by J. A. Jance
“That’s the phone number for the fiance, the guy who filed the missing persons report,” Mel said. “He’s a long-haul trucker. According to his dispatcher, he’ll be back in Federal Way early this afternoon. Maybe we can go talk to him after lunch.”
“Excuse me for mentioning this,” I said, “but if you’re going to go to lunch, shouldn’t you start by getting dressed to go to work?”
“I’m working from home this morning,” she explained. “I’m due to show up at noon and bring the food with me. It’s Harry’s birthday, remember? I volunteered to handle the food for the party. And don’t mention it to Harry when you get in,” she added. “It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
Now, having had it pointed out, I did remember. Squad B’s fearless leader, Harry Ignatius Ball, is now and always has been a sucker for barbecue. When Mel first moved across the water from the east side of Lake Washington to the west side, I had introduced her to several of my favorite hangouts. She had really fallen for one of them, the Pecos Pit Barbecue, and was now a die-hard fan. Any excuse is good enough for her, and the fact that Harry I. Ball adores barbecue made this a perfect match.
Pecos Pit Barbecue is located down in…Wait a minute. I’m dating myself again. I started to say “Sodo,” which used to be Seattle-speak for “South of the King Dome,” but the King Dome is gone now, so forget that.
Pecos Pit is in a born-again gas station on First Avenue South. Five days a week, the people who own it cook in the mornings, serve lunches until the food is gone, and then they go home. Customers stand in lines outside, rain or shine, and then eat outside on picnic tables, rain or shine as well. Don’t expect to use your credit card. Don’t expect to get moved to the head of the line. Restaurants wanting to discourage table hogging sometimes post signs that say, “Eat, Pay, and Go.” For Pecos Pit, you walk up to the window, place your order, pay, and go eat somewhere else. In this case, the food would be coming across Lake Washington in individual paper bags, destined for Squad B’s break room.
“Maybe I could go in late, too,” I offered. To be honest, I wasn’t really thinking about work per se. “After all, I put in a very long day yesterday.”
Mel saw right through that lame excuse. “Go to work,” she said. “Keep your mind on the job and leave me alone.” Again, she smiled so brightly when she told me to shove off that it was hard to take it personally.
“But later…” I said, not exactly whining but close to it.
She nodded and smiled. “Later,” she agreed.
I knew walking away that was a promise, not a put-off.
Joanna and Butch ate a leisurely breakfast in the heated cabana out by the pool. It was easy to spot the tourists. Escapees from the Midwest’s perpetual winter were decked out in shorts or bathing suits and gave the propane heaters a wide berth. Thin-blooded locals, on the other hand, still wore long pants, sweaters, and the occasional corduroy jacket.
After checking out of the hotel, they stopped to pick up washer-saving laundry bags from Eleanor Lathrop Winfield’s favorite lingerie shop, Alice-Rae. After that, they spent an hour trudging through Costco. It turned out there were lots more things on Butch’s shopping list than just the steaks for Thursday night’s party.
Once the boxes of groceries were loaded into the car, it was time to head back for Bisbee. As they drove south, Joanna reflexively reached for her phone. She took it out, looked at it, and put it away.
“No phone,” she reminded herself. “It’s a vacation day.”
“Yes,” Butch said with a grin. “I know it’s a difficult concept for you to master, but at least you’re trying.”
“And you’re right,” she agreed. “If you hadn’t taken the bull by the horns, our anniversary would have gotten lost in the shuffle.”
“If you want to stop off at the department for a little while when we go by to pick up your car…” Butch offered.
Joanna shook her head. “Nope, you were right the first time. We’ll just pick up the car and go. I won’t even poke my head inside. Taking a whole day off now and then is the right thing to do.”
The guy who came up with that saying about the war’s not won until the paperwork is done was probably a cop in his other life. I believe most law enforcement officers would agree with me when I say that paperwork is the bane of our existence. The fact that it’s done mostly on computers these days as opposed to on paper may be good for saving trees, but it’s still a pain in the neck and takes inordinate amounts of time. As far as Team B is concerned, since Harry hates computers, everything has to be printed out for him, which means that the poor trees lose anyway, but at least we don’t have to make quite as many copies.
