Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  Five minutes later, Catalina pulled into her own complex and parked at the end of the lot behind a large black SUV that obscured the little truck. No wonder she hadn’t seen the Nissan when she was here before. Evans parked on the street and watched Catalina head upstairs, her slim pregnant body swaying in a tight black dress.

  She called Jackson but he didn’t pick up. Frustrated, she didn’t leave a message. The scenario for the Grayson case was too complicated to bog him down with. She climbed from her car and followed Catalina upstairs. Had Jackson ignored her call on purpose? Was it awkward for him already? The thought troubled her, but she couldn’t focus on it. Pounding on the woman’s door made her bruised back ache. The pain pill had been only marginally helpful.

  From the other side, Catalina called out, “Who is it?”

  “Detective Evans. I was just at the funeral.” In no shape to give chase, she didn’t want to make the suspect skittish.

  The door opened, and Catalina stood with her hands on her hips. “What do you want? I’m tired and depressed.” She sounded like she would cry at any moment.

  Evans wouldn’t let herself feel any sympathy; the woman could be a killer. But she wanted to take her to the interrogation room for questioning, so faking compassion was in order. “I know, and I’m sorry. But I have a sketch at the department I need you to look at.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Evans thought quickly. “A witness saw someone with Logan at his apartment right before he died. Our sketch artist made a drawing but I need you to see if you can identify the person.” Kind of lame, but plausible.

  “Right now?”

  “Of course. Time is critical.”

  “Everyone at the service said Logan had a heart attack.”

  “But what caused it? I think somebody harmed him on purpose.”

  She looked skeptical.

  “Don’t you want me to solve this?” A loaded question, for sure, if she was guilty of anything.

  “Well, yeah, but—”

  “Let’s go. Right now.” Evans stepped through the door and gently grabbed her by the elbow. “I’ll bring you right back when we’re done.” Not likely.

  “Okay, but I told you, I don’t know Logan’s college friends.” Catalina stepped outside and locked her door.

  “The suspect isn’t a student. He’s older than that.” She just needed to get Catalina into the car and to the department. The task force meeting would start soon, and she needed to confer with her teammates. Catalina could sit in the pit and worry for a few minutes.

  The connection was still a puzzle. Why had Catalina been at the Pershing house on Saturday? Had she rented it to Andra Caiden in some kind of scam? Evans knew she was onto something important here, but she couldn’t make it come into focus. It would, though, once Catalina started answering the important questions.

  CHAPTER 33

  Saturday, September 7, 11:05 a.m.

  Sophie checked her Gmail again and found the response she’d been waiting for all morning. It was from Tessajones, and read: Meet me at house in hour. bing cash & we’ll sign renal papers.

  Not only was Tessa probably a scammer, she couldn’t spell, didn’t use articles, and didn’t proof her e-mails. Criminal! Sophie loved digital media but hated what it had done to the quality of communication. People didn’t even use capital letters anymore. Still, her body hummed with excitement. She was going out on a sting!

  Sophie turned to her lover, who was reading in bed. “Jasmine, I’ve got to leave. Are you going to stay and hang out?”

  “No, I’ve got to work for a while this afternoon. We’re behind, as usual.” Jasmine stood, her long, lean frame topped by dark hair and an exotic face. The crime scene technician was scary smart, and Sophie thought she might be in love. Jasmine tossed her Kindle in her shoulder bag and came over to where Sophie sat at the computer. “Be careful. This person is a scammer. You don’t know how he or she will react when you expose them.”

  “I think it’s a woman. But don’t worry, a photographer will be there.”

  “I still think you should get the police involved.” Jasmine sounded tired.

  “They weren’t interested in the case. That’s why the victim called me.”

  “But since you think the scam could be connected to Amanda Carter’s death, why not call Jackson?” Jasmine’s tone was more rhetorical than pressuring. They’d been dating a while but didn’t feel compelled to control each other.

  “This one is probably a different scammer, and I need to see if I’m right about what’s going on with these rentals. I’ll call him later.”

  Jasmine kissed her good-bye and left. Sophie grabbed a bottle of water, her purse, and sunglasses, then followed her out. She’d taken the cash out of her account the night before, prepared to lose the money if necessary to get the story. And, of course, her recorder and cell phone were always with her.

  Surprisingly enough, the rental was in southwest Eugene but located on a busy thoroughfare. After doing some research, she’d come to realize that zombie houses were everywhere, except the pricey subdivisions in the south hills. Banks were overwhelmed by defaults and often didn’t have the personnel or systems in place to handle real estate, especially if it had little value.

  Sophie had trouble finding the house at first, until she spotted the numbers on the curb and noticed an entrance between two fences. She turned in and cruised down the L-shaped driveway, thinking the panhandle lot was the only feature that made the place livable. Otherwise the street traffic and sports-crowd noise from a nearby high school would have been overwhelming. After Tessa had given her the address, she’d contacted county records and found the owners’ names, but their telephone number was no longer in service, and they clearly no longer lived in the house. If her theory was correct, this house had been empty for a long time, and the woman she was about to meet didn’t have permission to live there, let alone sublet to anyone. Like other digital innovations, Craigslist was both a blessing and a curse.

