Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  He reached for the stolen cell phone, asking God to get him through the final act of this tragic episode.

  Buckley had tracked Andra to Bremerton in the first few months, but once he arrived in town, she’d been gone. He blamed Christy Chadwell for tipping her off. In the meantime, the trail had gone cold. Andra seemed to have disappeared. Eventually, he’d learned that Andra’s grandmother lived in Drain, Oregon. Last summer, he’d driven down and watched the house for a while. It had quickly become obvious that Andra and Ben weren’t living with her. Then last week, he’d asked his friends, Carl and Susan Wagner, to check on Lucille Caiden when they passed through Lane County on their road trip. Again, he’d been disappointed to learn that Andra and Ben still weren’t with her.

  Having Jackson show up at the Salt Lake department looking for Ben’s family had been an answered prayer. God wanted him to get his son back. He’d believed that from the beginning and had never given up hope. He’d taken the same flight to Eugene as Jackson, keeping his hat over his face and sleeping for most of it. Once they landed, he’d stolen the Tahoe, followed Jackson home, and waited for him to leave again.

  He resented that he’d been forced to become a criminal just to claim his rightful child. But he couldn’t trust the court system. His contract with Andra had not been notarized, he’d been investigated for murder, and he’d had some anger issues after Melissa died. The courts also favored mothers, even if they were a surrogate. And he’d never been able to get close enough to Ben to get a DNA sample that would prove his paternity. A judge would never give him custody. This was his only chance to be a father. The system had left him with no other choice.

  Buckley pressed the number he’d memorized from the business card Jackson had given Dan Chadwell, then keyed in a message: Send Ben’s pic with proof then get ready. Jackson would know what he meant. He regretted calling earlier and talking to Jackson in person, but the other cop obviously hadn’t recognized his voice. He’d only spoken a few words that day outside the Utah department, but since then his joy and excitement had been hard to contain. He was so close now. In a few hours, he would have his son, and they would be on the road to their new life together.

  CHAPTER 42

  Two weeks earlier

  Andra Caiden put down her phone and burst into tears. Another property management company had turned her down. How could she ever develop a decent rental history if she had to keep moving and changing her name?

  “Mommy?” Benjie looked up from where he worked a puzzle on the floor.

  “I’m fine, sweetie.” She gave him a bright smile. “How’s the new puzzle?”

  “It’s fine.”

  He often mimicked whatever she’d just said, so she tried not to swear. But she had to get out of this shitty little quad unit. It was no place for a child. The guy who had just moved in next door—and shared a kitchen with her and two others—showed way too much interest in Benjie. The creep was a pedophile, for sure. She’d already given the manager notice, but with a limited amount of cash and no long-term rental history, she couldn’t find an apartment she could get into. Frustrating! She liked Eugene and didn’t want to leave. Such a pretty town, and the community college had a nursing school, which she wanted to attend someday. But it would never happen. Staying that long was a risk.

  “I’ll find a new place soon.” She went to the fridge for a beer. Her one indulgence, and only on days off.

  “With a yard and a swing?” Benjie said, his little voice full of hope.

  “Maybe.”

  More than anything, she wanted Benjie to live in a real home with his own bedroom and a yard. It broke her heart to see him cooped up in this little studio. Had she done the right thing three years ago? She had no doubt that keeping him from his violent contract father was the right decision. After Carson Buckley had killed his wife, she knew she couldn’t honor their agreement. But she’d needed the money to leave Utah and start over, so she couldn’t bring herself to give it back. She’d also been too afraid to even confront him about it. After the shooting, he’d become angry and hostile and she’d worried about what Benjie’s life would be like with him.

  She couldn’t let her baby grow up like she had, with a domineering man who treated his children like possessions. The tattoo had covered her father’s brand, but the scar went much deeper. The more she’d learned about Buckley, the more controlling he’d seemed. For a while, she’d considered finding another couple to adopt the baby, so he could have a real family and a secure life. But once Benjie was born and she’d seen his little face, she’d fallen hopelessly in love.

