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

by L. J. Sellers

  She pulled out of her small apartment complex, which sat thirty feet from the Willamette River, and drove toward the main street. Up ahead, she saw Jasmine’s car turn left on River Road. Regardless of where the crime scene was, Jaz would have to stop at the crime lab and swap her car for the van with the equipment. Sophie didn’t have to worry about sticking close until after the swap. Did Jasmine know she was following her? Had she expected it? She should have.

  Sophie couldn’t get close to the crime-scene house, because patrol cars blocked the street, but she was able to take some long-shot photos and figure out the address based on the street’s numbering system. She keyed the address into the reverse white pages on her iPhone and came up with Chester Freeman. Was he the dead guy or just the owner of the property? Most duplexes were rentals, but this was a quiet, older neighborhood, so homeownership was probably high.

  Sophie climbed back in her car and called the number listed for Chester, pleased when he picked up.

  “Hello. This is Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News. Do you own the duplex on the corner of Kentwood and Kings?”

  “Yeah, why?” He sounded old and crusty.

  “I’ll tell you what’s happening at your rental right now if you give me the names of the tenants living on the Kentwood side.”

  “What do you mean? What’s going on?” Chester was a little more alarmed now.

  “Tell me who lives there, and I’ll tell you what I know. That’s the deal.”

  A long silence. Finally, he said, “Jake Pittman. What the hell is this about?”

  “I think he’s dead. We’ve got four cop cars out here, the crime lab van, and the white station wagon they use to haul away bodies. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Pittman?” Rain started to hit her windshield, and Sophie checked the car to see if she had her umbrella.

  “No.” He covered his phone and yelled to someone nearby, “The tenant on Kentwood is dead.” When he came back on, Chester was worried. “You won’t use my name in the paper, will you?”

  “I don’t see any reason I should have to. Thanks for your time.” Sophie hung up.

  Where had she heard the name Jake Pittman recently? Sophie called her friend who’d gone to school with Rafel and left a message: “Do you know who Jake Pittman is? Any connection to Rafel Mazari? Call me as soon as you can.” As soon as she hung up, she remembered. Sasha Altman had mentioned Jake as one of Rafel’s childhood friends. How bizarre that two of the three friends had been killed in such a short time. Something ugly was going on. Was the third friend in danger?

  Sophie checked her iPhone: 12:35. Time to get moving. In an hour, she had an interview scheduled with Laura McKinsey, sister of the now-deceased Joanna Mazari, and Laura lived in Corvallis. Sophie could have interviewed her over the phone, but she preferred to talk to people in person when she could. Besides, she’d been meaning to make a trip to the neighboring college town soon to pick up some passion tea and chocolate biscotti from her favorite shop.

  Clear and cold, the weather was decent for a short drive, and Sophie loved getting on the road. She grew restless if she didn’t get a change of scenery every few weeks, so she loved it when assignments took her out of town, even a few miles. She’d only planned on living and working in Eugene for a few years, then moving on to a bigger newspaper, maybe in Seattle or San Francisco. But the digital revolution had kicked print publishing’s ass, and newspapers were shrinking, not hiring. Sophie was grateful to still be employed, and if she had to be stuck somewhere, Eugene was pretty damn special. An hour from both the ocean and the mountains, it was geographically perfect. It was also funky and had a great art and theater scene. Not to mention the general acceptance of people with nontraditional sexual orientations. Still, she kept her eye on job opportunities in bigger West Coast cities.

  In Corvallis, she made a quick run into Tina’s Tea Shop, then ate a piece of biscotti in her car while looking over her interview questions. She checked her directions, drove out Northwest Buchanan, and easily found Laura McKinsey’s address.

  She parked in front, snapped a quick photo, and assessed the place. Over the fence, Sophie spotted the top of a swing set, then noticed the sign: McKinsey Daycare.

