At Rope's End (A Dr. James Verraday Mystery #1)(63)

“I try.”

“Okay. I think it’s time for me to head downtown, access the DMV registration system, and make a few calls to Port Angeles.”





CHAPTER 31


Jason Griffin sat on the other side of the desk in interrogation room number six. He had an earnest, serious expression on his face, like this was all just some terrible misunderstanding that could be quickly cleared up so he could be on his way. If Griffinair was in financial difficulty, it wasn’t evident from Jason’s choice of attorney. Rod Tarleton was an eight-hundred-dollar-an-hour defense lawyer who had expensive tastes and a reputation for pulling rabbits out of hats. Griffin had called him so quickly that Maclean had barely had time to read him his Miranda rights.

Maclean had a small Bluetooth earpiece that allowed her to hear Verraday, who was watching via a Skype link from behind the two-way mirror. Maclean would have liked to have him in the room. But if anybody had noticed his presence—and chances were good that in the interrogation rooms, either the chief, the homicide captain, Fowler, or one of his cronies would see him—the effect would have been explosive. This case was volatile enough as it was.

“Mr. Griffin,” said Maclean. “I’ve done a lot of research on you during the past day, and there are some things I don’t understand. Why didn’t you tell me before that you your father committed suicide?”

Jason looked at her gravely. “Because it’s still a very painful memory for me. It’s not exactly something that’s easy to talk about. Besides, it didn’t seem relevant.”

“Didn’t seem relevant? Doesn’t it seem odd that people who are close to you have a habit of committing suicide?”

“Detective, there’s no call to speak to my client that way,” said Tarleton. “He has suffered a great deal in the past year.”

“That’s okay,” said Jason. “She’s just trying to do her job.”

Then he turned to Maclean.

“Yes, it’s true that I’ve had more than my fair share of tragedy. First my father, then Cody. But my mother always taught me to believe in myself and in the value of hard work. So I’ll get through this, just like I got through the trouble with the family business.”

“Well, here’s another detail for you to consider. We’ve examined the coroner’s report regarding your father’s death. And I’ve gotten a second opinion. My ballistics expert thinks the coroner missed some important details. The powder burns and the angle of the bullet are right on the edge of what would have been impossible for anyone to do themselves without having had help. Bottom line is that it was sloppy work by the coroner. And by the killer, whoever that was. So we’ve reopened the case.”

“Are you suggesting that I killed my own father?” asked Jason.

Tarleton touched him lightly on the arm. “You don’t have to respond to this line of questioning, son.”

“Okay, time to unglue him,” whispered Verraday. “Mention the land now.”

“Well you certainly had a reason to,” said Maclean. “Your father was running the business into the ground. That was why he sold the twenty-acre retreat that your family owned on Suquamish Island. For cash flow. But you had an even more important reason for not wanting him to sell it, didn’t you?”

Jason sat there with an uncomprehending expression on his face.

“You see,” continued Maclean, “I checked with the new owner of the land, an Ellen Williams. She told me that a realtor has been calling her every three weeks with an offer to buy. So I asked her who this realtor was, and I spoke to him to find out who he was representing. Are you going to make Mr. Tarleton guess who the mystery person is, Jason, or should I just tell him?”

Jason Griffin shrugged. “So I put in an offer. I grew up there. I have a lot of fond memories from the family cottage.”

“Nail him!” whispered Verraday.

“I bet you do. And we’re going to dig up every one of those fond memories of yours until we have all the evidence we need to put you on death row.”

Jason Griffin smirked, his personality suddenly shifting to belligerent. “You don’t have shit,” he said.

Maclean brought out a photo of a border collie.

Griffin looked vaguely amused. “What’s with the dog, Detective?”

“I’m glad you asked. This is a cadaver-sniffing dog belonging to the State Patrol. His name is Torch. He’s successfully located bodies that have been buried for more than two decades. He’s also found remains as small as a single vertebra.”

Maclean pulled out another photo, this one an aerial shot of a heavily treed island. “I think you’ll recognize the island in this aerial photo. Shouldn’t be hard, since by your own admission, you have so many fond memories of it.” She pointed to a large waterfront parcel of land marked off with red ink. “This is the recreational property that your father sold to Ellen Williams. We flew Torch and his handler up to Suquamish Island this morning to start looking for your other victims. The ones you used to fly out there in your floatplane before your father sold that too, along with the island property, so shortly before his conveniently timed ‘suicide.’”

Tarleton looked apoplectic. “This is outrageous,” he thundered. “You don’t have proof of anything, Detective. Just circumstantial evidence for crimes that you can’t prove even exist.”