“Where can I find him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Try harder. I’d hate to have to arrest you.”
She glared at Evans. “There’s a party on campus tomorrow night, and I’m sure he’ll be there. Do you know the big brown house on the corner of Fifteenth Alley and Hilyard Street? It’ll be rockin’ around ten, and Marcos will be laying lines and makin’ money.”
“Thanks.” Evans keyed the location into her tablet. “I’m just trying to keep people safe.”
“Do you know when Logan’s funeral is? I don’t know any of his friends to ask.”
“I’ll find out for you if I can. Why don’t you know his friends?”
“He was ashamed of me. He never said that, of course, but he was.” She choked back a sob. “He said he could lose his scholarship if they found out he paid my rent, but he never had enough . . .” She trailed off.
“Enough what?”
She shook her head. “Logan was sweet, but he spent money like a rap star.”
“Even football scholarships aren’t meant to cover two rent payments. Did he have a job or another source of funds?”
“No, but he could have let me move in with him.”
“Is it his baby?” It would have been foolish not to ask.
“Of course.”
“Did Logan plan to acknowledge the child or help you raise it?”
She sighed. “Yes, but not until he graduated. After that, he said he would be free.”
“Free from what?”
“From his scholarship, his parents’ expectations, and stupid social pressure. Logan would have been drafted by the pros, and we planned to move somewhere together. We didn’t even care where.”
Every athlete’s dream. Evans felt sorry for the woman. But at least now Catalina would never face the harsh reality of Grayson’s final betrayal—when he would have signed the pro contract and left her behind.
Catalina stood, still clinging to her blanket. “I’m tired and I have to lay down. Please let me know when the funeral is.” She padded toward a bedroom, not looking back. Evans let herself out, thinking it was time to let go of this case, as she’d been ordered to do.
CHAPTER 22
The new interrogation room was twice the size of the old one but still claustrophobic. Jackson took a seat and Evans sat next to him, their silence an opening strategy. Dylan Gilmore sat behind the table, facing the door, the physical/psychological equivalent of being trapped. Sporting an unknown band T-shirt and long skater shorts, Gilmore was the youngest suspect Jackson had ever sat across from. A few months earlier, he’d had to take a statement from a teenage girl who’d faced murder charges, but she had been a little older. Homicide rates for teenagers were on the rise, even though violent crimes overall were declining.
“Everything you say and do here is being recorded and will be used against you in court, if necessary.” Jackson set his own recorder on the table, so he’d have a personal file to refer to. Quince had activated the video camera from the conference room. Not all interrogations were filmed, but since Gilmore was fourteen, it was best to protect themselves with documentation. The kid’s mother hadn’t shown up yet.
“I didn’t hurt that woman, I swear.” Dylan was already in panic mode.
Jackson put the bloody knife on the table. The murder investigation had to come first. “Your fingerprints are on this weapon. We know it’s yours. Who did you stab?”
“No one. I cut myself accidentally.” He scratched his neck as he talked.
“You’re lying,” Evans cut in. “We found the knife in your dead neighbor’s backyard, and your prints are on it. You’re going away for a long time no matter what you say here.”
Jackson added, “You might as well help yourself and tell the truth.” If the kid had killed Andra/Amanda, then he knew she hadn’t been stabbed and the blood wasn’t critical evidence. But he had stabbed somebody or something—and possibly set the house on fire—and that kind of violence made him a likely suspect for murder as well. They just had to wear him down.
Dylan slumped in his chair, both hands on his head, eyes closed. In the silence, his rapid breathing filled the room.
He looked up. “I killed a cat. Okay? That’s animal blood on the knife, and the CSI people should know that.”
A budding psychopath and a fan of crime shows—they had to get him out of circulation. “Let’s start at the beginning. Whose cat? And what day did it happen?”
The kid spent five minutes talking about how the cat kept pooping in his mother’s flowers and around his skate ramp in the backyard. He didn’t know who it belonged to, just that the cat was a nuisance. “I caught it in the act that morning and I kinda snapped. You know?” He paused for empathy.
Jackson had none but faked it. “It happens to people. So what did you do?”
“The cat ran, so I hopped the fence and caught it in the yard next door.” He picked at something on his hand and didn’t make eye contact. “Then I killed it.”
His story didn’t quite add up.
Evans made a scoffing sound. “You caught a cat that was running from you? Bullshit. You lured it in, more likely.”
Jackson wanted to focus on their victim. “What day did this happen?”
“Monday. The same day I saw the dead lady.”
“Was that before or after you killed the cat?”
“After. That’s why I forgot to pick up the knife. I saw her in the window and got worried.”
Time to push for the truth—by telling some lies. “Amanda’s wounds match your knife. How do you explain that?”
“That’s just crazy.” He rocked forward. “Maybe someone found the knife I dropped and stabbed her.”
His surprise seemed genuine, but he could be an accomplished liar. Most sociopaths were. “Tell us about the fire you set. What were you trying to hide?”
His eyes darted back and forth between them. “That wasn’t me, I swear. I didn’t get home until after midnight, and the fire trucks were already there.”
