She looked around for Officer Drummond’s vehicle and didn’t see it. Damn. She hoped the dog handler wouldn’t be too late. Her date with Ben Stricklyn, an Internal Affairs detective, was at six and she wanted time to go home and shower first. If things went well, they’d end up at her place for a sexual romp, so she wanted to freshen up. Afterward, Ben would go home to his teenage sons and she would probably go back to work, then out for a run. Their relationship, which was usually confined to weekends, was fun and satisfying but neither felt any pressure to push it along. She’d only met his boys once and they had been polite but not overly warm. They were also old enough to be on their own. She’d left her parents—and Alaska—right after graduating from high school and didn’t understand why young people stayed so long at home now. Didn’t they value privacy and independence?
Evans trotted up the old stone steps to the cemetery and looked around. Rick Drummond was coming toward her with his dog, a scent-trained black Lab. The rest of the canines in the department were German shepherds, which were better for adrenaline-based search and apprehension.
“Hey, Drummond. Thanks for making time for this.”
“No problem. This is what we do.” He reached down and touched the dog’s head. “This is Trigger.”
“Hey, Trigger.” Evans didn’t know what else to say. She glanced at Drummond. “Lyla lived on Seventeenth, so she probably entered the cemetery from the southwest corner. I think if we start there, it will narrow the search.”
“Sounds good.”
They walked along the perimeter trail to the far corner, and Drummond said, “I heard the victim was badly beaten. Is she going to survive?”
“The doctors are optimistic but she’s still in a medically induced coma.”
“Barbaric.” He shook his head. “We’ll find the spot. What have you got for scent?”
“The victim’s T-shirt.” Evans reached for the evidence bag and handed him the green material. The lab hadn’t checked it for evidence and it felt wrong to expose it to contamination. What else could she do? She needed to examine and photograph the crime scene, especially if Lyla didn’t recover. The jury would need to see the site.
Drummond held the shirt under the dog’s nose. “Zuke.”
Evan arched her brows, and Drummond said, “It’s Dutch. He was trained in the Netherlands.”
Trigger took off, nose near the ground, zigzagging until he picked up the scent. Once he had the trail, his ears pointed and his tail stiffened, wagging back and forth in rapid motion. The dog trotted down the perimeter path on the back side of the cemetery and then, midway, veered toward the middle. For a few minutes, he weaved through the headstones and across the scraggly grass. As Evans spotted a small building to the left, Trigger stopped, then circled back. He seemed excited, making little whimpering noises, as he tried different directions but kept coming back. Evans stood still, hoping this would be the crime scene.
Finally, Trigger stopped and lay down next to a large statue of a soldier, surrounded by small headstones.
“Good boy.” Drummond offered the dog a treat. “This is where the scent is strongest and the trail ends.”
“Thank you. And you, Trigger.” She didn’t know if it was appropriate to pet the working animal. “You guys don’t have to stay. I can search on my own.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. It’s a small area and I need to take photos too.”
“Then we’ll clear out. Good luck with your case.”
“Thanks.”
Evans took photos of the base of the statue, then photographed the surrounding area. Nothing popped for her through the lens. No dropped items, no fresh blood. If Lyla had bled openly here, the dog would have picked it up and followed the scent of dripping blood to wherever she’d been loaded into a car.
Time to get on eye level. Evans was glad she’d worn black slacks. But then she always wore black slacks to work, with pastel jackets over matching sleeveless blouses. Today she had on a black overcoat as well and didn’t relish making contact with the cold wet grass and dirt. She squatted and duckwalked around for as long as she could stand it, then dropped to her knees. She could have asked for a technician, but the victim wasn’t even dead and she’d already used resources on the search dog.
Crawling around the twelve-foot-square area, she picked up a hairpin that looked as old as the graves, a faded blue button, and an old roach from a marijuana joint. The joint looked freshest but she bagged them all. At one point, two college guys wandered by and stopped to ask if she was okay. She flashed her badge and asked what they knew about graveyard hazings. They shook their heads and moved on.
After an hour, daylight was fading fast and her knees felt frozen. Finally, she stood and decided she’d done enough. The fastest way to her car was to cut across the cemetery. As she hustled along, Evans kept her eyes on the ground. The attackers could have come this way with Lyla.
Just as she reached the perimeter path, she spotted a white scrap of paper on a tuft of long grass. Even though it was damp and blurred, close scrutiny revealed it was a receipt from the Gap in the amount of $34.95. The last four digits of a credit card number showed too. Had Taylor dropped it out of her purse or pocket as she and her partner carried Lyla to the car? Evans bagged it, then kept moving. She had just enough time to race home, shower, and throw on a dress—something she rarely did—and make it to the restaurant by six.
That evening, as Evans watched Ben take off his jacket and weapon in her bedroom, the gritty day disappeared and excitement pulsed through her. Ben was six-three with a gorgeous face and a shaved head she found unexpectedly sexy.
“Are you going to remove that dress or do I have to peel it off you?” His deep voice added to her fire.
“Peel it, please.” She put her arms around his waist and they kissed deeply. For a second, her mind flashed to a moment when she and Jackson had almost kissed. Evans wondered what that would be like.
