Lou Mason Mystery - 01 - Motion to Kill (17 page)

“Quintex bought fixtures and leased them back to someone else.”

“What kind of fixtures?”

“According to the lease documents, display racks, countertops, stuff like that. Phil Rosa did an analysis of the key deal points.”

She handed him Rosa’s memo. He studied it and the summaries on the wall.

“That explains what but not why or who. Quintex bought from one corporation and leased back to another. All those companies have alphabet soup names like NKC Corporation and EPT Enterprises.”

“I’d say that someone on one end or the other, if not both ends, wanted to make it hard to trace the connection between them.”

“We’re focusing too much on the deals and not enough on who was making them. I want to know who the real players are, and I’ll bet the O’Malleys know.”

“The two might not have anything to do with each other. Vic Jr. may be doing his own deals just to prove to his father that he can make it on his own. Vic Sr. may not be involved in or know much about what he’s doing.”

“Yeah, but Scott and Harlan were involved and they would be a direct pipeline to O’Malley.”

“Not necessarily. Scott wants out of Sullivan’s orbit. Harlan’s slipping further behind Sullivan every year in the amount of business he’s generating for the firm. They both need a boost. Maybe they’re working with Vic Jr. and don’t want Sullivan or O’Malley Sr. to know what they’re doing.”

“If you’re right, there’s no connection between Senior’s loan problems and Junior’s fixtures deals.”

“No intentional connection—but remember chaos?”

“God and bumper cars.”

“Exactly. We know St. John is investigating Quintex, but we don’t know if it’s Sullivan’s side or Scott’s side or both.”

“Meaning anything is possible. Great theory.”

“You don’t get it, Lou. We’re assuming that things are happening for reasons we understand. But we may be completely off base.”

“And we don’t know what Sullivan knew and we don’t know what Harlan knew, since they are both conveniently and permanently unavailable.”

“All I’m saying is we have to be willing to look at things a little differently,” she said. “We have to look for the unintended connections, not the grand conspiracies.”

“Fine, but I’m sticking with what we know and what we don’t know. And we don’t know enough about the fixtures deals, and I’m going to change that.”

Mason called Angela. “Find Diane, Phil, and Maggie. I want them back down here as soon as possible. Tell them to plan on a long night. Then call Victor O’Malley and tell him I’ll be in his office in twenty minutes.”

He hung up before Angela had a chance to remind him that she wasn’t his secretary, and gave Sandra her instructions.

“Tell the troops to peel the onion and find out who owns those corporate layers and what kind of businesses are using those fixtures. I want you to talk with Vic Jr. about these deals. We’ll compare notes in the morning before the partners’ meeting.”

“Don’t you think we should synchronize our watches, Commander?”

“I’ll settle for as close to seven as you can make it. Listen, Sandra, two people are dead already. We may step on the wrong toes with all of this, so please be careful.”

“Lou, I’m touched.”

“Let’s just say that beautiful legs are a terrible thing to waste.”

When Mason started working on Victor O’Malley’s case, he asked Sullivan why O’Malley paid rent instead of moving into one of his own office towers. Sullivan explained that O’Malley had the space tied up at rock-bottom rates through a series of long-term options, which was better than losing out on market-rate rents on his own property. Mason recalled the conversation as he walked to the Union Energy Building and took the ancient elevator to O’Malley’s twentieth-floor office, knowing that his client was a man who didn’t miss a trick.

O’Malley shook Mason’s hand with both of his, patting Mason’s back and smiling like a proud father. He ran his empire from a scraped and scarred desk too small for his frame. The walls were lined with photographs of his projects, leaving no room for pictures of his family or any other sentiment.

His office faced south and west, overlooking the site for the new performing arts center that would open next year. A fierce battle had been waged in the corridors of city hall by competing developers, each of whom had invested in pockets of property on the southern fringe of the downtown in the hopes that the city would choose their site for the project. Millions of dollars had been at stake, with each contestant promising to build a world-class facility. O’Malley outprepared and outfought the competition. Gleaming and buoyant, he drew Mason to the windows to show off his victory.

