Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (2 page)

“Did you give someone access to your account?”

“No.” A sharp pain tore across her chest. Molly gulped in air. “My daughter has access, but she’s been on the account for years.” Every breath hurt, and it took too long to get the words out. “She didn’t do this, but I think I know who did.”

“Who?”

Molly couldn’t remember his name. Her brain felt foggy, and she thought she might lose her balance. Bolts of shock ripped down her left arm, and she lost her grip on the counter.

“Mrs. Pershing!”

The room spun, and her pain-ravaged heart struggled to keep beating. Molly opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The beating stopped; her knees buckled. As she hit the floor, her last thought was,
But he seemed so nice.

CHAPTER 2

Early Friday morning

“Swing your end wide, then tilt it.” Detective Wade Jackson called out instructions to the young man carrying the other end of the couch.

Harlan looked confused, then nodded and shuffled left. “Of course. I’ve only helped one other person move, and he didn’t have a couch.” The boy grinned, a wide, full-toothed expression meant to charm. “I like to help people. I volunteer at Food for Lane County too, but I suppose you knew that.”

Harlan kept talking, but Jackson tuned him out. The sixteen-year-old was Katie’s friend—Jackson couldn’t bring himself to say
boyfriend
—and the kid was helping them move. Harlan was clean-cut, got good grades, and didn’t do drugs. What else could a father want for his fifteen-year-old daughter? Yet Jackson couldn’t stand him. More important, didn’t trust him. He couldn’t decide if he was just being an overprotective father or if his cop instinct
had picked up that the boy was hiding something. Jackson smiled to be polite. Neither Harlan nor Katie knew how he really felt.

They lugged the couch out through the doorway and nearly collided with the two professional movers he’d hired. Semiprofessional, Jackson corrected. He’d found them on Craigslist and had rented his own U-Haul, saving more than half the cost of a moving company. The goal was to get everything into the new house today and unpacked over the weekend so Monday he could go back to work feeling settled and normal. As if selling his home of thirteen years and moving back into the house where he’d grown up was just another transition in his hectic life.

They carried the couch up the loading ramp without mishap, set it down, and headed back into the house.

“Can I start carrying my clothes out?” His daughter’s voice echoed in the nearly empty living room.

“Sure.” They’d started early and had already loaded most of the big stuff. “We’re making good time.”

Again, Jackson was taken aback by Katie’s appearance. In the last eight months, she’d grown taller and thinner and had started wearing her curly hair pulled back in a sleek style. His round-faced, carefree little girl had morphed into a confident teenager who resembled his ex-wife—and sometimes looked at him with the same disapproval. Too many changes were happening all at once, and it was like walking on shifting ground. Sometimes he had flashes of dread that a major upheaval was coming in his life, but he had no idea what.

He pushed away the thought and focused on carrying boxes from the kitchen. Getting out of this house and closing the mortgage that linked him to his ex-wife was a welcome break. Although moving in with his brother was not ideal, it was a great temporary landing place. Derrick had recently started driving a
long-haul truck and was only home four or five days a month, so he’d offered his house to Jackson and Katie when theirs sold.

After ten minutes of making trips to the U-Haul, he realized Katie had disappeared. Worried, Jackson found her in her bedroom, staring out the window.

“I’ll miss our dinners on the back deck,” she said, turning to him with tears in her eyes.

Jackson pulled her in for a tight hug, and she didn’t resist. “We’ll have backyard dinners at the new house.” He leaned back so he could see her face. “We’re family, sweetheart. Whenever we’re together, we’re home.”

“You’re right. I’m just being silly.” Katie wiped her eyes, and he noticed she was wearing mascara, a new development. “I’m kind of excited about the change,” she added. “My new bedroom is bigger.” She smiled, picked up a stuffed panda that had been left on the floor, and placed it on the windowsill. “I’m leaving this for the little girl who’s moving in here.”

