Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  He hunched forward. “Well, yeah. Something wasn’t right.”

  “What made you think that?”

  “She looked dead. I mean, she was naked and not moving.” His voice turned whiny. “You would have thought so too.”

  His mother cut in again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  They both ignored her. Evans asked, “Did you think to help your neighbor?”

  Dylan’s face tightened. “I called the cops, didn’t I?”

  “How well did you know Amanda?”

  “I didn’t.” He shifted in his chair and drummed his fingers. “I don’t want to talk about this. But I’m sorry she’s dead.”

  Sorry sounded like guilt. Time to pry open those emotions. “Was it an accident? Maybe you were just messing around and she—”

  “No! I was never in her house.” The teenager swallowed hard. “She’d just moved in.” He jumped to his feet. “This is why I didn’t give my name! I knew you would blame me. Cops are all the same.” Dylan stormed down the hall.

  Evans let him go for the moment. She would check out his alibi and likely question him again.

  The mother stood and pointed at the door. “I want you to leave.”

  Evans didn’t budge. “Did you see or hear anything over there last night?”

  “No. I had a friend over and we were busy.” She squinted with annoyance. “I already told the other cop that.”

  A patrol officer must have done a canvass. “What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Ed Quatkemeyer.”

  Evans started to jot it down. “How do you spell that?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Boy, was she tired of this family’s attitude. Evans struggled to keep her tone friendly. “I need to know about the woman and kid next door. When did they move in?”

  A big sigh as Tess sat back down. “I think it was Saturday or Sunday. The house had been vacant for a long time, so I was surprised to see all the activity.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “Tell me about the activity.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did you first see someone? Who was it? What were they driving?”

  “A little light-blue pickup was parked out front Friday night when I came home from the store. But I didn’t see anyone.”

  That didn’t match the car over there now. Maybe the landlord had come by. “What next?”

  “Then the woman and the kid showed up in the green Ford a day or so later. That’s all I know.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Nope. I told you. I mind my own business.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to know.” Evans had lost her patience. “A woman is dead and we need to find out why.”

  “I moved here in January after I left my bastard ex-husband.” Tess jumped up and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the counter. “My ex isn’t Dylan’s father, in case you’re wondering. I had Dylan when I was in high school.”

  The woman was younger than she had guessed. But still too old for an eyebrow ring. What else should she ask? “Who lived in the house next door before it was vacant?”

  “Some tweakers, but they didn’t last long. I swear the cops were there every other weekend.”

  Meth addicts. No wonder the rental looked beat-up. “I need to take a look at Dylan’s room.” Evans held up a hand. “I don’t need a warrant. He smells like pot, so I’m entitled to search for it.”

  Tess crossed her arms. “What are you looking for?”

  “I just want a feel for who he is.” She really wanted to look for weapons, violent posters, or dead cats. Anything that might indicate Dylan was a psychopath.

  Tess gave an exaggerated headshake. “He didn’t do anything to that woman. Dylan isn’t violent.”

  “I’d like to believe that. Just let me step in and look around.”

  “Fine.”

  Tess padded down the hall on bare feet, her sweatshirt barely covering her ass. Evans followed, thinking it must be weird for a teenage boy to have a mother who didn’t wear pants.

  The woman knocked briefly, then waited for a response.

  “I’m not in the mood,” her son shouted through the door.

  “Too bad. We’re coming in.” Tess pushed it open, and Evans walked through.

  “I just want a quick look around. Do you have any weapons in here?”

  Seated on the bed, Dylan snorted with disgust. “I hate guns. I don’t even play video games.”

  “Good to hear.”

  The room was small and cluttered and reeked of sweat and semen. But no weapons, and the posters were of Tony Hawk and other skateboard champions. Evans glanced in the closet and under the bed. Shoes, skateboards, and a collection of flesh magazines. But at least he wasn’t reading about bomb making.

  “Let me see your computer desktop.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see your screensaver.”

  “Whatever.”

  Dylan reached for a laptop on the floor, clicked the space bar, and turned the computer to her. An image of a pretty young girl filled the screen.

  “Who is she?”

  More eye rolling. “Miley Cyrus. Before she cut her hair and went crazy.”

  Evans assumed she was some kind of pop star. “Okay.”

  On her way out, she turned to the mother. “Keep your son home for a few days. We’ll want to talk to him again.” A request that would probably be ignored.

  Tess followed her outside and stared at the house next door with all the cop cars in front. “You know, now that you asked me, I think one of the tweakers who lived there before drove a little blue truck.”

  CHAPTER 4

  A loud voice outside caught Jackson’s attention. Through the open door, he saw a short, stout woman arguing with the patrol officer guarding the entrance. Mariah Martin, a manager at Children and Family Services. She often handled emergency scenarios when she couldn’t find a caseworker who wasn’t already overloaded. Jackson set the victim’s cell phone aside and patted Benjie’s leg. The boy was snuggled up against him on the couch.

