“Unless Sullivan’s murder is related to the grand jury’s investigation. There’s a long history of witnesses who die on the eve of testifying.”
“You’re fishing. Pamela was arrested this morning because the DA thinks she killed Sullivan because he exposed her to AIDS. Now you want me to violate my client’s confidences to prove he killed Sullivan to prevent him from testifying before the grand jury. Tell me what’s wrong with this picture, Sheriff?”
“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it, Counselor. There’s an idiot named Lou Mason in the middle of it who thinks this is either just another game of cops and robbers or a law school hypothetical.”
Her interrogation lasted long enough to get them to the Tuscany restaurant. Jammin, a jazz bar, was in the basement, and Blues played there on Monday nights. They chose a table near the stage beneath a black painted ceiling ringed by a violet neon ribbon. People were packed around small tables and along the bar. A middle-aged, heavyset man was stuffed in a chair, his chin on his chest, his fingers wrapped around an empty wineglass. The man was either dead or asleep. They would find out when the waiter brought the check.
Blues was finishing his first set. The man knew Oscar Peterson-heard his voice and spoke his music with his fingers. Mason always liked watching him play. He could tell when Blues was playing for the crowd. The music was there but he wasn’t. When he played for himself, he moved from top to bottom. His shoe tapped and his face danced, all in time to the music. He’d look at his hands, eyes wide, eyebrows arched with surprise that they could do what they were doing-as if they had a life of their own. The sweet melancholy of “Autumn in New York” faded to appreciative applause. Blues brought three frosted long-necked bottles to their table.
“Man, you look like shit!” he said to Mason.
“Kelly, say hello to Wilson Bluestone. He gave up being a cop to play a mediocre piano.”
Blues looked at Mason as if he were measuring him for a pine box. “You’re the one who found Harlan Christenson? Newspaper said it was one of his partners but didn’t say which one. Figured it was you.”
He listened like the cop he used to be as Mason repeated the story, adding that they now knew that Sullivan had been murdered as well.
“You’ve got a real unhealthy practice. If I was you, I’d find another place to hang your shingle.”
“I can’t prove anything, but I’ve got to believe the murders are connected.”
“Let the cops figure it out.”
“She doesn’t buy it,” he said, nodding at Kelly.
“So what? I said let the cops figure it out.”
“Sheriff, show Blues your badge and he’ll be more polite.”
Kelly smiled and showed him her badge-and her gun.
“Damn! What are you doing out with a cop instead of a nice Jewish girl?”
“Is this guy really a friend of yours?” Kelly asked.
“Yeah. He’s just intimidated by heavily armed women.”
“Well, Sheriff, do you think it’s just bad luck that Lou’s partners get whacked on back-to-back Sundays?”
“So far, that’s all there is to connect them. It would help if Lou would tell me what his clients have to do with this.”
“He’s not going to tell you. It’s privileged, and even though you’ve got his tongue dragging next to his shoes, you’re on the other side.”
“That’s what he says-that it’s privileged, I mean.”
“Don’t worry. He’ll tell me, and I’ll tell you.”
“Why will he tell you?”
“Because I’m watching his back, and I can’t do that if he doesn’t tell me.”
“But why will you tell me?”
“Because I’m likely to need help.”
Mason was about to argue with both of them, when he realized that Blues was right. He would tell Blues. Blues would tell her, and Mason was in heat.
“So you’re the one who searched the office for more bugs,” she said to Blues as Mason drank his beer in silence and listened to them work the case.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
By Tuesday morning, the thirty-first floor had become an obstacle course of copy machines, banker’s boxes, and stacks of files. Phil Rosa was asleep in the conference room, stretched between two chairs, snoring softly under a Pizza Hut box planted like a teepee over his face. Mason picked up the box, waving away Phil’s pepperoni morning breath, the fresh air enough to wake him.
“Any survivors, Phil?”
“Barely. Two of our copiers went down after midnight. We ran out of paper at three. Maggie and I tried to organize the leftovers. Everyone else went home.”
“How far did you get?”
“About two-thirds of the way through. We’ll have to send the rest out to be copied if we’re going to get the files delivered to O’Malley today.”
“I don’t like it, but we don’t have a choice.”
“Well, well, the prodigal partner returns. I hope you can find some new assignment to keep us challenged today,” Diane Farrell said as she sauntered in.
“Diane, I’m glad you’re here. Phil-take the day off. Diane will finish up.”
“And the horse you rode in on, boss,” she said.
“I didn’t know you were an animal lover, Diane,” Mason said on his way out.
Sandra stood him up for their seven o’clock meeting. He hoped that meant they were even. At nine, Mason’s secretary delivered a memo announcing that the partners’ meeting had been moved to one thirty. Scott’s secretary answered Mason’s call to his office and told him that Scott wouldn’t be in until noon.
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, sir.”
“Can you check with the other partners?”
“Sorry, Mr. Mason. You’re the only partner here.”
He should have seen it coming then, but he was too busy to pay attention to the firm’s radio traffic and troop movements.
Kelly was a welcome sight when she walked into his office. He knew when he had a crush on someone. In high school, he called it being in deep like. In his twenties, he called it magic. Now in his midthirties, he called it dumb luck and hoped it would last long enough to fill the crater Kate left.
“Wait here,” Mason told her, motioning to a small, round conference table. “Pamela and B.J. gave me permission to show you Sullivan’s will. I’ll be right back.”
“Your office is too masculine,” she told him when he returned. “You need some flowers.”
“Since when is masculine a bad thing?”
“It’s almost my favorite thing,” she answered. “But you need more hormonal balance.”
“I’ll rent you space,” he said, pulling his chair next to hers.
“The will was signed on August 31, 1997,” Kelly noted as she began reading.
“There’s a trust agreement that runs twenty-five pages. Fortunately, Scott included a summary.”
“What’s the bottom line?”
“Sullivan’s estate is worth about twenty million dollars. Pamela gets half, and half goes to charity.”
“Unfortunately for Pamela, ten million dollars is a hell of a motive for murder.”
Mason started to put the will and trust back into the file when a sealed envelope he hadn’t noticed before slipped out. Kelly grabbed it and tore it open before he could claim another privilege.
“I don’t get it,” she said as she handed it to him.
Mason studied it for a few minutes. “I don’t get it either. This is a codicil, an amendment revoking his will.”
“So he died without a will?”