  Sophie parked in the empty driveway. Good, she was first to arrive and could snoop around. She hoped Brian would arrive before the Craigslist “struggling tenant” showed up. Using her cell phone, she took pictures of the house: dirty white with faded green trim, weather-damaged siding, and dead grass in the front and side yards. Despite the large lot, the house looked small, maybe eleven hundred square feet and built in the sixties before anyone cared about vaulted ceilings. Peeking in the front window confirmed her preconceptions. Sophie pulled out her recorder and took verbal notes. She would need these details to set the scene for her readers. Though she rarely wished she worked in television, this story seemed suited to it. A bleak setting, a hidden camera, and a sting to catch the scammer. They could put the video on their website and boost digital subscriptions.

  Around back, the blinds for both bedrooms were closed. Darn. She wanted to see if there was furniture in the house. Was that the sound of an engine in the driveway? With the nearby traffic, it was hard to tell, but she trotted around to the front. Her photographer climbed off his motorcycle, gave a small wave, then pulled a brown leather man-purse from his saddlebag.

  “Hey, Brian. Have you got a camera in there?”

  “Yep. Cool, huh?” He pointed to a brass button-like feature on the side. “This is the lens. Ahmed helped me set it up.”

  “I love tech guys. Hey, should I call you Brian or make up something fun?” A pretend boyfriend didn’t bother her at all. She’d dated men before Jasmine, but found most to be either too distant or too needy.

  “Stick with Brian. The public doesn’t know me.”

  In her e-mails with the scammer, Sophie had used the name Monica, after her mother, which amused her. It wasn’t likely the scammer was a newspaper reader, but why take the chance on someone recognizing her byline? She’d been involved in a hair-raising standoff with an eco-terrorist a f
ew months earlier, and ever since, her job had seemed routine. This was just what she needed.

  She and Brian talked about potential scenarios and how they would react to them. A small silver car drove up a few minutes into the discussion, and Sophie resisted the urge to snap a picture.

  A woman stepped out. Or at least she looked more like a woman than a man. Tessa wore a bulky gray hoodie that covered her hair and hid her upper body. The black jeans and running shoes were androgynous too. She came toward them, moving with the fluidity of a female, and looking annoyed.

  “Tessa? I’m Monica. And this is my boyfriend, Brian.”

  “I said I wouldn’t rent to a couple.” Her dark eyes glinted and her mouth tightened.

  “Oh no, he’s not moving in.” Sophie laughed, as though it were a ridiculous idea. “We’re just dating, and he has his own place.”

  “He can stay out here then.” Tessa started toward the front door. “If you like the house, we’ll fill out the paperwork and you can move in today.”

  Brian followed. “I need to use the bathroom.”

  Tessa didn’t argue, unlocking the door with a key.

  The living room had less furniture and less appeal than a hooker motel. Sophie smiled. “I like the uncluttered look.”

  “It’s not on purpose,” Tessa said. “My roommate just moved out and took half my stuff. She left me with the full rent though, and it’s due on Monday.”

  Brian was in the room and had hopefully caught her backstory on film.

  “That’s a crappy deal.” Sophie had read some of the setup during their e-mail exchanges. Tessa had also asked a lot of personal questions, such as: Do you have a good rental history? Proof of income? A criminal record? Sophie suspected the scammer wasn’t looking for someone highly respectable, so she’d tailored her responses to make herself seem borderline, with an old drug conviction. In other words, someone desperate who couldn’t access traditional housing, yet wouldn’t call the police if she were ripped off. No surprise, Tessa had picked her, even though the scammer had probably received plenty of responses to her ad about a room for rent with only a small security deposit.

  The dining room was completely empty.

  “Don’t worry,” Tessa said. “I bought a table this morning at Goodwill. I’m just waiting for a friend to help me pick it up.”

  “Can I see the available bedroom?”

  “Sure.”

  Brian came out of the bathroom, nodded at them in the hall, then stayed there—filming, she hoped. The other bedroom door was closed, and she could smell mold in the bathroom from the hallway.

  A third door stood open and Sophie walked in. The empty bedroom was clean but had spider webs in the corners and smelled like stale perfume. She was ready to make the deal happen. “I’ll take it. I need a place to stay ASAP. My friend needs me off her couch when her mother visits in a few days.”

  “I’ve got the paperwork in the kitchen.” Tessa gestured for her to move along. “The owner doesn’t care who I sublet to since I’m responsible for the whole rent.”

  Sophie read through the single-page agreement. Simple and standard. Tessa had probably downloaded it from the internet or created it herself. “Will my rent be due on the first?” She signed the paper.

  Tessa scooped it up. “Sure. I’ll pro-rate next month’s.”

  Her cameraman moved in closer, pretending to examine the woodwork on the cabinets. Sophie wished he’d had a chance to aim the lens at the rental agreement, but it probably didn’t matter. She pulled a rumpled envelope out of her purse and handed Tessa four hundred dollars, three for the rent and one for the security deposit. No legitimate rental owner would ever take in a tenant for that little cash—unless the homeowner happened to be your mother.

