Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

Jackson pointed to the side of the L-shaped parking lot. “Evans and I will drive Stalling’s truck and park in this spot. We hope to arrive first and watch for the courier. We expect him—or her—to pull into the protected space behind the building.” Jackson looked at Schak. “You’re the point man. If we get the go signal from you, we’ll get out of the car and approach the courier.”

  A food server arrived with a coffeepot and a tray of maple bars. While she filled their waiting cups, Jackson ran through a few scenarios in his head. This could go wrong in so many ways. His biggest fear was a carload of testosterone-fueled gang members showing up, either as couriers or to intercept the shipment. Meth trafficking was their territory, and if they’d gotten wind of the deal, they might feel entitled to the product and profit.

  When the server walked away, Jackson locked eyes with Schak again. “If there’s more than two people in the courier vehicle, we’re not getting out. I’ll drive away and park nearby while you call for backup. When we have the manpower, we’ll move in.” Jackson glanced at the two women. “Just an expression.”

  Evans laughed. “I don’t think person power will ever catch on.”

  “Any questions?” Jackson looked around the table.

  Officer Ortega asked, “Do we have any idea what the courier looks like or drives?”

  “No. Sorry. Our information is sketchy, and this could turn out to be a waste of time.”

  “I’ve got a feeling this is gonna happen.” Schak sounded keyed up. He’d quit drinking recently and seemed to have more energy.

  “Okay, then. Suck down your caffeine and we’ll do this.” Jackson signaled the server for the check. “Let’s scatter the cars too. This parking lot looks like a cop convention.” The patrol officers had brought unmarked vehicles, but still, five dark sedans were a giant red flag.

  Ten minutes later, under the cover of darkness, the vehicles had been moved and the team members were all in place. Except him and Evans, who sat in Stalling’s little red truck in the café parking lot, waiting. Schak radioed him a moment later. “Backup is ready. I’m behind the trash bin next door, and it smells like a dead cat.”

  Jackson radioed back, “Your choice. You could have gone up the tree.” They didn’t conduct many operations that required radio contact, and Jackson realized he’d missed the adrenaline. He turned to Evans. “I’m a little jealous of your SWAT position.”

  “Don’t be. Yesterday ended badly.”

  Oh crap. He’d forgotten that she’d shot the hostage taker. “I’m sorry. That was a stupid thing to say.” He started the car and drove down the road.

  “It’s worse than you think.” Raw emotion in Evans’ voice he hadn’t heard before.

  Jackson stopped at a traffic light, while the only other car on the road crossed the intersection. “Talk to me.”

  “Not one of Conner Harron’s neighbors saw him outside with a gun or admitted to making the 911 call. It came through a prepaid phone.” Evans touched his arm. “I think Harron was swatted.”

  “Oh man. That would be tragic.” And a first for their department. The SWAT unit had made some devastating errors, but never because of a prank. “But just because his neighbors didn’t see or hear the threats doesn’t mean Harron didn’t make them. The caller could have been passing through or visiting.”

  Evans’ voice grew emphatic. “He was seeing a therapist and taking medication.”

  “He could have had a bad day. It happens.”

  Jackson’s radio buzzed, and Schak’s voice came through. “A small yellow car is slowing to turn in. Two people inside. Where are you?”

  “At the intersection. We have to pull in after it.”

  Jackson turned to Evans. “We’ll talk more later.” He glanced back at the street.

  The same vehicle he’d seen yesterday at Ganja Growers pulled into the lot where they were supposed to meet. Shanna McCoy! What the hell was she doing here? A bolt of worry shot through him. Had she recognized her brother’s truck at the intersection? Jackson pressed his radio. “It’s Shanna McCoy and her boyfriend. Maybe they’re the couple who are supposed to meet the courier. Everyone stay put.”

  The little yellow car moved slowly to the back of the building.

  Jackson rolled past the entrance, pulled into the next driveway, and parked near the trash bin where Schak had taken cover. Dirty carpet spilled out of its open top. Schak gave them a quick look, then returned his focus to the lot next door. Jackson and Evans instinctively slumped down in their seats.

