Violent Crimes (9 page)

Alan Hotchkiss put out an APB for Brandon Masterson. Then he told Billie Brewster that he wanted to drive to Tom Beatty's house because of the similarities in the way Christine Larson and Dale Masterson had died. On the drive, a patrolman who had checked out Brandon Masterson's apartment radioed Hotchkiss to tell him that Brandon was not at home.

There was no car parked in front of Beatty's house and the lights were out. The detectives approached the front door cautiously. Billie knocked loudly. Beatty didn't call out and they didn't hear anyone moving inside.

“Mr. Beatty, this is Detective Hotchkiss. I'd like to talk to you,” Hotchkiss shouted after waiting a minute.

“What do you think?” Hotchkiss asked.

“We can't barge in without a warrant,” Billie replied.

Hotchkiss thought for a moment, then he pulled out his phone and made a call. One of Judge Chang's conditions for Beatty's bail was that Beatty report daily to someone at Parole and Proba
tion. It was late, so Jane Lowell wasn't in her office, but the person on duty gave Hotchkiss the number of her cell phone.

“Hey, Jane,” Hotchkiss said when he was connected to the person to whom Beatty was supposed to report.

“What's up, Alan?”

“I'm at Thomas Beatty's house. We wanted to talk to him in connection with another case—not the one he's out on bail for. He's not home, and I was wondering if he's been reporting to you like he's supposed to.”

“Beatty never reported in. I gave him a day or two to give him the benefit of the doubt. Then I called his number a few times. Personally, I think he's in the wind. That's what I told Judge Chang this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Jane.”

Hotchkiss then called the judge at home. After they'd spoken a few minutes, he hung up.

“Chang gave us the okay. We can go in.”

Hotchkiss tried the door. The knob turned and it opened. They looked at each other. There was no car parked in front of the house and the door was open. That was not a good sign.

Billie walked into the room and fanned it with her gun. No one. She flipped on the light and started forward.

“Stop!” Hotchkiss commanded.

Billie held up and looked where her partner was pointing.

“Is that blood?” Hotchkiss asked.

Joe Damico put out his cigarette and waved his hand to disperse the smoke into the stairwell of the twenty-third floor. Smoking was prohibited everywhere in the office building where he worked as a security guard, but the few associates on duty on Saturday night in the law offices of Masterson, Hamilton were on the floor below and would never smell the smoke.

Damico checked his watch. It was time to make his rounds. He decided to start on the twenty-third floor, then work his way down. He hadn't seen anyone working on this floor when he'd made his rounds earlier in the evening and he did an indifferent walk-through until a flash of light caught his eye.

The security guard frowned. Had he really seen light seeping out from under the door of Mr. Masterson's office? There was nothing there now. If there had been light, it was probably something from outside the building that had shone through Mr. Masterson's window. Only that didn't make sense—they were twenty-three stories above the ground.

Damico was a retired Portland cop who had been an MP in the Army before joining the police bureau, but he hadn't been in a dangerous situation for years. He felt his gut tighten as he crept down the hall with his hand on his gun.

It was probably nothing. Maybe Mr. Masterson had forgotten a brief or some legal document and had come back to get it. If he had seen a light that was probably the explanation. But why was the office dark now?

Damico paused in front of the door and pressed his ear against it. Nothing. His hand closed on the knob. Should he announce his presence before barging in? Masterson had a reputation. What if he was banging a secretary or one of the young associates? Damico decided it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Mr. Masterson, is that you in there?” he called out.

When no one answered, he called out again. Then he took a deep breath and opened the door. The only light in the room came from Mr. Masterson's computer. The security guard squinted but he didn't see anyone in the room. After a moment, he took a step inside, and the next thing he remembered was coming to on Dale Masterson's carpet.

Billie Brewster and Alan Hotchkiss were on their way back to headquarters when they heard about the break-in at Masterson, Hamilton. When they arrived, there were two marked cars and a van from the crime lab parked at the entrance to the building. An officer had been posted in the lobby, and he told the detectives to go to the twenty-third floor. When they got out of the elevator another officer directed them to Dale Masterson's office.
Robbery detectives Alice Herrera and Max Rosenbaum were conferring in the hall outside the office, but they stopped when they saw Brewster and Hotchkiss approaching.

“To what do we owe the presence of two such eminent detectives?” Herrera asked.

“This is Dale Masterson's office, right?” Hotchkiss asked.

“Yeah,” Rosenbaum answered.

“He was beaten to death tonight,” Hotchkiss said.

“No shit?” Rosenbaum said.

“Yeah,” Billie answered. “So what happened here?”

“The security guard was making his rounds and he thought he saw a light in Masterson's office,” Herrera said. “When he went in to investigate he saw a light coming from Masterson's computer. Then someone coldcocked him.”

