Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (21 page)

“The teenager next door heard arguing around nine thirty. Pittman and another guy. The only specific phrase she heard was the other guy yell, ‘I’ll never forgive you.’”

Schak said, “That sounds personal. Not like a money issue.”

“That’s what I think.” Evans put her notepad away. “More important, the woman across the street said a loud, light-colored truck parked in front of this house around eight thirty. She’s not sure when it left, but she thinks it was less than an hour later.”

“So our perp was here between eight thirty and, say, ten, but the shouting didn’t start until nine thirty.” Jackson pulled off his gloves, apparently ready to leave. “He drove a light-colored truck and left with a laptop and whatever paperwork was in this house.” Jackson scowled. “And possibly seven thousand dollars,
if
these cases are linked.”

“He shouldn’t be too hard to find,” Schak said.

“This is interesting,” the ME called out. “He’s got a long light-colored hair stuck to the back of his sweatshirt.”

CHAPTER 21

Earlier Sunday morning

Sophie spent a leisurely hour in bed with her smooth-skinned lover, Jasmine Parker, drinking coffee and reading the paper. Hunger finally forced them to get dressed and drive across town for breakfast at her new favorite, the Pantry & Pub. The little restaurant was worth the trip out of her riverside neighborhood. They made the best omelets and burgers and offered a great selection of microbrews.

“Do you have plans for this afternoon?” Jasmine asked, after their food arrived.

“I do. Why?”

“I can tell you’re distracted. What’s going on in that wicked brain of yours?”

“I’m thinking about the feature I’m writing. You know, Rafel Mazari and the whole ‘hero soldier survives a tour in Afghanistan,
then is murdered in his hometown.’ I promised my editor I’d work on it over the weekend.”

“You’re getting ready to ditch me?” Jasmine gave her a playful look.

“Yes, and I also need information.”

“I can’t tell you anything about the crime scene. Not yet.”

“I want to know about motive.”

A tiny smile played on Jasmine’s face. “Cops always look at the spouse first.”

“Even in a parking-lot murder?”

“Some spouses are more clever than others.”

“Good to know. Speaking of spouses”—Sophie lowered her voice—“I have an interview this afternoon with Laura McKinsey, the sister of Rafel Mazari’s first wife. She thinks he killed Joanna Mazari.”

“That’s wild. How did she die?”

“She was stung by a wasp in her car, went into shock, and drove off the road.”

Jasmine gave a tiny eye roll. “Where do you get this stuff?”

“It’s in the newspaper archives.”

“But it doesn’t sound like part of a sympathetic soldier-hero story.”

“I know. But Hoogstaad won’t care as long as the story is juicy. Besides, just because a guy joins the military doesn’t mean he’s a saint. Someone may have had a good reason to kill Rafel.”

Jasmine’s cell phone rang quietly in her black silk blazer. She reached for it with a tiny scowl. “I have to take this.”

“I know.” They both had on-call jobs.

Her lover listened for a moment, then said, “I can be there in forty minutes.” She clicked off and looked at Sophie. “There’s been another murder. I can’t tell you who or where, so don’t ask. After I
finish my breakfast, I’d like you to drive me back to your place so I can pick up my car.”

Sophie’s nerves hummed with excitement. She could follow Jasmine to the crime scene. She’d be the first reporter on the scene—unless the TV people had already picked up a radio transmission. “Let’s eat then. I expect you to give me some details eventually.” Sophie took another bite of egg and cheese, but could barely swallow it. What if this murder was connected to Rafel’s death? This story could be so much bigger than a hero feature.

After watching Jasmine drive away, Sophie waited a minute, then jumped in her Scion, a graduation present from her parents. They’d given her the car, she’d told them she was bisexual, then they’d sold their home and jetted off to China to teach English. Just another adventure in their wacky lives. Sophie loved them for raising her to always see the possibilities out in the world, but she had also resented them a little for never putting her first like other parents did with their kids. She liked to think she was over that now.

