant purpose.

  "Not in your dreams, Counselor," Kelly said.

  "If man doesn't dream, he has nothing."

  "A man whose dreams will never come true still has nothing. Open the door."

  Sullivan had a suite instead of the single room Mason had been assigned. A briefcase sat on a desk in one corner of the living room. Mason walked past a sofa and entertainment center and picked up the briefcase while Kelly checked out the bedroom.

  He popped the latches on the briefcase, surprised that it wasn't locked. Once he saw the contents, he knew why. It was an inventory of insignificance: Friday's Wall Street Journal, the agenda for the retreat, a paperback copy of a John Grisham novel, a CD case titled Johnny's Greatest Hits, containing a lifetime supply of Johnny Mathis. He left it open for Kelly to see.

  "Find anything interesting?" she called from the bedroom.

  "No
thing. How about you?"

  "Just this," she said as she returned to the front room, holding a letter-sized sheet of white paper by one corner. She set it on the desk next to the briefcase. "Don't touch it. Just read it."

  It was a typewritten memo from Sullivan to Harlan Christenson dated two days earlier. Mason read it, aware that Kelly was watching each twitch he was fighting to control.

  "Lou told me today that Victor O'Malley would be convicted unless we lost certain documents that he had found in our files. I told him no. I'm not going to take any chances with him. I'll fire him on Monday after the retreat. There's no reason to ruin the weekend because of one person. If he tries to cause any trouble, I'll report him to the state bar and he'll be disbarred."

  He looked up, expecting her to have drawn her gun and her Miranda card at the same time. Instead, he caught a glimpse of sadness before she resumed her official tone with a single question.

  "Is it true?"

  "I realize that we've only known each other a few hours, but do I look stupid to you?"

  Mason slammed the briefcase shut, stood straight, arms half-cocked toward her, daring her to say yes.

  "A lot of killers look pretty smart. They just do stupid things that get them caught."

  "So how am I supposed to prove that I didn't have a conversation with a dead man?"

  "Tell me about O'Malley's case and tell me you didn't advise Sullivan that the firm should lose those documents."

  Mason let out an exasperated breath, clasped his hands behind his head, and did a quick circuit of the room. Kelly stood still, watching him orbit around her, while he decided how much of the truth to tell her. He decided to stick with what had already been reported by the press.

  "Victor O'Malley was Sullivan's biggest client. Franklin St. John is about to indict him for bank fraud. I'm defending him."

  "That's half an answer. Tell me the rest of it."

  Mason didn't care about Sullivan anymore. Sullivan was dead and had set him up with the memo. But O'Malley was still his client, and if he told Kelly too much, he could lose his license. He drew a line only a lawyer could stand on without crossing.

  "Sullivan and I had lunch on Friday and talked about the case. The rest of it is bullshit."

  "And you won't tell me what you talked about because you're more concerned about attorney-client privilege than going to jail for murder. That memo reads like a good motive. You kill Sullivan and you keep your job."

  "Give me a break, Sheriff. That memo reads like a good example of libel, which is a motive for a lawsuit, not murder."

  "So Sullivan struck first and you struck back. Malice begets malice. Libel to kill."

  "That's poetic, but, believe me, Sullivan wasn't worth it and the job wasn't worth it. I'd already decided to quit."

  "Why? Because of your lunchtime chat with Sullivan?"

  Mason stopped pacing. "That's only part of it. I've got a case that the firm won't take. I'm going out on my own so I can handle it."

  "That's your idea of a defense?"

  "I'll tell you what. You subpoena every memo Sullivan ever wrote about O'Malley. This is the only one you'll find, if he even wrote it. I've been through those files. Sullivan got things done. He didn't write memos. And he wouldn't wait to fire me or his mother because of the damn retreat."

  "So why did he write the memo?"

  "To set me up."

  "Why wouldn't he just get rid of the documents himself? And why would he need to set you up?"

  Mason didn't answer. He sat on the arm of the sofa and let her think out loud, nodding as she said it.

  "If you get rid of the documents and get caught, the memo gives him plausible deniability. If you refused, he could get rid of the evidence and still blame you if anyone ever found out. In the meantime, you're gone."

  "Now, you, Sheriff, you put on one hell of a defense."

  "Then show me the documents."

  "I can't."

  "You've got to get over this privilege stuff. This is a murder investigation until the coroner tells me differently, and you're working your way up the suspect list."

  "It's not just the privilege. I've been through those files. I don't know what documents he's talking about. Let me know when the coroner makes up his mind. I'm going home."

  She handed him Sullivan's briefcase. "I'll let you return this to Mrs. Sullivan. Drive safely."

  He hoped that she meant it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Straight, flat roads are hard to find in the Ozarks. Two-lane county roads and state highways bob and weave like a punch-drunk fighter across and around the hilly countryside. Mason plugged his iPhone into the car radio, letting Bettye LaVette sing him home as he maneuvered his Acura in and out of small packs of slow-moving cars.

