“I see him.” Schak nodded, but didn’t point. “He’s near the front, carrying a green plastic bag. What’s our approach? We don’t want him to bolt.”
“Let’s wait until he’s inside, then we’ll sit down at his table. He won’t walk away from a meal, and the public place will make him feel safe.” Some patrol cops were less than gentle with homeless people, so transients had learned to be distrustful. On the other hand, Jackson also knew two senior officers who bought clothes and blankets for the homeless every winter.
The restaurant doors opened, and the line of people surged forward. Jackson and Schak strode toward the front, ignoring the protests from hungry people who thought they were cutting in line. The group near the door glanced at their suits and expressions and parted to let them through.
Inside, the bright white interior surprised Jackson, as did the long counter with individual stools. Prez sat on the end, near the front door.
“I’ll speak to him while you grab some stools.” Jackson moved toward the witness.
Prez turned at the sound of his voice, looking alarmed. Jackson gave him his warmest smile, one he usually reserved for Katie and Kera. He stepped forward. “Are you Prez?”
“Who wants to know?” The man’s cheeks were sunken, and he was missing some bottom teeth, but his eyes were clear and lucid.
“I’m Detective Jackson. You’re not in any trouble, but I’d like to speak with you for a few minutes. My partner Schak will join us in a second.” Jackson had his digital recorder in the palm of his hand and clicked it on. Legally, he was supposed to inform Prez he was being recorded. He’d wait for the right moment.
“I’m about to get some dinner here. Don’t get me kicked out.” Prez clutched his bulging plastic bag with bony fingers.
“We won’t.” Jackson smiled again. “What’s your full name?”
“Prescott Sutton.”
“I like it. Would you rather be called Prez?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I just want to ask about your last camping spot behind Pete’s Pad. It looked like a safe, dry place.”
“So?”
“How long had you been camped there?”
“A couple weeks. I didn’t make any trouble.”
Schak brought two stools, and they sat at the end of the counter. Their presence semi-obstructed the flow of people into the restaurant, and a few diners mumbled as they stepped around. The room filled with muffled voices and the smell of unwashed clothes and hair. Even the fresh-baked bread and meatloaf aroma drifting from the kitchen couldn’t mask the pungent odor generated by fifty people without access to hot water.
“The last time you were behind the parking lot was Thursday. Do you remember that night?”
“Not really.”
“This is important, Prez. A man was killed. We need to know if you saw anything, and I need to record your statement.”
Prez blinked rapidly and squeezed his hands together. “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. I don’t trust myself after a few belts of Jim Beam.”
“This isn’t a courtroom. Tell us what you saw.”
“Or heard,” Schak added.
“I heard whistling, so I crawled out of my tent. Then it stopped.”
“Who was whistling?”
“Someone in the parking lot. They walked up to the Jeep in the corner.”
A young woman in a long white apron set a plate of food in front of their witness, then served the man next to him. Prez dug in, gulping meatloaf like a man who didn’t trust it to still be there if he looked away. Jackson let him eat. He’d learned patience on the job long ago, and this was nowhere near the worst of the situations he’d sat through.
When Prez slowed down and furtively glanced over, Jackson prodded, “What happened next?”
“The window came down, and she put her face next to the man in the Jeep.”
“You’re sure it was a woman?”
“I think so.”
“And what do you mean, put her face next to his? Like a kiss?” Jackson found this puzzling.
“Maybe.” Prez wiped his hand across his mouth. “It was dark. I couldn’t tell.”
Jackson decided to just get the whole story down. “Then what happened?”
“The man laid his head back, and the woman reached for something in her pocket. I thought she was selling drugs, but she wasn’t.” Prez’s attention wandered for a moment, like he was back there, reliving the scene.
“What else happened?”
“She said something, but I didn’t hear it. Then she killed him. Like that.” He made a knifing gesture across his throat, then looked around, as if embarrassed. Prez’s eyes started to water.
“Did you see anything else? Like where the person went?”
“I closed my eyes after that. I didn’t want to see.”
Crap. “Did you hear anything? Like a car start?”
“I heard her run to the canal. I worried that she saw me, but I don’t think she did. Then I heard a splash.”
The weapon! A little tremor ran up Jackson’s spine. “Big splash or little splash?”
“A quiet splash. I looked out again, and she was running toward the road.”
“Was she tall or short? Skinny or good sized?
“Tall, like a man. But she had a long ponytail.”
Like Sierra’s dreadlocks. “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
He shook his head. “It was too dark.”
“Thanks, Prez.” Jackson reached for his business card, knowing it was a waste of time. “Would you be willing to testify at a hearing?”
“No.” The homeless man slid off his stool. “I don’t like court.”
Jackson wanted to grab his arm and hold him back for a minute, but he knew better. He jumped up and kept pace with Prez as he scurried from the restaurant. Schak was right behind.
“Will you come to my office and make a video?” he pleaded.
Prez didn’t even look back as he ran across the street, clutching his green plastic bag.
“I guess we need to put on our waders and search the canal.” Schak sounded surprisingly cheerful about it.
