Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery)

by L. J. Sellers

  “There is no dealer. He had a prescription for OxyContin. I think he was taking a lot. He’d been losing weight.”

  “Who’s his doctor?”

  “Someone at the VA clinic. Although he was getting physical therapy from a volunteer at a different clinic.”

  Mazari kept morphing in her mind—from a wounded-veteran victim to a crazy weapons-loving survivalist, now to a pain-riddled, pill-popping mental case. Had his friends known about the explosives? “Tell me about the dynamite.”

  “What?” Sawyer practically sputtered.

  “The explosives Rafel and Sierra kept in their house. What were they for?”

  “They kept explosives?” His expression changed from shock to hurt.

  Evans found it puzzling. “Why does that bother you?”

  “I thought I knew Rafel.”

  “What about Sierra? Would she kill her husband?”

  Another stunned look. “No. What a horrible thing to say.”

  “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?”

  “I don’t know what it would be.”

  Evans gave him a business card. “I’ll probably want to talk to you again, so stay available. In the meantime, call me if you think of anything important.”

  On her way out, Evans stopped to speak briefly with Mrs. Sawyer. She confirmed that her son had come home around ten, but admitted she’d gone to bed shortly after. She tried to convince Evans she would have heard if Cody left later, but Evans only nodded. Sleeping parents were easy to get past. She’d done it a dozen times as a teenager.

  CHAPTER 10

  Friday, November 11, late afternoon

  Sophie Speranza caught sight of her editor coming toward her cubicle and reflexively tensed. He was either going to call her into his office and lay her off or give her an assignment she didn’t want. The newspaper had been stable for a few months—not making money, but not losing it either—and the small group that was left had started to hope they might survive.

  “I’ve got a feature you’re gonna love.” Karl Hoogstad leaned against her cubicle half-wall.

  Yeah, right. She hated the do-gooder stories he forced her to cover occasionally. She much preferred the crime stories and even the court proceedings, which could be bat-shit crazy sometimes. “I’m listening.”

  “An ex–National Guard soldier was found murdered this morning.”

  He had her attention now. “What’s the story?”

  Hoogstad looped his hands in his belt and rocked back on his heels. Short, lumpy, and balding, he was surprisingly confident. He continued. “The soldier was wounded in Afghanistan and received some kind of medal. Now he’s the victim of a heinous crime. I want you to dig into this guy. Talk to everyone who knew him. There’s an emotional and meaty feature here. I can feel it.”

  “I’m all over it.” She couldn’t help but be jacked about the assignment, and it made her feel guilty about her reaction to a tragic death. “How did you get the information so quickly?”

  “A bartender I know gave me a call. The guy was killed in his vehicle in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad last night.”

  “I’m intrigued. Thanks for letting me have this one.” The assignment could have gone to several senior reporters instead.

  “You’ll dig harder. This is your kind of piece.”

  “What’s the guy’s name?”

  “Rafel Mazari.”

  Sophie jotted it down and spelled it back to make sure she had it right. “I’ll get going on it right away and work through the weekend. Let’s beat the TV people with this story.”

  “Get Brian if you need a photographer.” Hoogstad gestured at her cube neighbor. “Where are you going to start?”

  “I’ll call my detective contact and see what I can find out.”

  “Good girl.”

  Fucker. He would have to ruin an otherwise pleasant exchange.

  “I heard that,” the photographer said, popping up over their shared cubicle wall as the editor walked away. “It was so loud inside my brain, I worried you’d directed it at me.”

  “Be glad your mind is that open. I’m sure the sentiment bounced off Hoogstad. You heard the assignment?”

  “I’m stoked. Will they let us get a photo of his corpse?”

  “I doubt it.” She shook her head. “I’m going to keep this tasteful.”

  He laughed. “There’s always a first.”

  “Bite me.”

