Terminal 9 (2 page)

Lucy, determined not to let her master break contact, followed him through the small apartment as he flipped on lights and turned the thermostat up to seventy degrees. Although the seasons were changing, March in the Pacific Northwest still offered some cool evenings, and tonight was one of them.

“The Blazers play the Cavs at six, Lucy.” Mac glanced at the clock on the mantel as he pulled off his tie and tossed it over the sofa, next to the sports coat he'd shed as he walked in the door. “We've still got fifteen minutes. Should we get some takeout or rough it?”

Mac slipped out of his shoulder holster, wrapping the leather straps over his .40-caliber Glock before setting the rig on top of his refrigerator. He opened the freezer door wide to look for something worth eating. While rifling through the meager contents, he unclipped his badge from his belt and tossed it on the counter. His spare magazine pouch followed, holding an extra fifteen rounds for his handgun.

“Nothing in here,” Mac muttered. He really needed to go to the grocery store. He peered inside the refrigerator, knowing it would yield the same results. Besides a door full of condiments, he had nothing but pop and a bag of prepackaged, wilting salad mix inside the crisper drawer.

“Hmm. Think I'll call Leong's and order a little Chinese tonight.” Mac pulled the pager off his belt, setting the alarm mode from vibrate to audible before putting it on the counter next to his phone. A magnet on the refrigerator door held a takeout menu for his favorite Asian restaurant, but Mac ignored that as he picked up the phone. He had the restaurant's number on speed dial and always ordered the same thing: hot and sour soup, Kung Pao chicken, fried rice, sweet and sour spare ribs, and broccoli beef. Mac placed his order with the woman who always answered. There was no need to give his address; the delivery person knew exactly where Mac lived.

After hanging up, Mac yawned and rubbed the back of his neck. Using the remote that lay on the coffee table, he clicked on the television set and walked back into the bedroom.

Lucy dutifully followed, her thick tail tapping the hallway wall. The answering machine next to his bed blinked its red eye, and the digital screen indicated he had two messages. He'd been meaning to get a wider notepad to place next to his bed, to document the details of those late-night calls from work. The two-inch square Post-it notes sitting there now barely had enough space to write a phone number, let alone detailed scribbles from a sleepy hand. “Come on, Lucy, let's get a new notepad while I'm thinking about it.”

Lucy backed down the hallway as Mac turned on his heels and headed toward the kitchen.

While looking through the kitchen junk drawer by the phone, Mac's department pager went off with the all-too-familiar beep. Mac stopped searching and slammed the drawer closed. “Oh, no. Not now. You know what that means, girl. Work.”

The dog wagged her tail, raised her nose in the air, and pushed her head against Mac's hand for a pat. Mac complied as he pulled the digital pager from the black plastic belt clip and read the display.
Call 11-50 at the office for an assignment.

“Sergeant Evans. Why is he still at the office?”

Lucy tilted her head and looked at Mac as though she wondered the same thing.

“Looks like I'm definitely going back to work.”

Mac dialed his office to speak to his supervisor, Detective Sergeant Frank Evans. The old workhorse was always the first one to arrive at the patrol office and the last to leave. Frank ran the small squad of Oregon State Police detectives who were assigned to investigate violent person crimes, primarily death investigations. Mac was one of five detectives assigned to Sergeant Evans. However, one of those officers, Mac's ex-partner and mentor, Kevin Bledsoe, was working modified duty while he battled prostate cancer.

Kevin had taught Mac nearly everything he knew about homicide investigations. Then at the first of the year, Kevin had learned about the cancer and began chemotherapy. Having no intention of taking early retirement, Kevin opted to work various light-duty assignments at the office when he could—primarily administrative backgrounds and evidence.

When the automated attendant answered, Mac punched in Frank's extension. He heaved a huge sigh as he looked over at the basketball game that was just starting. Mac hurried over to the coffee table, picked up the remote, and muted the set as Frank's extension rang.

“Sergeant Evans,” the gruff voice answered after five rings.

“Yeah, Sarge, this is Mac. I got a page from dispatch to call you.”

