Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “I’ll get them going on it now.” Jackson looked past Schak. The two patrol officers he’d sent to search the perimeter were headed back. When they reached him, he asked, “What can you tell me about the homeless camp?”

  The older officer shook his head. “Not much. Whoever it was cleared out recently and didn’t leave much trash.” He handed Jackson a large plastic bag. “An empty bottle of Jim Beam, two Luna bar wrappers, and a piece of tissue—I only collected items that might hold DNA.”

  “Speaking of body fluids”—the younger officer held out a smaller plastic bag—“I have a present for you.”

  Jackson took the evidence, realizing it held the vomit Schak had mentioned. “Lovely.” He grimaced. “If this is the worst of my day, I’ll consider it a success.”

  “A transient puked on my pants once,” the older officer added. “Right down the path from here. We were hauling him out of the canal.”

  “Speaking of the path,” Jackson echoed, “I need you guys to find Prez. I’m guessing he didn’t go far. He may be just on the other side of the canal in that wooded area. There’s a few camps back there.”

  “And when we find him?”

  “Don’t question him. Just bring him back here to me.” Without a uniform, Jackson would be less intimidating and get more information. “If I’ve moved on from here, call me and take Prez into headquarters and give him something to eat and drink.”

  The older cop raised his eyebrows, and Jackson realized he thought the transient was a suspect. And he could be. They’d had a lot of homeless-on-homeless violence lately. “He’s more likely a witness than a perp. Nothing was stolen that we know of.”

  The officers headed for their cars. They would have to drive to City View to cross over the canal. The water was shallow and only five to ten feet wide, but why get their boots wet?

  Not wanting to put the vomit in his shoulder bag, Jackson locked the evidence in his car, then checked in with the medical examiner. “What else did you find?”

  “He has a prosthetic leg.” Gunderson rapped Mazari’s left thigh, and it made a sound that was clearly not flesh and muscle. “I’ll know more this afternoon when I process him.”

  A wave of sadness rolled over Jackson. The dead man had served his country and likely lost his leg to a bomb, then he’d come home and been slaughtered like an animal. Tragedy on tragedy. Some people seemed doomed.

  Two men in dark suits approached from the Shari’s parking lot, where Jackson’s car was. Detective Michael Quince was tall and boyishly handsome, while Jim Trang, the assistant DA, was short, with grumpy, furrowed features. Both would be useful on this case.

  “About time you got here.”

  Quince grinned and Trang scowled.

  “I can’t stay,” Quince said. “Lammers called me just as I arrived and said to head across the street. It looks like a case of fraud.”

  “Why the ambulance?”

  “An old woman had a heart attack”—Quince paused for effect—“right after she learned her account had been nearly cleaned out.”

  “Another double tragedy.” The personal fraud and resulting death were far worse than a bank robbery.

  “What’s the homicide scene?” Trang wanted to know.

  “Thirty-two-year-old male with his throat slit while he sat in his vehicle. Rafel Mazari, National Guard sergeant with a missing leg. Killed between ten and eleven last night and found by the tavern bartender this morning at nine.” Jackson paused to let Trang catch up with his notes. The ADA used a black leather binder with a yellow legal tablet. The EPD all scribbled on little notebooks that fit in their pockets. “We’re looking for a possible witness-slash-perp, a homeless guy named Prez.”

  “Do you have a task force meeting planned yet?” Quince asked. “Lammers wants me to work both cases.”

  “Let’s meet at six in the conference room. If something shakes loose before then, I’ll call you.”

  Quince headed for the sidewalk as Evans came their way. They high-fived each other in passing. Jackson had thought if Quince hadn’t been married, those two might have hooked up when Evans first joined the unit. More recently, when they were working his parents’ murder case, Jackson and Evans had experienced a little moment, and he’d wondered if she had feelings for him. Now she was dating Ben Stricklyn, an IA detective, so it was a moot point. Lucky Ben.

