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

by L. J. Sellers

  She glared, then marched down the short hallway to a bedroom in the back. A huge steel gun safe took up a corner of the room, contrasting sharply with the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. Sierra pulled a key from a fake candle and opened the safe. “If Rafel wasn’t shot with a gun, I don’t see how his gun collection is evidence.”

  Jackson understood her point, but he wasn’t backing down. He didn’t want their prime suspect to have access to weapons. “Everything is evidence until we rule it out. Everyone is a suspect until we rule them out. Please wait in the living room while we conduct our search.”

  “As soon as Adam arrives, I’m taking him to his aunt’s house. I don’t want him to be here for this.”

  “I understand. Tell me her name, address, and connection to Rafel.”

  “Sasha Altman. She’s Rafel’s sister. She lives on Blackfoot, but I can’t think of the exact address right now.” Sierra seemed near tears again.

  Jackson reminded himself she could be a victim too. “Take some time to inform your family, but please keep yourself available to us for further questioning.” He’d have the patrol officer follow her until he was confident she wasn’t planning to leave town.

  Sierra reluctantly left the room. Evans, who’d pulled on gloves during the exchange, yanked open a nightstand drawer and withdrew a large silver handgun. It looked like a Glock. “They do like to be prepared,” she commented. “Not that I blame them.”

  Jackson heard a school bus brake on the street outside. “Bag and tag all of it,” he said. “I want to get a look at the kid before she whisks him away.”

  He hurried up the hall, grateful he wouldn’t be the one to tell the young boy his dad had been killed. Jackson’s own parents had been murdered when he was thirty, and he’d never forget the look on the face of the sergeant who’d had to break the news. This would be the worst day of Adam Mazari’s life.

  Sierra rushed outside to intercept the boy on the sidewalk. Jackson would have liked to overhear their conversation, but he watched out the window and left them their privacy. Had he been insensitive? Too insistent on searching the home ASAP?

  The boy was small for his age and had light-brown hair over a round face. He must take after his biological mother, Jackson thought, because he sure didn’t look like Rafel Mazari. He hoped they would solve the case without having to question the child. Mazari’s death in a tavern parking lot, rather than his home, meant his son probably didn’t have any relevant information, but Jackson couldn’t rule it out.

  Sierra put Adam in her car, quickly packed an overnight bag for the boy, then left without speaking. He noticed she didn’t pack a bag for herself. There was so much more he needed to ask her.

  After sending the patrol officer to follow Sierra, Jackson and Evans each made several trips to his car, carrying an assortment of hunting rifles, automatic weapons, and an antique revolver. They also bagged twelve knives, nunchakus, and a set of brass knuckles.

  “Holy crap,” Schak said, as Jackson walked past him for the third time. “Was he expecting the war to come to him?”

  “Maybe. It happens sometimes with combat troops.” Jackson paused. “Find anything interesting?”

  “Not yet. This computer has been scrubbed. As in, no history of internet use. Williams might be able to retrieve the data, but I can’t.”

  “Any personal files? Letters? Bank statements?”

  “Sierra has files relating to animal medicine, PDFs with organic-farming information, and e-mails from her mother, but Rafel doesn’t have anything.”

  “That’s odd.”

  “It’s almost like he knew something was going down and deleted his personal stuff.” Schak pivoted to face Jackson. “What do you think of the wife?”

  “A little cold and a little defensive. If she’s the killer, she’s stopped bothering to put on a phony show for us.”

  “Stunning to look at too, but those dreadlocks are freaky.”

  “They are.”

  Jackson took the last two rifles and locked them in the backseat of his car. Next, he and Evans searched every inch of the master bedroom, trying not to leave a mess. Evans found a vibrator in a zipped case in one of the dressers, but nothing related to the murder. The master bathroom proved more fruitful. The top shelf of the medicine cabinet was lined with pill bottles, all prescribed to Rafel Mazari: OxyContin, Xanax, Klonopin, Zoloft, neomycin, and Flexeril. Jackson recognized them as mostly pain pills and mood stabilizers. He searched the small trash next to the toilet, hoping to find an empty syringe, but instead came up with several small bloody bandages. He bagged and tagged one in case it contained relevant DNA, then changed his gloves, stuffing the old pair back in his bag.

  He conducted a cursory search of the boy’s room, while Evans dug through the closet at the end of the hall. He crossed to the third bedroom and found it locked. “Crap.”

  “What’s wrong?” Evans trotted toward him.

  “This room is locked, which means I really want to know what’s in there.”

  “No problem.” Evans grabbed her carryall, which she’d left on the floor in the hall, and came up with a lock pick.

  As she worked the mechanism, Jackson joked, “Did you learn that in juvie?”

  “I wasn’t in long enough.” Evans laughed in an odd way, and Jackson realized he’d hit a nerve. She popped the lock, opened the door, and grinned. “One of my snitches taught me the skill in exchange for a pass on a pot-possession charge.”

  They looked into the room and said in unison, “Holy shit.”

  Only a narrow path separated the ceiling-high stacks of boxes and crates. Factory food labels were obvious on many of the containers, but others were taped closed and labeled with a black marker: Medicine, Reference Books, Blankets, Coffee, Batteries.

