J. Jance - Fire and Ice

“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!”