Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 03 - Thrilled to Death (13 page)

“Did you know when the kidnap was supposed to happen?”

“No. Neither did she. That was part of the thrill.”

“You went along with this activity?”

“No!” Brett pushed his hands through his hair. “Courtney told me about it after she had already hired them. I thought it was stupid and dangerous and begged her to call it off. But she wouldn’t. So I told her I couldn’t see her anymore.”

“When did this conversation take place?”

“Sunday night at her house.”

“When was your next conversation with Courtney?”

“Monday night when she called from Diego’s.”

“Did she mention the kidnapping?”

“No. She said she loved me and wanted to see me. She was drunk so I said no and got off the phone.”

“When did you realize she might have been kidnapped?” Jackson was uncomfortable calling it a kidnapping if Courtney had arranged it, but there wasn’t another term for this craziness.

“Her mother, Elle Durham, called me Tuesday afternoon and said Courtney hadn’t been home. She wanted to know if I’d seen Courtney, which I hadn’t. After I got off the phone with Elle, I wondered if Courtney had been picked up by the adventure company.”

“Did you mention ThrillSeekers to her mother?”

“No.”

Brett shifted again, like a kid with a guilty conscience. “I didn’t know for sure that was what happened. Courtney could have been anywhere. I didn’t want Elle to be mad at me for not telling her sooner.”

“Tell me the details about the kidnapping. Where did they plan to hold her and for how long?” Jackson would ask these same questions tomorrow morning at ThrillSeekers.
How could such a business be legal?

“I don’t know any of that. I got so mad when she told me she’d already paid for it, I never asked. I just kept telling her to cancel it.”

“Do you have any idea why Courtney is dead?”

“No.” Brett hung his head.

Jackson debated whether to keep Brett on hold until he could confirm his story. He had already checked ThrillSeekers’ website and called the company, which didn’t answer. The owner, Zoran Mircovitch, had an unlisted number. Jackson would drive to Portland first thing in the morning with a search warrant.

“I’ll let you go for now, but I want you to be available at a moment’s notice. Don’t even go see a long movie.”

Back at his desk, Jackson checked his phone messages. Sophie Speranza had called, asking him to confirm the identity of the body found that afternoon.
Did he still owe her something?
He’d done the interview, so they should be square. Jackson pressed for a return call, regretting it instantly.

“You got back to me. Thanks.”

“I can’t give you any real information.”

“Just tell me the identity of the dead woman.”

“Courtney Durham.”

“Was she murdered?”

“We’re not sure yet how she died. We’re waiting on toxicology reports.”

“Off the record, what do you think?”

Jackson held back a chuckle. As if he would trust her with an off-the-record statement. “I really don’t know yet. I have to get back to work.”

“What about Danette Blake? Any word on her disappearance?”

“Not yet.”

“Is Courtney’s death related to Danette’s disappearance?”

“It seems unlikely at this point.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Gotta go.” Jackson hung up before she could ask anything else. He decided he had evened the score and could go back to ignoring her calls, just as he did with all the other media people. The department had a spokesperson whose job it was to talk to the media so he didn’t have to.

He checked his cell phone messages. He’d missed a call from Katie. Earlier, he’d contacted his ex-wife and asked if she could keep Katie overnight. Renee had been happy to comply. His daughter had called just to say goodnight. It made him feel loved, and lucky, and guilty all at once.

Kera and Maggie sat down in the family room to watch the local evening news together, with Micah in Kera’s lap. They shared an unspoken hope that someone out there had seen or heard something about Danette and reported it to the television station.

Keith Peterson, an aging red-head with a square jaw, led the broadcast with economic news, which seemed less depressing than usual. Trina Waterman, seated on his right, launched into the next report, her voice thick with suspense and conspiracy.

In a breaking story, the body of a young woman was found in the wooded area behind Autzen Stadium today, about a half mile from the Willamette River. Police have not confirmed her identity. A passing cyclist found the body and called 911. He posted the event on Twitter, an online social networking site, where it was picked up by our news organization. A call to the Eugene Police Department confirmed the cyclist’s account, but no further details are available
.