“What were you trying to hide? Fingerprints? DNA?”
“Nothing! I didn’t do it.”
“The house didn’t burn down. We’ll still find whatever you were trying to destroy.”
He swallowed hard. “Okay, I was in the house a few times. It was vacant for a long time, so I went over there sometimes just to—” He paused. “You know, to explore, like kids do.”
Was it enough to get a warrant for a DNA comparison? Jackson pushed a little harder. “We’ll search your house and find the accelerant you used. Tell us what happened and we can cut you a deal.”
A knock on the door, then a voice through the intercom. “Mrs. Gilmore is here with a lawyer. They want to terminate the interrogation.”
Crap! Jackson pressed the button. “We’re done then. Please book Dylan into custody at the juvenile justice center and request a psych evaluation.” Captain Ottovich could interview him there.
The task force meeting started late, and Jackson worried about making his flight. As they ate sandwiches, the other three detectives chatted about Dylan Gilmore’s interrogation and the fire at the crime scene. Schak and Quince were convinced he’d committed the murder and set the fire. Evans was skeptical. Jackson let them hash it out, then said, “I think we need to keep looking at other suspects.”
“I agree.” Evans set half of her meal aside and stood to update the board. “Dylan might be a killer in the making, but he looked stunned when you lied to him about the knife wounds, then responded instantly. He didn’t seem to know you were lying, which means he didn’t see her body up close and didn’t likely kill her.”
“We can’t just dismiss him,” Quince argued. “We have to get a subpoena and search his house.”
“Agreed. That’s your next task.” Jackson checked his watch. “I have a flight to Salt
Lake City that leaves in two hours.”
“What?” Evans spun from the board.
He summarized what he’d learned about the victim and where she was from. “We have to find the boy’s father. He either needs to be reunited with his son or questioned in Andra’s death.”
Evans added the victim’s real name to the board, then turned back. “If the father killed Andra and wants the boy, he’s likely still here in Eugene.”
“Maybe. But the Salt Lake flight is direct and short, and I’m hoping to gain information. We can’t locate the father if we don’t know who he is.”
“I’ll contact the airlines and see if the name Caiden was on any flights in the last week,” Schak volunteered.
“Excellent.” Feeling weary, Jackson took a long pull of coffee. What was he forgetting?
“What about the autopsy?” Evans asked.
That was it. “The victim’s trachea and hyoid bones were crushed, so the pathologist thinks the assailant pressed down on her throat, while also cutting off her air with his other hand.”
“Someone powerful?”
“Not necessarily,” Jackson said. “If she was pinned down and losing oxygen, it may have been impossible to fight back.”
A moment of quiet, before Quince said, “We have nothing new to go on?”
Jackson turned to Schak. “Did you learn anything in your neighborhood canvass?”
“I got confirmation of the light-blue truck being parked in front of the house Saturday afternoon sometime between three and five.” Schak checked his notes. “She said it was a Nissan with a damaged tailgate. Probably a 2003 or 2004.”
Evans jotted it on the board. “I’ll follow up on that with the DMV.”
“Here’s the weird part,” Schak added. “She saw the truck when she passed the house on her way home, and she’s pretty sure the back was empty. Then later, she went out to her car to bring in something she forgot and she thinks the truck had furniture in the back. As if someone was moving out.”
CHAPTER 23
Thursday, September 5, 2:45 p.m.
Sophie Speranza grew frustrated with the news story she was writing. A twenty-eight-year-old man had been hit by a driver, who’d refused a breathalyzer. Springfield police had withdrawn charges of manslaughter after discovering the victim was suicidal and had probably stepped in front of the car. She’d interviewed the victim’s father, and he was distressed, claiming his son would never do that. In some ways, it was a great story with plenty of conflict. What frustrated her was the likelihood she would never know what had really happened. She hated stories with no closure.
She’d been working the crime-and-court beat for almost a year now, and she’d written about too many dead and troubled young people. The car-accident victim had only been a year older than her. And now she had Jackson’s new homicide, a young woman. He’d contacted her this time, as well as given her exclusive details, so he was finally starting to trust her . . . a little. She’d run a layout that morning with a couple of paragraphs asking for the public’s help identifying the victim. So far, no one had called, but she couldn’t get Amanda out of her mind. An image of the victim lying dead in an empty house kept sliding into her head and begging her to explore it. What if it was a zombie house? So far, the abandoned homes were a problem for neighbors and home values, but had they become magnets for crime as well? She’d have to look into it.
“Hey, Sophie.”
She turned to see her boss standing in her cube opening.
“I told you not to run that picture of the dead woman on the front page of the City section.” Hoogstad, a Humpty Dumpty man with marginal hygiene, shook his head in an exaggerated gesture. “Two readers have already complained. You get to call them both and apologize.”
Oh hell. The newspaper was at the point where it couldn’t afford to lose a single paying subscription. “If I have to.” She reached for the slip of paper in his hand. “Has anyone called to identify the victim?”