  Before he could feel guilty about the thought, his phone rang. It was Kera.

  “Hey, Wade. I thought I would check in and see how the move is going. Should I bring you guys some lunch? Or am I too late?” His girlfriend treated him better than he deserved. They’d met when the Planned Parenthood clinic where she worked had been bombed, and had been dating just over a year

  “A sweet thought, but I got called out to a homicide. So Katie and the movers are handling it without me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. A tough case?” She was asking if any kids had been killed. As a nurse, dealing with injured or victimized children was the hardest part of her job too.

  “Emotionally, no, but logistically yes.” Jackson remembered finding Kera’s card. “Do you know a veteran named Rafel Mazari?”

  He heard a sharp intake of breath. “Don’t tell me Rafel is dead.”

  “I’m sorry, Kera.” He paused, giving her a moment to process the news. “Did you work with him?”

  “Yes.” She choked back a cry. “He was murdered?”

  “Last night.”

  “That poor man.”

  Jackson heard her distress and knew it wasn’t just about Rafel Mazari. Kera’s son Nathan had been killed in Iraq less than two years ago. Her grief was still raw at times. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you about him. Were you close?”

  “I cared about him.”

  Jackson hated what he had to say next. “I’ll need to talk with you later today or tomorrow about this case.”

  “You mean question me.”

  “Just gathering information so I can solve this.”

  “I know. I have to get off the phone now.” She hung up without saying good-bye. Jackson tried not to take it personally, knowing she was upset by the death. But it worried him. Kera had been a little distant since he’d decided to move into his parents’ old house instead of settling in with her. He felt guilty, but Kera still had her daughter-in-law and baby grandson living with her, and he couldn’t handle the chaos. Their family lives were both too complicated to attempt to mesh them together right now.

  Jackson stared at the phone, wondering if Kera was mad at him or just upset about Rafel. When the case was over, they would do another getaway. A weekend at the coast or maybe Belknap Hot Springs.

  A horn blast from the street caught his attention. A little red car was trying to turn into the tavern’s parking lot, and a patrol officer was waving it on. The female driver gunned the engine and pulled into Shari’s next door. Jackson hoped it was the night bartender.

  The woman climbed out of her car and marched over. She was forty-something and almost as wide as she was tall. She wore her dyed-red hair in a twisted bun on top of her head and looked like an angry bird. Jackson hoped she’d lose the attitude. He was not in the mood to be patient. He intercepted her on her way into the tavern and introduced himself.

  “Mila Kruz,” she said, brushing past him. “But you knew that. I have to get some coffee before I can even be civil.”

  Jackson followed her into the building. The windowless space felt smaller this time, and he hoped to get through the schematics quickly. The day bartender was slicing onions and pickles for a lunch crowd that wouldn’t get through the perimeter. The pungent smells made Jackson’s stomach growl. Kruz poured herself a tall mug, added a little cold water, and downed half her coffee standing in front of the kitchen sink.

  “That’s better.” She met Jackson’s eyes for the first time. “Who got killed?”

  “Rafel Mazari.”

  “That’s fucked up.” Her muddy brown eyes slid away. “He was a war veteran, you k
now. He lost a leg in Afghanistan.”

  She knew something she wasn’t telling, and he would have to pry it out of her. “Can we sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  They went to the same table near the front door, which Jackson propped open again. He took out his notepad.

  “It’s a little chilly,” Kruz complained.

  “I need the fresh air.” He also wanted better light on her face so he could detect any signs of deception. Not that she was a viable suspect—unless she’d snuck out on her break to commit murder—but she might protect someone else. “When did you come in to work?”

  “Five p.m.”

  “Was Mazari here?”

  “You mean Rafel? No, he came in around eight or so.”

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes, but his buddy Jake came in soon after and joined him.”

  “Jake who?”

  She shrugged.

  “Where did they sit?”