“Is he okay?” Billie asked.

“He probably has a concussion,” Rosenbaum said. “The EMTs took him to the hospital.”

“What was taken?” Hotchkiss asked.

Herrera jerked her thumb toward the office. “Mark Hamilton, one of the partners, is inside doing an inventory. The lab guys are inside, too, so we're giving them some space.”

“Does Hamilton know about Dale Masterson?” Billie asked.

“No,” Herrera answered.

“Let's get him out here,” Hotchkiss said.

Rosenbaum went into the office. A moment later, a harried-looking man followed him out. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt and it was obvious that he had been summoned to the law office from his home. Rosenbaum pointed the lawyer toward the homicide detectives.

“I'm Alan Hotchkiss, Mr. Hamilton, and I'm afraid I have some very bad news for you. Mr. Masterson has been the victim of a homicide.”

Hamilton's mouth gaped open. He struggled to speak and finally said, “What?”

“Mr. Masterson was killed in his home, this evening.”

“Jesus! Do you know who did it?”

“We're investigating some leads,” Hotchkiss said evasively. “We came here as soon as we heard about this break-in. We thought it could be connected to the homicide. Do you know what was taken?”

“I don't know what was on Dale's desk when he last left work. He had some expensive paintings on the walls but they're still there. The computer was on, and I called our tech guy. He's looking at it now.”

“When was the last time you spoke to Mr. Masterson?”

“We had a phone conversation yesterday about a case. It involves some real estate holdings.”

“How did he seem?” Hotchkiss asked.

“Normal. Not upset or worried, if that's what you mean. I think he and Veronica—his wife—were going to a party in the evening.”

“What about work? Did he seem worried about any particular person, someone with whom he was litigating, anyone in your firm, a disgruntled employee?”

“No. I mean, Dale was handling some pretty big cases, but I can't think of someone who's involved in his cases who would want to kill him. And I can't think of anyone in the firm or any ex-employee who would be mad enough at Dale to murder him.”

“What about his son, Brandon?” Billie asked. “We've been told that they didn't get along.”

Hamilton barked out a laugh. “‘Didn't get along' is an understatement. Brandon is a head case. But murder . . . ?” Hamilton shook his head. “Brandon is all talk.”

Then he paused. “How was Dale killed?”

“He was beaten to death.”

“Then it's definitely not Brandon. Have you met him?”

“No, sir,” Hotchkiss said.

“As soon as you do, you'll see he couldn't possibly have beaten Dale to death. Dale is . . . was very physically fit. He was a wrestler in college, and he stayed in shape. Brandon wouldn't stand a chance against his father in a fight.”

A sudden thought occurred to Hamilton. “Wasn't Christine Larson beaten to death?”

“Yes,” Hotchkiss said.

“What about Tom Beatty? Have you questioned him?”

“Why do you ask? Have you heard or seen anything that would lead you to believe Beatty had a grudge against your partner?”

“No. It's just the similarities in the crimes.”

“Mr. Beatty is the first person I thought of but we can't find him.”

“He's on the loose?” Hamilton asked nervously.

“It looks like he jumped bail. We have an APB out for him.”

As soon as the homicide detectives left, Mark Hamilton went back into Dale Masterson's office to complete his inspection, but his mind was elsewhere.

If Beatty was missing it could be because Kiner's men had taken care of him. But what if they hadn't.

As soon as Hamilton finished in Dale's office he was brought home by the officer who'd driven him to the firm. Once he was inside, he called Kiner. Kiner didn't pick up until the third ring. When he answered it was obvious that he'd been sleeping.

“Why are you calling me?” Kiner asked.

“Someone broke into Dale Masterson's office tonight and went through his computer. While I was at the office a homicide detective told me that Dale was beaten to death tonight.”

“You still haven't told me why you're calling.”

“The detective said he thinks Tom Beatty may be involved. They can't find him.”

“It's late,” Kiner stated emphatically. “I want to get back to sleep. Let's not discuss this now. Let's meet at the cabin tomorrow.”

“But . . .”

“Do you really want to talk about this over the phone?” Kiner asked, the edge in his voice getting sharper.

There was dead air for a moment. Then Hamilton caught on. “Sure, tomorrow is fine. Sorry I woke you.”

The call ended, and Hamilton had some idea about why Kiner had been paranoid about talking on the phone. Either Kiner's men had killed Beatty, in which case he wouldn't want to implicate himself in a murder, or something had gone wrong and Beatty was still alive.

“Thank you for coming in on such short notice,” Judge Chang said when Amanda walked into the courtroom. As she headed down the aisle, Amanda saw Billie Brewster and Alan Hotchkiss sitting with Larry Frederick at his counsel table.