  “They’re prepared for the apocalypse,” Evans said, no humor implied.

  “Let’s open a few to be sure the contents match the labels.”

  Jackson reached for a cardboard container marked Medicine. He set it on the floor, and Evans handed him a utility knife.

  “You must have been a hell of a Girl Scout.”

  “Nope. Just a child of alcoholics.”

  Jackson wondered if his own daughter felt the need for that level of preparedness. He squatted, cut open the box, and found it stuffed with bandages, rubbing alcohol, antibacterial ointment, aspirin, and a hefty supply of Vicodin. He glanced up at Evans. “We may end up opening every one of these, but not today. Let’s move the boxes away from the closet and see what’s in there.”

  They worked together for five minutes, clearing a path to the bedroom closet. Every time Evans squatted to pick up a box, Jackson noticed her small, tight butt. Sweat broke out under his arms as he moved cases of canned beans.

  Schak came in to see what the commotion was about. “What the hell?”

  “Survivalists,” Evans said. “They’re probably preparing for social breakdown. Or maybe just extreme weather.”

  Jackson moved the last case of chili con carne and pulled open the closet doors. Inside sat a dark trunk with a musty, faintly familiar smell. A trickle of fear ran through his chest. Gently, he pushed open the lid and leaned forward for a closer look.

  Oh god. He turned to Schak in the hall. “Call the bomb squad, please.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Friday, November 11, noon

  Michael Quince walked through Northwest Federal to a small office in the back. The bank’s internal investigator stood, introduced himself, and shook Quince’s hand. The man’s flushed red cheeks made him look uncomfortable, even though his voice was confident.

  “Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police.” He still got a kick out of saying that, even after five years at that rank. A decade ago, he’d started as a dispatcher with the department, thinking it might be more interesting than factory work. If someone then had told him he’d end up a detective, he would have asked what they were smoking.

  The two men sat down, and Quince got right to the point.
“We seem to have a tragic case of fraud, and as you know, cyberthieves disappear quickly. I’d like to access Molly Pershing’s records and begin an investigation immediately.”

  “Because Mrs. Pershing is dead, I can give you the relevant information. But her daughter is also on the account, so for extensive records, I’ll need a subpoena.”

  “Fair enough. For starters, I need to know where the money went.”

  After a moment of clicking through files on his computer, the bank investigator said, “It was transferred to an account in an online bank called American Heritage. To a business account with the name Veterans Relief Fund. It was her second transfer to that account.”

  Quince wanted to get out his netbook and google the name, but it could wait a few minutes. “How much was the first transfer?”

  “Fifty dollars.”

  “And today’s transfer?”

  “Seven thousand.”

  Quince made a whistling sound. “Wow. How was the transfer made?”

  “Molly set up an automatic monthly payment, initially in the amount of fifty dollars.” The banker paused as he scanned a file on his computer. “The amount was changed late Tuesday night, and the seven-grand transfer went through on Wednesday. If we’d had more time, we would have caught it and notified her.”

  “Will you give me a printout of those transactions?”

  “Sure.” The banker clicked a few keys. “What can I do to help the investigation?”

  “Type up a statement summarizing what you just told me. I’ll need it to get a subpoena to access the data from the perpetrator’s account.”

  An hour later, Quince sat on a bench outside Judge Marlee Volcansek’s office, waiting for her to take a break from court. Netbook in his lap, he keyed in Veterans Relief Fund, and a website came up. Surprised the perp hadn’t taken down the site yet, or at least renamed it, Quince clicked through its simple pages. The website hosted photos of injured soldiers and appealed to people’s sympathy. It asked for donations and offered three ways to send money: through PayPal, by setting up an automatic monthly donation, or by mailing a check to a post office box. He determined the internet protocol address, then logged in to the American Registry for Internet Numbers. He clicked Whois and keyed in the IP address for the charity site. While he waited for the search to complete, he crossed his fingers and hoped the website was hosted by a legitimate company he could subpoena for information about the site’s owner.

  Nothing came up. The site wasn’t hosted in North America. Quince swore under his breath, then looked around the wide courthouse hall to see if anyone had heard him. If the website had free hosting from a provider out of China or Russia, he had no chance of tracking the owner. He keyed in the IP address again to make sure he hadn’t typed it wrong. This time, Gorilla Social Services came up, and he heaved a sigh of relief. It was a new provider he hadn’t heard of yet, but at least he could contact the company and ask them to release the name of the person who paid for the website service. It could be a ten-minute task or turn into a ten-day ordeal while he waited for callbacks, wrote a subpoena, and pressured them for a response.

  He quickly found the host’s contact information and made the call. An answering service picked up, which was not a good sign. Quince left a message, stressing the urgency of a callback. While he talked, he spotted the judge coming down the hall. Damn, she was good-looking. Too bad about the ugly robe. He wondered when that silly tradition would go away. As the judge came near, he stood and smiled. “Can I have a minute of your time, Judge Volcansek? I have an important subpoena.”

  Back at his desk in the department, Quince called the online bank, American Heritage, got a manager on the phone, and explained what he needed and why.

