Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (8 page)

“So the owner was expecting trouble.”

“Could be.” River was ready to move on. “I think I’ll look at the emergency exit, then head up to the office.”

She located the back door by the glow of the red sign in an otherwise dark area stacked with boxes. They’d left a path to the door, but just barely. River stopped five feet out, got on her knees, and shined a flashlight on the cement in front of the door. No footprints. Even if they had dried in the last hour or two, the dirt outlines would have still been there. She took photos of the floor, then pushed open the door and braced for an alarm.

None sounded. She would have to ask if there actually was an alarm and, if so, who had disabled it. A small light above the door gave her some illumination, but she ran her flashlight along the seal. There were no signs of the emergency exit having been pried open from the outside.

As she climbed the stairs to the office, River felt weary for the first time that evening. It was a good sign and she hoped she would sleep well when she finally got home. The rectangular room had a long window overlooking the factory floor but otherwise was utilitarian with dirty white paint, fluorescent lights, and cheap desks. Only the couch gave it a comfortable touch, and the first thing River noticed was a pair of men’s underwear stuffed between the cushions.

So she’d been right. Jerry Bromwell had company when the intruder broke in. Who was she and why had he lied?

CHAPTER 6

Wednesday, March 13, 6:45 a.m.

Craig Cooper’s sister lived in central Eugene, a few blocks from the library, in one of the few adobe houses in town. Even in the predawn darkness, thanks to the shift from daylight saving time, Jackson noticed the smooth exterior, curved-edged windows, and peculiar roofline. He stopped to read the sign at the edge of the walkway:
Jane Niven, Spiritual Guide
.

Oh crap.
Woo-woo types drove him crazy. Whenever the department asked for the public’s help, they always got calls from the genuine crazies and a few from the borderline types who thought they communicated with the dead. He prayed Jane Niven was neither.

At the door, he squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before knocking. The tall cup of Italian coffee he’d drank on the way over hadn’t kicked in yet, and the three hours of sleep he’d managed to get hadn’t done much except remind him that he was
tired. He waited a few minutes, then pounded again. A single-seat electric car was in the driveway, so he assumed someone was home.

Finally, he called out, “Eugene Police.”

Two minutes later, a long-haired woman in a lime-green bathrobe opened the door. “What’s wrong? What the hell time is it? Let me see your badge.” The words came at him quickly yet had a sleepy, surreal tone.

“Jane Niven?”

“Yes.” She flipped on the porch light, and he could see that she had the same narrow nose and mouth as her brother.

“Detective Jackson, Eugene Police. I’m here about your brother, Craig Cooper. May I come in?”

Her rounded shoulders sagged even lower. “Damn. I thought he was going to make it this time.”

Jane walked away but didn’t close the door, so Jackson followed her inside. She moved into a galley kitchen and turned on more lights. “It’s not even seven. No wonder I’m half asleep.” She turned to face him. “I’m making coffee. Whatever you want to know about Craig will have to wait until I can at least smell it.”

When she had a pot brewing, they sat at a small round table with a flowered fabric cover.

“What is it this time? Did he relapse?” Jane’s brow creased. “I’ve seen no signs that he was using.”

Jackson didn’t know how to ease into it. “Ms. Niven, I’m sorry to inform you that Craig is dead.”

She tightened her robe and crossed her arms. Her eyes teared up but she didn’t cry. After a minute, the sister said, “Long ago, when he was a homeless meth user, I braced myself for this. I promised myself I would never cry for him again.”

Jane jumped up and lurched to the coffeepot. With a shaking hand, she poured two cups and set them on the table.

Jackson wanted to focus on something positive to put her at ease, but he reminded himself that she was a primary suspect. “You asked if Craig had relapsed. Does that mean he got clean for a while?”

“Prison will do that for you.” She closed her eyes and gulped coffee as if it were a religious experience. “How did he die? An overdose?”

“He was stabbed, but we don’t know who did it yet. I’m hoping you can help us.” Jackson usually didn’t drink out of open containers offered by witnesses or suspects, but he’d watched her make the coffee. It smelled incredible, and his body craved caffeine. He took a sip and waited to see what information Jane would offer, but she was focused on her coffee.

“What did Craig go to prison for?” Jackson had learned the basics from a database search late the night before, but it was always interesting to hear personal versions.

“Armed robbery.” Jane shook her head. “It was the meth. The drug changed him. Craig wasn’t a violent man.”

“When did he get out?” Jackson remembered the tattoo on the victim’s hand.

“A couple months ago.” A stray tear escaped her brimming eyes. “I thought he was doing fine. He had a job, he was checking in with his parole officer and saving for an apartment.”

“When did you see him last?”

“Thursday. He was here for dinner.”

“How did he seem and what did he talk about?”

“He was fine. He talked about wanting a new job because the smell of gas gave him headaches, but he seemed upbeat.”

Time to get to the heart of it. “Who was he looking for?”

She blinked and took a sip of coffee. “What do you mean?”

Jackson slipped Cooper’s laptop out of his carryall. “You sent Craig a message saying you couldn’t find someone and to
leave you alone. What was that about?” Jackson opened the saved Facebook page. He didn’t want Jane to waste time denying knowledge of the issue, whatever it was.

“Craig wanted me to contact Danny Brennan, one of the men he committed the robbery with.”

“He wasn’t apprehended?”

“Danny was caught before Craig.” Jane sighed and rubbed her face. “I don’t want to talk about this. It’s too painful.”

“I sympathize, but it could be connected to Craig’s death.”

“That seems unlikely.”

Time for a little pressure. “Where were you last night between six and seven?”

“Seriously? You think I could have killed my brother?”

“Where were you?”

“I had dinner out with a friend, then I came home.”

