Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (5 page)

“I brought it from home and was lucky enough to be at my desk when Lammers called. My wife packed an apple too. You want it?”

“Sure.” It was better than nothing, and he’d never seen Schak eat fruit anyway. “I’m going out to inform and interview the wife. Evans will head for the victim’s home. I’ll try to get permission for
a search, but if I don’t, I need you to round up a warrant ASAP, then join her. I’ll come out as soon as I can.”

“Will do.” Schak put down his lunch. “After the Walker family, I thought I’d seen it all. But this kill looks so cold it creeps me out.”

“I know what you mean.”

CHAPTER 4

The Animal Care Clinic near Twenty-Eighth and Willamette had once been a Mexican restaurant, and its beige stucco exterior and arched entry gave it a surreal look, as though it belonged on a movie set. The interior, however, didn’t smell like enchiladas. Instead, a pungent mix of wet dog and harsh antiseptic assaulted Jackson’s nostrils.

A worried woman with a cat in a plastic carrier sat in the small lobby. Behind the reception counter, a young woman stared at an oversize monitor, chewing gum. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Sierra Kent.”

“Can I tell her who’s asking?”

Jackson hesitated. If the wife was their perp, he didn’t want to give her a chance to scoot out the back door. But without the proper incentive, she might ignore him. “Detective Jackson.”

The receptionist gave him a long look up and down, and he imagined what she would report to Sierra:
He’s forty-something, six feet tall, with dark hair and nearly black eyes. He’s dressed nicely, but he’s got a scar above his left eye, and he’s kind of scary looking. He might even be wearing a gun under that suede jacket.

Jackson gave her a friendly smile before she turned away.

In a moment, the receptionist came back, followed by a gorgeous woman. Sierra Kent was as tall as him, but with a face like a model: wide-spaced, sky-blue eyes, prominent cheekbones, and lush, pouty lips. The white lab coat couldn’t hide her full breasts, and Jackson felt a tug of attraction.

“This is Sierra Kent,” the receptionist said, then plopped down.

“I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. Can we go someplace private?”

Her eyes widened in alarm. “Is Rafel hurt?”

“Let’s go sit down somewhere.” He stepped forward, hoping she would comply rather than panic.

She pivoted and strode down a narrow hallway. Following, he noticed her hair: long ash-blonde dreadlocks pulled together in a thick ponytail. It surprised him. Dreads were somewhat common in Eugene, but not usually on professionals.

They entered a small cluttered office with two desks and an arched window. Jackson sat in the visitor’s chair as Sierra plopped down on the other side of her messy desk.

“Please tell me what happened,” she begged. “Rafel didn’t come home last night. I know something’s wrong.”

“Rafel Mazari is your husband?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to report that he was found dead in his Jeep this morning.”

Her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh god, no.”

Jackson gave her a minute. As the spouse, she was automatically their primary suspect, but her surprise seemed genuine. He walked a fine line in this situation and even had to be careful
about how much he told her. Sierra cried for minute, shoulders shaking, then abruptly looked up. “Was it an overdose?”

Jackson jotted a quick note. “Was Rafel a drug addict?”

“No, but he drank too much sometimes after taking his pain pills. Tell me what happened.”

“He was attacked in his vehicle in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad.”

Sierra looked confused. “Attacked how?”

The wife was either a skilled liar or she really didn’t know how her husband had died. But he couldn’t give her the details yet. He had to hold back to see if she would reveal information only the killer would know. “He was killed with a knife.”

She sucked in her breath. “But why?”

“We don’t know yet. We’d like to go through Rafel’s personal items and see if we can learn anything that will help us.”

“What do you mean?”

“We want to look at his computer and check through his drawers for a journal or appointment book, for example.”

Sierra pulled her shoulders back. “That seems so invasive. I don’t think so.” She shook her head. “This is all too sudden.”

“Then we’ll get a warrant. Excuse me.” Jackson sent a text to Evans and Schak, updating them to get the paperwork. He looked up and caught Sierra’s eyes. “Why didn’t you report your husband missing when he failed to come home last night?”

“I didn’t know anything was wrong.”

“He often stayed out all night?”

“No.” Sierra started to cry again.

Watching family members grieve was the toughest part of his job. It made him feel like a callous voyeur.

“He was gone for so long,” she said between sobs. “Ten months in Afghanistan, then four months in the Madigan Army Medical Center. And now he’s gone for good.”

Jackson steeled himself against her pain, starting to think she might not be their suspect.

“Can you give me a minute, please?” she begged. “Alone?”

If she was innocent, her request was completely reasonable. If she’d killed her husband, a minute alone would give her time to destroy files, warn others, or hide evidence. He glanced around her cluttered office as she sobbed. Finally, he said, “I’ll be right outside.”

He left the door ajar and stepped out of her line of sight. Across the hall, an open door revealed an examining room, and Jackson glanced in. Not being a pet owner, he’d never been inside a veterinary clinic. It looked much like a doctor’s workspace, only the table was stainless steel. The metal counter was lined with a similar assortment of gauze, steel instruments, and syringes. A tingle shot up his neck. He slipped into the room and took a quick look at the two syringes lying there: long and thin with blue stoppers, like the one from the crime scene. He pulled his camera from his carryall bag and took close-up photos. The pictures would help him get a subpoena to confiscate a few syringes for comparison.

Jackson hurried back across the hall into Sierra Kent’s office. She was on her cell phone, whispering, her tears gone. When she saw him, she abruptly cut off the call.

