“Yes, it’s tomorrow at eleven at St. Mary’s Church. Then we’ll have a proper funeral at home in Iowa next week.” A pause. “Will you be at the service tomorrow?” It was more of a request than a question.
“Yes, I’ll go.” She dreaded the thought, but it would give her one last chance to observe Grayson’s acquaintances. Maybe she’d spot the man he’d fought with. “I have to get to work now. Bye.”
She made a quick call to Catalina about the memorial service. After she hung up, she wondered if it had been a mistake. Would the pregnant girlfriend stir up some trouble? Evans let it go. The young woman deserved to mourn Grayson with everyone else.
Evans grabbed her coffee and headed toward the exit. As she passed Schak’s cubicle, she saw him reclining in his chair with his eyes closed. She tiptoed over and conjured up her best imitation of Sergeant Lammers. “Schak! What the fuck?”
His eyes flew open and he slammed forward, nearly tumbling out of his chair.
She laughed so hard, she had to set down her coffee. “That was too good to pass up.”
“You about gave me another heart attack!”
She’d forgotten his first one, which had happened while arresting a killer. “Sorry, pal. You okay?”
“I will be.” He took a deep breath. “What’s up?”
“How did you do out at the burned house this morning?”
“We didn’t find anything, but Quince is still over at the Gilmores’ rounding up his computer and personal things.”
“I hope we can convict him of something. He needs to stay locked up for the next five or six years.”
“Or life. If we didn’t have the custody issue and the threatening note, we would be all over this kid for the murder.”
“True enough.” That reminded her about the transportation issue. “How did you do with the airlines?”
He gestured with a thumbs-down. “Nobody named Caiden flew in or out of Eugene last week.”
“Were there any repeat flyers to Salt Lake?”
“Shit. I didn’t ask that.”
“Better get on it.”
“Will do.” He gave her a mock salute. “Then I’m leaving early—in case we get called down to campus later for riot patrol.”
“Oh right. This is crazy-student season.” She remembered another memo from yesterday. “There’s also a block party in the Whiteaker neighborhood tomorrow. This will be an overtime weekend for most patrol cops.”
Schak groaned. “That means all hands on deck to deal with drunks. I’m getting too old for this shit.”
She was having second thoughts about her plans for the evening, so she didn’t share them. “I’m heading over to the crime lab. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Evans flashed her ID card and waited for the gate to let her into the parking area. The gray-brick building that housed the crime lab also served as the evidence locker, where three officers had recently come under scrutiny for theft and mishandling of property, including a huge pile of cash. The chief had put the desk officers on leave of absence and was scrambling to establish new protocols. But the revelations not only made the whole department look bad, it made everyone nervous about their convictions being overturned by lawsuits.
As Evans parked, she noticed one of the big bay doors was open, and Joe Berloni was cleaning out the green Ford Focus from the Pershing house. The crime scene technicians were not at fault in the scandal, but they worked in the same building and also handled evidence, but a different kind. They too had trusted their coworkers to be accountable and were getting burned for it.
“Hey, Joe.” She’d called him Berloni once and he’d corrected her.
“Hey, Evans. Are you on this case?” He looked up from his work as she stepped into the bay to get out of the sun. The processing area looked like a garage stuffed with things nobody used but couldn’t throw away.
“Yep. What have you got? We need a break.”
“I ran prints from the car this morning and didn’t get any hits in the databases, so no help in identifying a suspect.”
They had no reason to think the killer had been in her car, so she wasn’t surprised. “We mostly need to figure out who’s the father of the victim’s child. Jackson flew to Salt Lake City yesterday because that’s all we’ve got to go on.”
Joe reached for a plastic evidence bag lying on a shelf, his compact, muscular body reminding her of a wrestler’s. “You’re welcome to look through this collection. I found it all stuffed down in the seats.” He handed her the bag. “There’s a ticket stub for the Maverick Center, which is in Salt Lake. And a few other odd items. Plus this pink breast-cancer-awareness bracelet. We found it on a doorknob in the Pershing house.” He produced a clipboard and pen. “You have to sign for it. I’m covering my ass on everything.”
She didn’t blame him.
CHAPTER 27
Friday, September 6, 3:35 p.m.
Jackson hated hotel rooms. The small space and ugly colors were bad enough, but it was the stillness that bothered him most. He missed the sound of Katie chatting with friends in another room, Kera banging around the kitchen, or even the noisy birds in his backyard. And surprisingly, he missed Benjie. The little guy had really grown on him. Not finding his family was worrisome, yet also a surprising relief. He’d dreaded the moment when he would have to hand the boy over to strangers. Now he didn’t think that would happen. Andra hadn’t named a father on the birth certificate, so unless the other biological parent came forward with DNA proof and a court order, there was no one to claim Benjie. But was he the right person to raise the boy? His own daughter might disagree. His work schedule wasn’t family friendly during the first few days of homicide cases, which seemed to happen more and more frequently.
