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

by L. J. Sellers

  “Any other connections?” Evans looked back over her shoulder, after making rapid notes.

  “Not that I know of. I asked Hailey Pittman if her husband had been sleeping with Sierra and she said no, that Jake didn’t even like Sierra. I sensed she might not like her either.” Jackson glanced at Schak. “What have you got?”

  “Nothing yet. I couldn’t reach Cody Sawyer by phone, so I stopped by his house, but no one was home. I’ll keep trying.” Schak rubbed his face, looking tired. “I wrote the subpoenas, but I can’t get bank or phone records until the businesses open again tomorrow.”

  “Let’s get Pittman’s cell phone company to ping his phone and see if we can locate it. Mazari’s too. If the killer took them, he or she may still have them in their possession. Even if they tossed the phones, the location should help us.”

  “Will do.”

  Jackson added, “I’ll attend Jake’s autopsy, then we’ll meet here as soon as we have the bank and phone records. We’ll be up to our asses in paperwork, but we’ll find the trail.”

  “Mazari’s funeral service is tomorrow at ten,” Evans said. “That’s another thing Sierra told me. She’s hoping to be arraigned first thing in the morning so she can attend. I think I’ll go and see who Sierra leans on. Maybe her lover will be there.”

  The information surprised Jackson. “That seems soon for a service.”

  “Sierra said Rafel’s sister set it up. Apparently, it’s a cultural thing to bury their dead as soon as possible.”

  “Text me with the location, in case I get out of the autopsy in time.” Jackson turned to Quince. “Call me tomorrow if anything breaks on the charity’s website or bank account.”

  “I will.”

  Schak closed his notebook. “Are we giving up on the guy at the tavern who had the shoving match with Mazari?”

  “No. But our sketch artist won’t be back until Tuesday morning, and our witness won’t return my call, so it’s on a back burner.” Jackson looked at his cell phone: 9:45. “Let’s call it a night.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Monday, November 14, 5:30 a.m.

  Jackson woke from a nightmare and sat up, heart pounding. In his sleep, his ex-wife had murdered Kera, and Jackson had found her body in a ditch near the stadium. Somehow, in the dream, he’d known where the body was, as if he’d conspired with Renee to kill Kera.

  Jesus. He shook off the horrific images, jumped out of bed, and rushed to splash cold water on his face. A sense of guilt and dread hung over him as he showered and dressed for work. Sitting down with a cup of coffee and the newspaper, he texted Katie first: I’ll pick you up at 7. We can stop for a bagel. He knew his daughter was up and dressed for school, because she’d been getting herself ready in the morning since she was eight, when she realized her mother was not dependable.

  A front-page story in the paper caught his eye. Homicide Victims Were Longtime Friends read the large-font headline. He knew the media would make the connection eventually, but he hadn’t expected it this soon. Had Hailey Pittman talked to a reporter? Jackson glanced at the byline: Sophie Speranza. Of course. Sometimes he thought she followed him around. With a jolt, he remembered she had once followed him all the way to Newport to report on a missing-person story.

  He read the brief article, relieved Sophie hadn’t mentioned that both victims had slit throats, only that they had been friends since childhood, had both served in the military, and had died forty-eight hours apart. The news story also mentioned that Sierra Kent, wife of the first victim, had been arrested for theft, but gave no details about the charge.

  Good, Jackson thought. The reporter had probably picked up just the basic data from the jail’s inmate-information website. Thinking about Sierra’s theft of the sedative reminded Jackson to check in with the crime lab to see if they’d compared the syringe with Mazari’s toxicology report, but he suspected the tests might not have been completed yet. Blood work went to the state lab, which was always backed up.

  Katie texted him back: Harlan’s driving me to school. C you 4 dinner.

  He set down his coffee with a little too much force, slopping some on the paper. He texted back: No. I told you yesterday I’d pick you up. Be there soon.

