Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “Are you sure it’s not yours?” Derision saturated his tone.

  “It’s not. I walked across the grass.”

  “Did you touch the door handle in front?”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know she was dead until I went around back.”

  “You’re a pain in the ass, and I want you out of here.”

  He had no legal right to stay. “The front door was locked, but the back door was open. Just information.”

  “Write up a full statement and e-mail it to me as soon as you get back to your office.”

  He had his own case to solve. “I’ll do what I can.”

  A white sheriff’s truck pulled into the driveway. The deputy made a dismissive gesture. “Give me that yearbook, then get out of here, so we can do our job.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Wednesday, September 4, 3:05 p.m.

  Evans left the medical center and drove toward Autzen Stadium on the other side of the river. The football team would be practicing, and the head coach might even be on the field. She hoped Grayson’s roommate would be around too. Both messages to him had been ignored, and she was feeling testy. People who avoided the police tended to have something to hide. And if they wouldn’t come to her, she would find them. She’d considered the possibility that the squad might take a day off to grieve Grayson’s death, but rejected it. Football was a moneymaking machine that didn’t stop for anything.

  Outside, the temperature had hit ninety-plus again—one of about ten hot days they had each summer in late August or early September. Her car was even hotter inside, so she pulled off her blazer and cranked up the AC. How did the players practice in this heat with all that gear on? That was one of the things that had bothered her most as a patrol cop—long sleeves, flak jacket, and a belt full of gear on summer days. She loved the freedom of dressing in nice clothes and not having to wear a flashlight and a pager. No one looked good with thirty pounds of gear on their waist.

  The stadium came into sight as soon as she pulled off Ferry Street Bridge. New skyboxes had been added a few years back, and it was now the most imposing structure in the valley. But that had been just the beginning. Nike money had built a new football “performance center,” which was the envy of colleges across the country. The sleek building sat next to the boulevard and connected to the existing retail shop and coaches’ office. She’d read a news article about the plush amenities in the new performance center and was curious to see the inside.

  The first driveway took her under the building, where she parked, grabbed her phone, and left Coach Harper another message: “I’m here at the stadium and need to talk to you about Logan Grayson’s death. Call me ASAP.” Evans texted a similar plea to Jake Keener, the roommate. After hearing at the autopsy that the quarterback had suffered a heart attack, she doubted that he’d been murdered, but he could have been a victim of someone’s greed, stupidity, or earlier violence.

  She rode the elevator up to the main floor and stepped out into an expansive, high-ceilinged lobby, appointed in various shades of charcoal. A wall of video screens wrapped to the left, a fifteen-foot glass trophy case stood directly in front, and to the right was a sitting area surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows. A receptionist sat behind a small counter reading. She would give the guys five minutes to call or show up, then she would go out to the field looking for them. While she waited, she would explore the rest of the building and see what all the fuss was about. As she started to get back on the elevator, a young woman in a Ducks T-shirt trotted up.

  “Excuse me, but you can’t get on the elevator. The rest of the building is for football players. The public is only allowed in the lobby.”

  No kidding? “I’m Detective Evans with the Eugene Police. I’m here to talk to Coach Harper and Jake Keener.”

  The receptionist, who looked sixteen, seemed uncomfortable with her security duties. “I’m sure they’re practicing now.”

  “Tell me how to get to the field from here.” Evans had never attended a Ducks game in person, and the complex appeared to be a mass of buildings, stone walls, and locked entries.

  “Which field?” the girl asked. “There are five.”

  Five football fields? Evans tried to hide her incredulity. “Please tell me where Jake Keener is practicing.”

  “I think the offensive team is up front today. Go out those doors and turn right. You’ll see it.” She pointed at the glass wall.

  Voices near the front made Evans turn. A group of men carrying video equipment and microphones crossed the lobby. Sports reporters. The first wave of national media had arrived to speculate about the effect of Grayson’s death. The receptionist hurried back to the counter. Evans watched to see if the girl would turn the reporters away.

  “Coach Harper is running a little late,” she said, her voice almost too timid to hear. “When all the newspeople are here, I’ll escort you to our media room.”

  Harper had scheduled a press conference. His phone had probably been ringing nonstop. She would try to catch him before the reporters used up his time.

  Evans strode past the sitting area, remembering that the news article had said the chairs were upholstered with the same material they used in Ferrari seats and that the couches were imported from Italy. Two other details came to mind. The walls in the locker room were covered in football leather, and the floor in the weight room was constructed of Brazilian hardwood so dense it wouldn’t burn. That, she wanted to see, but wouldn’t likely get the chance.

  Outside, she trotted down wide stone steps and came to a football field enclosed by a wall of massive dark stones in the front to block out the traffic and rows of tall evergreen hedges in the back. How much money had been spent on the complex—for a team of seventy or so players?

  She remembered the article had estimated the cost at $68 million. The new police department building, plus renovations for the old one, had cost $27 million—for two hundred and fifty officers. Another reminder that law enforcement was not a priority in this town.