In another story, there’s been no update on the whereabouts of Courtney Durham, twenty-one, who disappeared Monday after visiting a downtown nightclub. Her mother, Mrs. Elle Durham, who publically pleaded for her daughter’s return yesterday, was not available for comment
.

Courtney’s picture flashed on the screen with a number to call.

We’ll have more on this breaking story as details emerge
.

“Could the body they found be Danette’s?” Maggie cried out.

Kera muted the TV. “No. The police have Danette’s picture. They would have called us. The broadcaster made it sound like it could be Courtney.”

“Poor girl.”

“I notice they didn’t mention Danette is still missing.”

“She’s not rich, blond, and connected.” Maggie’s voice was thick with bitterness. “Danette was always a bit of an outsider in school with her brown skin and dark eyes. I didn’t realize how deep the bias is.”

“I’m not even sure the media realizes how biased it is.”

While Jackson wrote up the paper for the search warrant, he called his team members to update them and to ask Schak to go with him to Portland in the morning. On the drive to Judge Cranston’s home, he called Kera. It was after ten o’clock but he knew she would still be awake.

“It’s Jackson. Are you okay?”

“More or less. I’m a little worried about Maggie. She seems to have lost hope and keeps talking about Stephanie Condon.”

Stephanie was an Oregon teenager who’d vanished without a trace, until her body turned up eleven years later. Jackson hesitated to tell Kera about Courtney’s fate. “Did you get some posters put up?”

“About twenty this afternoon. I focused on the area around Danette’s duplex to start with.”

“Did Katie help?”

“I called her, but she didn’t get back to me. I found out a few things about Danette though.”

“Tell me.”

“Danette’s boyfriend is Chad Whitehorse and he works at the Red Apple market.” Kera paused. “One of her friends who I’d e-mailed got back to me and said she met Danette at the Young Mothers Outreach center on 17th and Oak. The center offers drop-in babysitting, peer support, and networking with other resources, that kind of thing. Maybe you can check into it.”

“I won’t have time. I’ve been assigned a case with a suspicious death.” Jackson drove up the ramp to the Ferry Street Bridge, grateful for the lack of traffic. “That’s why you haven’t heard from me until now.”

“Is it Courtney Durham?”

“Was it on the news? We didn’t release her name until moments ago.”

“Trina Waterman didn’t identify her directly, but she put the connection out there. Was Courtney murdered?”

“It’s possible.”

“That means Danette could be dead too.” Kera’s voice choked up.

“I don’t think so.” Jackson wanted to reassure Kera, but without giving her sensitive case information. “There are circumstances surrounding Courtney’s disappearance and death that make me pretty sure Danette’s situation is unrelated.”

“That’s good. I mean for Danette, but not for Courtney. Does her family know?”

“Yes. I told them this afternoon.”

“Are you still working?”

“I’m about to wake up a judge to get a search warrant signed, then I’m leaving for Portland early in the morning. I’m not sure when I’ll get to see you.”

“Good luck with your case and call me if you can. I’ll keep searching for Danette.”

“Keep Detective Zapata in the loop, will you? He’s a good man with too much work on his hands.”

Danette woke to sheer blackness. The cloth was still over her eyes, but it was more than that. She was covered head to toe by a heavy blanket. Suffocating. She could barely pull in enough air. She was on her side, knees bent, and her head jammed against something hard and cold.

All at once she became aware of motion. The road hummed below her. She was on the floor in the back seat of a car.
Where were they taking her now?

For a while, she tried to gauge the distance she was traveling, but there was too much slowing down, stopping, and rolling forward again. They had to be traveling in a well-populated area with stoplights. Danette prayed she was still in Eugene. If they kept her in town, she might find a way to escape and make her way back to Micah.

She wanted to stay awake, to be aware of her surroundings, but the drug and motion made it impossible.

Danette woke again when she was lifted from the car and carried across a small open space. The cold air, even with the blanket, made her think it must be the middle of the night. Still, Danette was hit with the call of freedom; it surrounded her, taunted her to scream and fight and run to safety. Her feet were tied, her hands were cuffed, and she had bindings around her mouth and eyes. She had learned the hard way all she could do was injure herself.

