Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (18 page)

Pittman didn’t answer and Jackson didn’t leave a message.

In the parking garage, Jackson climbed in his car, put in his earpiece, and called Katie again. He started to drive out of the lot, then decided to wait. He was trying not to talk on his phone and drive unless it was necessary police business.

His daughter picked up, sounding both amused and annoyed. “I’m fine, Dad. Mom’s sober, Ivan is nice, and we’re all going out to a movie.”

“Does that include Harlan?”

“Yes. He’s meeting us there. We won’t be alone, even for a minute.”

“What are you seeing?”

“The
Footloose
remake.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Liar.” Katie laughed. “I’ll be home tomorrow night.”

“Next weekend, I want to start making a different frame for the trike, one with more stability. Are you up for helping me weld it?” She’d done most of the welding on the three-wheeled motorcycle they’d built together the summer before. He loved working with her the way he’d spent time with his dad.

“I don’t think so. Harlan and I are going to volunteer with the Stream Team on weekends.”

Jackson was disappointed, but how could he argue with a kid who wanted to make the world a better place? “I miss our time together.”

“We still have
Firefly
movie nights.”

“Let’s grill tomorrow. We haven’t done that in a while.”

“I’d like that.”

“I miss you.”

She laughed again. “No you don’t—you’re on a case. But I love your dedication.”

“Thanks, sweetie.”

“Gotta go.”

Not ready to quit working for the night, Jackson drove out to Pete’s Pad and spent an hour asking patrons if they’d seen the guy with the shaved head and beard. Many of the same people were in the tavern from the night before—except Nikki, the one he wanted to see—and the whole activity depressed him. He’d witnessed enough drinking from his ex-wife to last a lifetime. Eventually, an older man told him the description matched one of his coworkers but that the coworker was religious and had never been in the bar. Jackson took down the name and place of employment but intuitively knew it was a dead end.

At home, he sat in his recliner, slipped off his shoes, and let his mind simply drift. He rarely stopped thinking, analyzing, and planning, even on weekends. Homicide cases seeped into his brain chemistry, and he thought about them even when he was working in the yard or tinkering with one of his vehicles. But he’d learned that shutting down for a while—his own brand of meditation—could inspire connections that would come to him later.

He dozed off for a few minutes, then jumped up and grabbed a Diet Pepsi. He had things to accomplish. But first, he called Kera. No answer. That worried him, but he pushed it aside and left her a friendly message: “Hey, gorgeous, just calling to confirm our plans for tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be there around one.” He resisted the urge to say something stupid like
Wear something sexy.
“I love you.” He couldn’t go wrong with that.

Time to unpack. Jackson started in the bedroom, shoving his clothes into the familiar dresser and the new closet. Derrick
had generously vacated the master bedroom, since he wouldn’t be home much. Jackson also put away three boxes of food in the kitchen, then looked at the five containers with kitchen supplies still to go and sighed. Tomorrow. This case still needed his attention.

He grabbed the stack of Mazari’s account statements from his carryall and sat down at the kitchen table. This dining room was bigger than the one in his old home, but the lighting wasn’t as nice. He’d have to replace the funky overhead fixture and install some track lighting. Maybe a skylight.

The first thing he noticed was Mazari had made nearly all cash deposits and cash withdrawals. No paychecks deposited, no debit card transactions. A man who preferred to deal in cash—or simply had no choice? If Mazari didn’t have a job, where was the cash coming from? The victim’s name was the only one on the credit union account. Sierra claimed they kept their money separate, but she must have paid the bills, because this account only had an average balance of $283.67 for the previous month.

To keep them afloat, Sierra had been working at the veterinary clinic as well as making and selling her pet products at the Saturday Market—while Rafel did what? Odd jobs for fifty dollars here and two hundred there? That must have been stressful for both of them. Was he not eligible for disability?

The deposits reminded Jackson of the donations Quince had said were made to the Veterans Relief Fund. But Mazari’s cash deposits didn’t seem like enough to account for all of the charity’s funds. If he had been involved with the scam, where had the rest of the money gone? Had Pittman been part of it? He was a struggling veteran too. What had Evans said? That Pittman’s wife had seemed scared and evasive when she asked about unexpected money.

Clearly, the seven grand the charity had stolen from Molly Pershing had never been in Rafel Mazari’s account. His death might have made more sense if it had. Unless Sierra had known about the fraud and killed her husband to get her hands on the cash. Jackson rubbed his eyes and got up for a glass of water.

Mazari had been killed Thursday night, and Molly Pershing had discovered the missing money Friday morning. Jackson looked at the copy of Molly’s bank transactions that Quince had included. The huge transfer had been made at 1:35 Wednesday afternoon.
Damn
. He wished he had the phony charity’s records so he could see where the money went.

Jackson played out several scenarios. Mazari made the audacious money grab, then Sierra found the cash, and they fought about it. She decided she’d had enough of him and plotted to kill him that evening, keeping his cash to start a new life with her lover. But who was her lover?

What if Pittman was her lover and made the fraudulent transaction? Then Sierra killed her husband to keep Rafel from ever knowing about the big money and to cut him out of the picture?

Of course, it was also possible the two cases were unrelated, and Sierra killed her husband because he couldn’t have sex or father children, but had an insurance policy in her name. Could he get a court order to search Sierra’s bank records? That would be interesting.

Jackson’s phone rang, startling him. It took a minute to find the device in the chair where he’d dozed earlier.
Derrick Jackson
. He still wasn’t used to seeing his brother’s name on his caller ID. They’d gone ten years without talking to each other, and now they were roommates. “Hey, Derrick. What’s up?”

“I’m sitting in a truck stop near Waterloo, Iowa. I need to sleep but I drank too much coffee.”

