Rules of Crime (2013)

by Sellers, L. J

  “Oh my god.” Kera’s hand flew to her mouth. “How will you find Renee?”

  “He had an accomplice and we’ll try another money drop tomorrow.”

  “How’s Katie?” Kera frowned. “Where is she?”

  “She’s with Renee’s sister. I think they’re helping each other get through this.”

  “Of course. But you know she can come here any time.”

  Footsteps pounded down the hallway and Danette burst into the room. “Turn on the TV. You’ve got to hear this.” She was wild-eyed and breathless. “It’s about your ex-wife.”

  Jackson’s pulse raced. Why hadn’t anyone called him?

  Kera jumped up, grabbed the remote, and clicked on the wall screen. “What channel?”

  “KRSL with Dakota Anderson.” Danette stared at Jackson. “She’s talking about Renee’s kidnapping.”

  The young strawberry-blonde woman sat behind the news desk, eyes blinking nervously. “Please contribute if you can. As I said, the kidnapper wants a hundred thousand dollars. My father paid the ransom, but the money was lost and he can’t raise it again in time. The kidnapper will probably kill Renee without your help. Please bring any cash you can spare to the station. The FBI will collect it for the ransom. This is an opportunity—”

  “What the hell?” Jackson bolted to his feet.

  Dakota was still talking, but his own thoughts drowned her out. He had to call Agent River and they needed to get Dakota under control. He grabbed his phone and found the number in his call log. As he dialed, he glanced up at the TV. The station had cut away to a commercial.

  “I’ve got to go.” He kissed Kera on the forehead and rushed past Danette. The young woman looked so much like Kera it was eerie. Especially since she was her daughter-in-law.

  As Jackson rushed out of the house, River answered. “What have you got?” Her voice was tight, as if she knew something was wrong.

  “Dakota Anderson was just on the air asking viewers to bring in cash to help pay the ransom.”

  “Good glory.” A long silence. “I never predicted that. I worried that her journalistic instincts would lead her to report the kidnapping but this is unprecedented.”

  Jackson climbed into his car. “I’m headed out to the station now. I’m worried she could become a target.”

  “I’ll send an agent too.”

  Jackson didn’t know what to think or ask next. “Should I call the station and ask them to retract her request?”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Another silence while they both wondered about whether any viewers would bring in money. Finally, River said, “Although I suppose there’s nothing wrong with letting a few Good Samaritans help out. We need some cash to cover the newspaper bundles we’re going to use in tomorrow’s rendezvous.”

  “It feels weird but I suppose we could leave it up to the TV station.”

  “I’ll call and see what they say. I hope the kidnapper didn’t catch her segment.”

  “She mentioned the FBI.” Jackson started driving down the hill.

  “Damn. But he has to know we’re involved.”

  “He will now. What should I do with Dakota?”

  “Detain her until an agent gets there. I’ll have him bring her here and we’ll keep her under house arrest.”

  “Will do.” Jackson hung up. He hoped he didn’t have to cuff the young woman in front of a station full of cameras. So much of police work looked bad on video, even when they did everything by the book. Restraining an innocent-looking person tended to stir up anger in fellow humans. It was physiological and he’d learned to ignore those reactions as a patrol officer, but it was never easy.

  By the time he reached the TV station, the first good-hearted viewer was already in the lobby, trying to give a little stack of cash to a headset-wearing producer.

  “We didn’t authorize the newscaster to make that plea. It’s best if you take your money and go back home.”

  “I want to help,” the older woman insisted.

  Jackson noted the producer didn’t refer to Dakota by name. Distancing himself already? He strode over. “I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. Where is Dakota Anderson?”

  “We asked her to leave.” The producer stepped away from the older woman. “We had to force her off the set.”

  “Where did she go?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Crap. What now? Dakota hadn’t committed a crime, so putting out an ATL for her seemed wrong. Was she in danger? If the kidnapper considered her a threat to collecting a ransom, she might be. But Dakota was clearly a wildcard, and who knew what she would do next. Jackson turned and walked toward the entrance, calling River on the way.

  “Hey,” the producer called out. “I need you to help me deal with this situation.”

  Jackson called over his shoulder. “An FBI agent is coming.”

  As he pushed out the double doors, River picked up. “What’s happening?”

  “Dakota left the station. I need her home address so I can check on her.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  The phone went quiet. Jackson watched as two cars pulled into the nearly empty lot. How much money would Dakota’s plea raise? Would any big donors come through?

  River came back on. “She lives at 2755 Crest, unit fifteen. Do you think she’ll try another public stunt?”

  “I don’t know her. Ask her father. I’m heading over to her place now.” Jackson started his car. “People are showing up here with money. The station could be bombarded when the bank opens in the morning.”

  “We’ll get someone out there to handle it.”

  “Maybe we should use the cash as a reward for information about Renee’s location.”

  “I like it. But we’ll wait until we see if the perp tries for another money drop.”

  “I’ll stay in contact.”

