Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  Jackson almost smiled. He loved her fierceness. “Good plan. I’ll call McCray now. Go move Catalina and tell her no deal until she gives up all her conspirators, including Tessa. If she won’t talk, we’ll have an officer book her into jail after we have eyes on the perp.”

  Evans gave him a warning look—one that meant he’d better not do anything stupid while she was gone.

  CHAPTER 40

  Evans escorted Catalina to the bathroom, then took her to a larger interrogation room with a comfortable couch and chair. They typically used it for underage suspects and their parents or witness/suspects that needed a gentle, coercive touch.

  “Why are you keeping me here?” she complained. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

  “You committed fraud, so your next stop is jail. Enjoy the couch while you can.”

  “I thought I was getting a deal.”

  “You haven’t told us who Tessa is.”

  “I don’t know Tessa.” Catalina looked away as she flopped on the couch.

  Probably a lie. “We will find her too, and whoever talks first gets the best deal.” Evans didn’t know who Tessa was, but Jackson seemed to think the woman was involved in another rental scam. Which meant she might be connected to Logan Grayson or Carl Wagner. Not knowing where or how Jackson had received the information bothered her, but his daughter’s kidnapping had taken precedence over everything.

  “I’m hungry. My baby needs to eat.”

  “I’ll get you a protein bar.” Evans headed toward her cubicle, then remembered she didn’t have her shoulder bag with its wide assortment of work tools and emergency supplies. She’d left it home when she went undercover to the party the night before. Damn. She felt a little worthless without it. But with Jackson’s daughter in the hands of a kidnapper, she didn’t have time to go home for it. Or the willpower. With the pain she was experiencing, she couldn’t bear the idea of going up and down the stairs and across the parking lot twice.

  Yet her shoulder bag also had the evidence she’d picked up from the crime lab the day before. Items that had been in the car seat folds of Andra’s vehicle, including a tube of lip gloss, a baby’s pacifier, and a ticket stub. She’d called the Maverick Center in Salt Lake City, hoping to identify the event on the stub, but the phone had rung unanswered until she finally hung up. Later, she’d gone to the party and ended up in the hospital and hadn’t been home since. How important could a ticket from an event four years earlier be? The pink cancer-awareness bracelet from the Pershing house might be important though. She assumed Joe had scraped the inside of it for skin-cell DNA.

  Evans bought a bag of chips and some peanut M&M’s from the vending machine in the break room and took them to Catalina.

  She scowled. “My baby needs real food.”

  “I know, but this is the best I could do for now. Tell me who Tessa is, and we’ll order in whatever you want.”

  Catalina silently opened the bag of M&M’s. Evans started toward the door.

  “She’s my sister.” Her voice was quiet, almost ashamed. “Her name is Angelina Morales. The whole thing was her idea.”

  Evans turned back, wishing she had her recorder. “Was she in the car with you when you left the memorial?”

  “Yes.”

  Then she knew where to find her. She’d watched Catalina drop her off. “We’ll need a detailed statement of the scams you pulled with Angelina’s involvement. I’ll get someone in here soon to process you.”

  “Can I have my phone? I’m bored.”

  “Not yet.”

  Evans hurried out, happy to pass off the fraud case to the Financial Crimes Unit. She had to call Sergeant Lammers, who would call her own boss, and then the captain would contact another detective who specialized in fraud cases. The rental scams were minor crimes, but Angelina might link to bigger criminals. Evans hoped to question the sister about Logan Grayson and cocaine at some point too, but it wasn’t a priority today. But turning in the coke she’d bought from Marcos at the party was critical. She would do it on her way home. Or maybe call Joe or Parker and ask them to pick it up.

  She stopped at her desk to make those calls and check her e-mail. As soon as she pressed Lammers’ name in her phone, she regretted it. What if the boss asked about Andra’s case? Jackson might not want Lammers to know anything about Katie’s kidnapping until it was over. Please don’t answer!