Jackson paced the room, waiting for the Wagners to return his call. For the last hour, he’d been online, researching surrogacy and the contracts involved. Unless Andra and the father or couple had used a lawyer, or at least a notary, any contract would be meaningless. Assuming they even had a legal agreement. He wasn’t sure what else he could accomplish in Salt Lake and felt anxious to get back to Eugene. He worried about how Benjie was handling his absence—and he had a homicide to solve. He owed it to Andra.
Another worry wormed deeper into his brain. If Benjie’s father had killed Andra in an attempt to reclaim his son, then Benjie might still be at risk. Jackson had left his backup weapon with Derrick just as a precaution, but the only long-term solution was to put the assailant in jail.
His phone rang, startling him. “Jackson here.”
“This is Susan Wagner, returning your call. How can I help you?”
“I need to talk about Andra Caiden. In person. Can we meet?”
“We’re in our RV and just pulled into a campground near Boise, Idaho. Where are you?”
Well, damn. “I’m in Salt Lake City. When will you be back here?”
“Not for a few days. What’s this about?”
“I’m sorry if you don’t already know, but Andra was murdered.”
She gasped, then let out a little cry. “Oh no.” Her voice was suddenly distant. “Carl, will you come here?”
“Please put your husband on the phone. I’d like to ask him some questions.”
“Let’s do a Skype call instead. You said you wanted to talk in person. It’s the next best thing.”
Jackson started to reject the idea, then thought better. He wanted to watch Carl Wagner’s face react to loaded questions. “Good idea.” He spelled out his Skype ID, hung up, and opened the program on his laptop. He’d chatted with Katie this way a few times since she’d moved out. The big talking heads on the monitor were weird, but better than no visual at all.
For five long minutes he waited, wondering if the couple would call back. If Carl Wagner had fathered Andra’s child—and/or murdered her—he might be more inclined to crank up the RV an
d hit the road. Finally, his computer pinged. When the dialogue box opened, a middle-aged couple appeared, their faces close together: Susan looking plump and sad and forty, while her husband seemed angular and worried and closer to fifty.
Carl Wagner led off. “We’re quite upset to hear about Andra. She was special to us.”
“How did you know her?” Jackson wanted to question them one at a time, but it seemed important to earn their trust first.
“Her mother and I worked together at the utility company for years,” Susan said. “After Nadine and her husband died, Andra fell onto hard times. When we heard she was pregnant and homeless, we took her in.”
“Who told you she was pregnant?”
A long pause. Finally, Susan said, “I don’t remember. It was long ago, and we haven’t seen or heard from Andra since she left with the baby.”
“I need to speak with Carl alone for a minute. Can you give us some privacy?”
Susan’s mouth set in a grim line. “We don’t have any secrets from each other.”
“This is standard police procedure.”
Her face moved away and she disappeared from the screen.
“When was the last time you saw Andra?” Jackson had his recorder on. Proving a lie was sometimes the best way to get at the truth.
“The day we took her to the hospital,” Carl said, his face deadpan. “She didn’t want us to stay with her during the birth.”
That was a little odd. Time to mix it up, keep his suspect off guard. “Do you have any children?”
“No. Why?”
“Did you want children?”
“Of course. But the Lord didn’t bless us.” A pained expression.
“Did you try in vitro fertilization?”
His mouth dropped open. “That’s none of your business.”
“Andra needs justice. Please answer my questions.”
Carl was silent.
Jackson took a gamble. “I already know you’re the one who arranged for Andra to move in. Tell me how it came about.”
His cautious eyes widened, but Carl didn’t deny it. “Susan and I saw Andra panhandling at the mall. We talked about it on the way home, trying to figure out how to help her. I went back the next day, found her, and offered to let her stay with us.”
“She wasn’t pregnant then, was she?”
“What do you mean?”
“Andra’s pregnancy was a surrogacy. She had the baby for another couple. Considering you and Susan took her in, I’m pretty sure it was your child.”
Carl pulled back, startled and angry. “I did a good thing for that girl! I would never take advantage of her.”
“I realize most surrogacies are mutual arrangements, and the pregnancy is an artificial insemination. How much did you pay her?”
“This is insulting!”
“You must have been quite upset when she took off with your son. Did Susan know?”
The wife was suddenly back in the room. “Did I know what?”
Jackson hesitated. What if he was wrong about her husband? He could ruin their marriage. “Do you know who the father of Andra’s child is?”
“She never told us.” Susan kept her expression neutral, seeming to realize they were under scrutiny. “I thought maybe she didn’t know. She’d been on the streets for a while after her boyfriend dumped her.”
“Did you talk about adopting her child?”
“We offered to, but Andra said no.” Susan glanced to the side. Carl had moved out of Jackson’s sight.
“What were her plans?”
“She was vague about that.”
“Where were you guys camped on Monday night?”
“Outside Springfield, Oregon.”
Eugene’s sister city! A twenty-minute drive to the crime scene. “Do you tow your car behind the RV?”
“Why are you asking? I don’t like your insinuations.”
From the background, Carl shouted, “Just shut it down. He’s barking up the wrong tree.”