She pulled out of her small apartment complex, which sat thirty feet from the Willamette River, and drove toward the main street. Up ahead, she saw Jasmine’s car turn left on River Road. Regardless of where the crime scene was, Jaz would have to stop at the crime lab and swap her car for the van with the equipment. Sophie didn’t have to worry about sticking close until after the swap. Did Jasmine know she was following her? Had she expected it? She should have.

Sophie couldn’t get close to the crime-scene house, because patrol cars blocked the street, but she was able to take some long-shot photos and figure out the address based on the street’s numbering system. She keyed the address into the reverse white pages on her
iPhone and came up with Chester Freeman. Was he the dead guy or just the owner of the property? Most duplexes were rentals, but this was a quiet, older neighborhood, so homeownership was probably high.

Sophie climbed back in her car and called the number listed for Chester, pleased when he picked up.

“Hello. This is Sophie Speranza with the
Willamette News
. Do you own the duplex on the corner of Kentwood and Kings?”

“Yeah, why?” He sounded old and crusty.

“I’ll tell you what’s happening at your rental right now if you give me the names of the tenants living on the Kentwood side.”

“What do you mean? What’s going on?” Chester was a little more alarmed now.

“Tell me who lives there, and I’ll tell you what I know. That’s the deal.”

A long silence. Finally, he said, “Jake Pittman. What the hell is this about?”

“I think he’s dead. We’ve got four cop cars out here, the crime lab van, and the white station wagon they use to haul away bodies. Can you tell me anything about Mr. Pittman?” Rain started to hit her windshield, and Sophie checked the car to see if she had her umbrella.

“No.” He covered his phone and yelled to someone nearby, “The tenant on Kentwood is dead.” When he came back on, Chester was worried. “You won’t use my name in the paper, will you?”

“I don’t see any reason I should have to. Thanks for your time.” Sophie hung up.

Where had she heard the name Jake Pittman recently? Sophie called her friend who’d gone to school with Rafel and left a message: “Do you know who Jake Pittman is? Any connection to Rafel Mazari? Call me as soon as you can.” As soon as she hung
up, she remembered. Sasha Altman had mentioned Jake as one of Rafel’s childhood friends. How bizarre that two of the three friends had been killed in such a short time. Something ugly was going on. Was the third friend in danger?

Sophie checked her iPhone: 12:35. Time to get moving. In an hour, she had an interview scheduled with Laura McKinsey, sister of the now-deceased Joanna Mazari, and Laura lived in Corvallis. Sophie could have interviewed her over the phone, but she preferred to talk to people in person when she could. Besides, she’d been meaning to make a trip to the neighboring college town soon to pick up some passion tea and chocolate biscotti from her favorite shop.

Clear and cold, the weather was decent for a short drive, and Sophie loved getting on the road. She grew restless if she didn’t get a change of scenery every few weeks, so she loved it when assignments took her out of town, even a few miles. She’d only planned on living and working in Eugene for a few years, then moving on to a bigger newspaper, maybe in Seattle or San Francisco. But the digital revolution had kicked print publishing’s ass, and newspapers were shrinking, not hiring. Sophie was grateful to still be employed, and if she had to be stuck somewhere, Eugene was pretty damn special. An hour from both the ocean and the mountains, it was geographically perfect. It was also funky and had a great art and theater scene. Not to mention the general acceptance of people with nontraditional sexual orientations. Still, she kept her eye on job opportunities in bigger West Coast cities.

In Corvallis, she made a quick run into Tina’s Tea Shop, then ate a piece of biscotti in her car while looking over her interview questions. She checked her directions, drove out Northwest Buchanan, and easily found Laura McKinsey’s address.

She parked in front, snapped a quick photo, and assessed the place. Over the fence, Sophie spotted the top of a swing set, then noticed the sign:
McKinsey Daycare.

