Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For Read online

“Go,” he shouted.

  Officer Whitstone was already on the move, running for her patrol car. Chang quickly followed.

  “Evans?” Jackson called out, running for his Impala. “You okay?”

  No response. Shit! Was she hit?

  He leaned in and used the radio, working to keep his voice calm. “Three Adam twenty-one, shots fired. Suspect vehicle is a dark SUV headed south on Greenhill to Highway 126.” Adrenaline pumped through him, and he fought the chase instinct. His body wanted to pursue, to go after the bastards who had almost killed him, but that was not his job right now. A half dozen patrol officers would respond, and the perps would be in custody in no time.

  As Jackson ran to the Volvo, its back door pushed open and Evans crawled out. Her face was ashen, and she had a hand pressed against the top of her right arm.

  “Are you hit?”

  “Just grazed me.” She grinned to show she was stoic, as a cop should be, but her voice wobbled.

  “Let me see.” Jackson gently pulled her hand away. The bullet had torn through her jacket and sweater, then drawn a thin line of blood on the skin covering her deltoid. It was already congealing.

  “You’re not even going to have a scar,” Jackson said. “Should I call a medic?”

  Evans cranked her head sideways and gazed at the slim wound. “Hell no. I’m not even bleeding. This is embarrassing. How can I get any mileage out of taking a bullet if I don’t have a scar?”

  “Maybe next time.”

  They stood for moment in silence, knowing humor didn’t actually minimize the risks they took.

  “Jesus, what the hell was that about?” Gunderson hurried over, sounding like a teenage boy who’d just gotten off a wild amusement park ride.

  “Probably nothing.” Jackson shook his head. “My guess is they’re dopers out screwing around. Saw the cop cars and thought it would be fun to get us all stirred up.”

  “They could have killed one of us.” Parker sound a little freaked.

  Jackson walked over and touched the technician’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes and no. I’m not physically hurt, but it will be a long time before I can stand by a road without feeling jumpy when a car passes.” Parker rubbed her arms against the cold. “We’re done here, right?”

  “Yep. Let’s wrap up. Evans, I want you to report your injury, then go home.”

  “No way.” She scoffed, as if it were only a suggestion. “I’ll get on the computer and call you with next of kin information, as assigned. Then I’ll fill out the incident report and catch back up with you.”

  Jackson let it go. He would have made the same choice. An old thought slipped into his head. Maybe he should shift to the DA’s office to work as an investigator. Give up the long erratic hours, interrupted dinner dates, and crime scene horrors. Work a straight nine-to-five day job with no dead bodies, then be home with Katie—and someday, Kera—for dinner every night. It was especially important now that he and Renee were finally in the divorce process. He’d given the investigator job serious consideration when he’d finally kicked out his alcoholic wife and had suddenly faced the reality of raising a child by himself. He hadn’t made the move then because he wasn’t ready, and psychologically he was still in the same place: A police officer was all he’d ever wanted to be since he was a kid. Jackson didn’t know if he could let go of the sense of identity it gave him.

  Yet he kept coming back to the idea of having a more normal life. Katie was into her teenage years and needed more supervision than he’d realized. So he would mull it over some more.

  Jackson stopped at the gas station on the corner of Greenhill and Highway 126. He bought lousy coffee and drank it while he questioned the clerk who worked in the little store. She had not been on duty the day before and didn’t have much to say. Jackson headed outside.

  The gas attendant was a frail, fifty-something man with a nasty cough. Tuberculosis was probably eating his flesh and here he was outside on a damp, 35-degree evening. Every time Jackson encountered someone older than himself pumping gas or pushing French fries, he silently thanked God for the good fortunes of his life.

  “Were you here yesterday about a quarter to five?” Jackson reached for his notepad.

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Do you remember a green Volvo?”

  The cougher looked stumped for a moment, then smiled, showing a gap in his teeth. “There was a young, pretty girl in the car. She was nice. She asked how I was doing.”

  “Was anyone in the car with her?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you see which way she went when she left?”

  “Nope. I was real busy. Lots of people were headed home from work then.”

  The station was dead quiet now. “How did she seem?” Jackson pressed. “Was she happy or maybe worried? Did she look like she might have just had a fight with her boyfriend?”

  The attendant shook his head. “She seemed fine. Friendly, like I said. I’d like to have customers like her all day.”

  Jackson handed him a business card. “Call me if you think of anything else.”

  “Is she okay?” the attendant asked between coughs.

  Nope, Jackson thought and shook his head.

  The address Evans had given him was on 12th Avenue. As soon as he pulled up, Jackson realized it was a house he had driven by, and noticed, many times. Although it was too dark to see much now, he knew the house was Easter egg purple and had a garish collection of yard art—hand-painted wooden ducks, pink flamingos, assorted wind chimes, and wine barrels planted with tulips and yellow plastic windmills. Some very good-natured people lived here, and he was about to crush them. He rang the doorbell and checked his watch. It was 10:15; the occupants could be in bed. Moments later, the door popped open and a pint-sized older woman with a long gray braid and purple velour track suit said, “This had better be good; I’m watching ER.”

