Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (9 page)

Turning right on East Thirty-Ninth, she found an odd chunk of Dillard Road that was separate from the rest, and moments later, she located the Sawyers’ address. Tall evergreens surrounded
the two-story cedar-plank house, and the roof was dotted with skylights that weren’t doing much good among the trees. A stylish sixty-something woman with shoulder-length gray hair opened the door. She looked as if she’d been crying.

Evans introduced herself and asked to speak with Cody.

“Is this about Rafel?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Susan Sawyer, Cody’s mother. He’s in his room. I’ll go get him.”

She came back, followed by a pretty-faced, wiry man who looked younger than his thirty years. His green eyes were bloodshot with spent tears.

Evans introduced herself again, and Sawyer responded with a handshake. His grip was weak, but he was grieving, so she tried not to judge him. “Let’s sit down someplace private.” She didn’t want the mother hovering. If Sawyer still lived at home at thirty, his parents were likely overprotective.

He led her through a perfectly appointed and unused living room into a den in the back of the house. The dark room had thick carpet, soft recliners, and a giant flat-screen TV.

Evans pulled up a footstool to sit on. “You heard the news about Rafel?”

Sawyer nodded. “Sierra called me.”

“How long had you known Rafel?”

“Since grade school in Junction City.”

“What about Sierra? Did you know her well?”

He shook his head. “I only met Sierra after her and Rafel got together.”

“How did they meet?”

“At the animal clinic where she works.” He pulled in a deep breath. “Sierra said Rafel was killed with a knife. Do you have any idea why?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

He shook his head. “No idea. Rafel didn’t have a lot of friends, but the people he knew loved him.”

“Did he have any enemies?”

“Not that I know of.”

Time to jolt him. “What about the guy Sierra was cheating with?”

“What are you talking about?” His voice seemed surprised, but his eyes didn’t.

“Last night in the tavern, Rafel accused his wife of cheating. Did he ever talk about it with you?”

“I knew he was worried.” Sawyer smiled a little. “Have you met Sierra? Guys come on to her all the time. It made Rafel a little paranoid.”

“What about you? Did you come on to her?”

“No.” His forehead furrowed with distress. “I have my own girlfriend.”

“What time did you arrive at Pete’s Pad last night?”

“Around a quarter to nine.”

“What made you show up?”

“I figured Rafel and Jake were there, and I was bored.”

“What time did you leave?”

“Around nine thirty.”

“Why such a short visit?”

“Rafel was being weird. Then Sierra showed up, and they argued, so I left.” He looked down, as if ashamed of his friends.

“What did they argue about?”

“The usual. Whether she was cheating. Rafel couldn’t let go of the idea.”

“Was she?”

“I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t know.”

“Where were you between ten and eleven last night?”

Startled by the question, his voice squeaked. “Right here in this chair, watching a movie.”

“What movie?”

“
Inception
. It’s my favorite.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

“My parents went to bed, but they knew I was home.”

“Tell me about yourself, Cody. Where do you work? And why do you live at home at the age of thirty?” Evans knew it was blunt, but someone had to ask him.

His jaw tightened, and shame and anger flashed across his face. “I was a successful real estate agent with Windemere. My dad wasn’t happy with my career choice, but I owned a house and made good money. Then the housing market collapsed, and I was let go.” He leaned toward her, his voice rising in pitch. “I tried finding work as a waiter, which I’d done in college, but no one was hiring. I finally managed to sell my house at a loss, and I moved back in here because my parents couldn’t stand to see me living in Jake’s unheated garage.”

Evans had a moment of guilt about prejudging him. “Sounds like it’s been a rough couple of years.”

“It was. But I landed a job at Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines a couple months ago. It’s phone work and I hate it, but I’ve saved enough to get my own place soon.”

Evans looked at her notes. “You said Rafel was being weird last night. What do you mean?”

“He hugged me, which he never does, then he seemed depressed. When Sierra came in, he got angry and paranoid. He was like that sometimes when he drank.”

