Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “Logan Grayson.”

  “Is he in trouble?” His heavy brows almost made his eyes disappear as they furrowed.

  He didn’t seem to know his neighbor was dead. Oh shit. “Let’s go sit down.”

  “No problem.”

  He stepped aside, and she moved cautiously into the spacious apartment. This one had clothes, books, and empty fast-food wrappers lying around. Owens yanked a backpack off an oversize chair and said, “You can sit here.”

  She perched on the arm, not planning to stay long. “I’m sorry to break this to you, but Logan died last night.”

  His eyes widened and his mouth slowly opened. After a stunned moment, he leaped up. “What the fuck!” He grabbed his head in disbelief.

  Evans braced for more. “I’m sorry. The paramedics took him away earlier this evening. I thought you knew.”

  “I just got home.” His voice was dazed.

  “How well did you know Logan?”

  He slammed the flat of his fist into his chest. “He’s my teammate, my friend, my brother.”

  Still thinking of him in the present tense. A second later, the big man spun and punched the wall with a massive fist.

  Evans jumped to her feet. Was he going to spin out of control? “Please be calm. I need your help.”

  Owens punched the wall again, then turned back, the anger draining out of him. “What happened? How did he die?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Please sit down so we can talk.”

  He slumped into the chair across from her, his head in his hands.

  She had to ask. “Where were you between eight last night and eight this morning?”

  He looked up, startled. “I was right here. I watched some TV, then went to bed at ten. Practice in this heat wipes me out.” His big round face held no deceit. Only pain and anger.

  “Did you hear anything unusual across the hall?”

  “Sorry, but I sleep like a bear in January.”

  He looked like a bear too. “Did you see Logan last night or talk to him?”

  “No, but I saw his car in the parking lot.”

  “What does he drive?”

  “A red Miata.” Grief bubbled under the expression on his face. “He was probably with his girlfriend.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Danica Mercado.” A flicker of distaste. “She was bad for Logan.”

  No one seemed to like his girlfriend. “In what way?”

  “She flirted.” His voice cracked. “And cheated. And made him crazy.”

  “Is that why he was depressed?”

  The big guy blinked. “I didn’t know he was.”

  “Why did Logan stay with a girlfriend who made him crazy?”

  “She’s gorgeous. And a cheerleader. And it’s a social pressure thing.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  He started to speak, then burst into tears. Owens didn’t hold back or struggle for control. Grief took over his body and gushed out. The sight of his sobbing overwhelmed her. Evans squeezed his shoulder, put down a business card, and got the hell out.

  CHAPTER 7

  Tuesday, September 3, 7:47 p.m.

  Jackson drove down Franklin Boulevard, spotting the all-glass Jaqua Center at the University of Oregon, built with money from Nike chairman Phil Knight. The water feature surrounding the seamless building glistened in the twilight. Moments later, he passed the new Matthew Knight Arena that had replaced the old, much-loved brick-and-ivy Mac Court. He hadn’t been inside the new facility yet.

  In addition to all the new buildings on campus, much of downtown Eugene had been transformed into massive apartment complexes to handle the influx of students coming from out of state, attracted by the UO’s perennial Top Ten football team. Soon another thousand apartment units would be built. Jackson didn’t feel directly affected, but on some level he didn’t believe it was for the best. Eugene belonged to everyone, not just the athletes and students.

  At the edge of the city, he took the freeway exit, then quickly turned right, heading for the Moon Mountain area. A few years earlier, another case had brought him up here to Mariah Martin’s house, looking for a murder suspect. Now he was on his way there to see Benjie, as he’d promised. He couldn’t get the boy out of his mind. The way he’d clung to him had stirred up old longings, deep commitments, and new fears.

  After knocking on Martin’s door, he glanced at his watch. Almost bedtime for a little boy. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. But he’d called the social worker before leaving the department and she was expecting him.

  Martin opened the door, and Jackson heard crying in the room behind her.

  “Thank god you’re here. He’s been inconsolable.” The social worker’s eyes were stressed and her jaws clenched. She stepped back and waved him in.

  A mix of feelings washed over him: dread that he’d made the wrong decision; joy that he was needed, that he could be a good parent to someone; and worry that he wasn’t prepared for any of it. Jackson braced himself and walked in.

  From the couch, Benjie looked up and his eyes widened. “Jackson!” The boy scrambled to the floor and ran to him. Jackson picked him up and gave him a hug. The boy hugged back with surprising gusto.

  Jackson pivoted to Martin, who slumped with relief. “Has he said anything?”

  “Just your name.”

  “Have you tried therapy toys?”

  “Of course.” The social worker, wearing a loose-fitting housedress, suddenly reached for a blazer she’d thrown over a chair.

  What now? Visiting the boy, then leaving him, would be stressful for all three. He couldn’t bear the thought of making Benjie cry again. “Should I just take him with me? I mean, until he starts to feel safe and can begin therapy?”

  “That seems best.”

  “Do I need to fill out any forms?”

  “Not yet. He has to have some family somewhere. Let’s see how this goes.” Martin turned to the door, ready for him to leave.