So once I got to the office…yes, even later than I expected because traffic was hell…once I got there, I spent the rest of the morning working on a report that recounted everything I had seen and heard the previous day on my trek back and forth to Ellensburg.
After Harry had had a chance to read it, he strolled into my tiny office staring down at his hard copy through his own pair of Bartell Drugs “special” reading glasses. I found it comforting to know that I wasn’t the only person around who’d had to eat crow and succumb to the indignity of needing them. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Getting older is hell.
“So do you think this doer is the same guy?” he asked.
“Maybe, maybe not,” I hedged. “But one way or another, I think our burned girls are all connected. Once we figure out who they all are, maybe we can put the rest of it together.”
“But this one still had her teeth?” he asked.
I nodded.
“And do you think yesterday’s victim will turn out to be this Marina Aguirre, the missing person case Mel turned up?” Harry asked.
“Could be,” I told him. “The dates work. We’ll know more after Mel and I meet with Ms. Aguirre’s fiance later this afternoon.”
“Speaking of Mel,” he said, “where is she? Don’t you two usually ride in together?”
I’m always at a loss when it comes time to spin a plausible fib. My limited ability to keep my face looking honest in the process is one of the reasons I don’t play poker. At all.
“She’s busy doing something,” I said. “You should check with Barbara. She’ll know.”
Barbara Galvin is Squad B’s indispensable clerk/typist, receptionist, ace coffeemaker, and all-around girl Friday. I knew that if anyone could pull the wool over Harry’s eyes, she was it.
“Want to go have lunch later?” Harry asked. “I thought I’d run over to that tandoori place in Eastgate.”
I felt sorry for the guy. It was his birthday, after all, and he was looking for a little company. “No, thanks,” I said. “Indian food doesn’t sound all that good to me today.”
He moped off to his office. Minutes later, Mel arrived. With Barbara’s help, she smuggled the barbecue as well as a decorated birthday cake into the break room. Usually we all cycle in and out of the break room in ones and twos. By the time six investigators and Barbara were gathered inside, it was crowded. Finally Mel called Harry to come join us. When he stepped inside, it was that much more crowded.
The party was fun. It was messy. Barbecued meat leaks out of those sandwiches with wild abandon. There were eight bags in all-seven Ms for mild and one H for not-mild. That one went to Harry, who was in his glory, chowing down while little beads of sweat broke out all over his nose and forehead. When someone spotted a tear or two, he claimed it was because of the hot food. I wondered if they didn’t have more to do with the fact that we hadn’t forgotten his birthday.
When the sandwiches were history and so was the cake, Mel and I took our leave and headed south on I-405. In bumper-to-bumper traffic. That’s the thing about the Seattle area-too many cars and not enough roadways. With two of us in the vehicle, we were able to use the express lanes, which helped some. Mel had opted to drive her Cayman. She’s the kind of intimidating driver who doesn’t need lights or a siren in order to encourage people
to get out of her way. When she drives, we make good time, but it’s not easy on hapless passengers dumb enough to join her-namely me.
“So,” she said casually as she darted across three lanes of traffic, zipping us into the express lanes in front of a very annoyed solo driver in a red Volvo station wagon who used his horn to let us know what he thought about the maneuver. “Do you want to know what I found out?”
Of course I wanted to know. What kind of question was that? “What?” I asked.
“Whoever they’ve got in the morgue over in Ellensburg isn’t Marina Aguirre,” she said.
“You already know that for sure?”
Mel nodded.
“Why are we on our way to see the boyfriend then?” I asked. “Why bother?”
“Because the poor dope may think he was engaged to Marina Aguirre, but it turns out the real Marina Aguirre, at least the one whose Social Security number matches the one on the missing persons report, died in 1986. When she was eight. Of a ruptured appendix.”
“How come nobody figured this out a long time ago?”