“Did Rafel take drugs?”

“No.” Cody touched his chin and leaned back.

“I think you just lied to me.” Evans softened her tone. “He’s dead and can’t get into trouble. But if he used street drugs, then he had a dealer. And that might help explain who killed him.”

“There is no dealer. He had a prescription for OxyContin. I think he was taking a lot. He’d been losing weight.”

“Who’s his doctor?”

“Someone at the VA clinic. Although he was getting physical therapy from a volunteer at a different clinic.”

Mazari kept morphing in her mind—from a wounded-veteran victim to a crazy weapons-loving survivalist, now to a pain-riddled, pill-popping mental case. Had his friends known about the explosives? “Tell me about the dynamite.”

“What?” Sawyer practically sputtered.

“The explosives Rafel and Sierra kept in their house. What were they for?”

“They kept explosives?” His expression changed from shock to hurt.

Evans found it puzzling. “Why does that bother you?”

“I thought I knew Rafel.”

“What about Sierra? Would she kill her husband?”

Another stunned look. “No. What a horrible thing to say.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“I don’t know what it would be.”

Evans gave him a business card. “I’ll probably want to talk to you again, so stay available. In the meantime, call me if you think of anything important.”

On her way out, Evans stopped to speak briefly with Mrs. Sawyer. She confirmed that her son had come home around ten, but admitted she’d gone to bed shortly after. She tried to convince Evans she would have heard if Cody left later, but Evans only nodded. Sleeping parents were easy to get past. She’d done it a dozen times as a teenager.

CHAPTER 10

Friday, November 11, late afternoon

Sophie Speranza caught sight of her editor coming toward her cubicle and reflexively tensed. He was either going to call her into his office and lay her off or give her an assignment she didn’t want. The newspaper had been stable for a few months—not making money, but not losing it either—and the small group that was left had started to hope they might survive.

“I’ve got a feature you’re gonna love.” Karl Hoogstad leaned against her cubicle half-wall.

Yeah, right.
She hated the do-gooder stories he forced her to cover occasionally. She much preferred the crime stories and even the court proceedings, which could be bat-shit crazy sometimes. “I’m listening.”

“An ex–National Guard soldier was found murdered this morning.”

He had her attention now. “What’s the story?”

Hoogstad looped his hands in his belt and rocked back on his heels. Short, lumpy, and balding, he was surprisingly confident. He continued. “The soldier was wounded in Afghanistan and received some kind of medal. Now he’s the victim of a heinous crime. I want you to dig into this guy. Talk to everyone who knew him. There’s an emotional and meaty feature here. I can feel it.”

“I’m all over it.” She couldn’t help but be jacked about the assignment, and it made her feel guilty about her reaction to a tragic death. “How did you get the information so quickly?”

“A bartender I know gave me a call. The guy was killed in his vehicle in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad last night.”

“I’m intrigued. Thanks for letting me have this one.” The assignment could have gone to several senior reporters instead.

“You’ll dig harder. This is your kind of piece.”

“What’s the guy’s name?”

“Rafel Mazari.”

Sophie jotted it down and spelled it back to make sure she had it right. “I’ll get going on it right away and work through the weekend. Let’s beat the TV people with this story.”

“Get Brian if you need a photographer.” Hoogstad gestured at her cube neighbor. “Where are you going to start?”

“I’ll call my detective contact and see what I can find out.”

“Good girl.”

Fucker
. He would have to ruin an otherwise pleasant exchange.

“I heard that,” the photographer said, popping up over their shared cubicle wall as the editor walked away. “It was so loud inside my brain, I worried you’d directed it at me.”

“Be glad your mind is that open. I’m sure the sentiment bounced off Hoogstad. You heard the assignment?”

“I’m stoked. Will they let us get a photo of his corpse?”

“I doubt it.” She shook her head. “I’m going to keep this tasteful.”

He laughed. “There’s always a first.”

“Bite me.”