“What time did you leave the restaurant?”

“About eight.” Jane stood and poured herself more coffee. “This is a waste of time.”

“Then let’s move through it quickly. Show me what you were wearing last night.”

She shuddered, but headed out of the kitchen and down a hallway. Jackson followed, noticing that her living room had thick carpet and lots of pillows on the floor around a central low table. Did she conduct séances?

Jane turned into a bedroom, flipped open a laundry basket, and pulled out a skirt and sweater. She shoved them at Jackson. “See? No blood. I had no reason to kill my brother.”

The pink sweater and gray wool skirt smelled like incense, but held no stains. That also didn’t prove anything. She could have thrown away yesterday’s clothes, but Jackson didn’t have enough reason to start looking in neighborhood trash cans. Not with
Todd Sheppard, who lived a hundred feet away from the victim, having blood on his face. “Let me see your hands.”

Jane held them out. Her bony fingers were covered with rings—oversize silver and copper creations—and the backs of her hands were freckled and scarred. A bandage covered her right pinkie, but otherwise she had no visible wounds.

“What happened there?” Jackson gestured at the bandage.

“I cut myself opening a can of soup yesterday.”

“Let’s sit back down. I need you to tell me about Danny Brennan and why your brother wanted to contact him.” At the table, he took out his recorder.

She crossed her arms and leaned back. “I don’t expect this to go well.”

Jackson suppressed his irritation. “Just tell me.”

A long moment. “Danny Brennan is dead, but Craig thought we could find out where the money is.”

The two concepts clashed in Jackson’s head, then he remembered Jane was a woo-woo.
Oh boy.
“You were trying to contact Danny’s spirit to ask him where he stashed the robbery money?” Jackson tried to remember the old case. He didn’t usually work robberies, and there had been so many over the years.

“Yes,” Jane said, “and I failed. Danny’s been dead for nine years, so I wasn’t optimistic. And if a spirit doesn’t want to communicate, there’s nothing I can do.” She folded her hands together in earnest.

Jackson couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. He was glad Evans wasn’t there. She would have snorted coffee on the woman. “But Craig wanted you to keep trying? How much money was it?”

“A hundred and twenty-five thousand. Craig said he wanted to find it and turn it in to the bank.”

Jackson suppressed a scoffing sound. If he unraveled this thread far enough, he might find the killer and the cash. “Tell me what happened. How did Danny die?”

“I wasn’t there, but Craig said Danny was carrying the money when they left the bank, then Danny ditched Craig almost immediately.” Jane twisted a strand of long hair. “The police caught Danny soon after and killed him. But the money was never recovered.”

Now Jackson remembered more about the case. Detective Dragoo had shot the perp when he’d pulled a gun. They’d searched Brennan’s apartment—and everywhere—but the cash had never turned up. The next day, detectives had arrested Craig Cooper and questioned a third man.
Oh yeah. Danny’s brother.
“What happened to Danny’s brother?”

Jane shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Patrick since Craig’s trial. Patrick always claimed the police took the money.”

Typical lowlife bullshit
, Jackson thought. Patrick had probably been involved in the robbery and kept the money himself. “Do you know where Patrick is?”

She looked upset. “Why would I? They were Craig’s drug buddies and partners in crime. I had nothing to do with them.”

“But you spent time with your brother after he was released?”

“Craig had started a new life. He was clean and working a job.” After a long sip of coffee and what looked like an internal conversation with herself, Jane finally said, “But I didn’t let him stay here. I felt guilty about him living in that storage unit, but I had to make sure he wasn’t going to relapse and cause me trouble.”

“That’s understandable.”

“I did give him my old laptop, so he could play games and surf the internet when he could piggyback on someone’s wireless.
I helped him set up a Facebook page so we could chat sometimes. I was the only real friend he had.” Jane burst into tears.

As uncomfortable as her grief made him, Jackson was relieved to see she still cared about her brother. He’d recently reconnected with his own brother after a ten-year estrangement, and it had deepened his appreciation for long-term family ties.

He gave Jane a moment and stepped into the living room. The walls were covered in a creamy, textured paper, and bamboo plants were everywhere. Combined with the floor seating, the overall effect seemed Japanese. Except the art prints, which portrayed benevolent spirits. To each his own.

When her sobs subsided, Jackson went back to the table. “Was Craig trying to find Patrick too? Had he contacted him?”

“I don’t know. Patrick always denied any part in the robbery, but nobody believed him.”

“Did Craig ever implicate him?”

“No.”

Jackson thought it was a good possibility that either Patrick had come looking for Craig after he got out of prison, or that Craig had gone looking for Patrick. One of them had the money, and they both wanted their share. Jackson would have to dig up the old files and talk to the detectives who’d handled the case. It would be nice to solve this murder and pin it on a man who’d skirted the justice system for too long. They might even recover some of the money. Time to wrap up this interview. “Do you know anyone else who might have wanted to kill your brother?”

“His ex-wife hates him, but that was long ago.”

“What’s her name?”

“Dora Cooper. Or it was. I don’t know anything about her life now.”

“Do you know how to contact her?” Jackson clicked off his recorder.

Jane stood. “I have an old phone number, but I doubt it’s good anymore. Everyone has a cell phone now, and I haven’t been in touch with Dora in ages.”

Jackson followed her to a small back office, where Jane dug through a desk drawer. She produced an old address book with a phone number, then dug around some more. She turned and handed him a red envelope. “Here’s a Christmas card Dora sent me a few years ago. It has a return address.”

Jackson thanked her, expressed his condolences for her loss, and headed out. In his car, he called the juvenile justice court clerk. “This is Wade Jackson. I’m calling about my daughter, Katie Jackson. Does she have a hearing today?” Words he never thought he’d have to say.