“I have to ask you some important questions.” Jackson stayed on his feet to be intimidating. Sierra was a high-priority suspect now.

“Can it wait? I need to call Rafel’s family.”

“No, it can’t. Please put down the phone.”

She started to argue, then relented.

Jackson wanted to take her into the interrogation room at the department, but he suspected she wouldn’t go without being cuffed and dragged. With his luck, the receptionist would take
a picture with her cell phone and post it online, and the department would take a public beating for abusing a grieving widow.

“What did you and Rafel fight about at the tavern last night?”

“It was nothing.” Her face hardened, a little beauty slipping away.

“You arrived at the tavern after he did. Did you know he was there?”

“Of course. He called me and asked me to come down.”

“When was that?”

“Around eight thirty.”

“Is the call in your cell phone?”

“Yes. I can show you, if it’s important.” She scrolled through her data, looking for the call.

“What did he say?”

“He said he missed me, but he sounded drunk and depressed.”

“Was that normal behavior for him?”

A sob burst from her throat. “I don’t know. Since he came back from Afghanistan, he’s been different—angry, depressed, suspicious.”

Jackson sat down and softened his tone. “Was he getting counseling?”

“He went a few times to make me happy, but he hated it.”

“Were you cheating on him?”

Her frosty-blue eyes sparked with anger. “I resent that.”

“Tell me what you fought about.”

She sighed. “He accused me of cheating. He’d become obsessed with the idea.” She met Jackson’s eyes. “Rafel was paranoid. The war changed him.”

Jackson thought the war changed everyone who went over. “Where did you go when you left the tavern?”

“I stopped to see a friend, then went home.”

“What friend?”

“Madison Riley. She works in another bar.”

“What bar and what time did you get home?”

“Game Day, over on Highway 99. I left at ten thirty and got home around eleven.”

Plenty of time to kill her husband.
“I’d like you to come down to the department and make a statement.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’ll record your version of events for clarity.”

“You think I knifed my husband?” Her hands clenched into fists. “Don’t waste your time with me. Get out of here and find the real killer.”

“I can’t do that without your help.” Jackson leaned forward, earnest. “I need to know more about your husband’s life. Tell me who his friends are and who he’d spent time with lately.”

“I want to see him first.”

“He’ll be in the morgue later. You can call the medical examiner and arrange it.”

She bit a trembling lip. “He has two close friends, Jake Pittman and Cody Sawyer. They’ve known each other since grade school. Rafel also has some army buddies he gets e-mails from, but they don’t live here.”

Jackson jotted down the names. “Has anyone new come into his life recently?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Have his finances changed?”

A hesitation. “I don’t know. We kept our money separate.” She suddenly sucked in a quick breath. “Oh no.”

“What is it?”

“Adam. Rafel’s son.” Her eyes signaled panic.

Jackson realized there was more to the situation. “Is he your child as well?”

“No. He’s from Rafel’s first marriage, but he lives with us.”

“Where’s his mother?”

“She’s dead.”

That piqued his curiosity, but the details could wait. “How old is Adam and where is he now?”

“He’s eight and in school.” Sierra glanced at the clock on the wall. “He’ll be home soon on the bus, and I’ll have to tell him.” She looked distressed.

“I’ll be there with you if it helps.”

Sierra closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “What am I going to do now?”

CHAPTER 5

As a civilian, Lara Evans loved River Road because, unlike the new cookie-cutter subdivisions, many of the homes here were distinctive, with large, lush lots. As a police officer, she hated the area because parts of it were in her jurisdiction and other parts were considered county, and it was difficult to keep straight. Houses sitting right next to each other could be under different law enforcement.

She finally located Mazari’s address on Santa Rosa and parked at the end of the driveway, wondering how long she’d have to wait for Schak to get the paperwork. She studied the home to see if it would tell her anything about the occupants. The first thing she noticed was a skateboard on the front porch, making her wince. The victim had a kid. She didn’t feel compelled to have any of her own, but she had a soft spot for all the poor children whose parents ended up in trouble—or dead.

The house—painted lavender with an overgrown perennial garden for a front lawn—was unusual, even in this area. Had she
not known, Evans would have bet her paycheck a military man did not live there. So much for stereotypes. It made her wonder about his wife though. Evans climbed out of her city-issued Impala and took photos of the house. Feeling pumped, she decided to take a quick look around. What could it hurt?

The path to the front door was a series of rough-cut stone steps, embedded in ornamental moss, surrounded by tangled vegetation. If Mazari and his wife were homeowners, they weren’t trying to keep up with the neighbors. The front porch held a stack of empty ceramic planters, a stool made from a tree stump, and the skateboard she’d noticed earlier. Just as she spotted some muddy dog prints on the gray concrete, loud barking began. A dog was in the house.
Great
. She’d check around back.

Evans found a path in the vegetation that led around the side of the house. She reached over the short gate and let herself into the backyard, moving cautiously in case the dog was free to come and go from the house. The barking stayed inside, so she took a few more steps along a sawdust path, then stopped and stared. The oversize yard had been turned into a miniature farm. Chickens roamed freely from the coop in the back corner, and a thirty-foot greenhouse took up half the property. A dog run occupied a fair amount of space as well, and three beehives sat in a patch of clover. Evans steered clear of the hives and scanned the area directly behind the house. A huge woodpile sat on one side of a narrow wooden deck, and a small generator was on the other.