They entered a building where it was warmer, but still cool. The other smaller man possessed her now and she heard him breathing heavily under the weight of her body. They crossed a room with a familiar smell she couldn’t name, then jostled down a short flight of stairs. Another basement, Danette realized, as he dumped her on a mattress on the floor. Would this be the last place she ever knew? She vaguely remembered a reference to a Dutchman.

Who was he and what did he want with her?

Chapter 15

Thursday, April 9, 5:02 a.m.

Jackson met Schak at the department at five as planned. Each carrying a thermos of coffee, they headed down to the parking lot below the city hall building. Typically, he would have made the trip alone, but Jackson didn’t know anything about Zoran Mircovitch and the presence of two detectives might deter the suspect from trying anything stupid.

“We’re taking your car, right?” Schak said.

“Would you mind driving?” Jackson hated being a passenger, but the stents were driving him crazy.

“Are you in pain?”

“Sometimes. I just need to be able to shift around.” Jackson hadn’t told his co-workers about the stents and didn’t plan to unless he peed his pants and had to explain.

They climbed into Schak’s city-issued Impala, which looked much like his, and headed out of town as the sun rose on the horizon.

After a two-hour drive, listening to Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd most of the way, they took the Burnside exit in Portland and started looking for 321 Oak Street. They found it off Third Avenue. The brown brick building had no signage that mentioned an adventure company. The entrance was locked, so they walked down the street to a Denny’s and had breakfast.

Forty minutes later, they were back and waiting near the front door when a young Asian woman walked up to open it. She looked surprised and a little nervous to see them. “Who are you?” The woman fumbled with an oversized key collection.

“Detectives Jackson and Schakowski, Eugene Police. We need to speak with Zoran Mircovitch immediately.”

She pushed open the heavy door. “He doesn’t usually get here until nine.”

They followed the woman into a small austere lobby.

“Do you work for him?”

“Yes.”

“Call him. Get him down here. We have search warrant, so we’ll get started anyway.” Judge Cranston had limited the warrant to a search of the database for Courtney Durham’s records, and if Mircovitch cooperated they wouldn’t need to exercise it.

About twenty minutes later, Zoran Mircovitch rushed into his office. Jackson and Schak were still questioning his administrative assistant, who had already told them Courtney was a client, but wouldn’t give any details.

Mircovitch was in his forties and his sun-loving face was starting to wrinkle, but otherwise he was lean and muscular, a lifetime athlete. After introductions, they all took a seat. Mircovitch pulled his hands togther. “What’s the problem?”

“One of your clients, Courtney Durham, is dead.” Jackson took the lead. “We’d like to know why.”

Mircovitch lost a little color. For a moment he was speechless, then finally blurted out, “I’m sorry to hear about her death, but I assure you, this company is not responsible. We operate under the tightest rules for safety and accountability.”

“Tell us about ThrillSeekers and how you came to think kidnapping people was a good way to make money.”

Mircovitch made a noise in his throat. “That is a very limited part of our business. Mostly we arrange outdoor adventures like sky diving, parasailing, and wilderness camping.” He gestured at the walls, which were covered with blown-up photos of smiling people engaging in various outdoor activities.

“Did you arrange for Courtney Durham to be kidnapped?” Jackson kept up the pace.

“Yes. She asked for the service and signed a contract to that affect.”

“How much did you charge her?”

A pause. “Twenty thousand.”

Schak let out a whistle.

“Who did the actual kidnapping?”

Mircovitch turned to his computer and keyed something in. “I’m fairly certain who we contracted with, but I want to be sure.”

“Someone you’ve used before?”

“Yes. Seth Valder.”

Schak spoke up. “I’ve heard the name. I believe he owns a strip club in Eugene.”

“Mr. Valder is a businessman,” Mircovitch clarified, “and Lucky Numbers is one of his holdings.”

“How did Valder know where to find Courtney?”