  She pointed at a table in the corner near the entrance to the kitchen. “He always sat there.”

  “How often did he come in?”

  “Two or three times a week.”

  “How long did Jake sit with him?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe an hour.” She gulped the rest of her coffee.

  “What happened last night? I can tell you’re avoiding the subject.”

  Her shoulders tightened. “Things got a little tense between Rafel and his wife, but I don’t know the particulars. I was behind the bar.”

  “What’s his wife’s name?”

  “Sierra Kent.”

  “When did she come in?”

  “No clue. I only noticed her when things got loud.” The bartender pushed up from the table. “I gotta get some more coffee.”

  Jackson went with her and grabbed himself a cup. This would be a long day.

  When they returned to the table, he said, “Tell me what happened from the time Jake sat down with Rafel.”

  “They had a couple beers, then another guy joined them for a while. Then I heard a commotion and looked up.” She stopped suddenly and yawned. “Excuse me.” A pause. “Rafel’s wife, Sierra, was at the table and they were arguing. I saw Jake leave, then I got busy. Next time I looked over, they were all gone.”

  Jackson took a moment to catch up his notes. He would expand them later. “What time was that?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe around ten.”

  “What was the argument about?”

  Kruz hesitated. “I didn’t hear anything they said.”

  “But someone did. And you heard them gossip about it.”

  “An old guy named Zack said Rafel accused her of cheating on him.”

  “What’s Zack’s last name and how can I reach him?”

  The bartender rolled her eyes. “You can come back tonight. He’ll be sitting right there on that third stool.” She pointed toward the bar.

  “Who else was here that might have overheard it?”

  “A woman named Nikki. She’s here every night too and knows everybody. She comes in around seven.”

  Jackson tried to mask his frustration. Spending the evening in a bar, talking to daily drinkers, was not an ideal investigation. But he would get more information in this environment than if he dragged them in to headquarters. “What can you tell me about Rafel’s wife?”

  “She’s blonde and pretty and rarely comes in here.”

  Not helpful. “What do you know about Jake?”

  “Nikki can help you with that. I’m busy working when I’m here.”

  Jackson hoped Evans’ computer search had come up with something. He needed to find Rafel’s wife and speak with her immediately. “Thanks for your time. I may have more questions later. If you think of anything in the meantime, call me.”

  “I can go now?”

  “Yes.” Jackson stood, handed Kruz a business card, and strode outside. The sky had turned an angry gray, but Jackson was still happy to see it.

  Evans sat on the hood of her car, intently perusing her little iPad. He was eager to see what she’d discovered, but Gunderson was loading up the body, so Jackson hurried over to him. “Did you find anything else I should know?”

  “The victim is wearing a chain under his T-shirt with a little locket. I found this key inside.” The ME held out a small plastic bag with a small silver locket and key.

  Jackson brought it close to his face. It looked like it might open a diary or miniature lockbox. “Thanks. What time is the autopsy?”

  “Eight o’clock. The deck is clear for him.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Evans called to him from her car, so Jackson headed over.

  “I can’t find much on Mazari, but his wife, Sierra Kent, is a veterinary assistant. She works at the Animal Care Clinic and volunteers with Pro-Bone-O, the group that treats homeless people’s pets. She might be at the clinic now.” Evans looked up. “Should we go see her?”

  “We have to split up and cover a lot of territory—fast. I’ll go see the wife, and I need you to track down Mazari’s friend Jake and another guy that was with them last night. The wife was here too, and witnesses say Mazari and his wife argued.”

  “So it could be a domestic.” Evans looked disappointed.

  Jackson mentally mapped out a strategy to keep his task force moving forward. “After you run down the witnesses’ names, head out to Mazari’s house and wait for my call. I’ll go see the wife at work and get her permission to search the house. If I can’t, I’ll send Schak to get a warrant.”

  “Is Quince with us on this homicide?”

