“The reporters know about the victim’s military service, and they’re going to milk it for all they can. Anything we should add or detract from that?”
“Not yet. I have to go. Good luck.” Jackson clicked off and hurried down the hall. He would have liked more time to organize his notes and figure out a game plan, but he’d made time for his daughter instead. He was happy with that decision. His relationship with his girlfriend worried him though. He’d call Kera after the meeting.
Schak and Evans were already in the small conference room. The city had finally given them a table, but the chairs were still cheap and uncomfortable.
“Sorry I’m late,” Jackson said, sitting down. “To make my daughter happy, I had to meet my ex-wife’s new boyfriend.” He grimaced, surprised he’d shared that. Kera’s openness must be rubbing off on him.
“Sweet.” Schak grinned. “Next, you’ll all be in counseling together.”
“You’re a good man.” Evans leaned over and clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, what’s for dinner?”
“Chinese food, but let’s get something done before it arrives. Evans, will you take the board?” She had the best writing and the best sense of organization.
Evans jumped up and wrote the victim’s name at the top of the long, erasable board. “I’ll make a column for each of the three people who were with him prior to the attack.” She drew three lines down the board, then put names and tags on the four columns: Rafel Mazari: victim, Sierra Kent: wife, Jake Pittman: friend, Cody Sawyer: friend. Under the victim, she wrote: TOD: 10–11 p.m., and under that, National Guard, Afghanistan.
Jackson turned to Schak. “Did you find the homeless guy?”
“No, but I have a good lead. Two people told me he shows up at the Dining Room every day and waits in line for it to open at three thirty. He was gone by the time I got there today, but I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Is that the free restaurant run by Food for Lane County?” Quince asked.
“Yep. A pain in the ass to the surrounding businesses.” Schak’s voice was matter-of-fact.
Jackson looked up at Evans. “What did you learn from Cody Sawyer?”
“He and Rafel went to grade school in Junction City together and have been friends ever since.” Evans jotted brief notes in the last column. “Sawyer lives with his parents after a period of unemployment, but just started work at Royal Caribbean. He says he was home last night at ten. His mother supports the claim, but she went to sleep and can’t swear he didn’t go back out.”
“Pittman says he was home with his wife, but I haven’t had time to verify it,” Jackson added.
“Mothers and wives,” Schak scoffed. “No alibis at all, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Would your wife lie for you?” Evans asked.
“Depends on how recently I’d pissed her off.” Schak grinned, enjoying his own humor.
Jackson wanted to get back on track. “Sierra says she stopped at another bar, then got home by eleven. I haven’t verified her story yet either. That’s my priority for the morning.” Jackson paused, knowing he was missing something. “After the autopsy, that is.”
“What else did the wife say?” Evans wanted to know.
“She said her husband had been moody and paranoid since he got back from Afghanistan and kept accusing her of cheating.” Jackson checked his notes. “The boy is Mazari’s child from a previous marriage, and his biological mother is dead.”
“Do we know anything about that?” Quince spoke up for the first time.
“Not yet, but it’s worth looking into.” Jackson added dead first wife to his to-do list as Evans wrote it on the board. “Also, Pittman mentioned Mazari was unemployed, and he sounded bitter about it.”
“Do you think it’s a factor?” Evans looked back over her shoulder.
“I don’t know. Let’s brainstorm motive.”
“We have the cheating issue.” Evans made a narrow fifth column on the board. “If the wife had someone on the side, she could have killed Rafel to be free of her husband.”
“Jealousy,” Schak added. “Maybe Mazari was the cheater, and the jilted husband killed him. A slit throat looks like rage or revenge to me.”
“We thought so too,” Jackson said. “Women are known to kill with knives, but not usually the throat. And there was no sign of a struggle.”
“If he was drunk or passed out, he would have been an easy target for anyone.” Schak gestured toward the board. “Add random violence. We can’t rule out the crazies who camp out in the trees on the other side of the canal.”