“Because nobody bothered to look,” Mel said.
And I knew why. Missing persons reports are usually low on the list of law enforcement priorities. True, someone from another agency could have discovered this the same way Mel had, by investing a couple of hours in doing actual work. And it’s the reality of that low priority accorded to missing persons cases that has caused Ross Connors to look into them.
To be realistic if not necessarily fair, Ross Connors is the attorney general. Other jurisdictions may be short on money or personnel, but they’re also lacking in one other vital ingredient-political savvy. Ross is a good old boy who drinks too much and knows too much. He has political pull in spades, but he’s also smart enough to let us do our jobs even when investigations step on high-profile toes. That’s also why voters are smart enough to reelect him time after time.
“So maybe this is identity theft then?” I asked, going back to the situation of the two Marinas.
“At the very least,” Mel said. “Maybe our victim is an illegal immigrant posing as someone else. What I’m wondering is whether or not the fiance knows about it.”
I was wondering the same thing. “Me, too,” I said.
People who talk about perpetually rainy Seattle forget about one important mitigating factor-afternoons. Around here, even in the winter, things tend to dry out a little during the day, but they hardly ever do that until after the morning rush hour. This was only early afternoon, closing in on two. As we turned off I-5 at Federal Way, one of Seattle’s ex-burbs, the rain stopped, the skies cleared, the pavement turned into a shining strip of sunlight.
Mel had located an address for Mason Waters, and the Cayman’s slick nav system led us there without a hitch. We drove to the end of a house-lined cul-de-sac. There, on one of the pie-shaped end lots, sat a neat little fifties rambler that had been painted a garish maroon. A hulking maroon-colored Kenworth was parked next to the carport. Inside the carport and dwarfed by its oversize neighbor sat a maroon Honda sedan.
“Looks like Mr. Waters is home,” Mel said as she put the Cayman in park. “And maroon seems to be his favorite color.”
I remembered that Mel had said Mason Waters was a long-haul trucker and that he’d been out on the road on a trip, but that afternoon the oversize tractor-trailer literally sparkled in the sunshine. There wasn’t a dead bug to be seen anywhere. It had obviously just had a thorough detailing. On the driver’s door, stenciled in gold letters, were the words: WATERS TRUCKING, INC. FEDERAL WAY, WA. DRIVE SAFE. ARRIVE ALIVE.
Stepping out of a vehicle driven by the death-defying Mel Soames, I couldn’t help but notice those last few words-and take them personally. Someday a state patroller with more nerve than I have will give her a ticket and slow her down. In the meantime, as her husband, I find it works best if I keep my mouth shut, my eyes closed, and my seat belt securely fastened.
Mel led the way down the short walkway and onto a small covered porch. As she stepped onto it, the front door and screen door slammed open and a huge man wearing a wild-patterned green and yellow Hawaiian shirt barreled out onto the porch.
“Oh my God!” he exclaimed as both Mel and I leaned back in alarm. “Are you cops? Did you find Marina? Where is she? Is she all right? Please tell me she’s all right.”
That kind of anguish can be faked, but not at the drop of a hat. Even on stage, actors have to have some time before they can psych themselves up for a performance like that. My first impression was that Mr. Waters was the real deal. Mel appeared to agree.
“Yes, we’re police officers,” she answered, producing her ID and badge. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
Mason Waters had no trouble connecting the dots. “Nobody’s bothered to come see me about this, not once, not since I filed the missing person’s report. I’ve talked to people at the police department on the phone, but no one has shown up in person. That means only one thing. She’s dead, isn’t she!”
It was a statement not a question, and when Mel responded, she didn’t agree or disagree. “Please, Mr. Waters,” she said. “If we could just step inside for a moment…”
The man looked close to tears, but he straightened his broad shoulders, nodded, and held the door open to let us enter. Nothing about Mason Waters was small-not his body or his well-used chair, a recliner that looked even older than mine, not even his TV set, a fifty-two-inch wall-mounted flat-screen that rested on the mantel of a redbrick fireplace. All of that looked overly large and out of place in the otherwise smallish fifties-era house. The living room walls were covered with dark-wood wall paneling punctuated here and there with large decorative brass plates that dated from the fifties as well.