  “I’m Detective Jackson with the Eugene Police Department. And this is not good. May I come in?”

  She didn’t move. Jackson could see her brain working, processing the information, her body stiffening for the blow. This poor woman was a seasoned receiver of bad news. As deeply as he felt for her, Jackson was also relieved that she would not be the type to wail and throw herself on the ground.

  “Are you Martha Krell?”

  “Yes. Is it Raina?” Her voice wavered as she said the young woman’s name.

  “I’m very sorry. Let’s go in and sit down.”

  She led him into a cluttered living room, pungent with potpourri. The brightly painted walls failed to compensate for the lack of windows. Jackson pushed some newspapers aside and sat on an overstuffed couch. Martha sat across from him in a well-worn rocker, her eyes tightly closed.

  “We found a green Volvo tonight at the wildlife observation point on Greenhill Road. A young woman’s body was in the back of the car. The purse in the car had Raina Hughes’ driver’s license.”

  “Oh God.” Martha’s face crumbled and she fought for control. “What happened?”

  “It looks like she was murdered. Is Raina small, with dark curly hair?”

  The old woman nodded, unable to speak.

  Jackson took out his notepad. Martha would have to identify the body later, but for now he needed details he could act on. He needed a suspect in custody tonight. “When was the last time you saw Raina?”

  “Oh God. Don’t say ‘last time.’“ Martha started to weep. “First Desi, now Raina. I’ve got nobody left.”

  Jackson took a deep breath. He had to push her through this. “I know this is extremely painful, but I have to get some information from you. To find the person who killed her, I need to move quickly. I need your help. Right now.”

  “Why would someone kill Raina? She is the sweetest girl.” Martha rocked slowly in the chair, staring off over Jackson’s shoulder.

  “I hope to find that out. Who is Desi?”

  “My daughter, Raina’s mother.”

  “She died
recently?”

  “Seven years ago. I’ve raised Raina since.” Martha shook her head. “I took care of Raina off and on before Desi died too.”

  Jackson was relieved that the mother-daughter deaths were not related. He tried again. “When was the last time you saw Raina?”

  “Yesterday morning before she left for school. She’s taking classes at Lane Community College.”

  Jackson noted her use of present tense. It would take Martha time to adjust, if ever. “Raina lived here with you, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she call anytime yesterday?”

  Martha nodded. “She left me a message in the afternoon, saying she was going to see Josh, then get together with Jamie.”

  Jackson jotted down both names. “Were you concerned when she didn’t come home last night?”

  “Not really. Her message said she didn’t know when she would be home. Raina is an adult. I don’t monitor her activities.” Martha’s tone held a bit of defensiveness.

  “Who’s Josh?”

  “He’s an eight-year-old boy who was in foster care. He just went back to his parents.” Martha clenched her hands. “Raina is a CSA volunteer. It’s a program that assigns people to be advocates for children who are in the system.”

  Jackson knew about CSA. It was a much-needed program. Paid child service caseworkers were notoriously overloaded and needed all the help they could get. “What’s Josh’s last name?”

  “I can’t remember.” The old woman slammed her fists together. “I didn’t want Raina to get involved in that program. I was afraid she would get hurt emotionally. You know?” Martha looked at him for understanding, tears rolling down her wrinkled cheeks. Jackson nodded, trying to make sense of her anger.

  “Josh’s parents are drug addicts,” Martha explained. “Which, of course, is why Raina wanted to help. Her mother was an addict. But I thought the whole thing was too close to her own experience.”

  “Do you know where Josh lives?”

  “No. Maybe. I can check. Raina is very organized.”

  Jackson followed her down the hall into a small bedroom. The narrow bed allowed room for a large desk with books stacked on one side. Martha picked up an address book and flipped to the middle. “Raina files people by first names. She forgets last names like I do. How can you find an address if you can’t remember the last name?” Martha read from a page, “Josh, Cindy, and Bruce Gorman. 28494 Pine Grove Road.”

  Pine Grove was only a few miles out from the gas station where Raina had stopped. Jackson reached for the little book. “Can I take it with me?”

  “Sure.” Martha let go and slammed her fists together again. “If that bastard killed Raina, I may shoot him. I don’t care if they put me in jail.”

  “Do you mean Bruce Gorman?”

  “He’s Josh’s father. When he’s using meth, he’s abusive. Raina hated him.” Martha looked grim. “Raina wasn’t supposed to talk about her CSA kids, but she worried about Josh so much.”

  A little pulse of excitement surged through Jackson’s veins. An abusive meth addict, a home visit from a social volunteer. Maybe this case would be a slam-dunk after all. “Excuse me, I need to make a call.” Jackson pressed speed-dial #4 and Schak picked up immediately. “Schakowski.”