Jackson’s throat closed, and he couldn’t respond. Katie was saying good-bye to so much more than a familiar bedroom.

His cell phone rang and Jackson braced himself. A midmorning call on his day off could not be good. He pulled the phone from his pocket and recognized the familiar number. He looked over at his daughter.

Katie scrunched up her freckled face. “It’s work, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead. I’ll keep things moving here.” His daughter craved responsibility the way her mother craved alcohol. And yes, those things were connected.

The phone rang twice more. “Thanks, Katie. I’m sorry.” Jackson stepped into the hallway as he answered.

“It’s Sergeant Lammers. I know you’re moving today, but I need you. With McCray retired, Bohnert out on sick leave, and Quince rotating between units, you’re the man.”

“What have you got?”

“A homicide in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad on West Eleventh. A man in a vehicle with his throat slashed. It probably happened last night. So we’ve got a cold body in an empty parking lot, and my gut tells me this one will be difficult. I need you down there ASAP.”

Jackson’s pulse quickened. It complicated his personal plans, but the thought of a tough homicide case challenged him. “I’m on my way.” He pocketed the phone and gave his daughter an apologetic look.

“A homicide?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

“Yes. I have to go.”

“Don’t forget we’re supposed to meet Mom and Ivan for dinner tonight.”

“Oh shit.”

“You realize you said that out loud?”

He laughed. “Sorry. I’m not looking forward to meeting your mother’s boyfriend.” Jackson scrambled to decide whether to cancel now or wait until the last minute.

Katie glared at him. “Don’t blow this off. I want to spend some time with Mom, and you said I can’t stay at her place until you meet Ivan.”

“I know. But today was not a good day to plan this for, and now I have a homicide to deal with.”

“You’re saying you won’t make dinner?”

“I’ll try. Will you make sure the movers put everything in the right rooms at the new house and give them the check I wrote?”

“Of course. Don’t worry. We’ll get your bed set up too.”

Harlan came into the room but for once kept his mouth closed.

“Thanks, sweetie. I’ll call you later.” Jackson stepped toward her for another hug, but she turned toward the scrawny boy.
Crap
. Why did his job often make him feel like a bad father?

Jackson backed out of the driveway, thinking it might be the last time. He braked at the street and took in the view. The giant oak and birch trees had shed leaves all over the lawn, and the house needed paint. But it was no longer his responsibility. Yesterday, he’d signed the property over to the new owners.

Driving down Hilyard, he started to feel relieved. Within a week, he and Renee would split the equity from the sale, and it would end his legal connection to the woman who’d nearly ruined his life with her drinking. She was out of rehab for the second time in eighteen months, but he wasn’t holding his breath. If not for Katie’s connection to her mother, he wouldn’t care. He had a wonderful new woman in his life and was moving forward.

He turned left on Eleventh Avenue, a main artery, and headed west. A thick canopy of trees, vibrant with yellow and red leaves, hung over the street, and the air was crisp and cool under a fleeting blue sky. He was grateful it wasn’t raining. Working an outdoor homicide in wet weather could be a bitch. But Jackson had lived in, and loved, his hometown of Eugene, Oregon, for more than four decades, and rain was just part of the scenery.

Pete’s Pad, made of cinder block and painted a disturbing rust color, sat near the street with parking in the back. Two patrol cars and a blue unmarked Impala much like his own occupied the driveway and cut off the crime scene from street traffic, as Jackson pulled into the Shari’s parking lot next door. The restaurant seemed unaffected by the adjacent crime, yet the tavern would be shut down for most of the day. But after the homicide
hit the news that evening, drinkers would come pouring into the bar out of morbid curiosity.

Jackson hustled across the dirt strip that separated the parking lots as two uniformed officers stretched crime-scene tape across them. Another officer stood near the patrol cars blocking the entrance, and a dark Jeep sat parked in the back near the canal. The only other car in the tavern lot was a beat-up burgundy Subaru, probably belonging to the employee who’d discovered the body. Neither the medical examiner nor the assistant DA had arrived yet. Lammers hadn’t called out the mobile command unit, either, most likely because there were no witnesses to interview at the scene. He hoped to find people from the night before who could tell them what had happened.