  “What have you got, Evans?”

  Shit! She couldn’t lie. “A case of fraud I need to pass to Financial Crimes. It developed out of Logan Grayson’s case.” Another bad move. Were the pain pills making her stupid?

  “I thought I told you to let that one go and help Jackson with his investigation.” Lammers wasn’t yelling, so Evans held hope it wouldn’t get ugly.

  “I attended his memorial. You know the victim’s family appreciates it.”

  “I thought you were in the hospital. Schak said you were badly injured.” Now her boss sounded confused.

  “I’ve got two cracked ribs and a lot of bruises, but I’m functional.” She wanted to wrap it up and get back to the conference room. “Anyway, I’ve got a young woman in the soft pit who wants to give a full statement, naming her conspirators, in exchange for leniency. I thought Financial Crimes should handle it.”

  “I’ll get someone, but how did this come up?”

  Evans was desperate to hang up, and she had to keep this simple. “I discovered that Grayson and his girlfriend were involved in a rental scam.

  “Is this connected to Jackson’s case?” Lammers was getting loud. “He won’t answer my calls. What’s really going on here?”

  Oh hell. “We had a new development this morning involving the victim’s son.” Evans couldn’t continue, afraid for Jackson’s career if she said too much and afraid for herself if she lied to her boss. “I have to go. The fraud suspect is pregnant, and I have to check on her. Please get another detective in here soon.” She hung up before Lammers could respond.

  On her way back to the team, she racked her brain for ideas to help identify Benjie’s kidnapper and wrap up the case. Carl Wagner, a fifty-year-old married man traveling with his wife, didn’t seem to fit the profile of a sociopath obsessed with taking custody of his biological son. She hoped to steer Jackson in a new direction, but she didn’t have anything better.

  Evans scanned through her phone log, looking for the Utah call she’d made the day before. She stepped into the conference room, where the team was discussing possible exchange scenarios involving Katie and Benjie.

  “Anything new?” she asked.

  “No. We’re waiting for McCray to get here with Benjie, so I can prove to the kidnapper I intend to cooperate.” Jackson’s skin had a grayish tint, and his eyes were tight with stress. He seemed to have aged significantly in the two years she’d known him.

  “What about the number he called from?” she asked.

  “Probably a stolen phone. Verizon is tracking it, but no word yet. And Katie’s phone was tucked into a cyclist’s bike pack. This guy is very careful.”

  Evans hesitated, then gave the update on Catalina, including her call to Lammers. “I didn’t tell her about the Nissan truck, the kidnapping, or that these cases overlapped. I’ll let you handle that.”

  Jackson grimaced. “Updating the boss will have to wait. This is developing too quickly to handle any other way.” He looked at each of them. “You don’t have to go along. I’m not asking you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”

  “We’re on board,” Schak said, before she could.

  Jackson’s phone rang, and it was McCray, announcing he was in the front parking lot with Benjie. Jackson and Schak went down to open the gate and let him into the back lot where they could come upstairs without being seen from the street. Evans stayed, not wanting to push herself physically until she had to. While they were gone, Quince stepped out to mak
e a call, and she redialed the Maverick Center in Salt Lake City.

  The number rang eight times, and just as she was about to hang up again, a young person answered, sounding rattled. “Ticket counter. Can you hold?”

  “No. I’m with the police,” Evans said in a rush.

  A startled gasp. “What do you want?”

  “I need to know what event was held at the Maverick Center on January thirteenth, 2010.”

  “I don’t have time to find that. I’m not even sure I can.”

  “This is a murder investigation. I’m staying on the line until you get me the information.”

  The clerk whimpered a little. “I’ll have to call my boss.”

  “Write down my phone number!” Loud and aggressive seemed necessary for the situation. If the clerk hung up, the lead went back to being a dead end. Evans gave her the number and made her read it back. After they hung up, she told herself to let the detail go. The clerk probably wouldn’t call back, and the information probably didn’t matter. If things went their way this afternoon, they would have the perp in custody soon anyway.

