Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 14

  “Whoa! That’s crazy talk.” Sigler put up a brave front.

  “We know you were expected to be there. We saw Stalling’s text to you. And a witness saw you leaving.” Lying to people still bothered him, but it was a necessary part of his job.

  Sigler squirmed, and his face suddenly became animated. “Okay, I was supposed to help harvest.” Anguish contorted his pudgy face. “But Josh was dead. Still frigging bleeding. And his girlfriend . . .” Sigler pulled his hands to his face as if to block the sight. “I used Josh’s phone to call 911 and left.” The witness moved his hands and pleaded, “You have to believe me. Josh was my friend. Why would I shoot him? I don’t even know how to use a gun.”

  Jackson did believe him. “Why not use your own phone? Why not tell the dispatcher who you were? What do you have to hide?”

  “Nothin’, man.” Sigler glanced away. “Cops freak me out.” When he looked back at Jackson, the witness said, “No offense. I grew up with paranoid parents. They taught me to avoid the police as much as possible.”

  Jackson thought that might be bull. He remembered the neighbor and the car she’d seen. “When exactly did you arrive at the pot farm?”

  Sigler shrugged and made an exaggerated expression of confusion. “I really don’t know. I was supposed to be there by seven, and I tried, but it was probably closer to eight.”

  According to Sophie’s article, the witness said she saw the gray car leave the farm at ten after seven. Sigler was lucky he’d been late, or he might be dead too. Jackson became aware of Sigler’s faint tobacco smell and remembered the cigarette butt by the front porch. “What brand do you smoke?”

  Sigler’s eyes flashed with concern. “Camel Wides.”

  “Did you smoke one at the house before you went in?”

  “Yeah.”

  Too bad. Jackson had hoped the DNA on the cigarette would help them convict the killer. And Sigler just didn’t have motive. “How do you know Josh?”

  Sigler blushed. “We met in jail a decade ago, and we’ve been friends since.”

  People bonded while incarcerated. Police officers saw that a lot. “Were you a paid employee of his marijuana nursery?”

  “No.” Sigler shook his head vigorously, then gestured around. “I’m a nursing assistant, and I would never jeopardize my job here. I don’t even smoke pot. Helping with the harvest was just a favor for a friend.”

  Schak cut in. “He paid you cash under the table, didn’t he?”

  Another big head shake. “Josh helped me move a few months ago, so I offered to help him. That’s it.” Sigler’s lower lip trembled. “I can’t believe he’s dead. I mean, I knew the grow business was potentially dangerous, but whoever killed him didn’t even take the crop.”

  But they had poisoned it. Jackson needed to know a lot more about the victim. “Did Josh have enemies?”

  “No way. People liked him. He was a good person.”

  Debatable. “Yet someone shot him. You knew Josh a long time. You must have some idea.”

  Sigler finally relaxed, settling back in his chair. “It had to be about the pot business. The competition is getting crazy. Big companies are trying to buy everyone up, and that worried Josh. He was trying to get a loan to buy the business from his sister.”

  That’s news. “How much money was he trying to borrow?”

  “He hoped to make a down payment of fifty grand, then make installments, but he was dreaming.” Sigler let out a derisive laugh. “No one would loan Josh money. Once you have a criminal record, you’re so screwed.”

  Had Stalling borrowed the cash from a criminal source? Jackson glanced at Schak. He’d worked in the Vice and Financial Crimes units before joining Violent Crimes.

  His partner took the cue. “Did Josh try to borrow from private lenders? Like the Grayson brothers?” The two men owned a restaurant and tavern in West Eugene and led a local motorcycle gang. One had been to prison for extortion, but the department had never nailed them on their loan shark operation.

  “Josh didn’t mention it, but he was pretty desperate. He knew his sister wanted to sell.”

  Had McCoy killed her brother just to get him out of her way? Stalling co-owned the property, and she would have needed him to sign off on a sale. If fifty grand was just a down payment, what was Matt Sheldon of Ganja Growers offering Ms. McCoy? And what other companies had made bids? “Did Josh talk about Ganja Growers?”

