Rules of Crime (2013)

by Sellers, L. J

  Time to get a warrant. Jackson hurried for the back door, stopping in the kitchen to glance around. A photo taped to the refrigerator caught his eye. He stepped toward it and his heart skipped a beat. An image of Renee, sitting on a folding metal chair, wearing a red sweater and not smiling. The Jesco Club. Striker was obsessed with Renee. Had he also kidnapped her? Jackson leaned in close, resisting the urge to touch the picture. It had been printed on thick white paper rather than photo stock. He’d seen an old tower-style computer in the living room but no printer. Did Striker have more photos of Renee on his hard drive?

  Jackson grabbed his camera from his carryall and snapped a picture of the refrigerator, then moved in closer for another shot. Could he take this photo to a judge and get a search warrant? Or would he just get himself in trouble?

  A car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. Jackson spun toward the back door. He caught sight of the kitchen window, its blinds partially closed. He quickly pulled them open a little more, then bolted for the backyard. Camera still in hand, he zoomed in and took a photo of the refrigerator through the window. No one ever needed to know he’d been in the house.

  Jackson grabbed his phone called for backup. In this neighborhood, a patrol unit would not be far away.

  CHAPTER 13

  Monday, January 9, 3:13 p.m.

  Evans bolted down the stairs and made a left, running straight into a laundry room. She tried again. The old house had small rooms and short hallways, but she found the back door and charged into the yard. A young blonde woman opened a gate in the back fence and ran into an alley. Out of the corner of her eye, Evans spotted the giant oak tree next to the house, complete with hammered-in climbing boards. Taylor had clambered down like a pro.

  Evans chased after her, glad she’d left her shoulder bag in the car. Adrenaline rushed into her veins. She could run faster and longer than anyone in the department, but Taylor was young and scared and knew the neighborhood better.

  “I just want to talk!” Evans called out when she hit the alley.

  Taylor was halfway to the cross street. Evans sprinted down the gravel alley, arms pumping and jacket flapping. Why had the girl run? She had to be guilty of something. Lyla’s battered body flashed in Evans’ mind. She leaped in the air and hurdled a giant puddle, landing with a thud on the uneven ground. As Taylor stopped at the street for a passing car, Evans closed the gap.

  The young woman rushed across the road, heading for another alley, and Evans shouted again. Taylor kept moving, so Evans charged across the street after her. On the sidewalk, she lunged forward and grabbed Taylor by her long hair. The girl cried out and went down on one knee. Evans grabbed her cuffs from her jacket pocket and trussed her suspect before Taylor knew what was happening.

  Evans took a moment to let her pounding heart settle, then pulled Taylor to her feet. “I just wanted to ask a few questions, but now we’ll do that at the department.”

  “I want my lawyer.”

  Evans nodded. “All in good time.”

  She let Taylor sit in the tiny windowless interrogation room by herself for twenty minutes. Evans hoped to instill a little fear in the young woman, whom she suspected had never faced any significant hardship. Taylor’s expensive clothes, confidence, and demand for a lawyer all indicated she’d grown up with money and was used to getting what she wanted. Evans repressed a tingle of resentment. If her suspect had assaulted another college student so savagely that she might die, then obviously the money and security in Taylor’s life hadn’t helped her become a good citizen. Evans had more respect for the homeless people who often shared what little they had with each other.

  While she let Taylor simmer, she called the hospital to ask about Lyla.

  “She’s out of surgery but in a coma,” the nurse said. “The doctors induced the coma to help her heal. The last bleed was in her brain.”

  Damn. Evans desperately wanted to talk to the victim. “Has her mother arrived?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Has anyone else called to ask about her?”

  “Yesterday afternoon, a woman called but didn’t identify herself.”

  “Any way to track where that call came from?” She knew the answer before she asked.

  “No. Sorry.”

