“Sounds good. What else are we having?”
“You pick.”
“I’m not even sure what is here.” Jackson rummaged through the cupboards, noting his brother still ate Captain Crunch cereal, and finally found a box of instant mashed potatoes. “We’ll smother them in gravy,” he said, holding up the box for her approval.
“I’ll pass, but you go ahead.”
Dieting again. Jackson didn’t comment. “What else is new with you?”
“I thought about what you said this morning, and I’m thinking of signing back up for drill team. I would have to wait until next term, though.”
He couldn’t help but grin. “I look forward to seeing your next performance.” He decided to push his luck. “Will you also make time to work on the trike with me?”
“Sorry, I’m just not into it anymore.”
“That’s fine. We’ll find something else we can do together.”
She gave him a funny smile. “Sorry about this morning.”
“Thanks for saying that.”
“Don’t get too excited. I’m not breaking up with Harlan.” Katie grabbed the meat tray and headed out the back door.
Hearing that made him think of Kera. Should he tell Katie about it? Or wait and see if he could salvage the relationship? His daughter had held Kera at arm’s length until she’d accepted that her parents were never getting back together. Then Micah, Kera’s baby grandson, had come to live with Kera, and Katie had bonded with the baby in a way that surprised him.
Jackson decided to wait. He wasn’t giving up Kera without a fight. He would call her after dinner.
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, November 15, 9:35 a.m.
Quince hurried into the Southside Post Office, subpoena in hand. Before the Veterans Relief Fund website had gone down, he’d made note of the post office box listed as a place to mail checks. The 97405 zip code indicated this post office, and he was determined to walk out of here with a name—and hopefully a real one. To open a mailbox, the post office required a photo ID and one other solid piece of information, such as a vehicle registration or insurance policy.
The line was short, and he quickly stood in front of the clerk, an older man with crazy-curly gray hair. Quince pulled his eyes away from it when the clerk greeted him. He gave his name, presented the subpoena, and waited while the clerk checked his records.
“The box was opened by Brice Farley on July twenty-seventh of this year.”
Damn. That was one of the names on the charity’s bank account, which he’d learned yesterday was fake and belonged to a young man who’d died in a car accident. The person who’d set up the charity and all its accounts had been very careful, smarter than most of the desperate or drug-stupid criminals who usually committed this kind of fraud.
“You don’t have a copy of his ID, do you?” Quince knew it was wishful thinking.
“We ask to see ID, but we don’t keep it on file.”
“Will you check and see if there’s anything in the mailbox?”
“Sure.” The clerk turned and headed into the bowels of the processing center. In a moment, he came back and shook his head. “It’s empty.”
“Thanks.” Quince strode to his car. He had just enough time to make a quick stop before the task force meeting that morning.
He entered the Rosehill Estates, waved at the receptionist, who’d seen him a few times by now, and headed down the long corridor toward Molly Pershing’s apartment. He’d found nothing helpful in her paperwork or on her computer, and he’d talked to most of her neighbors over the weekend. But the woman who lived directly across from Molly hadn’t been home any of the times he’d been here. Her name was Glenna Hastings, or so said the pretty plaque on her door.
He heard someone inside moving slowly, and Quince was relieved to be able to check this task off his list. A tiny woman who looked at least ninety opened the door a few inches and peered out. “Who are you?”
“Hi, Glenna. I’m Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police Department. I’d like to ask a few questions about your neighbor, Molly Pershing.”
She opened the door a few more inches. “Let me see your badge.”
Quince pulled it from his pocket and showed her. “Can I come in? I only need a minute.”
“I’m still in my bathrobe, and I just got out of the hospital. Can you come back later?”
“I wish I could, but I’m running out of time. Did you know Molly died on Friday?”
The door opened a few more inches. “Yes. My friend told me when she visited me at the hospital.”
Quince felt bad about keeping a sick old woman standing in her doorway, but he had to get this done. “Someone accessed Molly’s bank account and stole her money. I’m trying to find that person. Have you seen anyone new with Molly lately? Possibly a young man?”
Her cloudy eyes registered fear, then anger. “I did see a strange young man leaving Molly’s apartment about six weeks ago. At first, I thought it was her grandson, then I realized he was too tall.”
“How tall?”
“A little taller than you.”
Quince was five-eleven, but he often said six feet, just to round it off. “What color hair?”
“I’m not sure. He was wearing a knit cap.”
“What else can you tell me about him?”
“He was skinny and wore glasses.”
The glasses didn’t sound like any of their suspects, but he pressed forward anyway. “What about facial hair?”
Glenna made a face. “He had one of those tiny little beards on his chin.”
A soul patch, Quince realized, as he jotted down the description. Was that Pittman or Sawyer? “Did you catch his name or any of their conversation?” Quince pulled out his netbook while he talked.
“I heard Molly say thanks.”
He opened Facebook, found Cody Sawyer’s page, and showed the photo to Glenna. “Is this the guy?”
She pulled up her glasses from where they hung around her neck and peered at the digital page. “I think so.”
CHAPTER 30
Tuesday, November 15, 9:15 a.m.
