Rules of Crime (2013)

by Sellers, L. J

  Lyla’s address was in a cluster of quads on Seventeenth Avenue, not far from the university. Evans knocked on the manager’s door but got no response. Hearing music above her, she trotted upstairs and found the manager cleaning a filthy unit on the second floor. The pregnant young woman looked like she’d had better days—and better jobs.

  Evans introduced herself, showed her badge, then asked for the woman’s name.

  “Tamara Jones. Is this about Kyle?” She hugged her baby-belly, clearly worried.

  “It’s about Lyla Murray from unit thirteen. She’s unconscious in the hospital and I need to contact her mother. I’d like to access her apartment.”

  “That sucks. What happened?” The manager put down the toilet scrubber and pulled off her gloves. “I’ve got my master key and it’s right down the way.”

  Evans followed her outside. “Lyla was assaulted. Do you know anyone who might want to hurt her?”

  “I don’t really know any of the tenants. This is just a job. But I’ve never had any trouble with Lyla.”

  The manager stopped three units down and unlocked a bright-orange door. “I probably should stay with you but I’ve got to get that pigsty ready for tomorrow. Let me know when you leave.”

  Relieved to be left alone, Evans moved quickly to the desk in the corner. As part of a quad, the apartment was only slightly larger than a bedroom. One interior door was open to a bathroom and the other led to a shared kitchen. Evans noted the room was exceptionally tidy, with a tucked-in bedspread and no clothes or clutter anywhere. And no signs of a struggle. The victim probably hadn’t been attacked here. Where were Lyla’s clothes from the night of the assault? Unless she had been drunk or high, Lyla hadn’t left the house naked. Evans pulled out her iPad and made a note reminding herself to check the hospital for the victim’s drug and alcohol content.

  She made a quick search for a cell phone, not expecting to find it. The device was most likely with Lyla’s clothes or purse, which might have been tossed in the trash by now. The desk drawers held no surprises, except for a stash of chocolate-covered raisins that had turned gray. No address book. Did anyone under fifty use those anymore? She turned on Lyla’s laptop and soon found Karen Murray in a contact file. Evans called the number and had to leave a message. She would have preferred to make personal contact but she couldn’t delay the information. Lyla might not survive.

  “This is Detective Evans with the Eugene Police Department. I’m sorry to inform you that your daughter, Lyla Murray, is in North McKenzie Hospital, undergoing surgery for internal bleeding. Her condition is serious. I’m investigating her assault and I’d like you to call me as soon as you can.” She wanted to question Mrs. Murray about possible suspects, but being out of town, the mother might be the last to know if Lyla had a boyfriend.

  Evans gave her number, then spent a few minutes glancing at Lyla’s recent e-mails. One from a friend named Celia about studying together, one from Square Peg Concerts, and a newsletter from a nursing association. Had Lyla been studying to become a nurse? If so, this world needed her.

  Evans shut off the laptop and wedged it into her shoulder bag, alongside her iPad. She would peruse it thoroughly later. She did a quick check of the bathroom and found no blood, drugs, or signs of struggle. Time to head out and check the neighbors. She needed to find out where Lyla had gone Saturday night.

  After knocking on the adjacent doors and getting no answer, Evans trotted around the balcony and rapped on one of the opposite units. These two tenants shared a kitchen with Lyla and probably knew her. No one answered at the first door, but a sleepy-looking young man opened the second. Evans introduced herself and held up her badge. “Do you know Lyla Murray?”

  “The chick on the other side?”

  “Yes, the young woman in unit thirteen who shares your kitchen.”

  “Sure. Why?”

  “Are you dating her?”

  He made a face. “No. She’s…” He stopped. “Not my type.”

  “Can I come in? I’d like to ask some questions.”

  “We can talk here.” He stepped outside and closed the door behind him.

  Evans wondered what he had to hide. Probably drugs. Or stolen goods. Could be anything. Right now it was not her concern. “When did you see Lyla last?”

