Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (6 page)

Were they survivalists?
These people looked like they wanted to sustain themselves in case everything went to hell and they had to live off the grid. She’d bet they had a stockpile of weapons too. Seeing nothing potentially connected to the murder, Evans left the surreal backyard and trotted to her car.

She checked her cell phone to see if Schak had called or sent a message about the search warrant. Since he hadn’t, she walked next door to a neighbor, where she saw a PT Cruiser in the driveway. Might as well start gathering information. She knocked on the door and was pleased when it opened seconds later. The cranky-looking middle-aged man was not who she expected.

“Detective Evans with the Eugene Police. I’d like to ask some questions about your neighbors.”

“The loud ones in the purple house?”

Lara suppressed a smile. “Yes. Can I come in?”

“For a few minutes. My granddaughter will be home from school soon, and it’s our time together.”

“What’s your name?” Evans asked, as they sat down on padded dining-room chairs.

“Sam Regal.” He seemed rigid, his thick torso straining the buttons on his denim work shirt.

“You said your neighbors were loud. What kind of loud?”

“They argue a lot. Is that why you’re here? To investigate the noise complaints?”

“It’s more serious than that. Do you know what they argue about?”

“Money, mostly. And the kid. I don’t think the stepmother likes him very much.”

Evans took notes as quickly as she could. “Did you ever see them strike each other?”

The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “No, but I wouldn’t be surprised by it.”

“What kind of car does the wife drive?”

“A green Jetta. Why?”

“What time did she come home last night?”

“I have no idea. I was watching the game.”

Lara had no idea what game. “Did you know Rafel or ever talk to him?”

“Not really. He deployed about six months after they moved in, then he was gone for a year.”

“How long has he been back?”

“About six months. It’s been rough for him.”

“How so?” Evans could imagine, but she needed specifics.

“He once told me he worried he’d never find a job or work again. He seemed depressed.”

“Do you know any reason someone might want him dead?”

The neighbor looked startled. “No. Is he dead?”

“He was killed last night. Was anyone here while you watched the game?”

“Of course. My daughter and my granddaughter. Why?” He pushed up from his chair.

The move unnerved her, and Lara jumped up too. Her right hand came up reflexively, ready to reach for her weapon. He grabbed the back of his chair, and she relaxed.

“I’m just doing my job. We have to question everyone connected to the victim.”

“I understand, but I can’t help you. I didn’t know them that well. I’d like you to go now, before my little girl gets home.”

“Thanks for your time.” Evans gave him a business card. “Call me if you think of anything that might help us solve this crime.”

As she headed for the door, he called out, “Wait.”

Evans turned back. “Yes?”

“Two weeks ago—on a Saturday, I think—they were fighting. I heard his wife threaten to kill him.”

Lara’s pulse quickened. “What exactly did she say?”

“They were getting into her car and yelling back and forth. She said something about how worthless he was. Then he said
something I didn’t understand. She screamed, ‘I should kill you myself!’ Then she slammed the car door, and they drove off.”

Lara walked away with mixed feelings. Finding a solid suspect early in an investigation meant they’d likely get a conviction, but it also meant the chase was over and the tedious case building would begin.

CHAPTER 6

Jackson arranged to meet Sierra Kent at her home, noticing he thought of her as
Sierra
instead of
Kent
, the way he referred to male suspects. Even female coworkers got last-name treatment. Depersonalizing was how they made their job bearable at times. It was Sierra’s beautiful face, he realized, and he knew he had to get past the distraction.

He jotted down the license plate of her Jetta as she left the parking lot, torn between following her home to make sure she arrived and taking a quick detour to the crime lab to drop off the syringe for dusting. He still needed Sierra’s prints for comparison, and unless she’d been arrested, he would likely need a court order to get them.

On instinct, Jackson climbed in his cruiser and followed the Jetta. Her refusal to let them search her husband’s possessions made him distrust her. And the fact that she hadn’t thought about her stepson until late in the conversation also made him wonder what kind of mother she was. Yet she volunteered her free time
to treat the pets of homeless people. Killer or not, Sierra Kent was an unusual woman.