  She made a quick trip to Full City Coffee across the plaza and would add another mile to her run that night to burn off the caffeine. She was trying to cut back, but this was turning into a long day and she needed to stay sharp. Her strategy for questioning Taylor would be more aggressive than usual, she decided. Normally she would try to empathize with suspects and make them believe she understood why they’d committed the crime. Sometimes a sympathetic ear was all it took to get a confession. But then, most criminals had once been victims, or at least they saw themselves that way.

  Taylor would be different. She was confident and probably wouldn’t care whether a cop understood her motivations. Her family could likely afford a good lawyer too. As much as Evans wanted to understand why the assault had happened, she wanted a conviction even more. She feared if Lyla died—and couldn’t testify—no one would ever pay for the crime. There was no trace evidence and no witnesses. Evans remembered her plan to bring in a canine unit and turned down the hall to see her boss.

  The door was open and the big woman was leaned back with her eyes closed.

  “Sergeant Lammers.”

  Eyes popping open, Lammers lurched forward in her chair. “Yes? I was just resting my eyes. I’m reading this book that says you should, especially if you work on a computer all day.”

  “Sounds right.” It was more personal information than her boss had ever offered. Evans stepped in and sat down. “I caught a break in the assault case. Someone found Lyla’s clothes and phone in the campus graveyard and turned them in. I have a suspect in the interrogation room now, but I want to go out to the graveyard tomorrow with a canine unit and find the crime scene.”

  “You didn’t talk to the person who found the clothes?”

  “No. He dropped them off and didn’t leave a name.”

  “And the victim won’t give a statement?”

  “She’s in a coma.”

  “Let’s wait and see what she has to say when she comes out of the coma. The canine search may be an unnecessary expense.”

  “What if Lyla doesn’t recover and it becomes a homicide and I have to build a case without her?” Evans knew she sounded worked up and didn’t care. “The more time that lapses, the less valuable the evidence is.”

  “Don’t yell at me. I hate these budget cuts more than you do.” Lammers ran her hands through her short hair. “For this kind of search, we need a scent-specific dog, and there’s only one. I’ll see if the officer is available tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  Taylor’s eyes had lost a little defiance by the time Evans wandered back into the closet-size room. She opened her coffee and let out the full aromatic scent but didn’t offer Taylor anything.

  Evans set out her recorder and stated both their names. “I’m documenting our conversation.” The camera mounted in the wall was also running and she resisted looking at it.

  “I still want to call my lawyer.” Taylor rubbed her wrists where the handcuffs had been.

  “I haven’t arrested or charged you yet, so you’re not entitled. But if you don’t cooperate, I’m going to charge you with obstruction of justice for running from me and book you into the jail.” Evans took a sip of coffee. “Have you ever been inside the jail?”

  The young woman didn’t answer.

  Evans put Lyla’s cell phone on the scarred wooden table. The space was small enough for Taylor to reach over and grab it. But she only stared.

  “Saturday night, January seventh, you texted Lyla Murray and said—Evans picked up the phone and glanced at the message for effect—‘Be there at eight.’ That was about the time Lyla was brutally assaulted, then dumped at the hospital. She’s still in critical condition. You understand how this looks
for you?”

  Taylor was silent.

  “We have Lyla’s clothes. If your DNA is on them, you’ll do at least three years for this. If she dies, you could get life. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

  Taylor licked her lips. “I don’t know what happened. Lyla was supposed to meet me at Pegasus Pizza, then we had plans to go to a party. She never showed.”

  “Did you talk to anyone at the restaurant?”

  “Sure, but I don’t know his name.”

  “What did you do when you left Pegasus?”

  “Went to the party.”

  “What party and where?”

  “At a house near Twentieth and Alder.”

  “Did anyone see you there?”

  “Of course.”

  “I want their names and phone numbers.” Evans tore a piece of paper from her notepad. “Write down the address of the house and everyone who saw you there, including their phone numbers.”

  Taylor’s hand trembled as she complied.

