"At an average of sixty thousand dollars per year per lease, Quintex will make twelve million dollars over ten years on an initial investment of around a million and a quarter. Who did Quintex buy the fixtures from?"
"I can tell you the names of the companies, but they won't mean anything. They're just shells. A parent corporation owns each one. Each parent owned five of the seller corporations. Two holding companies owned these four and a final holding company owned these two. All the companies were set up in Nevada."
"So what?"
"I forgot you don't do corporate work. Nevada doesn't require shareholders and directors to be identified in state records. It lets the companies keep their ownership secret. Kind of like a Swiss bank account."
"Somebody must have signed the papers?"
"Lawyers in Chicago had power of attorney. The firm is Caravello and Landusky. They represented the companies that sold the fixtures and the companies that leased them."
Mason tore off the page of figures, wadded it into a ball, and fired it at his wastebasket.
"Somebody has gone to a lot of trouble to hide the ownership. If the Chicago lawyers are representing the sellers and the lessees, they could be one and the same. Otherwise, the lawyers would have a conflict of interest." Mason glanced at his watch and realized he was late for the partners' meeting. "Gotta go, but thanks for the information and the sandwich."
CHAPTER FORTY
Mason walked into the conference room in time to see Scott fidgeting with a stack of papers, stopping long enough to glare at Sandra from Sullivan's old chair while she smirked back from Harlan's former seat. None of the partners would look at him. Scott cleared his throat and began the meeting.
"I received a very disturbing call from Victor O'Malley last night. He's fired us because of the way Lou handled the grand jury subpoena." He spoke with real regret, underscoring with understatement the gravity of their situation.
"Bullshit!" Mason said, slamming his palm on the table. "He fired us because he didn't want to tell me how he hung us out to dry for St. John. We're better off without him anyway. Now we can concentrate on our own defense."
"Lou, you're dead wrong," Scott said. "I trusted you with this job out of friendship. I tried to warn you—told you to leave O'Malley to me. But you wouldn't listen. You had to do it your way. Now the firm's existence is in jeopardy."
"Come on, it's not that bad."
"You haven't been here long enough to understand the relationship with O'Malley. Everyone here except you and Sandra grew up with this firm. We've never had a problem like this."
"The two senior partners have never been killed in the same week either. O'Malley isn't blaming me for that too, is he?"
"That's part of your problem, Lou. You think that a few wisecracks will solve everything. The rest of us don't find any humor in losing our practice because the new kid on the block turned out to be a loose cannon."
"Look, we were going to have to dump O'Malley anyway. We've got a conflict of interest with him that even a Republican could recognize. Let's move on and figure out what we're going to do next."
"We've done that already. This wouldn't have happened if we were as close-knit as we used to be. We have to make changes if this firm is going to survive."
The picture Scott was painting was finally coming into focus. Sandra and Mason were the only outsiders—the only partners who weren't born into the firm after law school. They would be the sacrifices to O'Malley.
"Let me guess. You and the other partners had a meeting with O'Malley and he promised to keep the lights on for you if you canned Sandra and me. Don't you remember our discussion Sunday night when I told you that I had decided to quit before Sullivan was murdered and you begged me to stay and save your sorry ass? Or did you forget that when you were convincing our loyal partners here that Sandra and I were the real problem?"
"I met with Victor last night. He didn't promise anything. As for Sunday night—I should have let you quit then. Once you told me you'd lost your nerve in the courtroom, I should have known that there was no way you could handle something like this. I guess I thought I was doing you a favor—giving you another chance. But you blew it. I should have known you would."
Scott had told the worst kind of lie—one that had a kernel of truth in Mason's own admission that he had been ready to walk out on his partners; one that they were eager to believe; and one that he couldn't disprove. It was cruel and effective. Mason knew that his close relationship with Scott sealed it for the rest of the partners, ensuring their sympathy for Scott as the friend Mason had let down. It was over. Sandra rose with Mason as he stood to leave.
