Terminal 9 (23 page)

“Not prior to. But I did talk with Kelly the day after the accident to let her know about the will. As for Jacob. . .” Addison pursed his lips. “I was in the process of trying to locate him. Actually, I'm surprised he turned up at all. And so quickly—it's almost as if . . .”He paused, as if realizing the implications of what he was about to say.

“As if . . .” Mac repeated.

“Well, you do the math. Jacob hasn't been around for years and then turns up shortly after Clay dies. Seems pretty strange to me. But maybe not. He may have read about his father's death in the papers.”

“How about the daughter?” Mac interrupted. He didn't much like Shaw's attempts to play detective. “Did she keep in contact with Clay?”

“Oh, yes. She came out once or twice a month. Kelly made sure he was cared for. She was in contact, but they weren't all that close, if you know what I mean. It was Kelly's idea to hire Rita. Clay balked at first, but after a while he came to depend on her.”

“Do you have any idea what Rita did for him?”

He shrugged. “Cleaned the house mostly. Made sure he took his medications and got to his doctor appointments and checked his blood pressure. I think she probably went shopping for him as well.”

“You said you talked to Kelly after Clay's death.”

“Yes. I called her to let her know I was executor of the estate and told her I wanted to arrange a meeting with her and Jacob. She's an attorney too, you know. She wasn't too happy to hear about my involvement, but Clay wanted an impartial attorney handling his affairs.”

“Was that Clay's decision?”

“Of course. A man should never place his finances in the hands of a family member if he wishes for the estate to be divided according to his will. Getting an independent attorney is the prudent thing to do. Besides, she's an environmental attorney with little or no experience in these matters.”

“So Clay left everything to his children?”

“Essentially, yes. Like I said, a portion went to Rita and some to charity.”

“Can you give me an idea of how much money we're talking about here?”

“A fair amount, actually. Some cash and antiquities. Most of Clay's assets were tied up in real estate. The house was on the list of prospective historical sites for the state, and you are aware of what riverfront property goes for these days—even if it is near a noisy rail yard.”

“You mentioned insurance. Were you aware of what kind of insurance Clay might have had and who might be the beneficiary?”

Shaw shook his head. “I know he had insurance, but to be honest, I haven't had a chance to look into it. Even if I had, I couldn't tell you. Confidentiality, you know.”

“How about your fees?” Mac ventured. “How much were you paid for your services?”

He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say, Detective McAllister. I don't work for free, but I can assure you, my fees are fair and in line with what other attorneys are making.”

“I understand. I'm just inquiring. Any chance we can get a look at that will?”

“I'm afraid not. Only Clay's daughter can show it to you at this point. I'll be forwarding a revised copy of the will to her this afternoon, once I add the addendum regarding Jacob's death.”

Mac shook his head. “Mr. Shaw, it wouldn't hurt you to be a little more cooperative where the will is concerned. We can get a subpoena, but as you know all that takes time.”

“I'm not sure I like your attitude, Detective.” Shaw took a condescending tone. “I certainly have the right to protect my client's privacy. They taught you that in the academy, I hope.”

The bell on the door jingled as a woman entered the office. “I've got the plunger, Addison,” she said as she entered his private office. “Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“No problem. We were just leaving.” Mac stood up. “We'll be in contact, so don't leave town.”

“Or what?” Shaw got to his feet.

“Or I'll lock you up in the county jail as a material witness. They taught you that in law school, didn't they?” Mac turned and left the office, with Dana following behind.

“WHAT HAPPENED IN THERE, Mac?” Dana asked once they were back in the car. “We were having a nice conversation and all of a sudden you're at each other's throats. Can we really lock up Shaw as a material witness if he tries to leave town?”

“Probably not.” Mac shrugged his shoulders. “He just got under my skin with the will issue.” He flashed Dana a grin. “Not a good idea really—to make threats we can't back up.”