  Please let this be her day off, Sophie thought, walking up the sidewalk. She rang the bell and listened for the sound of children. All was quiet.

  A woman in her late twenties opened the door, and Sophie’s eyes were immediately drawn to the large red birthmark enveloping her right eye and cheek. The marking was substantial, but didn’t detract from the woman’s classic features and bright smile. Sophie quickly shifted to meet Laura’s gaze and introduce herself.

  The woman offered her hand and stepped aside to let Sophie in.

  “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” Sophie glanced at the living room and rejected it as a place to talk. None of the seats faced each other, and the carpet smelled like crayons and yesterday’s lunch. “Can we sit at the kitchen table?”

  “Sure.” Laura led her to a room at the back with tall windows, natural daylight, and a clean vinyl floor.

  Sophie made small talk for a few minutes, learning that Laura was married but unable to have children of her own, so she ran a daycare. “I love kids, don’t you?” Laura said.

  Sophie gave her a tight smile. “I don’t know yet; I don’t have any.” She set her digital recorder on the table. “Let’s get started. Tell me what you know about Rafel Mazari.”

  “He was a jealous, murdering bastard, and I’m glad he’s dead.”

  Sophie choked down a laugh. “Don’t hold back now. You can tell me how you really feel.”

  Laura managed a brief smile. “I know I don’t have any proof, but I’m certain he killed Joanna.”

  “Her death seems like a tragic accident. How could Rafel have been responsible?”

  “I think he put the yellow jackets in her car and took the EpiPen out of her purse.” Laura met Sophie’s eyes. “My sister was highly allergic and very careful to always have the EpiPen with her. I know they found it under the seat of her car, but she wouldn’t have put it there or lost track of it.”

  Sophie wasn’t convinced and needed to think it through. “You’re saying Rafel took the epinephrine out of her purse and put it under the seat of her car. And he put some wasps he’d captured in the car at the same time. He must have conducted his mission right before she left for work, and she couldn’t have checked for the pen that day.”

  “Or,” Laura countered, “Joanna expected the EpiPen to be there because it had been the last time she checked.” The sister’s eyes misted with tears, and she began to pop her knuckles, one at a time. “I’m not paranoid or crazy, but Rafel was a little of both. He was excessively jealous and constantly accused Joanna of cheating. He followed her around sometimes and once threatened her boss because he thought she was having an affair with him.”

  “That doesn’t make him a killer.”

  “There’s more. Joanna wanted to leave him, but she was afraid to. She discovered he’d been looking at internet sites for various poisons and toxic cleaning combinations.”

  “Maybe he was just mentally unbalanced.”

  Laura’s eyes lit up with little fireworks. “Oh, he was unbalanced, all right.”

  Sophie wondered a little bit about Laura. Maybe the woman just wasn’t dealing with the loss of her sister well.

  Laura pushed to her feet. “I have something I want you to see. I’ll be right back.”

  A minute later, she returned with a stiff piece of clear plastic. Inside was a sheet of lined white paper, now laminated. The handwritten note was wrinkled, as if it had been wadded up and straightened out. But the cursive writing was neat, small, and clear.

  “This is a poem.” The word oozed from Laura’s mouth with disdain. “Rafel gave it to Joanna right before she died.”

  Sophie read the haunting lyrics:

  A true woman’s love knows only one heart.

  A shamed woman is like a cancer and must be
cut from the soul.

  Her death frees the bonded heart and carries her to Jahannam for eternity.—Rafel

  “What is Jahannam?”

  “It’s the Arabic term for hell.”

  “That is creepy. Did you show it to the police at the time of her death?”

  “I didn’t find it until weeks later when I went through Joanna’s clothes. It was in a pocket of one of her jackets. By then, the state police had called it an accident and moved on.”

  “May I take a picture of it?”

  “Sure.”

  Sophie moved the note out of the bright light from the window and took a few shots. She might only use the photo in the feature’s online version, where they had nearly unlimited space. One of the few upsides to digital news.

