Deadly Bonds (A Detective Jackson Mystery) Page 6

  “Good. Maybe he won’t beat his next girlfriend.” Evans lightened her tone. “But he already blew his chances with you.” Cindy had pressed charges after the last round of abuse, but a judge had only given her assailant thirty days because she’d refused to testify.

  “How did you get so strong?” Cindy’s expression pleaded for help.

  At first, Evans thought she meant physically and started to mention her workout routine but realized her mistake. “I set goals. I moved away from the place I’d been victimized. I pursued a career that made me feel powerful and valued.” And let her carry a gun.

  “Do you think I should move?”

  “Maybe for a while.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Evans had left Alaska right after graduating from high school. A month before that, a local sheriff had taken advantage of her youth and drunkenness and forced her to give him oral sex in exchange for not arresting her and not telling her father she was in trouble again. Her dad would have beaten her, not for drinking, but for getting caught and making him look bad.

  She shook off the memory. No one fucked with her now.

  An hour later in the department, she turned on her desk computer and ran a search for Logan Grayson’s girlfriend. Danica Mercado had been ticketed for speeding three months earlier, and all her contact information was on file. Evans keyed the information into her case file, then called Mercado’s number. When she didn’t answer, Evans left a message. She hoped that wasn’t a mistake. Sometimes letting people know you wanted to talk to them sent them into hiding. Even those who weren’t guilty often had information they didn’t want to share with the police. But driving around trying to catch someone at home could be a waste of time.

  Grayson’s parents were the next logical call, but they weren’t in town and she wanted to make sure they’d had time to process their grief. She tried the roommate, Jake Keener, again. Still no answer, so she left another message. On the university website, she tracked down the phone number of the Ducks’ head coach and called it, not even sure what she would ask. The coach didn’t answer either, but he would probably be easier to find. The football team practiced at Autzen Stadium every afternoon, and the autopsy was scheduled for one o’clock. She might as well check out the girlfriend’s address, then go back to Grayson’s apartment building and see if his roommate had returned, maybe question his other neighbors. So far, the evidence indicated the football player had died alone in his bathroom, possibly from drugs, or even a hereditary condition no one knew about. It happened to athletes sometimes when they overworked their bodies. But his head injury concerned her, and she had an obligation to discover who might have wanted to harm the player.

  As she stood to leave, her phone rang and she looked at the ID: University of Oregon. She connected the call. “Detective Evans.”

  “This is William Davis. I’m with the university’s sports center. I’m trying to get some information about Logan Grayson’s death.”

  A PR person? “It’s too soon to report anything.”

  “We heard that he was bleeding from his head. Was he assaulted?” A middle-aged man, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

  How did that rumor get started? “He had a nosebleed, but we don’t know what caused it or his death.”

  “Don’t jump to any conclusions about the nosebleed. That happens to football players who get tackled and suffer blows to the head.”

  Trying to quash the idea of cocaine use. “I plan to conduct a thorough investigation and have to get back to work.”

  “Please call me the minute you know what happened.”

  Yeah, right. Evans hung up.

  The girlfriend lived in an old house close to the UO’s music building. Evans had to circle the block three times before finding a place to park. She hated working the campus area but always seemed to end up here. Correction, she hated looking for parking around the campus. Otherwise, the redbrick buildings and majestic trees were attractive, and the students were energetic and often amusing. As Evans neared the house, a young woman with a ponytail and a perky bounce came down the steps. Cheerleader. “Are you Danica Mercado?”

  “Nope. She’s inside. Her boyfriend died, so be nice.” Bouncy girl waved and kept moving.

  Evans let her go. She had to stay focused. No one answered her knock, so she tried the door, opened it a crack, and called, “Danica?”

  “Who are you?” Through the opening she saw the girl sitting lengthwise on the couch, under a blanket, with a bag of Doritos and a laptop.

  “Detective Evans, Eugene Police.”

  “Oh yeah. You called. Sorry, but I don’t feel like talking.” Pretty face, straight auburn hair, perfect white teeth. She didn’t look particularly sad.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, but I have to ask some questions.” Evans stepped in and pulled up a chair next to the couch. “When was the last time you saw Logan?”

  The girl’s eyes widened. “Why are you asking me? I know what that means!”

  “I’m just trying to establish a timeline. We think Logan died hours before his roommate found him. Did you see him Monday evening?” She clicked on her recorder and pulled out her tablet.

  “No. We were mostly over.”

  “Who ended the relationship?”

  “No one, really. He would disappear sometimes, and I know he lied to me about where he went. I think he was seeing someone else.”

  Disappear was a trigger word. “When did you see him last?”

  “Friday, I think. At Taylor’s. I was there with my roommate, but I saw Logan and we had a beer. Then he took off.”

  Holding out the earring she’d picked up in the bathroom, Evans asked, “Is this yours?”

  “Where did you find it?” Danica reached for it.

  Evans pulled the evidence back. “On the floor where Logan died. Is it yours or not?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “If you were there with him when he died, I need to know. Tell me what happened.”