“Homeless people aren’t usually violent unless they’re provoked,” Jackson argued, but Evans was talking too.
“Mazari was taking OxyContin and Vicodin, among other things.” Evans wrote Drugs in the motive column. “He had prescriptions, but if he got addicted and needed more than his doctor was willing to give him, he may have gone to the street.”
“Or escalated to a stronger drug.” Jackson made a note. “Evans, will you track down his doctor tomorrow, see if he’ll tell us anything?”
“What about money as a motive?” Quince asked. “I’ve been investigating the fraud all day, so it’s on my mind. I see a pattern of unemployment and financial frustration with these guys.” Quince was a floater. He’d worked sex crimes, financial crimes, and violent crimes and had even trained with the bomb squad. Their captain wanted flexibility in the detective rank, in case one unit got overloaded or had too many officers out at the same time.
“How would that lead someone to kill Mazari?” Evans stared at Quince. “We need to see the victim’s bank records.”
Jackson was curious about the incident across the street that morning. “What happened over at the bank?”
Before Quince could respond, a young records clerk knocked on the door and stepped in. “Jade Palace delivered your food.” She had two heavy plastic bags in each hand.
Schak moved to take them. “Thanks.”
“No tip?” Deadpan tone.
They were silent for a moment, then Jackson reached for his wallet.
The clerk burst out laughing. “Kidding. I brought forks and paper plates from the break room. Don’t work too hard.”
They dug into the food, passing it around and eating quickly so they could get back to their discussion. When they had a case like this, it became an obsession, and they worked it like a geek with a Rubik’s cube.
After a few minutes, Quince said, “An older woman, Molly Pershing, had a heart attack as she stood at the bank counter. She’d just learned her account had been cleaned out of seven thousand dollars. The money had been transferred to a charity called Veterans Relief Fund.” He paused and wolfed half a spring roll. “Molly, or someone, had set up an automatic monthly payment of fifty dollars. After the first transfer, the amount was changed to seven grand on Tuesday night, and the money went through Wednesday. I suspect the perp helped her set up the auto payment and learned her bank login and password. He or she then accessed Molly’s account and changed the amount just before the next transfer. I’ve subpoenaed the charity’s banking data, and I have a call in to the web-hosting company, but I’m not optimistic about getting information before Monday.”
“A fake veteran’s charity? That’s low.” Schak shook his head in disgust.
“Until they stole the seven grand, they may not have done anything particularly illegal,” Quince said. “Unless they violated Oregon’s charitable institution laws.”
“I wonder how many other seniors they conned.” Jackson put down his fork and looked at Quince. “You’re looking for the source of the marks?”
“I found it. Someone got a hold of a senior center e-mail list and sent out a solicitation, asking for donations. I found the e-mail on Molly Pershing’s computer.”
“Keep us posted on your case,” Jackson said. “The military angle intrigues me.”
“You think there’s a connection to the homicide?” Quince arched his thick eyebrows.
&n
bsp; “I’m open to the idea. People kill for love, money, or fear.”
Evans tapped the board. “Do we know what Mazari did for a living before he shipped out?”
“He worked for a tire store,” Jackson said.
“Sawyer was a real estate agent who’s now doing telephone service,” Evans added. “What about Pittman? What does he do for a living?”
“He’s a self-employed tree cutter and landscaper whose business is slow.”
“None of these guys seem to possess the computer skills to pull something like that off.” Evans took a sip of her coffee.
“It doesn’t take much,” Jackson argued. “Let’s get back to the homicide.”
“I like the wife for it,” Schak said, dripping sweet-and-sour sauce on his white shirt.
“You just like the wife,” Evans mocked. “She is stunning.”
“I hate the dreads though.” Schak shook his head. “They’re a deal breaker. I couldn’t do her.”
“Dreads?” Quince hadn’t met Sierra.