  “What’s the report on the witnesses?”

  “Big fat nothing.”

  “I need you to head out to Pine Grove Road. It’s across 126 off of Crow Road. The address is 28494. Just locate the house and keep an eye on it. If anyone gets into a vehicle or anything happens that tickles your funny bone, call me. Then call in backup. The guy is a meth addict, so be careful. I’ll be there in thirty minutes or less.”

  As eager as he was to question Gorman, Jackson needed a little more information from Martha. Jackson glanced at his notes. “Who’s Jamie?”

  Martha hesitated. “Jamie Conner is Raina’s best friend.”

  “Do you have a phone number and address?”

  “Sure.” Martha began to cry again as she wrote it down.

  “Does Raina have a computer?” The desk had a conspicuous barren spot in the middle.

  “She uses a laptop and takes it with her everywhere.”

  Where the hell was it? Had her attacker taken her cell phone and laptop? Had he thrown them away to cover his tracks?

  Jackson stuck around for another ten minutes, but didn’t come up with anything that seemed worth pursuing at the moment. He gave Martha his card and encouraged her to call someone to come and stay with her for a while. He could tell she was still in shock. When she came out of it, she would call him and ask a lot of questions about how her granddaughter had died. He dreaded the conversation and planned to be vague. No need to tell Martha about the assault with the vibrator just yet. It would come out in court, months down the road. Martha would be better prepared for it then.

  Jackson headed for his car, calling Evans on the way. She picked up immediately. “Hey, Jackson.”

  “Did you file the incident report?”

  “Yes, sir. What did you find out?”

  “Raina was a good girl. She didn’t drink, smoke, or do drugs. She attended college and planned to become a drug and alcohol counselor. She collected clothes and blankets for Shelter Care, an organization that helps homeless people. She didn’t have a boyfriend or hang out with anyone creepy.”

  “She sounds too good to be true.”

  “Maybe.” Still, Jackson hoped to have such a positive report about his own daughter when she was twenty. Kids could go in so many directions, and there was so little you could do to stop them. “Are you doing okay? Do you want an assignment?”

  “I’m fine. Give it to me.”

  “I need you to interview Jamie Conner. She’s the victim’s best friend. They were supposed to get together last night. Find out if they did. Press Jamie hard about Raina’s social life, especially a boyfriend.” Jackson had learned the hard way that his own daughter didn’t tell him the whole truth. Now he questioned, at least internally, everything Katie told him about her location and behavior.

  “I know how to do my job,” Evans responded.

  “I know you do. That’s why I always call you out.”

  A few minutes later, Jackson pulled into the street. Thursday night at 10:50 p.m., and Eugene was quiet. Still, a young woman had been murdered about this time the night before. It could be happening again right now. Perpetrators were everywhere, operating in the shadows, in locked apartments and unwatched parking lots. When Jackson started on the police force nearly twenty years ago, Eugene had been a safe, midsized college town populated with academics, joggers, loggers, and hippies. Now the population had doubled, the hippies had grown old, the loggers had become self-employed arborists, and a methamphetamine scourge was slowly wiping out the academics’ sense of safety. Recently an old couple had been murdered in their home for the twelve dollars in their cookie jar.

  Jackson gunned the engine and headed out West 11th, which would eventually turn into rural Highway 126, leading toward the Oregon coast. It reminded him of what he and everyone else still loved about Eugene: thirty minutes from the mountains on one side, and sixty minutes from the ocean the other way. With gorgeous scenery in between.

  He passed a cluster of big-box stores at the edge of town and was grateful for the lack of shopping traffic. Schak hadn’t called him, so he hoped Gorman would be home, doing something stupid. With petty criminals, you could count on stupidity, but occasionally, murderers were clever.

  Later, as Jackson bounced down the Gormans’ gravel driveway, passing through a thick stand of fir trees, he wondered if Raina’s car had traveled this route the night before. He worried he might be running over and ruining tire tracks or some other evidence. The rain had stopped, so at least nothing was being washed away. He considered parking and walking, but the driveway could be miles long. He’d never been in this specific area before.

  About a quarter-mile down, Schak’s black truck blocked the road. Beyond it,
the lights of a home glowed in a small clearing about a hundred yards in the distance. Excellent, Jackson thought. Schak had stayed out of the parking area where Raina may have been killed, with her own car as the weapon. If Gorman was using meth, he may not have covered his crime well—or even at all. Meth destroyed brain cells faster than salt melted ice. Jackson had seen some reasonably intelligent people turn themselves into lifetime morons after about four years of heavy use. He thought about one of his informants, and the crazy idiots who had shot at them tonight. They would probably spend ten years in prison for that one moment of drug-induced irrational behavior.

  Jackson shut down his headlights, parked, and exited the Impala as quietly as he could. Sig Sauer in hand, he stepped up next to Schak, who now stood beside his truck.