Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club

by L. J. Sellers

  He thought he would take her out of town and dump her from a deserted road, but his phone rang. It was his assistant. He knew he had to answer the phone to give himself an alibi. Mariska wanted to know why he hadn’t made it back to the office. He told her he was on his way. After hanging up, he’d become nauseous. The idea of Jessie, dead in his trunk, made him want to vomit. So he’d simply crossed the alley and shoved her in the dumpster. Then he’d driven down the alley, tossed her clothes in a trash can, and returned to work.

  “I loved her. It was an accident.” Fieldstone looked relieved to have it off his chest. He also looked smashed. “I want to make a deal. I’ll plead to a lesser charge.”

  “What about Nicole Clarke?”

  “I never touched her. I’m not sure I ever even spoke to her. I swear to you on my mother’s life, I had nothing to do with her death.”

  “Let’s get you some coffee, then we’ll go talk to the DA.”

  Later, as they drove downtown, a haunting question plagued Jackson: So who killed Nicole?

  Chapter 38

  Wednesday, October 27, 3:35 p.m.

  According to the return address information, Danette’s last name was Blake, and Kera had called every Blake in the Salem phone book. She’d taken her cell phone and the white pages out to the back deck just to get out of the house, but after about twenty minutes, the rain and wind had kicked up and, even under the patio umbrella, she’d ended up wet. So she’d come back inside and put on a Tracy Chapman CD, thinking it would soothe her. She had never been indoors continuously for three days. It was making her stir crazy, and she was running out of fresh food. Thank god, the alarm people were coming in the morning.

  Kera made twenty-six calls, leaving fourteen messages and speaking to ten people who claimed they had never heard of Danette. While waiting for return calls—that would not likely come—she tried an online search, plugging Danette’s name into Google. A Danette Blake was president of Windhover University in Montana, but she was fifty-six years old. No other solid hits. Kera came up empty-handed from a search of Yahoo’s online white pages too.

  She was not discouraged. She would keep trying the fourteen numbers where she had left messages until she talked to each of them. As a last resort, she might try calling her friend Cher at the Planned Parenthood branch in Salem, just to see if an abortion was scheduled, or had been performed, for Danette Blake. But that would be a desperate call, and she probably wouldn’t go through with it. It wasn’t fair to ask Cher for that information.

  As she took out the Chapman CD, which had made her sad instead of soothed, her cell phone rang. Kera checked the number displayed but didn’t recognize it. It was a local number, so she knew it wasn’t a telemarketer.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Kera?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Rachel. I was a friend of Jessie’s. I need to talk to you.”

  “Okay. When?”

  “Can you meet me now at Starbuck’s on 28th and Willamette?”

  “I can’t. Not today.” Kera felt guilty for putting her off. But she really did not want to leave the house until she had an alarm system installed.

  “This is pretty important.” Rachel sounded a little desperate. “I know you care about what happens to us. That’s why you posted that safe sex message on our website.”

  Kera hesitated, not ready to give up the anonymity of her message. “Why don’t you come here? I have the time to see you, I just don’t feel well enough to leave the house.”

  “Hmm. Okay. I guess that could work. I’ll come by tonight around seven.”

  Kera gave her the address, and they hung up. Rachel had sounded scared. Was it about the sex club? Or was she afraid of whoever had killed Jessie and Nicole?

  She would soon find out.

  Wednesday, October 27, 5:42 p.m.

  Jackson dropped off the mayor at the DA’s office, where Fieldstone’s lawyer and Slonecker waited to meet with him. Jackson could have stayed, but his input wasn’t really needed or welcome at this point. In truth, the plea bargain negotiations were hard for him to stomach. In exchange for saving the city some time and money in court, criminals were given light sentences. With the current funding crisis, it was the new justice.

  Jackson wanted no part of this one. Although Fieldstone’s story was believable on some levels, there was no one to dispute his version of the events. The mayor may very well be a grieving pedophile who had accidentally killed his young lover—or he could be a cold-blooded murderer who was also a good storyteller and actor. On some level, Jackson was glad a jury would be spared the difficulty of making that call.