“Yeah, Mac, sorry about the delay. I've had this phone screwed in my ear for half an hour. I need you to head out to Columbia County on a twelve-forty-nine. Some old guy got clipped by a train, and the district attorney wants us to take a look at it. It was probably an accident, but there are some loose ends that need to be tied up before we can clear the case. You able to respond?” The sergeant asked the question as a formality, fully expecting an affirmative answer.

Mac looked longingly at the television set and then down at his canine companion. “Sure. I had plans, but I can take off if you need me.”

“What's that?” Frank said. “I was putting you on speakerphone and missed what you said.”

“Nothing,” Mac sighed. “Just wondering where we're staging.”

He clipped his pager back on his belt.

“That's what I'm looking for. I wrote it down here somewhere.”

Mac could picture Frank pacing around his office. He wondered why the sergeant even had a chair.

“Here it is. You need to meet the D.A. down at Terminal 9 in St.

Helens. It's between Highway 30 and the river. I've got the address here somewhere.”

“That's okay, Sarge. I know the place. It lights up the area like a football stadium at night, so I won't have any trouble. We're going to be on the big clock. Do you want Dana on overtime too?” Mac asked, knowing the sergeant was as tight with agency money as he was his own checkbook.

“Yeah,” he said after a long moment. “Better take her along for the experience. Don't go making a fuss on this one, Mac. If nothing's there, hang it up. If it looks like an accident, then call it and get out of there. Let the local P.D. clean this fish. We're only involved because the D.A. wants us to take a look at it.”

“Got it. I'll give Dana a call and we'll get going.”

“Good. Leave me a voice mail on your progress if you aren't going to be in the office on time tomorrow morning—in case you pull an all-nighter.”

“Yes sir.” Mac heard a click on the other end, indicating Frank had ended the call. He set down the phone and hunkered down to rub Lucy's head. “C'mon, girl. Back to your kennel.” Mac made his way back to the utility room and opened the door. Lucy walked in without complaint and, after rounding and adjusting her thick pad, settled inside the oversized kennel.

Mac hated to keep her in there, but she scratched at the front door when he was away. His neighbor, Carl, had a key to the apartment in case Mac worked overtime and needed someone to let Lucy out. Carl was a doting dog lover, often coming in to let Lucy free just so he could spend time with her. “I'll see you later, girl.” Mac shut the door to the room, walked back to the kitchen phone, and dialed Dana's home phone.

He got the machine. “Come on, Dana; it's Mac. If you're there, pick up.” She didn't answer.

He frowned.
Wonder where she is. We left work at the same time.

Dana, Mac's new partner and old friend, lived in the Fairview Apartments on his side of the river in Vancouver,Washington. She should have been home by now. He dialed her pager with 9-1-1 at the end of his number.

Fresh out of patrol and still on probation, Dana had been partnered with Mac after Kevin went on light duty in February. Although Mac enjoyed working with Dana, he hoped Kevin would be back in the saddle soon. Mac was a fairly new detective to the homicide division too, and he had hoped to spend a few more years working with the veteran, instead of a rookie detective. Not that she didn't have experience. She'd spent the last year on patrol and had studied and worked hard to get into the department. Mac wasn't exactly a newcomer either, having worked for several years on patrol and as a detective in property crimes, as well as the Child Abuse Unit.

Besides, he didn't like the idea of having Dana as his partner in another way. He had been hoping to date her again, but anything other than a working relationship at this point was not a good idea. They had dated for a while in college until they went their separate ways. He'd run into her a few months ago while working on another case, and their friendship had solidified again.

Mac was slipping his shoulder holster back on when the phone rang. He checked his weapon out of habit to ensure it was loaded before stuffing the handgun back in the holster under his left arm. Mac reached over the counter and grabbed the phone.

“This is Mac.”

“Mac, hey. Dana here. Got your page.”

“We have a death out in St. Helens. It sounds like there might be some odd circumstances, since the D.A. wants us to check it out.

Sarge is sending us out to work the scene.”

“What happened?”

“Guy got hit by a train. Are you available?”

“Sure. I need to run by the house and grab my gear and my work car. I can be at the office in thirty.”

“Want me to pick you up at your place? It's on my way.”