  “Not really. Why?”

  “Who wanted to buy Riverside Farms?”

  “I don’t know.” Sigler rubbed his head. “I mean, I don’t remember. Josh may have mentioned names, but I didn’t take notes, you know?”

  Jackson glanced down at his own notepad. He hadn’t written anything but fifty grand with buy business next to it. That might explain why Stalling had twenty grand under his floorboards. “Do you know Matt Sheldon?”

  “No.”

  “What about Shanna McCoy?”

  “Yeah, I’ve met Josh’s sister, but we don’t hang out or anything.”

  Jackson had about exhausted this line of questioning. One last effort. “Can you think of anything in Josh’s life, past or present, that would have pissed someone off enough to kill him?”

  For a moment, Sigler was quiet. “His last girlfriend ended up hating him because of a stupid misunderstanding, but that was a year ago, and I can’t imagine her having a gun.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Tiela Sheldon.”

  “Any relation to Matt Sheldon?”

  Sigler’s eyes went wide. “I don’t know.” A flash of shame. “I guess I didn’t know Josh as well as I thought.”

  Jackson’s phone rang, and relief washed over him. He was ready to get the hell out of this room. The call was from Joe at the crime lab. Jackson stepped into the hall. “Hey, Joe, what have you got?”

  “A ballistics report. It’s pretty interesting, and I want to show it to you in person.”

  CHAPTER 20

  With a little time before the task force meeting, Jackson tried to decide how best to spend it. He could go see a judge with the subpoena Schak had written for Shanna McCoy’s bank and business dealings, but he expected it to be turned down. The fact that McCoy stood to make a huge profit on the sale of her pot-growing business—by getting her brother out of the way—wasn’t exactly evidence. Even Judge Cranston, who tended to cut law enforcement plenty of slack, would shake his head. McCoy didn’t even own a gun.

  As he started his car, Jackson had an ugly thought. What if McCoy had paid someone to shoot her brother? His unit had seen several murder-for-hire cases in the last few years, a bizarre and escalating trend. He jotted the idea in his notepad, then drove out of the nursing home parking lot. He would let go of the case for a moment and surprise Katie by picking her up from school. He’d learned that staying connected to his daughter, even when he was working homicides, was essential. Growing up with an alcoholic mother had forced Katie to mature quickly, but that independence had led her astray after Renee’s death, and she’d left home for a while. He couldn’t go through that again. As if he had a choice. Katie was a young adult, and he had to accept that she would move out again soon and not come back. All he could do was stay as bonded to her as possible, so she didn’t drift too far before she got the young-and-stupid stuff out of her system.

  A few minutes later, from the parking lot of the high school, he sent her a text: I’m here to give you a ride.

  She quickly texted back: Thanks, but I don’t need one.

  He checked the time. Her last class had ended, but she should still be inside the school somewhere. He texted again: I want to see you for a minute, then I go back to work.

  Her response took longer this time: I can’t change my plans. I’ll see you later.

  Why was she blowing him off? Jackson called her, and she didn’t pick up. Not good. He texted again: You’re not at school, are you?

  An even longer wait. He checked the clock on his phone again. Wherever she was, he prob
ably didn’t have time to round her up before the task force meeting. Finally, she responded: I wasn’t feeling well, so I skipped my last class and went home.

  Was that bullshit? She didn’t lie to him often, so this was worrisome. He texted back: Okay, see you there.

  Jackson headed for their home, which was about five minutes away. He suspected she was already en route, hoping to beat him home. Damn. He hated this phase. She was too young to be on her own, and he would never kick her out. But he’d had to admit over the past year that he had no real control over her. He could withhold privileges—by not paying for her cell phone, for example—but that held little sway.

  As he turned onto his street, a small red car backed out of his driveway. Damn. She’d not only skipped school—she’d had company in the house when he wasn’t home. He strained to identify the driver. But the car was headed away from him, and he couldn’t tell who it was. The person wasn’t very tall, but that’s all he could determine.

  Katie was in her room, in bed with her laptop. “Hey, Dad.”

