Dying for Justice (11 page)

“How can a solar panel business not survive in Eugene? Especially ten years ago? That was ahead of the curve.”

“Sam was killed in a car accident a few months after I gave him the money. The business fell through.”

“Sam who?”

“Forget it, Wade. It has nothing to do with their deaths.”

“How do you know?” Irritated, Jackson raised his voice. “What if Sam invested the money in a drug deal that went bad? What if Sam’s associates came here looking for you?”

Derrick rolled his eyes. “His name was Reinhart, but he’s dead and you’re wasting your time.”

“How you do spell it?” Jackson would have to search the databases because Derrick was clearly not going to help him.

“It doesn’t matter.” Derrick shifted in agitation. “This isn’t about Sam. He’s not the bad guy.”

Something in his tone caught Jackson’s attention. “Who is the bad guy? You got involved in something shady, didn’t you?”

“You’re like a pit bull, Wade. You get your teeth into something and you don’t let go. You were like that as kid too.”

“And you’re evasive as usual, trying to turn this on me instead of answering the question.” Jackson wanted to say,
You were like that as a kid too
, but he resisted. “Who did you owe the money to?”

Derrick took a long gulp of beer. Jackson watched him try to decide what to tell him. Finally his brother said, “Ray Durkin.”

“Who is he and how did you meet him?”

“Seth Valder introduced me to him at Lucky Numbers one night.”

The name slammed into Jackson like a fist. “I had a run-in with Valder recently and he’s heartless son of a bitch. How did you get mixed up with him?”

“I met Valder at the club and he seemed like a decent guy. I was talking to him one night about the business I wanted to invest in and he introduced me to Durkin. Durkin offered to loan me the money so I borrowed it.”

“At what cost?”

“Ten percent interest on the cash and one percent of the business.”

“What happened when you didn’t pay?”

Derrick’s shoulders sagged. “Durkin threatened me, so I borrowed money from Mom to pay him off.”

“Did he know you got the money from your parents?”

“No.” Derrick’s mouth turned down and Jackson didn’t believe him.

“You owed more than six thousand, didn’t you? Durkin came here looking to collect the rest.” Jackson bolted out the chair, heat building in his chest. “Our parents were murdered over your asinine debt, weren’t they? And you’ve known all along!” At the end, he was shouting.

Derrick stood and shouted back. “Bullshit! I paid Durkin and it was over.” His brother stepped toward him, shoulders tensed. “You’re out of line and I want you to leave.”

“I’m trying to find out who killed our parents. Don’t you give a shit?”

“Of course I do. Like everyone else, I thought Vargas did it. Now I don’t know what to think.”

“Are you going to help me? I need the truth, Derrick, the whole ugly truth.”

“I told you everything about the loan, which had nothing to do with their deaths.”

“Let’s sit down and talk. Maybe there’s something else.”

Derrick shook his head. “It’s late and I’m tired. They’ve been dead for eleven years. What’s your rush now?”

“I only have a few weeks to work this investigation, then I’ll have to take new cases. This one will get shuffled to the back burner. It’s a limited window of opportunity.”

“It’s probably a waste of time too.” Derrick threw up his hands in mock defense. “Don’t come at me for saying that. It’s just been too long.”

“The dead are patient. They don’t care how long it takes, but they want justice.”

Chapter 14

Tuesday, September 7, 7:05 p.m.

Evans watched Jackson drive away, then started across the parking lot. She felt energized, happy, and horny. She and Jackson had walked back from the restaurant together, making jokes about his disappearing-corpse case. It felt almost like a date. She suspected Jackson wasn’t totally happy with Kera and wondered if she should make a play for him. She pushed the thought aside and focused on her priority. Tomorrow she would have to turn over the sexual coercion investigation to IA. Gina’s notebook with its list of victimized women called to her from her shoulder bag.

Evans wanted to interview at least one more victim and hear her story firsthand, but she wasn’t sure if she should. They weren’t officially part of her main investigation, yet Lammers hadn’t forbidden her from talking to them. As an occasional volunteer for Womenspace, where she taught self-defense skills to victims of domestic abuse, Evans was learning to listen without judgment and to offer guidance without expectation. It still frustrated her when women didn’t fight back, but she understood and would continue to empower others whenever she had the opportunity.

She jogged upstairs into the department and photocopied each page of the journal. Ben Stricklyn from internal affairs would take possession of it tomorrow and she didn’t know him or trust him to fully investigate Bekker. If the notebook
accidentally
went missing, Evans would have a backup. She made copies of her handwritten notes as well and noticed Stuart Renfro’s name. She hadn’t talked to Gina’s boyfriend yet. Typically, she would interview co-workers as well, but as a self-employed seamstress, Gina hadn’t had any.

