Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (28 page)

Slowing to walk the last block, Evans smiled at the irony. Of course, that was her exact situation with Ben. He was dating a woman who was still in love with someone else. Was that fair to him? But how was she supposed to get over Jackson without dating someone new?

Evans slipped her key out of her sock, entered her tidy little home, and headed for the shower. She had a funeral to attend.

The cemetery was nestled between an orchard and a new suburb in the Santa Clara area, an unincorporated chunk of Eugene. The sky threatened rain, and many of the mourners carried black umbrellas. Evans wore a hooded, knee-length black coat and stood near the back, where she hoped to blend in. She was strangely pleased by the opportunity to wear the coat, which had been collecting dust in her closet. The group at the graveside was small; she counted about eighteen people.

She recognized only a few: Sierra, who must’ve barely had time to change into black after being released from jail; Cody Sawyer, Rafel’s other friend, whom she’d interviewed on Friday; and Sheila Dolan, whose presence surprised her. Did the woman know about her husband’s affair with Sierra? Matt Dolan had stayed away. Another woman, who looked a bit like Rafel, stood with an older man, whose facial skin was the color and texture of a walnut. Evans assumed they were Rafel’s family, likely his sister and father. Sierra stood near the two, but they didn’t speak to each other. A tall older woman had her arm linked with the widow’s, and Sawyer stood behind them with a young woman Evans didn’t recognize. Likely the girlfriend he’d mentioned.

A short redheaded woman, carrying a large red bag, trotted up at the last minute and stood next to Evans. She recognized her from photos posted on the newspaper’s website. Evans turned and stuck out her hand. “Detective Lara Evans. You’re with the paper?”

“Yes. Sophie Speranza. I’m writing a feature about Rafel Mazari and covering the homicides.” She kept her voice low. “I’d love to talk with you after the service.”

“Sorry. I can’t give you anything.” Evans looked her over. Sophie was shapely but soft, and pretty, but only with makeup. And damn good at her job, Evans remembered. “Do you know any of these people?”

“Sure.” Sophie made small gestures to point out individuals. “The woman in front with long black hair, that’s Sasha Altman, Rafel’s sister. I suspect the old guy next to her is their father, Zain Mazari. Their mother disappeared when Rafel was twelve.”

Evans reached in her pocket for her notepad. She hadn’t known that, and the names were important. “Do you know the family’s nationality?”

“Pashtun. The old man was born near the Pakistan border.” Sophie continued identifying people. “And that woman with the
red birthmark on her face? That’s Laura McKinsey. She’s the sister of Rafel’s first wife, and I’m rather surprised to see her. She hates Rafel.”

Evans struggled to keep her face impassive. “Why?”

“I’ll tell you later—it’s starting.”

Disappointed to have the flow of information cut off, Evans planned to corner Sophie after the service to see what else she knew.

Parts of the service were in another language, and Evans tuned all of it out. Moving slowly and subtly along the back, she watched the crowd, looking for unusual reactions, maybe guilt or glee. Discovering an unexpected person at a funeral service had helped an investigation in the past, so they always tried to attend if the case was still unresolved. Their presence was also supportive for the victim’s family. Evans would make a point to speak with Rafel’s family before she left.

His sister wept openly throughout most of the service, but Sierra was stoic, head down and her thick dreadlocks covered by a large dark scarf. At one point, Evans saw Sawyer put his hand on Sierra’s shoulder and squeeze, but his other hand remained locked with his girlfriend’s. By the end of the service, Evans was restless and ready to start asking questions.

She approached the sister and father to ask for some of their time, but they brushed past her with polite nods and hurried to their vehicle. Evans turned back to Sierra, who was still arm in arm with the older woman, but also taking condolences from friends.

Evans caught a sudden movement to her right and spun toward it. Laura McKinsey, the woman Sophie had mentioned was an ex-in-law, was charging toward the burial site. The woman cursed Rafel to hell and spit in his grave as the cemetery workers moved in to fill it. Evans rushed toward her instinctively, in case
the situation escalated. Fortunately, the dead man’s family members were already walking away and didn’t see it.

A young man rushed over and grabbed the woman’s arm. “You bitch! What are doing?”

She jerked free of his grip as Evans reached the two.

“Eugene Police. Back away from her. It’s over.” Evans used as much authority as she could muster without shouting and drawing more attention.

The man cursed and walked away. Evans wanted to know who he was, but more important, she wanted to talk to Laura McKinsey, who had just unknowingly stepped into the role of suspect. She turned to the woman and introduced herself. “I’d like to talk with you, Ms. McKinsey. Let’s go sit in my car where it’s warm and dry.”

“I’m sorry to be disruptive. Are you going to arrest me?” She looked near tears.

“This is an emotional time. We understand that. I’d just like to talk to you about Rafel.”

“There’s nothing to say. He’s dead now, so it’s over.”

“What’s over?” Evans touched her elbow, gently steering her away from the gravesite.

McKinsey, wearing a sky-blue jacket in contrast to all the black, moved with her. “The injustice is over. For the last three and a half years, my sister Joanna has been dead while Rafel was alive. Now he’s dead too, and I have to let it go.”

Evans wished like hell she was recording the conversation, but she didn’t want to stop the flow. “Do you believe Rafel was responsible for your sister’s death?”

“Yes, but there’s no way to prove it, and now it doesn’t matter.”

They reached the parking lot, and Evans tried to steer her toward her car. “I’d like you to come in to the department and make a statement. Perhaps the investigation into your sister’s death can be reopened.” It was a classic bait and switch. Get her
in to talk about her concerns, then ask her about Thursday night when Rafel was killed.

McKinsey stopped and squinted at her. “I didn’t kill Rafel, if that’s what you’re thinking. I was home with my husband in Corvallis.”

