He’d read the file five times.
“Not much. Officially, she’s a Jane Doe. Known as Lori Wright, but no I.D. was found and no one knows where she’s from. Landlord said she paid cash, didn’t have any trouble. If they know anything, her coworkers aren’t sharing. Mostly undocumented workers, don’t want any attention from ICE.”
Andrews nodded. Most of the hotels and restaurants in town employed illegals on the bottom rung of the ladder. Only Juan’s paid them a fair wage. Jasper wasn’t a sanctuary city, but they left them alone as long as they didn’t cause any trouble. It wasn’t their job to do ICE’s work for them.
Singh went on, “Female, Caucasian, small build, medium brown hair. Currently in ICU at Hoag. Still alive. Multiple injuries consistent with physical attack. No gunshot wounds. No bullets or casings found at the scene. Fingerprints, but no matches except neighbor, mother and child, and neighbor’s neighbor, a Ben Halvard. He found her and called it in.”
Looking Singh in the eye, Andrews asked, “Assault or homicide? How are we investigating this one?”
Crimes Against Persons handled both, so Singh hesitated.
“Homicide,” Andrews filled in, “If she doesn’t make it, it turns into a homicide. If you start out treating it that way, we’ve got a head start on the investigation. Those first few hours are critical. If we waited until it was official, we’d lose traction.”
Andrews had seen the woman. The bastard really did a number on her. He hoped it didn’t turn into a homicide, but he’d be ready if it did. He nodded toward the file, giving the junior detective back the floor.
Singh filled in more details, “Organic material, skin and blood found under several of her fingernails. All collected and stored properly. When ...”
When, not if.
The boy was confident.
“... we have a suspect, DNA could be matched. One unknown, male assailant, tall, thin, broad shouldered, dark hair. According to neighbor, who saw him get into the vehicle, driving a dark, possibly black, Jeep. Partial plates TZ2 ..., light background, blue or black lettering. Probably California.”
“Anything else?”
“Nothing more about the victim, but her young daughter may have witnessed the attack. Ran to a neighbor’s house. Currently in temporary foster care. Neighbor,” he glanced down at the open file, “Logan McKenna, female, forty-six, says mother self-reported child’s age as three, birthday coming up soon, so nearer to four, but no verifying documentation found on premises for either child or mother. The child wasn’t in school or preschool, so no records there.”
He looked to Andrews for approval.
“And ...?”
“Well, we don’t even know if the child is our Jane Doe’s mother. She says she is, but could be a kidnapping,” he added.
“Good,” Andrews said, “Never assume. ‘To assume makes an ass out of you and me’.” That was one of his favorite quotes.
He rolled his chair a few inches away from his desk and looked at Singh, ticking off points on his fingers.
“OK. We’ve got no family, no ID. Canvassed the neighborhood. No witnesses. No one saw anything except the one neighbor. Where would you start?” he asked.
“The little girl? There was nothing in the file about it, but with an experienced interviewer, I’ve read cases where the right interviewer was able to get good information out of a child witness-one as young as 4. Even if it couldn’t be used in court, it may provide a lead.”
“You’re right, we’re on the list for that. The child psychologist on deck is backed up with court. Takes a while. What else?” Andrews asked.
“The partial plate. I’d see if any of the neighbors have a security cam.”
“Good, but we checked. Nothing useful there,” Andrews said, “None of them point in the direction of the house.”
When Singh had no more to add, Andrews gave him his last bit of wisdom for the day. He normally didn’t waste his time, but Singh was bright. He’d make a good detective someday.
“Criminals do what we do, Singh. Think about it. Before going to work, which in their case means committing a crime, they stop for gas. You need to have plenty of gas for the getaway, maybe get some cash from an ATM machine, go to the bathroom, buy some snacks. You prepare. So, the logical place to start looking for video is at any gas station in a five-mile radius of the crime.”