  The rain finally let up on the drive home. Jackson planned to have dinner with Katie, then maybe go back to work for a while. Or maybe he would stay home and read through his case notes, thinking about how Fieldstone’s confession dramatically changed the scenario of Nicole’s death. The mayor claimed he never touched Nicole, and the trace evidence supported that claim. If everything Fieldstone said was true—a huge hypothetical—then the motive for Nicole’s murder could be different than anything they’d speculated about so far. No serial killer, no religious avenger, no jealous wife. He had to go back to the basics: greed, lust, fear, revenge, love, and hate.

  The wind had blown a new layer of leaves over his lawn, and Jackson vowed to rake this weekend. He also hoped to clean out the shop and make room for his trike project. He smiled just looking at the garage and visualizing the activity.

  The smell of Italian sausage, garlic, and basil greeted him at the front door. Katie was cooking spaghetti. He stepped into the kitchen and gave her a hug.

  “Gun,” she said, stepping back.

  “Sorry.” Jackson took his jacket and his Sig Sauer into the bedroom. He never worried that his daughter would follow in his career footsteps.

  While Katie boiled angel hair pasta, Jackson heated up some canned green beans in the microwave. “Is that garlic bread I smell in the oven?”

  “Yep.”

  “Bonus on your allowance this month. I’m so hungry. I feel like I haven’t eaten much this last week.”

  “You look like you’ve lost weight.” She grinned, and they both burst out laughing. It was a family code they used to distract Renee when she was on a drunken rant, typically about getting old.

  “Thanks.” Jackson kissed her forehead. “For cooking too.”

  After dinner, they cleaned up together, and Katie gave him a detailed account of a field trip she’d taken to the state capitol that day. Then Jackson’s cell phone rang. He glanced over to where it lay on the dining room table. It could be one of the team.

  “Go ahead.” Katie dismissed him with a casual wave.

  Jackson picked up on the third ring.

  “It’s Evans. The fax from the DMV just came in. The Stricklands own a maroon minivan and a white Dodge extension van that seats twelve.”

  “Interesting.” Jackson moved out of the kitchen and out of his daughter’s line of hearing. “I picked up Nicole’s cell phone today from one of the boys who found her. And Nicole’s last call came from Rachel Greiner at 6:22 Sunday evening. But when I questioned Rachel, she said she hadn’t talked to Nicole since the memorial service that afternoon.”

  Jackson stepped into his bedroom and closed the door.

  “So?” Evans said. “Kids lie just because they’re afraid. I’m more concerned about the possibility that one of the Strickland’s vehicles was parked in Nicole’s driveway before she disappeared. What if the Reverend is a pervert?”

  “He was in Portland at the CCA meeting, right? You checked with other members?”

  “He and his wife were both there.”

  “Hmm. Who else lives in the home besides Angel?” Jackson asked.

  “No one. They have an eighteen-year-old son in college in Portland.”

  So who drove the minivan? Angel was too young, wasn’t she? And why would she and Rachel both lie about talking to Nicole? The detail that had been bothering
him for days—the thing he had failed to follow through on—suddenly came back in a rush. Twice, Kera had mentioned a website to him. What had she said? A chat room where Jessie’s friends discussed their sexual activity. Kera had called it a sex club.

  “Evans, I’m going to check out something online. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Anything I should do in the meantime?”

  “Get something to eat. We’re probably going back to work tonight.”

  Wednesday, October 27, 6:45 p.m.

  Rachel heard her parents’ car leave the driveway and leaped out of bed. She had complained of a stomachache as soon as she got home from school, then had spent the evening in bed to get out of attending Bible study with her family. Caleb had stopped in and tried to call her bluff—because of course, he still had to go—but she ignored him, and he went away. Caleb would never rat her out. Just as she had never told her parents about the time she’d caught him sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night. She and Caleb annoyed each other, but they had both suffered too many beatings with a belt—among other things—to give each other up.