Sophie turned her focus back to the domestic-shooting story, impatient to wrap it up and move on. The name Rafel Mazari was familiar to her. Where had she heard it? She wrote a few more sentences, and the information popped into her head. A woman she’d dated years ago had gone to school with Rafel and knew his first wife, who’d died in a freak car accident. That was the only reason Sophie remembered the name. Her girlfriend had talked about the accident for days, and another reporter on the paper had covered it. Sophie hit
Save
and closed the piece she was writing. It could wait.

She called Kim Bradley, the woman who’d known Rafel and his wife, and left her a message to call back. Sophie considered contacting Jasmine Parker, her current lover, who worked for the police department’s crime lab, but she resisted. Jasmine’s information was confidential, and her girlfriend resented when Sophie tried to pry out details. But every once in a while, Jaz volunteered a juicy nugget of information. Sophie decided to be patient, find out what she could, and not ask Jasmine unless she got desperate.

Instead, she called Detective Jackson, a senior investigator in the Violent Crimes Unit who always got the best cases—the bizarre crime stories she liked to cover. Over the last year, they’d developed a half-assed working relationship. Sophie understood and accepted that he hated giving her information, but she almost always had something solid to offer in exchange. Jackson had come to accept that Sophie was a pretty damn good investigator too, and people often told her things they wouldn’t tell a police officer. So now, he often returned her calls, and sometimes gave her exclusive on-the-record comments.

Jackson didn’t answer—no surprise—so she left a message: “Hey, it’s Sophie. I’ve been assigned to write a profile about Rafel Mazari’s life, and I’d love to know more about his murder. Anything you’re willing to share would be helpful, and of course, if I find anything interesting, I’ll pass it along. Be in touch.” He might not call her until he needed something, like a news-archive search, but she’d keep trying. Their jobs were similar, but their goals were different. He wanted to keep the scoop all to himself, and she wanted to share it with the world.

She ran Rafel Mazari’s name through the newspaper’s digital archive. Two stories came up. One was about his unit returning from Afghanistan, and the other was a short piece about his ex-wife’s accident, which had happened on Prairie Road, just south of Junction City. Sophie studied the photo—a pretty blonde woman who looked fresh out of high school—then scanned the story:

Friday morning, Joanna Mazari’s life was as good as it gets. Married to her high school sweetheart, their son had started kindergarten and Joanna had landed a terrific job with an advertising agency.

But on her way to work, tragedy struck in the form of a wasp. Highly allergic, Mazari carried an EpiPen with her everywhere, according to her sister, Laura McKinsey. That morning when the yellow jacket in her car stung her in the upper arm, Mazari’s body reacted instantly, swelling and cutting off her air supply.

Mazari managed to pull off Prairie Road, not far from her Junction City home, and dial 911. The paramedics arrived too late and found her dead of anaphylactic shock. They also found an epinephrine injector on the floor of her car.

Joanna Mazari is survived by her husband, Rafel Mazari, 28, a sergeant in the Oregon National Guard; her son, Adam Mazari, 5; her sister, Laura McKinsey; and her parents, Chester and Sue McKinsey of Seattle, Washington.

A bizarre story and not well written, Sophie thought, and it wouldn’t add much to Rafel’s feature, except to expand the idea that he’d experienced more than his share of grief and trauma in his short lifetime. Sophie found Rafel on Facebook, but his page was sparse, like someone who’d signed up, then forgot about it. He’d listed very little information about himself, except for his National Guard service and his favorite music—Coldplay and Nickelback—and he’d posted only once a week or so, usually a political comment about government excess. Rafel had also uploaded a collection of photos, most of his second wife, Sierra Kent. Gorgeous woman, Sophie noted, but the dreadlocks were a bit much. Sophie clicked through and found Sierra’s Facebook page, which held more information. Sierra posted regularly about an interesting mix of subjects: caring for animals, nutrition, holistic health, and preparing for the end of civilization when all the resources ran out and everyone had to fend for themselves. A bit paranoid, Sophie thought, but maybe with good reason.