“I’m in the same mode.”

“Did you get moved in?”

“We did. And it’s a little weird to be here.”

“I hope the place is clean enough.”

“It’s fine. But I got called out on a homicide, so I haven’t unpacked much yet.”

Derrick laughed. “I still have boxes of stuff in the garage from when I moved back in ten years ago.”

“We can have a garage sale soon.”

“Did I leave you enough space for your stuff?” Derrick had lived in the house since their parents died and had finally hauled the old family furniture off to Goodwill to make room for Jackson’s things. It was another step forward for his brother.

“Everything is great. And I love your fifty-two-inch TV. I’ll feel pretty spoiled watching American Chopper on this thing.”

“I’ll be home next Friday, then I leave again on Tuesday. Just so you can plan.”

Living with his brother was a temporary situation, Jackson reminded himself. The goal was to fix up the house and sell it, splitting the equity.

“Okay. I’ll see you next Friday. Take care.”

CHAPTER 18

Sunday, November 13, 6:45 a.m.

The sun trickled through the blinds, and Jackson lay there for a moment, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking how nice it was not to be jarred awake by an alarm. He finally rolled out of bed. It was still too damn early to be awake on Sunday, but his job had no boundaries. At the least the sun was out, Jackson thought, rummaging through a box in the corner to find his jogging shoes and waterproof boots.

He drank a cup of coffee and went for a quick run, covering some of the same territory he had from his previous house. The move had been less than a mile. Except for a short stint in an apartment across town, he’d lived in this neighborhood his entire life. Sometimes it made him feel too sheltered, and he longed to get out of Oregon and see the world. Most of the time, he was happy to live in such a great year-round place with pretty, warm summers and wet, mild winters. No hurricanes, snowstorms, or
tornadoes. Not to mention a population that valued progressive ideas about the environment and personal responsibility.

After a quick breakfast, he drove to the parking lot at Pete’s Pad around eight and had the place to himself. He’d texted his team an hour ago and expected Schak and Evans to show up any minute. Evans was usually the first to arrive, but if she’d spent the night with Stricklyn, she might take her time getting down here. Jackson was glad she was dating someone suited to her. He’d told her more than once she’d never be happy with a civilian. He was also a little bothered—and a little relieved—that her attention was elsewhere. He chose not to examine those feelings. In the big picture, they weren’t important.

While he waited, his phone rang. It was Officer Rice, the department sketch artist. “Hey, Jackson. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. I’m in Astoria for the weekend and just saw your message this morning.”

“And I’m sorry to bother you on your time off. When are you back to work?”

“Tuesday morning.”

Crap
. Jackson wanted to ask her to come back early from the coast, but he knew it wasn’t reasonable. Nikki might not even be willing to come in today. “Can we set up a time for you to work with my witness?”

“How about ten? That’ll give me a couple of hours to catch up.”

“I’ll see you then.”

Jackson hung up and opened his car door. The crisp, cold air and blue sky were a nice change after three days of gray drizzle. He changed into the knee-high fishing boots he’d only had on once last summer, when he’d fished with Schak at Triangle Lake. An excellent day.

Schak pulled in moments later and brought him a steaming cup of Fastlane dark brew.

“Thanks. You know I was joking about the coffee yesterday.”

“Yeah, right.”

Jackson took a sip. “Good stuff. Shall we do this?”

“I’m as ready as I get.”

They used yellow tape to mark the area along the canal that was directly accessible from the parking lot after crossing the grassy area. The assailant could have walked along the canal in either direction, but the bank was thick with shrubs and small evergreens and not easy to navigate. Besides, Prez had heard the splash, so the killer couldn’t have gone far to get rid of the weapon. They would focus on the area just below where the homeless camp had been.

Evans rushed up moments later, looking bright-eyed and sexy in jeans, a snug sweater, and waders.

“Sorry I’m late. Breakfast took too long.”

Jackson bit back a teasing but inappropriate comment, while Schak said, “Don’t worry, we waited so you could be the first one in the water.”

“Thanks.” She gave him a friendly punch on the arm and rolled up her sleeves. “I brought everyone elbow-length gloves.” Evans passed out bright-yellow rubber gloves, then headed down the short, steep embankment. Jackson followed, pushing aside vegetation and hoping they’d get lucky.

At that particular bend in its journey through Eugene, the canal was wide and shallow but a little murky from yesterday’s rain. They spread out ten feet apart on the bank and started with a visual search from there.

“Did the crime techs already search the canal?” Schak asked.

“I didn’t ask Parker to, and she was on the scene by herself.” Jackson realized that had been a mistake. The patrol cops had searched the trash cans behind the tavern and those of its neighboring businesses, which had seemed sufficient at the time.

“No worries,” Evans said. “Now we have a good reason to.” She stepped into the water, bent over, and began combing through the silt, moss, and rocks with her gloved hands. The water soaked the edges of her blue sweater sleeves.

Jackson and Schak both plunged forward, startling a family of ducks.

“Watch out,” Schak called, flipping water at the fleeing fowl.

Jackson loved his good-natured team. He’d worked with some crusty old farts during his first five years in the detective unit, and they would have complained bitterly about wading in the canal on a cold Sunday morning.

“I’ll be damned,” Evans called out. She was directly below the easiest route from the top of the embankment and only a few feet into the canal. She held up a long silver item.

“What is it?” Jackson climbed out of the water and started toward her along the edge.

“A scalpel.”

“Like a surgeon or veterinarian would use.” Jackson reached for it as Evans held it out.

“The killer probably intended to toss the syringe in the canal too, but accidentally dropped it instead,” Evans speculated. “Maybe they couldn’t find it in the dark, so they left it, hoping it would look like junkie trash.”