  “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.” Jackson started to turn.

  “Do you have a car seat for him?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll give you mine for now.” Martin handed him the backpack of clothes and toys Jackson had gathered from the rental house earlier. She slipped on shoes and headed outside. With Benjie’s little arms clenched around his neck, Jackson followed.

  While she transferred the car seat, he held Benjie and told him pointless but comforting things. He buckled him in, said good night to Martin, and drove down the hill. Caring for the child would hamper his ability to investigate Amanda’s death, but what better way to honor the victim than to comfort her son?

  Benjie fell asleep on the drive home and didn’t wake up when Jackson carried him into the house. Not wanting to pull out the sleeper couch, he put the boy in his daughter’s old room. If by some miracle Katie came home, they’d figure something else out. The third bedroom belonged to Jackson’s brother, Derrick, a long-haul truck driver who’d lived in the house since they were children. Their parents had lived here too . . . before they’d been murdered a decade earlier. The house now belonged to the brothers, and their plan was to fix or update everything and sell it, now that the housing market was recovering. So far, Jackson had repaired a leaky toilet and overhauled the backyard landscaping in July.

  He took off his jacket and shoes, grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper, then settled into his favorite chair. His plan was to search Amanda’s phone until he found someone to notify. But first, he texted Kera to let her know he was available to talk. He also texted Katie, who’d gotten him started on the silent communication: How are you? I miss you. I have 3 yr old boy here. His mother was killed and I’m trying to find his family. I could use your help.

  He pressed Send, fully aware that he was trying to manipulate his daughter into feeling j
ealous, or compelled to come see the boy, or both. Whatever would bring her home. She’d run away in the spring and had been living with her boyfriend and his mother. Recently, they’d broken up and she moved in with another friend. A woman, thank god, but her new roommate was twenty-two and that worried him. At least Katie was texting and keeping him somewhat updated. He hoped his daughter was still seeing a grief counselor, but she never talked about her mother’s death. Jackson suspected she was still drinking, but she hadn’t been arrested lately, so he told himself she was no longer out of control. But that could change at any moment. Katie’s mother had been an alcoholic, and after a decade of drunkenness and unpredictability, his love for Renee had slowly died. He’d kicked her out when Katie turned thirteen. Another of his very bad days. Now Katie seemed to have inherited the disease. It worried him sick to see her start so young. Knowing it was his fault was giving him an ulcer. Sudden stomach pain forced him to push the thoughts out of his mind.

  He booted up Amanda’s phone and scrolled through her list of contacts, but they were the same short list of businesses he’d seen when he glanced through earlier: H&H BBQ, Tsunami Books, and Rite Aid Pharmacy. The only prescription drug his team had found in her home were birth control pills. First thing tomorrow, he’d contact the mobile carrier, a company called Cricket that didn’t require long-term commitments. The business also sold untraceable burner phones, and if the customer paid with cash, there was no record of ownership. But he had Amanda’s name, so the company should be able to provide a history of her calls and texts. Any messages on the device had been deleted, and there were no personal phone calls either. For reasons he had yet to discover, Amanda was a very cautious person.

  The rental she’d just moved into was a mystery too. How had she ended up in the house on Monday without calling a rental agency or the homeowners? Was she a squatter or had she done it all online?

  After twenty minutes of getting nowhere with the phone, he pulled the victim’s tablet computer from his carryall to try again. His earlier search effort at the crime scene had been repeatedly interrupted, and he’d spent most of his time looking for an address book or someone to contact about her death. He’d also failed to find her e-mail provider or access her messages.

  So far, Amanda seemed to be alone in the world, except for little Benjie. This time, Jackson searched Facebook but found a different Amanda Carter. The dead woman didn’t seem to have a Twitter account either. Her browser history revealed that she’d been on Craigslist recently, looking at housing. That might explain how she’d found the rental. He keyed in the address on Pershing, but nothing came up. Someone had deleted the listing.

  A whimper made him look up. Benjie was coming down the hall, as fast as his little legs could go. Jackson set the device aside, but before he could get out of the reclining chair, the boy had climbed into his lap.

  “I’m right here,” he reassured the boy. “Did you have a nightmare?”

  “Bad man.”

  He was talking! Progress. “You’re safe now. That was just a dream.”

  Knowing it was too soon, it took all his willpower not to ask questions. Plus, the boy’s dream could have been different from what had really happened. Jackson didn’t want him to confuse the two or steer him in the wrong direction. “Would you like me to read a story to you?”

  Benjie nodded.

  Jackson carried him to Katie’s room and searched her bookshelf for something appropriate. He found a tattered Winnie-the-Pooh story. His daughter’s favorite. She’d been wearing Pooh pajamas right up until the day she ran away.

  He made it most of the way through the story before his phone rang in the other room. Benjie was half asleep, so he laid the book down and stepped quietly out.

  Please let it be Katie!

  Jackson rushed back to the living room, snatching up his phone on the sixth ring. Schak. “What have you got?”

  “I can’t find Amanda Carter in the system anywhere.”

  “You think it’s an alias?”

