“Why would she take her clothes off outside in January?”
Margaret, the campus police coordinator, scowled at the thought. “I’m sure it wasn’t her idea.”
Evans found nothing in the jeans, which had probably fit so tight there wasn’t room for personal items. She pulled out the gray fleece jacket, shoved her gloved hand in a pocket, and it connected with a mobile phone. Tension flowed out of her shoulders. “I need to take all these to the lab.”
Margaret nodded.
Evans shoved the jeans and jacket back in the bag, along with a green T-shirt that said Go Ducks. She would put everything in separate evidence bags once she got to her car. If she’d picked up the clothes at the actual crime scene, she would have processed them correctly from the beginning.
“What do you know about the person who turned in the clothes?”
“Nothing. The note just says they were found in the graveyard.”
“That’s a big area to cover.”
“I know. I might be able to round up some volunteers to search.”
“Thanks, but I think I’ll request a canine and save a lot of time.”
“Good idea.” The campus officer looked relieved. “I’ll keep asking about the sorority and let you know if I hear anything.”
“Thanks.”
Evans headed out, wondering if Lammers would approve the expense of the canine. The victim wasn’t dead and the perp or perps were long gone. Finding the spot where Lyla had been attacked might prove to be completely useless. Or it could hold the key to solving this heinous assault. She had to try.
A cold wind stung her eyes as she hurried to her car, which was parked illegally across the street near the recreation center. The old redbrick buildings, surrounded by grassy commons, made Evans wish she’d gone to school here instead of at a modern community college in Seattle. The University of Oregon campus exuded an air of timeless knowledge as well as a sense of belonging. Evans didn’t really have that with any place…or person. Eugene was growing on her after ten years, and her relationship with Ben kept getting better. But the only time she felt completely at home was when she was with Jackson. And she had to get over that.
In the car, she locked the doors out of habit, pulled her latex gloves back on, and activated Lyla’s phone. A low-battery message came up immediately. Damn. She wanted to scroll through the text messages. Evans grabbed her phone charger, plugged it into the cigarette lighter, and tried it in Lyla’s phone. Luckily, they both had newer smartphones and it fit. The battery icon began to flash.
While she waited for the phone to charge, a parking-ticket enforcer stopped next to her. Evans held up her badge and waved him on. Jackass. He knew she was a cop. Evans’ stomach growled, and she realized the soup hadn’t been enough lunch after her kickboxing workout that morning. She dug into her shoulder bag, hoping to find a half-eaten protein bar. No luck, but the survival bag had everything else. In addition to all the crime scene tools she carried—evidence bags, plastic gloves, cameras, and tweezers—she also kept band-aids, a tiny sewing kit, a utility knife, sunscreen, and a miniflashlight. Growing up with alcoholic parents in a backwoods cabin outside of Fairbanks, Alaska, had taught her to be prepared for anything. Surprises were the enemy. Six years as a patrol cop had reinforced that learning.
Leaving Lyla’s phone plugged in, she clicked the text message icon and began to read. The last text, sent at 7:10 p.m. Saturday evening, had gone to Mom and said, Too busy to talk now. I’ll call you this weekend. Evans’ heart went out to the girl’s mother, who was probably racing up the interstate now, frantic with worry that she’d never speak to her daughter again. You never knew what your last communication was with a loved one until it was too late.
Evans scrolled to the previous text, an incoming message from Josh: Do you have notes from biology class today?
Lyla’s quadmate had mentioned Josh, but she’d said he and Lyla were just friends. Before that, someone named Taylor had texted: Be there at 8.
A shimmer of excitement traveled up Evans’ neck. Taylor must have planned to meet Lyla in the graveyard. Who was Taylor? A guy or a girl? The assault on Lyla had been so violent, Evans was inclined to believe a male had committed it. She looked through the phone’s contact list and found Taylor Harris, but with no picture and no details. Was Taylor a new friend or a casual acquaintance?
Evans’ blood pulsed with possibilities, like a hound picking up the scent of prey. She played out a few scenarios. She could call Taylor and try to arrange a meeting, but if he was guilty or sensed danger, he might panic and hang up or simply not show. It made more sense to find Taylor Harris and confront him personally. If she could do it quickly.
Evans used her own phone and called Brooke Hammond, Lyla’s friend who’d reported her missing. Brooke picked up right away and whispered, “Is this important? Is Lyla okay?”
“I haven’t heard anything yet. Why are you whispering?”
“I’m in class but it hasn’t started yet.”
“I need to know who Taylor Harris is.”
A hesitation. “I’ve heard her name but I don’t really know her.”
“Don’t fuck with me.” Evans rarely swore at citizens, but her adrenaline was pumping. “Lyla was supposed to meet Taylor Saturday night. So she probably knows what happened. I need to find her right now.”
“I think she belongs to the sorority Lyla wanted to join.” Brooke spoke so softly, Evans strained to hear.
“Where can I find Taylor?”
“She works at the campus daycare center.”
“Where’s that?”
“It’s at Sixteenth and Moss.”
“What does Taylor look like?”
