theory that the two murders were only indirectly related. Whoever killed Sullivan had set in motion everything else.
Angela bugged the offices to get something on Sullivan. After his death, she hit pay dirt with the CDs and decided to set Mason up as the fall guy and watch what happened. Only she never got the chance to cash in. Suicide made no sense for her. She’d already taken all the big risks. She may have been scared when Sandra told her about the shoot-out at the lake, but Mason couldn’t believe Angela was frightened enough to kill herself.
If she was murdered, her killer was more likely to have also murdered Richard Sullivan than Harlan Christenson. Death by lethal injection was not part of Camaya’s repertoire. In any case, he was digesting a.45- caliber slug when Angela died. Sullivan died by lethal injection. Mason caught himself humming “Will the Circle Be Unbroken?” as he walked back to his car.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
A short time later, he stopped in front of Pamela Sullivan’s house. He was going back over ground he’d already covered, but he didn’t know what else to do. A
Pamela greeted him dressed in a purple and yellow tennis warm-up suit. Judging from the boozy fragrance that hung over her, Mason doubted she would be hitting the courts anytime soon. Her face was puffy, her hair barely brushed. She wasn’t wearing makeup. Her eyes were slightly glassy. She was racing her demons to the bottom.
“What can I do for you, Lou? Did you come back for something else?”
“I just wanted to talk; that’s all.”
“Well, come on in, then. I’m long on conversation.”
She took him through the front hall, past Sullivan’s study, and into the kitchen. There was a bottle of wine on the kitchen table next to the morning paper. She fumbled in a cabinet for two glasses.
“Nothing for me, Pamela. It’s a little early.”
“Well, in my case, it’s a little late.” She poured herself a full glass. “My husband left one hell of a mess,” she said, pointing to the morning paper.
The headline read
Mason scanned the article, taking small comfort in the correct spelling of his name. There was a sidebar about Angela’s death. The coroner hedged his preliminary conclusion of suicide pending an autopsy.
“I’ve been in the middle of the whole thing, Pamela, and I still don’t believe what’s happened. I hope it’s about over.”
“So do I,” she said, the wine feeding her melancholy. “I’m heartbroken about Scott. Mostly for Gloria and their kids.”
“He probably didn’t intend for it to go this far-it just got out of control. Actually, I think your husband was on to Scott and Harlan and was going to confront them.”
“And probably demand his cut! Oh, don’t look at me that way, Lou,” she said as he picked up his jaw. “The man was a shit. I don’t think he would have cleaned house.”
“Did he ever talk with you about what was going on?”
“No. He made it clear early in our marriage that business was off-limits. I never made an issue of it.”
“I don’t mean to pry, but there are some questions I need to ask you.”
“You won’t offend me. I’m past that.”
“Why didn’t you and Richard have children?”
She sighed and looked over his shoulder, through the window, and back to another time.
“We tried. I got pregnant twice and lost both babies with miscarriages. The doctors said I shouldn’t try again. Richard said it wasn’t my fault, but he never forgave me. That’s when he started cheating and I started pretending not to notice.”
“Had Richard been married previously?”
“No. What are you getting at?”
“Richard fathered a child back in the late sixties by a woman named Meredith Phillips. I’ve seen the results of the paternity test.”
The last of the color drained from her cheeks. Mason saw the ache for her own babies in her moist eyes.
“I didn’t know,” she said softly.
Mason believed her. If she’d been a client, he would have stopped and come back another day. But he didn’t know if there would be another day, so he pressed on.
“You knew that Richard was HIV positive?”
“Yes.”
“Did you discuss that with him?”
“He told me and said he’d take care of it, like it was a problem for a client.”
“Weren’t you concerned about being exposed?”
“We quit having sex years ago.” She hesitated and then added, “Richard didn’t want me, but I needed to be wanted. You don’t always find that where you think you will.”
“Did Richard tell anybody else that he was HIV positive?”
“I don’t know. We never spoke of it again.”
“Did you tell anyone?”
“Diane dropped some papers off a few days after he told me. I must have looked like a wreck because she asked me if something was wrong and I just started bawling like a baby-about everything. I made her promise not to repeat anything.”
“Was Richard treating himself for the virus, maybe injecting medications?”
She nodded her head with a dry, humorless laugh. “He said he didn’t trust the doctors and that he’d found a source for a drug the FDA hadn’t approved but was supposed to be a miracle cure. I told him he could live a normal life for years and begged him not to try black-market drugs.”
“But he did anyway?”
“At least he thought so, but he was being taken. It was nothing but saline solution. The police found a vial of it when they searched the house.”
“Do you know who he was getting it from?”
“I have no idea.”
Mason thanked her for her time and she walked him to the door. This time, as they passed Sullivan’s study, he noticed the computer on his desk.
“By the way, did Richard do much work on his computer?”
This time, her laugh held genuine amusement. “Are you kidding? He had to have that damn PC and every other new gadget that came out, but he never learned to use it. The man couldn’t type if his life depended on it.”
The doorbell rang just as Mason turned the knob. It was Diane Farrell. A new Diane, she had makeup on, her hair was washed and styled, and she was wearing a lively blue-and-yellow floral-print dress.
“Diane, darling! You look marvelous.” Pamela said. “Diane just turned thirty-something. We don’t keep an exact count. I gave her a day of beauty and a new dress. Doesn’t she look fantastic? Happy birthday, dear.”
“And many more,” Mason added as he walked out.
CHAPTER SEVENTY
Mason sat in his car in Pamela’s driveway, studying the names on the page he had ripped from the