  Miss Casual. “Who was here?”

  “Sabrina. She gave me a ride home, then stayed for a while to make sure I was all right.”

  Was that the truth? Had his cop paranoia and suspicion gotten the best of him? He walked over and sat on the bed. “So what’s wrong? Do you need to see a doctor?”

  “Mostly a headache. And some nausea. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

  He remembered the meningitis outbreak at the university. “Did you get the vaccine we talked about?” Their local pharmacy was offering it, and he’d told her to get it.

  “Of course. I’m not an idiot.” She gave him her first smile. “Stop worrying. Nothing is going on. I’m not dying, and I’m not cutting class to drink or do drugs.” She turned the laptop so he could see the Word document she had open. “In fact, the headache started to ease up, so I’m doing homework.”

  A wave of relief washed over him, and he kissed her forehead. “I have to go.” He stood. “Task force meeting.”

  “So you won’t be home for dinner?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Well, stay in touch, okay? I worry about you when you’re out too late.” Katie burst out laughing.

  Jackson laughed too. Since they were in role-reversal mode, he blurted, “You’re such a freak.” Something she’d said to him a few times.

  Katie laughed again. “Thanks!” She waved him off. “Bye, Dad.”

  Jackson hurried to his car, feeling guilty for doubting Katie. As he backed out of the driveway, the guilt disappeared, replaced by the queasy feeling that he’d just been conned. He might never know the truth, and that made him a little crazy.

  At headquarters, the rest of the team had assembled in the conference room, including District Attorney Slonecker and the ballistics technician. Schak was talking about the SWAT incident that afternoon, and no one noticed Jackson come in.

  Where was Evans?

  Schak finished his account and turned to Jackson. “Did you hear? Evans shot the armed vet who was holding the kid hostage.”

  Oh no. Her first SWAT callout, and she’d had to take a life. But it wasn’t a worst-case ending. Evans was safe, and that was all that mattered—well, not quite. Her mental health was important too. He hoped she’d be able to make peace with her actions. It had taken a while, but he’d finally quit obsessing about Renee’s death, at least when he was awake. He still had occasional nightmares about it.

  Jackson took a seat at the table. “So the child is safe?”

  “Yep. Evans went in through a window, grabbed the kid, and shot the hostage taker when he came at her with his gun raised.”

  “Where is she? Has anyone heard from her?” Technically, Evans was supposed to be put on leave for a week after a shooting. But the person responsible for that directive was Sergeant Lammers, and she was in the hospital. How the hell was he supposed to run two investigations with three people? He needed another detective. He’d checked with the Vice Unit sergeant, but she hadn’t sent him anyone yet. Maybe he’d pull in McCray, a retired detective who still worked homicides with the cold-case squad on a volunteer basis.

  No one had heard from Evans, and Jackson realized he should check his own phone. No contact from her, but voice messages from Sophie and Kera. He would listen to them both later. “Let’s get started. Quince, take the board, please.” When Quince was ready to start updating their case notes, Jackson summarized the new information. “We found the person who called in the bodies. Darby Sigler. At this point, he’s not a viable suspect. But he told us that Stalling was trying to borrow fifty grand to use as a down payment to buy the grow business from his sister. We also learned that Matt Sheldon of Ganja Growers was trying to buy Riverside Farms.”

  “Hey,” Quince complained. “Let me catch up.”

  Jackson paused, glanced through his notepad, and found the page with the investment firm. This case had to be about money. After a moment, he continued. “In addition, a New York–based company is buying up local growing operations, as well as real estate holdings they plan to develop into additional nurseries. Riverside Farms was suddenly worth a lot of money. I think Josh Stalling was in the way and died because of his resistance to being acquired.”

  Quince turned to him. “I thought his sister, McCoy, owned the business.”

  “She does, but county records show Josh Stalling and Shanna McCoy as joint title holders for the property on River Loop 2. I doubt anyone was willing to buy the pot business without owning the property it sat on. And if Stalling wasn’t willing to sell—” A sudden flare of pain made Jackson shift in his chair. Crap. He’d forgotten to take his anti-inflammatories. “We don’t have McCoy’s financial data, because she won’t share it with us, and we don’t have enough evidence against her to get a subpoena.”

