Death Deserved (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (5 page)

“Okay. I’ll meet you at the house later.”

“Give me the address.”

Once she had the information, Evans headed to the surgery area on the second floor. She asked the desk nurse about the condition of the Jane Doe and was told she’d been moved to the ICU. Evans checked her phone to make sure she hadn’t missed any messages, then went back upstairs to where she’d just been. It would be interesting to hear what the victim had to say about her fake ID. Like Lammers, once people experienced a close call with death, they often cast aside the bullshit to get real about what was left of their lives.

CHAPTER 5

Wednesday, December 2, 10:52 a.m.

Jackson noticed Evans getting into her car and started to lift his hand, then changed his mind. It was best to keep their interaction as professional as possible. Rekindling those uncertain and confusing emotions wouldn’t be good for either of them. He strode toward the three patrol officers talking in the driveway of the farmhouse. Their presence back at the scene meant they’d finished canvassing the area. “Any witnesses?”

Two shook their heads, but the third officer, a woman about his age, pointed toward River Road. “No one was home at the next house in that direction, so it will need a follow-up.”

Jackson hadn’t expected much, but still, he was disappointed. The homes in the area all had acreage, which meant they had privacy from one another. Unless someone happened to be passing by at the time of the shooting and noticed an unfamiliar vehicle or heard the shots, they weren’t likely to learn anything from the neighbors. Still, someone from the team would check back with all potential witnesses. “Find anything in your search of the property?” he added.

The woman officer handed him a plastic evidence bag. “A cigarette butt. I found it by the front porch. It looks fresh.”

A Camel Wide. Jackson tucked the bag into his satchel. For the first time, he wondered if they were looking for more than one shooter. So far, they had little physical evidence. But if the butt belonged to one of the killers, the DNA from the saliva could help convict them.

His next objective was to find, notify, and question Josh Stalling’s immediate family members, but he was waiting on a call from the desk officer. Meanwhile Darwood was headed to the department with the gun-loving neighbor and would stick him in the interrogation room. Some alone time in the windowless hole would probably make him more cooperative. The desk officer would check on him and bring him food and water.

“Hey, you’ve got to come see this,” Schak called from the front door of the farmhouse.

Jackson hustled inside, and the officers followed. The familiar ache tugged at him with every quickened step. He’d have to find another way to work out in the morning. Running was out of the question for now.

Once they were all inside, Schak led them across the wide living room, down the hall, and into a bedroom. A bed had been pulled away from a corner to reveal a hinged opening in the floor. A black metal box sat open near the access hole.

Schak gestured at the box. “There’s twenty grand in there.”

“I’m not surprised.” Because federal law still labeled marijuana as a Schedule One narcotic, dealing in cash was typical for pot growers, even when it was legal in their state.

“Oh, there’s more.” Schak grinned. “Check out this dresser.” He patted the top of an antique chest of drawers made of dark wood with ornate carvings. Jackson opened the top drawer, having to pull harder than he’d expected. Knives of every size and shape filled the space, most stacked in layers with cloth separating them. At least fifty or more. “That’s quite a collection.”

“Every drawer is like that.” Schak shook his head. “There must be two hundred knives in there.”

Freaky.
“Do we need to take them all to the evidence lockers?” He’d never encountered anything quite like it. Technically, they were weapons. Yet no one had been stabbed, so confiscating them probably wasn’t necessary.

“I took photos, and that should be good enough. Let’s leave them for his family to deal with.” Schak picked up the cash box. “But this is drug money, and it goes to the evidence building.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” the female officer asked with a laugh. “The last time you guys turned in a pile of cash, a chunk of it went missing.”

Jackson laughed to be polite. “At least they recovered some of it. But the missing human skull was never found.” Three evidence personnel had helped themselves to whatever had caught their attention in the storage lockers and had gotten away with it for years. But skimming twenty-five grand from the hundred thousand he and Schak had turned in from an old robbery had been their undoing. One officer was still fighting in court to keep herself out of jail.

Jackson turned to Schak. “What hasn’t been searched? I’ve got a few minutes while I wait for a call about who owns the house and who’s next of kin.”

“Quince is working the bathroom and kitchen, but no one’s been into the attic yet.”

Jackson started toward the door.

“The access is in the hall,” Schak called after him.

Jackson hadn’t seen a staircase. When he exited the bedroom, he looked up and spotted the string to a pull-down staircase hanging from the ceiling. But the walls were ten feet high, and the string was short, so he went to the dining area to grab a chair. Obviously, no one had gone into the attic regularly—or the occupants hadn’t wanted anyone to enter.

