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!”
It was a statement not a question, and when Mel responded, she didn’t agree or disagree. “Please, Mr. Waters,” she said. “If we could just step inside for a moment…”
The man looked close to tears, but he straightened his broad shoulders, nodded, and held the door open to let us enter. Nothing about Mason Waters was small-not his body or his well-used chair, a recliner that looked even older than mine, not even his TV set, a fifty-two-inch wall-mounted flat-screen that rested on the mantel of a redbrick fireplace. All of that looked overly large and out of place in the otherwise smallish fifties-era house. The living room walls were covered with dark-wood wall paneling punctuated here and there with large decorative brass plates that dated from the fifties as well.
Other than the television set, the living room resembled a time capsule. The sofa was old-fashioned leather, cracking in spots. At one end of the couch sat a set of nesting end tables, just like the ones my grandmother once had. An old-fashioned rocker that didn’t look strong enough to support Mason’s weight, or mine, completed the sparse furnishings. On the far side of the living room and through a framed archway we could see a small but formal dining room with an oak buffet and a matching pedestal table. Above it hung an aged chandelier. The place may have been dated, but it was also clean and neat. I had the feeling someone, Mr. Waters’s parents, perhaps, had lived in the house for a very long time, and he was making every effort to maintain it to some kind of stringent standard.
Waters dropped into the recliner with enough force that I was afraid it might tip over backward. While he reached for the remote to switch off ESPN, Mel and I headed for the sofa. Once we were seated, Mel made a show of digging a notebook and pencil out of her purse. That’s a signal we’ve developed between us-sort of like a secret handshake. Whoever gets out the notebook first takes the lead asking questions.
“Tell us about Marina,” she said.
Mason’s eyes misted over. For a long time he stared up at the black face of the television screen without saying anything. “She’s the most wonderful person in the world,” he declared. “We were engaged to be married. Next month.”
The last broke off in a strangled sob.
“How long have you known her?” Mel asked.
“I met her in September,” Waters replied. “September the twelfth, at twenty minutes past seven in the morning. I thought I was having a bad day. My car blew up. The radiator, not the whole car. The tow truck dragged it into a garage on 320th. It was one of my days off and I was mad that I was having to spend it hassling with car repairs. So I left the car and walked up the street to Denny’s-the one on 320th-to have breakfast. I always order their Grand Slam, and there was Marina, working the counter. The moment I saw her, as soon as she poured me that first cup of coffee, that was it. I knew she was the one. You may not believe me. I mean, people laugh when I say it was love at first sight, but it was.”
I wasn’t laughing. I know that drill because that’s what happened to me with Anne Corley. The moment I saw her, I knew. Since I’m married to Mel now, though, and since our relationship had developed on a more traditional trajectory, it seemed best not to mention it.
“She was a waitress then?” Mel asked.
Mason nodded. “I hated to see her having to work so hard, being on her feet all day. It’s hard on the legs, you see. I told her I’d take her away from all that. I even offered to pay her way through driver’s school so she could get a CDL and go on the road with me. She didn’t seem to like that idea very much,” he added.
I’ll bet not, I thought. The faux Marina might have been able to walk her fake ID past whoever hired her at Denny’s, but it probably wouldn’t have stood up to someone who actually went to the trouble of examining her driving record.
“Did she have a regular driver’s license?” I asked.
Mason shrugged. “I guess,” he said.
“But you never saw it.”
“No, but she did have a car. The missing persons guy I talked to on the phone told me he tried checking her driving record with the DMV just after she disappeared. He said she didn’t exist, that she must have been working under an assumed name and that she probably disappeared because she wanted to disappear and because she was trying to get away from me. So there I was looking for help, and all he does is tell me Marina’s a liar. I wanted to belt him one. If I’d been in the same room with him, I might’ve done just that,” Mason Waters added forcefully-as though he still wanted to punch someone’s lights out.
The trouble is, Mel and I had come to the house intending to give him much the same information-that the love of his life was a liar and a fraud. I looked again at Mason Waters’s bull-like torso and formidable fists. If he decided to light into one of us or even both of us together, I wasn’t sure we could handle him.
“What kind of car did Marina have?” Mel asked.
“A white 4-Runner,” Waters said. “With Arizona plates. That’s where she was from, someplace in Arizona. She told me she had to leave there in a hurry. Her ex-boyfriend was after her. He’s the violent type, if you know what I mean. Abusive. She said if she hadn’t gotten away from him right then, he probably would have killed her.”
“Do you happen to remember the plate number?” I asked.
Mason shook his head mournfully. “I’m dyslexic,” he said. “I’m no good at remembering numbers. I couldn’t even tell you the numbers on my own license plates. I have to keep them written down on a piece of paper in my wallet.”