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

  Books by L.J. Sellers

  The Detective Jackson Series

  The Sex Club

  Secrets to Die For

  Thrilled to Death

  Passions of the Dead

  Dying for Justice

  Liars, Cheaters & Thieves

  Rules of Crime

  ~~

  The Suicide Effect

  The Baby Thief

  The Gauntlet Assassin

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2011 L.J. Sellers

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612186214

  ISBN-10: 1612186211

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012943269

  Cast of Characters

  Wade Jackson: veteran detective/violent crimes unit

  Kera Kollmorgan: Jackson’s girlfriend/nurse

  Katie Jackson: Jackson’s daughter

  Rob Schakowski (Schak): detective/task force member

  Lara Evans: detective/task force member

  Michael Quince: detective/task force member

  Denise Lammers: Jackson’s supervisor/sergeant

  Sophie Speranza: newspaper reporter

  Rich Gunderson: medical examiner/attends crime scenes

  Jasmine Parker: evidence technician

  Joe Berloni: evidence technician

  Rudolph Konrad: pathologist/performs autopsies

  Victor Slonecker: district attorney

  Jim Trang: assistant district attorney

  Molly Pershing: fraud victim

  Prez: homeless man/witness

  Rafel Mazari: military veteran/homicide victim

  Sierra Kent: Rafel’s wife/animal clinic assistant

  Adam Mazari: Rafel’s son

  Sasha Altman: Rafel’s sister

  Zain Mazari: Rafel’s father

  Joanna Mazari: Rafel’s ex-wife/Adam’s mother

  Laura McKinsey: Joanna’s sister

  Jake Pittman: Rafel’s best friend/military veteran

  Hailey Pittman: Jake’s ex-wife

  Cody Sawyer: Rafel and Jakes’ friend

  Matthew Dolan: Jake’s ex-boss

  Sheila Dolan: Matthew’s wife

  Dr. Davidson: Sierra’s boss/veterinarian

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  Thursday, November 10, 10:17 p.m.

  Prez woke with his face in a puddle of vomit. He remembered getting sick, but not much else of the afternoon. Darkness engulfed him, and he shivered against the damp, frigid air. He never got used to the cold, no matter how much time he spent outside or how many layers he wore.

  A whistling noise caught his attention and he sat up. From his cardboard tent, he peered across the grassy strip that separated the little canal from the tavern’s parking lot. A figure in dark clothing moved quickly toward the vehicle in the corner. He’d seen the Jeep parked there many times before, but this time the driver was inside, hunched over the steering wheel. By the size, Prez assumed it was a man, but the distance and darkness made it impossible to tell if the tall person approaching was a man or a woman. Prez had a fleeting moment of disappointment. If they’d both been women, he would have hustled over and hit them up for money. But two men in a tavern parking lot could be trouble.

  The intruder stopped whistling and tapped on the driver’s-side glass. In the quiet, Prez heard the hum of an electric window, then the muffled sound of a brief conversation. The person on foot leaned in until their faces were next to each other, and Prez realized they were probably lovers. His body relaxed. A couple was not likely to harass him. He looked around for the pint of Jim Beam he’d bought earlier, wanting to wash the sour taste from his mouth. He found the bottle wrapped in a dirty blanket, swallowed one of the last mouthfuls, and looked back at the couple in the parking lot.

  The man in the Jeep laid his head back, and the woman reached in her pocket for something. Maybe they weren’t a couple, Prez thought. More likely a drug buy. It only mattered because he considered himself an astute observer of human interaction—when he was sober. He’d taken sociology during his one year of college, and much of it had stuck with him, although it hadn’t prevented him from derailing his own life through a series of bad decisions. And a drinking problem he’d come to accept.

  The woman gripped something in her hand and stared at the relaxed man for a long moment. She whispered something, a soft hiss in the night, then plunged a blade into the man’s throat and, in one smooth motion, slashed it open. The move was so violent, so unexpected, Prez jerked back under his cardboard cover. What the hell? Maybe it wasn’t a woman.

  Footsteps pounded toward the canal, and Prez held his breath, hoping the attacker wouldn’t look over at his little camp in the brush. He prayed that, in the dark and in a rush, the attacker wouldn’t see him. He took the last swallow of Jim Beam and closed his eyes. When he opened them, he didn’t see the person. Maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. His mind sometimes played tricks on him.

  Prez heard a tiny splash as something hit the water; then the footsteps retreated. After a moment, he leaned out and watched the figure hurry across the parking lot toward West Eleventh Avenue. He glanced at the Jeep. The man was not moving, and blood flowed from his throat. Prez decided it was time to find a new camp. He didn’t want to be here when the cops came.

  Friday, November 11, 11:05 a.m.

  Molly Pershing’s mouth fell open, and she stared at the bank teller in disbelief. “What do you mean my account is below the limit?”

