Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “We have to apply and get accepted. But with you being a cop, I think we’ll be considered good tenants.”

  He hugged Kera. “You’re the good one.” A flash of guilt as he stepped away. “I have to go. The team is meeting in five minutes.”

  “So go. But thanks for taking a moment with us. I’ll turn in our application tonight.”

  Jackson left them in the backyard and hurried to his car. Finally, he and Kera would make a home together. They’d had some rough times in their few years as a couple, but their love grew stronger with every hit. He didn’t know why he’d been so worried to commit to this family. He loved being a dad.

  But he loved being a detective even more. That was always the problem.

  Back at his desk, he ordered ham and turkey sandwiches from a nearby deli to be delivered. And a pint of potato salad for Schak. His partner had tried to eat healthy after his heart attack, but he was slipping back into old patterns. Jackson wasn’t his wife or mother, so it wasn’t his job to monitor that stuff. He opened a Word doc on his computer, keyed in a few names and notes, then saved it as a case file. He would print it out later, after the interrogations. He grabbed his satchel and headed for the conference room, wishing he’d had time to stop for some good coffee. The crap in the break room was undrinkable—unless he was exhausted and needed caffeine.

  Evans was already in the room, seated next to the whiteboard. Four tall cups of coffee sat in front of her on the table. She picked up one and handed it to him. “Here’s yours.” That meant black with two shots of espresso.

  “Thanks. You’re a lifesaver.” She’d stopped buying him coffee for a while when she’d been dating an Internal Affairs detective. Then she had broken up with Ben and joined the SWAT unit around the same time. If she had a new boyfriend, she wasn’t talking about him.

  Schak came in, spotted the coffee, and moaned in pleasure. “Gee, Evans, now I’m sorry I left your phone number on the bathroom wall.”

  She laughed. “I’m not. You know I love dating cops.” She turned back to Jackson. “Did you have any luck tracking down our mysterious undercover agent?”

  He’d been looking at a rental house instead. And that was okay. “No. But I do have two suspects in custody to question.”

  Quince sauntered in, and Jackson realized he hadn’t seen him at the farmhouse crime scene. But they’d just missed each other, since they’d had a lot of territory to cover. “Let’s get started,” Jackson said. “We have two interrogations waiting, and with any luck, we’ll have a third soon. A confession from one of them would be excellent.”

  “I agree.” Victor Slonecker, the district attorney, walked into the room. Dressed in his classic pin-striped suit, he looked lean and hungry, with prominent cheekbones and dark eyes. Jackson always notified him of their first post-crime meeting, but the DA usually waited to participate until they had a solid suspect. This time, they had two. Or three, if you counted Shanna McCoy’s boyfriend, who was still at large.

  Had he ordered enough food for everyone? Too late to worry about it. “Evans, will you take the board and go first? I think our guest would like to hear about the second victim.” He never knew how to refer to the DA. His team all called each other by last names, but it didn’t seem right for the prosecutor.

  “I’m there.” Evans stood and listed two names at the top of the wide whiteboard: Josh Stalling, Kayla Benson. After Benson’s name, she wrote Alias / Undercover agent?

  “Explain again why you think she’s a fed.” The other detectives hadn’t been updated at all, and his conversation with her had been brief.

  “I went to her apartment, which was practically empty. Except for a laptop and a handgun under the mattress, both of which later disappeared. Also, her ID and background are superficial.” Evans gave a grim half smile. “Rather than answer my questions, the victim left the hospital, still in critical condition, in a van driven by an older man. I think he was her extraction team.”

  “No shit?” Schak was typically hard to surprise.

  Jackson had worked with an undercover FBI agent once to catch an eco-terrorist, but he had never actually met her. They were elusive, secretive operators.

  “I called the local FBI field office,” Evans added. “Agent River said Kayla Benson isn’t working with them, but that she would call the main bureau and get back to me.”

  “I still can’t believe the DEA would plant a UC operator here without notifying us!” Slonecker looked and sounded annoyed.

