Violent Crimes (8 page)

Dale Masterson felt uneasy during the drive to Reginald Kiner's cabin. There was nothing unusual about that. He always felt on edge when he met with RENCO Oil's head of security. He also felt weird when he used Kiner's first name. “Reginald” was a name for a butler or Harvard preppy, not for a man who ordered the death or torture of people without a qualm.

Mark Hamilton, Masterson's law partner, didn't appear the least bit nervous, but then Mark wasn't normal. That's probably why he got on so well with Kiner. If you didn't know Mark well you would never guess that he was a sociopath who would lie and deceive without any regrets. Mark was generally regarded as one of Oregon's top corporate attorneys and a great guy. His appearance was not threatening. To the contrary, he was short, balding, a little overweight, and had a great smile. Mark could tell the funniest jokes and was sought after as a golf partner. People trusted him right up to the point where the knife slipped in, and sometimes afterward.

Mark had met Kiner many years ago when Kiner was a young officer working narcotics for the Portland Police Bureau and Mark was paying his law school tuition with money he earned selling drugs. Kiner had busted Mark, then let him slide after accepting a payoff. This mutually agreeable relationship continued until Kiner left the police force and started working in the private sector for RENCO Oil, where he was the current director of the company's security division.

The two men renewed their business relationship while Mark was defending a lawsuit for the then-fledgling firm of Masterson, Hamilton. A win would make the firm's reputation, but one recalcitrant witness was threatening to cost the firm millions. As an executive at RENCO Oil, Kiner was respectable enough to have a membership at The Westmont, Portland's most exclusive country club, where Mark was also a member. Mark had mentioned the problem he was having with his case during a round of golf. Kiner had told Mark that he could solve his problem. RENCO operated in some of the scariest areas of the globe and had to use individuals with certain skill sets to solve problems in those scary places. For a price, Kiner said, he could contact one of these people and make Mark's problem disappear. A month later, the lawsuit was settled for eight figures, and Mark and Kiner were two happy fellas.

Masterson, Hamilton had not used Kiner's services often, but Dale had panicked and contacted Kiner when Christine Larson threatened to tell Global Mining about the discrepancies in the law firm's books. With Larson dead and Tom Beatty in jail for her murder, everything appeared to be rosy. Then Amanda Jaffe had mentioned the books while arguing her motion.

Kiner's log cabin was deep in the forest near Mt. Hood at the end of a long dirt road. The security chief insisted on meeting there anytime he was going to take part in a certain type of discussion because the cabin was always swept for bugs beforehand and was surrounded by motion sensors and other high-tech devices that ensured privacy.

“This is fucked up,” Masterson muttered.

“Most definitely. And we wouldn't be in this mess if you hadn't asked Larson to make the report. What were you thinking?”

“I thought Global would buy the report if she presented it. I mean, she looked so honest and she'd always been a good soldier. How did I know she'd grow a conscience?”

“Well, she did.”

“What are we going to do?” Masterson asked anxiously.

“We're going to relax,” Hamilton said.

“How can I relax? That bitch Jaffe told the judge about our books in open court. It's public record.”

“And impossible to substantiate, Dale.”

As he got out of the car, Masterson noticed an armed guard move out of the foliage and give him the once-over. Masterson was certain that there were other eyes on him too. The door to the cabin opened as the law partners climbed the steps to the front porch, and Kiner let them inside. The security chief, a large man with a commanding presence, wore his gray-flecked hair short. Stubble sprouted on a chiseled face with high cheekbones, a slightly misshapen nose, and a broad forehead decorated by a jagged scar. He wore a pair of khaki pants and a short-sleeved black silk shirt that hung outside his trousers and fit loosely across his broad shoulders.

The cabin was rustic, the walls decorated with the mounted heads of exotic animals that Kiner had killed on every continent.

“Drinks?” Kiner asked.

“Nothing for me,” Hamilton said.

“Scotch, a double,” Masterson told their host.

“I've got a twenty-five-year-old single malt I think you'll enjoy,” Kiner said.

“We've got a serious situation, Reggie,” Masterson told Kiner as their host walked over to the wet bar.

“Not anymore,” Kiner answered as he poured a stiff shot of amber liquid into a glass of cut crystal.

“What . . . what do you mean?” Masterson asked.

“Tom Beatty will soon cease to exist.”

“Oh, God!” Masterson said as he ran a hand across his forehead. First it was Christine, then that White woman. Now there would be another murder.

