Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 11

  Unlikely. Evans remembered her original intent in coming here. “Do you keep poison on the property?”

  “What?” The suspect’s brow furrowed. “You’re saying Stalling was poisoned?”

  “No, but his crop was.” Jackson stood. “Let’s go look in your other buildings.”

  Sheldon popped up too. “Not without a warrant.”

  Evans pushed out of her chair. “One of your products also poisoned a customer, so we won’t have any trouble getting a warrant. But it will look better if you cooperate.”

  Sheldon spun toward her. “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Someone who smoked your Juicy Fruit medical bud is now in the hospital.” Evans moved around the table to confront him eye to eye. “We need a sample of your product to compare. We have to trace the source of the poison before others get sick. If you’re not the source, it benefits you to help prove that.”

  “Well, fuck.” Sheldon slammed a fist into his open palm. “I run a clean operation, and I have for a decade. If my products were contaminated, it happened after they left my possession.”

  “Prove it,” Jackson insisted. “Show us.”

  “Fine.” Sheldon spun toward the sliding glass door in back. “I use organic pest-control products and natural fertilizers.”

  Evans’ phone rang in her pocket and she slipped it out. Sergeant Bruckner, the SWAT commander. Her heart skipped a beat, and she touched Jackson’s arm. “I have to take this.” She turned away and let the two men go out the back door without her.

  “Evans here. What have we got?”

  “An armed man shouting and making threats to his neighbors. Can you respond with the team?”

  Her heart skipped a beat. This would be her first callout with the SWAT unit, and she couldn’t say no. Bruckner already had doubts about her availability. This was why detectives rarely joined the on-call critical response team. SWAT officers and sergeants had to drop whatever they were doing and rush to the training center, where they geared up. “Of course. I’m on my way.” She hurried outside and caught up to Jackson, who was about to enter the largest greenhouse she’d ever seen. “Bruckner just called me out with the SWAT team. I’m sorry, but I should go. I don’t want to give him a reason to cut me.”

  “It’s fine. I can get Schak out here if I need to.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  She jogged to her car. What if this became an armed standoff? The thought sent a rush of adrenaline up her spine.

  CHAPTER 16

  Jackson envied the look of eagerness on Evans’ face as she mentioned the SWAT callout. He loved his job, but he hadn’t felt that excited about it in a long time. And probably never would again. That was all right. To survive long-term in law enforcement you had to become a little jaded. And a little numb. He turned back to Sheldon while keeping one eye on the dogs, who were watching him from the back deck. “Let’s go in.”

  The aroma in the nursery wasn’t as pungent as the Riverside operation, but the plants here were young. He heard the swooshing noise of a massive ventilation system, and looked up to the ceiling of the hard-plastic building. Three exhaust fans and six large grow lights. Despite the smell and noise, this grow room bothered him less than the other nursery, because it had natural daylight. Did that mean Sheldon didn’t produce any crops in the winter? “You’re seasonal?” he asked.

  “I have a second, indoor nursery behind this one.” Sheldon pointed to the back wall. Another building showed through the white plastic siding. “So my winter crop is smaller.”

  Jackson was curious about the industry, but he had to stay focused. “First, I need a sample of the Juicy Fruit product Evans mentioned, then I want to see where you keep your chemicals.” Evans had given him the evidence from the Green Medicine retail store, and he would drop it all off at the lab afterward.

  Sheldon strode toward a cabinet along the front wall. It was long and low to the ground to let in light from above. The grower squatted and unlocked one of the sliding panels. “I don’t keep much dried product here. It goes out to retailers very quickly.” He pulled out a small baggie and handed it to him. “I guarantee you won’t find any contaminants.”

  Jackson slipped the pot into a double layer of plastic evidence bags, not wanting his satchel to stink for god knew how long.

  “I keep the fertilizer and pest control in an adjacent shed. Through here.” Sheldon gestured at a side door.