  Jackson had heard rumors that the DA was planning to run for state attorney general. So Slonecker was sensitive to anything that could backfire politically.

  “The DEA makes more sense anyway.” Evans made a note on the board, then turned back to the group. “They must think Stalling is selling more than pot. Did you guys find any illegal narcotics in the house?”

  Jackson looked at Schak and Quince, who’d done most of the search.

  Schak shook his head. “Lots of stolen property, but no drugs.”

  “Until we hear from the DEA about who might have wanted their agent—and her target—dead, we’ll focus on the suspects we have.” Jackson glanced at Evans. “Let’s make a list, starting with the gun-waving neighbor.”

  She wrote Clark Paulson, 66, neighbor on the whiteboard, then turned back to Jackson. “Why do we suspect him?”

  “The female victim said, ‘Old man’ when I asked her who the shooter was. Plus, he threatened the growers and was carrying a weapon at the time. That seems pretty solid.” Paulson had been in the interrogation room for several hours and would be ready to tell them anything. “Schak, you’ll take the lead interrogating him.” Sometimes, switching up who asked the questions produced different responses.

  “Who else have we got?” Evans asked, her brow furrowed.

  “Stalling’s sister, Shanna McCoy. We also have an attempt-to-locate out on her boyfriend, Charles Kazmir. They’re a weird duo.” Jackson glanced at his notepad and realized he hadn’t written much during that episode. “The sister accused Kazmir, who’s also her accountant, of shooting Stalling. She was emotionally charged at the time, and he became physically aggressive with her, then took off.”

  “What motive would he have?” Slonecker asked.

  “Money is always a safe bet,” Jackson responded. “And McCoy accused him of not liking her brother. The fact that Kazmir is an accountant means he probably knows about the financial arrangements between the siblings—who was profiting and how much.”

  “We need subpoenas for all their accounts,” Quince said. “I’ll start on them after the meeting.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson was grateful someone was willing to do the paperwork, but not optimistic a judge would sign it yet.

  Schak spoke up. “Don’t forget our other suspect.” He held up a business card. “Matt Sheldon of Ganja Growers. This card was in the grass between the house and the grow room. It wasn’t damp or damaged, so it hadn’t been there long. We need to question him too.”

  “That’s just weird.” Evans made a face. “Is anyone really that stupid? To drop a business card at a crime scene?”

  She hadn’t been a detective long enough to know better. But Schak had. He let out a derisive laugh. “Remember the bank robber who left his driver’s license at the cashier’s window?”

  “I know it happens,” Evans said in a defensive tone. “But Ganja Growers is a medical-marijuana supplier that’s been around for years. You have to be somewhat intelligent to run a business.”

  Jackson was leaning her way. “Maybe Stalling had his competitor’s card for some other reason. Still, Schak is right. We have to question him.”

  “Of course we do.” Evans looked around the room. “Anyone want to bet on our four suspects? I’ll take the neighbor. Occam’s razor, the most obvious.”

  Schak laughed again. “It’s too early, and I haven’t talked to any of them.”

  Jackson knew his team wagered on a variety of outcomes, but as the interim leader of the unit
, he had to steer clear of the betting.

  The DA cleared his throat. “Don’t do this crap in front of me, please.”

  Time to move on. Jackson looked at Quince. “Did you find any witnesses? Or get anything useful from the neighbors?”

  “No, a complete bust. But I have to go back tonight and follow up. Some residents weren’t home.”

  “There’s also the stolen property in the attic,” Schak added. “And the twenty grand hidden in the cash box.”

  “What stolen property?” The DA leaned forward, intrigued.

  “A bunch of small items.” Jackson visualized the dusty room. “TVs, stereos, bicycles. The kind of stuff an addict would steal. But it was covered with dust. I think it may have been there since Stalling got clean ten years ago.”

  Slonecker shook his head. “If he’s growing pot, he’s not clean.”

  Jackson clarified. “I meant that he quit being arrested. Who knows what he’s really been up to.”