“Tell me what you think,” Kiner said as he handed the glass to Masterson.

“I think we may still have problems. Getting rid of Beatty doesn't cure the fact that Jaffe told the court we cooked the books to get Global Mining as a client.”

“The scotch, Dale,” Kiner said. “What do you think about the scotch?”

“You have to get a hold of yourself, Dale,” Hamilton said. “No one can prove anything about the books. Larson is dead and anything she told Beatty is hearsay.”

“What about Jaffe? She knows. She's the one who told the judge.”

“We'll keep an eye on her,” Kiner said, “but what she knows is
also hearsay, and she won't have any reason to pursue her theory without a client to defend.”

Masterson felt ill and had a sudden urge to go to the bathroom. He excused himself and walked down the hall.

“Is he going to get his shit together?” Kiner asked.

Hamilton shrugged. “I don't know. Dale can get emotional, but I think he'll be okay.”

“He doesn't act like someone who's going to be okay. He acts like someone who'll spill his guts to the first cop who questions him.”

“No, no, Reggie, Dale won't fold,” Hamilton said, but he didn't sound convincing.

“If you say so,” Kiner answered, but Hamilton could tell that his partner was making Kiner nervous, and that wasn't a good thing to do.

Amanda asked Kate Ross to drive Tom home, and she was waiting in the jail reception area when he stepped out of the elevator at ten p.m. He looked exhausted, and was quiet during the drive.

“Why don't you stop here,” he said when they reached the entrance to his cul-de-sac.

“I can drive you to your door,” Kate said.

Tom smiled. “Thanks, but I've been locked up for days and I'd like to get a little fresh air.”

Kate pulled over to the curb and Tom got out. “Thanks for the ride,” he said. “You and Amanda have been fantastic. I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me.”

Kate nodded, embarrassed by Tom's gratitude. “Do you need anything? What about food? Anything in your fridge is going to be pretty ripe.”

“Thanks, but I'll be okay. Right now all I want is a hot shower and a good night's sleep in my own bed.”

“Okay, then. Amanda will be in touch if there are any developments in your case, and call if you have any questions.”

“I will.”

The sky was overcast, and the only streetlight on his block didn't provide a lot of illumination. Tom's house was dark and his yard was in shadow. He waited until Kate's car was out of sight. Then he moved into the shadows and ran into the woods that bordered his house. Years of combat in very dangerous environments had made Tom hyperalert. That's how he'd spotted the car that had followed Kate from the Justice Center and pulled up a block from the entrance to the cul-de-sac. The odds of a neighbor just happening to be waiting outside the Justice Center at ten at night, then driving to within a block of his home behind Kate's vehicle, were minuscule. Given what had happened to Christine and Carol White, he wasn't taking any chances.

When he was certain he wouldn't be seen, Tom ran to the side window in his bedroom and peered through it. The bedroom door was open and a shadow moved in the hall. Tom shifted to a window that gave him a look into the front room and saw a muscular man in a windbreaker talking on a cell phone. Now Tom knew there was at least one person inside and one person in the car that had followed him from the jail. The odds were high that they were both armed. Tom had two choices: run or stay and fight. If he ran, he might never find out who killed Christine.

Tom went to the shed behind his house where he kept his mower and his tools, and found a wrench. Then he opened the rear door with his key, moved inside, and relocked the door. He hadn't been in combat for several years, but his training was
kicking in. He slowed his breathing and crept down the hall until he heard a low voice coming from the front room.

“I just told you. I've been watching the front door since you told me he got out of the car.” Pause. “No, he never came up the path and I checked the back door.” Pause. “Yeah, it was locked.” Pause. “No, I don't know where he went.” Pause. “Okay.”

As soon as the man stopped talking, Tom hit him in the head with the wrench. He stumbled forward just as the front door opened. A thickset man holding a gun stepped inside. Tom used the man he'd just stunned as a shield. The gun went off and a red stain spread around an exit wound in the stunned man's chest. Tom leaped from behind the wounded man and smashed the wrench down on the gunman's wrist. The gun fell, and Tom followed with a glancing blow on the side of the head. The gunman staggered backward off the porch and rolled away from Tom. When he stood up he was holding a knife, but he looked dazed.