  The address proved to be a condo in the south hills, an upscale complex in a parklike setting. Jackson knocked on the door, but the unit was dark, and the corresponding space in the parking lot was empty. Jackson hoped the young newscaster had headed to her father’s house. In his car, he called dispatch and put out an attempt-to-locate for Dakota Anderson, giving what few details he knew about her and her vehicle make and model. What else could he do to find her? How important was it?

  Agent River hadn’t seemed overly concerned with Dakota’s safety, and Jackson decided she was probably right. With one kidnapper drowned and the other holding Renee, what was the likelihood of them staging another abduction? He was more concerned that Dakota would do something stupid and endanger Renee.

  Exhausted, Jackson drove toward home, his thoughts turning to Katie and what her life would be like at Dakota’s age. He dreaded the thought of his daughter leaving Eugene to attend college somewhere else…and possibly never moving back. Even more, he dreaded what she would go through emotionally if Renee were murdered. The death of a parent often derailed teenagers into self-destructive behavior. He’d started this case feeling optimistic they would find Renee alive and well, but ever since he’d seen her photo in Striker’s kitchen, dread had settled in his stomach like a swallowed rock. What if he didn’t find her? He hadn’t let himself think about how he would feel if she died. Katie would not be the only one to grieve.

  CHAPTER 19

  Monday, January 9, 7:35 p.m.

  Karen Murray looked so much like her daughter it startled Evans to see her sleeping in the chair. But Lyla was still in the hospital bed, with tubes in her nose and an IV in the back of her hand. Evans approached and cleared her throat, and the mother woke.

  “Who are you?” She blinked and stood. Awake, her age was more apparent.

  “Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I’m investigating Lyla’s assault. Are you Karen Murray?”

  “Yes.” Worry jumped from her eyes and stress tightened her jaw. “Do you know who did this?”

  “I have a good lead. But first, how is Lyla doing?”

  She gave a small shake of her head. “Not g
ood. They found bleeding in her brain as well as her left kidney, so they put her into a coma to help her heal.”

  “But she’s stable?”

  “Not really. One of her doctors tried to prepare me for the worst.” Lyla’s mother choked back tears. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I think some young women beat her as part of an initiation.”

  “No!” Karen’s hand flew to her mouth. “Why?”

  “I don’t understand hazings either. I was hoping you could tell me something about the sorority she wanted to join.” Evans grabbed the other chair and pulled it over.

  “Sorority?” Mrs. Murray sat too. “I thought it was just a group of women who lived together.”

  Evans suppressed her disappointment. “What did Lyla tell you?”

  “Just that she had applied to rent a room in a group house. She said it would be less money and more fun than the quad she was in.”

  “Did she discuss the application process?”

  “No. I just assumed it was some paperwork. She asked to borrow five hundred dollars until she got her deposit back on the place she was in.”

  “Did you give it to her?”

  “I sent it through PayPal. Is it important?”

  “It might be later in court, to help establish Lyla’s connection to the rental house.”

  “Who attacked her? Do you know their names?”

  “Nothing is certain, but Taylor Harris, the house leader, texted your daughter and arranged to meet her right before she was assaulted. Taylor claims she and Lyla made plans to go to a party together and Lyla never showed up. But I’m just getting started.”

  “I heard my daughter mention that name.”

  “Anything specific?”

  “No.” She looked over at the bed. “The nurse said she had dirt and feces on her too.” Karen Murray crossed her arms and began to rock. “Poor Lyla. She wanted so badly to belong. In high school she never once made the cheerleading team, and she lost the election for senior class vice president. I tried to build up her self-esteem, but after her father died in Afghanistan two years ago, she seemed lost.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. And for your pain now.” Evans vowed to put an end to the sorority’s vicious practice, but it wouldn’t change anything for this battered family.

  “Please get the despicable women who hurt my baby girl.”

  “I will.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Tuesday, January 10, 5:47 a.m.

  River woke to the sound of a rooster crowing. After spending nearly her whole life in a city, she loved her new rural home. The big yard with room for a garden, the long stretches of quiet, a night sky lit only with stars. She sat up, noticed the floral wallpaper, and scowled. The entire home needed updating and she’d started taking bids from contractors. This case had put that process on hold.

  A glance at the clock told her she was running a little late. She hadn’t slept well, as usual—dreaming in spurts about rescuing a woman from a burning building, a familiar nightmare. Her shrink said it was about rescuing herself. River hurried into the bathroom and stripped for a shower. The sight of her small breasts always caught her by surprise. As did her lumpy, androgynous shape. She took pleasure in her new body only because she was no longer trapped in the old one.

  She dressed in slacks and a turtleneck, scrambled eggs for breakfast, and tucked a breakfast bar in her shoulder bag. She’d vowed to start eating healthier soon. Maybe after this case. She opened her laptop and skimmed through the sender addresses in her personal e-mail. Two were from teenagers she counseled at the homeless shelter.

  She responded to the kids, then grabbed a stack of envelopes from the breakfast bar. She’d brought the mail home from the department without looking through it. Typically, the personal mail she received at work was from victims who wrote to express gratitude or to ask for help with accessing services.

  One return address made her chest tighten: San Quentin State Prison. A letter from a convict she’d put away? The name in the center of the envelope made her heart skip a beat: Carl Barstow-River.

