While Evans mapped out the events, he and Schak skimmed through the news of 2000. He set aside the Longo murders and the couple who’d won the lottery. Neither story seemed like it would have affected his mother personally, unless she’d known the people.
Jackson read through the next clipping, holding his breath. Roger Norquist, a candidate for the Senate, had been accused of rape. One of his young female staff members claimed Norquist had sexually assaulted her after a staff party when they’d both been drinking. Norquist had held a news conference and, in return, accused the woman of being a political saboteur, a drug addict, and a liar. The district attorney had asked Lisa Caldwell to submit to a lie detector test and a urine analysis. She’d refused both and the DA failed to file charges. Norquist claimed his political opponent had paid Caldwell to sabotage his campaign. Jackson remembered that Norquist had gone on to win and serve in the Senate, then lost his bid for re-election.
He looked up at the timeline, and a surge of adrenaline ran through his chest. “I think we’ve got him. My aunt said my mother was raped, but she never reported it.” He stood, unable to stay in his chair. “In 2000, Roger Norquist was accused of rape during his campaign for the Senate. What if Norquist is the father? What if my mother saw this news story about the rape and contacted him?”
Schak added, “If she threatened to expose his earlier rape, it would have ruined his career.”
“She must have contacted Gina then too,” Evans speculated. “Maybe she told her everything.”
“Why did Norquist wait nine years to go after Gina?” Schak was still trying to get caught up on the developments.
“Gina got into financial trouble and contacted him,” Jackson theorized. “She offered to keep his secret in exchange for twenty thousand. By then, he was planning another run for the Senate and had even more to lose.”
“Doesn’t Norquist own Valley Fresh Bakery?” Evans asked.
Jackson spun toward her. “Did it used to be called Emerson Oats?”
“I don’t know, but Valley Fresh is five blocks from where the shooter bought the Explorer.”
“Emerson Oats is where my mother was working when she was raped, and someone from Valley Fresh called my parents the day of the murders.” Jackson grabbed his notes and shoved them into his folder. “We need a subpoena for Norquist’s DNA.” Jackson started to tell Evans to go see the judge, then realized it wouldn’t be fair to her. This was her case as much as it was his. “Schak, I need you to get the subpoena. Don’t take no for answer. Evans, we’re going out to find this bastard.”
Chapter 31
Norquist’s home address proved difficult to locate. As a well-off businessman and an ex-Senator, he apparently tried to maintain some privacy and wasn’t in any of the databases Jackson had tried. Evans was at her desk phoning prominent locals who might have his address, so Jackson called his contact at the Department of Motor Vehicles.
“Stacy, it’s Jackson. I need an important favor.”
“If I can.” She sounded weary, a Friday morning at the DMV.
“I need everything you’ve got on Roger Norquist.”
In a muffled voice, she whispered, “The ex-Senator?
“I wouldn’t ask without good reason, and I need to find Norquist today.”
“Give me ten minutes and I’ll call you back. I have to get this hothead out of here first.”
Jackson went to the break room for a diet Pepsi while he waited. He wanted coffee but the stuff the department provided was undrinkable. He bought a soda for Evans too and pulled up a chair at her desk when he saw she was still on the phone.
“I’ve got nothing.” Evans said, after hanging up.
“We’ll start with his office at Valley Fresh.” Jackson was on his feet. “Stacy will call soon with his home address.”
“Do you think Norquist saw the story in the paper this morning? It implied we had linked all his murders.”
“I don’t know. He’s a politician. Probably.”
“Should we split up and cover more ground, in case he’s on the move?”
“I want us both there when we bring him in. He’s likely to either attempt to blow us off because he thinks he’s untouchable, or he may run. Either way, we need a show of force.”
* * *
Evans loved that Jackson wanted her as a backup. She’d expected him to send her for the subpoena and to bring Schak along for the takedown. He was treating her like a real partner even though she’d screwed up by giving the reporter too much information.
Jackson started for the stairs to the parking lot.
“Should we update Lammers?” she asked.
