Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (36 page)

I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I didn’t want this. In fact, I’m thinking of having an abortion. But I couldn’t just do it without letting you know. I know this is the last thing you need right now, being in the middle of a war and all, but I thought you had a right to know. If I don’t hear from you within a month, I’m going ahead with it. I can’t wait any longer than that.

Again. I’m sorry. I hope you’re doing okay. Be safe.

Danette

Panic clutched at Kera’s chest and snatched back her moment of happiness. What if it was too late? Danette may have already had the abortion. Kera searched frantically for a date. There was none on the letter, but the postmark on the envelope said October 10. Why had she let the letter sit so long? She had to find this young woman, to let her know that she wanted this baby. She would offer to help Danette financially and emotionally—in any way that she could. She could even offer to adopt the baby.

As Kera reached for the phone book, tears rolled down her cheeks. She did not know if she was happy or sad or simply overcome. Ultimately, whether this child was born or not was not her decision, no matter how painful that seemed.

Oh, but to have a grandchild….

Wednesday, October 27, 10:55 a.m.

Jackson rushed through the department, only nodding at Alicia behind the desk, even though she was always friendly to him. He had chased after Jeremy Carson all morning and had nothing to show for it. And the task force was meeting at eleven o’clock and he didn’t want to be late again. Schakowski and McCray walked up just as he approached the conference room.

Schak clasped him on the shoulder and said, “You look like shit, Jackson. The bags under your eyes are too big for carry-on. Put in for some time off when this is a done deal, okay?”

“Thanks, Mom. I’ll do that.” Jackson was suddenly aware that his jacket was wrinkled and that people had noticed he was only shaving every other day.

Agent Fouts and a younger dark-haired man with a thick torso sat in the chairs. Fouts introduced the new guy as Agent Miguel Morales.

“Agent Morales is here to help me conduct extensive interviews with the members of the First Bible Baptist Church and the Conservative Culture Alliance. Our focus is to find the bomber and the perpetrator of the ricin attack. But we’ll sit in on these task force meetings for the homicides to gather background information and stay in the loop. Even though Mayor Fieldstone is not a likely candidate for the bombing, there’s still plenty of overlap in these cases.”

Jackson nodded and resisted the urge to smile. Fouts must have interrogated Fieldstone and come away disappointed. But the FBI agent seemed to be hanging on to the theory that the bomber and the murderer were the same person, or at least connected. Jackson asked, “Have you found anything in your investigation that we should know about?”

“I got a look at Jessie Davenport’s medical record this morning. She never had an abortion. So that’s not likely the link between the cases.”

Evans waltzed in looking bright-eyed and sharply dressed in a cobalt blue blazer. Jackson made up his mind to call his doctor for a prescription of that energy drug.

“Good morning.” She glanced around at the men. “Did you start without me?”

“No. But let’s get moving. I want this to be brief. You start, Evans. What do you have to report?”

Without checking her notes, she said, “I finally talked to someone in the house across the street from the Clarkes. Guy named Ian Marcowitz. He said he took the trash out on Sunday night sometime between 6 and 7 p.m. and saw a minivan parked in the Clarkes’ driveway.” She stopped and cocked her head at Jackson. “What are you looking at?”

“Nothing. Continue.” Her energy made the rest of them look like zombies.

“He says the Clarkes drive a minivan, but this one wasn’t theirs. He claims it was bigger. And maybe maroon. But it was getting dark, and he’s not good with color.” Evans made air quotes around the last phrase.

“Any idea of the make or model?”

Evans shook her head. “He says he’s not good with cars either.” More air quotes.

“So, a color-blind man saw a minivan in the driveway. Great. I bet everyone in that fricking church drives a minivan.”

Evans stared at Jackson. “Did you just say ‘fricking church’?”

“Sorry.”

She laughed. “You didn’t insult me, you surprised me.” She continued her report: “I’ve got a call into the DMV to get the make and model of every car registered to everyone connected with these homicides.”