  The young woman glanced at her computer screen. “You made an automatic transfer to the Veterans Relief Fund in the amount of seven thousand, leaving only three hundred in the account. So we charged you the monthly maintenance fee because your account fell below the minimum.”

  “That’s a huge mistake!” Molly raised her voice, something she rarely did, and her heart pounded erratically. “I didn’t give them all of my money. Who would do that?”

  “You set up a monthly payment online last month,” the teller insisted, even though her pudgy young face was starting to show alarm. “Then it looks like you increased the amount Tuesday evening before the scheduled payment went through on Wednesday.”

  “No!” Molly’s legs shook, and she gripped the
counter. “I mean, I set up the donation, but it was for fifty dollars.” She’d only been using a computer for a few months, and online banking had seemed like such a convenience. Her friends had warned her it wasn’t safe. Why hadn’t she listened?

  “Did you give someone access to your account?”

  “No.” A sharp pain tore across her chest. Molly gulped in air. “My daughter has access, but she’s been on the account for years.” Every breath hurt, and it took too long to get the words out. “She didn’t do this, but I think I know who did.”

  “Who?”

  Molly couldn’t remember his name. Her brain felt foggy, and she thought she might lose her balance. Bolts of shock ripped down her left arm, and she lost her grip on the counter.

  “Mrs. Pershing!”

  The room spun, and her pain-ravaged heart struggled to keep beating. Molly opened her mouth, but nothing came out. The beating stopped; her knees buckled. As she hit the floor, her last thought was, But he seemed so nice.

  CHAPTER 2

  Early Friday morning

  “Swing your end wide, then tilt it.” Detective Wade Jackson called out instructions to the young man carrying the other end of the couch.

  Harlan looked confused, then nodded and shuffled left. “Of course. I’ve only helped one other person move, and he didn’t have a couch.” The boy grinned, a wide, full-toothed expression meant to charm. “I like to help people. I volunteer at Food for Lane County too, but I suppose you knew that.”

  Harlan kept talking, but Jackson tuned him out. The sixteen-year-old was Katie’s friend—Jackson couldn’t bring himself to say boyfriend—and the kid was helping them move. Harlan was clean-cut, got good grades, and didn’t do drugs. What else could a father want for his fifteen-year-old daughter? Yet Jackson couldn’t stand him. More important, didn’t trust him. He couldn’t decide if he was just being an overprotective father or if his cop instinct had picked up that the boy was hiding something. Jackson smiled to be polite. Neither Harlan nor Katie knew how he really felt.

  They lugged the couch out through the doorway and nearly collided with the two professional movers he’d hired. Semiprofessional, Jackson corrected. He’d found them on Craigslist and had rented his own U-Haul, saving more than half the cost of a moving company. The goal was to get everything into the new house today and unpacked over the weekend so Monday he could go back to work feeling settled and normal. As if selling his home of thirteen years and moving back into the house where he’d grown up was just another transition in his hectic life.

  They carried the couch up the loading ramp without mishap, set it down, and headed back into the house.

  “Can I start carrying my clothes out?” His daughter’s voice echoed in the nearly empty living room.

  “Sure.” They’d started early and had already loaded most of the big stuff. “We’re making good time.”

  Again, Jackson was taken aback by Katie’s appearance. In the last eight months, she’d grown taller and thinner and had started wearing her curly hair pulled back in a sleek style. His round-faced, carefree little girl had morphed into a confident teenager who resembled his ex-wife—and sometimes looked at him with the same disapproval. Too many changes were happening all at once, and it was like walking on shifting ground. Sometimes he had flashes of dread that a major upheaval was coming in his life, but he had no idea what.

  He pushed away the thought and focused on carrying boxes from the kitchen. Getting out of this house and closing the mortgage that linked him to his ex-wife was a welcome break. Although moving in with his brother was not ideal, it was a great temporary landing place. Derrick had recently started driving a long-haul truck and was only home four or five days a month, so he’d offered his house to Jackson and Katie when theirs sold.

  After ten minutes of making trips to the U-Haul, he realized Katie had disappeared. Worried, Jackson found her in her bedroom, staring out the window.

  “I’ll miss our dinners on the back deck,” she said, turning to him with tears in her eyes.

  Jackson pulled her in for a tight hug, and she didn’t resist. “We’ll have backyard dinners at the new house.” He leaned back so he could see her face. “We’re family, sweetheart. Whenever we’re together, we’re home.”

  “You’re right. I’m just being silly.” Katie wiped her eyes, and he noticed she was wearing mascara, a new development. “I’m kind of excited about the change,” she added. “My new bedroom is bigger.” She smiled, picked up a stuffed panda that had been left on the floor, and placed it on the windowsill. “I’m leaving this for the little girl who’s moving in here.”