  Evans’ gut feeling told her Taylor had not acted alone. But how to make her name her co-assailant? Evans had to move cautiously. “What’s the name of your sorority?”

  Taylor’s head jerked up. “What are you talking about?”

  “The house where you live with all the women. It’s a nonsanctioned sorority. What do you call yourselves?”

  “We’re just roommates.”

  “That’s not what I hear. And I plan to talk to every woman who lives there. While you’re in jail.” Evans reached for the list of names. “How long did it take you to become the alpha dog in the pack?”

  Taylor snorted her contempt. “Because I’m a senior, I’ve lived there the longest. So what?”

  “Some of the younger members will be scared and tell me everything. They won’t protect you.”

  “You’d be surprised.” The corners of her mouth turned up.

  Evans kept her own face impassive even though Taylor had just admitted the household was a club with loyalty as a price for membership. “What do you give them in exchange for loyalty and deference?”

  “We’re just friends and roommates. We help each other with homework and class notes. You have the wrong idea.” Taylor didn’t meet her eyes.

  “What does it take to be admitted into the house?”

  “A deposit, like every other rental.”

  “Is the initiation always that violent?”

  Taylor was silent.

  “What was your hazing like? Are you still friends with the women who tormented you four years ago?”

  “Of course.” Taylor bit her lip, seeming to regret her words.

  “So you admit the house hazes women who join?”

  “No. I simply meant that I’m still friends with some roommates who graduated.”

  Evans modified her tone to sound supportive. “I know you didn’t commit the assault alone. Tell me who else was involved and I’ll make sure you get a good plea deal.”

  “It’s not an assault if someone consents to it.”

  Evans didn’t know the legal grounds. This was a new situation for her. “So you admit you participated in Lyla’s initiation? A consensual activity that involved striking her?”

  “I was speaking hypothetically.”

  “What did you hit her with?”

  “I’m done talking.”

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  Another surprised look.

  “We have a witness from the hospital who saw the car that dropped off Lyla. If the description matches yours, the district attorney will press a judge to keep you in jail while you wait for a trial.”

  Taylor’s eyes twitched. “I have a blue Mini Cooper that’s been in the shop since Friday.”

  So Taylor hadn’t been the driver, but Evans knew she’d participated. “I’ll go check in with the lab and see what they found on Lyla’s clothes.”

  Evans walked out, hoping Taylor would call her back to talk about a plea. Only silence followed.

  CHAPTER 14

  Monday, January 9, 3:15 p.m.

  Renee’s throat crackled as she swallowed and a second later her lower lip split open. She probed the wound with her tongue and tasted blood. Her stomach lurched and she fought the urge to vomit. Alcohol withdrawal always made her sweaty, nauseous, and dry, but now her thirst overwhelmed even the pain in her wrists and shoulders. They had restrained her hands together with duct tape, and even though the binding wasn’t tight, the tape had irritated her skin after the first day. Or the second day. Renee felt a little confused, but she thought today was Monday, about forty-eight hours after being abducted. What did they want? If this was about money, why hadn’t Ivan paid?

  She stood, rising from the musty bed, and began to pace. Six steps across the small bedroom, turn, and six steps back. The movement was hypnotic, almost like meditation, and it kept her sane. As long as she was moving, she felt alive and could keep her mind calm. When she sat, doubt crept in and she feared she would never leave this room.

  Black plastic covered the single window, so she had no idea where she was. But the crown molding at the top of the walls made her think she was in an old house. A closet-like bathroom was attached, thank god, even though the sink didn’t work, so she concluded she was in a bedroom. The sounds she heard outside occasionally—a barking dog, a passing car in the distance—seemed to come from below. Renee thought she might be on the second floor. But what building? And where?

  Not that it mattered much. She had tried and failed to free her hands, but there was nothing sharp to cut through the goddamn duct tape with. She felt helpless and enraged. Where the hell was her ex-husband, the lead detective, when she really needed him? Why could he solve everyone else’s crimes and leave her to rot? Was he even looking for her?