“I’d like a copy of that report when you get it,” Fouts interjected.

“Sure.” Evans glanced over at Jackson. “Are you okay?”

“I feel like a blind man swinging at a piñata on this one. I know the goods are right there in front of us, but I just can’t hit it.”

“I know what you mean.” Schak tapped his notebook. “Fieldstone’s wife checked herself into a private mental health clinic in Eastern Oregon on Monday. Which means she could have killed Nicole Sunday night, then had a little breakdown. But the clinic director won’t let me talk to her without a court order.”

Damn. Jackson’s frustration jolted up a notch. Except for the trace evidence, the wife looked good for both homicides. “Find out what she drives and push the paperwork for the court order to see her.”

“Anything else?” Jackson asked

McCray spoke up. “I did a background check on Fieldstone’s eyewitness like you asked me to. He’s been investigated for fraud twice. So his credibility is crap.”

“Thanks. I needed to hear that.” Jackson threw in his bad news. “Nicole’s lab results are mystifying. None of the trace evidence matches the DNA in Jessie’s death. It’s like we’re dealing with a whole new perpetrator. Which knocks down all of our current scenarios.”

“A copycat crime?” McCray offered.

“Or an opportunistic crime.” Jackson checked his notes from Debbie’s call. “Another thing. There was cat hair on Nicole’s clothes. But the Clarkes don’t have a cat. Anyone remember a cat in any of the homes you’ve visited?”

Evans laughed. “I have a cat. So do several of the tenants in the Regency Apartments. As does Ian Marcowitz, the Clarkes’ neighbor who saw the van in the driveway.”

“Maybe the neighbor is trying to throw us off. Get back over there. Get a sample of that cat hair.” Jackson had been feeling a sense of urgency all morning. Now his chest tightened in a painful grip. “Any other cats?”

Schak shook his head. “Do the mayor and his wife have a cat?”

“Good question.” Jackson made a note in his casebook. “I’ll find out. I need to talk to him again anyway. As it turns out, he is the father of Jessie’s baby.”

Evans slapped her notebook. “That makes the statutory rape charge a slam dunk.”

“And ruins his lawsuit.” Schak made a face that showed he was not above gloating.

Jackson wasn’t ready to celebrate. There was still something going on in these cases that he had not yet wrapped his head around. Something big still loomed out there. He looked at his team. “Evans, go back to the Clarkes’ neighbors. Schak and McCray, you guys get back to the church people, looking for cats. And maroon minivans. Call me with anything significant.”

Jackson dreaded this next moment. “At the press conference yesterday it became obvious that someone is leaking details of these cases to the media. I find it hard to believe that it is anybody in this room, yet who else has the information?”

The group was silent. Evans and Schakowski each gave him a hairy eye, but McCray just looked tired. Jackson couldn’t read either Fouts or Morales.

“Any ideas how information might be getting out there? Anybody sharing their discoveries with another detective or officer?”

“No.” Schak was the only one to respond verbally. McCray and Evans shook their heads.

“I shouldn’t have to say this. Be careful with your notes. Do not talk to anyone about these cases. Do not sabotage our efforts. These young girls deserve justice.”

As he stepped out of the conference room, the front desk officer informed Jackson that the chief was looking for him.  Jackson’s stomach reacted with a sharp pain. This would not be good.

He stepped into the corner office and could feel the chill in the air. Warner did not get up or display any expression. “Have a seat, Jackson, but don’t get comfortable. This won’t take long.”

Oh shit.

“In simple language, I’m pulling you off these homicides,” Warner deadpanned. “Schak will take the lead, and you will go back into the rotation.”

Jackson’s heart missed a beat. “May I ask why, sir?”

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Warner scowled. “Your press conference yesterday set off a media frenzy about Fieldstone. You sabotaged his career. And I specifically instructed you not to. It’s insubordination, and it’s grounds for dismissal.”