Later, as she watched him get dressed, Evans knew it was time. “Ben, I have to tell you something. I may regret this, but it seems only fair.”
“It sounds serious.” He sat on the edge of the bed and met her eyes.
“Yes and no.” She pulled the sheet over her nakedness, suddenly self-conscious. “I like you very much and I want this relationship to continue, but I have unresolved feelings for Jackson. I’m trying to get past them, and you’re helping.” She gave him her most charming smile.
“I knew that.” He leaned in and kissed her deeply. “That mama’s boy doesn’t stand a chance.”
CHAPTER 29
Tuesday, January 10, 5:40 p.m.
As Jackson climbed from his car, Katie came running out of her aunt’s house. He hugged his daughter tightly, inhaling her special scent, a fragrance he could never describe with words but that he’d know if he were blind and she were only one of twenty people in a room. It had filled him with joy since she was a baby in his arms. He loved this girl more than everyone else in the world together and all he could think was, Thank god they didn’t take her instead of Renee.
Katie hugged him just as tightly. After a long moment, he finally pulled back. “How are you holding up?”
“Not good. Aunt Jan and I have been watching movies to distract ourselves but it’s not helping. Have you heard anything?” Her voice had a new control and she sounded more like an adult and less like a panicked teenager.
Jackson realized the last of her innocence was gone and it broke his heart to give her more bad news. “Ivan paid another ransom this afternoon, but the courier got away with the cash. We’re hoping he’ll let your mom go now. And we know she’s alive because Ivan talked to her this morning.”
Her lower lip trembled. “How long has it been since he got the money?”
A smart question. “Only a few hours. No need to worry yet.” Jackson turned her toward the car. “Let’s grab some dinner. I have to get back to work soon.”
“Let me tell Aunt Jan the news. She’s worried
too.”
Jackson knew he should go in and deal with Renee’s sister in person but the day had already pushed him to his limit. Seeing Dakota’s mauled body this morning, then learning that Renee was still out there, possibly suffering a similar death, had put him on emotional overload. It was all he could do to keep it together for his daughter. “Give her a hug for me. I need to make a call.”
He climbed into the car and called the department’s spokeswoman. Matthews didn’t answer so Jackson left her a message: “It’s time to send photos of Renee to the media and ask the public for help locating her. Give no details except that she disappeared Saturday afternoon and is being held against her will. Ask people to call our tip line.” He held back on releasing information about Dakota’s death. He would give that info to Sophie first. She had earned it on previous cases. He wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Sophie knew Dakota. They were both journalists and a similar age.
Katie climbed in, buckled up, and glanced at her cell phone. “I’ve looked at my phone a hundred times today, hoping I’d see a text or a missed call from Mom.”
“We’ll hear from her soon. Why don’t you call in our order?”
Jackson drove to Tasty Thai, one of their favorite nearby restaurants. It was nearly full, but they found a small table and took a seat. Coming here had always been fun for them and it had seemed like a good way to cheer Katie up. Now it felt wrong. He was glad they’d ordered in advance.
Their favorite waiter, a middle-aged guy who practiced his comedy routine at work, stepped up to the table. “You both look so serious. Did somebody die?”
Katie burst into tears.
“I’m so sorry. I’ll leave now.” The waiter took off, but came back in a few minutes with a black coffee and a Diet Sprite. He set them down without a word.
“Do you want to leave?” Jackson asked his daughter. “We can take our food to the car. Or skip this altogether.” He felt stupid for trying to have a normal dinner.
“I’m fine.” Katie gave him a brave smile. “It’s almost over, right?”
“I think so.”
They talked about picking up Katie’s assignments from school, then Jackson said, “We found your mom’s car in front of Serenity Lane. She must have driven there to check in. She was going to get sober again.”
“Good to know.” Katie gave him a tight smile. “I know she’s not the most responsible mother but we’ve had a lot of fun together and I love her. I can’t imagine my life without her.”
“You don’t have to.”
The waiter brought plates of spring rolls, pot stickers, and a stir-fry to share—an indulgent dinner for both of them. But that was why they came here.
“I’m starving.” Jackson grabbed a spring roll.
“Me too.” Katie laughed a little. “I can hear Mom nagging us for eating these.” She mocked her mother’s voice: “Those rolls are nothing but deep-fried grease and starch.”
They joked about Renee’s other little quirks while they ate and it felt therapeutic, almost like warding off danger. They wouldn’t be able to laugh about her if she wasn’t coming back, would they?
When the meal was over, Katie glanced at her silent phone. “Will the kidnapper call and say where to pick her up? Or will Mom call us?”
“I wish I knew.” Jackson reached over and held Katie’s hand. “We’re putting her picture on the late news tonight and the task force is out there talking to their informants. One way or another, we’ll find her.”
“I trust you.”
A stab of worry penetrated his full belly. What if he failed Katie? What if she lost her mother and her faith in him at the same time?
“I’d better get back to work.” Jackson dug out his wallet, left cash on the table, and stood to leave. “Derrick is home for a few days if you want to come home to our house.”