  “Part-time.” Jackson took out his phone. “What’s the number of the wife’s clinic?”

  He keyed it in and saved it, deciding not to call ahead. He found Schak in his cruiser, eating a sandwich. “Where’d you get that?”

  “I brought it from home and was lucky enough to be at my desk when Lammers called. My wife packed an apple too. You want it?”

  “Sure.” It was better than nothing, and he’d never seen Schak eat fruit anyway. “I’m going out to inform and interview the wife. Evans will head for the victim’s home. I’ll try to get permission for a search, but if I don’t, I need you to round up a warrant ASAP, then join her. I’ll come out as soon as I can.”

  “Will do.” Schak put down his lunch. “After the Walker family, I thought I’d seen it all. But this kill looks so cold it creeps me out.”

  “I know what you mean.”

  CHAPTER 4

  The Animal Care Clinic near Twenty-Eighth and Willamette had once been a Mexican restaurant, and its beige stucco exterior and arched entry gave it a surreal look, as though it belonged on a movie set. The interior, however, didn’t smell like enchiladas. Instead, a pungent mix of wet dog and harsh antiseptic assaulted Jackson’s nostrils.

  A worried woman with a cat in a plastic carrier sat in the small lobby. Behind the reception counter, a young woman stared at an oversize monitor, chewing gum. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Sierra Kent.”

  “Can I tell her who’s asking?”

  Jackson hesitated. If the wife was their perp, he didn’t want to give her a chance to scoot out the back door. But without the proper incentive, she might ignore him. “Detective Jackson.”

  The receptionist gave him a long look up and down, and he imagined what she would report to Sierra: He’s forty-something, six feet tall, with dark hair and nearly black eyes. He’s dressed nicely, but he’s got a scar above his left eye, and he’s kind of scary looking. He might even be wearing a gun under that suede jacket.

  Jackson gave her a friendly smile before she turned away.

  In a moment, the receptionist came back, followed by a gorgeous woman. Sierra Kent was as tall as him, but with a face like a model: wide-spaced, sky-blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and lush, pouty lips. The white lab coat couldn’t hide her full breasts, and Jackson felt a tug of attraction.

  “This is Sierra Kent,” the receptionist s
aid, then plopped down.

  “I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. Can we go someplace private?”

  Her eyes widened in alarm. “Is Rafel hurt?”

  “Let’s go sit down somewhere.” He stepped forward, hoping she would comply rather than panic.

  She pivoted and strode down a narrow hallway. Following, he noticed her hair: long ash-blonde dreadlocks pulled together in a thick ponytail. It surprised him. Dreads were somewhat common in Eugene, but not usually on professionals.

  They entered a small cluttered office with two desks and an arched window. Jackson sat in the visitor’s chair as Sierra plopped down on the other side of her messy desk.

  “Please tell me what happened,” she begged. “Rafel didn’t come home last night. I know something’s wrong.”

  “Rafel Mazari is your husband?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry to report that he was found dead in his Jeep this morning.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh god, no.”

  Jackson gave her a minute. As the spouse, she was automatically their primary suspect, but her surprise seemed genuine. He walked a fine line in this situation and even had to be careful about how much he told her. Sierra cried for minute, shoulders shaking, then abruptly looked up. “Was it an overdose?”

  Jackson jotted a quick note. “Was Rafel a drug addict?”

  “No, but he drank too much sometimes after taking his pain pills. Tell me what happened.”

  “He was attacked in his vehicle in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad.”

  Sierra looked confused. “Attacked how?”

  The wife was either a skilled liar or she really didn’t know how her husband had died. But he couldn’t give her the details yet. He had to hold back to see if she would reveal information only the killer would know. “He was killed with a knife.”

  She sucked in her breath. “But why?”

  “We don’t know yet. We’d like to go through Rafel’s personal items and see if we can learn anything that will help us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We want to look at his computer and check through his drawers for a journal or appointment book, for example.”