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

by L. J. Sellers

  After a quick breakfast, he drove to the parking lot at Pete’s Pad around eight and had the place to himself. He’d texted his team an hour ago and expected Schak and Evans to show up any minute. Evans was usually the first to arrive, but if she’d spent the night with Stricklyn, she might take her time getting down here. Jackson was glad she was dating someone suited to her. He’d told her more than once she’d never be happy with a civilian. He was also a little bothered—and a little relieved—that her attention was elsewhere. He chose not to examine those feelings. In the big picture, they weren’t important.

  While he waited, his phone rang. It was Officer Rice, the department sketch artist. “Hey, Jackson. Sorry for the delay in getting back to you. I’m in Astoria for the weekend and just saw your message this morning.”

  “And I’m sorry to bother you on your time off. When are you back to work?”

  “Tuesday morning.”

  Crap. Jackson wanted to ask her to come back early from the coast, but he knew it wasn’t reasonable. Nikki might not even be willing to come in today. “Can we set up a time for you to work with my witness?”

  “How about ten? That’ll give me a couple of hours to catch up.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  Jackson hung up and opened his car door. The crisp, cold air and blue sky were a nice change after three days of gray drizzle. He changed into the knee-high fishing boots he’d only had on once last summer, when he’d fished with Schak at Triangle Lake. An excellent day.

  Schak pulled in moments later and brought him a steaming cup of Fastlane dark brew.

  “Thanks. You know I was joking about the coffee yesterday.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Jackson took a sip. “Good stuff. Shall we do this?”

  “I’m as ready as I get.”

  They used yellow tape to mark the area along the canal that was directly accessible from the parking lot after crossing the grassy area. The assailant could have walked along the canal in either direction, but the bank was thick with shrubs and small evergreens and not easy to navigate. Besides, Prez had heard the splash, so the killer couldn’t have gone far to get rid of the weapon. They would focus on the area just below where the homeless camp had been.

  Evans rushed up moments later, looking bright-eyed and sexy in jeans, a snug sweater, and waders.

  “Sorry I’m late. Breakfast took too long.”

  Jackson bit back a teasing but inappropriate comment, while Schak said, “Don’t worry, we waited so you could be the first one in the water.”

  “Thanks.” She gave him a friendly punch on the arm and rolled up her sleeves. “I brought everyone elbow-length gloves.” Evans passed out bright-yellow rubber gloves, then headed down the short, steep embankment. Jackson followed, pushing aside vegetation and hoping they’d get lucky.

  At that particular bend in its journey through Eugene, the canal was wide and shallow but a little murky from yesterday’s rain. They spread out ten feet apart on the bank and started with a visual search from there.

  “Did the crime techs already search the canal?” Schak asked.

  “I didn’t ask Parker to, and she was on the scene by herself.” Jackson realized that had been a mistake. The patrol cops had searched the trash cans behind the tavern and those of its neighboring businesses, which had seemed sufficient at the time.

  “No worries,” Evans said. “Now we have a good reason to.” She stepped into the water, bent over, and began combing through the silt, moss, and rocks with her gloved hands. The water soaked the edges of her blue sweater sleeves.

  Jackson and Schak both plunged forward, startling a family of ducks.

  “Watch out,” Schak called, flipping water at the fleeing fowl.

  Jackson loved his good-natured team. He’d worked with some crusty old farts during his first five years in the detective unit, and they would have complained bitterly about wading in the canal on a cold Sunday morning.

  “I’ll be damned,” Evans called out. She was directly below the easiest route from the top of the embankment and only a few feet into the canal. She held up a long silver item.

  “What is it?” Jackson climbed out of the water and started toward her along the edge.

  “A scalpel.”

  “Like a surgeon or veterinarian would use.” Jackson reached for it as Evans held it out.

  “The killer probably intended to toss the syringe in the canal too, but accidentally dropped it instead,” Evans speculated. “Maybe they couldn’t find it in the dark, so they left it, hoping it would look like junkie trash.”

  “I wonder if there’s any chance of getting a print from this scalpel.”