  The room was quiet for a moment, and the DA stood. “Update me after the interrogations. But my instinct tells me it’s the competitor. Drug dealers are vile, and this state will regret legalizing that crap.” He nodded at everyone and left.

  Jackson glanced at Evans. “Let’s do a quick second board for Sergeant Lammers.”

  As Evans wrote Lammers, poisoned, Quince sat forward, his mouth open. “What the hell?”

  Jackson gave him a brief update, then turned back to Evans. “Did you talk to the sergeant at the hospital?”

  Stress flashed across Evans’ face. She still hadn’t learned to keep a deadpan expression. Jackson probed. “What happened?”

  “This information is absolutely confidential. I don’t want anyone outside this room to know. Not your spouses or any other officers. I especially don’t want it in the reports.” Evans waited for everyone to verbally agree, then announced, “Lammers’ partner says the sergeant ate a pot brownie right before she became ill. Lammers uses medical marijuana for pain management.”

  What the hell? It was the last thing Jackson had expected to hear. But he understood chronic pain, and with pot being legal, he wouldn’t judge her.

  “I’ll be damned.” Schak slapped the table. “If the boss wasn’t sick, I would give her a boatload of crap.”

  “Did you get a sample for the lab to test?” Jackson asked.

  “Not yet. I’m going out to her home this evening.” Evans made a wide-eyed face of uncertainty. “I don’t know how we handle this. We could all be in deep shit if the chief finds out and we weren’t the ones to inform him.”

  Now that pot was legal, could employers even test employees for it? Especially without a specific reason to? This would soon become an issue in every state that had legalized it. Jackson realized the task force members were all waiting for him to respond. “We’ll give Lammers a day or so to recover, then I’ll pressure her to take the information to Chief Warner.” Jackson locked eyes with Evans. “I appreciate how you’ve tried to handle this, but your responsibility is to yourself and whatever you think is right. If you don’t want to wait to inform the chief, that’s your decision.”

  “I’d rather Lammers told him. She’s still pretty sick though. They think it might be amatoxin poisoning.” She wrote the word, followed by deadly mushrooms.

  Jackson was concerned about the marijuana supply. “Where did she buy the stuff? A grower could have accidentally distributed a toxic product, and other consumers could be in danger.”

  “Green Medicine on West Sixth.” Evans wrote the retailer’s name on the board. “It’s closed now, but I’ll be there in the morning when it opens.” She looked around the room. “It’s still possible that someone targeted Lammers personally. I’ll fingerprint the containers tonight when I’m out there.”

  Quince spoke up. “If the pot supply is tainted, we have to consider that these cases could be related.”

  A moment of silence as they all processed the possibilities. Jackson turned to Evans. “When you’re at Green Medicine tomorrow, get a list of all their suppliers.”

  “What if our perp is a nutcase?” Quince asked. “Someone who hates the new pot law and wants to create a backlash?”

  Jackson had just had the same thought. “A strong possibility. We’ll look for social media postings that might give us a clue.”

  “Letters to the editor too,” Evans added. “If that’s the motive, he’s probably older than forty.”

  “Or she,” Jackson said. “I know women aren’t usually shooters, but they are known to use poison.”

  Schak cut in. “I know we already have enough suspects and motives to consider, but if the woman is with the DEA and someone with criminal intent discovered that, she could have been the real target.”

  Jackson’s gut and shoulders tightened all at once. They didn’t have enough people on the team to cover everything. He needed to pull in someone from Vice to check out possible drug-dealer connections.

  A rap on the door made them all look up. The desk officer stepped in with a large brown bag. “You ordered some sandwiches?”

  “Thank god.” Schak sucked in his stomach. “I’m so hungry, my belly button is rubbing on my backbone.”

  Quince laughed, and Jackson rolled his eyes. “After we eat, we’ll conduct the interrogations, then meet back here in about an hour. Quince, watch Schak on the monitor, and Evans will watch my session. Interrupt or text if you get an idea that could be productive.”