“We’ll do it by phone.” Jackson kept moving, so Evans followed.
In the car, his phone rang, so he put in his earpiece and took the call. Evans grabbed her notepad, hoping it was the DMV contact.
Jackson listened, then repeated the information for Evans to write down: 34680 Bloomberg Road, 2009 blue Lexus, 871 CTZ.
“Thanks, Stacy. You’re a godsend.” Jackson hung up and started the car. He turned to her, grinned, and said, “You get to call Lammers and tell her we’re picking up Roger Norquist for questioning and a cheek swab.”
“You weasel.” Evans was glad for the chance to make up for her error and damn happy she didn’t have to tell the boss in person. She called Lammers and prayed she wouldn’t pick up.
The sergeant did. “Where the hell is everyone this morning?” Lammers yelled. “And why do I have to find out in the newspaper about a break in this case?”
“We learned late yesterday afternoon that trace evidence links the Jackson murders to Gina Stahl’s shooting. We think it’s the same killer. We spent last night trying to find a connection.”
“And? Did you find one?”
“Gina is Jackson’s half-sister. We think her biological father killed Gina and Jackson’s parents to protect himself from exposure as a rapist and the father of an illegitimate child.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Break that down for me.”
Jackson started the car and pulled into the street. Evans said, “I don’t have time. We’re on our way to pick up Roger Norquist. We think he’s our man.”
“The ex-Senator who’s gearing up to run again?”
Evans decided to lay it all out and see if it still made sense. “We believe he raped and impregnated Evelyn Jackson in 1965. He probably raped a campaign staffer in 2000, then killed Jackson’s parents when they threatened to expose the earlier unreported rape. He tried to kill Gina in 2009 when she asked him for money in exchange for keeping his secret. He finished the job Wednesday after hearing she’d come out of her coma.”
“Jesus. A full-blown sociopath. What can I do to help?”
“Put out an attempt-to-locate on Norquist. He’s driving a 2009 blue Lexus, license plate 871 CTZ. Schak is working on the DNA subpoena.”
“Good work, all of you. Tell Jackson too, and keep me posted.” Lammers hung up.
Evans laughed and patted Jackson on the head. “Good work.” Her moment of levity quickly disappeared as she mentally recounted Norquist’s crimes. “Lammers just called Norquist a sociopath. I wonder how many other women he raped or assaulted over the years.”
“How does he get away with it? Why didn’t my mother report him?” Jackson’s voice couldn’t hide his anguish.
“It was 1965. He was her boss. She was probably afraid of him.”
“She lived with that assault all these years.”
“A lot of women live with degradation.”
Jackson gave her a questioning look, but Evans held up her hand. “It’s doesn’t matter now. We have a job to do.”
Valley Fresh Bakery took up a huge tract of land near the corner of West 1st and Chambers. Evans had never set foot on the property or given it much thought until yesterday, when she’d noticed it on her way to find the owner of the Explorer. She’d known the Norquists owned it only because she followed politics and paid attention to where campaign money cam
e from.
An office building had been added to the main factory and they headed toward it. Inside, a middle-aged woman sat behind a large desk and two younger women had workspaces along the back wall. The three looked up, startled, as they entered.
Jackson nodded at her to take the lead, so Evans stepped up and showed her badge, something she rarely did. She wasn’t in a mood for civility. “We’re here to see Roger Norquist.”
“He’s not in today. He called this morning and cancelled all his meetings.”
Oh, fuck. Evans visualized Norquist reading Sophie’s story in the paper and wondering how much time he had before they came after him “Where would he go if wanted to be alone for a while?”
The woman, clearly flustered, said, “I’m not sure. I’m his administrative assistant, not his wife.”
“Where can we find his wife?”
“Most likely at home. She’s not well.” The administrator signaled for the younger women to carry on with their jobs. “We all have to get back to work.”
Evans handed the woman her business card. “If you hear from him, call me immediately. We’d prefer you didn’t tell him we were here.”
