Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (11 page)

“Then you know more about her than I do.” Katie dried her hands and bolted toward the hallway. “I’ve gotta pack some stuff.”

Jackson let it go for now. He knew better than to push. His daughter could be incredibly stubborn, and she came by the trait naturally.

Ray Bondioli was home when Jackson showed up after dropping Katie off at her aunt’s. Thirty-something and sporting a mullet, Bondioli had the nervous twitch and rotten teeth that Jackson associated with meth use. The manager invited him in and offered him a seat at a stained Formica table near a kitchen that reeked of days-old garbage. Jackson passed a living room couch covered with two sleeping kids. With some Pine-Sol and new carpet, the apartment could have been okay. It was bigger than he’d expected.

“You want something to drink? I’ve only got beer and water.”

“No thanks.” Jackson didn’t drink from glasses handed to him by strangers, and he didn’t drink alcohol when he was working.

“What can I do for you?” Bondioli sat, but didn’t relax.

“We’re interviewing the building’s tenants in connection with a homicide investigation.”

Bondioli cut in. “Yeah. I know. I talked to that other cop yesterday. The woman.”

“I want to know about two of your tenants who have not been home in the last few days.” Jackson glanced at his notes. “Joseph Orte and Mariska Harrison.”

The manager breathed a quick sigh of relief. “Joe’s gone on business. He left last Friday. Travels all the time. But Mariska Harrison,” Bondioli shook his head. “I haven’t seen her since she rented the place. Other people use the apartment sometimes, though.”

“What other people?”

“A guy in a business suit. And I saw an older couple coming out of it once too.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“She pays the rent on time, doesn’t draw any complaints from her neighbors, and never needs anything from me.” Bondioli grinned. “Hell yes, I’m okay with that. She’s my favorite tenant.”

“You have a phone number for her?”

“Sure.” The manager went over to the narrow computer desk in the dining room and opened a drawer. He took out the file, copied down two numbers on the back of a grocery receipt, and handed the paper to Jackson.

“Thanks.”

Jackson pulled out a photo of Jessie from the back of his case-file and held it up. “Have you ever seen her before?”

Bondioli shook his head. “Is that the dead girl?”

“Yeah.”

They both took a moment to reflect on that.

“How old are your kids?” Jackson asked.

“Seven and ten. But they’re my sister’s kids. I’m just baby-sitting while she works the dinner shift at Sheri’s.”

“Thanks for your help.”

Back in his car, Jackson called Mariska Harrison. She didn’t answer, so he left a message and tried the other number. After two rings, she picked up. He could hear the chatter and clang of a restaurant in the background.

“This is Detective Wade Jackson of the Eugene police. I need to talk to you about your Oakwood apartment.”

“May I ask what this is about?” A clipped and cool voice.

“A homicide investigation. Can we meet right now?”

“I’m having dinner with friends. I can meet you in about an hour at Adam’s Place.”

“Downtown mall?”

“Yes. I’ll be at the bar. In black pants and a maroon sweater.”

“See you then.”

Mariska Harrison was younger than her businesslike voice had led him to believe. She was stocky, in her late twenties, and had curly dark hair that molded to her scalp. Her light brown skin and mixed-race features made Jackson think she might be Puerto Rican.

Harrison shook his hand firmly and offered to buy him a drink. Jackson ordered a Diet Pepsi and put two dollars on the bar. Mariska asked for a glass of dry white wine, then turned to him and asked, “So who’s dead?”

“Let’s get our drinks and go to a table where it will be quieter.”

The upscale bar was small, appointed with dark-toned wood, and crowded with Eugene’s better-dressed citizens, which meant no tie-dye, hemp, or sandals. Jackson picked a booth that was not right under a speaker. The piped-in jazz set his teeth on edge.

When they had settled in, Jackson pulled out his notepad. There was barely enough light to see what was on the page. “Tell me about the Oakwood apartment you rent on Patterson Street. The manager says you don’t really live there.”

Harrison scowled. “He really didn’t have any business telling you that. But first, tell me who’s dead.”

Jackson gave her his best don’t-fuck-with-me stare. He was tempted to take her over to the department for questioning, just to show her who was in charge of this conversation. But it would be a colossal consumption of time. And time was running out.

Jessie had been dead for more than twenty-four hours now, and they still didn’t have a viable suspect.

He held up Jessie’s photo. “This girl was found in a dumpster between the Regency and Oakwood Apartments. Do you know her?”

“No.” A little bravado went out of Harrison’s tone.

“Tell me about your apartment there.”

“I rent it for the mayor. I’m his personal assistant.”

Jackson tried not to show his surprise. “Why does the mayor need a small, low-rent apartment? Doesn’t he have a nice home in the south hills?”

“He works very long hours and sometimes, when he has a break during the day, he goes there to nap or listen to music. His parents stay there when they come into town to visit too. They don’t like hotels and they don’t like his wife.”

“Did the mayor take a break there yesterday?” Jackson tried to picture Miles Fieldstone—tall, lanky, and ridiculously good looking—stretched out on a couch in an apartment similar to Bondioli’s. He couldn’t make the image work.

“Not that I know of.” Harrison shrugged and sipped her wine.

The mayor’s secret-apartment scenario intrigued Jackson—always good to see tax dollars hard at work—but did it have any bearing on this case?

“So you’ve never stayed in the apartment?”

“No.”

“But you pay the rent?”

“The mayor reimburses me.”

“With city money? Or out of his personal account?”

“I don’t know. He gives me cash.”

“I need to talk with Mr. Fieldstone. Get me on his calendar tomorrow.”