Jackson hurried across the lot and found Lara Evans scraping something from the door of a midnight-blue Jeep Wrangler. The paint was custom, he knew, because it was the same as his ’69 GTO, a vehicle he’d painstakingly restored.

“Hey, Evans. What have you got?”

“I’m not sure. It’s sticky, and I don’t think it’s been here long.” She looked up, and the sight of her heart-shaped face and blue eyes made him smile. Evans didn’t look like a cop, but she was sharper than the male detectives in the unit, and he’d learned recently that she practiced Brazilian jujitsu and could probably beat most of them in hand-to-hand combat.

“Who called in the body?” he asked.

“The bartender. He showed up for work at nine, saw the Jeep, and thought the guy was still sleeping it off.” Evans buttoned her pale-blue jacket against the wind. “He went over to roust him and found him dead.”

“Where is the bartender now?”

“Inside. After I questioned him, he said he had to prep for lunch. I didn’t see any reason to make him stand here.”

“Have you ID’d the victim?”

“I didn’t see a wallet, but if the perp didn’t steal it, then it’s probably in the vic’s back pocket and he’s sitting on it.” She held out a plastic bag. “The registration and title belong to Rafel Mazari.”

Jackson pulled on latex gloves, then slipped the paperwork out of the bag. He jotted down the owner’s address, a street name he didn’t recognize, then slipped the evidence into his shoulder bag. The man’s name was a little unusual, and he was curious about its cultural ancestry. Jackson took several wide shots of the Jeep with his digital camera, then moved closer to the vehicle. It was time to see the body.

The driver’s-side window was down, and rain from the night before had soaked the edge of the upholstery. He stepped forward and took a quick photo through the windshield to get a full frontal image, then took several more through the open side window. Even in his seated position, the victim looked taller than average. His shoulders were narrow, but he made up for it with thick arms that stretched the fabric of his denim jacket. He had dark, wavy slicked-back hair and facial skin that had absorbed a lot of sun but was now a shade of gray. Jackson opened the door and leaned in, careful not to touch anything. The gash across the victim’s throat was deep and violent, but not jagged. Blood had poured freely, congealing on his jacket collar and white T-shirt in a dark, sticky mess. Its rich, metallic scent permeated the vehicle’s cab. Under the rust smell of blood, a mix of cigarette smoke and alcohol oozed from the victim’s skin and car seats.

As disturbing as the moment was, it didn’t fill him with dread the way some victims did. Examining the bodies of women and children never got any easier, but male victims generated less emotion for him.

What had this guy done? Had he simply refused to hand over his wallet or keys to a thug? Or had he been involved in something shady?

“It looks like revenge,” Evans said, vocalizing his thoughts. “He pissed off someone big-time.”

“Could be. The stereo is intact, and the assailant didn’t steal the vehicle, but we need to see if his wallet is still here.”

“Gunderson won’t want us to move the body.”

“I know.” Jackson gently probed the pockets of the man’s jacket. He pulled out a red lighter and a sliding-style knife and handed them to Evans. “Bag these, please.” Squatting next to the vehicle, he searched along the edge of the Jeep’s floor, looking for something the killer might have dropped. The interior was surprisingly clean, as if it had recently been detailed.

“All I found was an empty Coke can,” Evans said. “But I didn’t search under the seat on the driver’s side because his legs were in the way.”

“There’s very little blood, except on the body. No spatter that I can see.”

“You mean no struggle?”

“Not just that. The way he’s leaned back makes it look like he was sleeping when he was attacked.” The thought made him inwardly shudder. Most murders were crimes of passion. This looked cold and calculated. “The lack of blood indicates a slow heart rate at the time of death.”