“No—uh, the office is fine. I'll see you there.”

Mac set the receiver back in the cradle. “Why not your house?” he grumbled to himself as he walked back to the bedroom to exchange his dress shoes for a pair of hiking shoes. He left the coat and tie on the sofa, selecting a rain jacket with a fleece liner from the hall closet. Mac then grabbed his keys off the counter and opened the front door, startling himself and the delivery boy who was standing in the entryway.

“Your order, Mr. Mac.” The young Asian held up a bag to eye level.

“Sorry, I almost ran out on you. Got a call to go back to work.” Mac pulled a twenty from his wallet and handed it to the teenager. “Keep the change.” After taking a deep whiff of the tantalizing food, he hurried back to the kitchen and stuffed the bags into the refrigerator. “Should make a good breakfast.”

As he locked the front door and headed for his duty car, an unmarked white Crown Victoria, Mac's frustration at missing dinner and the game melted into anticipation. He wondered what they'd find at the scene and why the district attorney felt compelled to call in the State Police detectives. An old guy, Sarge had said, hit by a train. Mac slid in behind the wheel. He couldn't say why, but something told him this wasn't going to be as simple as Sergeant Frank Evans made it sound.

THREE

M
AC PLLLED IN TO THE BACK LOT of the SE Portland office shortly before 7:00 p.m. The slow security gate opened wide enough for his car, and he parked next to the building's back entrance. Dana's unmarked blue Pontiac Grand Am was already in the office lot with its trunk open. Dana leaned inside to collect her gear.

Mac pulled up alongside and rolled down his window. “Going my way?”

“ 'Fraid so,” Dana answered without looking up. She slipped her blue crime scene windbreaker over a white blouse, sweater vest, and suit jacket that went with her black dress slacks and sturdy black shoes.

“You don't have to sound so happy about it,” Mac complained, feeling put off.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Give me a break. You know what I mean.”

“I have everything we'll need. Just grab your notebook and let's get a move on.” Mac glanced over at the dash clock on the car, then back at his watch to press his point.

“I'm not worried about the gear. This stupid gun is so uncomfortable with slacks.” Dana held up her Glock pistol, which was still tucked inside a black leather holster. “They really don't make comfortable plain clothes duty gear for women.”

“Sorry.” Dana looked great to him, though black and white didn't suit her near as well as some of the other colors he'd seen her in, like that soft pink cashmere sweater she'd worn when they'd had dinner together a couple of months ago. Unfortunately that dinner had been the end of anything romantic and the beginning of their business-only routine.

Mac wasn't really into hearing about women's clothing. And since when did detectives call their guns stupid? Still, he tried to look sympathetic. “I don't think we have time to go shopping for something else right now.”

“Come on, Mac. Cut me some slack,” she grumped. “I'm looking for my fanny pack so I can give my ribs a break. The thumb brake on this department-issue holster is killing my ribs.”

Mac could empathize. The thumb brake sat at the top of the gun sight, four to six inches above the belt line, and dug into the ribcage. “You'll get used to it.” Mac thumbed the steering wheel impatiently with his fingers.

“Here it is.” Dana waved her black leather fanny pack, then secured her gun inside the large zipper pouch. She closed the trunk and jogged around to the passenger side of Mac's vehicle.

Trying to keep his impatience under wraps, Mac kept his mouth shut while he maneuvered onto the street. “Why didn't you want me to pick you up at your place?” Mac finally asked, trying to sound like he was just making light conversation. “It was on the way.”
And we
could have saved at least twenty minutes.
He thought it best not to add the last part.

Dana sighed and stared out the windshield. At first Mac thought she wasn't going to answer. “Impressions, Mac. I don't want anyone thinking I got this job for any reason other than that I was qualified and I deserved it.”

Mac shook his head. “No one has ever indicated that you didn't earn your way into the detective slot. I certainly don't think that.”

“I know.” Dana turned in the seat, her dimples deepening with a smile. “At least you better not. Maybe I'm being a little too cautious, but it's different when you're a woman. I can't explain it. I'm trying to fill Kevin's shoes while he's out sick, and that's an uphill battle alone.”