“We need a round-the-clock watch on Sierra Kent too.” But Jackson doubted he could get the resources for it.
They started back toward the department, moving at a rapid clip. Jackson felt physically lighter. Knowing they probably had the right suspect simplified their investigation. They still had to search the canal and build a case, but a lot of the pressure was off now.
CHAPTER 16
Early Saturday morning
Sophie hurried across the newspaper’s nearly empty parking lot and used her ID badge to enter the building. The lower level was a ghost town of empty cubicles and lifeless copiers. After the massive layoffs, management had moved the remaining staff upstairs, hoping to lease out the office space below. So far that hadn’t happened.
On weekends, the upper level was nearly empty too, with only a couple of sports reporters and a single copy editor on duty. The quiet was great for focusing and getting things done, but she thrived on interaction, and the stillness was almost creepy.
Sophie said hello to the sports guys who were watching TV—tough job they had—then brewed a cup of mint tea and settled into her workspace. She made a dozen calls to Rafel Mazari’s friends and family, but no one answered. She decided that when she tried again, she’d use her cell phone instead of the paper’s line, which showed Willamette News as the caller.
After thirty minutes of getting nowhere, she finally connected with Rafel’s National Guard captain. During a productive interview, she learned Rafel had served with the 1249th Battalion and been honorably discharged after he returned from Afghanistan. The captain spoke highly of Rafel, calling him a “dedicated soldier who was well liked and trusted by his team.”
He also told her the story of Rafel’s injury, giving her a blow-by-blow account of the mission they’d been on when Rafel stepped on a land mine in the Marjah District. He
’d almost died twice during the helicopter evacuation to a medic unit in Kuwait, before being flown to Germany. Later, during his stay at the Madigan Army Medical Center, Rafel had been given the Oregon Exceptional Service Award. The captain also made an offhand comment about Rafel not being able to wear his state award on his national military uniform. Sophie realized she didn’t know much about how the National Guard functioned in connection with the federal military, but she wasn’t sure it was relevant to her feature. Still, she asked a few questions and learned that when the federal military requested state units, those soldiers became part of a larger military battalion and were under federal jurisdiction during their combat service.
Near the end of the conversation, she asked if Rafel had received counseling after his trauma. The captain had given what sounded like a standard line about counseling being “available to all our service men and women,” then terminated the interview shortly after.
He’d also given her the names and numbers of two soldiers Rafel had served with, but neither answered, so she left messages. Sophie wrote a lead for her story, then started to outline the basic structure. Her phone rang, sounding surprisingly loud in the quiet building.
“This is Sasha Altman, returning your call.”
Yes! This wouldn’t have been much of a story without input from Rafel’s family. “Thanks for getting back to me. I know this must be a painful time for you.”
“I’m devastated by the loss of my brother and shocked by his murder.” Sasha had a low, silky voice with an unusual cadence. “But I want people to know the good things about him.”
“As opposed to the focus on the bomb squad being called out to his house?”
“Yes. The news last night made him sound like a crazy person.”
“My story will highlight his National Guard duty and his deployment, as well as offer readers a full picture of who he was as a person. Can we meet today?”
After a brief silence, Sasha said, “I can give you an hour. I hope you won’t dwell on his injury and his struggle to adjust.”
Sophie jotted down the phrase with quote marks around it. “I don’t plan to. What time is good for you?”
“Around one thirty is fine. I have a class after that.”
“Should I come to your home, or would you be more comfortable meeting in public?”
“Please come to my home. I have kids.”
After a quick lunch at Café Yumm, Sophie took Beltline to River Road and headed for Sasha’s home on Springcreek. She realized the woman lived within a few miles of her brother, so Sophie stopped by Rafel Mazari’s house on the way. The photographer was already there, and they chatted on the sidewalk for a minute. No cars were in the driveway, and Sophie wondered where the widow was. She had a feeling Sierra Kent was not likely to talk to her for this story.
It started to rain, so she hopped back in her car and drove out to Springcreek. Sasha’s two-story house had been recently built and painted an unusual mix of pink and gray. The playpen-size front yard was covered with lush grass that looked like it could be rolled up and moved.
The woman who answered the door had mocha-colored skin, perfectly straight ebony hair, and the whitest teeth Sophie had ever seen. They introduced themselves, then Sasha gestured toward chairs in the front room. The muffled sound of kids playing came from a back room, and a hint of incense wafted from Sasha’s loose purple shirt as she walked. Sophie was curious about her nationality and tried to think of the correct way to ask.
As they sat down, she said, “I’d like to know about your brother’s name. Where did Mazari originate?”
“A Pashtun tribe. My father was born on the Pakistan-Afghanistan border and came to America when he was a child. I almost kept the family name when I got married, but my husband thought it would be best for our children to have his surname.”
“How many kids do you have?” Sophie asked to be polite.
“Two boys, five and three. Rafel’s son, Adam, is staying with us for a while now too.”
The news of the child surprised Sophie. “This must be terrible for him. Can I ask why he’s not with his mother?”