As they walked outside, Evans muttered, “Fat fricking chance.” Norquist’s assistant was probably on the phone to him already.
“Let’s head for his home and hope he’s still packing,” Jackson said.
Chapter 32
Norquist grabbed his large travel suitcase and stuffed it with jeans and pullovers. He might not need to wear a business suit again for a long time. Breathing deeply, he tried to slow his heart. His pulse had been racing since he’d seen the story in the paper this morning, and now he worried he’d have a heart attack. The news article indicated they had evidence linking the shooting with crimes of the past. That little phrase had scared the hell out of him.
A moment later, sitting across from him at the breakfast table, his wife had joked that the man in the sketch looked strangely like him. Norquist had laughed politely, left the table, and made two important calls. Plan B was now in motion.
He was leaving it all behind—his dream of another six years in the Senate, his boring job as CEO of his family’s cereal company, and his rich but sickly wife. Giving up his political ambitions was the hardest, but thank god he had a little place on the beach near Cabo San Lucas. He’d bought it years ago when he’d had an affair with a congresswoman and they needed a place to be alone. He had money stashed in a bank in the Cayman Islands too. All he needed was a new ID, and in Mexico that would be easy.
Damn. He’d planned the shooting so meticulously, then he’d dropped the goddamn ski mask and didn’t even realize it until he’d ridden too far down the path. He’d considered going back for it, but the risk had seemed too great.
Norquist grabbed his shaving kit, his favorite jewelry, and most of the cash in the bedroom safe. If he could go back in time and change the outcome of that fateful day at Evelyn’s, he would. If only she’d taken the money and kept quiet. Causing Evie’s death had nearly broken him, but he’d made up for it by doing a lot of good work with his time in office. Then out of nowhere, Gina Stahl had contacted him, claiming to be his daughter and looking for money. After a lot of thought and a little research, he’d decided to squelch that problem once and for all. But the damn woman hadn’t died and he refused to let her derail his plan to return to the Senate. Now he had to let the dream go. Norquist shook his head. How fragile a person’s fate could be.
* * *
Their suspect lived in a million-dollar home on the hill across from Lane Community College. The property didn’t have much acreage, but the panoramic view was stunning. As Jackson and Evans walked up the cobblestone path, he said, “I expect this to be civil, but if it gets squirrelly, call for backup while I try to handle it.”
Jackson pounded on the double front doors with the etched glass, thinking criminals came in all tax brackets. Last month, he’d arrested a homeless man for killing an acquaintance over a shopping cart. Now he was about to arrest a millionaire for three murders rooted in lust, greed, and selfishness.
The woman who opened the door was heavyset with gray hair pulled into a bun, and Jackson knew instinctively she was not the wife.
“We need to talk to Roger Norquist.”
“He’s not here.” The woman started to close the door.
Jackson stuck his foot in to block it. “Then I’d like to see Mrs. Norquist. I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police, and this is Detective Evans.”
“Wait here. I’ll get her.” The woman, likely a housekeeper, closed the door and walked away.
Five long minutes later, she came back and gestured for them to follow. The maid led them into a large corner office with tinted windows. An older woman sat in front of a computer, playing online chess. The oversized office chair dwarfed her frail body. Her gray hair was thinning and her cheekbones protruded in an unhealthy way. She spun her chair around as they came in. “Have a seat, detectives. I can give you a few minutes, then I have to get back to my chess game. I’m Theresa Norquist, by the way.”
“Thank you for your time.” Jackson masked his irritation as they sat on a small couch. “We need to ask your husband, Roger Norquist, some questions. Where is he?”
“What is this about?”
“We can’t discuss it just yet, but your cooperation is essential.”
Mrs. Norquist stared at Jackson, weighing her priorities. “Portland,” she said finally. “He packed his suitcase a while ago and said he had to attend an unexpected meeting to raise campaign money.”
“Where in Portland? Who is he meeting?”
“Can’t this wait until he gets back?”
“No. We need the information now.”