  “Thanks.” Tessa stuck the cash in her front pocket and handed Sophie a key. “It’s such a relief to be able to pay the rent.”

  Time to pounce. “Who did you say owned the house?”

  “An older woman. I think her name is Helen, but I can’t ever remember. She pretty much leaves me alone.”

  “Can I see your rental agreement with the owner?”

  “I don’t have it with me.” Tessa scowled. “Why do you ask now?”

  “Because you don’t have one. Nor do you live here. This house was owned by Tina and David Wilson, and it’s been vacant for months.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” Tessa spun and strode toward the door. “I have to go to work.”

  “Talk to me or talk to the police!” Sophie called after her.

  Tessa kept moving. Brian followed and filmed the scammer climbing into her car, capturing her license plate too. Tessa flipped him off and squealed out of the driveway.

  Sophie turned to the photographer and held out her hand for a fist bump. “Even if the police don’t investigate, we can at least warn the public.”

  He shrugged. “Too bad people who would fall for this probably don’t read the paper or online news.”

  “We do what we can.” Maybe they would send the footage to a TV station after they broke the story. Sophie started toward her car. “Tessa must break into the house, then change out the front-door lock.”

  Brian nodded. “She probably has a couple of sets that she just keeps swapping.”

  “I wonder if others are doing this, or something like it.” How did they get away with it? Victimizing people who had few choices and fewer resources was the lowest of the low. Sophie remembered that Amanda Carter, the homicide victim, had been found in a nearly empty house. It was time to call Jackson and tell him about the sting. She would text him too. He often didn’t listen to her messages until much later. If he was interested in her scoop, he might give her more details about his murder investigation in exchange.

  CHAPTER 34

  Saturday, September 7, 11:25 a.m.

  From the department, Jackson called Judge Cranston at home. His wife picked up and said the judge was about to leave for a golf game.

  “This is critical,” Jackson pleaded. “A young life is at stake.”

  “I’ll get him.” He heard her set down the phone, and it clunked like an old-style handheld.

  After a long wait, the judge came on. “What is it, Jackson? I hope you haven’t oversold your case.”

  “A young mother was murdered earlier this week, and her three-year-old son was almost abducted from my home this morning. I need a DNA sample of the only suspect we have.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Carl Wagner. He lives in Salt Lake City, but he and his wife have a motor home and were in our area at the time of the murder.”

  “Why is he a suspect?”

  “I think he’s the boy’s father.”

  A pause. “You can substantiate the connection?”

  “I think so.”

  “Bring me the subpoena and I’ll read it. No promises.”

  On the drive up to Cranston’s home in the south hills, Jackson worried about everything. Benjie’s safety. Whether Katie would take off again. But mostly about whether the judge would help them go after Wagner.

  What did he really have on the Utah man? Not much other than Andra’s presence in his home during her pregnancy and his trip to Lane County at the time of her murder. Was that enough? As a precaution, he’d had two subpoenas prepared. One asking for a DNA sample to compare to the trace evidence they’d found on Andra’s body, and a second request for a handwriting sample to compare to the threatening note. He hoped the judge would sign both, but he suspected he might only come away with the handwriting demand. At least it would give him an excuse to confront and/or arrest Wagner. If they established a handwriting match, they would get the DNA next.

  The house on Blanton Heights was a new two-story with pretentious columns in the front and a circular drive. It looked out of place among the older, modest homes that had b
een in the area when it was considered rural.

  Cranston opened the door and gestured for him to sit in the dining room. Jackson laid his paperwork on the table. “I’d like a sample of his handwriting as well. The victim had a threatening note in her purse.”

  “We’ll see.” The judge started to skim, then stopped and looked up. “If Wagner isn’t actually here in Oregon, this subpoena may not be valid in Utah. It depends on their state laws.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s here.” Jackson expected a call, any minute, from a patrol officer or deputy. Or from Schak, who was checking with car rental companies. Quince was going door-to-door in Jackson’s neighborhood, searching for a witness who might have seen the masked man’s car or witnessed the botched abduction.

  Jackson’s leg vibrated under the table as he waited. A little too much coffee. Cranston finally looked up. “You don’t have anything connecting him to the original murder scene.”

  “But Wagner is associated with the victim and the vicinity.” Jackson knew it was weak. “What if his DNA matches the boy? What if it matches the hair on the victim? We can use it to pressure him into a confession and/or plea agreement.”

  “Can you connect him to the abduction? Does he own a dark sedan?” The judge peered over his glasses, obviously wanting to do the right thing.

  Jackson’s frustration mounted. “I’m waiting for the DMV in Utah to get back to me. A police officer in Salt Lake City is working on it too, but it’s Saturday, so I’m not hopeful.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can’t sign the DNA subpoena to compare to the homicide evidence. You haven’t justified it, even though I trust your instincts.” Cranston took off his glasses. “I shouldn’t even sign the handwriting request, but I will. If it matches the threatening note, I’ll give you the DNA.”

  Jackson wanted to argue, but he handed him a pen instead. “Thank you.”