“Think of it as multigeneration chic,” Mason said. “And the dead immigrants are my great- grandparents.”
The mud-colored brick on the two-story Colonial had held up better than the weather-beaten white shutters. Kate stuck her fingers in the spongy, wood-rotted window frames and called a contractor.
The house was a block south of Loose Park, a sprawling green space perfect for walking with your girlfriend or running with your dog. Mason hadn’t had a girlfriend or a dog since he and Kate got divorced a year ago.
They rescued a dog from the pound soon after they were married, a German shepherd-collie she named Tuffy because she was anything but tough. Mason spoiled Tuffy like an only child and the dog returned his affection. Custody of the dog was the last battle they fought in the divorce. Kate won when she dognapped Tuffy and dared him to complain to the judge.
Mason paid a guy to mow the lawn, rake the leaves, and shovel the snow, which he considered a fair contribution to urban gentrification. Still, most of the neighbors averted their eyes when they walked by, and he swore that a few crossed the street to avoid a close encounter. Maybe it was the untrimmed oak trees, whose low-hanging, heavy branches scraped the yard. Or maybe it was the blue floodlight he’d used to replace the burned-out porch light.
The only exception was Anna Karelson, who lived across the street. Anna and Mason were “wave and hello” neighbors. He waved and she said “hello.” When Kate moved out, she began crossing the street to visit with him on the sidewalk, commiserating about her unhappy marriage as if that made them kindred spirits. Last week, she told him that she was going to hire a lawyer.
It was eight o’clock when Mason pulled into the driveway. He’d taken his time the rest of the way home from the lake, flinching every time a black SUV came near him.
Scott Daniels was pacing the sidewalk in front of his house. He and Mason had met during the first week of law school. Mason was amazed that Scott had already outlined the assignments for the first two weeks of class. Scott was amazed that Mason understood the material after a single reading. They studied together, Scott mastering the details while Mason painted the big picture.
The combination got them through law school in the top ten of their class. They shared an apartment in Kansas City after graduation until Scott got married. Mason was his best man, a favor Scott returned at Mason’s wedding.
“I was at the office getting ready for my closing when Harlan called about Sullivan,” Scott said as he followed Mason into the house. “Harlan has called a partners’ meeting for eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
Mason dropped his bag on the kitchen floor and grabbed two bottles of Bud Light from the refrigerator, handing one to Scott and leading him onto the redbrick patio, where he slumped into a lounge chair.
“I helped Pamela identify the body. I can go a long time without doing that again.”
Scott took a long pull on his bottle, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“Sullivan really knows how to screw up a good retreat.”
“Better yet, the sheriff thinks he was murdered.”
Scott stopped cold, his bottle dangling from his hand. “Get out!”
“She can’t prove it yet, but his body was found in a cove on one side of the lake, and his boat was found at Buckhorn’s marina. She also found a gold earring on the boat and Pamela says it isn’t hers.”
“That sounds more like adultery than murder. Who does he suspect?”
“I said ‘she.’ Her name is Kelly Holt. And she suspects everyone who hated Sullivan or stood to gain from his death. It’s what cops do.”
Scott drained the last drops from his bottle. “Well, if that’s the test, I’ll make her list.”
Mason looked at him, wide-eyed. “Is that a confession?”
“Yeah, right. But you know that I hated the son of a bitch, and I’ll inherit his clients. Sullivan was a total shit to work for. Nothing was ever right or good enough.”
“That’s not news. You’ve been complaining about Sullivan since the day you started. But you never complained about the money.”
“Because I’m smart enough to know that I’m a good lawyer but a lousy salesman. I did all the work while he played golf. And I don’t play golf. I guess I’ll have to learn if I want to hold on to his clients.”
Mason had listened to Scott complain for years. It was the one thing that had made him hesitate about joining the firm. He’d finally decided that Scott’s grousing was just his way of dealing with the stress of his practice. Sullivan’s death added an unsettling context to his complaints and put Scott on Kelly Holt’s list.
“What happens to the firm without Sullivan?” Mason asked.
“Nothing good. You remember the death benefit I told you about?”
“Sure. If a partner dies, the firm has to buy out his ownership interest.”
“Right. The firm bought life insurance on each of the partners to pay for the buyout.”
“So the insurance pays off Sullivan’s wife.”
“That’s the problem. Sullivan never took the physical exam the insurance company required. His death was uninsured.”
“You mean the firm owes Pamela the money?”
“Exactly one million dollars, and we don’t have it.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Well, that’s great. What’s the good news?”
“I think we can work out a deal with Pamela. I’ve done their estate work. She doesn’t need the money. The real problem is what Sullivan didn’t tell us about him and O’Malley. This afternoon when I was getting ready for my closing, I was in Sullivan’s office looking for his copy of the contracts. I found this.”
Scott handed Mason a subpoena demanding that Sullivan amp; Christenson produce all of its files on O’Malley before the federal grand jury at nine a.m. on July 17.
“That’s this Friday. I’m defending O’Malley. Sullivan didn’t tell me about this.”
“It looks like Sullivan didn’t tell anyone.”
“St. John is getting ready to indict O’Malley. That’s not a secret. The subpoena is just his way of putting on pressure. We’ll claim attorney-client privilege. The judge will throw the subpoena out.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Scott said. “St. John isn’t just coming after O’Malley. He wants Sullivan and the firm.”
He handed Mason a letter to Sullivan from Franklin St. John dated June 1. In a very polite fashion, the letter informed Sullivan that both he and the firm were targets of the grand jury investigation.
“That means the grand jury is going to indict Sullivan and the firm,” Mason said. “Sullivan knew St. John was gunning for us and didn’t bother to mention it! That no-good prick! No wonder he was trying to set me up!”
“Set you up? How?”
“We had lunch on Friday. He asked me to destroy documents that would incriminate him. I told him no. Then he wrote a memo to Harlan claiming that I had made the suggestion to him and that he was going to fire me on Monday.”
“How did you find out about that?”
“The sheriff found the memo in Sullivan’s room at Buckhorn.”
“Welcome to the list of top ten suspects.”
“Yeah, the sheriff thinks I killed Sullivan instead of suing him for libel. Don’t worry, though. I’ve got a terrific defense.”
“What’s that?”
“Someone tried to kill me on the way back from the lake.”
Scott dropped his empty beer bottle. The glass shattered on the brick patio. “You’re shitting me!”
“Maybe. I don’t know for certain. I was on Highway 5, trying to pass a guy in a black Escalade. This asshole held me out in the other lane until I was about to hit a truck head-on. I swerved off the road at the last second, or there would be two openings at the firm.”
“You think there was a connection?”