Two unmarked blue sedans took up the space in front of the house on Santa Rosa, and the green Jetta was in the driveway. A patrol unit would arrive soon for backup. Jackson parked in front of the well-kept home next door and walked over. Evans, Schak, and Sierra were on the front porch, engaged in a heated debate. As Jackson hurried up the slick stones, he realized only Sierra was being loud.

Schak, warrant envelope in hand, patiently explained his position. “Time is critical to solving this murder. The killer already has a twelve-hour head start.”

“Twenty minutes,” Sierra pleaded. “I just want you to wait in your cars until Adam comes home and I have a chance to tell him what happened. He’ll freak out if he walks in the house and sees cops searching through his dad’s things.”

As Jackson neared the group, a dog started barking.
Crap
.

Evans asked over the noise, “Do you have weapons in the home?”

Jackson tensed again. Evans didn’t ask idle questions.

Sierra stiffened. “A few. What difference does it make?”

Jackson cut in. “Ms. Kent, we appreciate your concern for the boy’s feelings, but we have to proceed with our investigation. We’ll stay out of the living room until you’ve had a chance to talk to Adam. Open the door.”

She didn’t move.

“It will look even worse to the boy if you’re handcuffed and locked in the back of a patrol car.” Jackson didn’t enjoy threatening people, but he had to treat this woman more like a suspect. If she was only a grieving widow, he would have to live with this decision.

“This is my mother’s property. She’ll sue you.”

Nobody responded. They’d heard the threat every day as patrol cops and still heard it all the time from suspects.

“We have a warrant. Open the door and get control of the dog.” Jackson raised his voice. Gorgeous or not, Sierra Kent was a pain in the ass.

“Heartless bastards!” She spun toward the door.

Jackson followed his teammates inside, inhaling the acidic aroma of recently canned tomatoes. The small house had pale-yellow walls, threadbare puke-green carpeting, and a barking black Lab. Sierra kneeled, grabbed the dog by the collar, and tried to soothe the whimpering animal.

“Where is Rafel’s computer?” Jackson asked.

“We share one, and it’s in the dining room.” She pointed at the small area separating the living room from the kitchen. Next to a small table stacked high with newspapers, canning jars, and baskets of vegetables stood a cluttered computer desk.

Jackson looked over at Schak, who nodded and sat down in front of the monitor. His partner, who hadn’t used a computer until the department issued him one at the age of thirty-five, had become quite proficient at finding hidden personal files.

“Show me where his clothes and personal items are.”

“Let me put Kiesha in her dog run first. You’re upsetting her. She can tell you hate dogs.”

Jackson only nodded. He didn’t hate dogs; he just didn’t trust them. He’d nearly lost his left eye to a dog and hadn’t made the mistake of getting that close again.

As Sierra took the dog out the sliding glass door, Jackson turned to Evans. “What made you ask about weapons?”

“I think they’re survivalists. They’ve got a minifarm and a generator out back. Plus, the victim is military.”

“Good call. I don’t trust the wife. She may be connected to the syringe from the crime scene. Let’s pick up the weapons as evidence.
I don’t want her to have access to them.” He moved toward Schak. “Is the warrant specific about confiscating personal items?”

“I wrote it broadly and Judge Cranston signed it, so I think we’re good.” Schak held out the warrant.

Jackson took the envelope, but stuffed it in his shoulder bag. “I trust you.”

Sierra came back in, and Jackson said, “We want to see the weapons. We’ll take them to the lab for documentation.”

“This is bullshit. My husband was murdered! He’s a victim, and you’re treating us both like criminals.”

Jackson didn’t blame her for feeling that way, but he had to follow procedure. He noticed Schak staring at Sierra instead of the computer. Her face was a work of art and hard to turn away from. “I’m sorry,” Jackson said, meaning it. “This is just procedure. Everything will be returned eventually, even the guns, as long as they’re registered.”