Evans went to her desk, looked up Stuart Renfro, and gave him a call. He answered on the second ring, sounding breathless. “Yes?”

“This is Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I need to talk to you about Gina Stahl.”

“Gina? I haven’t seen her in years. What’s this about?” A treadmill hummed in the background.

“She came out of her coma and I’m investigating.”

“Investigating what?”

“Her assault. Can I come over? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“I didn’t know she was assaulted.” The treadmill stopped. “I barely knew her. We went on two dates, then she disappeared. I heard later she tried to kill herself. There’s nothing else I can tell you.”

Evans was inclined to believe him but wasn’t giving up yet. “Do you know anything about her finances? Was she a gambler?”

Renfro let out a sigh. “I knew she was broke. She’d developed rheumatoid arthritis in her hands and couldn’t work for a while, but I can’t comment on the gambling one way or another.”

“Do you know anyone who might want her dead?”

“You mean besides her ex-husband? No. Everybody liked Gina.”

“Who is everybody?”

“Her friends, her clothing customers, the people at the clinic.”

“What clinic?”

“The medical marijuana clinic she volunteered at. That’s where we met.”

“What’s the name and where is it located?”

“The Compassion Center at 2055 West 12th.”

Evans scrawled the information in a quick flourish. “What was your business at the clinic?”

“I’m a nurse. I work there. How is Gina, by the way?”

“She’s going to fully recover.”

“Tell her I wish her well. Now I’d like to get back to my workout.”

“Please call me if you think of anything that might help my investigation.”

“It’s not likely.” He hung up.

Was the clinic still open this late and was there any point in checking it out? Evans felt like anything she did that wasn’t focused on Gary Bekker was just going through the motions. But if she didn’t investigate every possible lead, Bekker’s defense attorney would claim the police never looked for anyone else.

Evans looked up the Compassion Center in the online yellow pages and gave it a ring. A recorded voice informed her that clinic hours were between ten and five on Tuesdays and Thursdays and from noon to five on Wednesdays. The limited hours indicated the clinic was staffed mostly by volunteers.

Evans jumped up, feeling restless after a day of mostly sitting. She still had a five-mile run to do that evening and she wasn’t ready to quit working yet. If Gina were a newly-dead homicide victim instead of a two-year-old assault case, a team of detectives would be working round the clock. She owed Gina a similar diligence.

Heading downstairs to her car, Evans decided to go back to the beginning and look at the case as if Gina were dead and Jackson were investigating. What would he do that she hadn’t done yet? Write subpoenas for phone and bank records? In this case, she didn’t need a judge’s signature because she had Gina’s consent.

Some of the paperwork was still boxed up at the Stahls’ house. She just hadn’t looked through much of it yet because she’d found the notebook about Bekker’s victims. Would Gina’s parents mind if she showed up later tonight? She wanted to grab some boxes and bring them back to the department. Before starting her car, Evans pulled out the notebook and glanced through it. Joni Farmer’s apartment was only a mile away. To hell with protocol, Evans thought. She would stop and talk to Joni on her way to the Stahls’ house. If internal affairs decided to make the whole thing go away by asking for Bekker’s resignation, these women needed a backup plan.

Joni Farmer lived in a small apartment complex near Chambers and 10th. Evans nearly missed the building because it had almost no exterior lighting and large trees and shrubs dwarfed one end. Evans parked in the alley between the two complexes, then went upstairs to unit four. A thin young woman with ridiculously long hair answered the door. A little girl was wrapped around the woman’s legs, making happy high-pitched noises. Evans started to regret stopping by. Through gritted teeth, she asked, “Are you Joni Farmer?”

“Are you a cop?”

“I’m Detective Evans, Eugene Police, but I’m not here to harass you. I want to ask a few questions about Gary Bekker.”

Joni’s eyes filled with tears. She motioned Evans to come in, then carried the noisy child to another room. Evans was relieved when she returned without the little girl.

“What do you want to know?” Joni sank down on a battered couch with no legs.

Evans pulled a chair over from the small table nearby and clicked on her recorder. “How did you first meet Bekker?”

“He arrested me for possession. I was with my boyfriend, who was carrying three grams of heroin. Bekker took the dope off Jake and let him go. I didn’t know what the hell to think.” Joni rocked herself as she talked. “He put me in his car, drove me to parking lot behind a warehouse, and said I had two choices: Give him a blowjob or be charged with distribution.” The young woman fought back tears. “What else could I do? The state would have taken my little girl while I did six months. Bekker took me to jail anyway, but my paperwork said I had less than a gram so I got probation.”

“Bekker kept the rest of the heroin?”

She nodded. “He’s evil.”