  Andra scooted to the floor to help Benjie with his puzzle for a few minutes. Maybe this time she needed to find a roommate. Another woman who already had a house and wanted to rent out a couple of bedrooms. It wouldn’t be ideal, but it would be a better environment than this tiny space where they shared a bed. It might even be nice to have an adult housemate as well. Benjie and her caregiver work kept her busy during the day, but her nights were lonely. She’d been alone for years, and a boyfriend seemed out of the question. She had to be ready to pick up and move on a moment’s notice. But Benjie was worth it. She loved her son more than life itself.

  After the puzzle, Andra went back to scanning Craigslist for rooms and found a surprising offer. A young couple wanted to share their house and didn’t require a deposit. She responded to the ad, saying she wanted both bedrooms, if they were okay with having a child in the house. Then she crossed her fingers. Maybe this would turn out well. Maybe her luck was about to change.

  CHAPTER 43

  While they waited to hear from the kidnapper again, Jackson googled Carson Buckley and learned the ex-cop had been charged with murder. Based on the date of his wife’s death and the news stories about the investigation, the incident had taken place during Andra’s pregnancy. Jackson looked up at his team, who were either on their laptops or their phones, digging for leads. “No wonder Andra took the baby and ran. Buckley was charged with killing his wife.”

  “I see that,” Evans said. “But the charges were dropped.”

  “Let’s get his name and description out to patrol units. When we’re sure, we’ll notify the state police.” Jackson visualized Buckley standing in front of the Utah police department, a big guy with brutally short gray hair, icy-gray eyes, and a scratchy voice that he now realized matched the kidnapper’s. Buckley, the sergeant’s friend, was one of five people in Salt Lake he’d spoken to about Andra. Jackson felt pretty damn sure he was their man. Yet Buckley didn’t know they were onto him—or he wouldn’t have risked making a call instead of sending another text.

  “We shouldn’t let him know we’ve identified him,” Evans said. “We don’t want him wearing a disguise or going to ground.”

  “I was just thinking that. It’s the only edge we’ve got.”

  Jackson’s phone beeped and he checked his messages. But it wasn’t a text. A photo of Katie, duct-taped to a chair, filled his screen. Her mouth was covered with tape, and her eyes were wide with terror. A black satchel leaned against the chair legs.

  He sucked in a long breath, and his lungs seemed to fill with hot oil. For a moment he couldn’t speak.

  “What is it?” Evans reached for the phone. He didn’t want anyone to see the photo of Katie, but that was emotional and foolish. He let Evans take the phone, then pass it to the others.

  “We’ll get the bastard,” she promised. “Let’s get this photo up on the monitor and see if we can locate where it was taken.” She plugged his phone into the room’s computer and started working the keyboard.

  Jackson remembered that some cell phone pictures had embedded codes. “Let’s get a tech guy in here too. The photo might have a GPS location.”

  Another text came in: Send Ben’s pic with proof then get ready.

  “It’s time.” Pulse escalating, Jackson stepped out of the room and into the open space
by the windows, where Schak was playing trucks with the boy.

  “Hey, Benjie, let’s take a picture.”

  The boy stood. “With my truck!” He held up the toy and smiled.

  Jackson walked over and kneeled next to Benjie. He put their faces together, held out his phone, and took a selfie, as Katie would call it. Please let her be okay, he pleaded, no longer sure who he was asking for help.

  “Anything new?” Schak asked.

  “The perp has a new cell phone and asked to see a photo of Benjie.” Jackson sent the picture, and a wave of shame washed over him. He had no choice. He kept telling himself that—so he could move forward. “Quince is calling phone companies, trying to track the number, but I’m sure the perp will ditch the phone soon.”

  “Knowing he’s an ex-cop should make this easier,” Schak said, grunting as he got up from the floor. “But it doesn’t. It makes him smart and unpredictable.”