  Wearing white practice jerseys, the players sprinted up and down astroturf-covered ramps. A middle-aged man in slacks and a T-shirt trotted over and politely asked what she wanted. Evans returned his smile and told him.

  “I’ll get Jake now, then call the coach. He’s in his office.” The assistant coach headed back to the players, who were sweating and grunting in the sun.

  Moments later, a player trotted over and pulled off his helmet. Except for the dyed canary-yellow hair, he was handsome, but unsmiling. “I’m Jake Keener. You must be the detective.”

  “Lara Evans.”

  He surprised her by shaking her hand—and not crushing it with his powerful grip.

  “Let’s go inside out of the heat. That way I can take notes.”

  “Let’s stay here. I don’t have much to say or much time. I need to get back to practice.”

  As if the damn game were more important than his friend’s death. “I have a job to do as well. If you’ll be as honest and detailed as you can, this won’t take long.” Evans headed for the nearby steps and he followed. If they were going to stay in the heat, she wanted to take off her jacket—but couldn’t because her weapon would show.

  It was too bright to use her tablet computer, so she took out her recorder and a notepad. “When did you last see Logan Grayson?”

  “Monday at practice. Then I found him on the floor in the bathroom at home Tuesday after practice.”

  “Where were you in between?”

  “With my girlfriend overnight on Monday and here at practice the next afternoon. Her name is Alicia Zepher, and I’ll give you her number if you want to check out my alibi.”

  He’d had plenty of time to come up with that tidy response. “I’ll see what she says.” Might as well jump right into the ugly stuff. “Logan had a heart attack, and his mother says Coach Harper pushed him to use steroids. Tell me abo
ut it.”

  “No way!” Keener slammed a fist into his thigh. “I don’t believe it.” He shook his head. “A heart attack?”

  “It’s unusual for someone his age, unless he took steroids.”

  “I think Logan did coke sometimes but not steroids.”

  “You think he did coke or you know because you saw him snort it?”

  “I’m not talkin’ about it.” He wouldn’t look at her.

  So he used coke sometimes too. She remembered the dried blood and Keener’s 911 call. “When you found Logan, what made you call for an ambulance?”

  He grimaced. “I’m not stupid. I was just scared. And I didn’t want to believe he was dead.”

  Time to move on. “Who did Logan fight with over the weekend?”

  “He said it was some dude who’d been hitting on Danica. But he wasn’t with her. I know because I talked to Danica.”

  “What do you think happened? Why would he lie?”

  “I think he owed someone money. I heard him arguing about it on the phone last week.”

  “Did you hear a name?”

  “No.” He fidgeted, one leg vibrating. “In the last few months . . .” Keener stopped and glanced over at his teammates on the field.

  “Tell me. I want to find out what happened to Logan.”

  “He changed recently. He was, like, stressed and secretive. He would be gone all weekend and not tell me where. I think he had another girlfriend. One he didn’t want anyone to know about.”

  Interesting. “Why would he keep her a secret?”

  The roommate shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Any idea where I can find her?” Evans wasn’t sure how a secret girlfriend connected to a fistfight or heart attack, but she wanted to find out.

  “I think I saw his red Miata at some apartments off Willamette, near Twenty-ninth.”

  “Tell me exactly which apartments and where it was parked.”

  When she had the information, Evans let him get back to practice. Except for the cocaine issue, Jake Keener had seemed straight with her. If he and Lamar Owens were hiding something, they were practiced liars. She hurried back to the performance center. Time to track down the coach in his office.

  Before she reached the building, a heavyset man rushed across the plaza, brow creased and jaw set. Harper’s head seemed too small for his body, giving him a cartoonish look for a man who made $1.8 million a year.

  Evans moved to intercept him. “Coach Harper?”

  “Not now.” He waved her off.

  She kept pace at his side. “I’m Detective Evans. We can do this now and easy or at the department.”

  “I only have a few minutes.” Stress filled his voice. “Logan’s death, plus Trey being in the hospital, has been a huge blow. We’ve been scrambling to rethink our lineup, and now I have to convince the media that we can still win games.”

  “Can we talk in your office?”

  “No. I’m late for a press conference. Let’s step into the lobby.” He reached for the glass door.

  Evans hoped the reporters had been taken to the media room. “Who’s Trey and why is he in the hospital?”

  “Trey Sandoval, a linebacker.” Harper scanned the lobby, like a man braced for an assault. “He was in a car accident Monday, but at least we didn’t lose two from the same squad.”

  She pivoted to face him. “Two players in one day. That’s rather unusual.”

  “Only because they weren’t involved in the same incident. Trey and Logan were good friends.”

  “But not roommates?”

  “Trey lives with his sister. His parents insist on it.”

  They sat facing each other on a low black sectional couch. Evans pulled out her recorder and tablet, the scenario making her feel more like a reporter than a detective. “Did you know Logan Grayson used cocaine?”