"Leave your parking garage access cards on your desks," Scott continued. "We'll forward your final paychecks and refunded capital contributions as provided in the partnership agreement. Your personal belongings will be sent to your homes. I want you out of these offices now!"
Scott tried to pull it off as Sullivan would have; the secret meeting to line up the votes. Appeal to old loyalties. All topped off with a ruthless finish. But he had one problem that Sullivan never had. Scott was scared. There was more desperation than anger in his voice and more fear than threat in his eyes. Sandra had been silent throughout the coup, but her closing shot clearly hit the mark.
"It's too bad really, Scott," she began. "It was such a nice speech, and I'm certain you worked on it very hard. But you're too late. You can't stop what you've already started."
Mason didn't understand what she meant, but Scott did, clenching the edge of the conference table in a white-knuckled vise. Before he could answer, Angela Molina opened the conference room door, letting in a deputy sheriff.
"Which one of you is Scott Daniels?"
"I'm Daniels. What do you want?"
"These papers are for you, Mr. Daniels."
He handed Scott an envelope with the seal of the Jackson County Circuit Court on it and left. Scott scanned the pages, losing color with each page before dropping them on the conference table. He walked out without another word.
Sandra picked up the papers and Mason read them with her. It was O'Malley's lawsuit against the firm seeking half a million dollars for work the firm charged him for but didn't do, plus fifty million dollars in punitive damages. The kicker was a court order appointing a temporary receiver to manage the firm's affairs until a hearing could be held on July 28 to consider the appointment of a permanent receiver.
Mason stopped in his office and filled his briefcase with the reports Diane Farrell had prepared and his copies of the O'Malley billing records. He tossed in Sullivan's X-rated DVDs and his Johnny Mathis CD as a reminder of happier times. Sandra met him at the elevator and they rode down together.
"Was Scott telling the truth?" she asked.
"About me wanting to quit?"
"All of it."
"The truth is, I did tell Scott that I had decided to quit. I didn't give him a reason, and I'm not certain I could explain it. That jury of our partners and peers wouldn't have believed any reason except the one Scott gave them. So the rest doesn't matter. What did you mean by your crack about Scott being too late?"
"Vic Jr. told me about the lawsuit at lunch today. And a few other tidbits."
"All that over lunch? What did you order?"
"Room service."
"Tell me you didn't."
She laughed. "Give me some credit. It was enough that Junior thought it possible."
"And the tidbits?"
"He bragged about all the money he was making that his old man didn't know about until he told him last week."
"Did he tell you where the money was coming from?"
"That was on the menu tonight. But it looks like I've been dumped."
Franklin St. John and Gene McNamara were waiting when the elevator opened.
"Well, Mr. Mason," St. John said. "You'll save me the trip upstairs. I'm sorry to hear about Harlan Christenson. He seemed one of the few decent people in your group."
"I'm touched that you came all the way over to express your condolences."
"Actually, I've got more important business. The federal court has frozen your firm's assets to protect the taxpayers' interests."
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
St. John handed Mason an order issued an hour ago freezing all of Sullivan & Christenson's assets pending a hearing on July 27. Mason gave it back to him with his most gracious smile.
"You are ever diligent, but you'll still have to take a ride upstairs."
"Are you refusing to accept service of the court's order?"
"Sorry. It's not my firm anymore. But I'll sleep better knowing that you're watching over my interests as a taxpayer."
Mason smiled, and he and Sandra left them standing at the elevator. Out on the sidewalk, he tilted his face to the sun, soaking in the warmth.
"You know something, Sandra? I may actually enjoy unemployment."
"I know. There's something liberating about it, at least until we don't get our next paycheck. You know what? Screw it! Let's celebrate! How about dinner?"
"Wish I could. I'm meeting Kelly Holt at J.J's."
She grabbed his arm. "Perfect! I can't wait to see the look on her face when we tell her what happened. I'll see you there!"