Musty, cool air bathed his face as the door dropped down. Jackson hopped off the chair, pushed it aside, and unfolded the metal steps. The climb into the attic tugged at his surgical scar, but he’d learned to ignore that. When most of his body was up inside the dark space, he looked around for a light and found a pull string.

In the dim glow of an old-fashioned bulb, the room came into view. Relieved that the attic was finished with drywall and carpet, he stepped off the stairs and into the long, narrow room. A path down the center separated two stacked piles of household items: boxes and plastic tubs filled with small electronics, plus stereo equipment, TVs, bicycle parts, and more. Jackson walked to the other end, surveying the goods. This wasn’t storage for someone’s personal items. Instinct told him it was all stolen property. But the layer of dust indicated it had been sitting there for years.

Why hadn’t Stalling fenced it? Maybe it didn’t even belong to the dead man. Jackson wished the county or the desk officer would call with information about ownership of the home and the pot-growing license. He opened the shades at both ends of the attic and took a dozen photos. He would contact detectives in Finance and Property and let them check the serial numbers. They could decide if they wanted to haul all of the goods to the evidence lockers at the crime lab. He couldn’t afford to be distracted with extraneous, time-consuming, and probably nonproductive tasks. But he would conduct a thorough search of Josh Stalling’s criminal record and all the case notes for investigations the victim had been mentioned in.

Jackson climbed down the ladder and strode back to the bedroom where Schak was still tagging evidence. Suspecting that Stalling had kept a few things for personal use, he asked his partner, “Did you find a collection of jewelry and watches?”

“A nice one. Why? What’s up?”

“It could all be stolen. Let’s turn these items over to Property Crimes.” Jackson described what he’d found in the attic, then added, “We have to consider that the shooting might be connected to an old robbery. Maybe to settle a score.”

“The cash could be from a bank job, you’re saying.”

“Possibly. We’ll get it tested for drug residue and check the serial numbers too.”

Schak nodded. “Stalling is the kind of victim it’s hard to feel sorry for.”

Jackson remembered the conversation he’d had with Paulson about the odor from the grow operation, which he could still smell. “His neighbor would agree.” Jackson touched Schak’s shoulder briefly. “Don’t forget a woman was shot here too, and she may have been an innocent bystander. We’ll pursue this with the same diligence as always.”

Schak stiffened. “I’ve never given anything but a hundred percent.”

“I know. Sorry. I didn’t mean to imply you wouldn’t. Sometimes I have to remind myself to give a shit about these kinds of victims.” It was judgmental, but after two decades of police work, he’d earned the right. His phone rang in his jacket pocket, and he grabbed it. The department’s desk officer. About time. “Jackson here.”

“Sorry for the delay. We had an incident with a walk-in at the counter.”

People who came into the police department were often emotional. “No problem. What have you got?”

“The marijuana-cultivation license belongs to Shanna McCoy. She was on Josh Stalling’s visitor list when he was in jail eight years ago. His sister.”

“What’s her address and employer?” He needed to see McCoy right away.

“She owns another business called Beauty by Brianna and lives above it. It’s downtown on Eighth Avenue, in one of those new retail spaces with apartments over them.” The clerk gave him the address. “You need anything else?”

“What do we know about her?”

“She was married to Doug McCoy, but they divorced years ago.”

“Thanks.” Jackson hung up and looked over at Schak. “I’m heading out to talk to the victim’s family. I’ll see you at the task force meeting in a couple of hours.”

“No salad!” Schak was dead serious.

Jackson laughed. “Didn’t plan on it.”

CHAPTER 6

He had to park behind the WOW Hall, a music venue, then walk around the block to the row of retail stores. Small, but upscale, they’d finally all been leased. The salon was tucked between an acupuncturist and an art studio, and he’d also passed an internet café. They all looked a little empty. The sign in the window read, “Beauty by Brianna, Eyelashes and Nails.” Eyelashes were a business? He walked inside and recoiled at the intense chemical smell. What was it? Two women sat across from each other at a small table, and he realized one was getting a manicure. She wouldn’t be happy to have it interrupted.

They both turned their heads. The older one, who had sleek blonde hair and wore a black blouse, tensed. As she looked him over, her face tightened. She’d been visited by the police before.

“Give me three minutes,” she said. “I’m almost done here.”