“Goddammit, Lou, just look at that! It’s magnificent! Five years ago that land south of the highway was worthless. Half the buildings were abandoned and the few businesses that were left were thrilled to sell so they could pay their back taxes. You know what their problem was? No vision. No ability to look down the road and see what might happen—and not enough balls to take the risk they might be wrong.”

He put his arm around Mason as they turned from the windows and eased themselves into cane-backed chairs facing each other across a small round conference table opposite his desk.

“I’m still in shock about Harlan,” O’Malley said in low tones, slowly shaking his head. “He was a good man, not the brightest lawyer that ever practiced, but good and loyal.”

Mason was surprised at the speed with which the news had spread.

“How did you find out?”

“The press. It’s how I find out everything about myself these days. All I have to do is wait for St. John to leak his latest story and the phone rings off the hook. That’s why I was calling you this morning—I figured you’d want to reschedule our meeting.”

“Scott said he told you about Pamela’s arrest.”

“I don’t know which is more of a shock, Pamela and Sullivan or poor Harlan. Murder—that’s too far beyond me to even seem real. Can I get you something to drink?”

“No thanks. We know that St. John has been focusing on the loans by the bank to companies you controlled. If you’re convicted, that can mean anything from civil penalties to jail time. But there are two other problem areas that I need your help to figure out.”

O’Malley looked at Mason without expression. “What are they?”

“One of your companies, Quintex, has been involved in a series of sale and leaseback arrangements. The return cash flow was tremendous in comparison to the amount invested. Your son put those deals together. St. John may be interested in them and I need to know why.”

“And the other?” O’Malley prodded.

“Sullivan billed you half a million dollars for work the firm didn’t do. You paid us and I don’t think you’re that generous.”

“Lou, I appreciate all you’ve done, but with Richard Sullivan and Harlan both gone, I’ve decided to change counsel. Under the circumstances, I don’t think we should be discussing specifics.”

Mason fought the urge to tell O’Malley that he was a no-good slime ball who’d decided to can them because they were too close to figuring out what he was doing. He didn’t look forward to telling Scott they’d been fired. The murders of Sullivan and Harlan, an unfunded million-dollar liability to Pamela, the FBI investigation, and the loss of their biggest client would be too much for the firm to handle. Clients would abandon them in droves if the staff didn’t beat them to it. He was tired of being pushed around and he was ready to fight back. He hadn’t suddenly fallen in love with the law or the firm. He was just in the mood to step on someone’s throat.

“I understand your concerns, but I thought we’d agreed that we’re both better off trying to work through this together. Besides, it’ll cost you a fortune to bring someone else up to speed. This is the wrong time to make that sort of a decision.”

O’Malley’s eyes narrowed to cold bands. “I’ve made the decision and it’s simple enough that even you should understand it. You’re fired. I want a final bill on all my matters tomorrow morning, and you’ll be paid by noon. Have my files delivered to this office within twenty-four hours.” He stood to signal the end of the meeting.

Mason remained seated. “You’ll have the bills in the morning. If we aren’t paid by noon, the lawsuit for our fees will be filed by five o’clock.”

Then he got up. O’Malley’s face darkened as Mason walked to the door. He wasn’t used to people talking to him the way he talked to them.

“And,” Mason added, “the files belong to the firm, not you, but you’re entitled to copies. It’ll probably take a couple of weeks for a job that size, and we’ll require payment in advance. Have a nice day.”

Mason smiled as O’Malley slammed the door in his face.

Back at the office, he explained to Angela, Maggie, Phil, and Diane what had happened.

“Angela, how many copiers do we have?”

“Three upstairs and one down.”

“That won’t be enough. Call one of the copy companies and have them bring over as many portables as they can. Get as many staff people as you need. I want every scrap of paper in the O’Malley files copied by morning.”

“Do you want them bound and organized like the original files?” Diane Farrell asked.