“Adam’s biological mother was Rafel’s first wife, and she died when he was five. Sierra has been a stepmother to Adam, but she’s dealing with detectives and other difficulties right now.” Sasha’s flawless face remained impassive, but there was so much more in her tone that Sophie couldn’t decide what to ask next.
She pulled out her recorder. “May I?”
“All right.”
“You said Sierra was dealing with the police. Is she under investigation?”
“They’re questioning her right now. She called to request I keep Adam for the weekend.”
Sophie had to ask. “Do you think Sierra was involved in Rafel’s murder?”
Sasha didn’t blink or look surprised. “No. Sierra may be many things, but she’s not a killer and had nothing to gain from Rafel’s death.”
More loaded phrases. “What are some of Sierra’s many things?”
Sasha gave her a knowing smile. “I don’t want to speak ill of my sister-in-law. Let’s just say her politics and personal focus are not something I relate to. And it surprised me that Rafel got caught up in all of it.”
“Will you elaborate? I don’t know much about Sierra.” Except what she’d learned on her Facebook page.
“I’d rather talk about Rafel.”
“Okay. What was he like as a child?”
“He was wonderful fun.” Sasha’s composure cracked, and she looked like she might cry. But she continued. “We lived on a few acres farther out River Road, and Rafel was always coming up with some new adventure. He and his friends built a fort and a rope swing and dug a hiding pit. We used to play wild versions of hide-and-seek, and Rafel was always coming up with some new twist.”
“What were his friends’ names?”
“Cody Pittman and Jake Sawyer. The three of them went everywhere together. Especially after the hiking trip where they got lost and survived a night in the woods together. It bonded them.”
A light-haired boy of eight or so ran up to them. “Aunt Sasha, can I watch TV in the family room? Your guys are bugging me.”
This must be Adam. Sophie studied him, realizing he didn’t look anything like Rafel.
“All right, but quietly, please,” Sasha said. “We’re still talking. And no adult shows.”
The boy trotted off, and his aunt apologized for the intrusion.
“No problem.” Sophie glanced at her questions. “Were you surprised when Rafel joined the National Guard?”
“Yes and no. I think he saw the guard as another adventure.”
“How did you feel about it?”
“I was proud of him, but a little worried too. I knew deployment was a possibility, even though Rafel didn’t believe it would happen.”
“How did your parents feel?”
“Dad was proud of him too.”
“Are your parents still out on River Road?”
“Our father is, but our mother left us when were young.”
“That must have been devastating. How old were you?”
“Rafel was twelve and I was ten. We were crushed.” Sasha’s voice grew quiet. “She left a short note but didn’t say a personal good-bye. I took it harder than the guys. They were stoic, and Rafel was quiet for a long time after she left.”
“And you’ve never heard from her?”
“No, but I still think about her sometimes. Her family disowned her when she married my father, then he forced his old-world ideas on her. I think she just couldn’t take the isolation anymore.”
“That’s tragic. Sad for her, and for you and Rafel.” Sophie was intrigued by the decades-old family drama and hoped to work it into her story that Rafel’s mother abandoned him at a young age. “Can I ask if the problem between the families was cultural? Is your father Islamic?”
“He followed many Islamic traditions out of habit, but I think he lost his faith in Allah.
Neither Rafel nor I are religious, but we’re still Pashtun.”
“Was it hard for Rafel to fight the Taliban in Afghanistan?”
“You ask good questions.” Sasha closed her eyes for a moment. “Rafel and I are very much American, and my brother never expected to be deployed. He had just gotten married. So he had mixed feelings about his service, but he was loyal to this country and loyal to the fight against terrorism. Most Middle Eastern people hate the terrorists too.”
“It must have been difficult for Sierra to be alone for a year right after getting married.”
Sasha’s jaw tightened, and she reached for the recorder to shut it off. “Sierra is not the kind of woman who can be alone. She dishonored my brother, and I may never forgive her for that.”
Sophie understood the subtext and grudgingly let the subject go, despite her burning desire to know who Sierra had screwed while her husband was off fighting for his country. Sophie would ask someone else. Sasha was clearly distressed by the issue and not likely to tell her anyway.
Sophie turned the recorder back on and changed the subject. “The bomb squad was called out to Rafel and Sierra’s house yesterday after the police searched it. Do you know what that was about?”
Sasha pressed her lips together. “I don’t really want to talk about this, but I also don’t want people to speculate and make it worse.”
“I’ll minimize the subject in my story.”
Sasha drew in a weary breath. “Our father worked as a miner when he was young and used explosives on the job. He became a little obsessed and always kept a supply of dynamite. He used it around the farm sometimes, and Rafel became just as obsessed.”
Overwhelmed by the irony, Sophie didn’t know if she could ask the next question. Still, it worked its way out of her mouth. “How did you feel when Rafel lost his leg to an explosive device?”
“I was crushed by the news but grateful he was alive, just like anyone else would feel.” His sister’s lips trembled. “Yet I had this sense of the inevitable.”
“Did you know Rafel still kept explosives in his home even after his injury?”
“No, but I’m not surprised.”
Sophie was freaked out by it. “Were Rafel and his father close?”
Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 12