Please let this be her day off
, Sophie thought, walking up the sidewalk. She rang the bell and listened for the sound of children. All was quiet.

A woman in her late twenties opened the door, and Sophie’s eyes were immediately drawn to the large red birthmark enveloping her right eye and cheek. The marking was substantial, but didn’t detract from the woman’s classic features and bright smile. Sophie quickly shifted to meet Laura’s gaze and introduce herself.

The woman offered her hand and stepped aside to let Sophie in.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.” Sophie glanced at the living room and rejected it as a place to talk. None of the seats faced each other, and the carpet smelled like crayons and yesterday’s lunch. “Can we sit at the kitchen table?”

“Sure.” Laura led her to a room at the back with tall windows, natural daylight, and a clean vinyl floor.

Sophie made small talk for a few minutes, learning that Laura was married but unable to have children of her own, so she ran a daycare. “I love kids, don’t you?” Laura said.

Sophie gave her a tight smile. “I don’t know yet; I don’t have any.” She set her digital recorder on the table. “Let’s get started. Tell me what you know about Rafel Mazari.”

“He was a jealous, murdering bastard, and I’m glad he’s dead.”

Sophie choked down a laugh. “Don’t hold back now. You can tell me how you really feel.”

Laura managed a brief smile. “I know I don’t have any proof, but I’m certain he killed Joanna.”

“Her death seems like a tragic accident. How could Rafel have been responsible?”

“I think he put the yellow jackets in her car and took the EpiPen out of her purse.” Laura met Sophie’s eyes. “My sister was highly allergic and very careful to always have the EpiPen with her. I know they found it under the seat of her car, but she wouldn’t have put it there or lost track of it.”

Sophie wasn’t convinced and needed to think it through. “You’re saying Rafel took the epinephrine out of her purse and put it under the seat of her car. And he put some wasps he’d captured in the car at the same time. He must have conducted his mission right before she left for work, and she couldn’t have checked for the pen that day.”

“Or,” Laura countered, “Joanna expected the EpiPen to be there because it had been the last time she checked.” The sister’s eyes misted with tears, and she began to pop her knuckles, one at a time. “I’m not paranoid or crazy, but Rafel was a little of both. He was excessively jealous and constantly accused Joanna of cheating. He followed her around sometimes and once threatened her boss because he thought she was having an affair with him.”

“That doesn’t make him a killer.”

“There’s more. Joanna wanted to leave him, but she was afraid to. She discovered he’d been looking at internet sites for various poisons and toxic cleaning combinations.”

“Maybe he was just mentally unbalanced.”

Laura’s eyes lit up with little fireworks. “Oh, he was unbalanced, all right.”

Sophie wondered a little bit about Laura. Maybe the woman just wasn’t dealing with the loss of her sister well.

Laura pushed to her feet. “I have something I want you to see. I’ll be right back.”

A minute later, she returned with a stiff piece of clear plastic. Inside was a sheet of lined white paper, now laminated. The handwritten note was wrinkled, as if it had been wadded up and
straightened out. But the cursive writing was neat, small, and clear.

“This is a
poem
.” The word oozed from Laura’s mouth with disdain. “Rafel gave it to Joanna right before she died.”

Sophie read the haunting lyrics:

                  
A true woman’s love knows only one heart.

                  
A shamed woman is like a cancer and must be cut from the soul.

                  
Her death frees the bonded heart and carries her to Jahannam for eternity.—Rafel

“What is Jahannam?”

“It’s the Arabic term for hell.”

“That is creepy. Did you show it to the police at the time of her death?”

“I didn’t find it until weeks later when I went through Joanna’s clothes. It was in a pocket of one of her jackets. By then, the state police had called it an accident and moved on.”

“May I take a picture of it?”

“Sure.”

Sophie moved the note out of the bright light from the window and took a few shots. She might only use the photo in the feature’s online version, where they had nearly unlimited space. One of the few upsides to digital news.