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

by L. J. Sellers

  “They were when Rafi was young, then over the years, I sensed a distance between them.”

  “Any idea why?”

  Sasha glanced away. “No.”

  Sophie suspected there was something to pursue. “Will you give me contact information for your father? I’d like to talk to him.”

  “No.” Sasha’s tone was unequivocal.

  “When is Rafel’s funeral service?”

  “Monday at eleven. We would have liked to hold it sooner, but they won’t release his body until then.”

  “Is he having a military funeral?” Sophie was thinking of the great photos it would give her for the story.

  “No. Our father won’t allow it. He’s bitter toward the military and wants a simple tribal burial.” Sasha gave a sad smile. “Or the American version of it.”

  Sophie asked for details about the service, thinking she might attend and have a chance to talk to Rafel’s father. Or maybe run into Jackson and coax more details about the murder from him. She knew detectives often attended the funeral services of the victims whose murders they investigated.

  “Is there anything else you want me to know about your brother?”

  “He was a loving father. He also loved animals and volunteered in the clinic where Sierra worked. He had a good heart.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Saturday, November 12, 5:43 p.m.

  Back at his desk, Jackson prepped for the meeting by adding his new notes to the main file. He’d already ordered pizza and planned to keep the discussion short. He hated making his team members work late on Saturday. He’d also made a call to the DA and left a message telling him about their eyewitness. Slonecker wouldn’t be impressed. If Prez couldn’t be counted on to show up in court, he couldn’t help them convict Sierra. Jackson knew he had to meet with Sergeant Lammers soon too and let her know they had a solid suspect.

  He was pleased to see Quince in the conference room. Quince was young, but he’d made detective early in his career and his experience in the other investigative units made him a good asset. He touched the man’s shoulder on the way in. “Glad you could make it. How’s the fraud case coming?”

  “It’s interesting, but I’ll wait until the others come in. They’ll want to hear this.”

  “Did you get Mazari’s banking records?”

  “I did. I went to Cranston’s house at eight thirty this morning, and he read the subpoena in his bathrobe.”

  “Nice visual,” Evans commented as she came in. “Glad it was you and not me.”

  “Cranston can be abrasive, but he comes through for us.” Quince turned back to Jackson. “The credit union opened at ten, and they made copies for me while I stood there. You gotta love local institutions. Meanwhile, I won’t get the charity’s records from the online bank until Monday—if I’m lucky.”

  Schak came in carrying a tall coffee. The rich aroma made Jackson salivate. “You didn’t get me one?”

  “Sorry.”

  “You can take the board.” Jackson grinned.

  “I’m still not letting go of the coffee.” Schak dropped his carryall and moved to the long whiteboard, still clutching his cup.

  “Let’s get started,” Jackson said. “I have two major updates. One, we have forensic evidence linking Sierra Kent to the crime scene—or I should say the vicinity of the crime scene.” Jackson passed out his updated case notes as he talked. “We also have an eyewitness to the attack. He can’t specifically identify the killer, but he thinks it was a woman with a long ponytail. And he heard the person throw something into the canal, so I’ll be searching for it first thing tomorrow. You can join me if you want to.”

  “Should we be out there right now?” Evans was ready to bolt from her chair.

  “It’s nearly dark. Our time will be better spent in the morning. The eyewitness is a homeless man named Prez who may not ever make it to court, but I want you to hear his statement.” Jackson played the recording, and Evans and Quince strained to hear the dialogue over the noisy restaurant background.

  When it was over, Evans said, “The whistling is a little odd. Women don’t whistle very often.”

  “Some do,” Schak countered. “What about the attacker putting their face next to the victim? Men don’t do that with other men.”

  “Sierra will sound believable to a jury.” Evans gestured with her hands. “Unless she confesses, I say we keep open to other suspects. For example, Pittman lied about his alibi Thursday night. He told you he went home to his wife after leaving the tavern. When I talked to Hailey Pittman this morning, she said she left him months ago. They don’t even live together.”

