Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (8 page)

Finding nothing else of significance in the house, Jackson headed out the sliding door to see what surprises awaited outside. The black Lab began barking excitedly, but it was penned in a long run parallel to the greenhouse, so Jackson ignored the raucous sound. Evans hadn’t exaggerated the minifarm setup. He even spotted a goat under a tree near the back fence. The side-by-side sheds on the left were what interested him. One was padlocked, so Jackson opened the other and found it full of split wood. He paused in front of the second green metal building. Bashing in the door wouldn’t be wise, considering what they’d found in the closet. Long-handled metal cutters would do the job, but he didn’t carry those in his car. The bomb squad would have to handle it. He hoped the shed held only power tools. Why had they kept the explosives in the house? Fear of them being stolen? Or fear of that fir tree falling on the shed and setting off an explosion that might take out the back of the house?

From the back door, he heard Schak yell, “You gotta come see this!”

Jackson hurried inside, wondering what new oddity they’d found.

The coat closet in the living room was open, and the access to the crawl space under the house had been exposed.

Schak handed him a flashlight. “Take a peek.”

Jackson kneeled and leaned his head down into the cool, damp air, praying he wouldn’t have to crawl under the house and retrieve whatever it was. The beam of the flashlight showed dozens of small wooden barrels sitting in the spaces between the foundation supports under the house. Mingled with the wet dirt smell was the rich aroma of aged whiskey. His body relaxed, and he rocked back.

“Why take on the apocalypse without a good buzz?” he joked. “They seem to have thought of everything.”

“What the hell do you suppose the dynamite was for?” Schak asked, scratching his nearly buzzed head.

“Blowing up bridges to keep outsiders from entering the county.” Jackson stood and stepped away from the closet. He’d been hearing rumors of such plans for decades but had never seen proof of it before now. They wouldn’t know for sure what these people had in mind until they questioned Sierra Kent again. Why hadn’t she warned them? He’d bet money the ice goddess knew about the explosives.

Evans walked up, and Jackson figured it was a good time to plan their next moves. “Once we leave here, we need to split up and cover as much ground as we can.” He looked at Schak. “I need you to find Prez, the transient who had his camp behind the parking lot. I have two patrol officers looking as well, so connect with them first. We need to know if Prez saw anything. Bribe him with food, and be gentle.”

Schak laughed. “You know I’m good with the subcultures.”

“Must be all that sensitivity training.”

“What’s my assignment?” Evans asked, sounding eager.

“Locate and question Cody Sawyer. He’s one of the victim’s friends who was at the tavern last night and apparently hung out with Mazari on a regular basis. Bring him in if you have to. This wasn’t a random act of violence, and someone knows what happened and why.”

“I’m on it.”

Jackson nodded. “I’ll track down and question Jake Pittman, the other friend who was drinking with the victim. We’ll meet back at the department at six and start the whiteboard. After that, we’ll head to the tavern to question everyone who was there last night.”

“What about the wife?”

“I’ve got a patrol officer following her, and the DA’s office is writing a subpoena for her fingerprints.” Jackson dug the syringe
from his bag. “The animal clinic where she works uses this exact type, so I’m dropping it off at the crime lab to dust.”

“You think she drugged him, then cut his throat?” Evans asked.

“It’s the most likely scenario.”

“Why a public parking lot?” Schak added.

“To throw us off and make it look like a transient or an angry drunk did it.”

They heard the big EDU unit pull up outside, so they grabbed their carryall bags, stuffed full of small evidence containers, and headed outside. The overcast sky had started to drizzle, and Jackson considered grabbing his coat from his car. But the EDU sergeant and his team weren’t wearing rain gear over their steel chest plates, so the group of them stood on the sidewalk getting wet while Jackson briefed the bomb squad leader on what he knew about the explosives, the whiskey kegs under the house, and the padlocked shed in the back. Around the perimeter, the EDU team was pounding on doors and telling residents to leave the area, eliminating their chance to interview the neighbors that afternoon.