  He was in Hawaii with Kera, she remembered. The selfish shit. He could have at least taken Katie with him.

  Images of her daughter flooded her mind and Renee tried not to cry. She loved Katie more than she’d ever been able to express. And her little girl had forgiven her over and over for being an irresponsible drunk. She was a crappy mother and had been a crappy wife. But she didn’t deserve this. No one did. They hadn’t even left her with a radio, and the silence was unbearable.

  Renee pounded the door, desperate to try something. Her captor always wore a mask when he brought her food and water and zipped in and out of the room before she had a chance to try anything. Not that she could do much with her wrists taped. Clearly, Ivan hadn’t paid the ransom and Wade wasn’t coming to the rescue.

  Renee fought the urge to sob, knowing it would only weaken her.

  She slumped on the bed and envisioned her escape. Eventually, she’d break free of the ties and lie in wait for him. When he entered the room, she would stomp his ankle, then drive an elbow into his groin, like she’d learned in a self-defense class years ago. When the creep went down to his knees, she’d gouge his eye with her stiffened finger. What if she only managed to piss him off, and he knocked her out cold? So far, the men hadn’t hurt her, except during the abduction, but that could change in an instant. What little she’d seen of her captors before they put her in the trunk frightened her. Young, dark-clothed men who stank of sweat and cigarettes. If this was only about ransom, they had no reason to keep her alive once they had the money.

  But yet, they hadn’t killed her. Maybe she should wait it out and not try anything foolish. Maybe Ivan had already paid and they just hadn’t let her go yet. Renee got up and pounded again, but no one came.

  A chill crept into her bones. What if something had gone wrong? Had she been abandoned and left to slowly starve?

  CHAPTER 15

  Monday, January 9, 4:25 p.m.

  River’s mind raced from one scenario to another as she waited for the rest of the task force to gather in Anderson’s dining room. Fouts and Torres were there, and two surveillance agents from Portland had just arrived. The tech team was still in place down the road and two Eugene agents had just picked
up Daniel Talbot. River nibbled on a bag of popcorn, knowing she needed some nourishment, but was too distracted to enjoy it. If the perp had acted alone and drowned in the river, they had to focus on finding the abductee. That meant getting Renee’s photo all over the media. But if the guy who picked up the money had a partner, then the game was still on and the media exposure could lead to the victim’s death. They would just have to wait a few hours and see if they heard from the kidnapper again.

  As much as she tried to live in the moment, River hated waiting. She’d spent most of her life wanting to be someone else and waiting for the courage to make it happen. Then at thirty-seven she’d had a heart attack and vowed to change everything. Two years later, she was forty pounds lighter, nicotine free, and named Carla instead of Carl.

  But that was only on her legal paperwork. She’d gone by River since she’d adopted the last name and liked it so well. Some agents in the Portland office had been supportive of the gender transition, but others had openly mocked her. And the higher-ups just wanted her gone.

  Transferring to Eugene had given her the opportunity to start completely fresh—a new identity in a new place. Now if she could just find the nerve to leave the FBI. She loved her job. Rounding up lawbreakers and helping victims find closure had quieted the voice in her head that told her she was of inferior stock. Yet the bureau had sucked up most of her life, and now that she was free to be herself, she wanted more. She wanted to garden and travel and maybe find someone to share her life with. But was there another way to earn a decent living and pay her father’s debt at the same time?

  She heard cars in the driveway, and Agent Fouts got up and crossed to the front door. Moments later, Detectives Jackson and Schakowski followed him into the dining room. She knew how challenging it was for them to let another agency run an investigation on their home turf, and she appreciated their spirit of cooperation.

  Jackson strode to a chair with an intense look in his eyes. He had something new, she could tell. River liked the confident way he moved and his rugged good looks. If she had normal hormones, he would be her type. But she would never get involved with anyone she worked with. She just hadn’t figured out where else to meet men. River shook off the thought and started the meeting.