  Too irritated to read more of the paper, he went to the kitchen to grab his travel cup so he could take coffee with him to headquarters. He couldn’t find the mug. Was it still in a moving box? He thought he’d unpacked the important stuff. And why was this kitchen so damn dark even with the lights on? Jackson looked up at the ancient light fixture and realized one of the bulbs was burned out. He’d change it later. Eventually, he’d replace the fixture with something modern and recessed. Damn, he missed his old house. He’d put a lot of sweat equity into it.

  He strode to the bedroom, pulled his Sig Saur from its fingerprint-activated case, and strapped it on. Grabbing his jacket and carryall, he rushed from the house. Rain soaked his hair and jacket in the twenty feet to the car, and he swore as he climbed in. He’d looked forward to having breakfast with his daughter, and now she would be pissy with him. But making her stick to their plan was the right thing to do—wasn’t it?

  Yes, he decided. Spending too much time with a boyfriend at the age of fifteen was not a good idea. Jackson started his cruiser, and while it warmed up, he took a couple of calming breaths. It didn’t help.

  Renee’s apartment was in an upscale quadplex across from Skinner Butte Park, only a half mile from the river. Harlan’s little Honda Accord was parked in the visitor space. Jackson’s chest tightened in a painful squeeze. Don’t blame the boy, he coached himself. Katie is responsible for this situation. He pounded up the stairs.

  After one rap, the door flew open. Harlan looked groomed and cheerful as ever. “Good morning, sir. I apologize for being here. I think there’s been a misunderstanding.” The boy took a step forward.

  Jackson moved out of his way, too surprised to speak. As Harlan walked away, Jackson said, “Drive safe.” Lame! But at least the boy would know he wasn’t blaming him. He stepped into the living room and called out, “Katie.”

  His ex-wife greeted him from the kitchen. “We’re in here.”

  Crap. He didn’t want to make small talk. Normally, when he was here, he waited in the car for Katie. He dragged himself into the bright kitchen. “Good morning, Renee. Katie, are you ready?”

  She didn’t look at him—simply put her empty juice glass in the sink, grabbed her backpack, and pushed past him toward the living room.

  He gave Renee a tight smile and spun around.

  “Wade.”

  Not fast enough. He turned back. “Yes?”

  “You could have let her ride with him since he was already here.”

  “That’s like saying ‘Might as well let them have sex since they’re already naked.’”

  Renee rolled her eyes. “You still overreact to everything.”

  “No, I’m teaching Katie that it’s not okay to go behind my back to get what she wants. And I don’t want her riding with young teenage drivers. It’s dangerous.” He wanted to add so much more, but bit his tongue.

  Renee shrugged and changed the subject. “Did you know she quit drill team?”

  “Because of Harlan?”

  “She says it took too much time.”

  “I’ll talk to her.” He left while he felt he was still in control.

  Katie was quiet in the car and declined an offer to stop at Off the Waffle, which she loved. The restaurant had moved to Willamette Street and was now much closer to her school. Jackson asked questions about what she’d done over the weekend, and she gave one- or two-word responses without looking at him.

  He took a deep breath and plunged in. “Katie, I’m not trying to interfere with your friendship with Harlan. But it has to have limits.”

  “Oh bull. You don’t like him, and you’re trying to break us up.”

  The first half was true—or it had been until that morning—but the second half wasn’t. “I just found out you dropped o
ut of drill team, and I suspect it’s because you want more time to spend with Harlan. That’s not healthy for relationships. You both need to have your own lives and interests.”

  “We hardly ever see each other! We have no classes together, and he’s at church a lot. Should I start going to church with him?” Katie turned and dared him to respond.

  “I don’t think that’s the answer. Just be patient. You’re only fifteen.”

  He turned into the familiar parking lot. He’d gone to high school in this building, and so little about it had changed, at least from the outside.

  “Don’t pull up front. Just let me off here.”

  The words cut him like a knife. His daughter had never acted ashamed of being seen with him before. Too hurt to even be obnoxious, he stopped and let her out.