  Rachel pulled on a sweatshirt and Sketchers and grabbed her cell phone. And talk about sneaking around in the middle of the night, what was her crazy mother up to now? Rachel had heard her go out the night before around one-thirty in the morning, then return about an hour later. And she hadn’t taken the car.

  Rachel dialed Angel, who took a moment to answer.

  “Are you on your way?”

  “Yes. But you shouldn’t call me when I’m driving.” Angel laughed nervously. “I almost hit the mailbox backing out of the driveway. I really hate backing up. But I have to practice so I can pass the driver’s test.”

  “Shut up and drive.” Rachel hung up. Angel only had her learner’s permit, and she was a pretty bad driver so far, but it was the only way they could get around by themselves. And they had so few opportunities.

  Rachel hurried to the kitchen and used a chair to retrieve her mother’s Ativan prescription from the cupboard above the sink. She shook five of the tiny white tablets into her palm, then slid them into an empty trial-sized Midol container. The Ativan prescription bottle was still pretty full, so her mother probably wouldn’t notice that any were gone. Rachel hoped she would not have to use them. But it was important to be prepared.

  Angel gave a little beep of the horn when she pulled into the driveway, and Rachel cringed. Angel was sweet, but stupid. It made Rachel miss Jessie. That girl had been fun and smart. She had figured the angles on everything. Jessie was the one who had found the Stricklands’ hiding place for spare car keys. Jessie had also convinced Angel they could get away with taking the minivan out when their parents were at the CCA meeting in Portland. Jessie had been very persuasive. And boatloads of fun. Rachel missed her immensely. The mayor was a rotten son-of-a-bitch for killing her.

  She grabbed her cell phone and headed out. Was she forgetting anything?

  Outside, the sun had dropped below the horizon, and she was glad for the twilight. They were much less likely to be noticed. Especially with Angel driving. Rachel jogged to the van and jumped in. It still smelled of sour milk.

  “Why don’t you clean this carpet?”

  Angel rolled her eyes, then asked, “Are you sure we have to do this?”

  “Let’s go. We only have an hour and a half.”

  Angel sighed, then put the vehicle in reverse. She backed out of the driveway in jerky fits and starts, and Rachel prayed the neighbors weren’t watching. This was almost over. They just had to stay cool, and everything would smooth out in time. She still had another three and a half years before she could escape her parents’ house, but she would survive. As she had so far.

  None of this would be necessary if Jessie hadn’t been killed. Rachel still couldn’t believe it. “I miss Jessie,” she said when they were rolling down 27th Street.

  “Me too. I dream about her all the time.” After a moment, Angel said, “I miss Nicole too.”

  “I know. But she’s in heaven with Jesus now. She’s happy. And we’ll see her again some day.” Angel was still pretty emotional about what they’d had to do to protect the club’s secret, so Rachel changed the subject. “Do you have a soccer game this weekend?”

  Angel shrugged. “Yeah.” They pulled into the left lane, and Angel started to make the turn on Olive.

  “No!”

  Angel slammed the brakes and Rachel lurched forward in her seat. They were stopped in the middle of the intersection, and the traffic whizzed by on both sides. Angel looked frightened. Rachel had just kept her from turning straight into a jacked-up truck.

  “You have to wait for the green turn arrow,” Rachel explained, again. “Or wait for a break in traffic. You’d better take driver’s ed.”

  “My mother says I have to pay for it myself, and it’s two hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “You can go after this car. Get ready.”

  Angel successfully negotiated the turn, and they traveled two blocks on Olive without mishap. Then they turned right on 29th Street and headed south.

  “What are we going to say?” Angel asked with a little whine.

  “Don’t worry. Just follow my lead.” Rachel reached out to reassure Angel. “We’re just trying to find out what she knows and whether she plans to say anything. I think that’s all it will come to.”