  This will be bad, she told herself, don’t even open it. It was either from her father or possibly someone connected to one of his victims. As a teenager, she’d changed her last name from Barstow to River, feeling like the new identity would carry her away from her past and give her some peace. And it mostly had. But her father had learned of her name change—most likely from her aunt who stayed in touch with both of them—and once someone who knew her connection to Gabriel Barstow had contacted her through the bureau.

  River tore open the envelope, which had been forwarded by the Portland FBI office. She hoped it was from her father and not a victim’s relative. Thirteen women had died, all mothers. The anguish in the lives of their families was never far from her heart, even now. The man who’d contacted her years ago wanted to know why Gabriel Barstow had chosen his wife. As though she might have some insight. But her father had never confided his motives to his interrogators, and River’s years in the bureau had not brought her closer to understanding. Serial killers were inexplicable.

  River glanced at the signature: Your father. For a second she was relieved, then instantly worried again. He hadn’t written in years, after decades of silence from her. What was this about? Was the old man finally going to be given the death sentence he deserved?

  Her hands shook as she started to read the letter.

  Dear Carl

  Sorry son, but you are in danger. I wanted to be a good inmate but I made some enemies. Darien Ozlo gets out soon and he said he would hurt you to get even with me. He knows you’re the only person I care about and I was stupid to talk about you being an FBI. I hope it’s just talk, but you’d better watch out.

  And come see me before I die.—Your father, GB

  Good glory. Just when she thought she’d found a little peace.

  River dropped the letter, momentarily overwhelmed by the double fuck-you life had given her. She’d been born in the wrong body to a despicable man. Were those things connected? More than one psychiatrist had tried to convince her they weren’t.

  Her phone rang as she pushed back from the table. She didn’t recognize the number and was grateful it wasn’t a personal call. She pulled in a breath and cleared her mind. “This is River.”

  “Jackie Matthews, Eugene Police. We’ve located the vehicle you’re searching for in the kidnapping case. It’s near the corner of Seventeenth and Patterson. An officer is with the car now.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

  River made a quick call to check on Ivan Anderson. “Have you heard from the kidnapper?”

  “No. And I haven’t heard from my daughter either. She’s not home and she’s not answering her phone.”

  “Could she be at a friend’s?”

  “I called her boyfriend and he hasn’t seen her or heard from her either.” Anderson was suddenly distressed. “What if she’s been kidnapped too? I thought you were going to send an agent to the TV station to protect her. What happened?”

  “The producer made Dakota leave the building. She was gone when we got there.”

  “They fired her?” A new level of panic.

  “I don’t know.” Why was Dakota’s job important at this moment? “What about a girlfriend she might go stay with?”

  “She has some friends from college, but I don’t really keep track of them.”

  “Can you find her friends’ phone numbers and make some calls?” River kept her voice light. “We’ll put out an alert for her and her car, but there’s no point in panicking. Most likely she’s with a friend. If the kidnapper has her, he’ll tell us when he calls.” She clicked off before he could unload on her again.

  Had she failed to protect Dakota Anderson?

  Every decision is correct in that moment. The mantra echoed in her head. Years of inner conflict in dealing with her own androgyny and her father’s violent legacy had led River to adopt just enough Buddhism to keep herself san
e.

  She was glad she hadn’t stayed over at Anderson’s house. His drunken anger would have been hard to overcome. She and Agent Fouts had flipped a coin to see who had to stay with the target, and Fouts had lost as usual. She felt a little guilty, since he had a wife at home, but being a single person, she’d spent her whole life accommodating others who had spouses and children. Now that she’d shed her false skin, she wanted to live her life to the fullest. River grabbed her coat and strapped on her Glock, mindful that peaceful thoughts could only protect her soul, not her body.

  Renee Jackson’s red Acura had been left unlocked about ten blocks from the University of Oregon.

  “It’s a miracle it wasn’t stolen.” The patrol officer looked around at the older homes occupied mostly by students.

  “Let’s get some tape around this whole area,” River said. “Who knows what evidence the technicians will find.” She rummaged through the car’s glove box while she called Anderson again.

  “River here. Any idea why your fiancée would be parked on the corner of Seventeenth and Patterson?”

  A slight pause. “Serenity Lane is nearby. It’s an alcohol treatment center. She might have left the AA meeting and driven there to check herself in.”

  “Only she never made it that far.”

  “Can you find out for sure? What if she’s in treatment and the kidnapper is conning us?”

  How would the perp know? River thought it was a strange idea. “We may need a subpoena to get that information but I’ll try.”

  River hung up and pulled out the registration. Renee Marie Jackson, 230 Cheshire Street. That wasn’t Anderson’s address. She’d been led to believe Renee lived with him. Were he and his fiancée on the outs? Was there a layer of deception and fraud going on here?

  Further rummaging turned up a flashlight, an AA chapter book with meetings listed, and a half-empty package of Junior Mints. About as useful as a grocery list, River thought. She climbed out of the car to search under the front seats and found a thermos. One sniff of the contents told her it was alcohol, probably vodka.