  “See you later.” It was all he could say.

  Katie mumbled something he didn’t understand and hurried away. With every receding step, she seemed more like an unfamiliar young woman than the child he’d loved and raised. Jackson took a long sip of coffee and warned himself not to start thinking about Kera too. If he did, he’d become a basket case, and he had an autopsy to attend, where emotions had to be checked at the door.

  Jackson took the elevator to the basement and strode down the hall, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the empty corridor. Few hospital visitors came this way, except those unfortunate souls who had to identify the dead. Still feeling on edge, he braced himself for the bright whiteness of the room and the coolness of the giant stainless-steel drawers. It was odd to be back in Surgery Ten after only two days.

  “Good morning,” Konrad said, looking up from his microscope.

  “Good morning. Where’s Gunderson?”

  “He’s running late. He’s picking up preliminary tox screens from the Mazari case.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Let’s get started. I have another autopsy this afternoon.”

  Jackson pulled on a gown, hairnet, and gloves while Konrad examined his work tray to make sure his tools were handy.

  The pathologist removed the white sheet covering the corpse, and Jackson gave the body a once-over. After this point, he would listen more than look, unless the pathologist called his attention to something. Jake Pittman’s stomach and legs had never seen the sun, and nearly every inch of white skin was covered with hair. His tanned arms were equally furry, and his privates were intact. It was the first time Jackson had made note of that in an autopsy, but after seeing Mazari’s body, he’d never take a penis for granted again.

  The pathologist moved to the end of the table and began a methodical search, starting with Pittman’s toes and working his way up. Jackson zoned out for most of it, hearing only Konrad mutter something about a “chainsaw scar.”

  “Healthy skin and good muscle tone,” the pathologist added. “And see this?” He pointed to faint grooves in the corpse’s upper arm. “This man was vaccinated for a tour of duty in the Middle East. The anthrax vaccine sometimes leaves that mark.”

  “He was in Iraq years ago.”

  The medical examiner rushed in, and Konrad waited while he suited up.

  “Do you have the toxicology report?” Jackson wanted to know what had been pumped into the first victim.

  “I have a preliminary analysis. They tested for sedatives and barbiturates first. Mazari had ketamine in his blood.”

  “That’s what Sierra took from her clinic.”

  “Do you mind if we conduct one autopsy at time?” Konrad looked over his glasses at them.

  They stopped talking, and the pathologist continued his examination of the neck area, probing with his fingers.

  “No puncture marks in this victim, in case you were curious.”

  “Good to know.” With the bruising on Pittman’s face, Jackson hadn’t considered that he might also have been drugged.

  The pathologist took measurements of the gash across Pittman’s throat. “This wound is superficial. The trachea is damaged, but the carotid arteries are mostly intact. And it was clearly made after the man’s heart had already stopped beating.”

  Jackson wanted to blurt out What about the head wound? But he waited for Konrad to get there.

  The pathologist spent ten long minutes examining facial bruises with his magnifier, then turned the head to the side. Finally, he said, “This looks like premortem bruising, but what’s interesting is this abrasion behind his ear.”

  Jackson bit his tongue and waited.

  Konrad used thin, jeweler-type tweezers to remove tiny pieces of evidence that Jackson couldn’t even see. He assumed they were bits of skin and hair.

  “I need a closer look.” Konrad reached for a pair of hair clippers and shaved a two-inch circle around the raised wound. After a moment, he said, “Something sharp but shallow struck him with substantial force.”

  “Like falling on the corner of a kitchen cabinet?” Jackson asked.

  “Could be. I noticed the reference in the ME’s report. We’ll test his brain tissue to see if it matches the sample from the counter.”

  Jackson turned to Gunderson. “Did you find any trace evidence under those dirty fingernails when you brought him in?”

  “I took the debris to the state lab this morning, but it’ll take a week to get a DNA report.”

  “I’ll open him up if you two are ready.” Again, Konrad looked over his glasses at them, Stryker saw in hand.