Under normal circumstances, Mason would have enjoyed the prospect of dinner with two attractive women, both of whom were showing more interest in him than he deserved, but there was nothing normal about the circumstances. Kelly had asked him to dinner to talk about Sullivan's murder, but they both knew that was a pretext, thin cover for what happening between them. There was no room at the table for Sandra, but she had outmaneuvered him.
Sandra was waiting for him outside J.J.'s, wearing a dress with a plunging neckline and thigh-high slit that would cheer up the fleet. Mason took a deep breath and opened the door for her. The hostess led them to the table where Kelly was sitting with Blues, who was between sets.
"Nice to see you, Kelly," Sandra said, extending her hand. "Lou invited me to join you for dinner. We both got fired today, so we thought we could cheer each other up."
Kelly took her hand for an instant as she interrogated Mason with raised eyebrows.
"It was a bloodless coup," Mason said. "Scott Daniels lined up the votes in a secret meeting this morning after O'Malley fired the firm. He blamed everything on me. Sandra was guilty by association."
"Well, at least you've still got a job," Blues said to Kelly.
Sandra interrupted. "I'm Sandra Connelly," she said to Blues.
Blues looked up at her from the table. He had a thin sheen of sweat, more like a glow, from the set he'd just finished. "That's fine," he told her, giving her a long and appreciative look. "That's very fine."
She returned his stare with her own. "And who are you and what do you do?"
"I'm Blues. I'm just the piano player."
"That's very fine," she said and sat next to him.
Kelly rose and signaled Mason to follow her to the bar.
"I'm afraid that my day didn't turn out any better than yours. The vial we found in Pamela's dresser drawer was saline solution, not insulin. The DA decided there weren't any votes left in the case and dropped the charges."
"Does that take Pamela off your short list?"
"No. She lost a husband with HIV and found twenty million dollars. That's a combination that will keep anybody on my short list. Did you really ask her to join us?"
Mason put his hand on the small of her back and pulled her toward him. "Not a chance. She just tries too hard."
Kelly put her hands on his chest. "Don't make the same mistake."
When they finished dinner and Blues finished his last set, the four of them left together, walking around the corner to a side street where they had parked. Mason and Kelly held hands, Blues and Sandra behind them, their arms locked, two couples riding a soft wine buzz. They stopped on the sidewalk at Mason's car when Kelly screamed.
"Gun!"
She shoved Mason to the sidewalk as a black Escalade sped toward them, a man leaning out the backseat window, spraying them with automatic fire. Mason looked up long enough to see the slash on the shooter's face where his left eye should have been.
Blues lay on top of Sandra, shielding her. Kelly returned fire as the Escalade made the corner turn and disappeared.
"You okay?" she asked Mason.
"Yeah," he said, shaking as he stood. "That Escalade—I'd swear it's the same one from the highway on the way back from the lake."
"Stay here."
Kelly made a wide circle, flashing her badge and motioning bystanders who'd rushed onto the street to back up, protecting the crime scene. When the first police officers arrived, she handed the scene off to them and joined Mason, who was leaning against a tree, his heart slowing to a normal rhythm.
"You recognized the car. I recognized the shooter. It was Jimmie Camaya."
"The guy gets around. Who was he after? You or me?"
Her eyes were red, her jaw clenched. "Do you have a preference?"
"Yeah," he said, taking her in his arms. "Me. It's not even close."
"I'm sorry," she said, taking his hand. "I didn't mean that. This case is tough enough. If Camaya is involved, it's only going to get uglier."
"Boogeymen and ghosts."
"Yeah, and I didn't hit either one of them."
A tall, beefy, barrel-chested man wearing an olive gabardine suit, his shirt damp around the collar, interrupted them. His face was large, round, and uneven, like a pumpkin.
"Lou, what are you doing in this mess?"
Mason smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. "Damn, Harry! Am I glad to see you! It's a long story. I'll let her tell you. Sheriff Kelly Holt, say hello to Detective Harry Ryman."