  “We need to consider it.”

  “I’ve learned nothing from her devices so far either.” Jackson switched gears. “I’ll contact the newspaper in the morning, and we’ll run her photo and see if anyone recognizes her.”

  “Anyone I need to question tonight?”

  “No, but call the homeowners again early tomorrow. We need to talk to them ASAP.”

  “All right then, I’m headed out.”

  “Thanks for checking in. I plan to work from home in the morning, calling nursing homes.” He wasn’t ready to tell anyone he’d taken the kid home with him. “We’ll meet at noon in the conference room and update.”

  “Order pizza please.” Schak’s voice held a smile.

  Jackson hung up, checked to see if he had any messages, then made himself a PBJ. As he settled back in to look at more of Amanda’s browser searches, he realized he hadn’t checked to see if Amanda had any voicemails. He pressed the button, held it, and prayed she hadn’t set up a password. A pleasant voice informed him there were no new messages and no saved messages. Jackson started to think she hadn’t had the phone for long. And had lived a very lonely life.

  Time to thoroughly search her purse. He’d picked up the denim bag before leaving the crime scene and had given it a once-over, but he hadn’t searched her wallet or checked for secret compartments. He dumped its meager contents in his lap and felt all around the fabric with both hands. Nothing hidden.

  Her wallet had a see-through plastic pocket that held her driver’s license. Issued in Oregon, it listed her address as Keeny Hill Road in Drain. A tiny town forty miles south of Eugene. Was it her hometown? Without much to do, young people probably didn’t stick around Drain for long. He made a note of the address, hoping to find the owner of the house in Drain too. It seemed unlikely the victim—who moved with plastic crates—owned property. And the registration on her car had listed a Eugene apartment. The only other card in her wallet was a blue debit card, issued by Chase Bank. He’d have to access her financial information too.

  He pulled the license out of the little pocket to see it was real and a slip of paper fell out. Plain white and folded in half, the paper was thick, like card stock. He unfolded it to reveal a handwritten note: I’m coming for you, cunt. You can’t steal from me and get away with it. I will find you.

  A chill went up Jackson’s spine. It looked like the stalker had found her.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wednesday, September 4, 5:30 a.m.

  The alarm blasted Evans out of sleep. She slammed it off, rolled over, and forced herself to her feet. She’d been up late working and felt groggy, but now was not the time to slack off. She had a death to investigate and a physical competency test to pass on Monday.

  Once she’d made coffee, she changed into workout clothes, then checked her e-mail. A message from Ben: Happy Wednesday, Lara! Looking forward to this weekend’s hike.

  Not anymore. Unless the medical examiner ruled Grayson’s death a natural cause or a suicide, she’d have to cancel plans with her boyfriend and work straight through to Monday. She didn’t mind the hours, but they saw so little of each other, it didn’t seem fair. His son’s sports and school activities took up most of Ben’s free time during the week, so their weekends were important. Would she always be on the back burner with him? Evans responded to the e-mail and let him know she might have to work.

  Caffeine hitting her system, she trotted to the workout room, put in her earphones, and cranked up some techno. She had padded the walls and floor for Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training with an earlier boyfriend, but the thick mats absorbed blows, not sound, and she tried to be a good neighbor.

  Thirty minutes of kickboxing to jumpstart her day, followed by push-ups, sit-ups, and bicep curls, then out for a hard three-mile run. Typically, she ran longer and slower, but she needed to focus on strength training for now. Pounding down the bike path
, she was grateful to still have morning light. In the winter, she ran in the dark, often after work at night.

  Evans left the house early and drove to the Womenspace support center, a location kept as secret from the public as possible. After two years of volunteering, at times she wanted to give it up. Her job, which she loved, took so much out of her emotionally that she had little time to socialize. But this work was important. Abused women needed to hear from people like her. They needed to know they weren’t stupid or worthless, that any woman could be taken advantage of if her emotions were manipulated. Having a police officer as a counselor often gave women the courage they needed to make a change.

  At the center, she went straight to the volunteer office and took a seat at the desk. The coordinator wasn’t in yet, and the building was quiet. Too early for most people, but this was the best time for her, so the director had been accommodating. Her client walked in moments later.

  “Hi, Cindy. Thanks for coming so early.”

  “It’s okay. I don’t sleep well anyway.” She was twenty-four, thin, with dark circles under her eyes.

  “Give me a second.” Evans skimmed the woman’s file and refreshed her memory. They’d only met twice before. “How’s the job search going?”

  “Not great. My only experience is waiting tables, but I’m afraid Kiren will find me if I work in a public place. One of his friends will see me for sure.”

  “What about private clubs? Resorts?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Have you heard from Kiren?”

  Cindy looked down, her long ash-blonde hair hanging on the sides of her face.

  “Did you talk to him?”

  Her shoulders slumped. “He called my mother’s when I was over there.” A little defensive now. “Mom started freaking and yelling at him, so I took the phone. I don’t want my mother to get hurt.”

  “You can’t talk to Kiren. It opens the door and gives him hope. And leverage.”

  “He said he’s willing to get treatment.”