“No, just stacks of paper in expandable folders with the name of the matter on them. Copy the attorneys’ notes and memorandums sections, but don’t include them in O’Malley’s copies. We’ll hold on to those until a court tells us O’Malley is entitled to them.”

“There’s no way we can finish that tonight. It’s already four o’clock,” Angela said.

“O’Malley will probably file a lawsuit against us first thing in the morning. We’ll give him the copies tomorrow. His new lawyers will spend weeks figuring things out. In the meantime, we can start looking out for our own asses. I’m outta here.”

“Where the hell are you going?” Diane asked. “You leave us with the shit work and head for the nearest bar! No way!”

“Just do your job while you still have it. I have a date with a cop.”

Mason liked the cocky grin staring back at him in his rearview mirror. It had been a while since he’d felt the jolt of a new relationship, and he was savoring the sensation as he headed for the Country Club Plaza, six square blocks of Spanish architecture and high-end shopping in the center of the city.

Mason was glad that Kelly had chosen Brentano’s, a comfortable, sophisticated restaurant with an attentive but discreet staff. Tables buzzed with conversations that remained private.

He found a seat at the bar, positive that the rest of the world was revolving around him. He waved nonchalantly to Kelly, who brought the sun inside with her.

Mason signaled the bartender for two cold bottles of Boulevard Beer. As he raised his to his lips, a thin stream splashed down his chin, splattering in his lap and washing away his reign as the king of cool. Hope and humility were restored when Kelly laughed and pressed her napkin against his thigh, soaking up the beer.

Over dinner, Kelly told him about growing up in the Ozarks, in Pope County. Her mother wasn’t ready for marriage or motherhood and walked out on her and her father when she was an infant. Her father was killed in a farming accident when she was sixteen. She lived with relatives until she went to college at Missouri State in Springfield. The FBI recruited her during her third year of law school at the University of Missouri. When she went to Washington, D.C., for her training, it was her first trip out of the state. Since then, she had seen the country’s underbelly in tours with the organized-crime strike force in New York, the gang strike force in Los Angeles, and the drug strike force in Chicago. Her last assignment was Kansas City’s financial fraud unit.

“What was your partner’s name?” Mason asked.

Kelly paused, looked at the bottom of her glass. “Nick. Nick Theonis.”

“Did you ever find out who killed him?”

Her eyes shone with a coldness he didn’t expect. “It was a drive-by hit. I saw the shooter’s face. His left eye was only a slit—like he’d been cut. His smile was the worst. He enjoyed it.”

“Could you identify him?”

“Jimmie Camaya. He’s from Chicago and started out there working for the Jamaicans as a drug courier and graduated to freelance killer. The mob likes him because he takes risks nobody else will. The FBI’s shrinks say he gets off on it.”

“Why hasn’t he been arrested?”

Kelly laughed. “You really are a Boy Scout, aren’t you, Counselor?”

“I just figured the good guys are supposed to win a few.”

“Yeah, well, we do win a few every now and then. But Camaya stays a step ahead. He goes underground after every hit, and no one sees him again until the next victim goes down.”

“So who hired Camaya to kill your partner?”

“That part’s just speculation. We were working in Chicago. After he was killed, we found out that Nick was taking bribes to tip off the mob about drug busts. Nobody was suspicious because we nailed enough of the lower-level dealers to keep the bureaucrats happy.”

“How’d you find out?”

“After his death, Gene McNamara searched Nick’s apartment and found records of the payoffs. He put me on administrative leave until he finished the investigation to make certain I was clean.”

“Gene McNamara? St. John’s lapdog?”

“We were all in Chicago together. St. John was appointed U.S. attorney right after Nick was killed. He wanted McNamara to be his chief investigator and McNamara wanted to keep his eye on me until I was cleared or indicted.”

“What did McNamara come up with?”

“Carlo D’lessandro runs the Chicago mob. Nick was on his payroll. Carlo must have gotten worried about Nick’s loyalty and had him hit. The bureau didn’t want to hang its dirty laundry out in public. So Nick was dead and Camaya disappeared. I quit the day McNamara gave me the report.”