Secrets, Lies & Alibis

by Patricia H. Rushford

  Tim stopped in the doorway. “You think he’d dare to show his face . . . ?”

  “Stranger things have happened. I just wanted you to be aware of it. We already mentioned it to Cindy.”

  “Okay, well, maybe I’ll see you two there tomorrow. Thanks for all your hard work. I can show myself out.” Tim shook their hands and with his shoulders hunched made his way down the stairs.

  Kevin and Mac walked back into the briefing room. Kevin snapped his briefcase shut while Mac gathered the papers he’d printed off and handed them to Eric.

  “Any luck on that forwarding address on Higgins?” Kevin asked.

  “How about 4621 Southwest Macadam Court?” Eric looked pleased with himself. “When I entered his social security number to check his financial history, the system automatically checked the Department of Fish and Wildlife’s database and found a good address for Joe Higgins. He purchased a salmon tag less than a week ago and used this address.” Eric handed Kevin a Post-it note.

  “We’re on our way.” Kevin grabbed the note from Eric.

  “That’s his phone number below the address if you want to call first.”

  “Thanks, but I want to cold tap this guy.” Kevin and Mac grabbed their briefcases and turned to leave.

  “Hey, Kev,” Eric called after them, “I’m going to run all the evidence out of temporary holding here at the P.D. down to our office in Portland. You want anything taken over there?”

  “No, the only thing we’ve tagged recently is the silver chain.”

  “Yeah, I’ve got that. Give me a call later and let me know what’s going on.”

  “You’ve got it, buddy.” Kevin and Mac started peeling off their jackets as they crossed the scorching asphalt.

  “Hey, Mac.” Kevin turned toward him, as if about to ask a serious question. “Do you know where you’re going?”

  Mac was caught off-guard. “Is this one of those trick questions you Christians ask? I’m supposed to say heaven and if I don’t you go into a long spiel about salvation and grace and all that stuff?”

  Kevin gave him a perplexed look and said, “No, I just wanted to know if you knew how to get to Macadam Court.”

  “Oh.” Mac imagined red blotches creeping up his neck. “Um . . . yeah. I do. So sit back and enjoy the ride. Make sure your seat belt’s fastened; please don’t hang your hands outside the window.”

  “Can’t you Gen Xers just answer a simple question?” Kevin laughed, but Mac couldn’t tell if it was at his blunder or his smart-mouth comeback.

  “We should be there in about twenty minutes.” Mac paused.

  “Do you think we’ll catch him at home this time of day?”

  “Depends what time he gets home from work, or if he works at all.” Kevin popped a cinnamon Altoid into his mouth and offered one to Mac.

  They left Troutdale, heading west toward Portland. The greater Portland-Metro area changed from suburb to city with little notice due to the dense population. A sign along the road was usually the only way people had of knowing they’d entered a different town. The sign read Portland, City of Roses. They continued west on I-84, merged onto I-5 south, and at Barbour Boulevard turned onto Southwest Macadam Court.

  Kevin checked the number against the houses and apartment buildings and finally told Mac to pull over. “That’s got to be it.”

  He pointed to a duplex that looked like it had been built in the early sixties. It had a brick front with white trim and had been well maintained—at least on the outside. “The guy is moving up in the world,” Mac said as they pulled into the wide driveway in front of the garage door.

  “Hold on a second, partner,” Kevin pulled on Mac’s jacket sleeve before he could exit the car. “I’d like you take the lead on this interview. Don’t forget about that Wallace fellow on the health club roster. Don’t let on that we got the information from Meredith; just keep in mind that we might be dealing with two or more guys.”

  “Got it.” They walked up to the door and Mac rang the bell. He stepped back and off to the side, taking his badge wallet from his coat pocket.

  Kevin reached over and covered the peephole view with his police notebook. No answer. Mac rang again. His heart thudded in his chest at the thought of conducting the interview himself.

  “What do you want?” someone from inside yelled.

  “State police, Mr. Higgins,” Mac yelled back. “Could we have a word with you?”