  “Fax me the subpoena,” the banker said. “We’re not releasing information about our client without it.”

  Quince got the fax number and wrote it down. “The two-page document will be there in a moment. Please call me right after you read the subpoena.”

  “I’m on my way to a meeting, and this is Friday afternoon. I appreciate the importance of your investigation, but you may not hear from me until Monday.” The banker clicked off before Quince could press his case.

  Well, hell. That sucked. Maybe the website-hosting company would come through for him. For now, it was time to track down Molly’s connections. Earlier in the bank, a patrol officer had found the dead woman’s cell phone in her purse and called her daughter, so at least he didn’t have to deal with that issue. But he needed to find out how the perp had come into contact with Molly and somehow accessed her banking information. What if there were other victims out there?

  Quince pulled into Rosehill Estates, surprised by the number of cars in the parking lot. The senior community in South Eugene contained both independent apartments and an assisted-living center, but he hadn’t expected many of its residents to still be driving. Molly Pershing had lived here, and accessing her personal records was an important step in tracking what had happened to her money.

  Cold rain plopped on his head as he jogged across the parking lot. His short hair offered little protection, but he rarely wore a hat. Too much to keep track of.

  A receptionist led him to the director’s office, where she barged in with only a knock and made a breathless introduction. “Mrs. Fowler, this is Michael Quince, a detective with the Eugene Police.”

  The director, a fifty-something woman, stood and shook his hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m sorry to inform you that one of your residents, Molly Pershing, died of a heart attack this morning.”

  “Oh no.” The director’s face fell, and she sat back down. “Molly was so sweet. We’ll miss her dearly.”

  “I have more bad news. She was the victim of fraud, and that’s why she had the heart attack.”

  “That’s terrible. What kind of fraud?”

  “I’m still investigating, and I need to look through Molly’s personal documents and computer, if she has one.”

  The director hesitated. “I should contact her daughter. She’s listed as Molly’s next of kin, and I think I need her permission.”

  “Another officer called her this morning, so she already knows what happened.”

  She looked relieved. “That’s good. I’ve notified a lot of families about the death of their loved ones. It never gets easier.”

  “I tried contacting the daughter about entering Molly’s apartment, but she’s not answering her phone. It would help my investigation if I didn’t have to wait. Other residents may be at risk or have already been conned.”

  “That concerns me,” the director responded, “but privacy issues are so important these days. We have to wait until we hear from Molly’s daughter.”

  Frustrated, Quince said, “Will you at least send out an announcement to everyone in the facility? If anyone has had dealings with the Veterans Relief Fund, I’d like them to contact me.” Quince handed her a business card. “Or if they have information about how Molly came into contact with the fraudulent charity, I’d like to hear it.”

  “I’ll print up a notice and have our volunteer deliver it this evening.”

  “Any ideas how Molly met the con man?”

  “She spent a lot of time at the library and at the Hartford Senior Center, but if she had guests in her home, I didn’t know about it.”

  “I’ll check out the senior center.” Quince stood. “They took seven thousand from Molly. I suspect they’ll close out their account and disappear if we don’t act quickly.”

  “I’ll get the memo out now.”

  “Call me the minute you have any information.” Quince thanked her and left. In the lobby, he checked his cell phone for e-mail messages. Jackson had notified him of a task force meeting at six. He still had some time.

  “Mr. Quince,” the director called out, as he headed for the main door.

  He turned around.

  “Molly’s daughter says to do everything you can to catch the bastard.”


  CHAPTER 8

  In the forty minutes it took the Explosives Disposal Unit to arrive, Jackson’s team searched every drawer, cupboard, and dark space in the house and the garage, which held mostly tools and more food supplies. They’d debated the merits and risks of staying in the house and continuing their search, then decided to proceed. Knowing the dynamite and blasting caps were in the back closet made them all a little jittery, but the family had lived in the home with the knowledge, so the fear was mostly psychological.

  As long as nothing dramatic—like an earthquake or a falling tree—occurred while they were inside, they rationalized it would be fine. Once the EDU arrived, the experts would evacuate not only the house but likely the neighbors as well while they moved the explosives into the containment unit for transfer and disposal. So Jackson and his team made the most of the few minutes they had, gathering up personal papers, the family computer, and most of the knives in the kitchen for comparison to the victim’s wound.

  Finding nothing else of significance in the house, Jackson headed out the sliding door to see what surprises awaited outside. The black Lab began barking excitedly, but it was penned in a long run parallel to the greenhouse, so Jackson ignored the raucous sound. Evans hadn’t exaggerated the minifarm setup. He even spotted a goat under a tree near the back fence. The side-by-side sheds on the left were what interested him. One was padlocked, so Jackson opened the other and found it full of split wood. He paused in front of the second green metal building. Bashing in the door wouldn’t be wise, considering what they’d found in the closet. Long-handled metal cutters would do the job, but he didn’t carry those in his car. The bomb squad would have to handle it. He hoped the shed held only power tools. Why had they kept the explosives in the house? Fear of them being stolen? Or fear of that fir tree falling on the shed and setting off an explosion that might take out the back of the house?

  From the back door, he heard Schak yell, “You gotta come see this!”