Just then, his desk phone rang. Andrews answered and asked whoever was on the line to hold. “Unfortunately, I took a look at these already. Video quality is OK, but no match for the partial. If he’d been there, we would have seen something.”
Singh needed to know it wasn’t easy. Took legwork. They’d keep chipping, something would shake loose. Andrews went back to his call, signaling lesson over to Singh, who returned to his desk.
“Where?” Andrews rose from his chair and scooped up his keys in one movement. “Be there in ten.”
Finally, something to do.
“Rookie, you’re up!”
Might as well see how strong his stomach was.
38
Andrews pulled in behind the ambulance, then reached into the glove compartment for the digital camera and handed it to Singh. They got out of the car and started towards a gap between two houses that led to the beach. Andrews took the lead.
Slinging the camera strap over his shoulder, Singh kept up. He looked nervous. They picked their way down an uneven foot path next to a low, cement wall, which curved into a sea wall in the front of the house on the right. The path was unmarked. Unofficial beach access between two mid-century, glass-fronted homes.
A man Andrews knew was stooped over the body. Tyler Jacobs, the coroner. Jasper wasn’t big enough to have a medical examiner. A uniformed patrol officer, probably first to arrive on the scene, stood a few feet downwind. From the house on the left, a neighbor, presumably the one who called it in, rushed frantically down the steps of his deck, where he had been asked to wait.
“I just saw him! He was just laying there! I just got home and went out onto the deck to check the waves. I looked down. I saw him. Right there! Was there a boating accident? I’ve been at work all day. I haven’t heard anything. Do you know who he is?”
Andrews expertly deflected the man’s insistent advances and asked him to wait inside, promising they’d be back in a few minutes to take his statement. The man did as he was told, but not happily. The detectives continued onto the small, crescent beach. The sand was harder here. And wetter. He wished he’d changed shoes.
“Hey Ty, what have we got?” Andrews asked.
A pale, blue-streaked, bloated, sodden body, garnished in dark green seaweed, lay face down in the sand at their feet. Black pants. Black, long-sleeved turtleneck sweater.
Funny wardrobe for as warm as it had been the last few days.
“Male, Caucasian, about six foot, two inches...”
“How long?”
“Best guess: one or two days in, no gunshot or obvious stab wounds. Nothing visible, other than what you’d expect from being banged into rocks out there. Fish bites took their fair share. Can’t tell anything much till I get him back on the table,” the coroner answered.
Andrews reached down and removed a sodden, dark brown lump sticking out of the DB’s back pocket.
“Let’s see who our mystery player is,” he said, handing the cheap, leather wallet to Andrews with gloved fingers, who was pulling on his own pair. The uniformed patrol officer started a log of everyone entering and leaving the scene. Singh continued to observe and pulled out a small notebook to take notes.
“Everly, Neal ... Seattle WA ... 34,” Andrews read aloud after extracting a driver’s license from the slot. He looked through the rest of it. “No credit cards or insurance cards. No personal pictures. $34 in folding money,” he read to Singh, who dutifully recorded the contents as Andrews read them off.
A
fter bagging the wallet, Andrews looked down at the man, then at the surrounding area. Not a large beach. More of a cove. Pacific current ran south, which meant this guy went into the water north of here. Two days? Santa Barbara? Or could have died right here and just got snagged on something, held down for a while, then rose to the surface when it bloated, then washed in. Hard to tell.
After taking pictures, he and Singh did a thorough search, including digging through a pile of bulbous, smelly seaweed, but found nothing else related to their DB. Just sand crabs and screaming gulls, wanting a snack. Finally, as satisfied as he was going to get for now, he released the body to the coroner, who had his people load him up.
Probably just a tourist got drunk and fell off a boat. Nothing to connect what looked like an accidental death with any of his ongoing cases. Still ... two violent assaults in one week in a small town ... one definitely not accidental.