Other than the television set, the living room resembled a time capsule. The sofa was old-fashioned leather, cracking in spots. At one end of the couch sat a set of nesting end tables, just like the ones my grandmother once had. An old-fashioned rocker that didn’t look strong enough to support Mason’s weight, or mine, completed the sparse furnishings. On the far side of the living room and through a framed archway we could see a small but formal dining room with an oak buffet and a matching pedestal table. Above it hung an aged chandelier. The place may have been dated, but it was also clean and neat. I had the feeling someone, Mr. Waters’s parents, perhaps, had lived in the house for a very long time, and he was making every effort to maintain it to some kind of stringent standard.
Waters dropped into the recliner with enough force that I was afraid it might tip over backward. While he reached for the remote to switch off ESPN, Mel and I headed for the sofa. Once we were seated, Mel made a show of digging a notebook and pencil out of her purse. That’s a signal we’ve developed between us-sort of like a secret handshake. Whoever gets out the notebook first takes the lead asking questions.
“Tell us about Marina,” she said.
Mason’s eyes misted over. For a long time he stared up at the black face of the television screen without saying anything. “She’s the most wonderful person in the world,” he declared. “We were engaged to be married. Next month.”
The last broke off in a strangled sob.
“How long have you known her?” Mel asked.
“I met her in September,” Waters replied. “September the twelfth, at twenty minutes past seven in the morning. I thought I was having a bad day. My car blew up. The radiator, not the whole car. The tow truck dragged it into a garage on 320th. It was one of my days off and I was mad that I was having to spend it hassling with car repairs. So I left the car and walked up the street to Denny’s-the one on 320th-to have breakfast. I always order their Grand Slam, and there was Marina, working the counter. The moment I saw her, as soon as she poured me that first cup of coffee, that was it. I knew she was the one. You may not believe me. I mean, people laugh when I say it was love at first sight, but it was.”
I wasn’t laughing. I know that drill because that’s what happened to me with
Anne Corley. The moment I saw her, I knew. Since I’m married to Mel now, though, and since our relationship had developed on a more traditional trajectory, it seemed best not to mention it.
“She was a waitress then?” Mel asked.
Mason nodded. “I hated to see her having to work so hard, being on her feet all day. It’s hard on the legs, you see. I told her I’d take her away from all that. I even offered to pay her way through driver’s school so she could get a CDL and go on the road with me. She didn’t seem to like that idea very much,” he added.
I’ll bet not, I thought. The faux Marina might have been able to walk her fake ID past whoever hired her at Denny’s, but it probably wouldn’t have stood up to someone who actually went to the trouble of examining her driving record.
“Did she have a regular driver’s license?” I asked.
Mason shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
“But you never saw it.”
“No, but she did have a car. The missing persons guy I talked to on the phone told me he tried checking her driving record with the DMV just after she disappeared. He said she didn’t exist, that she must have been working under an assumed name and that she probably disappeared because she wanted to disappear and because she was trying to get away from me. So there I was looking for help, and all he does is tell me Marina’s a liar. I wanted to belt him one. If I’d been in the same room with him, I might’ve done just that,” Mason Waters added forcefully-as though he still wanted to punch someone’s lights out.
The trouble is, Mel and I had come to the house intending to give him much the same information-that the love of his life was a liar and a fraud. I looked again at Mason Waters’s bull-like torso and formidable fists. If he decided to light into one of us or even both of us together, I wasn’t sure we could handle him.
“What kind of car did Marina have?” Mel asked.
“A white 4-Runner,” Waters said. “With Arizona plates. That’s where she was from, someplace in Arizona. She told me she had to leave there in a hurry. Her ex-boyfriend was after her. He’s the violent type, if you know what I mean. Abusive. She said if she hadn’t gotten away from him right then, he probably would have killed her.”