She glared, then marched down the short hallway to a bedroom in the back. A huge steel gun safe took up a corner of the room, contrasting sharply with the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. Sierra pulled a key from a fake candle and opened the safe. “If Rafel wasn’t shot with a gun, I don’t see how his gun collection is evidence.”

Jackson understood her point, but he wasn’t backing down. He didn’t want their prime suspect to have access to weapons. “Everything is evidence until we rule it out. Everyone is a suspect until we rule them out. Please wait in the living room while we conduct our search.”

“As soon as Adam arrives, I’m taking him to his aunt’s house. I don’t want him to be here for this.”

“I understand. Tell me her name, address, and connection to Rafel.”

“Sasha Altman. She’s Rafel’s sister. She lives on Blackfoot, but I can’t think of the exact address right now.” Sierra seemed near tears again.

Jackson reminded himself she could be a victim too. “Take some time to inform your family, but please keep yourself available to us for further questioning.” He’d have the patrol officer follow her until he was confident she wasn’t planning to leave town.

Sierra reluctantly left the room. Evans, who’d pulled on gloves during the exchange, yanked open a nightstand drawer and withdrew a large silver handgun. It looked like a Glock. “They do like to be prepared,” she commented. “Not that I blame them.”

Jackson heard a school bus brake on the street outside. “Bag and tag all of it,” he said. “I want to get a look at the kid before she whisks him away.”

He hurried up the hall, grateful he wouldn’t be the one to tell the young boy his dad had been killed. Jackson’s own parents had been murdered when he was thirty, and he’d never forget the look on the face of the sergeant who’d had to break the news. This would be the worst day of Adam Mazari’s life.

Sierra rushed outside to intercept the boy on the sidewalk. Jackson would have liked to overhear their conversation, but he watched out the window and left them their privacy. Had he been insensitive? Too insistent on searching the home ASAP?

The boy was small for his age and had light-brown hair over a round face. He must take after his biological mother, Jackson thought, because he sure didn’t look like Rafel Mazari. He hoped they would solve the case without having to question the child. Mazari’s death in a tavern parking lot, rather than his home, meant his son probably didn’t have any relevant information, but Jackson couldn’t rule it out.

Sierra put Adam in her car, quickly packed an overnight bag for the boy, then left without speaking. He noticed she didn’t pack a bag for herself. There was so much more he needed to ask her.

After sending the patrol officer to follow Sierra, Jackson and Evans each made several trips to his car, carrying an assortment of hunting rifles, automatic weapons, and an antique revolver. They also bagged twelve knives, nunchakus, and a set of brass knuckles.

“Holy crap,” Schak said, as Jackson walked past him for the third time. “Was he expecting the war to come to him?”

“Maybe. It happens sometimes with combat troops.” Jackson paused. “Find anything interesting?”

“Not yet. This computer has been scrubbed. As in, no history of internet use. Williams might be able to retrieve the data, but I can’t.”

“Any personal files? Letters? Bank statements?”

“Sierra has files relating to animal medicine, PDFs with organic-farming information, and e-mails from her mother, but Rafel doesn’t have anything.”

“That’s odd.”

“It’s almost like he knew something was going down and deleted his personal stuff.” Schak pivoted to face Jackson. “What do you think of the wife?”

“A little cold and a little defensive. If she’s the killer, she’s stopped bothering to put on a phony show for us.”

“Stunning to look at too, but those dreadlocks are freaky.”

“They are.”

Jackson took the last two rifles and locked them in the backseat of his car. Next, he and Evans searched every inch of the master bedroom, trying not to leave a mess. Evans found a vibrator in a zipped case in one of the dressers, but nothing related to the murder. The master bathroom proved more fruitful. The top shelf
of the medicine cabinet was lined with pill bottles, all prescribed to Rafel Mazari: OxyContin, Xanax, Klonopin, Zoloft, neomycin, and Flexeril. Jackson recognized them as mostly pain pills and mood stabilizers. He searched the small trash next to the toilet, hoping to find an empty syringe, but instead came up with several small bloody bandages. He bagged and tagged one in case it contained relevant DNA, then changed his gloves, stuffing the old pair back in his bag.