The screen in the dialogue box went black. Jackson flopped against the back of his chair. The couple’s proximity to the crime scene made Carl—and/or Susan—viable suspects. But he needed a DNA sample to compare with the trace evidence on Andra’s body. Or to Benjie’s DNA. Could he get one? He had to try. Maybe even a handwriting sample to compare to the threatening note.
For the first time, he felt like they might bring Andra’s killer to justice.
CHAPTER 28
Friday, September 6, 8:05 p.m.
Evans pulled on faded jeans and a tight black tank top with a red no-war symbol across the chest, a shirt she’d bought for plainclothes work and hadn’t worn in ages. The goal was to look young and blend in at the party. She was slim and had taken good care of her skin, but her job had worn some lines into her forehead. She brushed a few long bangs forward to cover them and pulled the rest of her hair into a high ponytail, then tied it into a spiky knot—a current style. She applied more makeup, then stuffed handcuffs into her black bag. The purse strapped across her chest so she didn’t have to hold on to it. After a moment of internal debate, she slipped a small gun into an ankle holster. The thought of having the weapon in a crowded party with inebriated young people worried her. Not having it terrified her.
A look in the mirror to see if she could pass for a college student. Maybe. Her heart-shaped face, which she’d always hated, would work to her advantage this time. As a patrol cop, her sweet look had earned her verbal scorn from men she arrested, though she could take down suspects before they had time to blink in surprise. But tonight needed to go smoothly. No altercations. She just wanted to find Marcos the dealer and buy a little coke from him for testing. Maybe take his picture when he wasn’t looking, or filch his wallet to see if she could learn a last name. Or, if it worked out, lure him outside to be arrested.
What if the party got huge and out of control like they often did in the fall—when students were reconvening and the weather was still warm enough to be outside? A few years back, a drunken gathering of four-hundred-plus students had spilled into the streets to throw bottles at passing vehicles and turn over a few parked cars. The department had responded with riot gear and tear gas.
A knot of worry tightened in her stomach. Lammers had told her to drop the case. Even if Marcos ended up doing time for manslaughter because of tainted drugs, her boss might still be pissed. Lammers didn’t give a shit about dealers. Unless they were also violent offenders. Marcos might not be violent, but if people were dying because of the coke he was distributing, he was a problem. Evans’ gut told her Logan Grayson’s death had been caused by someone’s greed or negligence, and she owed it to the victim to pursue the truth. Jackson would. He would also do the investigation by the book. She wished he were in town for backup.
Bracing for an argument, she called Lammers’ cell phone, but her boss didn’t pick up. Relieved, Evans left a message explaining her theory about the toxic street drug and the tip about where to find the dealer. “I’ll check out the party in plainclothes and have a backup outside,” she added. Then Evans called dispatch, gave the location of the party, and asked for a patrol unit to hover in the vicinity for the next couple of hours.
At the last minute before leaving, she texted Schak: I’m going to a campus party to look for a coke dealer in the Grayson case. If I find him, will you help me interrogate?
Schak called as she pulled out of her West Eugene duplex.
“What’s the address of the party?”
“Brown house on the corner of Fifteenth Alley and Hilyard. You could have just texted me back.” She couldn’t resist teasing him.
“You’re hilarious. I can read the damn things, but I can barely type on the computer with these giant thumbs.”
“Thanks for getting back to me. I’ve requested a patrol unit, so just hang tight.”
&
nbsp; “Will do.”
The bass beat of the music reached her from three blocks away, where she finally found parking. Darkness had settled in, but the air was still warm—a rare evening in Oregon. She locked her car and strode up Hilyard, barely able to hear her own footsteps. Her shoes were a compromise, attractive flats she could run in.
The big house loomed ahead, with a deck full of students drinking and talking, and even more dancing in the yard below. Evans glanced up the street, hoping to see a patrol car. Not yet, but they would be in the area even if she hadn’t called in the location. This was crazy-outdoor-party season at the university.
Up the steps and smiling at a young man who watched her approach. He held a red plastic cup, which meant a keg was open in the house. “Where’s the brew?” she asked.
“In the kitchen.” He grinned. “Nice shirt.”
“Thanks.” She kept moving. It was too soon to ask questions, and the drug activity would be inside, in a back bedroom.
Evans threaded her way through a thick crowd of young people, most with a plastic cup in hand and many with e-cigarettes. The room reeked of sour beer and sweat, and a cloud of sticky-sweet vapor hung in the air. The kitchen was packed even tighter, and the floor was wet with spilled beer. She wondered who owned the home. Landlords could be fined a thousand dollars if the police had to come out and break up a ruckus.
With a beer finally in hand, she drank half to keep it from spilling, then made her way to a flight of stairs. She struck up a conversation with two shorts-clad men perched at the bottom. Both held red cups and one had a fifth of Jack Daniel’s between his feet. Neither looked old enough to drink. For a few minutes, they chatted about their college majors—she said marketing and they said business—then one of the guys brought up the two football players who wouldn’t be in the starting lineup for the next game.
“Burning out after the first game of the season,” the chubby one whined. “That’s just lame.”
“Dude, he’s dead. Don’t be an ass.” The other guy punched his shoulder, sloshing beer into his lap. They both burst out laughing.
Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 15