  The guys came back with Jackson carrying Benjie, who clung to him like a boy whose father was back from deployment. What would happen when this was over? Did Jackson have a plan for the kid?

  “Hey, McCray, good to see you.” Evans squeezed his arm. He still wore brown corduroy and looked like he hadn’t eaten in a week. She’d heard he was volunteering on cold case files with other retired detectives, but they hadn’t crossed paths in a while.

  “Thanks.” He looked around at the big wall monitor and comfortable chairs. “The city finally came through. For twenty-five years I broke my ass on one of those metal fold-up pieces of crap.”

  “You just need more padding,” Schak said with a laugh.

  “I’m calling the perp now,” Jackson announced. “But I’m not optimistic he still has the phone.”

  They all went quiet. Evans thought about the last time the five of them had been together. A triple homicide. Right before the worst of the budget cuts. Right before McCray got hit with a stray bullet during a takedown.

  After a long wait, Jackson clicked off. “It went to voicemail. A woman’s message. The last phone he used must have been stolen.” He set Benjie down, got him started on a puzzle, then paced the room. “We have to wait for him to contact us.” He turned to Quince. “Did you call the FBI?”

  “Yes. They’re pulling together a team now. You need to update Sergeant Lammers.”

  Jackson nodded but kept pacing.

  Evans’ phone rang, and it was the rattled clerk at the ticket office. “The event the night you asked about was a fundraiser for the Salt Lake City Police Department.”

  The unexpected report gave her a prickly sensation. “Thanks.” She clicked off and glanced up. Everyone was looking at her. “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but I picked up some items Joe found in Andra’s car seats. One was a ticket stub from four years ago. I just learned that the event was a fundraiser for the Salt Lake police.”

  Jackson mulled it over. “Andra’s friend who told me about the surrogacy is married to a police sergeant, so I’m not surprised to hear she attended a police function.”

  Evans voiced her concerns. “I don’t think Wagner is our perp. He’s older and married and traveling around in a motor home. He doesn’t seem to fit the profile of a custody-issue stalker.”

  “I know that, dammit,” Jackson said, rubbing his temples. “But Wagner has means and motive. And we don’t have anyone else.”

  The prickly sensation again. “What if the perp is a police officer? You know the profession attracts control freaks and egomaniacs. Plus you talked to people in the Salt Lake department, alerting them to the case.”

  Schak nodded. “That would explain why he’s confident, yet careful.”

  Jackson’s eyes widened and his jaw tightened. “I think I know who he is.”

  CHAPTER 41

  Buckley left the girl duct-taped to a chair and went out to search for a place to make the exchange. His brain had been firing on all cylinders since he’d grabbed the girl, and now his nerves were jumping too. He had so much riding on this and so little time. Knowing almost nothing about Eugene made it even harder. But if he was smart and played this right, he’d finally get his boy back and they could move somewhere, start over, and be a family. If he mishandled it, he would end up dead. Suicide by cop, if that’s the way it had to go down. He wasn’t going to prison.

  He drove toward the center of town, thinking he needed a public place where he could disappear into a crowd, then steal another car. He didn’t intend to bring the girl to the exchange. The logistics were too challenging. Plus, she was a police officer’s kid. She probably wouldn’t come along quietly just because he put a gun to her side. He had something a little more extreme in mind—a plan that could prove fatal for her if Jackson double-crossed him. He was counting on the other father to value his own child more than someone else’s. That was human nature.

  His window was down and music played in the distance. Buckley made a left turn on an angled street and drove toward the sound. A few blocks later, he entered a neighborhood with crowded sidewalks. Hordes of people wandered in and out of shops, galleries, and restaurants. The music grew louder, and he followed a group of young people down a side street. Cars lined both sides and dozens of people of all ages gathered in front of a large house where a band played in the yard. These people weren’t from Utah or any middle-class neighborhood he’d ever seen. It was a block party for hippies and hoodlums.