  Evans whispered, “So McCoy is either the drug dealer the DEA was tracking, or she’s stepping in for her brother.”

  “Either way, she’s going back to jail today.” Jackson had distrusted McCoy since their first encounter in her spa. Then she’d shown up at Ganja Growers to discuss selling the business—and bolted when she’d heard his voice. Now she was about to pick up twenty pounds of meth. A crime punishable by ten years or more in prison. It seemed reasonable to think she’d shot her brother too—so she could sell the property without needing his consent. Jackson hoped the DA would prosecute her for all of it.

  For five long minutes, they waited. The sun peeked over the horizon, but the air stayed cold. Jackson felt a flash of guilt for having a relatively warm and comfortable spot in the car. Schak claimed to be impervious to the cold, but Officer Ortega was lying down on a flat metal roof, exposed to the wind. That had to suck.

  Finally, another car pulled into the abandoned plumbing store—a compact silver SUV like every middle-class mom in Eugene drove. Not what he’d expected. But if the meth had come up from Mexico, it had been a long drive. The courier could be anybody. Drug cartels often employed innocent-looking girls and grandmothers to move their products across the border and through California. The courier drove to the back and parked next to McCoy.

  “Any sign of an exchange . . .” Jackson spoke softly and mostly to himself. He’d given Schak the responsibility of giving the go-ahead and would wait until his partner signaled.

  An older man climbed out of the SUV and walked behind one of the three-foot concrete barriers. He carried a large, bulging backpack.

  Shanna McCoy exited her car, lugging an oversize shoulder bag, and followed him. Her boyfriend, Charles Kazmir, stepped out too, but waited by their car. Patrol units had been looking for him since he’d bolted from McCoy’s spa after lying about his alibi for the time of the murder. They’d also found a temporary restraining order filed against him two years earlier. So he had issues. Maybe he and McCoy had conspired to kill Stalling and the DEA agent after figuring out she was a fed. Two birds with one stone.

  Two long minutes passed. Jackson hoped Quince and Officer Ortega were witnessing a package exchange. McCoy finally rounded the concrete wall and headed back to her car. She was wearing the backpack now.

  “Go!” Schak urged through the radio.

  As Schak charged across the parking lot, Jackson and Evans scurried from the car. Out of sight, Officer Ortega yelled, “Drop your weapon! Hands in the air!”

  Quince’s voice joined in a chorus of commands. Behind the concrete, a weapon hit the ground. The courier was trapped. An engine fired up, and McCoy quickly backed up in a wide arc, nearly hitting him. Jackson raised his weapon and yelled, “Stop! Police!”

  She pressed the accelerator and raced past him toward the road. He aimed at her tires and pulled the trigger. And missed. Next to him, Evans had her weapon out but didn’t use it.

  The Mini Cooper bounced over the sidewalk and raced toward the main artery out of town. Officer Tyner squealed out of the parking lot across the street and gunned it after McCoy. Jackson and Evans ran back to the little truck. Her city-issued Impala was parked up the road, and his was at the crime lab. Jackson climbed in, cursing the slow-moving piece of crap.

  “I’ll call dispatch.” Evans used her cell phone to notify the call center to get every available officer in pursuit. McCoy wasn’t getting away. He just hoped that she and Kazmir didn’t manage to ditch the
backpack full of meth before they were arrested.

  CHAPTER 24

  Friday, December 4, 9:23 a.m.

  As Jackson pulled into the crime lab, his phone rang. A number he didn’t recognize, but he picked up. “Jackson here.”

  “It’s Officer Tyner. We arrested Shanna McCoy and Charles Kazmir at Perkins Peninsula. She ran for the reservoir, and I assume she planned to dump the drugs in the water, but I caught her.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “In the back of my patrol car.”

  “Kazmir is in custody too?”

  “Yes, he stayed in the car, and Ortega arrested him without incident.”

  “Please take both suspects to the department and put them in separate interrogation rooms.” Jackson remembered the courier. Schak and Quince had arrested him immediately and already taken him to the department. With only two main interrogation rooms, they’d have to work something out. It might be interesting to put McCoy and her boyfriend together, turn on the camera, and see what they said when they were alone. “Thanks again for your good work today.”