“He didn't look too sure about it though, so I think you achieved your goal of having the last word. I can see why Clay's daughter, Kelly, didn't care for the man.

“So what's your take on him?” Mac asked. “Think he's telling the truth about not talking to Jacob?”

“It's a tough call. He oozes self-importance, but he acted like he had no idea who the body found in the fire was.”

“You noticed that too? Could have been genuine.” Mac pulled on his seat belt.

“Could have been a ruse. One thing for sure—I'm keeping Addison Shaw on my list of people of interest.”

Mac's cell phone rang. “Mac here.”

“You two still in St. Helens?” Frank asked.

“We just finished our interview with Shaw and were heading back. Did you have something for us?

“Sure do. Glad I caught you. Got a call from one of our guys in St. Helens. He spotted Mason's car at Gussie's Tavern. Wants to know if he should make an arrest.”

Mac gave Dana a thumbs-up. “Tell him to keep an eye on the vehicle—let us know if Mason bolts. We'll go by and talk to him. Thanks.”

TWENTY

M
AC AND DANA arrived at Gussie's Tavern shortly after 11:30. They parked in the back near the tavern entrance, near the OSP vehicle. Mac gave the officer a high sign. After thanking him and asking him to hang around in case Mason tried anything, they headed for the entrance.

The dining room faced the highway. The back of the restaurant was walled off from the tavern's array of pull tabs and video poker games. Mac squinted as he stepped inside. Once his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took a good look around. One man sat at the bar playing keno and smoking cigarettes.

Two older men were sitting at one of the small tables nursing a lunch-hour pint of ale. None of the men looked anything like Dan Mason. The officer who'd called in the lead sauntered in and hitched himself up on a barstool, then ordered a coffee.

Dana motioned over to the small room off the main bar to the area where the video poker machines were maintained. Oregon law required the machines be out of view from the regular patrons, which was a feeble attempt to discourage gambling and thus reduce the number of addicts. Even though they couldn't see the machines, Mac and Dana could hear the noisy chirps and bleeps coming from the other room. Mac nodded at Dana and the two of them walked into the next room, with Mac following a few steps behind.

Dan Mason was seated on a tall stool playing video poker. The long ash from his cigarette evidenced the trance he was in. With his gaze focused on the screen, he didn't seem to notice Dana's approach.

“She paying out much today?” Dana asked.

“Made about forty bucks or so . . .” Mason stopped midsentence as he turned and caught sight of Dana. Mac folded his arms, feet slightly apart. With his build and height, the stance could look threatening, which is exactly what he wanted.

“You look pretty good for someone needing a sick day.” Mac uncrossed his arms and rested his hands on his hip, nearer his gun.

Mason's gaze darted around the room. His only escape was through Dana and Mac. Apparently he decided not to risk it.

“Am I under arrest?” Mason flipped the ash from his cigarette butt to the floor before taking a long pull. Mac had seen the motion all too often. Criminals often took a long pull from a cigarette when they expected an arrest. They weren't allowed to smoke in jail. Maybe Mason thought he already knew the answer to his question. He'd be wrong, of course. They had nothing to hold him on as yet. The fingerprint on Clay's wheelchair wasn't enough to charge him.

“Why would you ask that, Mr. Mason?” Dana responded. “We were just wondering why you didn't keep your appointment.”

“Things came up, I lost track of time.” Mason pulled his cash-out ticket from the video poker machine. “What now?”

“We'd like to talk to you. Would you mind coming with us over to the Scappoose Police Department so we can have our conversation in a more comfortable environment?”

“And if I say no?”

“That's your right, Mr. Mason,” Dana answered.

Mac moved alongside her. “But then we'd have to draw our own conclusions as to why your fingerprints were found on Clay Mullins's scooter, which he was riding when he was killed. We'd also have to explain to the district attorney why you skipped out on an interview. We'll probably have to go back to the train terminal and do some asking around. If we do that we'll have to tell your supervisors that we just spoke to you at the bar . . .”