  Sophie turned her focus back to the domestic-shooting story, impatient to wrap it up and move on. The name Rafel Mazari was familiar to her. Where had she heard it? She wrote a few more sentences, and the information popped into her head. A woman she’d dated years ago had gone to school with Rafel and knew his first wife, who’d died in a freak car accident. That was the only reason Sophie remembered the name. Her girlfriend had talked about the accident for days, and another reporter on the paper had covered it. Sophie hit Save and closed the piece she was writing. It could wait.

  She called Kim Bradley, the woman who’d known Rafel and his wife, and left her a message to call back. Sophie considered contacting Jasmine Parker, her current lover, who worked for the police department’s crime lab, but she resisted. Jasmine’s information was confidential, and her girlfriend resented when Sophie tried to pry out details. But every once in a while, Jaz volunteered a juicy nugget of information. Sophie decided to be patient, find out what she could, and not ask Jasmine unless she got desperate.

  Instead, she called Detective Jackson, a senior investigator in the Violent Crimes Unit who always got the best cases—the bizarre crime stories she liked to cover. Over the last year, they’d developed a half-assed working relationship. Sophie understood and accepted that he hated giving her information, but she almost always had something solid to offer in exchange. Jackson had come to accept that Sophie was a pretty damn good investigator too, and people often told her things they wouldn’t tell a police officer. So now, he often returned her calls, and sometimes gave her exclusive on-the-record comments.

  Jackson didn’t answer—no surprise—so she left a message: “Hey, it’s Sophie. I’ve been assigned to write a profile about Rafel Mazari’s life, and I’d love to know more about his murder. Anything you’re willing to share would be helpful, and of course, if I find anything interesting, I’ll pass it along. Be in touch.” He might not call her until he needed something, like a news-archive search, but she’d keep trying. Their jobs were similar, but their goals were different. He wanted to keep the scoop all to himself, and she wanted to share it with the world.

  She ran Rafel Mazari’s name through the newspaper’s digital archive. Two stories came up. One was about his unit returning from Afghanistan, and the other was a short piece about his ex-wife’s accident, which had happened on Prairie Road, just south of Junction City. Sophie studied the photo—a pretty blonde woman who looked fresh out of high school—then scanned the story:

  Friday morning, Joanna Mazari’s life was as good as it gets. Married to her high school sweetheart, their son had started kindergarten and Joanna had landed a terrific job with an advertising agency.

  But on her way to work, tragedy struck in the form of a wasp. Highly allergic, Mazari carried an EpiPen with her everywhere, according to her sister, Laura McKinsey. That morning when the yellow jacket in her car stung her in the upper arm, Mazari’s body reacted instantly, swelling and cutting off her air supply.

  Mazari managed to pull off Prairie Road, not far from her Junction City home, and dial 911. The paramedics arrived too late and found her dead of anaphylactic shock. They also found an epinephrine injector on the floor of her car.

  Joanna Mazari is survived by her husband, Rafel Mazari, 28, a sergeant in the Oregon National Guard; her son, Adam Mazari, 5; her sister, Laura McKinsey; and her parents, Chester and Sue McKinsey of Seattle, Washington.

  A bizarre story and not well written, Sophie thought, and it wouldn’t add much to Rafel’s feature, except to expand the idea that he’d experie
nced more than his share of grief and trauma in his short lifetime. Sophie found Rafel on Facebook, but his page was sparse, like someone who’d signed up, then forgot about it. He’d listed very little information about himself, except for his National Guard service and his favorite music—Coldplay and Nickelback—and he’d posted only once a week or so, usually a political comment about government excess. Rafel had also uploaded a collection of photos, most of his second wife, Sierra Kent. Gorgeous woman, Sophie noted, but the dreadlocks were a bit much. Sophie clicked through and found Sierra’s Facebook page, which held more information. Sierra posted regularly about an interesting mix of subjects: caring for animals, nutrition, holistic health, and preparing for the end of civilization when all the resources ran out and everyone had to fend for themselves. A bit paranoid, Sophie thought, but maybe with good reason.

  Before she had a chance to google Mazari’s late wife, her phone rang. It was Kim Bradley, the woman she’d dated before falling half-assed in love with a male college professor. That disastrous relationship had taught Sophie to stay away from men. They weren’t worth the great sex.