  “You’re welcome, sir.”

  They disconnected, and he pulled up to the gate and flashed his city ID at the camera. The green barrier swung open, and he drove into the parking lot behind the building. Plain gray brick, the crime lab had no markings indicating what it was. Behind the two-story structure that housed the technicians and their equipment sat a long row of three garage-style units where they processed large pieces of evidence, such as cars. And sometimes safes and other locked cabinets that needed to be sprayed for fingerprints, then forced open.

  Inside, Joe greeted him in the hall. “How did your sting work out?”

  “A little unexpected. The couple that was supposed to receive the drugs actually showed up, surprising all of us. But we managed to arrest them and the courier.”

  “Excellent. You brought the Nissan truck back?”

  “It’s outside the first bay.”

  “Good. I still have to search the interior and process the hair and fibers.” Joe cocked his head. “I finally found a match for the casings Schak brought in. The gun was used in a robbery three years ago and was taken into evidence.”

  What the hell? “How did it make it back into the public?”

  Joe gave a small shrug. “The three evidence technicians who looted the lockers apparently took weapons too.”

  Jackson bit back a string of swear words. “What’s the make?”

  “A .38-caliber Browning.”

  “Thanks.” A great piece of information—if they found it in someone’s possession. He handed Joe the truck key. “If you learn anything else, call me.”

  Jackson stopped for coffee on the way to the department, almost ordered another doughnut, and changed his mind. The team would probably have lunch together after the interrogations to decide their next moves.

  He entered the police building and took the byzantine route to the interrogation area in the middle of the first floor. The secure rooms were closed, but across the wide space, the small conference room was open. Schak, Quince, and Evans all stood in front of the monitors, watching the suspects.

  “Where’s the courier?”

  Schak turned. “In the soft room. His name’s Roberto Ortega, and he doesn’t speak English. Or at least he chooses not to.”

  “Can we get a Spanish speaker in here?”

  “I’ve asked. But the only two are off duty today, so our chat with him may have to wait.”

  Quince and Evans had both turned to join the conversation.

  “We need to focus on McCoy and Kazmir anyway.” Jackson pulled out his typed notes and read through what he’d written after meeting the couple at McCoy’s spa. “Kazmir claimed to be in bed with McCoy at the time of the shootings. But McCoy called him a liar and accused him of shooting her brother.” Jackson looked at his task force. “These two people are unpredictable, manipulative, and maybe a little crazy. I also think one or both murdered Josh Stalling and maybe tried to kill the DEA agent.”

  “We have to pit them against each other,” Evans said.

  “Exactly. You and Schak take Kazmir. Play up the idea that the murder was McCoy’s idea and he just went along. Offer Kazmir an accessory-only charge, but tell him McCoy is blaming him and he needs to correct the story she’s telling.” Jackson turned to Quince. “You’ll be good cop with McCoy. Charm her and play up your sympathy for her. Tell her you know Kazmir abuses her and this is her chance to put him away.”

  As they plotted their strategy, an energy built up. Evans bounced on her feet, and Schak cracked his knuckles. They’d already been on a stakeout operation and made a major drug bust. Now they were about to get confessions for murder. They didn’t have many days like this.

  “Let’s do this,” Schak said.

  They headed for the respective dark holes, and Jackson unlocked one door with his ID.

  “I want a lawyer!” screamed McCoy the moment they entered. She was seated at the table even though they’d left her completely unrestrained. But that could change.

  Jackson and Quince sat, unrattled. Jackson said, “A lawyer can’t get you a deal with the prosecutor. But let’s get the formalities out of the way.” He stated the date and the names of everyone present, then continued.

  “We caught you with twenty pounds of meth. The DA will convince a jury that you should serve at least ten years for intent to distribute. So I suggest you work with us.” The drug cartel wasn’t a priority for him, but it was a way to get her talking. “Give us the name of your supplier, and we’ll get the DA to offer a minimum sentence.”