When they got back into their vehicle, he turned to Singh, who was still taking notes, “Run this guy through NCIC and see if anything pops. I’ll sit on Jacobs and see if he can get any prints. Make sure the ID matches our vic.”
He smiled at his own joke and rolled down the window. He couldn’t make a connection yet, but his gut told him there was a connection. That familiar feeling of adrenaline starting to trickle into his veins. Things were moving. He pressed on the gas.
When they got back to the station, Diaz was there. Rocky from the flu, but feeling better. Andrews brought him up to speed while Singh went to his desk to make the phone calls and submit the name to the database. If Diaz felt territorial about Singh working their case, he didn’t show it.
Within minutes, Singh was back over, printout in hand.
“Got a match on NCIC. If it’s the same Neal Everly, he did three of a five-year sentence in Monroe. It’s up near Seattle, WA. Out on parole.”
“Who’s his ...” Diaz started to ask.
“Leo Rudowski,” Singh read from, then handed Andrews, a piece of paper, “number’s on there.”
“Thanks, Singh,” Andrews said.
Diaz’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.
“Don’t worry, you were gone, he did a few things,” Andrews said. If Diaz had issues with giving the rookie some practice, he needed to get over it.
“What makes you think they’re connected?” Diaz said.
Andrews shrugged.
“Don’t know if they are. Either way, we’re working both cases.”
While Diaz called the coroner about the fingerprints, Andrews called the PO, who sounded surprised and more than that, sad, when he heard Neal was dead.
“That explains why he didn’t show,” Rudowski said, “Do you know what he was doing down there? What happened?”
“No, I was hoping you could shed some light on that,” Andrews said.
“Doesn’t make sense. He was done. Had his final check-in with me on Monday, would have been free as a bird after taking the paperwork to the judge. No way he would have missed that or risked going out of state two days before he was free and clear. He was one of the good ones. Kept his nose clean, stayed out of trouble,” he said, “thought he was going to make it.”
“What can you tell me about him?” Andrews asked.
The PO then summarized Everly’s short, unfortunate life from the notes in his file, and the little his PO knew of him from their initial conversation.
“Grew up in South Park, moved to Othello. Not much of an improvement. Crime rate’s half again as high as the rest of Seattle. Single mom. Five kids. No abuse I know of, just not enough money or attention to go around. Still, only two out of the five kids have criminal records.”
“What did he do?” Andrews asked, “for a living I mean - when he got out.”
He knew all parolees must find gainful employment and keep it.
There was a pause on the line as Rudowski looked up Garrett’s last name and number.
“Drove for a family out in Lakeside. Delaney, Garrett. Want his number?”
“Yeah, address and numbers should do it for now,” Andrews said.
Rudowski rattled off landline, cell and office numbers, said he’d copy whatever Andrews wanted from his file and send it over as soon as he could.
“What kind of driving did he do for Delaney? Take him back and forth to work, appointments, airport?” Andrews asked.
“No, just home stuff. He had him driving his family around—school, shopping, like that. Said it was a dangerous world out there,” he said.
Just before Rudowski hung up, Andrews asked, “What kind of car did Neal have?”
“Didn’t own one, had an old motorcycle to get around. I’ve got the license number in here somewhere. If you give me a minute, I’ll find it.”
“OK ... What’d he drive for Delaney?”
“Volvo.”
Would have been nice if it’d been a black Jeep.
39
Logan didn’t mention the flash drive to Ben when she picked him up. Even if she had, he probably wouldn’t have remembered anything. He was still pretty woozy. So cute—all six feet of him wobbly on his feet. Logan smiled.
A male nurse helped Ben from the wheelchair into the car. Hospital policy. He told Logan inside that the operation had gone well, no complications. The patient just needed to take it easy, drink only liquids first, then eat only soft foods. After loading Ben into the front seat, making sure he was strapped in, he handed Logan a bag with multiple pieces of paper, encased in a large baggie.