  Jackson followed him into a small windowless room. The wet wood and fertilizer smells triggered a memory of visiting his aunt’s farm. As a young boy, he’d loved exploring the tool shed, chicken coop, and hay barn. He’d thought he might want to be a farmer. Ha! Now it was all he could do to keep his lawn mowed.

  Shelves filled the space, and gardening equipment lined the shelves. Sheldon pointed to the bottom row. “I use a mix of dishwashing detergent, cooking oil, and sometimes rubbing alcohol to control for bugs. That’s it. The fish-based fertilizer might be toxic to a person if consumed directly in a large quantity, but who the hell could drink enough of that stinky shit to get sick? Believe me, there is no poison in my products.”

  Jackson squatted and examined the plastic containers, then opened each to glance inside. They were the nonlethal household items Sheldon had described. Jackson stood, feeling frustrated. What now? They still didn’t know what Lammers had ingested, and if Sheldon was their perp, he could have disposed of whatever poison he’d used. Would traces of it still be on his hands? Without a warrant, he couldn’t compel the suspect to submit to any testing. At this point, he had to take the evidence he’d collected to the lab and wait for results. Jackson stood. “I’d like to look in your vehicle.”

  “You have about five minutes, and I have to leave. I’ve indulged your speculation long enough.” Sheldon gestured for Jackson to get out of his nursery.

  He went back into the main grow room and glanced at the rows of young plants. How much was each crop worth? Was Sheldon one of those oddballs who lived a frugal life while keeping millions in the bank? Or in this case, a safe-deposit box—because growers were afraid to deposit their money. Jackson turned to the suspect. “Where do you keep your profits?” He would love to search the man’s house and business records just out of curiosity.

  “I don’t have to tell you anything about my business.” Sheldon gestured for him to keep moving. “I’ve cooperated with you because I didn’t kill anyone, and I want you to realize that. But my finances are not your concern.”

  He’d hit a nerve. Did Sheldon have a safe full of cash? His team might never know. Jackson considered walking around the outside of the mobile home to the parking area in front, allowing him to bypass the big dogs on the back porch. But he also wanted to cut through the house and glance around one more time. He trotted up the wood steps, and the dogs rose, each making a low growling sound.

  “At ease.” Sheldon spoke from behind him. “Where are you going?” Frustration in his voice.

  “Just returning the way I came.” Jackson entered through the sliding door and gave the kitchen area a once-over. Nothing unexpected on the counters. He walked into the living room and stared at the small bookshelf. Old editions of Kurt Vonnegut and Jack Kerouac novels. A few gardening books. Plus The Anarchist Cookbook. Was it a reference book for him or just something he kept from his rebellious youth? Jackson knew the book contained bomb-making instructions, but did it also feature information about poisons? He reached for the big paperbound volume.

  “Don’t touch my things.” Sheldon rushed toward him.

  They both heard a vehicle in the driveway and turned. Through slatted blinds, Jackson watched a woman climb out of a yellow Mini Cooper. Shanna McCoy, the dead man’s sister. What the hell was she doing here? Jackson decided to stay and find out. He turned to Sheldon to gauge his reaction. The suspect’s jaw muscles bulged with tension, and his lips were compressed.

  “What’s your relationship with Shanna McCoy?” Jackson stepped toward the door, preparing to open
it.

  “Strictly business.”

  “You said you’d never met Josh Stalling.”

  “I haven’t.” Sheldon pushed past him to stand in front of the door. “You both need to leave so I can make my meeting.”

  “Maybe I should take you both in for more questioning.”

  “That really isn’t necessary.” Sheldon’s voice trembled, his confidence gone.

  The doorbell rang, and Sheldon turned to open it.

  “Let me,” Jackson said.

  But Sheldon jerked it open and blurted out, “This is not a good time.”

  Jackson called over the man’s shoulder, “It’s an excellent time. Please come in, Ms. McCoy.”

  At the sound of his voice, she turned and fled. Jackson grabbed Sheldon’s arm. “Let me by.”

