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
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 amp; 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.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
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.”