  Which could be perfect. He drove past the crowd, moving slowly, as people wandered into the street without looking. At the corner, a couple performed gymnastics on their front lawn for another crowd of onlookers. Another band played in the distance and he turned left, eventually coming to a large gated lot where vendors had set up booths. Every parking space was taken and he moved slowly past, craning through the metal fence to see what the attractions were. Food booths, a tattoo station, and jewelry vendors mostly. It was hard to see through the thick crowds.

  A group in front moved, and he noticed the main booth. An information center with a door that opened into a gated court. Perfect.

  The car behind him honked, and he pulled forward, nearly hitting a naked man with dreadlocks riding a bicycle. For Pete’s sake! Why didn’t someone arrest the pervert? He couldn’t wait to get out of this crazy town and back to a quiet, rural, God-fearing place where he could raise his boy to be the kind of man he should be.

  It took ten minutes to drive clear of all the crowds, which included another party at a huge brewery. He stopped at the 7-Eleven on the corner and waited for two young boys to come out of the store. They both had cell phones in their hands. Irritated and impatient, he grabbed one of their phones, held up his old badge, and said, “Don’t fuck up this operation. Just keep moving, and I’ll get it back to you.”

  One teenager started to protest, but Buckley grabbed him by the shirt. “Shut the fuck up.” He jumped into the stolen SUV he was driving and gunned it into the street. Even if the kids called the local police, it would be hours or maybe days before anyone took their statement.

  When he was headed back toward the motel, his nerves started to settle down. Three years later, and he still couldn’t believe Andra had stolen baby Ben from the hospital and disappeared. That bitch had signed a contract! A private contract they’d all kept secret, but still, they’d paid her well and Ben was his son.

  What heartbreak they’d been through, especially Melissa. Even after spending a fortune on fertility treatments, the eggs they’d created at the clinic hadn’t implanted. His wife’s uterus wasn’t geared toward a pregnancy. Then through his friend and fellow police officer, they’d met Andra, and learned that she’d been abandoned by her family, church, and fiancé, and needed money to move away and start over. One night after they’d mention
ed their fertility issues, she’d half-jokingly offered to carry a child for them. Melissa had hesitated, but he’d wanted to go for it. The surrogacy had seemed like a win for everyone.

  He drove west, barely noticing traffic, lost in the memory of what had brought him to this fucked-up situation.

  Halfway through Andra’s pregnancy, his wife had been shot dead in a carjacking outside their home. While he was stunned and grieving, a detective in his department—a coworker—had hauled him in for questioning. Melissa’s mother had apparently told investigators she thought he’d done it. The bitch! Buckley slammed his hands against the steering wheel. She’d started this whole fucking thing.

  The next month had turned into a nightmare. A witness had come forward and described someone who looked like him. Before long, he was hounded by the press, arrested by his department, and subjected to a search of his home. Eventually, the charges had been dropped because they had no case. By then, his life was ruined. Not only had he lost his wife, but his job, his reputation, and thousands in defense lawyer fees. All he had left was his unborn son. Then the cunt had stolen baby Ben. He’d gone a little insane that day.

  Now it was time to reclaim his boy and salvage what he could of his life.

  Buckley parked across the street from the motel, knowing he needed to ditch the vehicle and steal another one. But first he had to call Jackson again. He needed to hear Ben’s voice and see his sweet little face. He knew how cops functioned and that Jackson would try to trick him, so he had to stay a step ahead. He was counting on Jackson’s emotional identity as a father to override his duty as a police officer. Today, at the exchange, they would just be two dads, each reuniting with their child, the person they loved most in the world. Jackson might not come alone, but the other cop wouldn’t risk his daughter by bringing in the feds or refusing to give up the boy—a child he wasn’t connected to.