“No. Do we have a follow-up story?”
“Not yet.” Sophie glanced at her cell phone. “I’ll call again and see what else I can find out.”
“While you’re at it, see if you can get something on Logan Grayson’s death. Coach Harper is holding a press conference today, but I want to know what the police have to say.”
“What do we know so far?”
“Only that his roommate found him with blood on his face.”
“I’ll see what I can find out.”
He waddled away, and she called Jackie Matthews, the EPD spokesperson. The officer gave her a quotable statement. “Logan Grayson died of a heart attack, but we won’t know what caused the hypertensive event until we get the toxicology report.”
“What about the blood on his face?”
“I don’t have that information.”
“What’s the department’s best guess? Drugs?” Sophie didn’t expect an answer.
“We don’t speculate.”
“Who’s handling the case?”
“Detective Lara Evans. But she gave me the information, so there’s no point in calling her.”
“Thanks.” Sophie grinned as she hung up. She could use the info to bargain with the head sportswriter. He’d want the information, but what could he give her in exchange?
She hurried over to the corner where the three sports guys still had the best cubicles in the building. They no longer had the corner upstairs with the great view because the whole staff had been condensed into the first floor, but they still had two giant flat-screen TVs in their workspace.
As she approached, Marcus Sanyo stood to greet her. “Hey.”
He didn’t remember her name? That was sad. “I’ve got a statement from the EPD about Logan Grayson’s death. Do you want it?”
“Hell yes.” He sat back down. “I’ve been calling all day and couldn’t get anyone to pick up.”
“What have you got to trade?”
Marcus laughed. “Seriously? What do you want? Tickets to a Ducks game?”
Now she laughed. “No thanks. I want info. Tell me something about Grayson that’s normally off the record.”
“Why?” He crossed his arms. “You’re not taking the story. Even if it turns out to be a crime, it’s still my beat.”
“I’m not trying to steal your story.” She was bored with the conversation now. “Grayson had a heart attack.”
“I knew that.” Marcus was clearly disappointed. “Shit. What a week for the Ducks.” He shook his head.
“What do you mean?”
“Trey Sandoval was in a car accident Tuesday and is still in the hospital.”
Sophie didn’t know the name, but she assumed he also played football. “That’s a shitty break.” But was it a coincidence? “Do you suppose the incidents are related? Like they were both taking steroids or something?” She couldn’t help but think like an investigative reporter.
Marcus spun back to her. “If you don’t have proof, don’t say it. Don’t print it.”
Right. Sports section advertising kept the newspaper going. “It was just a thought. I’m going back to my space now.” As she walked away, she called over her shoulder, “You’re welcome.”
The sports guys, deep in conversation, ignored her.
Back at her desk, Sophie called Detective Evans, who occasionally was willing to discuss her cases. Not today. She had to leave a message about Trey Sandoval’s accident. She closed by asking Evans to call her. Yeah, that would happen.
Her desk phone rang and she took the call on headphones, in case she needed her hands free to type. The caller was worked up and sounded young. “I want you to write about a terrible scam that’s going on. I called the police but they don’t have time to investigate.”
A rush of adrenaline. “Tell me your name.” Sophie clicked open a Word doc and started taking notes. She
lived for these moments.
CHAPTER 24
Thursday, September 5, 4:36 p.m.
Jackson rented a car from an airport terminal, keyed Christy Chadwell’s address into the GPS, and headed into the unfamiliar city. His first impression: brown, dry, and flat, except for the massive mountains that loomed on the east side. Sure, the landscape had trees, but not the tall, lush, deep-green variety found in Oregon. But Salt Lake’s downtown buildings were tall enough to form a skyline, something Eugene didn’t have.
The GPS coordinates were a little off, and it took two circles around a looping subdivision to find the address. A nice middle-class home in a pleasant neighborhood, with a three-car garage and a sports boat parked alongside. Andra’s friend from high school was doing much better financially than Andra had. No cars were in the driveway, and the house looked dark and quiet. Jackson parked on the street and rang the doorbell anyway. No answer.
He went back to his car to wait, hoping Christy would be home for dinner soon. He’d talked to her yesterday, so he was optimistic she was in town. Coming here was a long shot, but if he didn’t get what he needed, he would visit City Hall and/or the hospital to look at birth records. Plus make a stop at the police department. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover Andra had filed a restraining order, or that the baby’s father had reported his son kidnapped. Some parents did whatever they could to protect and hang on to their children, even at the expense of the other parent.
While he waited, he checked in with his daughter. She was grilling hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob for herself, Benjie, and Derrick. They’d filled a wading pool earlier and made crazy bubbles with dish soap. Jackson yearned to be there. He had missed Katie so much and now that she was home, here he was, proving once again that work came first. Even though this trip was as much about finding Benjie’s family as solving Andra’s homicide, part of him hoped he wouldn’t locate anyone. He’d become attached to the kid and hated the thought of handing him over to a stranger. Why had he bonded so quickly with the boy? Because he felt like he’d lost Katie as a child?
Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 13