  The pot grower stepped out of his way, and Jackson rushed outside. “You might as well come back, or I’ll put out an arrest warrant for you.” He wouldn’t try to keep McCoy here. A physical confrontation was the last thing he needed. He’d let a patrol officer bring her in. Meanwhile, he would press Sheldon for more information. Catching someone in a lie tended to make them more cooperative.

  McCoy climbed into her car, cranked the engine, and backed out in a hurry—without ever looking at him. He suspected she might be a little mental. Her behavior the day before had been peculiar too. Jackson glanced at Sheldon, who’d followed him out. “Why was she here? What is your relationship?”

  Sheldon took a deep breath. “I had offered to buy her grow operation. We were negotiating a deal.”

  “Was she the business meeting you had scheduled?”

  “No. We were supposed to meet again next week. I don’t know why she showed up today.”

  Probably to warn him to keep quiet about their dealings. He remembered that McCoy had said she and Sheldon used to date. These relationships and dealings were starting to feel incestuous. “Let’s go back inside.”

  “I really do have an important meeting,” Sheldon pleaded.

  “Call and cancel. I have important questions. It’s not a coincidence that her brother was shot and their crop poisoned just as you were trying to buy them out.”

  “Oh fuck.” Sheldon reached into his jeans pocket for his phone, then keyed in a quick text. “I told my business associate I’d be late. Because this will be a quick conversation. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Who are you meeting?”

  “An investor.”

  The temperature was dropping, and Jackson wished he’d put on his overcoat. But as long as Sheldon was still talking, he would stand here in the cold, asking questions. “Funding to buy Riverside Farms?”

  “Yes.”

  It wouldn’t make sense for Sheldon to destroy the crop he was about to buy. Unless doing so would drive down the price, making the land and nursery cheaper. But even that might be a wash. “Had you and Ms. McCoy agreed on a price?”

  “Not yet. That’s why we were still negotiating.”

  “Did her brother know about the buyout?”

  “I don’t know. She wanted me to keep him on as an employee, but that’s all that was said about him. I’ve never met Josh.”

  Jackson didn’t know if he believed him. This case was getting complicated, and he needed to keep his focus on motive. “I think that by poisoning the crop and shooting her brother, you tried to force McCoy into a quick, cheap buyout.”

  “He was shot?” Sheldon looked startled.

  Jackson had let him think Stalling was poisoned, and Sheldon’s surprise seemed genuine. That didn’t fit with him being the perp, but Jackson had to pursue this line of thought. “Let’s go look at your weapons.”

  “I only use them to shoot the nutria that come out of the canal and grub around on my property. But you’ll need a warrant to come back inside my home or business.”

  “I’ll get one.”

  “You have to go.”

  Yes, he had to get to the lab to drop off the samples, then get his team together to strategize and write up subpoenas. They also needed to find Darby Sigler, the man who’d likely called in the crime. And locate Kazmir, McCoy’s nutty boyfriend. Jackson needed Evans on this case, and she wouldn’t be there.

  Crap. Another long day.

  CHAPTER 17

  Thursday, December 3, 8:35 a.m.

  Sophie hurried into the news office, eager to get out of the cold, but also excited to start her workday. The shooting story was interesting on so many levels. The motives for crime fascinated her. Not the petty theft and fraud committed by people who were addicted or broke. No, she loved to chase down the big stuff. Like the scandal of a once-reputable property manager who stole millions of dollars and disappeared. What the hell was that about besides greed? Maybe a gambling problem. She’d interviewed some of his friends and family, but still hadn’t uncovered the truth. But she would let that story go for now. Not only did the shooting incident have a murder motive to figure out, but it had taken place in a marijuana-growing nursery. The whole legalization issue was still murky, but the potential for profit was huge, so anything was possible.

  Inside the building, she hurried upstairs, where the whole staff was now crammed into a space originally designed just for the reporters and editors. The downstairs had been leased out, and she was lucky to still have a job.

  “Good morning, Sophie.” Her editor, Karl Hoogstad, stood outside the narrow entrance to her cube. Round and balding, he wasn’t easy to look at. But he was great at his job, and she’d learned recently that he’d fought for her when the management had tried to replace her with a low-pay, no-benefits intern.