  “Why are you so sure Kera knows about the Teen Talk meetings?” Angel sounded distressed again.

  Rachel was losing her patience. “She posted on our website. That means she read our messages where we talked about the sex. And we didn’t hold back. Plus, I told you, I saw Nicole talking to her at school last Thursday. Kollmorgan also has access to our files at Planned Parenthood. She knows everything except how loud we are when we come.”

  Angel giggled. “You’re loud. I’m not.”

  “Turn left up here. That’s her street.”

  Angel veered left on McLean and they started up the hill.

  “You know I feel bad about Nicole, but she was going to ruin our lives with her big mouth.” Rachel fought the sickness in her stomach. “And we have to make sure Kollmorgan doesn’t say anything either. Do you have any idea what would happen to me if my parents found out?”

  “I know, Rachel. I’ve seen the welts.” Angel’s voice was barely audible.

  “They would beat me every day for a month. They would ground me for a year, except for church and school. They might even pull me out of Kincaid, so they could home-school me.” Rachel paused as that sank in. She would rather die than spend all day, every day with her mother. “The next few years of my life would become a living hell.”

  “My parents would send me away to one of those camps,” Angel said. “They’ve threatened me with it enough times.” Angel turned to her. “Maybe we should disband Teen Talk, at least for a while.”

  “Watch the road.” Rachel shook her head. “We will, but not yet. It would look suspicious. Let’s see how this goes. I think it’s going to be okay.”

  Angel nodded, and Rachel hoped that turned out to be true. She didn’t want to hurt anyone else, but sometimes you had to take action against a few individuals to protect a larger group. Her mother had taught her that, both as a direct lesson, and by example.

  Rachel knew about the pipe bombs. She’d seen the materials in the laundry room, and she’d read some of her mother’s e-mails to Josiah, the CCA member who had bombed some clinics in Portland. She’d also seen the news report about the girl who had died because of the bomb at the clinic. And her mother, the most religious person Rachel could imagine, had made it happen. Her mother did it to save the babies, the unborn souls. She could understand that.

  Rachel hoped God would forgive her, but she just wanted to save herself.

  Chapter 39

  Wednesday, October 27, 6:47 p.m.

  Jackson booted up his home computer, which was on a desk in the spare bedroom. The room functioned as a storage space for everything they didn�
�t know what else to do with. It was a cramped and cluttered arrangement, but not much different from his workspace in the department, so it didn’t bother him. While Windows loaded, he thumbed back through his notebook looking for the reference to the website Kera had mentioned.

  The notation was in Kera’s handwriting, in purple felt-tip with a confident, loopy flair: girlsjustwanttohavefun and below that, blowgirl_jd.

  Jackson typed the URL into his browser. A bizarre scenario was taking shape in his brain, but he was having trouble accepting it. He hoped that a look at this site would ease his mind and allow him to reject his suspicions. The site loaded and overwhelmed him with its day-glo colors. His stomach sank just reading the chat room heads: Disgusting Guys, Hot Guys, Dirty Gossip, Sex Talk, and Parties. Instinctively, he opened Sex Talk and logged in using Jessie’s screen name.

  The current page displayed a recent chat about Jessie and Nicole’s deaths and the possibility of a serial killer stalking the group of friends, but it had nothing about sex. Jackson found a link to the previous week’s postings and opened it. The screen names added weight to the sick feeling in his stomach: perfectass, freakjob, lipservice. Who were these girls? And good God, had Katie ever been one of them?

  Jackson scanned through the postings, mesmerized and repulsed at the same time. Then he came across a most disturbing exchange.

  freakjob37: My dad has a new video called Candy Strippers. It’s really hot. Lots of butt sex.

  blowgirl_jd: Cool. I like it up the ass, I mean, if I’m ready for it. And no worries about pregnancy.

  perfectass: Despite my screen name, I’m not that crazy about anal encounters, but neither is TJ so we’ll hook and let you guys do the nasty stuff.