  Jackson’s throat closed, and he couldn’t respond. Katie was saying good-bye to so much more than a familiar bedroom.

  His cell phone rang and Jackson braced himself. A midmorning call on his day off could not be good. He pulled the phone from his pocket and recognized the familiar number. He looked over at his daughter.

  Katie scrunched up her freckled face. “It’s work, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll keep things moving here.” His daughter craved responsibility the way her mother craved alcohol. And yes, those things were connected.

  The phone rang twice more. “Thanks, Katie. I’m sorry.” Jackson stepped into the hallway as he answered.

  “It’s Sergeant Lammers. I know you’re moving today, but I need you. With McCray retired, Bohnert out on sick leave, and Quince rotating between units, you’re the man.”

  “What have you got?”

  “A homicide in the parking lot of Pete’s Pad on West Eleventh. A man in a vehicle with his throat slashed. It probably happened last night. So we’ve got a cold body in an empty parking lot, and my gut tells me this one will be difficult. I need you down there ASAP.”

  Jackson’s pulse quickened. It complicated his personal plans, but the thought of a tough homicide case challenged him. “I’m on my way.” He pocketed the phone and gave his daughter an apologetic look.

  “A homicide?” She couldn’t hide her disappointment.

  “Yes. I have to go.”

  “Don’t forget we’re supposed to meet Mom and Ivan for dinner tonight.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “You realize you said that out loud?”

  He laughed. “Sorry. I’m not looking forward to meeting your mother’s boyfriend.” Jackson scrambled to decide whether to cancel now or wait until the last minute.

  Katie glared at him. “Don’t blow this off. I want to spend some time with Mom, and you said I can’t stay at her place until you meet Ivan.”

  “I know. But today was not a good day to plan this for, and now I have a homicide to deal with.”

  “You’re saying you won’t make dinner?”

  “I’ll try. Will you make sure the movers put everything in the right rooms at the new house and give them the check I wrote?”

  “Of course. Don’t worry. We’ll get your bed set up too.”

  Harlan came into the room but for once kept his mouth closed.

  “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll call you later.” Jackson stepped toward her for another hug, but she turned toward the scrawny boy. Crap. Why did his job often make him feel like a bad father?

  Jackson backed out of the driveway, thinking it might be the last time. He braked at the street and took in the view. The giant oak and birch trees had shed leaves all over the lawn, and the house needed paint. But it was no longer his responsibility. Yesterday, he’d signed the property over to the new owners.

  Driving down Hilyard, he started to feel relieved. Within a week, he and Renee would split the equity from the sale, and it would end his legal connection to the woman who’d nearly ruined his life with her drinking. She was out of rehab for the second time in eighteen months, but he wasn’t holding his breath. If not for Katie’s connection to her mother, he wouldn’t care. He had a wonderful new woman in his life and was moving forward.

  He turned left on Eleventh Avenue, a main artery, and he
aded west. A thick canopy of trees, vibrant with yellow and red leaves, hung over the street, and the air was crisp and cool under a fleeting blue sky. He was grateful it wasn’t raining. Working an outdoor homicide in wet weather could be a bitch. But Jackson had lived in, and loved, his hometown of Eugene, Oregon, for more than four decades, and rain was just part of the scenery.

  Pete’s Pad, made of cinder block and painted a disturbing rust color, sat near the street with parking in the back. Two patrol cars and a blue unmarked Impala much like his own occupied the driveway and cut off the crime scene from street traffic, as Jackson pulled into the Shari’s parking lot next door. The restaurant seemed unaffected by the adjacent crime, yet the tavern would be shut down for most of the day. But after the homicide hit the news that evening, drinkers would come pouring into the bar out of morbid curiosity.

  Jackson hustled across the dirt strip that separated the parking lots as two uniformed officers stretched crime-scene tape across them. Another officer stood near the patrol cars blocking the entrance, and a dark Jeep sat parked in the back near the canal. The only other car in the tavern lot was a beat-up burgundy Subaru, probably belonging to the employee who’d discovered the body. Neither the medical examiner nor the assistant DA had arrived yet. Lammers hadn’t called out the mobile command unit, either, most likely because there were no witnesses to interview at the scene. He hoped to find people from the night before who could tell them what had happened.

  Jackson hurried across the lot and found Lara Evans scraping something from the door of a midnight-blue Jeep Wrangler. The paint was custom, he knew, because it was the same as his ’69 GTO, a vehicle he’d painstakingly restored.

  “Hey, Evans. What have you got?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s sticky, and I don’t think it’s been here long.” She looked up, and the sight of her heart-shaped face and blue eyes made him smile. Evans didn’t look like a cop, but she was sharper than the male detectives in the unit, and he’d learned recently that she practiced Brazilian jujitsu and could probably beat most of them in hand-to-hand combat.