Tom moved forward in a crouch. The man lunged with the knife, but his movements were sluggish. Tom sidestepped and swung the wrench. Metal connected with bone. As the man lurched sideways, Tom swung with all his might. The knife dropped to the lawn, the killer's eyes rolled back in his head, and he pitched forward. When Tom hit him again, he crumpled to the ground. Tom knelt beside the body and felt for a pulse. There wasn't one. He swore silently. Then he dragged the corpse inside. The other man was still alive, but his breathing was shallow and he was losing blood. Tom knelt beside him and stared into his eyes. The man was fading fast.

“Who sent you?” Tom demanded.

The man stared at him. Tom slapped his face, but it didn't help.

“Who sent you?” he asked again. The man's lips moved but no sound came out. Then his chin dropped to his chest, and Tom knew he was gone.

Tom shut his eyes and slumped onto the floor. He had not wanted to kill. He'd done enough killing. All he'd wanted was information.

Once Tom was calm, he went through the dead men's pockets. Neither one had any identification. Tom stood up and took stock of his situation. Someone had sent trained assassins to kill him, but why, and who was behind this attempt on his life? With both men dead, he would not be able to get quick answers to his questions—but he was going to get answers; that was a fact. One thing he would bet on was that the person who wanted him dead was the same person who was responsible for beating Christine Larson to death, and Tom vowed to make that person pay.

If you did a Web search for “Trophy Wife,” it wouldn't be surprising if you discovered a photograph of Veronica Masterson, Dale Masterson's third spouse. Veronica was a very well preserved thirty-five-year-old with a gym-trimmed body, silky, dyed-blond hair, and enough intelligence to keep a man interested while she figured out novel ways to spend his money. You would think that with an estate situated on several acres, a very wealthy husband, and ample idle time, Veronica would always be in a good mood, but that was not the case when she arrived home at eight thirty on this balmy Saturday evening.

Veronica's day had started well. She'd gotten up at ten, grateful that she wouldn't be groped by her husband, who had an early tee time. After a leisurely breakfast, Veronica had driven to Mark Hamilton's house, where she had screwed his brains out, and vice versa. Talk about not being able to tell a book by its cover. Mark looked like a toad, but he fucked like a bull. Her husband, on the other hand, looked like a bull and, well . . .

After leaving Mark, Veronica had driven into the city, and that was when her sunny day turned gloomy. By the time she arrived at the Westmont Country Club, she was fuming because she had not been able to find a dress or shoes for the children's hospital gala. She had complained to Mary Ann and Anne Marie over dinner and her former sorority sisters had sympathized. There was famine in Africa, chaos in the Middle East, and a pitiful lack of shopping opportunities in Portland, and the women viewed all three disasters as being equally tragic.

Her shopping debacle had put Veronica in a terrible mood that the beautiful day and the martinis she'd imbibed during dinner had not been able to dispel. She was still brooding about life's injustices when she turned onto the long driveway that led to her eight-thousand-square-foot mansion. Once in sight of the house, she saw someone racing across the lawn. The man saw the car and stopped short. Then he jerked up his arm to cover his face—a useless gesture, because Veronica had no trouble recognizing the heavily bearded visage of Brandon Masterson, Dale's twenty-six-year-old son.

The car closed on Brandon and he veered away from it. Veronica stopped in the turnaround in front of her home, stared behind her, and saw Brandon disappearing around a curve. She wondered what the little shit was doing at the house and whether she'd imagined the red stains on his white T-shirt and ragged jeans.

Six months ago, Dale had disinherited Brandon after he'd crashed a party Dale had thrown for the executives of a coal mining company for whom the firm had just won a multimillion-dollar verdict. Brandon had screamed several uncomplimentary statements about Dale's corporate clients and Veronica. His ti
rade about corporate polluters and Dale's “latest slut” had not ceased even after the security guards had hustled Brandon out the door and dumped him in his Prius.

Moments after Brandon disappeared, Veronica lost interest in him and refocused on the only positive aspect of her shopping adventure. She had wheedled a Caribbean vacation at a very pricey resort out of Dale by withholding sex for several days. As soon as he'd agreed to Veronica's demands, her headaches had miraculously disappeared. Veronica had purchased three very sexy bikinis and several beach and evening ensembles for the trip. She hauled her purchases out of the trunk. The servants had been given the day off so Veronica had to carry her swag up to her bedroom. This added to her annoyance.

After putting away her purchases, Veronica changed into shorts. Then she went downstairs to make herself a drink. The den was at the front of the house, with a nice view of the front lawn. As she walked by it, an odd odor assailed her sensitive nostrils. The stink reminded her of rotting meat, and she wrinkled her nose. Curiosity about the smell led her to open the door to the den.