“Yep. A shame.” Schak wiped at the sauce with a napkin. “Tall, gorgeous blonde with big boobs and dreadlocks.”
“Let’s move on,” Jackson cut in. He was with Schak on this one, but the discussion was off-limits with Evans present. “I dropped off the syringe at the lab, and Trang is writing a subpoena for Sierra’s prints for comparison. The animal clinic where she works uses the same style of syringe, which is distinctly different from the ones passed out by the HIV Alliance.”
“See, it’s the wife.” Schak nodded, mockingly smug.
“And if we get a match?” Evans cut in. “What’s the theory? She drugged him first?”
“It would explain the lack of struggle and the low blood flow.” Jackson pushed his plate aside and glanced at his notes. “For tomorrow, Schak, you’re still looking for Prez and any other parking-lot witnesses. Evans, dig up everything you can on the two friends. Quince, if you have time, get Mazari’s bank records. I’ll verify alibis and bring Sierra in for prints and extensive questioning. I want to know more about the explosives.”
“What are you talking about?” Quince was still not up to date.
“We found dynamite and blasting caps in a closet in the victim’s home. Along with a year’s supply of food, medicine, and whiskey. They were preparing for something.”
“There’s a group here in town that operates on that premise,” Quince responded. “Paranoid hippies who call themselves Territory Defenders.”
“Schak, if you have time, look into it, please.” Jackson thought he’d covered everything. “After this, we’ll head out to the tavern and question everyone. We need to pin down the exact times our four players left the premises.”
“Now you’re talking.” Schak pushed aside his plate. “Ready when you are.”
They took separate cars, with the idea they’d head home afterward. Jackson planned to return to the department for a while and get his notes organized, but he wanted to be home by midnight. He climbed in his car and sat for a moment. Where was home? His bungalow on Harris Street was empty and soon would be occupied by a strange young couple. His daughter was at her mother’s, and his furniture—the bed he would sleep in soon—had been moved into the house he’d grown up in and co-owned with his brother Derrick.
In some ways, the house would be familiar and comfortable, yet without his parents, it would never seem quite like home again. He didn’t understand how Derrick had lived there all those years with all those memories. Jackson looked forward to fixing up the place and getting it sold. Then he and Derrick would both start fresh in their own places, hopefully with a little cushion of cash. Beyond that, he couldn’t form a plan. He might just rent a place for a while and see what happened with Kera and her entourage.
He drove down Oak Street, pleased to see the rain had driven the transients and idle teenagers out of the downtown area, at least for a while. The only people on the sidewalks were couples headed for a night out at a theater or lounge. The city’s core was making a slow, steady comeback, but the transients, druggies, and homeless teenagers still kept a lot of people away. The whole police department wished the city council would let them roust the loiterers the way they did in other cities. But not in sensitive Eugene. In fact, other states like Texas sometimes sent their mentally ill homeless people to Eugene with a one-way bus ticket.
His resentment made him feel like an old curmudgeon. Jackson turned right on West Eleventh and put in his earpiece. He called Kera, but she didn’t answer. Disappointed, he set his cell phone on the seat next to him, in case she saw the missed call and got right back to him.
After a short drive, he reached the tavern and again had to park in the lot next door. As he’d predicted, Pete’s Pad was jam-packed. Every regular who’d caught the evening news had come out to the tavern tonight to gossip and grieve. The noise was overwhelming.
Evans was already in the mix, notepad in hand, questioning two midthirties women. He caught sight of Schak at the counter, talking to a middle-aged man and sipping a beer. Jackson didn’t blame him. They were working late, and Schak wasn’t in uniform. The beer was also a prop to get people to open up. Most serious drinkers didn’t trust nondrinkers.
Jackson headed for the other end of the counter to speak with Mila Kruz, the bartender he’d questioned that morning. He glanced at his notes, then hollered over the back of two men seated at the bar. “Hey, Mila, Detective Jackson again. You mentioned the names Zack and Nikki to me this morning as witnesses. Is either of them here now?”