  “Uhh.” He rubbed his already messy hair. “Saturday night. I saw her coming down the stairs as I was going up.”

  “What time was that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe seven thirty.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “We said hi, but that was it.” He shivered and shifted on his bare feet.

  His choice to stand outside in the cold. “How did she seem?”

  “Like she might be in a hurry.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “I don’t know.” His eyes widened. “Why? Is she dead?”

  “What makes you think she might be dead?”

  “Cuz you’re a cop and you’re asking creepy questions.” He looked concerned. “What happened to Lyla?”

  “She’s in the hospital. Someone assaulted her. What about her boyfriend?”

  “I don’t think she had one. I never heard anyone in her apartment, if you know what I mean.” He blushed a little.

  “Do you know anyone who might want to hurt her?”

  “No. She’s a nice girl.”

  Yet somebody nearly beat her to death. Evans handed the young man a business card. “Please call me if you think of anything that could help me find her attacker.”

  A few minutes later, as Evans climbed into her car, her phone rang.

  “It’s Margaret, in the campus PD office. Did you say Lyla was naked when they dumped her?”

  “Except for a pair of pink socks.”

  “I have a report that someone turned in some clothes they found in the graveyard.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Monday, January 9, 2:15 p.m.

  Jackson climbed into his car, glad to be alone for a moment. The cash was lost, the perp was likely drowned, and they had no idea where Renee was. Maybe no one did now. What if they couldn’t locate her? Would she starve to death, shackled in a basement somewhere? He slammed his hand against the steering wheel. They had to find her! He couldn’t let Renee die that way. He was a cop. His daughter might never forgive him. He would never forgive himself.

  The kidnapper may not be dead, he corrected, starting the car. The perp could be crawling out of the river right now or he might have hired a thug to collect the money. Agent River thought at least two perps were involved: one sending texts from a distant location while the other had waited near the river. She and Agent Fouts were headed back to Anderson’s house, hoping to hear from the kidnapper again. Search and rescue teams were patrolling the river and its banks, looking for a body or a red backpack loaded with cash. In addition, FBI agents, uniformed officers, and county deputies were all involved in a massive manhunt for Daniel Talbot. Jackson would meet back up with the task force later that afternoon.

  He put in his earpiece and drove past the restaurant toward the parking lot exit. For now, he would continue tracking Renee’s movements the day she disappeared. He had to believe there was value in knowing where she’d been taken from or who had seen her last. Maybe a witness had seen her with the kidnapper. It felt strange to be on the perimeter of an investigation, just another grunt, instead of directing all the moving parts. But he was grateful to not bear that responsibility this time.

  At the street he changed his mind, reparked, and called Katie. She had a right to know what was going on. She wasn’t a little kid anymore and he couldn’t protect her from the truth. His intestines twisted in turmoil. This would be the hardest conversation he’d ever had with her. He wanted to conduct it in person, to hug her as she processed what it all meant. But driving out to Renee’s sister’s house would cost him an hour—time that Renee might not be able to afford.

  He pressed speed dial #1 and Katie cut in on the first ring. “Did you find
her? Is Mom okay?”

  Another jab to his gut. “We haven’t located her yet but we will. I have to believe she’s still fine.”

  “What happened with the ransom?” Panic crept into Katie’s voice.

  “Sweetheart, I’m sorry I’m not there to tell you in person, but I have leads to follow.”

  “What happened?”

  “The kidnapper got into an inner tube and floated down the river with the cash.”

  “But he’ll release Mom now, right? He’ll call and tell you where she is?”

  “We don’t know.” He drew in a breath. “The inner tube flipped over and the perp went into the water. Sheriff teams are looking for him now.”

  “Oh my god! If he drowns, what happens to Mom?”

  “We think he had a partner. We believe we’ll hear from the kidnappers again.”

  “But they didn’t get the money! He said he’d cut off her finger.” Katie burst into tears.

  Jackson kicked himself for not driving over. “We tried to pay him. He knows that.” Did he? Had the courier communicated with his partner about receiving the cash before he went under?