Sophie deleted the last sentence she’d written and tried again. She struggled to find a new way to report the same information she’d had yesterday. Jackson hadn’t called her back, so she’d called Detective Evans and left a message. And Jasmine still wouldn’t tell her anything, so she’d learned almost nothing new about Jake Pittman’s death. Still, her editor wanted daily news stories about the homicides until she was ready to run her full-length feature, so she was trying to give him something.
The more she learned about Rafel Mazari, the less Hoogstad was going to like her article. He wanted a piece about the tragic civilian death of a soldier who’d survived a tour in Afghanistan, but that wasn’t the real story. Jake Pittman, Rafel’s best friend, was ex-military too, and he’d been murdered two days later. She had to assume the men had been involved in something illegal and likely dangerous. After a dozen phone calls the day before, trying to dig up something, all she’d learned was that Rafel had been well liked by men, but some women thought he was controlling and sexist.
It was time to tell her editor she needed a few more days on Mazari’s feature and that the story had morphed into something else. Sophie got up from her desk and walked past a row of cubicles to Hoogstad’s glass-walled office. The carpet kept her pumps from making a clicking noise, which would have been about the only sound in the building. The salespeople, usually more talkative than the reporters and editors, were out on calls, leaving an empty echo.
Leaned back in his chair with his eyes closed, Hoogstad looked like he was sleeping. She rapped softly on his open door. “Karl?”
He shot forward, drool hanging from his lower lip. “Jesus. Don’t scare me like that when I’m thinking.”
“Sorry. Do you have a minute?”
“Sure. What’s on your mind?”
“These two murders.” Sophie paused, wondering how politically correct sh
e had to be. “Both men were military veterans, but I don’t think they were heroes—or least not anymore. I’m not sure I can write the fallen-hero feature you originally mapped out.”
He stared at her for a long moment. “So find out what they were involved in and write that instead.”
“Thank you.” She started to turn away.
“What’s on your schedule today?” Hoogstad asked.
“Visit the animal clinic where Mazari’s wife is employed and talk to her coworkers. She’s out of jail, but I’m sure the police still consider her a suspect.” Sophie also hoped to interview Rafel’s father. Laura McKinsey had given her the number and mentioned that the old man lived out River Road on a secluded farm. Sophie had called him, of course, but he hadn’t returned her call.
“Get a statement from the police too. I know you have contacts there—work ’em.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Back at her desk, she called Jackson on her landline, and he surprised her by picking up. “Good morning, Sophie. Do you realize you’ve left me four messages in the last three days?”
“And now you’re talking to me. Thanks for answering.”
“How did you get Jake Pittman’s name so fast?”
“I know people who went to high school with Rafel and his friends.”
“Like who?”
“Someone who knew Rafel’s first wife.” Sophie wasn’t about to admit she’d followed Jasmine Parker to the crime scene. “Can you give me a statement that includes both murders?” Sophie clicked on the recorder attached to her desk phone.
“How about this? Rafel Mazari and Jake Pittman were best friends, so the timing of their deaths two days apart is not likely a coincidence, and we’re pursuing that angle.”
“That’s not exactly a breakthrough.”
“I know, but now it’s coming from the department instead of you.”
“Do you have any physical evidence linking the crimes?”
“We’re still waiting on lab reports.”
“You arrested Sierra Kent on theft charges. Is she a suspect in her husband’s death?
“I’ve got to go. I have a lot to do before my task force meeting.”
“Thanks, Jackson. Call me when you have more time.”
They both laughed, and Sophie hung up. He hadn’t really given her anything but a useless quote, but useless quotes from politicians, experts, and law enforcement were what often passed for news. She tried to do better, but it wasn’t always possible.
Sophie keyed Jackson’s quote into her brief news story, then shut down her computer. Sierra Kent’s theft charge intrigued her, and she hadn’t pursued it yet. On her way out of the building, she called the police department and asked for the report of Sierra’s arrest. For a small fee, they said they’d mail it to her, but she told them to hold it and she’d pick it up in a few minutes.
Sophie found a parking space behind Full City Coffee, across the street from the county courthouse and only a block from city hall. She decided to run into the county building and look up the property record for Zain Mazari. If she found the address, she’d drive out there later and see if Rafel’s father would talk to her. If nothing else, she’d get some photos of the place where Rafel grew up. His sister had said his friends spent a lot of time on the farm when they were young, so it could be a poignant part of her story about the two murdered friends.
Her search took five minutes and cost fifteen dollars—doing her part this morning to keep both the county and city afloat. The property records department also gave her a plat map that showed the address off a small side road, which might have been easy to miss. She could always get directions from her iPhone, but she hated stopping to do it.
Pleased to be moving forward on the story, she hurried one block over to police headquarters and picked up Sierra’s arrest report. Back in her car, Sophie scanned the information. The one significant word in the whole report was syringes. Why the hell had Sierra stolen syringes from the veterinary clinic where she worked? And what did it have to do with her husband’s murder? Had she drugged him? A rush of excitement flooded her stomach. Sophie shoved the report in her oversize bag, started her car, and headed for Willamette Street.