  “What else can you tell me about Rafel? His sister Sasha seems to think he was a terrific guy.”

  “He could be charming, I grant you that. I liked him at first. He seemed so respectful of women. Opening doors, never swearing in front of females, very protective. But it’s all a mask for deep-rooted distrust. Maybe it’s from feeling abandoned by his mother.” Laura looked away. “Or maybe it’s the Islamic background.”

  “Rafel was Muslim? His sister said they weren’t religious.”

  “They’re not. But Rafel’s father, Zain Mazari, was born in Pakistan and raised as a Muslim until his parents died and he came to the United States to live with an uncle. The uncle was Americanized and raised him with a mix of cultural traditions, which he passed on to his children. So Rafel may not have been overly religious, but he had some embedded old-world ideas about women.”

  “What are you saying? You believe Joanna’s death was an honor killing?”

  “Some version of it, yes.”

  Sophie was skeptical. If she had been shot or strangled, it would be easier to swallow. But yellow jackets? “I didn’t think honor killing was that widespread. I thought it was only practiced in small pockets, within tribes and families.”

  Laura was silent.

  “Do you have a photo of Rafel and Joanna? A digital file would be best.”

  “Sorry, I only have some prints.”

  “I’d love to take one with me. I’ll scan it and mail it back to you.”

  Laura looked uncertain. “The photos are all I have left of Joanna.”

  “I understand. I’ll just take a picture of the picture.”

  “No, I’ll give you one. I never look at pictures of them together.” Laura retrieved an envelope from the back of a photo album, sorted through the stack, and handed her a print.

  Sophie stared, rather stunned. Joanna had blonde hair, wide-spaced blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and abundant sensual lips. She looked so much like Sierra’s Facebook photo they could have been sisters.

  CHAPTER 22

  After hours at the homicide scene, feeling like they’d accomplished next to nothing, Jackson assigned Schak to round up Pittman’s bank, credit card, and phone records, which likely wouldn’t happen until Monday. In the meantime, Schak would look for Cody Sawyer. They either needed to bring him in for another round of questioning or keep an eye on him in case he was next on the killer’s list. Jackson sent Evans to the jail to question Sierra again and ask specifically about her relationships with Pittman and Sawyer. It often took several interrogations for a suspect to admit to an affair.

  Jackson worried that the second, similar killing while Sierra was incarcerated would cast doubt on whether she had committed the murder of her husband. At least that’s what a good defense lawyer would argue, and he might be right. But despite their connections, the homicides were distinct and looked like the work of different people. The long hair found on Pittman’s back was unusual, Jackson thought, but it could have belonged to a lover or a prostitute and be irrelevant to the case.

  He left the crime scene, driving past the onlookers and the KLSR news van. It no longer surprised him how quickly the media heard about a homicide and sent a reporter with a camera. They usually only managed to get distant shots of the house and the activity in front, but TV reporters needed footage for the viewers and would settle for anything.

  He was headed to see Hailey Pittman, Jake’s former wife. If their divorce wasn’t final yet, she was technically his widow and his heir. She was also likely the person who knew the victim best and would know who else to notify. Her address on Concord in the Barger area seemed like it would be easy to find, but the street stopped and started, and it took him a few tries to find the right section. Now that his house had sold, he vowed to buy a GPS unit for his vehicle since the department couldn’t afford one.

  Several cars were parked in front of the bright-yellow house, and his gut tightened. Hailey had company, making this situation more complicated and emotional. He was not only here to inform her of her estranged husband’s death, but also to question her. As polite as it would be to wait for a better time, it was also counterproductive. Every hour of delay gave the killer time to hide evidence, set up an alibi, and possibly leave town.

  Jackson rang the doorbell and suddenly had a nagging sense that he was forgetting something. Loud laughter came from inside the house—the cheerful sound of women enjoying each other’s company. Oh crap. This was the absolute worst part of his job, but as much as he’d like to, he never assigned it to anyone else.