Jackson swallowed hard. “Slonecker filed the charges, sir. Sergeant Lammers instructed me to hold a press conference. I couldn’t lie. The arraignment records are open to the public.”

“You could have played down the mayor’s charges.” Warner shook his head in disgust. “And you should not have told the media that Jessie was pregnant. I no longer trust you to handle these cases.”

“I didn’t tell them, sir. I don’t know where they got that information.” Jackson started to feel desperate. “I’m about to make a breakthrough. Pulling me right now is a mistake.”

“Bullshit. And don’t tell me I’m making a mistake or I’ll put you on leave of absence too.”

Jackson couldn’t accept the idea that he would have to step down. It was not in his nature to give up or let go. “I just got the lab results on Jessie Davenport’s fetus. The DNA matches Fieldstone. She was pregnant with his child.”

The chief was silent. Jackson said a little prayer.

“Shit.” Warner was at a loss for words.

“Give me some more time,” Jackson implored.

“Stay away from the mayor.”

Jackson could not promise that, so he said, “Thank you, sir,” and quickly walked out.

Jackson headed straight to the skate park near the Amazon ball fields. His stomach was growling, but food would have to wait. Nicole’s phone records had not come through yet, and he wanted to know who she had talked to the night she was killed. His gut told him that Janice Fieldstone may have called.

He had stopped by the park this morning with Travis Walters, Jeremy’s friend and conspirator, but Jeremy had not been around. Afterward, they’d stopped by Jeremy’s house and picked up a photo of him, so Jackson could find Jeremy later on his own.

And there he was, hanging out at the four-foot cement outer wall, gesturing wildly to another boy in the telling of some story. Jeremy was five-six, lean but sinewy, and his curly dark hair was cut close to his scalp. He had an infectious grin, even for a cop coming his way while he skipped school.

He hitched up his jeans as he spoke. “Are you looking for me?”

“Jeremy Carson?”

“Yea.” He nodded. “What’s up?”

“Let’s take a short walk.”

About half way across the lawn, Jeremy announced, “This is far enough. I’m not getting in your car.”

Jackson lost his patience and yelled. “You smell like weed. That’s probable cause to search and arrest you. But I don’t give a shit about stoners because I’m trying to find a killer. So give me the dead girl’s phone right now. Don’t waste any more of my time being cute.”

Jeremy gave him an all-teeth grin. “You could have just asked nicely.” He produced the phone from deep in a pocket on the left leg of his cargo pants. “I only made a couple calls.”

Jackson pulled on gloves from his bag before taking it. “Did you kill Nicole?” He watched the boy’s eyes.

“No way. I never even met her, and I had no reason to hurt her.”

“I want a DNA sample. Will you come into the department tomorrow and give one?”

Jeremy shrugged, unsure. “Uh, okay. If it will clear me.”

“Great. Thanks.”

Jackson headed back to his car. Homicide statistics said that the person who reported finding the body was often the perpetrator. But those were typically domestic situations, among family members. Instinct told him that Travis and Jeremy were just stoners who stumbled on a dead girl and had the momentary respectability to call it in.

Back in the Impala, he flipped open the phone and hit the Menu key, then pressed the Calls selection. From that menu, he selected Incoming, the second-line choice. A list of eight calls showed on the small screen with more available through scrolling. The top number—the most recent call—looked familiar. Jackson down-scrolled to the number and clicked OK. The screen lit up with Rachel Greiner across the top, with the phone number repeated on the second line. The third line of type contained the time and date:
6:22p Sun Oct. 24.

Rachel had lied to him when she said she hadn’t talked to Nicole on Sunday night. But why? Who was she protecting? He would have to get back to her about that.

Jackson scanned the list of recent calls but didn’t see Janice Fieldstone’s number. He was disappointed but not ready to give up. It was time for another talk with the mayor.