“Did you see him again?”

“Two weeks later, he showed up with the H and offered it to me in exchange for sex.” She begged Evans to understand. “Do you know what that was like for me? I was trying to get clean and I hadn’t been high in days. I was in a world of hurt. So I screwed him for drugs.” A pent-up sob burst from her throat.

“How many times has he been back?”

“Dozens.”

“Does he bring heroin every time?”

“Sometimes it’s Demerol or methadone.”

Rage forced Evans from her chair. She visualized putting a bullet in Bekker’s head, then throwing his body to a pack of hungry dogs. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Are you willing to tell this to another detective? And testify in court?”

“Only if you promise I won’t go to jail. I can’t lose my little girl again.”

“Are you still using?”

“Sometimes.”

“You need to get help. Have you tried the methadone clinic?”

“I don’t have insurance and I can’t afford it, but I’m on a waiting list for a free inpatient clinic in Eastern Oregon.”

“That’s good to hear but it’s not enough. Your daughter will grow up to be a better person if you’re a better mother.”

“I know.” Joni hung her head in shame.

Evans handed her a business card. “I’ll be in touch.”

Some
people don’t deserve to live
, Evans thought, pounding down the stairs. No trial either. Just a bullet between the eyes. It was something her dad used to say. One of the many redneck things that came out of his mouth, but in this case, she agreed with him.

Evans jogged down the dark alley between the two apartment complexes. The Geezer was parked at the end, next to a tall hedge of laurel. Her body burned with anger and adrenaline. She decided to skip going to the Stahls and head straight home for a run.

As she reached her car, she sensed movement from the thicket. Evans spun, but not fast enough. A club came down on her head, wielded by a tall blur. She blacked out for a split second and landed on her knees. The attacker grabbed her hair and slammed her head into the side of her car. Pain and rage exploded in an animal fury. Bellowing like a wounded bear, Evans shot to her feet and punched her assailant in the groin as she came up. Her other first slammed into his sternum and he doubled over, gasping for air.

Evans jumped back and reached for her weapon. The man in the ski mask lunged just as her Sig Saur came free of its holster. He slammed her with the full length of his body and knocked her to the ground. Crushed under his weight, she could only move her arms. Evans grabbed his hair with one hand and slammed her gun into the side of his head with the other.

“Bitch!”

He pressed his forearm against her throat and straddled her so he could bear down. Evans yelled, but nothing came out as her windpipe was crushed under his arm.

A window banged open in an apartment above them and a voice hollered, “I’m calling the cops.”

Her attacker leaned close to her face, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol even through the knit mask. “Back off or next time I’ll kill you.” He pushed off her and, in the cover of darkness, moved toward the street.

Evans struggled to her feet, head pounding. The motherfucker! She considered shooting him in the back but couldn’t do it. She didn’t have enough light and it was too cowardly. She sprinted after him, pain and instinct driving her actions. The bastard was not getting away. In a few seconds, she was within striking distance. Evans leaped, twisted in the air, and landed both feet in his lower back. The assailant went down on the asphalt with a thud. She landed nearby on her knees, weapon still in her hand. She pushed up, scrambled back out of his reach, and aimed her Sig Saur at his prone body.

“Don’t move or I’ll shoot you,” she shouted, her voice weak from the choking.

Breathing heavily, he started to crawl away.

What the fuck?
Evans considered plugging him in the leg, but she couldn’t bring herself to shoot someone on the ground crawling away either. She rushed in and smacked him on the back of the head with her gun. His body went limp. She planted both knees into his butt and reached in her pocket for the handcuffs she always carried. He struggled as she pulled his arms together, but she managed to cuff him.

Evans holstered her weapon and held her head in her hands. The raw pain made her breath shallow and a lump formed under her fingers. The motherfucker. It took every ounce of self-control she had not to kick his groin while he was down.

Through the pain, she tried to figure out what to do next. The dickhead belonged in jail, but could she get him into her car? Even cuffed he could be dangerous. Evans grabbed her phone from her other pocket and hit redial. While she waited for Jackson to pick up, she looked around for her bag, which she’d dropped near her car.

Finally Jackson answered. “Evans. What’s going on?”

“Someone just attacked me. I subdued and cuffed him but I need help getting him to the jail.”

“Did you call for backup?”

“Not yet. I need someone here I trust.”

“Where are you?”

Evans gave him the address, then heard the wail of a siren. The onlooker from the window must have followed through on his threat to call the cops. “I hear patrol units now, but I’d still like you to be here.”

Her assailant struggled to his knees. “Gotta go.” She hung up and kicked him in the shoulder. He fell to the ground, landing on his side. Adrenaline still pumping, she yanked up his mask.

Bekker!