  “And sadistic. He sent a photo of Katie. She’s taped to a chair and looks terrified.”

  The return text came back in a minute: Bring Ben to the info booth at the block party. Tell him it’s a game, then walk away. Katie will be nearby. Now!

  “What block party?” He showed the text to Schak, his hand twitching from too much coffee and not enough sleep.

  “In the Whiteaker neighborhood. We’ve got units out there.”

  “We have to go now.” To Benjie, he said, “I’ll be back in a moment and we’ll get a snack.”

  “I want grapes!” His face lit up. The boy was finally coming around.

  And he was about to abandon him again. “I think you’ll have to settle for popcorn or something.” It was probably the healthiest thing in the snack case.

  “I like popcorn.” Benjie took a little hop of excitement, and Jackson’s heart lurched. Despite being on the run and dirt poor, Andra had raised Benjie to be good-natured and polite. Jackson vowed, again, to find and punish her killer. Which was probably an ex-cop named Carson Buckley—who had also murdered his own wife. He may have killed Andra’s grandmother too, when she wouldn’t reveal their location. Jackson couldn’t believe he was about to hand Benjie over to the psychopath.

  Footsteps thundered up the stairs, and his gut clenched.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Sergeant Lammers shouted from the landing.

  Benjie grabbed Jackson’s leg and whined.

  “Can we take this into the conference room?” Jackson extracted the boy and tried to soothe him. “Everything is fine. Will you play with your truck for another minute so I can talk to my boss?”

  Benjie’s little brow furrowed into worry. “Is she mean?”

  “Sort of,” he whispered.

  Benjie whispered back, “Maybe she needs a hug.”

  Jackson almost laughed. That would be a good way to get a knee in the balls. “Be right back,” he said to the boy.

  He and Schak followed Lammers into the meeting room, leaving the door open so he could see Benjie.

  Their boss stood near the door, arms crossed.

  Jackson gave the short version first. “Someone tried to abduct Benjie from my house this morning, but he failed. This afternoon, the perp took my daughter hostage, and now he wants to trade.” He showed Lammers the photo of Katie duct-taped to a chair.

  “For fuck’s sake!” Lammers’ expression went from stunned, to sympathetic, to angry. “Why didn’t you call me? Why isn’t the FBI involved? What the fuck are you thinking?”

  “It all happened fast, and we think we know who took him.” He glossed over his focus on the Wagners. “The perp wants to meet and exchange—” Jackson paused, struggling with what to call their respective children. Katie was a hostage, but Benjie wasn’t. “He wants to exchange the kids. My daughter for his son.”

  “Who is he and what is your plan?” She stared at Jackson, her eyes drilling into him.

  “We think he’s an ex-cop from Salt Lake City named Carson Buckley. Patrol units have his description, and we’re heading out to meet him now.”

  “Meet him where and do what?”

  “The information booth at the Whiteaker block party.” The next part was harder to articulate. “I plan to make the exchange. Katie is a hostage and her life is at stake. We have to give him Benjie to save Katie.”

  Lammers started to shout, but he cut her off.

  “We will not let him get away! We’ll have four of us out there, plus patrol units. And we know what he looks like.”

  “That’s a dangerous proposition. We don’t negotiate with hostage takers.”

  “It’s not a negotiation. It’s a ransom. And we have to pay it to get Katie back.”

  Lammers slammed a hand on the table. “You can’t pay with another’s person’s life!”

  He knew that! The thought of handing Benjie over crushed him. But he had no other choice. “Buckley won’t hurt the boy! He just wants custody. He’ll grab him and run, but we’ll stop him.”

  Lammers sat down and drummed the table with her fingers. “We need the feds involved.”

  “We called them, and they’re pulling together a team. But you know how long it takes to get tech and surveillance people down from Portland.” Jackson started for the door. “He wants this to happen now.”

  “So stall him.”

  “She’s my daughter and I’m getting her back!” Jackson strode out and his team followed.