  Jackson hated being lied to, even though he expected it. “We have to question Pittman again, maybe bring him in this time. He walked out on our last conversation, and now we have a lot more to discuss.”

  “What about Mazari’s autopsy?” Schak asked. “In Sierra’s interview, you mentioned he didn’t have a penis. Were you serious?”

  “Yes. He’s got nothing but scar tissue there now.” Just thinking about it made Jackson uncomfortable.

  “It seems pretty fucked up for a man who lost his junk to a land mine to keep dynamite in his house.” Schak’s eyebrows expressed his disbelief.

  “It’s weird, all right,” Jackson said. “I wonder what a shrink would say.”

  “Maybe he’s facing his fears,” Evans offered.

  “Maybe. But I don’t see how it’s relevant to the case.” Jackson wanted to move on. “What else have we got?”

  Schak updated the board as Evans looked at her notes. “I also learned Pittman was an Iraq veteran, so I asked his wife if he’d come into any unexpected money lately. She said she didn’t know, but she looked scared and her voice quivered. She also recognized the name Veterans Relief Fund. I’d love to get a look at Jake Pittman’s bank records.”

  “I would too,” Quince said. “My investigation of the fraud involving the charity is still premature, but two of these friends were ex-military, both had money troubles, and one was murdered.”

  “Did you find anything interesting in Mazari’s bank files?” Jackson asked.

  “I haven’t had time to look. I spent the day tracking down fraud victims.” Quince handed Jackson a thick file. “I found seven local people who made voluntary contributions to the charity in amounts ranging from fifty to three hundred dollars. The scammers targeted senior centers and retirement homes through e-mails and flyers slipped under their doors. So nobody had direct contact with the charity’s founders, and so far, Molly Pershing is the only victim to have money stolen from her.”

  “I’d like the names of the people who donated to the charity and the amount of each contribution,” Jackson said. “I’ll cross-check them against Mazari’s bank statement.”

  “The money went to an online bank,” Quince said. “Unless Mazari was stupid enough to link the fraudulent charity account to his own, you may not be able to make direct connections.”

  “You think Mazari and Pittman might have set up the phony charity and conned old people into donating to it?” Evans nodded as she summed up the possible scenario.

  “We don’t know yet,” Quince said. “I’m still waiting to hear from the website’s hosting company, so I won’t have more information until Monday.”

  “It’s worth checking out.” Jackson wasn’t invested in the theory, but money was one of the leading motivations to kill.

  “I’ve got Molly Pershing’s computer, but there’s almost nothing on it,” Quince added. “And her neighbors didn’t see her with anyone suspicious, but I haven’t talked to them all yet. Now that we have a second military connection, I’ll go back and show Mazari and Pittman’s photos to Molly’s neighbors.”

  The pizza arrived, and they ate without much discussion. As they finished, Jackson said, “You guys might as well call it a night. Enjoy what’s left of your Saturday evening.”

  “What are you going to do?” Evans narrowed her eyes at him.

  “I was th
inking I’d go out and see Pittman again. Find out why he lied to me.”

  “You’re not going alone.” Schak and Evans said it simultaneously.

  Jackson laughed. “I guess not. Evans, I hear you have a date with Stricklyn, so I’ll let Schak ruin his Saturday night.”

  “Netflix will be disappointed, but my wife probably won’t care.” Schak grinned. “I’ll skip the dip in the canal in the morning and let Evans get wet instead.”

  “That’s a shitty deal,” Evans complained halfheartedly.

  “Better make your date special then.” Quince winked at her.

  Evans pushed aside her pizza. “I will. See you tomorrow.” She grabbed her shoulder bag and waltzed out.

  Jackson started gathering up the remains of the pizza meal.

  “Are you sure we need to do this tonight?” Schak asked. “We have a solid suspect in custody and no reason to think Pittman is going anywhere. I say we wait until tomorrow.”