  Danica put the laptop on the floor and sat up. “I don’t even know what happened to our relationship.”

  When the girl shifted, Evans spotted a bruise on her forearm. “Was Logan abusive?”

  She jerked the blanket over it. “No, that happened when I helped my friend move.” Tears finally rolled down her face. But her eyes were angry.

  Evans didn’t believe her. “Did you and Logan fight physically?” Maybe the football player had developed a drug habit. Or took steroids that made him aggressive. Maybe Danica had fought back and struck him on the head. Or was she just being suspicious after a morning at Womenspace?

  “No.” Danica shook her head. “We argued, but that was it.”

  “Argued about what?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  Really? “His teammates say you cheated on him. Did he confront you?”

  She rolled her eyes. “I had dinner with a friend. And yes, it pissed him off, but Logan was the cheat.”

  “When did that happen?”

  “A month ago.” Irritation flashed in her eyes. “His death isn’t about me!”

  Time to get down to it. “Did he take drugs?”

  “Not around me.” She avoided eye contact.

  “But you think he did.”

  “Maybe cocaine sometimes.”

  “What about steroids?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She was either a liar or they hadn’t been much of a couple. “Who else might have been angry with him?”

  She shook her head. “Everyone liked Logan.”

  “But you think he had a new girlfriend?”

  “Whatever.” She made a dismissive gesture. “We were over. And now he’s dead.” A strange tone of satisfaction.

  The young woman was definitely not grieving. Had she killed him out of jealousy or anger? “
Where were you Tuesday night between eight p.m. and early the next morning?”

  CHAPTER 9

  Wednesday, September 4, 5:55 a.m.

  Jackson woke before his alarm, turned it off, then tried to focus. The sound of nearby breathing startled him. Someone was in his bed! He rolled over and saw the boy. Benjie’s eyes opened and a small smile played on his lips.

  Jackson grinned back. “Good morning. You must have been pretty quiet when you snuck in here, because I’m a light sleeper.”

  A bigger smile this time.

  “I have to make coffee and get in the shower. Will you stay right here?”

  The boy nodded.

  Jackson’s ex-wife had stayed home with Katie when she was little, so he wasn’t sure how much supervision a three-year-old needed. It seemed okay to take a quick shower. His Sig Sauer was in a locked case that opened only with his fingerprint, and the cleaning supplies were on a high shelf in the laundry room. He hurried to the bathroom, took his prednisone, and hopped in the shower.

  What the hell had he done bringing the boy here? It was just temporary, he reminded himself. He would find Amanda’s family today, no matter what it took. Then Benjie would begin to recover and not need him so much.

  Later in the kitchen, he asked the boy what he wanted for breakfast. When he didn’t get a response, Jackson opened a cupboard. “I’ve got cereal, pop-tarts, and toast.”

  “Junk food.”

  He spun toward the boy and laughed. “So, you’re a healthy eater. My girlfriend will like you. What do you want then?”

  “Eggs and fruit.”

  The boy was not only talking, he was articulate. A good sign. “I have eggs, but I’m not sure about the fruit.”

  Jackson scrambled eggs for two and found a box of raisins that had been hanging around since before Katie left. They chatted while they ate—a mostly one-way conversation—and Jackson resisted asking questions. Benjie needed time to feel safe. Jackson hoped to catch his mother’s assailant without the boy’s help at all.

  Derrick padded into the kitchen and poured himself some coffee. “Good morning. Who is our company?” His brother was home for a few days between long-haul gigs.

  “This is Benjie. I’m trying to find his family.”

  Derrick arched an eyebrow, but Jackson wouldn’t talk about the boy’s mother in front of him. He turned to Benjie and finished the introduction. “This is my brother, Derrick.”

  Benjie smiled and said, “Hi.”

  It surprised him at first, but then, he and Derrick had similar faces. His brother was taller, blonder, and more attractive, but they both looked like their mother. Jackson took his plate to the sink and spoke softly to Derrick at the counter. “How long are you home this time?”

  “Today and tomorrow. I leave early Friday, unless I get a job offer.”

  “I may need your help with Benjie.”

  Derrick grinned and punched his arm. “Good luck with that. I’m only up early because I have an interview this morning and another this afternoon. I have to get off the road.” He took his coffee back to his room.

  Jackson gave the boy a quick bath and some clean clothes, then pulled out the toys from his backpack. A talking computer gadget, some building blocks with letters, and several little trucks. Not much, but it would get him by for a while. He settled Benjie on the couch with his toys and a set of sound-blocking earphones. As an only child, Benjie was probably used to spending time alone, entertaining himself. With an alcoholic mother and no siblings, Jackson’s own daughter had become quite self-reliant at an early age. He regretted that independence now and wished he could raise Katie all over. But there were no second chances with kids.

  He shook it off. Time to dig up some information.

  His first call was to Cricket. He got lucky with a sympathetic manager who agreed to e-mail Amanda’s phone records for the past three months without asking for a warrant. Jackson had suggested she call the department to verify his ID and that had tipped the scale in his favor. The files would still take a few hours to arrive, but at least he had a component of the investigation moving forward.