  Benjie stood near the door, his cheeks dimpled with pleasure. “Where are we going?”

  CHAPTER 44

  McCray and Benjie rode with Jackson, while Schak, Quince, and Lammers each took their own car. The boss had come along in case important decisions—such as barricading streets—needed to be made. Lammers hadn’t wanted McCray to go along, because he was no longer officially with the department, but he’d climbed in the backseat with Benjie, and Jackson had taken off.

  They took the expressway to Sixth and Washington, which was only a short distance from the Whiteaker neighborhood. Jackson didn’t know where the information booth was located within the eight-by-eight-block gathering, but instinct told him it would be on the north side, probably along Second or Third Avenue, the only areas with open spaces. As he approached the turn on Blair, he thought about the small, sleazy motels a few blocks farther out. Was Katie in one of them? That’s where he would hole up if he were a criminal from out of town. Too bad they couldn’t just bust open doors until they found her.

  “I’ll bet he stayed nearby in one of the hooker hangouts,” McCray said, echoing his thoughts.

  “Do you think Lammers would authorize a room-by-room search?”

  “For six or seven motels? It would take too long, and the lawsuits would bankrupt the city.” McCray sounded worried. “They’re probably not there now anyway. He’s got to be here in the neighborhood, waiting in a parked car.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” The one thing they had going for them was that Buckley—with his height and military-short haircut—would stand out in the crowd. “He can’t walk around with Katie being duct-taped, so he has to keep her down and out of sight.” It was bizarre to talk about his daughter as a victim in a case he was handling. Keeping his emotions in check was duplicitous and exhausting. No way in hell could he purposely stall this encounter. He was desperate to get it over with.

  The orange ball of sun was sinking toward the horizon, reminding him they only had an hour of daylight left. A few blocks later, he had to slow down. The boulevard was crammed with cars, street performers, and spectators milling around. Goddammit! The crowd could make their job impossible. Buckley had chosen a good location—and lucked out with his timing.

  “What are they doing?” Benjie asked, excited by the activity.

  “It’s a street party,” McCray said. “Like a birthday for the neighborhood.”

  While waiting for traffic to move and pedestrians to cro
ss, Jackson scanned the side streets, looking for a tall man in a parked car. It took five minutes to drive three blocks, and his upper body broke into a sweat. Knowing that patrol units were also searching the area gave him little comfort. Cars lined every inch of every street and filled every driveway, and the crowds were thicker than he’d ever seen at any neighborhood event, including campus parties.

  The perp could be wearing a hooded sweatshirt or one of the wild party hats being sold by corner vendors. Or he could have stolen a tie-dyed shirt to make himself blend with the subculture crowd. A wave of panic washed over him. What if Buckley had already killed Katie to simplify things for himself? What if he took Benjie and got away? Jackson couldn’t imagine his life without either of them.

  A group of drunk young men stood in the road near the brewery. He honked and gestured for them to move. They ignored him.

  “Want me to get out and use my powers of persuasion?” McCray asked.

  A cop joke for drawing a weapon. “Not yet.”

  Jackson honked again, and a young man flipped him off. The others laughed. He let off the brake, inched forward, and honked again. They sauntered slowly off the road, and he was finally able to turn down Second Avenue.

  An even thicker crowd greeted them, and the music was overwhelming. On the left, a band played in an open lot, but he couldn’t see the musicians because of the large audience. On the right, shops lined the street—but only halfway. He stopped near a large corner lot with metal fencing and a ticket-taker at the gate. Select vendors were inside, and an information booth butted up against the fence in front. This was the drop spot.

  Jackson radioed his team, which now included patrol units: “The information booth is on Second between Van Buren and Jackson Streets. North side.” The department had recently started using a scrambler that kept people with CB radios from listening in. The public wasn’t happy about it, but the change gave operations like this one a better chance of success. Especially since Buckley was an ex-cop who would know how to monitor their activities.