Jackson nodded. The job had taught him patience long ago. While he waited, he looked around the room, trying to get a sense of the owner. Pale-peach walls with draped fabric to soften the corners and several large mirrors with wide frames made of colored glass. A beauty salon, decorated to flatter and relax its customers. Stairs crossed the back wall, leading up to an apartment overhead.

The young woman paid with a credit card, swiped on a cell phone. Jackson moved closer for a better look at the little device attached to the phone. He tried to keep up with technology, but this was new to him. The customer left, and he took her seat across the little table from the proprietor. The chemicals seeped into his brain, giving him a headache. “Are you Shanna McCoy?”

“Yes. Is this about Josh?” Her jaw clenched. She was pretty in an angular way, but wore enough makeup for three people.

“I’m Detective Jackson, Eugene Police.” The polite thing would be to simply tell her about her brother. But that wouldn’t help him solve the murder. “When was the last time you saw Josh?”

“Last week. I stopped by the house to—” She hesitated. “To see him.”

What didn’t she want him to know? “And to collect money?”

“Our finances are not your business. What is this about?” McCoy crossed her arms.

“The home you own with your brother. And the marijuana cultivation going on there. Tell me about the arrangement. Who profits and how much?” The county had finally called with the home-ownership information on the drive over.

“It’s all legal.” McCoy sat up and stiffened her shoulders. “Did something happen? Just fucking tell me.”

He still didn’t have a sense of whether he could trust her reaction or truthfulness, but he couldn’t stall any longer. “I’m sorry to report that Josh was murdered this morning.”

“Oh god.” Her arms dropped to her stomach, and she rocked forward. She was quiet for a long moment, then looked up with tears in her eyes. “I used to brace myself for his death, back when he was using and getting into trouble. But he’s been good for a long time.”

Or maybe her brother had gotten better at hiding the truth from her.

“What happened?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He would keep the details from her awhile longer—to see what she knew. “You and Josh own the house together?”

“Yes, our mother left it to both of us. She probably assumed we would sell it and split the money.”

His parents had done the same with him and his brother, Derrick. Jackson was now living in the house they jointly owned, but it was finally on the market. “What about the pot business? Did you split the profit on that?” His team would peruse any bank documents they could find, but he wasn’t optimistic.

“I own the business, but I paid Josh to do the cultivation.” The tears finally overflowed and ran down her cheeks. She took a moment to compose herself, then asked, “Who killed him?”

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

A flash of irritation in her eyes. “Why would I know?”

“He’s your brother. Who was angry with him? Who might want him dead?”

Heavy footsteps on the stairs made Jackson push out of his chair and turn. Coming down was a well-dressed man about his size—six-foot and two hundred pounds or so.

“Shanna, stop answering questions.” The man glanced at Jackson briefly, then focused again on the woman. “Not without a lawyer anyway.” His blond hair was gray at the temples, and he looked a decade older than McCoy.

A wave of emotions washed over her face as she stood up. First relief, then anger.

Jackson tried to catch the man’s eyes. “Who are you?”

“Charles Kazmir. I’m Shanna’s accountant and significant other.” He stepped toward Jackson. “Unless you have an arrest or search warrant, I think you should leave.”

Was he just a jackass, or did Kazmir have something to hide? “Did you know Josh Stalling?”

“Of course. He was a pain in the ass.” The corners of the man’s mouth turned down. At first glance, his face had seemed to match his attractive clothing, but now a coldness set in.

“Why didn’t you like him?”

“General reasons. He had an ugly past and an aversion to the truth. I didn’t trust him.” Kazmir’s face darkened, as if he regretted his words.

“That’s not fair! Josh had changed,” the sister shouted at her boyfriend, but he ignored her.

Jackson locked eyes with him. “Where were you this morning between seven and eight?”

“Upstairs, in bed with my girlfriend.” The man pointed his finger at the ceiling. “We’re done answering questions.”

McCoy rushed at Kazmir and grabbed his arm. “Why did you say that? What’s going on?”

He’d lied about his alibi?
A red flag! Jackson started to step between them to get answers, then changed his mind. It could be informative to hear how this played out. He slipped his recorder out of his pocket and clicked it on.

“Shut up, Shanna!” Kazmir was livid.

“Did you kill Josh?” Her eyes were wide with shock and anger.

“Hell no! What are you saying?” Kazmir reached out to soothe her.

“Don’t touch me.” McCoy brushed his hand away. “Where were you?”

This time he grabbed her arm, yanked her in close, and put his face next to hers. “We’ll talk about it later.” His voice oozed menace.