  The call to Chase Bank was less rewarding. They wanted him to fax a subpoena. Jackson called Quince and asked him to take care of it, hating his dependency on his team for this case. Schak would also have to interview the homeowners when they came in. But he had to let go of the responsibility. Both detectives were good at their jobs, and he’d get an update at the task force meeting.

  That reminded him to send an e-mail with a photo of Amanda to his contact at the Willamette News. As much as he hated opening up a line of communication with the media, he owed it to the victim to do everything he could to find her family and solve her death.

  After that, he googled nursing homes and started making calls. Forty minutes later, he hadn’t found anyone who’d heard of Amanda Carter. He didn’t expect her to be on the payroll at either hospital, but he made the calls anyway and hit a dead end. Where else did people wear scrubs? Medical clinics and dental offices. He was skeptical though. With fake ID and a low-rent lifestyle, she was probably a minimum-wage employee. He came back to the nursing home idea and wondered if he’d missed one. He googled caregiver Eugene, and Fresh Horizons In-Home Care came up.

  That made sense. Amanda could have taken the boy with her to job sites. Jackson called the Eugene office, identified himself, and asked to speak to the director. After a long wait, a man’s voice came on. “This is Albert Yamhill. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m investigating the death of Amanda Carter and looking for information about her. Did she work for you?”

  A funny noise of surprise. “She did. We were just going to call her. She was supposed to work this morning and didn’t show up.” He made another strange sound in his throat. “I’m sorry to hear she’d dead. What happened?”

  “We’re not sure yet. Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”

  “I didn’t really know Amanda, but she seemed nice. Our clients liked her and she was dependable.”

  “Did she mention anyone threatening her?”

  “Not to me.”

  “What about family? I need to let them know.”

  “Let me see who she listed as an emergency contact.” The sound of a drawer opening and papers rustling. The director came back. “She put down Lucille Caiden. Do you want the phone number?”

  “Please.” Finally, someone who knew the victim. “Do you have an address too?”

  “No.” The director relayed the phone number.

  Damn. The 458 area code could be anywhere in Oregon, but not likely Eugene.

  “How is her little boy?”

  “He’s fine, but he needs a family. Do you know anything about his father?”

  “No. Our employees work independently and only come in for meetings and training. So they don’t really even know each other.”

  “Can I have a copy of Amanda’s schedule and who she was taking care of?”

  He hesitated. “I’ll send it to you, but our clients are mostly shut-ins. I doubt any of them could be involved.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” But he would check them out anyway. One might have a son who was mentally ill or drug addicted and had become infatuated with Amanda. Jackson gave his e-mail address. “If you think of anything important, please contact me.”

  He glanced at Benjie, who’d stretched out on the couch and was about to fall asleep. Jackson checked the time. A late morning nap. That was normal, wasn’t it?

  He poured himself another cup of coffee, then dialed the contact’s number, his torso tight with expectation.

  As he was about to hang up, an older woman answered. “Hello?” She sounded feeble.

  He introduced himself, then jumped right in, asking a loaded question. “How do you know Amanda Carter?”

  A sharp intake of
breath. “Oh no. What happened?”

  Oh damn. He hadn’t braced for this. “I’m sorry to tell you she died. We’re not sure how. Are you rela—”

  The woman cut in, near hysteria. “Where’s Benjie? Did he take him?”

  Ten questions popped into his brain, and Jackson wanted answers to all of them. He forced himself to proceed slowly. “Benjie is fine. He was hiding under the house where Amanda died.” He glanced over. The boy still had on his headphones but his eyes were open. “Tell me how you know Amanda.”

  “She’s my granddaughter.”

  “What’s her real name?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Oh crap. “Someone murdered her, and I need your help. I need to know everything.”

  “Murdered? He hurt her? Oh no. I thought he just wanted the boy.” The old woman began to cry.

  He? A viable suspect. Jackson had to comfort the grandmother first. “We think Amanda died quickly, but we’re still trying to figure out what happened.”

  “He probably found them, but she must have hid Benjie in time.”

  “Who was stalking her? Benjie’s father?”

  Silence.

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. Amanda would never tell me. But she was afraid of him.”

  Frustration made him impatient. This was getting nowhere. “Did he write the threatening note in Amanda’s wallet?”

  “Yes. He left it in my mailbox and I sent it to her. She wanted it because she thought it might help the police someday if he ever found them.”

  “What is Amanda’s real name?”

  “I can’t tell you. I promised to keep her secret.”

  Now he was pissed. “Amanda is dead. You can’t help her by keeping things from us.”

  “Benjie still needs protection. I’m sorry.” She hung up.

  “Dammit!” Jackson glanced at the boy, who watched with wary eyes. Kids knew when you were talking about them.

  Irritated, he jumped up. He hadn’t had a chance to ask the woman if she would take care of Benjie. Or if another family member could. Pacing, he redialed the number, but Lucille Caiden didn’t answer. If he had to, he would drive down to Drain and talk to her.