“I’ll want to corroborate that.”

“Why would I wait three years to kill him, then show up at his funeral?”

Good question.
“I need ten minutes,” Evans said. “Just sit down with me and tell me your story.”

CHAPTER 28

As Jackson headed to his desk, Sergeant Lammers stepped out of her office. “Jackson. Just the guy I was looking for. Got a minute?”

“Sure.” Sixty seconds was about all he had. The task force was meeting at twelve thirty.

He stepped into her office and left the door open. His boss didn’t ask him to close it. A good sign. Lammers dropped her two-hundred-pound bulk into a custom-fitted office chair she’d purchased herself. Jackson sat too, once again putting them on eye level.

“You’ve had a hell of a weekend. Be sure to take some time off after this thing breaks.”

“I will.” He noticed she’d used the singular form, assuming the cases were related.

“I thought the wife looked good for the first homicide,” Lammers said. “But she was locked up during the second. What the hell is going on?”

“These murders might be about money. Quince is investigating a phony charity that we think both victims were involved in.” Jackson tried to sound confident. “We’re looking at bank records this afternoon.”

“What kind of charity?”

“It’s called Veterans Relief Fund. The site has been taken down, but we subpoenaed the hosting company, and we’re waiting to hear back.”

“Good luck with that.” She rolled her eyes. Smart criminals rarely used legitimate hosting companies or legitimate names to commit fraud. “What else have you got?” she asked. “We’re taking some heat over this one. As soon as the media identified the first murder victim as a veteran, we started fielding a flood of calls from the public. They seem to think it’s our fault, like we should have had a cop in that parking lot, standing watch over him.”

The lengthy complaint was rare for Lammers. She took most flack in stride, and when she let loose, it was usually short and foulmouthed. Jackson had a flash of sympathy for her. Veterans evoked all kinds of emotional reactions from the public.

“We have a possible witness for the first murder, and we think we found the weapon.” Jackson tried to give it a positive spin, but he had to be honest. “The weapon was in the canal, so we’re not likely to get prints.”

“Possible witness?”

“A homeless man who saw the killing but was too far away to identify the assailant.”

Lammers made a harsh sound, a cross between a bark and a laugh. “Any real evidence?”

“We have a syringe found near the first victim with the wife’s prints on it. Her husband had ketamine in his blood when he died, and I’m still waiting to hear from the lab about what was in the syringe. But I believe it will be ketamine.”

“That sounds like something that will hold up in court. What’s the theory?”

“I think the wife had an accomplice, a lover. She killed her husband—by drugging him and slitting his throat—and her accomplice killed Pittman, the best friend. They did it for the seven grand the charity stole from Molly Pershing.” It was the first time he’d put it together exactly like that, and it seemed solid and logical.

“Speaking of Molly Pershing, do we have any more fraud victims?”

“A couple dozen here locally, but probably a lot more online. Quince spent the weekend tracking them down. But all of the others voluntarily gave small amounts to the fake charity in response to an e-mail.”

Lammers pounded a fist on her desk. “We spend so much time and effort on crime prevention, and old people still get victimized.”

“It’s a shame,” Jackson agreed. “Too many seniors don’t have anyone looking over their shoulder.”

“I wish I could give you another detective for this case, but we just don’t have anyone available.”

“Any chance of getting some patrol cops to keep an eye on our suspects—Sierra Kent and Matt Dolan?”

“I’ll try. As soon as you have something solid, I want you to make a statement for the media. Sometimes the public needs reassurance from officers on the job.”

Jackson cringed. “Not a press conference, right? Just pick a reporter and give a quotable statement?”

Lammers rolled her eyes again. “I’ll settle for that.”

At his desk, Jackson made another call to Zain Mazari, the first victim’s father, and again got no answer. He didn’t bother to leave
a message this time. Eventually, when he had an extra hour, he’d find the address and make a trip out there to interview him. He wouldn’t feel like he’d really gotten to know Rafel Mazari until he talked to his parent. Had Sophie Speranza interviewed him already? Jackson thought about calling her, then changed his mind.

He ordered food for the group, then made two trips to the conference room carrying stacks of paper. American Heritage had faxed three months of transactions for the business account of Veterans Relief Fund. All he really wanted to know for now was, who opened the account? And who transferred the seven grand?

Quince was in the room when he came back with the second load. His teammate jumped up. “Is there more?”

“No, thank god. This may help you prove the fraud case, but it’s giving me a headache already.”

“Better than not enough.” Quince started thumbing through the stack. “Where’s the account-holder information?”

“I didn’t see it. Let’s hope it’s in there somewhere.”

Schak and Evans came in together, laughing at something Schak had said. They stopped when they saw the stack of printouts.

“Holy crap.” Schak dropped his carryall on the floor. “We’d better have food and coffee coming.”

“We do.” Jackson made a quick call to Full City and asked them to deliver four tall house blends. To his team, he said, “Anything significant I should know before we dive into these?”

“Nothing yet,” Evans said, and Schak shook his head.

“Then let’s divide the stacks and search for the account-holder information first. We need the names of the fraud perps. We also received phone records for Mazari today, and I’ll start with those.”

“You can use my netbook,” Quince offered and pushed the silver laptop toward him. “Unless you want to go back to your desk.”

“Thanks. I’ll work here. We’ll keep each other awake.”

Quince shoved a stack of paper at both Evans and Schak, then turned his pile over and checked the last two pages. “Here it is. The account has three names on it—Terrance O’Dell, Brice Farley, and Omar Guiterrez. I’ll run them, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re all fake.”

A wave of disappointment hit Jackson. How would they track three ghosts?

As if reading his mind, Quince said, “They could be real people, and these cases might not be connected. We’ll run the IDs and see what comes up. Even if the perps used fake IDs to open the account, we may still find some leads.”