  “Hold on just a second.” Deadbolts turned, and both detectives posed themselves to react swiftly if need be. The door swung in. Joe Higgins was wearing black sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt. His long black hair met his collar, although the top and sides were trimmed short. “What can I do for you?” he asked, still holding onto the doorknob.

  “Are you Joe Higgins?” Mac asked.

  “Yeah. What’s up?”

  “I’m Detective Mac McAllister, Oregon State Police.” Mac displayed his photo identification. “This is my partner, Detective Kevin Bledsoe. Mind if we come in and talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “What’s this about?” The smell of onions and spices permeated the room.

  “My partner and I are working a murder case and we were hoping you might have some information,” Mac said.

  “Oh, does this have anything to do with the call I made to your office?”

  “What call is that?” The question took Mac by surprise.

  “I saw this program on TV—about you guys wanting information on Megan Tyson, so I called. I’m the jeweler she hired to make earrings to match her necklace.”

  Mac glanced at Kevin, trying not to look too surprised.

  “Come on in.” He stepped back. “I’m not sure how much help I can be, but you’re sure welcome to ask. Excuse the mess. I just moved in a short time ago. But you guys probably already know that.”

  “No problem,” Mac said. “This shouldn’t take long. Where’d you move from?”

  “Troutdale.” Joe moved into the kitchen area. “I was fixing an omelet. That’s why it took me so long to get to the door. Can I get you guys something?” he asked while picking up a plate off the counter. “I just made some coffee.”

  “No thanks,” Kevin answered. “Omelet for lunch, huh? Do you work nights or something?”

  “Nope,” Joe replied with a smile. “I just love eggs.” Joe picked up his plate and fork and walked back into the family room, taking a seat in a brown vinyl recliner.

  Mac scanned the duplex, which appeared to have two bedrooms. A breakfast bar separated the small kitchen from the family room. The place was strewn about with litter and boxes, partially from the move, but Mac guessed that even in the best circumstances Joe’s housekeeping left something to be desired.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen.” Joe took a bite of his omelet and gestured to the couch. He set his plate on the stained oak coffee table.

  As Mac and Kevin seated themselves, Mac noted a stack of Hustler magazines under the coffee table. “Hey, thanks for taking the time to talk with us, Joe.”

  Joe nodded, his mouth full of food. He swallowed and said, “I hope you don’t mind if I hurry up and eat this. There’s nothing worse than cold eggs.”

  “Not at all.” Mac pulled out his notebook and pen. “Now Joe, we’re going to ask you some questions. I want to make it clear you aren’t in any trouble and that if you don’t want to talk to us, at any time, just say the word and we’ll leave.”

  Joe nodded and kept chewing. “Sounds cool. I got nothing to hide. Ask away.”

  “As you’ve already guessed, we’re here to talk to you about Megan Tyson. You indicated you knew her?”

  “Yes, I did.” Joe set the near-empty plate down again. “Not that well, though. Boy, it’s terrible what happened to her.”

  “What did happen to her?” Mac asked.

  “Come on guys, you know better than I do.” He shrugged. “All I know is what I heard on television. She turned up missing and a little while later someone found her body; that’s all I kno
w.”

  “Can you tell me what you knew about Megan? Anything that might help us with this case?”

  He folded his hands and brought them to his chin. “Let’s see. I first met Megan when I joined Fitness First. She was a personal trainer there. Mostly she worked mornings, but every once in a while she’d be there in the evening and work out with me. She was a big flirt, but after a while I realized it was all for show.”

  “And did that bother you?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Did you ever see her outside of the club or date her?”

  “No. Not that I wouldn’t have taken her out, but it wasn’t like that with us. She had a boyfriend.”

  Mac glanced at Kevin and could almost hear his partner’s caution not to push too hard or too fast.

  “What kind of work do you do?”

  “I’m collecting unemployment right now. The contractor I worked for went under a few weeks ago—couldn’t make the payroll, so I quit. I’ve got a claim in at the Bureau of Labor and Industries for a retro-check, but I doubt I’ll ever see it.”