“Now that everyone is here, let's put this on the record,” Judge Chang continued. “Court has convened at the request of Deputy District Attorney Larry Frederick, who has filed a motion to revoke the bail of Miss Jaffe's client, Thomas Beatty. Let the record show that Mr. Frederick and Miss Jaffe are present but the defendant is not. Also, Portland police detectives Alan Hotchkiss and Billie Brewster are in the courtroom, sitting with Mr. Frederick.

“Mr. Frederick, this is your motion, so you have the floor.”

“Your Honor, I am serving Miss Jaffe with a copy of my motion and an affidavit from Jane Lowell of the Parole and Probation Department. If Miss Jaffe wants Mrs. Lowell to testify in person I can have her here in about twenty minutes.”

“Miss Jaffe,” the judge said, “you're within your rights to put Mrs. Lowell's testimony on the record, but she told me everything that's in the affidavit yesterday when she alerted me to the fact that Mr. Beatty had failed to meet one of his release conditions by never contacting Mrs. Lowell and not answering his phone when she called him.”

“It won't be necessary for Mrs. Lowell to come to court,” Amanda said when she was finished reading the affidavit.

“I'm also handing Miss Jaffe an affidavit signed by Detective Hotchkiss in which he states that he and Detective Brewster went to the defendant's house last night to talk to him about a case unrelated to the murder of Miss Larson. Detective Hotchkiss swears that the defendant was not home and his car was not in the area. Additionally, the detectives found blood on the floor in the front room of the defendant's home.”

“Do you need the detectives to testify?” the judge asked.

“No,” Amanda said when she finished reading Hotchkiss's affidavit, “but I would like to know if the blood is Mr. Beatty's.”

“Detective?” the judge asked.

Hotchkiss stood. “The blood is at the lab being analyzed and we haven't gotten a result yet.”

“Anything else, Miss Jaffe?” Chang asked.

“No.”

“I had reservations when I granted bail in a case this serious, but it seemed appropriate at the time. I did tell Mr. Beatty very clearly that he had to call Parole and Probation every day or his bail would be revoked. It's on the record that he said he understood that condition and several others I imposed. Now he's gone and he never called in, so I have no choice but to grant the State's
motion. Do you have an argument you think will persuade me to keep Mr. Beatty out on bail, Miss Jaffe?”

“No, Your Honor. But I would ask the court to hold a hearing on the issue if Mr. Beatty is put back in custody. The blood in the entryway bothers me. If Mr. Beatty was wounded or in danger, he may have an explanation that would satisfy the court.”

“Of course, Miss Jaffe. If he turns himself in or is rearrested, you can file another motion for bail and I'll hear everything your client and you have to say. But for right now, Mr. Beatty's bail is revoked.”

When court adjourned a few minutes later Amanda started to leave, but Billie Brewster caught up with her.

“If your client gets in touch, do the smart thing and advise him to turn himself in,” Billie said.

“If he gets in touch I'll do that.”

Billie was about to say something else when her phone rang.

“See you around,” Billie said as she answered it.

“Are you investigating the murder of someone named Dale Masterson?” the desk sergeant at the Portland Police Bureau asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“His son just showed up and confessed. We have him in an interrogation room. I thought you'd like to know.”

Amanda was in a terrible mood when she left the courthouse. She liked Tom Beatty, and the fact that he was missing, coupled with the blood the detectives had found in his front room, had her worried. As soon as she got back to her office she began to look for Kate Ross, but no one knew where she was. Amanda was
headed to her father's office when she remembered that he was in court in Washington County.

Lacking someone to vent to, Amanda went to her office and slumped in her chair. That's when she realized that the person she really wished she could talk to was Mike. Mike always knew the right thing to say to make the blues go away, like when he'd talked her out of her funk the day she was upset about the way Larry Frederick was stonewalling her.

Amanda started to reach for the phone, but she hesitated.

“Why are you hesitating?” she asked herself.

“Because you're scared,” she answered. “Scared of commitment; scared of losing your independence.

“Would that be so bad if you committed to someone who really loved you and cared for you—someone you loved back?” she wondered.

Amanda took a deep breath and dialed Mike's office.

“Let's try it,” she said as soon as he answered. “But can we stay at my condo? I really like my condo.”

“No problem. Uh, when do you want me to move in?”

“It's Friday. You could move in tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow it is. And thank you,” Mike said.

Amanda hesitated. Then she took a really deep breath and said it.

“When you asked me about moving in, you told me you loved me and I didn't say it back. But I'm saying it now. I love you, Mike. That's why I think this will work.”

“Me too, and thanks for telling me. I've been having a bad day, but the sun just came out.”