  “There’s a nice lady I want you to meet.” Jackson stood, and the boy jumped up too, grabbing for his pants again. He was ready to pass on the childcare responsibility and get fully functional again. Jackson started toward the door, feeling like he had to drag Benjie along. Guilt forced him to pick up the child, and the little arms locked around his neck. What had this poor boy witnessed to make him so afraid? Or maybe it was the eighteen hours he’d spent in the dark under the house. That would have freaked him out too.

  “Let her in,” he called through the door.

  The officer stepped aside, and the social worker barreled into the living room, moving fast for a round woman on short legs.

  “Ms. Martin. Thanks for coming.”

  “You’re welcome. And please call me Mariah.”

  They’d met on another homicide two years earlier. “This is Benjie. He’s three, and he’s had a rough time. He was hiding under the house since last night.”

  “Oh, the poor dear.” Martin pulled a small stuffed toy from her oversize purse. “Would you like to hold this, Benjie?”

  Snuggled against Jackson’s shoulder, the boy wouldn’t look at her.

  “He seems quite attached to you.”

  “Yes. I found him and he decided he trusts me.” Jackson remembered the plugs and removed them from Benjie’s ears. He glanced at Martin. “I didn’t want him to hear our conversations, but I had to keep working. This is my case, and the first twenty-four hours are critical.”

  “You did well. Would you turn around so he can see me over your shoulder? I need to make eye contact.”
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  For ten minutes, the social worker coaxed, sweet-talked, and bribed Benjie, but he wouldn’t let go of Jackson. In the end, she had to forcibly remove him and carry him out as he cried hysterically. The boy’s distress crushed Jackson’s heart. Another disappointed person in his life. But what choice did he have? He had to work, and that meant talking about the kid’s dead mother. It was for the best.

  “I’ll come visit you,” he called out, trying to give Benjie some comfort. Why had he done that? He didn’t have time to follow through.

  “Don’t let it get to you.” Evans came up the walk as he watched Martin buckle the sobbing child into her car.

  “I don’t know why he bonded with me like that.”

  “You’re a good man.” She touched his arm.

  Jackson shook off his guilt. “Unless you have a suspect, your report from next door can wait until our task force meeting.”

  “I have a weird theory, but we need to find the homeowner first.”

  “Schak called county records, but we haven’t heard back yet. Now, he’s out in the backyard, looking for signs of an intruder.” Jackson started for the bedroom, and Evans followed. He looked at his watch. “We’ll meet at six in the conference room. Meanwhile, let’s see what Gunderson has to say.”

  As they entered, Parker was vacuuming trace evidence from the bedsheet while the medical examiner zipped Amanda’s body into a black plastic bag. Jackson hoped her parents would never see that image. “What else can you tell us?”

  “Livor mortis on her backside means she died right here and wasn’t moved. Subconjunctival hemorrhages in both eyes indicate pressure was applied to her neck or face. Or that she had a coughing fit right before she died.” Gunderson stood and turned to them. “She also has petechiae, indicating asphyxia, but without bruising or ligature marks on her neck, it doesn’t look like strangulation. I’ll know more when we cut her open.”

  “When’s the autopsy?”

  “Probably late tomorrow. I’ll check with the pathologist and let you know.”

  Schak stepped into the crowded bedroom. “Look what I just found in the yard.”

  They all spun toward him. Schak held up a bloody pocket-knife.

  CHAPTER 5

  Tuesday, September 3, 5:45 p.m.

  Evans stopped at a Dutch Brothers drive-up and ordered three cups of house coffee. The district attorney, or even their boss, might come to the task force meeting, but she only treated her detective partners. She loved Schak like a crusty old uncle who had her back no matter how much grief they gave each other. But her feelings for Jackson were complicated.

  Seeing his tenderness with the little boy had stirred up a longing she’d thought she was over. But it was best to ignore it. She’d been dating a great guy—Ben Stricklyn, an Internal Affairs detective—for nearly a year and had started thinking they might have a long-term future.

  Evans paid for the coffee and headed toward County Club Road and the new department headquarters. She loved the new building with its wide-open spaces and big windows that looked out onto a wall of green trees and shrubs lining the freeway and river. But still, coming here didn’t feel like slipping into an old pair of jeans the way walking into the downtown location had.

  The SWAT unit she hoped to join still met at the training center on Second and Chambers, so some things about the department wouldn’t change. If she passed the physical test on Monday, she would become the only woman in the elite unit. Months of daily bench presses, crunches, and bicep curls had made her upper body strong. She still ran and kickboxed every day too. She’d become as strong as her five-five frame allowed her to be—and she’d done it while still holding a full-time job. But would it be enough?

  In the new conference room, she sat near the dry-erase board, knowing Jackson would ask her to chart the investigation. The padded chair swiveled and reclined, making her smile. So much nicer than the metal chairs in the old building. They had also acquired an oversize, flat-screen monitor for watching videos and interrogations.

  Schak lumbered in a moment later, pulling off his jacket. Sweat marks the size of footballs lined his armpits, and his shirt was wrinkled. But he was smart and tenacious and she loved working with him. “You need to start carrying one of those personal-size fans,” she teased.