  Jackson kept his eyes on the corpse’s toes as the whine of the saw cut through the sternum. When Konrad flipped back the Y-shaped flap of skin, it made a slapping noise as it landed on Pittman’s face. The sound always made Jackson jump a little, no matter how many times he’d heard it.

  After a few minutes of extracting organs and sampling tissue, the pathologist grunted. “That’s quite a tumor on his liver.”

  “Cancerous?” Jackson asked.

  “We won’t know for sure until we send out a biopsy,” Konrad said. “Either way, it must have been causing him some pain.”

  Jackson wondered if Pittman had seen a doctor for it. Right now, he needed to get going. “Are you ruling his death a murder?”

  “I can’t say yet. I have more scope work to do on the trace evidence and tissue retrieved at the scene. Gunderson and I also need to study the crime-scene photos and determine if the angle of a fall could match up to the mortal head wound.” Konrad set the engorged liver on a tray to weigh it. “Considering the beating this man took, it was likely more than just an accident, but the death may not have been premeditated.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday, November 14, 5:45 a.m.

  Evans woke a little later than usual and jumped from bed feeling anxious. She drank a cup of high-octane coffee while she checked the news online, then went out for a five-mile run. Heart pounding, brain buzzing, she ran through the winding cul-de-sacs on the other side of Barger. In these moments, she felt stronger and happier than at any other point in her day. The homicides occupied her thoughts, and she kept coming back to two dominant questions: Who was Sierra sleeping with? And why did the second perp slash Pittman’s throat to make it look connected to the first? If the killers were working together, how did it benefit them to highlight the connection between the deaths?

  She rounded the corner, and her next thought was so jarring it almost made her slow down. Had the second killer tried to make the murders look connected to throw suspicion off Sierra? Because she was in jail and therefore couldn’t have done it? Only a smitten lover would have done something so pointlessly protective. Which brought her back to the first question: Who was Sierra’s lover? Dolan seemed like a good bet, but they couldn’t rule out Cody Sawyer, even though he claimed he had a girlfriend. And she hadn’t questioned Sierra’s boss at the animal clinic yet either. The second murder had thrown them off some of the second-level interrogations they would have normally conducted by now.

  Only in the homestretch did Evans let herself think about Jackson. Kera had broken up with him, and he’d made a point
to tell her about it. Did that mean something on its own, or was it just part of a pattern of him opening up to her more in the last few months? The bigger question was, should she do anything about it? She loved Jackson and probably always would, but she didn’t want a rebound relationship. She didn’t want to date a man who was still in love with someone else.

  Slowing to walk the last block, Evans smiled at the irony. Of course, that was her exact situation with Ben. He was dating a woman who was still in love with someone else. Was that fair to him? But how was she supposed to get over Jackson without dating someone new?

  Evans slipped her key out of her sock, entered her tidy little home, and headed for the shower. She had a funeral to attend.

  The cemetery was nestled between an orchard and a new suburb in the Santa Clara area, an unincorporated chunk of Eugene. The sky threatened rain, and many of the mourners carried black umbrellas. Evans wore a hooded, knee-length black coat and stood near the back, where she hoped to blend in. She was strangely pleased by the opportunity to wear the coat, which had been collecting dust in her closet. The group at the graveside was small; she counted about eighteen people.

  She recognized only a few: Sierra, who must’ve barely had time to change into black after being released from jail; Cody Sawyer, Rafel’s other friend, whom she’d interviewed on Friday; and Sheila Dolan, whose presence surprised her. Did the woman know about her husband’s affair with Sierra? Matt Dolan had stayed away. Another woman, who looked a bit like Rafel, stood with an older man, whose facial skin was the color and texture of a walnut. Evans assumed they were Rafel’s family, likely his sister and father. Sierra stood near the two, but they didn’t speak to each other. A tall older woman had her arm linked with the widow’s, and Sawyer stood behind them with a young woman Evans didn’t recognize. Likely the girlfriend he’d mentioned.