  Jackson considered it. He had bank records to look at and unpacking to do. “Tell you what. I’ll call Pittman. If he answers, we go round him up. Otherwise, we’ll find him tomorrow, right after we search the canal.”

  “Deal.” Schak pulled his hands together as if in prayer. “Please let him be out drinking and not hear the phone.”

  Quince burst out laughing. “Are you getting too old for this?”

  Schak gave him the finger.

  Pittman didn’t answer and Jackson didn’t leave a message.

  In the parking garage, Jackson climbed in his car, put in his earpiece, and called Katie again. He started to drive out of the lot, then decided to wait. He was trying not to talk on his phone and drive unless it was necessary police business.

  His daughter picked up, sounding both amused and annoyed. “I’m fine, Dad. Mom’s sober, Ivan is nice, and we’re all going out to a movie.”

  “Does that include Harlan?”

  “Yes. He’s meeting us there. We won’t be alone, even for a minute.”

  “What are you seeing?”

  “The Footloose remake.”

  “Sounds fun.”

  “Liar.” Katie laughed. “I’ll be home tomorrow night.”

  “Next weekend, I want to start making a different frame for the trike, one with more stability. Are you up for helping me weld it?” She’d done most of the welding on the three-wheeled motorcycle they’d built together the summer before. He loved working with her the way he’d spent time with his dad.

  “I don’t think so. Harlan and I are going to volunteer with the Stream Team on weekends.”

  Jackson was disappointed, but how could he argue with a kid who wanted to make the world a better place? “I miss our time together.”

  “We still have Firefly movie nights.”

  “Let’s grill tomorrow. We haven’t done that in a while.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “I miss you.”

  She laughed again. “No you don’t—you’re on a case. But I love your dedication.”

  “Thanks, sweetie.”

  “Gotta go.”

  Not ready to quit working for the night, Jackson drove out to Pete’s Pad and spent an hour asking patrons if they’d seen the guy with the shaved head and beard. Many of the same people were in the tavern from the night before—except Nikki, the one he wanted to see—and the whole activity depressed him. He’d witnessed enough drinking from his ex-wife to last a lifetime. Eventually, an older man told him the description matched one of his coworkers but that the coworker was religious and had never been in the bar. Jackson took down the name and place of employment but intuitively knew it was a dead end.

  At home, he sat in his recliner, slipped off his shoes, and let his mind simply drift. He rarely stopped thinking, analyzing, and planning, even on weekends. Homicide cases seeped into his brain chemistry, and he thought about them even when he was working in the yard or tinkering with one of his vehicles. But he’d learned that shutting down for a while—his own brand of meditation—could inspire connections that would come to him later.

  He dozed off for a few minutes, then jumped up and grabbed a Diet Pepsi. He had things to accomplish. But first, he called Kera. No answer. That worried him, but he pushed it aside and left her a friendly message: “Hey, gorgeous, just calling to confirm our plans for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be there around one.” He resisted the urge to say something stupid like Wear something sexy. “I love you.” He couldn’t go wrong with that.

  Time to unpack. Jackson started in the bedroom, shoving his clothes into the familiar dresser and the new closet. Derrick had generously vacated the master bedroom, since he wouldn’t be home much. Jackson also put away three boxes of food in the kitchen, then looked at the five containers with kitchen supplies still to go and sighed. Tomorrow. This case still needed his attention.

  He grabbed the stack of Mazari’s account statements from his carryall and sat down at the kitchen table. This dining room was bigger than the one in his old home, but the lighting wasn’t as nice. He’d have to replace the funky overhead fixture and install some track lighting. Maybe a skylight.

  The first thing he noticed was Mazari had made nearly all cash deposits and cash withdrawals. No paychecks deposited, no debit card transactions. A man who preferred to deal in cash—or simply had no choice? If Mazari didn’t have a job, where was the cash coming from? The victim’s name was the only one on the credit union account. Sierra claimed they kept their money separate, but she must have paid the bills, because this account only had an average balance of $283.67 for the previous month.