  Schak grinned. “If I get a confession, will you order dessert?”

  CHAPTER 11

  With her designer clothes and intricately painted fingernails, Shanna McCoy looked out of place in the interrogation area, even though it was the soft room with big brown couches and a burgundy rug. Sometimes adults were present when they questioned kids here, but usually it was a male teenager, on his own, slumped against the furniture while biting his nails. So McCoy was an anomaly in this space. She’d called her lawyer earlier, then stretched out on the couch and closed her eyes. It wasn’t the first time Jackson had seen someone handle the stress of a pending interrogation by napping. She sat up when he opened the door and stuck in his head.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Coffee.” No pleasantries from her.

  “I’ll be right back.” He shut the door and locked it. Also not typical. But she was in custody, she’d been read her rights, and he had the option of pressing several charges against her for the earlier altercation.

  When he returned, he sat across from her and listed a few. “I can charge you with assault, obstruction of justice, and interfering with a police officer. But if you cooperate, I’ll chalk your behavior up to grief and let you go.”

  “Cooperate how? What do you want?”

  “Where were you this morning between seven and eight a.m.?”

  She glared at him. “At home, getting ready for work.”

  “Alone?”

  A long hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Where was Charles Kazmir?”

  “I don’t know.” She held her jaw muscles so rigid, her words were clipped. “He stopped in for an early lunch with me. Then I had clients this afternoon, and he did some work on his computer in my apartment. Then you showed up.”

  “Why would Kazmir lie about being in bed with you at the time of Josh’s murder?”

  “He probably thought he was giving me an alibi.”

  Bullshit. “Why would you need one?”

  McCoy gave a small shrug. “You were there, questioning me. You saw him trying to get me to stop talking. He’s very protective.”

  So was she. He’d circle back to the boyfriend in a few minutes. “Let’s talk about your pot-growing business. Is your brother, Josh, an employee or a partner?”

  “Neither. He’s a volunteer gardener.”

  They were beating the rules by keeping him off the books. “How do you compensate him?”

  She made a scoffing sound. “I’ve been supporting Josh for a decade. Ever since our m
other died.”

  “He didn’t work for ten years?” Jackson would ask about the profit again and again if he needed to.

  “With his criminal history, no one would hire Josh.” McCoy let out a long sigh. “He tried to run his own landscape service, but it didn’t work out. He really had turned his life around, but no one would give him a chance.”

  “What about the stolen property in the attic?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “The attic in the farmhouse, where we assume Josh lived, is full of TVs, bike parts, and stereos. I’m pretty sure the serial numbers will confirm that it’s all stolen.”

  “Oh shit.” McCoy shook her head. “It must be from long ago. Josh hasn’t been in trouble in a decade.” She snapped her fingers, as if remembering something. “It’s probably not even his. A friend lived there when Josh was in jail.”

  “Why not get rid of it?”

  “He was probably afraid to. For a felon, being connected to stolen goods is a problem.”

  Maybe. But Jackson didn’t buy it. “Who owns the house?”

  “We both do.” A grim tightening of her lips.

  “But Josh lives there?”

  “So?”

  Her face worked overtime, trying to hide conflicting emotions.

  It seemed staged. Yet earlier, she’d been out of control. “Have you ever done any acting?”

  She stiffened. “In college. Why?” Before he could respond, she raised her voice. “Am I not crying hard enough after learning of my brother’s death? You don’t know what it’s been like. I braced myself for his death for years while he was doing meth and stealing and getting arrested. And even though he’s been good for a long time, it still felt like a bonus, like it was too good to be true and that he would get killed in a car accident or die of cancer. Or relapse.” She drew in a breath and relaxed her facial muscles. “So I grieved for him many times, and when I grieve again, it won’t be in front of you.”

  Fascinating. It could be the perfect rationale for killing him. “Did you ever wish him dead?”

  “Of course not.” She made it a point to meet his eyes.