Theresa’s emaciated face collapsed in grief. “I really don’t know. He was vague and upset when he left. Roger has been acting so strangely lately. I think he’s having an affair.”
Jackson thought it was considerably worse than that. “Where was he Wednesday afternoon?”
“He spent the morning at our bakery, then went to look at some rentals for his campaign office.”
“You think he’s driving to Portland now?”
“He probably flew.” She let out a bitter laugh. “Roger is too impatient to drive that far.”
Damn. Norquist could be on his way to the airport. Jackson started to speak, but Evans cut in.
“Are you sure he flew? It’s pretty difficult to get a last-minute ticket out of Eugene these days.”
“Oh, he doesn’t fly commercial. Roger has his own plane. He bought it when he was a Senator so he could commute back and forth without having to deal with the airlines.”
“He’s a pilot?”
“Yes. He flies me to Portland for my vitamin treatments too.”
Evans spoke up again. “Do you have chronic pain?”
“I have fibromyalgia and lupus, so yes, I live with pain.”
“Do you take Demerol for it?” Evans asked.
“Sometimes. Why?”
“It’s one of the things we want to ask your husband about.”
Jackson was anxious to get moving. “Did your husband say anything else this morning? Anything that seemed odd or ominous?”
Theresa looked alarmed. “What is this about?”
“How long ago did Mr. Norquist leave?”
“About twenty minutes.”
“Where does he keep his plane?”
She hesitated. “You’re starting to scare me, and I don’t think I should tell you.”
“This is important,” Jackson nearly shouted.
“At the Creswell airport.”
Jackson stood. “If you hear from your husband, please call me.” He bolted from the room with Evans right behind.
Four minutes later they were on the freeway, barreling south. Jackson hit the siren only when he needed to move parallel drivers out of his way. In another five minutes, Hobby Field appeared on the left.
“I’ve lived in Eugene all my
life and I’ve never been to this airport,” Jackson said, as he changed lanes. “I don’t see an exit.”
“You have to take the Creswell exit, then turn on Cloverdale.”
“You’ve been to Hobby Field?”
“I go skydiving sometimes,” Evans said, not looking at him.
“That’s a little crazy.”
“That’s why I’ve never told you.”
As they approached the long row of metal buildings, Jackson slowed down. The runway off to the right extended beyond the hangars but only another five hundred yards. “This is not much of an airport.”
“That’s why it’s called Hobby Field.” Evans gestured toward the runway. “Turn right on that little exit road. We’ll drive right up to the hangars.”
Jackson followed her direction. He didn’t see a blue Lexus in the parking lot, but it could have been tucked in among the SUVs, sports cars, and trucks. Norquist was either in one of the hangars prepping his plane or in the air making his escape. Or somewhere else entirely and they were wasting their time.
He drove slowly past closed metal doors, grateful it was Friday and the airport was not hopping with weekend warriors. Farther down the tarmac, two people practiced sky diving moves between the building and the runway. In the distance, the roar of an engine caught his attention.
Jackson glanced over, but didn’t see any planes on the runway. The third hangar’s door was open so Jackson stopped at the edge of the opening. “Let’s check this one.”
They climbed out and Jackson touched his Sig Saur out of habit. He didn’t want to draw the weapon unless it was necessary. This might not be Norquist’s hangar and he didn’t want to frighten an innocent. Would Norquist be armed? He’d shot his daughter in broad daylight, so he was unpredictable and dangerous. A smart man would have tossed the weapon. A killer may have acquired another one.
As they moved toward the opening, he heard male voices. Jackson’s pulse quickened and he drew his weapon, leaving it at his side. Evans followed his lead. At an angle, they crossed the threshold into the hangar. A silver and blue plane took up most of the space. Its engine rumbled, filling the air with exhaust. Jackson thought it looked like a Cessna, the kind with the wings near the top, but he was no expert. They moved past the nose of the plane and the voices grew louder. Two men stood near the plane’s open door, and the presence of the second man unnerved him. Jackson pulled his weapon up into firing position.
Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 05 - Dying for Justice Page 25