“I think Aunt Jan needs me. Uncle Steve is on a business trip and I don’t want her to be alone.”
“Then I’ll take you back there.” He started to apologize for having to work late, then stopped. She’d heard it a hundred times.
On the drive to Dakota’s condo, Jackson called Kera and left a message, updating her about Renee’s situation. If he hadn’t just come back from a vacation with her, he would feel guilty about not seeing enough of his girlfriend either. Sometimes he considered going over to the DA’s office to become an investigator with regular hours so he could have more time with his family. But that wasn’t who he was. He loved his job and was proud of the work he did. So many victims and their families had closure because he never gave up.
He pulled into the tree-lined parking lot and stared at the bright new condos. When he’d been here the night before looking for Dakota, he hadn’t noticed the expensive touches, such as the stone patios and multiple skylights in every unit. He dug Dakota’s purse out of his carryall and found her keys. Had she come here at all after leaving the TV station?
Moving slowly up the stairs to unit 10, he searched for anything unusual, a drop of blood, a cigarette butt, a fresh scuff mark. Nothing but icy dew drops on the stone steps. Jackson glanced through her key set, looking for a house key. He held the clicker out of the way, assuming it was for Dakota’s car, then noticed what looked like a second large car key. Did Dakota own a second vehicle? He’d have to ask Schak which key had worked on her car. Jackson selected a small silver key with a perforated wide end and stuck it into the lock. It turned and the door swung open.
Out of habit, he reached for his weapon, then stepped in. Stillness penetrated the space, the scent of new fabric filled the room, emanating from the cushions covering the couch and the overstuffed chairs. Artwork hung from every freshly painted wall and each corner and nook held an ornamental vase or metal statue. The spacious living room had been turned into a home decor showroom.
Nothing was out of place, so no struggle had occurred here. Jackson moved toward the dining room, where a laptop was open on the table. Eager as he was to access it, he turned into the hall and checked both bedrooms with a quick glance to ensure there were no intruders or obvious signs of a crime.
He paused in the smaller room, pulled on gloves, and looked around. A Precor elliptical workout machine took up much of the space and had a forty-inch flat-panel TV mounted on the wall in front it. A floor-to-ceiling cabinet held sports equipment, including skis, tennis rackets, and a lacrosse stick. Its cherry-wood twin held full-length coats, ski jackets, several pairs of fashion boots, and designer scarves. Renaldi had not exaggerated when he’d said Dakota was a shopaholic. Her father must have given her a credit card because she sure hadn’t paid for all this on a TV reporter’s salary in Eugene, Oregon.
In the main bedroom he found a closet stuffed with clothes and sacks of new, unworn clothes on the floor, but nothing else worth noting. The bathroom also contained little of interest, except a prescription bottle of Celexa, which he thought was an antidepressant.
He hurried back to the dining room and sat down at the computer. It was a Mac, and Dakota used Entourage for her e-mail. Jackson clicked open the purple icon and the screen filled with subject lines. He noted the number in the bottom left corner: 582 e-mails in her in-box. Almost all had been opened and the dates went back three years. Dakota apparently didn’t delete e-mails and the volume seemed low. He suspected her load at the news station was much higher. He opened the latest two, which still had bold subject heads and had come in that day.
The first was from a friend named Serena who lamented they hadn’t seen each other lately and wanted to get together for lunch. The second was from a credit card company, warning that she’d overspent her limit and they’d suspended her card. The e-mail didn’t include balance information, so Jackson called the phone number listed and gave his name and badge number. “I’m in Dakota Anderson’s apartment now, investigating her death. I’d like to have access to her account statements.”
“I’ll have a supervisor call you back.”
“You can verify my credentials with the
Eugene Police Department.” He gave the department’s number and his cell phone number, then returned to scanning e-mails.
Many were from political groups asking for money. Others were from Travelocity, offering great deals on trips to a variety of island destinations, and some were from social media sites, asking her to join. Jackson was surprised that so few were personal, then remembered the younger generation preferred to text each other, consolidating phone calls and e-mails into a single instant communication form. He thought he would eventually spend more time reading Dakota’s e-mails, but for now he had to move on.
Scanning the folders on her computer desktop, he clicked open Photos and found a collection of more folders. They had names such as College Friends, Coworkers, Trips, Family, Vacations, and News Features. Because Dakota had e-mails from Travelocity, he clicked open Trips and found another list of folders, each marked with a date. The newest was from October, only a few months ago.
Most of the photos were of the same group of attractive people, all in their late twenties or early thirties, enjoying a variety of leisure activities such as jet skiing, scuba diving, and sunset beach parties. Many of the photos were taken on a large boat and Jackson noticed the same seven people appeared in most of the pictures. Four men and three women, including Dakota, who was in a few group shots. While he sent one of the group files to his e-mail at work, his cell phone rang.
“This is Amanda Peterson, customer service manager at Pacific Ridge Bank. I’ve verified your ID, so how can I help you?”
“Two main things. Tell me how much she owed on her account and send me PDFs of her last four credit card statements.”
“I’m not sure about sending her statements but her current balance is $28,562.”
Rules of Crime (2013) Page 17