On a late Tuesday morning, the parking lot at the Animal Care Clinic was nearly empty. Great news. The staff would have time to talk to her. Sophie checked to make sure she had her recorder, notebook, and a pen, then straightened her messy bangs. She stepped out of her car and took a few pictures, noting the building had an odd Mexican look, with stucco and rounded windows. Inside, the small waiting area was empty, and the receptionist looked bored. Chewing gum, the young woman looked up from her oversize monitor. “How can I help you?”
“I’m Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News. I’m writing a feature about Rafel Mazari, and I’m looking for background information about him and his wife, Sierra Kent.”
The receptionist’s boredom vanished. “Sierra called a while ago. She should be here any minute to pick up her final paycheck if you want to wait and talk to her.”
Hell yes, she would wait. She’d been trying to talk to the widow for days. “Did you say final paycheck?”
The receptionist nodded.
“Did Sierra quit, or was she fired for stealing syringes?”
The receptionist made a mocking gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know anything about that. I just assumed she needed time off to grieve.”
“Did you ever meet Sierra’s husband or spend time with them together?” Sophie pulled out her notepad.
“Sure. When they first got married, Rafel volunteered here sometimes. We all liked him.”
“What did he do as a volunteer?”
“Cleaned cages and helped wash the big animals, that kind of stuff.”
“But not recently?”
“Not since he got back from the war.”
“What kind of man was he? How would you describe him?”
The receptionist gave it some thought, knowing she might be quoted. “He seemed very much in love with Sierra at first, but he was intense in some ways and kind of quiet.”
Sophie had to ask. “Can you think of any reason why Sierra might want to kill him?”
The woman’s eyes went wide, and she made a little O with her mouth. “Goodness, no. Why do you ask? Is she a suspect?”
Sophie gave a casual shrug. “The spouse is always a suspect.”
The clinic door banged open behind Sophie, and she turned. Sierra marched toward the counter, a bundle of dreadlocks bouncing behind her head. Sophie started to open her mouth to introduce herself, but the look on Sierra’s face stopped her. Instead, Sophie stepped aside to observe.
“Can you get my check?” Sierra’s tone was curt, more worried than angry.
“I have it right here.” The receptionist reached for an envelope near her computer. “I’m sorry about your husband. Best wishes to you.”
“Thanks.” Sierra grabbed the paycheck and started to turn.
“Sierra Kent? I’m Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News.”
The tall woman spun around and walked out, without even looking at her. Sophie hurried to the window, curious about Sierra. She watched her get into a red Charger with a dark-haired man at the wheel. He looked younger than Sierra and wasn’t smiling. Sophie remembered seeing him at the funeral but didn’t know his name. Was it one of Rafel’s childhood friends?
She motioned for the receptionist to hurry over. “Come look at this guy. Do you know him?”
The Charger backed out of its parking space, and by the time the receptionist rounded the counter and trudged over, the vehicle was heading for the road.
“Do you recognize that car?”
“No. Sorry.”
Sophie considered following them, then questioned the point of it. The guy was probably Sierra’s brother or some friend offering his support. Still, Sierra’s coming to collect a final paycheck seemed a little odd. Sophie ran to her car, unlocking it with her clicker as sh
e approached.
The Charger had turned right with the traffic, but it took Sophie five minutes to exit on Willamette. She finally honked at a driver to let her out, and surprisingly, he did, but not without a What the fuck? look. She pressed the gas but got nowhere in the heavy traffic. The Charger was no longer in sight, so Sophie kept checking side streets to see if it had turned. After a few frustrating minutes, she gave up and headed back toward the newspaper.
CHAPTER 31
Tuesday, November 15, 11:00 a.m.
Jackson stepped into the conference room, the smell of coffee heavy in the air and anticipation running high. The file of Sierra’s phone records had come through, and he was eager to see who she’d been talking to in the days before her husband had been killed.
Evans and Schak were present but Quince hadn’t shown up yet. Jackson set down the stack of papers and nodded at his teammates. “We’ve got Sierra’s phone records. Up for some more data scanning?”
“I’d love to,” Schak said, “but I have to be in court this afternoon. I just stopped in to tell you I heard from Mazari’s phone service. They pinged his cell this morning, and the signal bounced off a tower in Creswell. My guess is that it’s in the Short Mountain Landfill.”
“Crap. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. I still haven’t found a damn thing about the Territory Defenders group. If anything breaks on this case, text me, will you? It’ll keep me awake in court.” He grabbed his coat and headed out.
Jackson divided the stack into thirds, assuming Quince would show up soon. He pushed a pile of paper toward Evans. “By the way, I heard from the lab,” he said. “Three things. That sticky stuff you pulled off Mazari’s Jeep? It’s tree sap, but I don’t know how that helps us.”
Evans mulled it over. “Pittman is a tree cutter. Maybe he was present for Mazari’s murder.”
“Why didn’t the homeless guy see him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Pittman leaned against the Jeep earlier. What else?”
Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 23