  “I had no idea what was in the backpack.” She glanced back and forth between them. “Josh asked me to pick it up for him. Then he was killed, and I felt like I should honor his last request.” She choked a little on the last words.

  A clever load of bull. “I can think of fifteen things wrong with that story, but I’ll leave that to the prosecutor. He’ll take you apart on the witness stand, and the jury will end up shaking their heads at how disgusting it is to blame your dead brother.” Jackson spoke in a low, menacing tone. “Speaking of Josh, let’s talk about why you wanted him dead. We know you wanted to sell the business, but Josh wouldn’t sign off on the land he co-owned.”

  “No.” McCoy shook her head. “It’s not like that.”

  Quince took the cue and cut in. “We know Charles Kazmir is the shooter. And we know he abused and intimidated you. The jury will probably sympathize with you on that count.” Quince leaned forward, eager and sincere. “But you don’t have to face a jury on the murder charge if you tell us everything about Kazmir’s involvement. We can cut you a deal and keep you out of the courtroom.”

  She was quiet for a long moment, staring down at her hands. When McCoy looked up, she said, “I don’t know why Charles claimed he was with me at the time of the shooting. But he wasn’t. And he does own a gun.”

  As planned, Jackson sat back and let his partner handle it for a while.

  Quince spoke softly. “Had he threatened Josh?”

  “No, but he hated him. I don’t even know why.” McCoy projected confusion and distress. “Charles was protective of me.”

  Jackson didn’t buy it.

  Quince worked to gain her trust. “Charles threatened you too, didn’t he?”

  “Sometimes. But I really didn’t know about his plan to kill Josh. I would never have gone along.”

  “But you stand to benefit,” Quince countered. “The business is in your name. So the DA will want to come after you, unless you help us convict Charles.”

  “I can’t.” She shook her head. “I really don’t know what happened.”

  Quince kept his voice sympathetic. “Between the drugs and the murder charge, you’re looking at life. I want to help you. But you have to give me something. Show some remorse.”

  “I am sorry for all of this.” Tears rolled down McCoy’s face. “I wanted out of the stupid spa business.” She looked up, eyes ha
rd with bitterness. “Do you know how boring it is to glue on fake eyelashes all day? Or zap tiny hairs off women’s faces over and over? I just couldn’t do it anymore. So when Josh came to me with the idea of building a marijuana nursery on the River Loop property, I got excited. It was my ticket out of cosmetics. I thought I would be able to travel.”

  McCoy shook her head, her face a contorted mess of regret and disappointment. “But the building cost more than it should have. Way more. And our first crop was rather pathetic. Josh had big ideas, but he didn’t have a green thumb. I wanted to fire him and bring in someone who knew what they were doing, but he kept saying he’d get better, that the business would be a gold mine. I wanted to believe him, but I was paying the construction loan and still working in the spa.”

  She glanced at Jackson, looking for understanding.

  He nodded to encourage her.

  “Then Matt Sheldon came to me with an offer to buy the business, and I wanted to take it. But Josh freaked out and accused me of taking away the good thing he had going for himself. He refused to sell the property. He had this stupid dream of buying the nursery.” The sister let out a derisive snort. “Like that would ever happen. The problem was that Matt wouldn’t buy the nursery without the land, so I was stuck.” McCoy stopped talking, but the tears kept rolling.

  Quince prompted her. “Then what happened? Did your boyfriend, Charles, try to help you?”

  McCoy shook her head. “I don’t know. Charles knew Josh was holding us back, and he was mad as hell about it. We wanted to invest the money from the sale of Riverside Farms into another business. It never occurred to me that Charles would shoot Josh.” She looked up, blinking at them with innocent eyes. “But I’m starting to think he may have done it.”

  The clever bitch was willing to let them think her boyfriend had committed murder, but she wouldn’t come right out and say it, or help them with solid evidence. Time for bad cop. Jackson cut in. “What kind of gun does Charles own?”

  “A handgun. I don’t know the brand.”

  “Have you ever fired it?” He noticed Quince was texting someone. Probably their partners in the other interrogation room.