  “It might surprise us.” Evans reached for an evidence bag. “This water may be too cold to break down body oil in only a few days.”

  “Good work, Evans.”

  She scoffed. “I got lucky. They didn’t throw it far.”

  Schak made his way over, stepping through some low-growing, willowlike branches. “What now?”

  “Evans will check the evidence into the lab, while you and I find Jake Pittman.” Jackson started up the embankment, and the others followed. When they were back on the flat, grassy strip, Jackson said, “Pittman’s reason for lying about that night could be minor, but we still need to know. If Sierra’s the killer, she may not have acted alone.”

  “What do you mean?” Evans cocked her head.

  “What if Sierra was cheating with Pittman? What if they colluded to kill Mazari?”

  Schak gave him a look. “I know Pittman lied, but what makes you think this is more than a spouse-on-spouse homicide?”

  “The money,” Jackson said. “Mazari’s recent cash deposits look suspiciously like the donations Quince said were made to the phony veterans’ charity. We’ll know more when we get the charity’s bank records. And Pittman’s wife recognized the name of the charity. What if the two ex-military guys were operating the scam together? What if this murder is about the seven grand?”

  “Interesting,” Evans said. “You think Sierra was involved with Pittman and knew about the theft?”

  “It’s just a theory. But if she had a lover, we need to figure out who he is.”

  “Let’s go ask Pittman.” Schak moved toward his car.

  Jackson did the same. “We’ll check his house first then we’ll start calling the people he knows.”

  “The lab is a quick stop,” Evans said. “What else can I do?”

  “Stop by the Animal Care Clinic and see if you can interview Sierra’s boss. Mazari seemed to think she was sleeping with him. After that, take the afternoon off. I plan to as soon as we wrap this up.” Jackson smiled to himself, remembering his plans with Kera.

  Pittman’s home in Northeast Eugene was a small L-shaped duplex on the corner of Kentwood and Kings, with his unit on the Kentwood side. Jackson parked on the street and, out of habit, checked his cell phone for the time: 9:45 a.m. Still early. In the driveway was an older-model truck with beat-up pumpkin-colored paint. Good, Pittman was home. The yard on the Kentwood side was thick with ornamental shrubs, and the lawn was tidy. Around the corner, the other half of the duplex had a neglected look. Jackson remembered Pittman was a landscaper.

  He climbed out of his cruiser to stretch his legs while he waited for Schak. The comforting smell of sizzling bacon drifted in from somewhere, and his stomach growled. As he walked toward the truck to note the make and license plate, a cat skittered across the driveway and a cold wind cut through his suede jacket. Jackson took down the information and got back in his vehicle to wait. No point in making Pittman nervous before they confronted him.

  Schak arrived five minutes later and parked behind him. In unison, they climbed out of their cars and moved up the driveway, the only path to the front door. Unconsciously, Jackson touched his Sig Sauer under his jacket, then pushed the fabric behind the weapon, making it visible and accessible.

  With Schak a step behind him, Jackson gave the metal door three brisk
knocks. He heard no sound and sensed no movement in response. He pounded again.

  The house stayed quiet. A dim light glowed through the opening between the drapes on the front window.

  “I’m going to look in,” he said softly.

  Schak moved out of his way, and Jackson stepped down the sidewalk to the window. He leaned over the low shrub to peer in. The living room, nearly empty except for a couch and a TV, was unoccupied.

  “He’s not in the front room.”

  Jackson stepped back to the door and pounded again. Pittman’s vehicle was here, so he wanted to believe the man was too. But he could have left with someone or gone out for a run, Jackson’s analytical side countered.

  He took his notepad from his bag, found Pittman’s phone number, and called it. After five rings, it went to voice mail: “This is Jake. Leave me a message.”

  He didn’t hear it ring in the house, but Jackson’s instinct told him Pittman was home. On impulse, he tried the doorknob, and the door swung open a few inches. Now what? What was their legal position here? Pittman was wanted for questioning in a murder.

  He looked at Schak. His partner nodded.