Veronica Masterson had found her husband sprawled on his back on the carpet in the middle of his den. His tan slacks and bright green golf shirt were spattered with blood, but most of the blood was on Dale's face, which had sustained a horrific beating. Something about the murder scene looked familiar. As soon as Alan Hotchkiss figured it out, he muttered a curse.

“What?” asked Billie Brewster, Hotchkiss's partner. Brewster was a slender African-American woman with close-cropped
black hair who had been teamed with Zeke Forbus until his retirement. Now that Hotchkiss was her partner, she usually played good cop to Hotchkiss's really mean cop, because she was as easygoing as Hotchkiss was intense.

“You were on vacation when Christine Larson was murdered.”

“The case that Chang threw out?”

Hotchkiss nodded. “She worked in Masterson's firm and she was beaten to death, just like Masterson. Her face was a bloody pulp.”

“And you think . . . ?”

“Our suspect, Tom Beatty, was a paralegal at Masterson's firm, and I'd love to know where he was today.”

A policewoman walked over to the detectives. “Dr. Clay says Mrs. Masterson is calm enough to be interviewed.”

Veronica Masterson had been standing outside her house on the front lawn, screaming hysterically, when the first officers arrived on the scene in response to her 911 call. They had brought her into the library, which was down the hall from the den. When she wouldn't calm down, they had gotten the name of her doctor and he'd arrived shortly after the detectives and the forensic unit. The doctors Hotchkiss saw at Kaiser Permanente didn't make house calls, and he decided that there were many positive benefits to being filthy rich.

Roger Clay was a rugged-looking man in his mid-sixties with curly gray hair and a ruddy complexion. He met the detectives at the door to the library. Hotchkiss looked past him and saw Veronica slumped in an easy chair next to a stone fireplace.

“Mrs. Masterson can answer questions, but I'd like to give her a sedative and get her to bed so . . .”

“We'll try and keep this short. We can talk to her again after she's gotten a good night's sleep,” Brewster assured Clay.

“Thank you,” the doctor said.

Hotchkiss pulled a chair in front of Veronica. She looked up. Tears had ruined her makeup and her hair was in disarray.

“My name is Alan Hotchkiss and this is Billie Brewster. We're the detectives who are going to find out who did this to your husband.”

Veronica jerked up. She looked furious. “I know who killed him. It was that disgusting piece of shit Brandon.”

“Who is Brandon?” Hotchkiss asked.

“Dale's son. I saw the little bastard running from the house and he had blood all over him.”

“Okay, let's slow down here,” Hotchkiss said. “When did you see Brandon?”

“When I got home.”

“Where had you been?”

“I went shopping. Then I had dinner at the club with two of my friends.”

“What club is that?”

“The Westmont,” Veronica answered in a tone that let the detective know that she was shocked that he needed to ask.

“Did you drive home after dinner?” Hotchkiss asked.

“Yes.”

“When?”

“About eight thirty. And that's when I saw him. I was halfway up the drive and he was running away from the house. When he saw me he froze and threw up his arm, like this,” she said, imitating Brandon. “Then he ran away, but not before I saw his
T-shirt. It was covered in blood and there was blood on his jeans.”

“Why would Brandon murder his father?” Hotchkiss asked.

“He hated him, that's why. Dale disinherited the little prick. And he's crazy. Everything is ‘global warming' and ‘the environment.' He's always picketing or at some protest, and he hated Dale because Dale represents coal and oil companies. He's a complete nutcase.”

“I take it that Brandon doesn't live here.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Do you know where he's living?”

“I have no idea. You'll have to ask his tree-hugger friends. He's involved with every environmental group in the state.”

“Okay,” Hotchkiss said. “I'll let you get some rest in a minute. I just have a few more questions. Can you think of anyone else who might have done this to your husband?”

“No. I mean, he's a lawyer. He sues all the time but they're corporations, you know, not real people.”

“Have you ever heard of a man named Tom Beatty?”

Veronica's brow furrowed. “No.”

“Mr. Masterson never mentioned him?”

“No, who is he?”

“Just someone who used to work for your husband's firm.” Hotchkiss stood up. “We'll want to talk to you again, but it's more important that you get some rest now. I can't imagine how you're feeling.”

And Veronica knew he couldn't. Her social life would be in shambles for a while, what with the funeral and a period of mourning. On the bright side, she was going to be a very rich woman, and she wouldn't need to look for a dress for the gala.