“... noodles, gelatin, applesauce, cottage cheese, pudding ... absolutely no hot liquids and do NOT let him drink with a straw. You don’t want him pulling out a blood clot and getting dry socket,” he warned.
Logan wondered if she should cancel her flight and stay with him.
The nurse eyed her crutches tucked behind the front seats and raised his eyebrows at her, but said nothing. Instead, he commented on the car.
“Nice Ride,” he said, admiring Lola’s curves, then, “Don’t worry. Just follow the instructions. It’s all in there. Call if you have any questions,” he said, hurrying back inside to help the next patient. There were two people waiting.
Since it was a short trip, Logan took her car to pick up Ben. Six days of RICE and her knee was much better, so they were only along for backup. She left Purgatory at her house, not wanting to risk him pulling out stitches by launching all 145 pounds of Welcome Home in joyful abandon onto his master. Good decision. When they arrived home, Ben had to sit in a chair and let Purgatory lick his face for at least a full minute before he calmed down enough to be trusted to keep all four paws on the floor.
Logan stayed with him until 10:00 p.m. when his sister arrived, then drove Lola around the block, parked and dragged herself inside. What a day. She fed Dimebox and gave him a scratch behind the ears, enjoying the firm press of his body against her arm. He was grateful Mom was home. Dimebox usually cleared out whenever Purgatory was around.
But he was self-sufficient and Logan didn’t worry about him out and about. Good thing cats were low maintenance. Bonnie said she’d feed and water ”the monster” while she was out of town until Ben recovered sufficiently to take over.
♦ ♦ ♦
9:30 a.m.
Portland Airport Enterprise didn’t have the compact car she reserved.
Of course not.
Even though Rita generously footed her travel bill, Logan still shopped around and found a great deal on an economy car. She swore car rental companies did this just to make an extra buck. Suck you in with a deal and tack on the upgrade charge once you got there. Was that even legal? Legal or not, they knew travelers didn’t have time to stand there and haggle; they’d just pay the difference, grab the keys, and get on with getting where they needed to go.
“I know it’s not what you asked for, m’am,” he said, “but I’ve got a Hyundai Tucson, black. I
f you don’t mind upgrading to a mini SUV, free of charge of course, it’s ready to go.”
Good things do happen to good people! Yeah! She put all thoughts of suing Enterprise on hold. Signing the papers and collecting the keys before the guy could change his mind, Logan hoisted her computer bag onto her shoulder, pulled up the handle on her rolling bag, and headed for C5, only a few yards away, and one sharp right, from the customer service area. He was right. The parking area was empty except for the shiny Tucson.
Embarrassed she didn’t know how to open the tailgate to put in her rolling bag, Logan had to turn around and go back inside to get help. She waited a few minutes for the last woman in line to be helped before the service rep was free to come out and show her the ropes. Lola was old school. Logan had so far been able to avoid learning the new stuff.
After clicking open the rear door, the young man loaded her bag in the back, and waited for her to get settled into the driver’s seat and adjust the mirrors.
“Just keep your foot on the brake and press in the start button,” he said, his tone of voice aiming for nonchalant, trying valiantly not to make her feel too stupid.
“Where does the key need to be?” she asked. Her dad always said it was better to look foolish for an instant and come away a wiser woman than look cool and remain ignorant.
“Oh, just anywhere nearby. You can keep it in your purse, drop it into the drink holder; you can even put it in your pocket. Just know that if you walk by the back door with the key in your pocket, the lift will automatically start going up. It’s a great feature if your hands are full.”
“What if I don’t want it to go up?”
“Just press this section of the key,” he showed her where.
He went on to demonstrate the hands-free calling feature, backup camera, and cruise control.
“OK,” Logan said. She never used cruise control. The backup camera was cool, but she was feeling grumpy and defeated by the rest of the new technology. She felt 90. What was wrong with keys? Lola worked fine with a key. Key. Ignition. Put the key into the ignition and the car starts!
Vanishing Day Page 13