  To keep them afloat, Sierra had been working at the veterinary clinic as well as making and selling her pet products at the Saturday Market—while Rafel did what? Odd jobs for fifty dollars here and two hundred there? That must have been stressful for both of them. Was he not eligible for disability?

  The deposits reminded Jackson of the donations Quince had said were made to the Veterans Relief Fund. But Mazari’s cash deposits didn’t seem like enough to account for all of the charity’s funds. If he had been involved with the scam, where had the rest of the money gone? Had Pittman been part of it? He was a struggling veteran too. What had Evans said? That Pittman’s wife had seemed scared and evasive when she asked about unexpected money.

  Clearly, the seven grand the charity had stolen from Molly Pershing had never been in Rafel Mazari’s account. His death might have made more sense if it had. Unless Sierra had known about the fraud and killed her husband to get her hands on the cash. Jackson rubbed his eyes and got up for a glass of water.

  Mazari had been killed Thursday night, and Molly Pershing had discovered the missing money Friday morning. Jackson looked at the copy of Molly’s bank transactions that Quince had included. The huge transfer had been made at 1:35 Wednesday afternoon. Damn. He wished he had the phony charity’s records so he could see where the money went.

  Jackson played out several scenarios. Mazari made the audacious money grab, then Sierra found the cash, and they fought about it. She decided she’d had enough of him and plotted to kill him that evening, keeping his cash to start a new life with her lover. But who was her lover?

  What if Pittman was her lover and made the fraudulent transaction? Then Sierra killed her husband to keep Rafel from ever knowing about the big money and to cut him out of the picture?

  Of course, it was also possible the two cases were unrelated, and Sierra killed her husband because he couldn’t have sex or father children, but had an insurance policy in her name. Could he get a court order to search Sierra’s bank records? That would be interesting.

  Jackson’s phone rang, startling him. It took a minute to find the device in the chair where he’d dozed earlier. Derrick Jackson. He still wasn’t used to seeing his brother’s name on his caller ID. They’d gone ten years without talking to each other, and now they were roommates. “Hey, Derrick. What’s up?”

  “I’m sitting in a truck stop near Waterloo, Iowa. I need to sleep but I dran
k too much coffee.”

  “I’m in the same mode.”

  “Did you get moved in?”

  “We did. And it’s a little weird to be here.”

  “I hope the place is clean enough.”

  “It’s fine. But I got called out on a homicide, so I haven’t unpacked much yet.”

  Derrick laughed. “I still have boxes of stuff in the garage from when I moved back in ten years ago.”

  “We can have a garage sale soon.”

  “Did I leave you enough space for your stuff?” Derrick had lived in the house since their parents died and had finally hauled the old family furniture off to Goodwill to make room for Jackson’s things. It was another step forward for his brother.

  “Everything is great. And I love your fifty-two-inch TV. I’ll feel pretty spoiled watching American Chopper on this thing.”

  “I’ll be home next Friday, then I leave again on Tuesday. Just so you can plan.”

  Living with his brother was a temporary situation, Jackson reminded himself. The goal was to fix up the house and sell it, splitting the equity.

  “Okay. I’ll see you next Friday. Take care.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Sunday, November 13, 6:45 a.m.

  The sun trickled through the blinds, and Jackson lay there for a moment, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking how nice it was not to be jarred awake by an alarm. He finally rolled out of bed. It was still too damn early to be awake on Sunday, but his job had no boundaries. At the least the sun was out, Jackson thought, rummaging through a box in the corner to find his jogging shoes and waterproof boots.

  He drank a cup of coffee and went for a quick run, covering some of the same territory he had from his previous house. The move had been less than a mile. Except for a short stint in an apartment across town, he’d lived in this neighborhood his entire life. Sometimes it made him feel too sheltered, and he longed to get out of Oregon and see the world. Most of the time, he was happy to live in such a great year-round place with pretty, warm summers and wet, mild winters. No hurricanes, snowstorms, or tornadoes. Not to mention a population that valued progressive ideas about the environment and personal responsibility.