  A thirty-something woman with a narrow but attractive face opened the door. Her smile disappeared the moment she saw him.

  “Hailey Pittman?”

  “Yes.” Her lower lip trembled, and he noticed she had ash-blonde hair that fell below her shoulders.

  Was that her hair on Jake Pittman’s back? “Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I need to talk to you in private.”

  She glanced back at the two women in her living room, then stared at Jackson, as if trying to read his mind. “We’ll go in the study.”

  While Jackson stood in the foyer, probably looking as grim as he felt, Hailey whispered to the women, who cast furtive glances at him. With a quick nod, she moved down the hall and Jackson followed. The back bedroom had been converted into an office, with a sliding-glass door leading into the yard. Jackson sat and willed himself to be patient, to not rush this because it made him uncomfortable.

  “I understand you moved out of the home you shared with your husband, Jake Pittman, several months ago. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.” Her eyes blinked rapidly. “Why?”

  “Have you filed for divorce?”

  “Yes, but it won’t be final until next month. What’s going on?” Her voice pitched higher.

  “We went to question Jake this morning, and I’m very sorry to tell you that we found him dead.”

  She took a quick gulp of air, then sat perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing deeply. After a moment, Hailey sobbed a few times, then caught herself. “I don’t want to cry for him.” She went still again, and Jackson gave her a moment to do whatever meditation or self-talk she needed.

  Finally, she asked, “What happened?”

  “The evidence indicates he was assaulted.” He was always careful about releasing details, even to the widow.

  “I knew he was into something stupid or dangerous. That’s why I left him. Well, that’s one of the reasons.”

  “Do you know who might have killed him?”

  “No.” She gave a tiny shake, then looked down.

  “Please tell me about Jake’s activities.” Jackson wanted to get more out of her before he mentioned the loud truck. Her new boyfriend could have been the one driving it. In any death, he’d learned to suspect the spouse or the third member of a love triangle.

  “I don’t know much. He was very secretive in the months before I left. And he suddenly seemed to have money, but he didn’t have enough work to explain it.” Hailey shifted in her chair. The subject clearly made her uncomfortable.

  “Did he talk about the money?”

  “No.”

  “What did he say when you asked him about it?”

 
“He would say he’d done a job for someone. Cut down a tree or did some landscaping, but sometimes he didn’t look dirty or sweaty. He looked guilty and irritable with me for asking.”

  “Do you know anything about the Veterans Relief Fund?”

  Hailey’s eyes registered recognition. “I heard him mention it once on the phone. I think he was talking to Rafel.” Her face crumpled. “Is that why Rafel was killed too? Were they stealing from someone?” She burst into tears.

  Jackson willed himself to wait it out. He knew what it was like to process the news of someone’s murder. It could take a while to sink in and become real.

  One of her friends called from the other side of the closed door, “Hailey, are you all right? Should I come in?”

  Jackson opened the door, gave her a brief update, then asked her to return to the living room. Hailey was under control when he sat back down.

  “Where were you last night between eight and midnight?”

  A startled noise escaped her lips. “I had dinner with my parents. We played cards afterward until ten o’clock, then I came home.” She met his eyes, showing him she wasn’t bothered by his question, despite her initial reaction.

  Jackson wanted to believe her, but part of him wondered if she was involved in the fraud ring. Had the wives killed their husbands to silence them? “Did you and Jake have a joint bank account when you were together?”

  “We did, but we also had separate savings. We were both putting equal money into the joint account, then Jake lost his job. He started his own business, but he didn’t make much money.”

  “Did you ever see the bank statements for his personal account?”

  “No.”

  “Do you own this home?”

  “No. I live here with my friend, Lisa. Jake and I sold the home we owned after our son died. We lived in a rental after that, thinking we’d buy another house someday, but then the recession hit.”