  Jackson pushed open the door fully and called out, “Eugene Police.”

  No response. With the front door wide open, they could see the living room was empty and the couch covers were askew. Low light came from the kitchen.

  “Pittman, we know you’re in there. It’s Detectives Jackson and Schakowski. We just want to ask a few questions.”

  The house stayed quiet. He thought about Pittman’s military background, and a vivid image of Mazari’s slit throat flashed in Jackson’s mind. He said softly to Schak, “Pittman is ex-military and likely has a weapon. If he’s home, he’s either hiding or sleeping. This could get sticky.”

  “Want me to call for backup?”

  Jackson wasn’t sure. Pittman had never made any kind of threat, and they had a primary suspect in custody. “It’s your call. I just want to be prepared to take him down if he gets aggressive.”

  “I’m good. Let’s do this.”

  They drew their weapons and moved quickly across the small, dark living room. To the right, the space opened into a short hallway with two doors. Ahead lay a small dining area, with baskets of laundry on the floor and no table they could see. To the left was a long, narrow kitchen.

  Jackson flipped a light switch near the opening. In the dull-yellow glow of the overhead bulb, they saw the rest of the dining room. Behind the laundry baskets lay a body. Jake Pittman was face up on the floor, his throat slit open in an ugly gash.

  CHAPTER 19

  “Holy shit.” Schak looked stunned.

  “He’s been dead for a while.” Jackson knew congealed blood even from a few feet away. “Goddammit! We should have come out here last night.”

  “I wish we had, but we didn’t have any reason to expect this.”

  Jackson was too upset with himself to respond. What time had this happened? Could they have prevented it by bringing Jake Pittman in to the department?

  “We have to secure the building,” Schak said. He glanced at the hallway, where an attacker might hide.

  Jackson shoved aside his regrets, and they both moved into the parallel hallway, weapons drawn. Schak went to the right, and Jackson pushed open a door to the left. The bedroom was as spare as the rest of the house, with only a bed and a dresser. Pittman’s wife must have taken most of the furniture when she left him. The mattress was pulled half off the box spring, and everything from the closet had been yanked out, leaving clothing, shoes, sports equipment, and photos scattered on the floor. Jackson checked the back of the closet, then retreated to the hall, where he noticed the linen cabinet had been ransacked too, leaving a pile of towels on the floor.

  Schak came out of a second bedroom. “All clear.”

  “The assailant was searching for something,” Jackson said.

  They checked the attached single-car garage, which held only landscaping tools and no place for a killer to hide. Reentering through the kitchen, they stopped by the body in the half-empty dining area.

  Jackson picked up his carryall, dug out paper booties, and handed Schak a pair. It was a little late, but security came first. As they put them on, Schak said, “I’ve been called out to a lot of dead bodies, but this is the first time I found one.”

  “Me too.” Jackson reached for his phone. “I have to call Lammers.”

  His sergeant picked up after two rings. “This must be critical, Jackson.”

  “We have another homicide. Jake Pittman, close friend of Rafel Mazari, who was murdered on Thursday. Pittman’s throat is also slit.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. What the hell were these guys into?”

  “Maybe fraud. A love triangle gone wrong. We’ll figure it out.”

  “What do you need from me?”

  “I need Evans out here now and Quince full-time on this case.” He gave her the address and cross street. “Will you also check the jail and see if Sierra Kent is still in custody?”

  “You’ve got it. Do you want the command unit sent out?”

  The big white RV would give them a place to interview witnesses and suspects and make video recordings on the scene—but he’d be lucky to find a witness. “Thanks, but I don’t think it’ll help.”

  “I’ll send out the ME and the techs. Keep me posted.”

  Jackson hung up, took a deep breath, and forced his brain into crime-scene mode. He pulled out two sets of gloves and both cameras. They needed to photograph the floor before walking on it again. He and Schak donned the protective gear, and Jackson handed his partner a camera.

  “Let’s look for footprints leading out or any drops of blood. Photograph and mark everything.” Schak knew the drill, but they both usually verbalized their process to keep from skipping steps. Jackson regretted touching the doorknob with his bare hand on the way in.