  “Construction, huh? Anything else?”

  “Yeah, I make jewelry. I do a lot with silver and turquoise stuff—some beads and stones. That’s what I was saying earlier.

  Megan knew about the jewelry business I had going on the side and commissioned me to make a pair of earrings for her to wear at her wedding.” Joe pointed to one of the bedrooms. “That’s why I moved in here. So I’d have more room to work. In my old place I had to set up in my bedroom and there wasn’t much room.”

  Through the open bedroom door, Mac caught a glimpse of a small desk and chair with a light mounted on the side. There were boxes of beads and tools and wire sitting on the top of the desk and underneath. “Make any money with the jewelry?”

  “I don’t do too bad. I run a booth down at Portland’s Saturday Market. I make enough to pay for the booth and buy a few groceries.”

  He grinned. “Last Saturday I had a woman who runs a gallery in Ashland come by. Wanted to carry some of my stuff. I’m hoping that business will pick up to the point where I can do it full time.”

  “Anyone live here with you, Joe?” Mac had no idea what direction to take the interview. He seemed nice enough—like a guy trying to get back on track.

  He shook his head. “I’m a bachelor. ’Course you can probably tell that. If I had a wife the place would be cleaned up already.”

  “Have you had any visitors in the last few weeks?”

  “None to speak of. I mean, a few friends but no family or anything.”

  “Got a girlfriend?” Mac asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. “There are a few on the line.”

  “Right. Say, does the name M. Wallace ring a bell?”

  Joe’s friendly expression faded. He picked up his plate and fork and took them into the kitchen.

  Mac’s adrenaline kicked in. What was this guy up to? “You brought a fellow named M. Wallace to the health club as a guest,” Mac reminded him.

  “Oh, Mitch. Yeah, I know him. It took me a minute.” Joe grabbed a Pepsi out of the refrigerator and popped the top. “Did you guys talk to him too?”

  “We’ve been talking to a lot of people. This Mitch guy, how old is he?”

  “Early forties maybe.”

  “Where does he live?”

  Joe came back in and sat down. “Right now he’s in the State Pen. Got picked up on a warrant a couple weeks ago.”

  “What kind of warrant? How come he’s in prison and not at County?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I thought he was free and clear from the joint, but I guess he still owed some time or something. The cop said he had an abscond warrant out of Washington. I guess he wasn’t supposed to be out of state.”

  “How’d you get to know Mitch, and what was he doing in Oregon with you at the gym?”

  Joe shook his head and crossed his arms. “That, my friends, is a long story, but I’m sure you ran me up in your little computer and could put it together.”

  “You met in prison?” Mac asked.

  “Bingo.” Joe pointed his index finger at Mac. “I got into some trouble when I was in the marines, a drunken bar fight while I was on leave in Tokyo. It was self-defense; I cut a guy during a fight. My defense lawyer said I could get life, so I took a deal. I went to military lockup for two years, although I got tagged with a rat jacket so they shipped me out to FCI Houston.”

  “Rat jacket?” Mac asked.

  “Yeah. I testified against an army sergeant who ran a shank through the neck of a punk. I cooperated for a reduced sentence.”

  “I’m not up on my prison lingo, Joe. I know a shank is a makeshift dagger, but what’s a ‘punk’?”

  “Punk,” Joe said with a smile as he looked at the ceiling, displaying an unusually large Adam’s apple that looked like it was going to tear the skin on his neck. “‘Punk’ is the term for an inmate who takes on the role of receiver, for lack of a better term. They do it for protection usually, or favors. Punks can be traded or sold, whatever turns you on.”

  “So a punk is basically a gay sexual partner for the inmates.”

  “They weren’t necessarily gay. Most were straight—at least in the beginning. Let’s just say, they weren’t always the most willing partners. Anyway, I testified against this sergeant and word got back to the general population in, oh, about two seconds. A jacket is prison slang for, like, your title or something. Since I cooperated with the cops, I wore a rat jacket.”

  “I see,” Mac replied. “So they rolled you up and shipped you off to Texas.”