“After we transport the known devices, we’ll search the property for more.” The sergeant was ready for the detectives to leave so he could get a team member suited up and into the house.

“Be safe.” Jackson turned to his task force. “Update me if you learn anything significant. Otherwise, I’ll see you at six.”

Jackson pulled into the crime lab, a two-story gray-brick building with no signs to identify it and no windows on the first floor. The size and newness of it looked out of place in an otherwise run-down area near the train tracks. The Eugene Police Department’s facilities were spread out over the city’s core, and driving from one place to another was a pain in the ass sometimes. The city had just bought a new building for their headquarters, which
everyone was excited about, but it would need to undergo nearly a year of renovations and wouldn’t resolve the spread-out issue.

He flashed his ID at the gate camera, parked in back, and climbed from the car. The door on the big processing bay was just closing down, and he caught a glimpse of the Jeep from the crime scene. The drizzle had become a steady downpour, so he dashed for the building. As he reached the door, he realized he hadn’t felt any pain when he ran—for the first time in nearly a year. The prednisone he’d been taking for months was finally working to suppress the fibrotic growth wrapped around his aorta from his heart to his pelvis. Retroperitoneal fibrosis. He’d been diagnosed last spring, then flayed open like a fish to save his kidneys. His doctor had informed him he was lucky to still be functional. Others with the disease often ended up on dialysis or with colostomy bags. The thought of either fate filled him with dread and made him diligent about taking his meds, despite their side effects.

Inside the lab, he took the stairs up to the second floor and hurried to Jasmine Parker’s office. The technician was just taking off her coat, and her long black hair was wet enough to stick to her back.

“Hey, Parker.”

“Already? I just got in from the crime scene.” She shook off like a wet dog and sat down.

“Why were you out there so long? Did something significant come up?”

“Not really. I spent some time searching the area, then the tow truck was two hours late.”

“I saw the Jeep in the bay. Thanks for staying with it.”

“It’s my job.”

Jackson sat on the edge of the chair, not planning to stay long, and put the evidence bag with the syringe on her desk. “Schak found this near the edge of the parking lot. It might just be an
addict’s trash, but the victim’s wife works in an animal clinic, and they use this type of syringe.”

Parker reached for the little bag. “And you want me to log it in for you and dust it immediately?”

Technically, he should have left it in a locker downstairs, but the syringe was a priority. Jackson tried not to feel guilty. Forensic evidence in homicide cases always took precedence. “Knowing it actually has prints will help us get a subpoena for the wife’s to compare.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Thanks, Parker. When you have the prints, call Trang in the DA’s office too. He’s working on the subpoena.”

“I will.” A look of concern flashed across her stoic Asian features. “Are you all right, Jackson? You look tired.”

He laughed. “I always look tired. But I feel better than I have in months.”

Back downstairs, he and another technician carried in the weapons and noncritical evidence from his car. Schak had the victim’s computer, and Jackson had Mazari’s wallet and other personal items. They’d examine them more thoroughly after they questioned witnesses—which always came first.

After leaving the lab, Jackson took Delta Highway toward Springfield, their sister city, where Jake Pittman lived. Jackson had called him earlier and left a message, but hadn’t heard back. He put in his earpiece and tried again. After two rings, a gruff male voice said, “Who is this?”

“Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I need to talk to you about your friend, Rafel Mazari.”

“I just heard he was murdered, and I’m upset, so it’s not a good time.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, but this can’t wait. You were one of the last people to see him alive, and I want to find his killer. Are you at home or at work?”

“I’m just leaving a job site. I can meet you at Terry’s Diner on Centennial for a few minutes.”

Jackson would have preferred to see the man’s home, especially if he was anything like Mazari, but he didn’t want to press the issue. Pittman seemed reluctant, maybe even a little hostile. Jackson started to ask how he would identify him, but he’d already hung up.