Jackson stepped forward, wishing he had a baton or a stun gun on him, instead of just his Sig Sauer. The Taser was in the car. “Let her go!”

McCoy punched her boyfriend in the chest and started to sob. Kazmir headed for the stairs, dragging the woman with him.

Jackson reached for his phone and pressed the speed-dial button for the call center. “Detective Jackson here. I need backup near the corner of Eighth and Lincoln. The salon in the middle of the retail stores.” The exact address had escaped him for the moment.

“I’ll send officers now. Any details?”

“Domestic disturbance.” Jackson hung up and put the phone in his pocket. He itched to draw his weapon, but these people weren’t armed. Yet Kazmir could be the killer, and Jackson wouldn’t let him get by without a physical altercation.
Oh hell.
Was there another exit from upstairs?

The grieving sister was now hysterical. She resisted Kazmir’s efforts to drag her up the stairs and shouted profanities. “Let go, you fucker! I’m sick of your control.”

From his spot on the narrow step above her, Kazmir didn’t have much leverage, despite his size advantage. He tried coaxing her. “It’s not what you think. Give me a chance to explain, just not in front of a cop.”

McCoy yanked free, spun, and ran toward the front door. Jackson cut her off, and she smashed into him.

He rocked back, but caught himself. The woman bounced off and screamed, “Get out of my way!”

Jackson took five steps back and stood in front of the entrance. He glanced at Kazmir. The man turned and charged up the steps.

“Is there another exit?” he shouted at the woman.

She looked confused.

He pulled his phone out and hit the call-center icon again. “Jackson here. I need a unit in the alley behind the building, watching for a man in black slacks and a light-colored pullover. Six-feet, two hundred pounds, blond hair.”

McCoy’s emotions seemed to shift again, and she looked alarmed. “Don’t let them shoot Charles!”

He’d seen a lot of grieving people react in unique ways, but this woman was a wild card. He wondered about her mental health. “Sit down. On the floor!” He needed to minimize her potential to come at him.

She shook her head. “You need to forget what I said earlier. I’m upset about Josh and not thinking clearly. Charles wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

The recorder was still running in his pocket, and he reached to shut it off. “Sit on the floor. Now!” After witnessing her boyfriend’s physical dominance, the last thing Jackson wanted to do was restrain her. He had cuffs in his pocket, but didn’t want this to go down like that.

A siren wailed outside, and Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. The patrol officers would be better equipped to handle the woman. And they would be numerous. But he could make their job easier by preparing her. “I need to ask more questions. And it’s best if we do it at the department. Please don’t resist, or they’ll cuff you and charge you with assault.” He’d watched her strike her boyfriend, so they had a solid basis for bringing her in.

“Such bullshit.” She burst into tears again and sat down at the little manicure table.

He could finally stop barricading the door. Jackson remembered that the gun-loving old neighbor from the shooting scene was already in one of the interrogation rooms. They would have to put the boyfriend in the other hard room and the sister in the soft room they usually used for kids. He’d never had this many suspects in custody so soon after a homicide.

Two men in uniform burst into the room. He recognized one from his patrol days.

“Cuff her, please, but be gentle,” Jackson said. “She’s had a rough time.” He charged toward the stairs. “I need one of you with me. The other suspect might still be in the building.”

He heard an officer following but didn’t look back. At the top of the stairs, the door into the apartment was shut. He reached for the knob, knowing it would be locked. It was. The two-foot-wide landing between the top step and the entry didn’t give him much room to maneuver. Kicking doors open wasn’t easy even with a full strike range.

The officer behind him said, “Let me use my flashlight.”

Jackson turned sideways, and they switched places in the tight space. The beat cop was older and heavier, and Jackson finally remembered his name.

Officer Sanford detached a foot-long black flashlight from his belt and brought it down on the doorknob with both hands. A crack appeared in the wood above the knob. Sanford took a second swing and knocked the handle partway out of the door. The third blow broke the latch, and the door moved a little. Sanford brought up a foot and smashed it open.

They searched the small, tidy apartment, but Kazmir wasn’t present. A door led out of the dining area to a small back landing and a set of metal steps heading down. Under a cover of clouds, Jackson scanned the area, looking down at the parking lot. He spotted Kazmir in the alley a block over. Sanford did too and radioed his location. It was only a matter of time before they picked up the suspect. Or so he hoped. But he couldn’t wait around to find out. There was too much else to be done in the first twenty-four hours of a homicide investigation.

On the way to the department, Jackson finally listened to all his messages. Evans had made several unusual discoveries.