“A cheerleader. Pretty and skinny, with long ash-blonde hair.”
“Where is the sorority located?”
“I don’t know. I have to go.” Brooke hung up.
Evans was glad she hadn’t left campus. Moss Street was only a few blocks away. Taylor Harris might be in class, or at home sleeping, or damn near anywhere, but it was worth checking.
Inside the daycare center, she was hit with the aroma of applesauce and baby wipes, while high-pitched little voices overrode her thoughts. Small children were a mystery to her, and Evans had never experienced a desire to breed. People told her she would eventually, but she was thirty-three and didn’t see it happening.
A young man noticed her and came over, carrying a plump little boy. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Taylor Harris. Is she here?” The irony of questioning an assault suspect in such a nurturing environment made Evans cringe a little.
“No. Why?” His tone seemed protective.
“I’m Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I’m investigating an assault and I need to speak with Taylor immediately.”
“She’s not here today.”
“Do you know where she lives?”
“No.” He looked away and shifted the toddler to his other side.
“I’d like to talk to your manager.”
“She’s not here.”
Evans sensed the young man knew Taylor, maybe even had a crush on her. “Please put the child down and step outside with me.”
For a long moment, he didn’t move. “I really can’t. There’s only one other provider here—”
Evans cut him off, stepping forward as she spoke. “A young woman was beaten nearly to death. What do you know about that?”
“I’ll be right back.” He scurried over to the group of kids listening to a young woman read and set down the toddler.
Evans held the door open for him as he returned. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and would soon be shivering in the January cold. Good, she thought, that might expedite their conversation. They stepped outside.
“What’s your name?”
“Marco Salvia.”
Evans made a show of writing it down. “Do you know Lyla Murray?”
“No. Is she the victim?”
“She’s in critical condit
ion and might die. If she does, this becomes a homicide investigation and Taylor Harris was one of the last people to communicate with Lyla. Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know anything. I just work with Taylor and I haven’t seen her since last week.”
“Where were you Saturday night between seven and ten?”
“Drinking with friends at the Beer Stein.”
A gust of wind came out of nowhere. Marco crossed his arms and tried not to shiver. Evans pretended not to notice the cold.
“Where does Taylor live?”
He looked around, then said, “I don’t know the address, but it’s a big white house on Potter Street. It’s on the east side, right in the middle of the block. She lives there with a group of other students.”
“A sorority?”
“I don’t know. I just gave her a ride home once.”
“What is Taylor like?”
“She’s sweet and she’s studying to be a teacher. I can’t believe she had anything to do with an assault.”
“Thanks for your help.” She handed him a business card. “Let’s keep this conversation to ourselves, but if you hear anything that might be useful, let me know.”
Still hungry, Evans bought an egg roll from a street vendor and added another mile to the run she would do in the evening. She’d started the morning with a kickboxing workout, followed by push-ups and sit-ups. She liked to run at the end of the day to burn off stress and empty the garbage out of her mind after a day filled with liars, thieves, and assholes. She wished she had a hot cup of coffee too, but the vendor only sold green tea. She’d never been that desperate.
On the drive over to Potter Street, she munched on her egg roll and scanned through more of Lyla’s texts whenever she had to stop for traffic. After a few minutes, the multitasking made her laugh out loud. Cops had to be the most distracted drivers on the road. She shoved Lyla’s phone in her shoulder bag and turned on Potter Street.
A moment later, she saw the massive white house on the left. The Victorian home had been built a hundred years earlier, but even after decades of abuse by college students it was still stately and attractive. Someone had taken good care of it. Evans made a note to find out who the owner was. She guessed it was managed by a rental property company.
Scanning the street for a parking space, she finally left her car in a driveway down the street where no one was home. She was glad she didn’t live or work in the campus area. Parking was a nightmare.
After several loud knocks and a three-minute wait, a young woman came to the door. Thin, with magenta streaks in her otherwise colorless hair, the student had sleepy eyes and a molasses-slow voice. “Who are you?”
“Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I need to see Taylor Harris immediately.” Evans figured this wasn’t Taylor because Brooke had said her suspect looked like a cheerleader.
“I don’t think she’s here.”
“Where is she?”
“I don’t know. I’m not her mother.”
“Then I’d like to talk to you.” Evans stepped into the house, forcing the girl to move back and let her in.
“What’s this about?” The girl stood near the door, arms crossed.
“Let’s sit down.”
She sighed and moved to a couch, one of three in a long, cluttered living room with low-to-the-ground furniture.
“What’s your name?”
“Kate Bertram.”
Evans jotted it down. “Where were you Saturday night?”
“At a party. Why?”
“Lyla Murray was beaten nearly to death. Do you know her?”
The girl gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “But she’s okay?”
“Not yet. She could still die. How do you know her?”
“She’s a friend of Taylor’s. She’s been here a few times to hang out.”
“What’s the name of this sorority?”
Kate blinked. “We’re just friends who live together.”
Liar. “Was Lyla going to move in here?”
“I think so.”
“What’s the criteria for being admitted?”
“It’s up to Taylor. She picks our new roommates.”