  “Right after you stop wearing those prissy-colored blazers.”

  Evans laughed. “You’re just jealous because men are limited to black, brown, and blue. Blah.”

  “Don’t forget gray.”

  “It’s not even a color.” She picked up a cup. “Coffee?”

  “Hell yes.”

  Evans took one over to him as he sat across the table. She returned to the board and wrote Amanda Carter, 24 in big letters at the top, then drew two lines down the middle. On the left side, she noted what little they knew about the victim, starting with a brief physical description. Under it she wrote Benjie, son, 3, realizing they didn’t know his last name, which might not be the same as his mother’s. She added hiding, afraid after his name.

  Jackson stepped in, glanced at the board and the coffee, and smiled. “This is why I want you on my team, Evans.”

  Six feet tall, with dark hair and a hint of gray at the temples. But it was his face that pulled her in. Rugged with a strong jaw, yet symmetrical enough to be handsome. Plus, a sexy scar above his left eye, which he’d finally admitted was the result of a dog bite.

  “You’re late.” She’d given him shit to hide her feelings for so long, it was habit now. But his pinched brow caught her eye and she remembered his family situation.

  “Sorry. I stopped at the hospital to see Kera for a minute. A family member was in a car accident.”

  “Not Katie, is it?” Schak asked.

  “No, it’s Danette, the baby mama of Kera’s grandson.” Jackson sat at the end of the table, as always, so they could talk in a circle.

  “How’s Kera doing?” Evans wouldn’t let herself dislike someone she didn’t even know. But Kera was tall, beautiful, and owned Jackson’s heart, so they would never be friends. Evans smiled and handed him a coffee.

  “She’s holding strong.”

  A moment of quiet.

  “So no pizza?” Schak asked. He winked to show he didn’t really care.

  “Your doctor would approve,” Evans said.

  “Approve of what?” Michael Quince strode into the room. An even better-looking detective and more her age. But Jackson had been her mentor when she’d transferred to Violent Crimes, and he’d captured her heart before she’d ever met Quince.

  “Not feeding pizza to Schak.” Jackson nodded and took out his case file. “Thanks for coming. Let’s get started.”

  “That bloody knife is bugging the hell out of me,” Schak blurted. “Our victim doesn’t have a mark on her.”

  “We’ll see what the lab reports about the fingerprints,” Jackson said.

  Evans added the knife to the right side of the board where they would list the evidence.

  “Don’t forget the broken blood vessels in her eyes,” Jackson called out.

  “And the victim’s transient nature,” Schak added.

  Evans wrote few possessions, no paperwork under Amanda’s information, then turned to the group. “What else do we know about the victim?”

  The room was quiet for a moment. Then she remembered the uniform she’d found in one of the crates. “I think she works in patient care. She had yellow scrubs in her crates.”

  “Who takes care of the boy while she works?” Jackson pondered.

  Quince broke in. “Will someone get me up to speed?”

  It was Jackson’s case, so he summarized the death scene and their findings so far.

  After giving it a moment, Quince said, “Except for the traumatized boy, we don’t have any solid reason to think it was murder.”

  “She was half nak
ed and had probably been raped,” Evans argued. “Also, the woman’s lifestyle indicates that she travels light and moves frequently, so she may be on the run.”

  “Or she’s a prostitute or drug addict.” Quince gave a small smile. “Just playing devil’s advocate. Without paperwork or a family connection, we don’t know anything about her.”

  “I have her phone,” Jackson said. “I only had time to glance at her recent calls and texts and didn’t find anything that seemed personal, but I’ll examine it thoroughly tonight. We have to find her family.” He took a long pull of coffee. “What else have we got? We need a plan of action for tomorrow.”

  “The county called with the homeowners’ names.” Schak glanced at his notepad. “Dan and Julie Beckett. They live in Cottage Grove, and I called and left a message. I asked them to come into the department as soon as they could.”

  “Great. Anything interesting in the car?”

  “Not really. Her registration lists an address near campus.” Schak rubbed his bristled head. “I called the apartment complex and she moved out on Friday.”

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “The manager said she wanted more space.”

  “We may question her old neighbors if nothing else breaks open.” Jackson turned to her. “Give us the rundown on your conversation next door.”

  Evans used her fingers to tick off her main findings. “A thirteen-year-old boy named Dylan Gilmore reported the body, Amanda only moved in a few days ago, and a small light-blue truck was there on the weekend—before Amanda moved in—but not again.”

  “What’s your gut feeling about the boy?” Jackson wanted to know.

  “He seems okay on the surface. A cursory search of his room didn’t turn up any weapons or violent drawings.” She paused, thinking about the knife that had surfaced later. “Dylan says he saw Amanda’s body through the window, so he admits being in the backyard. Maybe he dropped the knife. I’ll need to question him again.”

  As she wrote the witness/suspect’s name in the middle of the board, Jackson said, “Good idea. But without any knife wounds on the victim, a judge will never give us a subpoena for his prints or for a more thorough search.”