  “What if Ivan doesn’t have any more money? You have to find her!”

  “I know, sweetheart. I will. I have leads to follow now. I love you.” Jackson had to get off the phone. Katie’s distress threatened to overwhelm him.

  He drove west toward Fred Meyer, where Dave Lambert was a manager. The AA meeting leader might not be willing to share information but Jackson had to try.

  In the store, he found Lambert in a tucked-away office at the end of a long corridor. Small, cramped, and windowless, the office made Jackson cringe. His witness was physically neutral, with sandy hair, beige clothes, and a bland, ageless face. Jackson introduced himself and noticed Lambert reacted with a slight look of alarm, which he immediately tried to hide.

  “What’s going on?” Lambert gestured for him to sit in an orange plastic chair.

  “I’m looking for Renee Jackson. She attended an AA meeting at the Jesco Club Saturday afternoon, then was abducted shortly after.”

  “That’s wild. And not what I expected to hear.” Lambert was visibly relieved. “I spoke to Renee after the meeting. She seemed worried.”

  Jackson wanted to know what the store manager was worried about—and what he might be involved in—but he needed to stay focused on Renee. “What did she say?”

  “Nothing, really. She just looked stressed.”

  “Did you see her get in her car?”

  “Yes. She was parked across the street in the alley.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she talk to anyone at the meeting? Did one of the members seem particularly interested in her?”

  Concern flashed in Lambert’s eyes. “There is a guy who seems a little obsessed with her. I mean, he watches her a lot. I can see it from the front but Renee may not have been aware.”

  “I need his name.”

  “It’s an anonymous meeting.”

  “Someone kidnapped Renee and threatened to kill her.”

  “Good grief.” He clicked his pen in a rapid, nervous mode. “I only know what the guy tells us, and it may not be true.”

  “Tell me.”

  “He calls himself Striker.”

  A cool wave of fear washed over Jackson. “What do you know about him?”

  “He used to be a logger but now he builds urban chicken coops.” Lambert shook his head. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. If you question him, please don’t mention where you got the information. I’ll lose my credibility with AA.”

  You could get sued too, Jackson thought, but didn’t say. “What does he look like?”

  “Big guy. Six-three and probably two hundred and fifty pounds. He has dark curly hair and a full beard.”

  Jackson made quick notes. “Any idea what he drives? Or where to find him?”

  “I’ve seen him get into an old panel truck. It was black with tan sideboards.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  “I hope you find her.”

  An image of Renee’s dead body on the floor of a storage unit flashed in Jackson’s brain. He pushed it away and stood to leave. “We will.” He handed the manager a business card. “Please call me if you think of anything else.”

  In his car, he dialed Agent River. “It’s Jackson. Any word from the kidnapper?”

  “No. But we have a search warrant for Daniel Talbot’s home. Two agents are headed over there now. You’re welcome to join them.”

  “I can’t. I have another possible lead. Renee was at an AA meeting Saturday afternoon from three to four. A man who attends the same meeting has shown an obsessive interest in Renee. He calls himself Striker.”

  “Run him through the database and we’ll get someone on him.”

  “I’m heading to the department to do that now.”

  “Keep me posted.”

  Jackson thought about Evans and her little tablet with its internet access. She’d be sitting here scanning the databases now. He vowed to buy one before the day was over, even if the department wouldn’t reimburse him. They couldn’t afford to put computers in the detective cars either and it was a damn shame. To top it off, Lane County was losing its federal timber payments, and the sheriff’s department had cut more jail beds and eliminated probation supervision for minor offenses. Gang members were moving to Eugene because it had become so soft on crime. Sometimes the lack of funding made him want to quit. What was the point of rounding up the bad guys if the system was just going to release them?

  Driving across Ferry Street Bridge, Jackson was reminded of the search for the waterlogged courier. He called Sheriff Walters. “It’s Jackson. Any word from the boat patrols or search-and-rescue teams?”