  “The door showed no sign of forced entry,” Schak said. “He probably knew his attacker and let him in.”

  “Likely.” Booties on his feet, Jackson stepped toward the body and squatted. The victim wore the same jeans and sweatshirt he’d had on Friday afternoon when Jackson questioned him. Had he not been home Friday night? Or had he been too busy to change clothes?

  The wound in Pittman’s neck was wider and more jagged than Mazari’s had been, but there was very little blood. The killer had cut his throat after he was dead. Was it meant as a mutilation? Or a distraction? Pittman also had reddish-purple abrasions on his right eye and cheek, as if someone had punched him a few times first. But what had caused his death?

  Jackson gently lifted the victim’s hands, one at a time. They were stiff with rigor mortis. He’d been dead at least twelve hours, but less than thirty. A cracked nail on Pittman’s left index finger held a tiny shred of fabric. Had Pittman grabbed his attacker by the shirt? Jackson dug out tweezers and a two-inch evidence bag, then carefully transferred the fabric. The victim’s right hand had two swollen knuckles.

  “I think they were in a fistfight,” he said loud enough for Schak to hear.

  “Not surprised.” Schak looked up from the coffee-stained beige carpet. “We’ll need the UV light and luminol to find blood in this filthy mess.”

  Jackson assumed Parker would have the tools in her van. He slipped his gloved hands into the victim’s front jeans pockets, hoping to find a cell phone, even though it hadn’t rung when he’d called minutes ago. Two quarters came out of one pocket, and a small receipt was in the other. The paper had been damp at one point and was smudged, but it looked like Pittman had purchased beer at a nearby convenience store.

  Where the hell was his cell phone? Mazari’s killer had taken his cell phone, and now it looked like Pittman’s killer had taken his. To destroy the evidence of their calls to each other? They would get the records eventually. Or did the phones have links to the phony charity? One of his team would visit Judge Cranston tomorrow with subpoenas for both phones. Finding Sierra’s prints so
early had been a huge breakthrough, but it had also derailed certain elements of the investigation that might have been completed already. Jackson would have kicked himself in the ass were it physically possible. Then he remembered it was the weekend, and getting paperwork was nearly impossible, which had hampered their investigation. And because of budget cuts, he was working with a small team that could only do so much.

  Tires squealed in the street. The first patrol unit had arrived. Or maybe it was Evans. If she drove like she did everything else, then it was likely her. Jackson wasn’t ready for her level of energy on the scene just yet. Something quiet yet disturbing was nagging at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t connect with it. He needed time to think.

  “Schak, if that’s Evans, send her out to question the neighbors about what they saw and heard last night. Maybe we’ll get lucky and get a vehicle description.”

  The arrival was a patrol officer who went right to work securing the perimeter of the house. Jackson rolled up Jake’s body at the hip and found his wallet lying under him. Had the killer removed it from his pocket? He flipped it open, noting there was no blood on it. The worn leather held a woman’s photo, a car insurance card, and voter registration, but his driver’s license was missing, and so were his bank cards. Crap! Despite the search the killer had conducted, this clearly wasn’t a random robbery. But why take his ID and credit cards? What the hell was going on?

  Jackson shifted closer to the victim’s upper body and stared at the wound. Not as long as the gash in Mazari’s throat and not as deep. And clearly postmortem. The man’s hazel eyes were open and stared back at him. An unexpected jolt of angst stabbed Jackson’s gut. Another young life gone. Could he have prevented this?

  Jackson forced himself to focus. He had to stay sharp, make note of everything, and find the killer, or killers, before anyone else ended up dead. He was in a unique position to be the first one on the scene. Usually by the time he arrived, witnesses and patrol cops had walked all over the area and often destroyed evidence. His gaze shifted to the corpse’s scalp, where blood had dried on his ear. With two gloved fingers, he eased Pittman’s head to the right and saw the abrasion just above and behind his ear. Something sharp had penetrated the skull, leaving a tiny portion of his brain exposed.