At four in the afternoon the diner was nearly empty, so finding the witness was easy. Besides two older women, the only other customer was a man of about thirty, sitting at a table near the front. Jackson approached him cautiously. If Pittman was the killer and liked weapons as much as his friend did, he could be dangerous. The man at the table wore jeans and a black sweatshirt, and his bearded face was streaked with dirt.

He stood as Jackson approached. “Jake Pittman.” He didn’t offer his hand.

Jackson introduced himself and gestured that they should sit. “I’m sorry for the loss of your friend. How long had you known Rafel Mazari?”

“Since fifth grade.” Pittman looked past him over his shoulder.

He was either uncomfortable making eye contact with another man, or a liar
, Jackson thought. “You went to school together here in Lane County?”

“Junction City.” Pittman squeezed his hands together on the table.

“And you’ve stayed in touch with Rafel since then?”

“Yep.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a self-employed tree cutter and landscaper. I worked for Emerald’s Yard Care for years, then got laid off during the recession.”

“How’s business?” Jackson kept it casual, hoping Pittman would relax.

“Slow.”

“You drank with Rafel last night at Pete’s Pad. What did you talk about?”

Pittman gave a small shrug. “The usual. Not finding jobs. Watching the game on Saturday. Nothing special.”

“Rafel was unemployed?”

“Since he got back. Before he deployed, he worked at Universal Tires, but they don’t need him now.” Bitterness made his voice harsh.

“How did Rafel seem to you last night? Anything different from the usual?”

“He was pissed off.” Pittman met his eyes for the first time. “He thought his wife was cheating on him.”

“Did he say with who?”

“He didn’t know, but he suspected it might be the vet she works for.”

“When did he call Sierra and ask her to come down?”

“I don’t know.”

Jackson waited, but Pittman didn’t add anything. “What happened when Sierra arrived?”

“Rafel asked her who she was screwing. She denied it and got mad. They started yelling at each other, so I left.”

“Did they fight a lot?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Did you spend time with the two of them together?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t like Sierra much, do you?”

He shrugged again. “She was okay until she cheated on him.”

“But you don’t know who she was seeing?”

“No.” Pittman shifted in his seat.

Jackson thought he’d just been lied to. He made a mental note to follow up. “Did you suspect someone?”

“I don’t know Sierra’s people.”

“How long had she and Rafel been married?”

“Two years. But he spent half that time in Afghanistan and the hospital.”

“How did they meet?”

“He took his dog in to the animal clinic where she works and fell hard.” A flash of regret. Or maybe grief.

It was time to pin down the important details. “What time did you leave the bar?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe nine thirty or so.”

“Was Sierra still there?”

“Yes. She and Rafel were arguing.”

“Where did you go after that?”

“Home. Why?”

“I’m just trying to establish where everyone was at the time of Rafel’s death.”

Pittman shook his head. “I was home with my wife.”

“What’s her name and number?”

“Hailey Pittman. But I want you to leave her out of this.”

“The sooner I verify your alibi, the sooner I cross you off my suspect list.”

“Fuck you.” Pittman jumped to his feet. “Rafel was my best friend. I loved him like a brother.”

“Then help me find his killer.”

Pittman was already walking out, and Jackson let him go.

CHAPTER 9

Friday, November 11, 3:48 p.m.

After a couple of calls, Evans learned Cody Sawyer was living with his parents in South Eugene. She drove out Hilyard, past the ball fields, community pool, and jogging trail. Even in the rain, die-hard runners pounded down the sawdust path. She knew Jackson lived in the neighborhood to the left. Just thinking about him made her smile. Evans suddenly remembered that Jackson was supposed to be moving that weekend. She’d asked if he was moving in with Kera, and he’d said no and changed the subject. Her surge of joy at the news made her realize she wasn’t over him. She’d been dating an Internal Affairs detective for a couple of months and really liked him, but she’d realized a while back that she
loved
Jackson. Maybe she always would.