“Zack’s right here.” She grinned at the gray-haired guy between them.
The man slowly turned. “What can I do for you?”
Missing an eye and part of an ear, the old guy was hard to look at. Jackson introduced himself, raising his voice above the din. “You were here last night between eight and eleven?”
“Every night.”
“Did you know Rafel Mazari or talk to him last night?”
“He was a vet, like me. Damn shame what happened to him.”
“I agree. And I need help finding his killer. Tell me about the argument you heard between Rafel and his wife.” Jackson wished they could go somewhere quiet to talk. But it was raining outside, and the man on the barstool wasn’t going anywhere.
“I was on my way to the john, and I heard Rafel say, ‘I know you’re seeing someone. I’ve smelled him on you.’” Zack shrugged. “Then Sierra yelled, ‘You’re crazy!’ That’s all I know.”
“Did you see Sierra leave?”
“Nope.”
“What about Rafel?”
“Nope. I’m usually right here, minding my own business.”
“But you knew Rafel was a veteran. Had you talked to him recently?”
“We talked one time. He asked me about my eye, and I told him I’d lost it in Vietnam to a spook with a bayonet. He told me about the land mine that took his leg.”
“Did he mention any other explosives?”
“I’m not sure what you mean. But Rafel’s eyes sure lit up when he talked about all the IEDs over there in Afghanistan.”
“Any idea who would kill him?”
Zack’s bloodshot eye glistened with an unshed tear. “Nope.”
Jackson gave up. He caught Mila’s attention. “What about Nikki?”
“Over there. In the red leather jacket.” She pointed to a blonde woman seated at a table with two men.
Jackson made his way through the crowd. This was probably the busiest the tavern had ever been. A laundromat where someone had been murdered would not fare so well.
At Nikki’s table, he introduced himself, then looked at her male companions. “Will you excuse us for a moment?”
One was already leaving. The other squeezed Nikki’s shoulder. “I’ll be back.”
“You’re here about Rafel’s murder, aren’t you?” She was pretty in a used-up kind of way. Too much makeup that didn’t hide the dark circles under her eyes, and dark roots that were overdue for a touch-up.
“Did you talk to Rafel last night?”
“For a while, when he first came in.” Her hands shook as she twisted her cocktail napkin.
“How did he seem? Was he worried or anxious?”
“No more than usual.”
“What was he usually worried about?”
“Not having a job or future. He was kind of sad.” She bit her slick-red lower lip. “But he’d been in Afghanistan, so he was a hero and I respected him.”
“What can you tell me about last night?”
“Not much. I heard him and his wife had an argument, but I missed it. Must have been in the ladies room when it happened.”
Snorting a little coke or meth, Jackson thought. “Did you see Mazari leave?”
“Yeah. I waved at him as he walked by.”
“Was he with someone?”
“No, but he got into a shoving match with a guy at the door.”
That grabbed his attention. “What guy? Do you know his name?”
“No. He’s not a regular.”
“What happened, exactly?”
“The guy was coming in as Rafel was leaving, and they brushed shoulders. I think Rafel was drunk and bumped him. The guy shoved him, and Rafel shoved back. Then Rafel stumbled out the door.”
“Did the guy follow him?”
“I don’t know. Someone started talking to me and I looked away.”
Crap. “Describe the guy in as much detail as you can.”
She touched a shiny red nail to her lip and thought for a moment. “He was medium height and stocky, with a shaved head and a beard.”
“You said shaved, not bald?”
“Yeah, I got that sense, like he didn’t have any hair on his head.”
“Beard color? Eye color?” Jackson took notes, glancing up as he talked. “Anything distinctive like a tattoo?”
She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I was a kind of drunk.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Maybe a leather jacket?” Nikki looked frustrated. “I only saw him from here to the door, and it happened fast. Sorry.”
“Who else might know him? I need a name.”
Liars, Cheaters, & Thieves (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 8