  Schak spoke up. “Matt Sheldon’s business card was at the homicide scene. And now you’re saying he wanted to buy the business. Was that his explanation for the card being there?”

  The memory of McCoy bolting from Sheldon’s property flashed in Jackson’s mind. “Not exactly. McCoy showed up when I visited Ganja Growers today, and Sheldon admitted they were in talks to make a deal. McCoy left in a hurry when she saw me. But Sheldon says he never met her brother and was never at the River Loop 2 property. He thinks Stalling dropped the card.”

  “What kind of money are we talking about?” The DA leaned forward, his suit looking as crisp as ever.

  “I don’t know yet. But fifty thousand was just the down payment.”

  “Let’s find out. I want to know what kind of volume these operations are dealing in.” Slonecker turned to Jackson. “Do either of the growers have bank accounts?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “So the state has to rely on what they report as income as a basis for their taxes.”

  “Isn’t that true of every business?”

  The DA nodded, a small smile twitching on his face. “But with most businesses, the IRS can audit them and take a look at their bank accounts.”

  It was an interesting topic, but they were getting off subject. “We need evidence to get a subpoena, and all we have is a witness who saw a large dark-gray car leaving the crime scene at ten after seven. Sheldon drives a blue-gray SUV, which mostly fits, but it’s not enough to convince a judge.”

  “I disagree,” Slonecker said. “With the business card, the matching vehicle, and Sheldon’s interest in buying the operation, I think Cranston will allow some kind of warrant, even if it’s just phone calls to search for a record of communication.”

  “Maybe.” Jackson nodded at him. “Can you get an ADA to write up the subpoena for Sheldon and take it to a judge? We’re working the poison case too, and we just don’t have the time.”

  “Sure, we’ll handle it.”

  Joe, the ballistics technician, cleared his throat. “I’d like to present my findings and get back to work.”

  “Of course. You have the floor.” They should have done
this first.

  Joe plugged his laptop into the video unit, then displayed a computer-drawn diagram featuring three human outlines and bullet trajectories. He stood next to the flat-screen monitor and used a pointer to tap the images as he talked. “The shooter stood in the doorway, about twenty feet from the victims. He fired three shots, one that missed his target and landed in the wall behind. The other two entered Josh Stalling’s chest.” Joe held up a stack of papers. “Based on the autopsy report, one bullet hit a rib, which slowed it down, then embedded in his heart. That was the cause of death. The other bullet passed through Stalling’s lower abdomen and struck the second victim.”

  Bizarre! But how had he missed the autopsy report? Jackson realized he’d been out in the field and hadn’t checked his email. He’d skipped the postmortem on purpose, because he simply hadn’t been able to spare the time and the cause of death seemed obvious. “So the woman was never a target?”

  “Most likely not.” Joe tapped the smaller figure in the diagram. “Because of her size and position behind Stalling, it’s likely the shooter didn’t even see her.”

  “That means only one count of premeditated homicide,” Slonecker said. “But we can still push for the death penalty because of the collateral damage.”

  They had to charge someone first. “What kind of weapon?” Jackson asked the technician.

  “The bullets are .38 caliber and likely fired from a handgun.” Joe sat down and shut off the projector. “We didn’t find a match of the striations in the system, so we can’t trace the weapon to anyone until we find it.”

  “Thanks.”

  The technician nodded, gathered his things, and left.

  Jackson turned to Quince. “What did you get from the neighbors? Were you able to track down the witness?”

  Quince looked frustrated. “I don’t know how the hell the reporter connected with Alexa Tattriona. I stopped at her house last night after our task force meeting and again this morning. She wasn’t home either time. I also questioned everyone within a mile radius. One man, Roger Ackerman, confirmed the talk of a lawsuit.” Quince wrote the name on the board, then continued. “He said Clark Paulson asked him to join a class-action suit against Riverside Farms, but Ackerman refused. No one seemed to object to the grow operation but Paulson.”