  “Hey, Sophie,” Kim said, “I was surprised to hear you’re still at the paper. But I’m glad.”

  “And you’re still not reading the paper, or you would have seen my byline,” Sophie teased.

  “Busted.” Kim laughed. “So why are you asking about Rafel and Joanna?”

  “Rafel was murdered last night, and I’m working on a feature story about him.”

  “Oh my god. That’s awful. Do you know who killed him?”

  “Not yet. I’m looking for background stuff, people who knew him well and can give me some insight into who he was.”

  “If you want to hear the good stuff, talk to Rafel’s sister, Sasha. If you want the dirt, talk to Joanna’s sister, Laura. She thinks Rafel killed Joanna for cheating on him.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Jackson checked his watch: 5:05. He had just enough time to stop at the Sixth Street Grill and fulfill his obligation to meet his ex-wife’s new boyfriend, then slip out before his task force meeting at six. They’d invited him and Katie to dinner weeks ago, and he’d reluctantly agreed. In theory, he wanted to be a reasonable, politically correct divorced parent. In reality, he hated the idea. After scheduling the dinner, his house buyers had closed their loan two weeks early and offered him cash to let them move in right away. He’d obliged by stepping up his moving plans, only remembering his dinner engagement after it was too late. This would work out for the best, he decided. He’d get his social obligation out of the way without having to sit down for a meal with a woman he no longer cared about and a man he didn’t want to know.

  He took the expressway toward Eugene, popped in his earpiece, and hit speed dial #1.

  “Hey, Dad. How’s the case going?”

  “It’s interesting, but still unsolved. How’s the moving?”

  “We finished around four, I gave the movers their check, and now we’re getting ready to meet everyone for dinner.”

  “What do you mean we?”

  “Me and Harlan. He’s coming to dinner. It’s only fair, since he helped us move all day.”

  “You and Harlan are at the new house by yourselves?” Had Katie taken a shower with the boy in the house? Jackson’s heart missed a beat.

  “Yeesss.” She drew out the word in exaggeration. “We’ve been setting up the beds so we’d have somewhere to sleep tonight.” She burst out in a nervous giggle. “I mean you and I. Harlan’s going home after dinner.”

  Had he not been driving, Jackson would have closed his eyes in horror. “Today was an exception, but as a general rule, I don’t want Harlan in the house when I’m not there.”

  “Got it. Are you coming to dinner?”

  Jackson avoided a direct answer. “I’m headed to the restaurant now.”

  “Thank you. I’ll see you soon.”

  Katie clicked off before he could offer to pick her up rather than have her ride with Harlan, a sixteen-year-old boy, the riskiest of all drivers. Crap. You can’t have it both ways, a voice in his head chided. You can’t treat her like an adult when it’s convenient, then act like she’s still a little girl when you’re worried. Why not? he countered. It was a time-honored parental tradition.

  Jackson found a parking spot in the tiny lot behind the restaurant. Renee had likely chosen the venue because it was a few blocks from police-department headquarters. She also knew it was one of his favorites, and they’d eaten a few meals together here during their sixteen-year marriage. He hurried inside, glad it had stopped raining but worried about Katie and Harlan driving in the dark.

  A few minutes early, he stepped into the lounge and spotted Renee and her date. A wave of apprehension rolled over him, like a body block from an invisible linebacker. If Renee was drinking again, he wasn’t staying. From a distance, he sized up Ivan Anderson: older, with salt-and-pepper hair and a thick body. No gut though. A nice face, Jackson had to admit, and a nice dresser too. The turtleneck was a little much, but what did he care? Renee looked the same as the last time he’d seen her. Dark curly hair, cut short, but skinnier than she’d ever been during their marriage. And still pretty, despite years of alcohol abuse—if you didn’t look too closely.

  He strode over to their high-topped cocktail table and tried to smile sincerely. But the glass of wine in front of Renee made him wince.