  “Not yet. I’ll call as soon as I hear.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he entered the Violent Crimes area, he ran into Schak. “What did you find out about Renee’s phone?”

  Jackson plopped down at his desk and Schak grabbed a nearby chair. “It hasn’t been used since Saturday at three seventeen p.m. T-Mobile pinged it and got no signal. I think the kidnapper destroyed it when he grabbed her.”

  “We’re dealing with someone smart.” Jackson shook his head. “Except the final escape method. Getting on the river in the winter is always dangerous.”

  “Yep, but if he had made it ashore, he would’ve had a hundred grand and no eyes on him.”

  “Don’t forget the tracker in the backpack.”

  “He could’ve found that in two minutes flat. Then thrown it on a passing car.” Schak grinned, warming to the subject. “He may have been looking through the cash as he floated down the river. That tracker might be at the bottom of the Willamette.”

  “We’ll know soon enough. We have a task force meeting at four thirty at Anderson’s house.”

  “Anything I can do before we head out?”

  “We need a list of Renee’s calls and texts for the last week.”

  “I’ve already made the request, but it could take a day or so.”

  “Find out what you can about Dave Lambert. He’s an AA leader and a manager at the West Eleventh Fred Meyer. Meanwhile, I’ll be tracking down a guy who attended AA meetings with Renee and calls himself Striker.”

  “Sounds like a nickname for someone with insecurities.”

  “Lambert says Striker seemed obsessed with Renee.”

  “Your ex is kinda hot.”

  Jackson ignored the comment. After he’d kicked Renee out and filed for divorce, she’d gotten sober, lost fifteen pounds, and cut her hair. She looked better now than she had at any point during their marriage. But it didn’t change anything for him. “Something about Lambert bothers me. He might be the one who’s obsessed and purposely diverting me toward Striker.”

  “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

  Jackson decided to start online. Sometimes websites had more current information than
law enforcement databases. He googled urban chicken coops Eugene Oregon and found two local businesses, but neither was owned by someone named Striker. On a whim, he called Down to Earth, a local home and garden store, and asked to speak to the manager. After a brief conversation, he learned Striker had built a custom coop for the store’s display and his first name was Gus. No wonder the man went by Striker. Jackson tried to get a phone number but the manager wouldn’t say anything more. Eugene citizens were often like that. They tended to err on the side of protecting people until proven guilty. Even then, many people in his liberal hometown wanted to fix criminals rather than punish them. It made his job more difficult, but it also made him—and everyone in the department—better law enforcement officers.

  Jackson clicked open the criminal-history database and keyed in Gus Striker. A list of arrests and convictions surfaced. Possession of meth, theft 1, unauthorized use of a vehicle, DUII, public intoxication, and several probation violations. But nothing for the last three years except a trespassing report.

  Curious, Jackson read through it and learned Striker had been arrested at the home of a Molly Hansen. She’d called dispatch right before midnight to report seeing someone in her backyard. Patrol officers had found Striker hiding in a shed on her property. He’d claimed to be lost and drunk, pled guilty to trespassing, and paid a fine. Now Jackson wondered if there was more to it. Had Striker been stalking Molly Hansen?

  Locating an address from Striker’s last probation report, Jackson jotted it down, and shoved his notepad into his pocket. He started to get up, then had another paranoid thought. He opened Facebook and searched for the name Molly Hansen. He scrolled through about twenty until he found one in Eugene. When he opened her profile, he drew in a sharp breath.

  Molly Hansen looked very much like his ex-wife, Renee.

  CHAPTER 11

  Monday, January 9, 1:35 p.m.

  A damp, musty smell seeped out of the plastic bag as Evans removed the faded jeans. Dirt, she thought, and a little moss. Probably from the graveyard where the clothes had been found. Evans ignored the trace evidence, leaving it for the technicians, and dug into the pockets. She wanted Lyla’s wallet or cell phone, or even a scrap of paper. She needed a solid lead.