  Harper tensed. “I don’t believe it.”

  “I just came from his autopsy. His nasal tissue was damaged, and he’d had a heart attack.” She gave him a moment to process the information. “Logan’s mother thinks you pushed him to use steroids.”

  The coach shot forward, eyes blazing, and grabbed her recorder. “That’s a load of crap!”

  Evans willed herself not to overreact. “Settle down or I’ll take you into the department for a real interrogation.” She reached out for the device. “I’ll stop recording.” Like it mattered. Every word would go into a report.

  He held onto the recorder. “Mrs. Grayson is upset about Logan’s death and wants to blame someone. But I have never encouraged my players to use steroids. Just the opposite.”

  She couldn’t read him. His anger could have been masking deception. “So why do you think a twenty-year-old would have a heart attack?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he seem different to you lately?” She keyed into her tablet as they talked.

  “Maybe a little distracted.”

  “In what way?”

  “Late to practice sometimes. And his mind was elsewhere during strategy sessions.”

  Some kind of external pressure. She made a note. “His mother said it started with his injury last year. What happened?”

  He took a deep breath, barely able to contain his impatience. “Logan tore his medial collateral ligament and had to have surgery. He missed a month of the season and it probably cost him the Heisman Trophy.”

  “Did the setback cause a change in behavior?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you know Logan took antidepressants?”

  Another scowl. “No. I’m his coach, not his mother or his therapist.”

  “Who did he exchange blows with over the weekend?”

  “I have no idea. But Logan could be a hothead.”

  “Do you know anyone who might want to harm him?”

  He pulled back, seeming confused. “Why would you ask?”

  “I work Violent Crimes. His body had a head injury and a nosebleed, so the officer who responded to the call reported it to our department.”

  “He could have been hurt in practice.” A pause. “Although the players always wear helmets. Maybe Logan fell while he was goofing around at home or with friends.”

  Or maybe he got into a fistfight. She asked a few more questions, but learned nothing. Harper stood and terminated the conversation. “Please don’t report the steroid bullshit to the media. Or the cocaine use. We’ve had enough bad press with the DUIs last year.”

  “We won’t report anything until we have lab results back.” Evans stood too. “Thanks for your time.”

  He was already headed toward the cafeteria.

  She walked to the elevator, but the receptionist intercepted her again. “Will you please go out the front door?”

  “Seriously? I parked under the building. I came up on the elevator.”

  The girl looked sheepish. “You weren’t supposed to.”

  Evans wanted to defy her, but the elevator pad didn’t have normal buttons and looked like it required a code. She shook her head and headed toward the front, hoping she could find her car again.

  As she walked down the ramp, her phone rang. A male name she didn’t recognize. What if it was one of Grayson’s friends, calling with information? She connected the call. “This is Detective Evans.”

  “Marcus Sanyo, a sports reporter with the Willamette News. Are you investigating Logan Grayson’s death?”

  A local reporter. Was he calling her from the media room or had he been left out of the national press conference? “Yes, but it’s too early to report anything.”

  “A witness says Grayson was bleeding from a head wound. Was he murdered?” The reporter sounded young, with an underlying eagerness.

  What witness? Jake Keener? “Grayson had a nosebleed prior to his death, but it wasn’t fro
m an assault.”

  “A nosebleed is consistent with cocaine use. Did he die from drug abuse?”

  “He had a heart attack, but we’re waiting for a toxicology report. I have to go.” She hung up before he could respond. At least someone wanted to dig for the truth rather than worry about whether the Ducks could still win.

  CHAPTER 15

  On the drive home from Drain, Jackson notified his team of the victim’s real name, then pondered his next move. It seemed critical to identify Benjie’s father and the person who’d threatened his mother. He knew better than to assume they were the same person, but custody issues often turned into kidnap cases and violent interactions. Salt Lake City kept coming to mind. If the grandmother had contacts there, then Andra Caiden probably did too. Maybe he should run a photo of Andra in the Utah newspaper to see if anyone recognized her. He had a friend’s name from high school, but she could be anywhere by now and married with a different ID. He wasn’t optimistic about locating Christy Chadwell or gaining any useful information from her.

  “I miss kitty.”

  Jackson glanced at the boy in the backseat. “Sorry, pal, but it ran away.” Benjie had wanted to bring the cat, but it had fought to get free and run away. Jackson’s relief had been short-lived as Benjie had cried and called for “Mommy” to come back. Having the kid name the cat after his mother had been heart-wrenching. What could he do to help the boy recover?

  “I have to pee,” Benjie said.

  “Hang in there. We’ll stop in a minute.” Jackson hoped it wouldn’t be too late.

  “Can we get more puzzles?”

  “Sorry, they’re at home.” He wished he’d brought some, but they hadn’t seemed appropriate for a car ride.

  A few minutes later, Jackson pulled off at a rest stop. Benjie opened the door and climbed out before Jackson had unbuckled.