“I can’t. He’s in meetings all day.”

“This is important. I’d like to clear the mayor from this investigation as quickly as possible. Especially before the press gets wind of the connection.”

Mariska sneered at his clumsy threat. “I’ll do what I can.”

Jackson handed her a business card. “Call me with a meet time.”

He left the bar and drove the six blocks back to the police department. Judge Cranston had likely signed the warrant for Grady’s DNA and sent it over by now. Jackson would swab him, then interrogate him again. Casaway had also brought in two other sex offenders who still needed to be questioned. Jessie’s crime scene photos had been processed, and Jackson would use them in the interrogations. Maybe he would catch a break. Sex offenders sometimes had more guilt than your average criminal and would confess their sins when confronted with the visual reminder of what they had done.

Wednesday, October 20, 8:17 p.m.

As Ruth washed the dinner dishes, she strategized about how to add another level of pressure on the abortion clinic workers. Something personal in addition to the explosives.

Ruth fed the cat and decided to start with some motivational letters. Nothing like the fear of God delivered directly to your doorstep.

She wiped the kitchen table, dried her hands, and started down the hall toward her husband’s office. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rachel in the den at the family’s computer. Ruth worried about the time her children spent on the Internet. She had suggested canceling their service, but Sam wouldn’t hear of it. He stayed up late every night posting on his CCA blog.

Ruth stepped into the den. “Hey, sweetie. Is your homework done?”

“Not yet. But I don’t have much, so it won’t take long.”

“Homework first. You know the rules.”

Ruth started to move away, then realized Rachel was making no move to leave the computer. Her daughter was completely ignoring Ruth’s request to do her homework first. She marched over to the desk, grabbed her daughter’s ear, and yanked.

“Owww!” Rachel shot out of the chair. Ruth moved toward the door, pulling Rachel behind her.

“You can let go now,” Rachel said through clenched teeth.

Ruth pinched harder. “Don’t take that tone with me. Are you ready for another whipping?”

Rachel didn’t respond. In a moment, Ruth released her grip. Rachel hurried into her bedroom without looking back. Ruth and Sam had had to re-educate their daughter recently about not arguing with them. It was a lesson both kids had learned early, but shortly after her thirteenth birthday, Rachel had decided to test the policy. Apparently, she was still pushing the boundaries. Ruth would not let her guard down. The Bible was clear about parents’ disciplinary responsibilities to their children. But she was careful to never draw blood or leave scars, the way her parents had.

Ruth considered going back to the den and using the family computer but decided against it. She needed privacy. Sam didn’t like anyone to use his computer, but he would be gone for hours at his men’s Bible study.

Ruth made some peppermint tea and took it into Sam’s office. Crowded bookshelves lined two of the four walls, and a map of the western states covered most of a third. Hundreds of pushpins identified where abortion clinics were located. The ones they knew about, anyway. Abortionists were getting craftier about keeping their whereabouts and identities hidden.

She perched on the edge of her husband’s desk chair and booted up his PC. Ruth opened up a letter template but left the salutation blank, for now. She had the list of recipients in her head, but she wanted to craft the body of the message first.

Dear Sinner,

Planned Parenthood is the work of the devil and you are his pawn. You must repent your sins and stop murdering unborn babies. It is the worst transgression against God. Teaching God’s children to fornicate freely is the second worst transgression. You must stop or God will punish you. This is a promise. And God does not break His promises.

—God’s Messenger

Ruth reread her letter, made one minor correction, and printed three copies. Then she printed envelope labels for Sheila Brentwood, the director, Andrea Drake, the manager, and Kera Kollmorgan, the hypocrite who had called her a “fanatic with no regard for human life.” The nerve! From a woman who assisted with abortions and reached out to corrupt children into sexual deviancy.

At the last moment, Ruth remembered about fingerprints. “Damn.” The curse slipped out. She pinched the skin on the back of her hand and apologized to God for swearing.

She shredded the envelopes and went to the laundry room for latex gloves. Back in the office, she pulled on the gloves and started over with the envelopes. When she finished, she deleted the electronic files and opened ten of Sam’s Word documents to erase her files from the software program’s history. She didn’t want Sam to know about this activity. He was president of Eugene’s CCA chapter and an advocate of legal intimidation of abortion clinic staff and clients. But he did not support breaking the law. So Ruth kept her activities to herself.

She hurried the stamped envelopes out to her car and shoved them under the driver’s seat. McMillan Street was dark and silent under a blanket of stars, and the sound of a car door closing rang out into the night. Ruth cringed at the noise and hurried back inside. Rachel stood in the foyer, her face blank, her hands in her pants pockets. Ruth knew the expression well. Rachel was still angry but would not show it. Good. The girl was learning some self-control. Just as motherhood had taught Ruth to master her own impulses.

“Did you finish your homework?”

“Yes. May I use the computer now?”

“For an hour.” Ruth checked her watch.

Rachel turned away without another word. Ruth squared her shoulders. Her daughter would come back around. She always did.

Wednesday, October 20, 8:45 p.m.

Kera changed out of her work clothes, made a cup of decaf, and listened to her voice mail. Three reporters had called asking for interviews about the clinic bombing. Sophie Speranza of the Willamette News had promised her anonymity, but the TV reporters wanted her to go on camera. Kera decided to ignore them all. She should never have done the first interview on the morning of the bombing. Now they saw her as an easy source.

She sat down at the kitchen table to pay bills. The mortgage statement, sitting on top of the stack of mail, made her dread the legal complications she faced now that Daniel had decided to stay in Iraq. Would she have to sell the house? Did he expect her to file for divorce?