  “Don’t worry. It’s nonalcoholic,” she said, reading him.

  Jackson was only semirelieved. Beverages that looked and tasted like alcohol seemed like a bad idea for an alcoholic. Renee made introductions and Jackson shook Anderson’s hand, pleased the man had a good grip.

  “Should we go into the restaurant?” Renee asked. “Katie and Harlan will be here soon.”

  “Sure.” He would wait until the last minute to announce he wasn’t staying.

  Once they were seated in the other half of the establishment, they chatted about Katie for a minute. But Jackson had little time and soon looked at Anderson. “What do you do for a living?”

  “I’m an investment banker and stockbroker.”

  So the guy had money. Jackson hated him a little. “Sounds like a secure position.”

  “I’ve been with the company for six years.” Anderson smiled. “I was in Denver before that. After my wife died, I moved out here to be close to my daughter.”

  Knowing the man had a child he was close to gave Jackson a little peace of mind. “How old is your daughter?”

  “Twenty-four. She graduated from the University of Oregon last year and got a job with KRSL news. Dakota Anderson. She’s on at eleven. Maybe you’ve seen her.”

  “I think I have.” Jackson hadn’t, but he would now.

  Katie and Harlan walked up, and Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. His daughter was safe and he could leave soon. He snuck a peek at this watch. Katie noticed but didn’t say anything.

  Renee asked about the move, and his daughter filled in the details.

  “Your dad wasn’t with you?” Renee scowled.

  “I picked up a homicide case this morning.” Jackson tried to sound casual, but he felt defensive.

  “Your work must be fascinating, yet emotionally challenging,” Anderson commented.

  “That’s exactly right.” Jackson gave him points for schmooze, but he had to get out of there. “I have a task force meeting at six, so I have to run.”

  “That’s typical,” Renee said, rolling her eyes.

  And you’ll be drinking again in three weeks, Jackson thought. Typical.

  He shook Anderson’s hand, then decided he might as well be gracious and shook Harlan’s too. “Thanks for your help today.” He kissed Katie’s cheek. “Have a good time at your mother’s.”

  It was all he could do not to run from the restaurant.

  Jackson drove the five blocks to city hall, parked in the lot underneath the white-brick building, and ordered Chinese food for his team. At least he wouldn’t be eating in his car, which he often
did while driving to interview witnesses or get search warrants signed. He looked forward to the day he could submit the paperwork online, get a judge’s electronic signature, print it, and go.

  Upstairs, department activity was winding down as the day-shift patrol officers filed their reports and the property-crimes and vice detectives left for the day. He ran into Michael Quince as he entered the area where the violent-crimes detectives had their desks crammed together in a too-cozy-for-comfort way. The wooden slats over the outside of the windows gave the room an eerie quality. He couldn’t wait for the move to the new building.

  “Hey, Quince. Glad you could make the meeting.”

  “Why not? I’ve had dinner at home every night this week. My wife was starting to get suspicious.”

  Jackson laughed. “I have to check my voice mail, then I’ll meet you in the conference room. I ordered food.”

  At his desk, he sat long enough to see if a witness in a domestic-shooting case had called on his office line. She hadn’t. No surprise. The sister had failed to report the abuse for years.

  He checked his cell phone too and found a message from Sophie Speranza, asking for details about the homicide. How the hell did she know about it already? He suspected Sophie had a source in the department that gave her just enough information to send her in the right direction. But then, Eugene only had 140,000 people inside its borders, so word spread quickly among the key players.

  He also had a message from Jackie Loomis, the department’s new spokesperson, asking for a statement about the homicide. If Sophie already knew, then the TV stations would cover the story on their late-night news. Jackson called Loomis back and she picked up.

  “Thanks for getting back to me. Media people are ringing my phone nonstop. What can I tell them?” She sounded frazzled, and he didn’t envy her job.

  “Rafel Mazari was found dead in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad this morning. We believe he was killed sometime late last night, but the cause of death has not been officially determined. We’re looking for witnesses, and you can give them my desk number.”