  “Morning. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got an interesting tie-in for you on the shooting-death story.”

  Sophie slid past him as he talked and turned on her computer. “What’s that?”

  “A New York investment company with a focus on the marijuana industry is buying up property here in Eugene. They plan to develop and lease the buildings to pot growers and/or edible-product manufacturers.”

  “Intriguing.” She grabbed a notepad from her desk, but didn’t sit down. “What’s the name of the company?”

  “Kaylyx.” He spelled it, then added, “Check with Karen. She’s reporting the story in the financial section soon.”

  “Do we have any reason to think the company is connected to the murders?”

  Hoogstad chuckled. “That’s your job to find out. But in the meantime, the speculation will be interesting to readers.”

  “Yes it will.” Manipulating readers was not her style, but humoring her boss was. “I’ll get on it this morning after I track down the second shooting victim.”

  “Do what you do. This could be another award winner for you.”

  She didn’t know what to say, so she just smiled. Awards looked good on her résumé, but getting the whole story was more satisfying. When Hoogstad finally left, she waited a moment, then hurried to the little kitchen area to make a cup of mint tea. She stayed away from caffeine—it made her dehydrated and cranky.

  Back at her desk, she listed the calls she needed to make, including one to the finance reporter. It wasn’t nine yet, so she’d start with the hospital. The name and status of the second shooting victim were critical. But how could she trick a receptionist or nurse into telling her? First, she’d ask Jackson again. Maybe he would give her something.

  She sipped tea and checked her email while she called Jackson’s phone. The call went to voice mail, and she hung up without bothering to leave a message. A desperate-sounding email from a reader gave her an idea. Sophie used her cheap prepaid phone to call North McKenzie. She would get back to the reader later. When she had the receptionist on the phone, she worked up as much distress as she could. “I think my sister was shot yesterday at that pot farm, but the police won’t tell me anything. Is she in the hospital?”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Her birth name is Jenny Saylor, but she’s changed it a few times. She’s homeless and hid
es from the cops, so she may not even have ID anymore.” Sophie kept her voice quiet and her hand cupped over her mouth and phone. “I’m not sure what she goes by now. At one point, she called herself Morningstar.” Oh boy. She’d never fabricated anything like that before, and she hoped her cube neighbor wouldn’t look over the wall with a scowl.

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” Real empathy from the receptionist. “But what makes you think she was one of the people shot?”

  “Because the last time we talked, she mentioned seeing a guy who grew pot out on River Loop.” Sophie faked a sob. “The paper said one victim was still alive. Should I just come in and see if it’s her?”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s too late for that. The gunshot victim checked out, and we have no idea how to contact her.”

  Already? That surprised her. “She must not have been hurt badly.”

  “Oh, she was injured. She left abruptly against medical advice, and we don’t know what to make of it.”

  “That sounds like my sister. Can you please tell me what she’s calling herself, so I can try to find her?”

  “I think I heard her say Kayla Benson, but she came in without identification. I hope you find her. That’s all I can say.” The receptionist hung up.

  Success! Sophie slid the burner phone back into her purse. Typically, she used it to contact people who wouldn’t pick up if they knew it was someone from the newspaper. But it was also effective for calls she didn’t want traced back to her.

  So Kayla Benson, with no ID, had survived her gunshot wound and left the hospital prematurely. That was peculiar indeed. Was the victim afraid the shooter would come after her again? Or was she avoiding the police? A whole new layer to the story.

  Sophie plugged the name Kayla Benson into several social media sites. Only one Facebook hit in the Eugene area—a twenty-eight-year-old woman with fewer than a hundred friends and a neglected page that didn’t seem important to the user. Her photo was quite unflattering. Short, frizzy, dyed-blonde hair, little makeup, and a yellow T-shirt. Who was she? A meth-skank drifter who hooked up with a local pot grower, looking for easy money? Sophie laughed out loud. When the newspaper finally shut down, she might try her hand at crime fiction. She loved characters and had some stories to tell.