Dana smiled. “And you just called in sick for your shift.”

“I see your position.” Mason smashed his cigarette in the ashtray by the machine. “Looks like I don't have much of a choice.”

“You always have a choice as to whether or not to do the right thing,” Mac said. “You can spend a half hour with us and tell the truth, or you can make us run all over town wasting time for both of us. We don't want to cause you any heartache if you don't have it coming. You heard about the fire at Clay's place I assume?”

“Who hasn't? I had nothing to do with that. I was home with my wife all night, after we spent the evening here. I was sitting right here on this stool.”

“See there?” Dana smiled. “That's the type of information we need. What do you say we drive over to the P.D. for some privacy?

You'll be back over here cleaning up on your machine in no time.”

“So I don't have to go out of here in handcuffs?”

“Nope. Just take a little ride with us. We have no plans to arrest you today, Mr. Mason.” Dana added, “Unless you give us just cause.”

Mason agreed to an interview and moments later climbed into the passenger seat of the unmarked car. Mac opted to sit in the back—better to sit behind the man if he tried to do something. On the way to the Scappoose Police Department, they had to wait for a westbound train to pass. As Mason scanned the train's cars, his features gentled. Mac wondered what he was thinking. He seemed to like trains; that was a given.

Once the train passed, they crossed the track to the small police building, located in back of the city skateboard park.

They checked in with a supervisor at the police department, and were provided access to a private interview room in the city council chamber within the building. Mac left the door to the room open, pointing out the exit to Mason before they sat down. It was important they document this in their report in the event Mason claimed he was not given the freedom to leave. The legal standard in Oregon that points to a custody situation would require reading a suspect his rights and providing a lawyer upon request. They weren't at that point with Mason.

The three of them sat at one end of a long table in the middle of the floor.

“You need anything to drink before we get started?” Mac asked.

“No thanks. I just want to answer your questions and get out of here.”

“Great.” Mac scooted up to the table. “I want to make it clear you are not under arrest and can leave anytime you want. We appreciate your cooperation, but if at any point you want to walk out of here or ask us to drive you back to Gussie's, all you have to do is say the word. You clear with that?”

“Yeah, I understand. I have nothing to hide.”

“Good. First of all, why don't you tell us why you didn't keep your appointment? For the record this time.”

“I just got busy, you know. I never felt that comfortable talking to the cops. Every time I've met a cop they put a set of handcuffs on me. You guys never listen to my side of the story.”

“So every time you've been arrested it was the police officer's fault.” Dana looked none too happy with the man's response. “You never had it coming?”

“I . . .”

“I've seen your arrest record, Mr. Mason, and I don't think all of those arrests were as a result of trumped-up charges.”

“Most of them were dismissed.” Mason took a defensive tone. “I hope you noticed that.”

“Humph. Is that because your wife wouldn't prosecute you on domestic violence charges after the cops made mandatory arrests for you slapping her around?” Dana leaned forward in her chair.

Mason glanced over at Mac. “You know men don't always start the fights with their old ladies. Mine likes to drink, and she gets a little crazy sometimes. It takes all the strength I got to keep her from trashing our place and me. Like I said, the cops show up and see a chair turned over and a few scratches on the woman, and I get to go to jail. Like I said, you guys never listen.”

“We're not here to argue with you,” Mac assured him, “but I have to know in my gut that you're being honest with us at the end of this meeting.”

“I understand. I just didn't want you guys to make me out to be a wife beater. I've got some problems, but I'm not a violent guy.”

“What kind of problems would you say you have?” Mac asked.

Mason shrugged his shoulders. “I've been told I have a gambling problem and I might drink too much. I've thought about calling that number on the machines that the state offers to help out with poker, but I don't think it's anything I can't handle myself. It helps me relieve a little stress, that's all.”

“Anything else we need to be aware of ?”