“What was your initiation like?”
Fear flashed in Kate’s eyes and she glanced away. “There is no initiation.”
“Bullshit. I saw your reaction when I mentioned it. Were you physically assaulted?”
“No.”
“Did Taylor assault Lyla?”
“I doubt it.”
“If you knew about the assault and didn’t report it, you can be charged as an accessory to a crime.” Evans leaned in. “Everyone in this house can be charged, and if Lyla dies, you could all go to jail.”
Kate’s breathing pattern was suddenly irregular and she jumped up. “I don’t know anything about it.”
A door banged shut at the back of the house and footsteps pounded upstairs. Evans jumped to her feet. “Is that Taylor?”
Kate was silent.
Evans strode toward the hallway, breaking into a jog as she reached the stairs. As she hit the second floor landing, she caught sight of a door closing at the end of the hall. She hurried past four other doors to the end room and knocked loudly. “Eugene Police. We need to talk.”
No response.
Hot anger made her skin go clammy. Who did this girl think she was that she could beat her friend into a coma, then ignore a cop?
Evans pounded again and yelled, “Eugene Police. Open up!”
A loud thump came through the door, followed by scurrying sounds. Evans visualized Taylor trying to hide something. She grabbed the knob and shoved, but the door was locked. “Taylor! Open up! Eugene Police.”
A window slammed open.
“Crap, she’s gonna run.”
CHAPTER 12
Monday, January 9, 3:27 p.m.
Jackson debated his next move. If this were a homicide, he’d simply round up Striker and bring him in for questioning. But Renee’s life was still at stake and he couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. On the other hand, if Striker was the kidnapper and had drowned in the river, Renee could be locked in a shed on his property, abandoned and dehydrating…or hurting herself trying to get free. He pushed the awful image away and made a decision. With an hour before the task force meeting, he had just enough time to run out to Striker’s place and take a look around. Jackson googled the location, left word with Schak, and headed to his car.
The last known address in Striker’s file was on Bethel Drive, about a mile west of the Jesco Club. Jackson passed the railroad office and slowed down, watching for the numbers on the left. A couple of neglected homes stood near the road, but the house he wanted was in between the two shacks, down a fifty-foot driveway. The muddy little house sat under a giant oak tree, but no vehicle was present. Striker could still be home. With a DUI on his record and a predisposition toward alcohol, he might not have a driver’s license.
Jackson climbed out, his hand automatically touching his Sig Sauer. He was always careful around suspects, but this neighborhood made him wary. Eugene’s growing gang population congregated in cheap rentals, and the other dirt-poor residents here had nothing left to lose.
Train cars slammed together behind him and made him jump. How did people live here? Could you ever get used to the noise?
Glancing around, he noticed the property’s boundaries: a laurel hedge on the right, a grassy strip on the left, and what looked like a beat-up wooden fence in the back. The corner of a green metal shed was visible behind the house. Where did Striker build the chicken coops? Jackson wondered. Was there a shop in back he couldn’t see?
He stepped past an overflowing garbage bag and knocked on the door. A faint movement inside, then nothing. A moment later, a cat appeared in the window to the right. Better than a dog, he thought. He knocked again and waited a full minute. At this point he had no right to search the man’s property, but Jackson couldn’t make himself walk away. Renee could be captive here
. The mother of his child.
He heard a voice near the backyard and told himself it had to be investigated.
Jackson strode around the corner and down the narrow path between the wood siding and the tall hedge. The green shed he’d spotted had a lock on it—no surprise—so he pounded on the door. No response from within. He pounded again, then moved to the back of the shed and put his ear against the cold metal.
No sign of life.
He turned to the rest of the yard. A makeshift carport filled most of the space. The grass under it had been trampled by work boots, and a table saw stood near the edge of the covered area. Two wooden birdhouses lay near the saw. Striker’s shop. He was making do with the space he had. Jackson had a brief flash of respect for the man’s effort to earn a living.
Then he imagined Renee tied up in a back bedroom of the house.
After a quick search of the perimeter, he tried the back door handle. The door pushed open. Jackson hesitated. If Renee were not his ex-wife, would he enter this home without a warrant? He had probable cause, he told himself. A woman was being held hostage and he was following a viable lead.
Jackson moved quickly through the small laundry room into the hallway. The overpowering stink of cigarettes and cat piss made his eyes water. He pushed open a bedroom door and called out softly, “Renee.”
Right hand near his weapon, he stepped into the bedroom, which was spare and cold. He checked the closet, then backed out of the room. He was searching for a hostage. Anything else was illegal.
After a quick glance in the bathroom, he headed toward the small living room. It held only a beat-up recliner, a TV and a computer—both sitting on a brick-and-board shelf—and a large laminate table. On the table sat a row of plastic jars, an unopened pack of coffee filters, a Pyrex bowl, an eyedropper, and a funnel. Striker was starting a meth production business. Or had he decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and moved directly into kidnapping for ransom? Was he a meth addict? The thought sickened Jackson. If so, Renee might already be dead.
Rules of Crime (2013) Page 7