  Joe snorted. “Shipped off. That’s a good one. When I got to Houston, they put me in with Mitch. We bunked together for several years, until I was paroled a little over a year ago. I thought Mitch had around four years to go when I got out of the joint, but he called me a few weeks ago and told me he’s on his way down.”

  “From Washington?”

  “Yeah, man. He said he got an early work release and was coming to visit. He showed up at my place and crashed for a couple of weeks, then wham! He gets busted by the cops out in Gladstone. I got pulled over for a burned-out taillight. The guy questioned Mitch because he didn’t have his seat belt on. Mitch isn’t too bright. He tried to give them a fake name and birthday, but the idiot couldn’t figure out how old he was. They took him in.

  I found out later that he shouldn’t have left the state. Like I said, Mitch isn’t too bright.”

  “Were you guys pretty close?”

  “I guess. He watched my back and I watched his.” Joe shook his head. “He’s not the kind of person I’d hook up with on the outside. I’ve been trying real hard to stay clean. Regardless of what my records show, I’m not a bad guy.”

  That’s what they all say. “What kinds of things did the two of you do when he was in town?” Mac asked.

  “The usual stuff. We partied some, drank, and met a few girls. Most of the time we hung out at the old apartment reading, watching television and movies, and playing video games.”

  “When was Mitch arrested?”

  Joe frowned. “I think it was like the fourteenth or fifteenth. Something like that.”

  “What was he in for, prior to the escape charge?”

  “Bank robbery. That’s why he was in the federal joint. The nut tried to take down a federally insured bank. Pretty hard time for the amount of money you get.”

  Mac looked over at Kevin, signaling for him to take over the interview.

  “What kind of rig do you drive?” Kevin asked.

  “A real babe magnet.” He laughed. “It’s a 1990 Ford Escort, that white junker parked out front. She’s not pretty, but she gets me from here to there.”

  “How long have you owned it?” Kevin asked.

  “I bought it off my folks when I got out of prison.”

  “Joe, you said you never associated with Megan outside of the health club, right?”

  “That’s right.” He took a drink from the Pepsi can he�
�d taken out of the fridge.

  “So, there would be no reason your prints would be inside her apartment then?” Kevin rolled his pen between his fingers.

  He frowned. “Shouldn’t be.”

  Mac caught the hesitation, and apparently Kevin did as well.

  “Let’s get one thing straight, Joe.” Kevin’s voice took on a hard tone. “You don’t want to get jammed up on this if you don’t have to. Like I said earlier, we’ve talked to a lot of folks. Now we have information that says you dated Megan, independent of the gym. If you want to stick with your story, that’s fine. But if I find your prints on her belongings, that’s not going to look good for you.”

  Joe stared at the coffee table for several minutes, taking another sip of his drink and swallowing hard. “Okay, you want the truth, I’ll give you the truth.”

  “That would be refreshing,” Kevin replied.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I haven’t done anything wrong.” Joe Higgins’s Adam’s apple bounced up and down as he swallowed. “But I know how things can be misconstrued. I went down for one incident that wasn’t even my fault. I was afraid if you knew I’d gone out with Megan you might try to pin her murder on me.” He pinched his lips together. “It was stupid. But it’s scary, you know—being involved with somebody who gets killed like that. Megan and I went out once—to a movie and had some drinks. When we got back to her place she asked me in.”

  “What else happened, and why would you be afraid to tell us about that?”

  Joe slumped back in his seat and folded his hands. “It was weird, you know. We started making out a little. I got her blouse off and everything was cool until I sat up to take off my belt. She freaked. Jumped off the couch and covered up, telling me she wasn’t that kind of girl. I tried to apologize, but she just asked me to leave. I grabbed my coat and took off. It was a nonevent.” He splayed his hands. “That’s why I didn’t tell you guys the truth in the first place. I figured you’d look at my prison record and I’d go right to the top of the bad guy list. I don’t need that right now. I’m clean and making a life for myself. It isn’t easy being an ex-con. People aren’t real quick to hire you. But I got a chance to make it in the jewelry business.”