  He took Highway 52 west through Eldon and on to the junction with Highway 5, where he headed north, hoping to leave the plodding traffic behind. Soon a black Escalade pulled up behind him, rode his rear end long enough to get Mason's attention, then bolted past him and another car, cutting back into the northbound lane just in time to avoid an oncoming RV.

  The car in front of Mason turned off the highway a few minutes later. Mason caught a glimpse of the Escalade and closed the distance until a quarter of a mile separated them. Content to cruise at seventy, he let go the chase.

  Ten minutes later, the Escalade slowed until Mason was within a couple of car lengths, the rolling grade preventing him from passing. They reached a level stretch of road when the driver of the Escalade stuck his hand out the window and waved Mason to go around.

  He eased into the southbound lane and accelerated, pulling alongside the Escalade. He started to wave his thanks when he saw that the window was up and tinted so dark he couldn't see the driver, who was matching Mason's pace, freezing him in the southbound lane.

  Mason pushed the Acura harder, unable to gain any ground and unwilling to drop back. He was hot enough, tired enough, and annoyed enough to keep pushing and not notice that the road had bottomed out like the trough of a wave. As they started back up the next hill, an air horn bellowed from a southbound flatbed tractor-trailer loaded with hay bales bearing down on Mason from the crest of the hill.

  Mason answered with a squeal from his own horn, but neither driver changed course. At their combined speeds, he realized the truck would be in his lap before he could pass the Escalade. Mason hit his brakes, intending to swerve back into his lane behind the Escalade, only to see the Escalade slow down, hanging him out in the wrong lane, threatening to turn him into a hood ornament.

  The truck was close enough that Mason could see the driver, mouth opened wide, screaming at him and waving his hand, telling Mason to get out of the way. Mason screamed back, unable to hear his own voice over the wind, the road, and their dueling horns. He felt as if he were flying and knew he would be when the truck hit him.

  A thin strip of gravel separated the paved road from the tall grass alongside it. Barbed wire strung between steel fence posts marked the outer boundary of a farm. Cows on the captive side of the fence looked up as if they sensed that something was about to happen that even they couldn't ignore.

  Mason pounded on his horn, screamed again at the driver of the truck and the driver of the Escalade. His hands slid around the wheel, greased by the sweat pouring off of him faster than the wind could dry it.

  The Escalade cut off any retreat. The truck slowed, causing the trailer to shimmy and its load to rock sideways. But Mason knew the driver couldn't slow quickly enough, the certainty of the impending crash clear in the driver's stricken eyes.

  Out of options, Mason spun the steering wheel hard to his left and jammed the gas pedal to the floor. The Acura bolted off the road and shuddered in the wake left by the truck as it blew past, their front bumpers exchanging air kisses.

  The ground dropped off from the road, and in the next instant, Mason flew toward the cows like an unguided missile. The Acura landed hard and fishtailed clockwise. Mason fought the wheel, found the brake
s, and rode out the spin until the car bounced to a stop against the barbed wire.

  His airbag exploded, burying him in a fierce embrace. The jolt was no worse than the countless hits he'd absorbed playing rugby, though those blows were thrown in sport. This was a cold, calculated attempt to put him on the shelf—permanently.

  Mason climbed out of the Acura and scanned the road. The Escalade had disappeared. He walked around the car, checking for damage. The barbed wire had etched an abstract pattern in the paint on the passenger side, but it was otherwise unscathed.

  He leaned against the hood, waited for his heart rate to slow to suborbital speed, and tried to put the day's events into perspective. Richard Sullivan was dead, probably murdered and last seen with an attractive blonde, not his wife, at a condo he owned with Victor O'Malley.

  Mason was defending O'Malley against criminal charges the feds were about to file. Sullivan had set up Mason as the fall guy in a scheme to get rid of evidence that had to incriminate both Sullivan and O'Malley. And someone had just tried to kill him and make his death look like the result of his own reckless driving.

  It wasn't hard to connect the dots. The picture just didn't make any sense. He realized that he'd have to take a closer look at the O'Malley files in the morning. If he lived that long.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Mason lived in a neighborhood thick with large houses built during and just after World War II. The area was a magnet that held on to older people with old money and attracted boomers with new money. A fixer-upper easily ran half a million even after the recession knocked property values into the basement. The house belonged to Claire until she gave it to him when he graduated from law school.

  "I lived in this house for twenty-six years before you came along, and now I'm fifty-five," she told him. "That's too long in one place for anybody. I need a fresh start. I bought a loft in a rehabbed warehouse in the Crossroads District. There's an artist on the first floor that uses his kitchen as his gallery. A couple of tech geeks took the second floor for their start-up something or other, and I've got the third floor."