Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) (16 page)

“Why would Engall cut off her hand?” McCray scowled, his forehead wrinkles deepening into crevices. “The hand bothers me. It’s some kind of message.”

“Maybe Carla fought back and hurt one of the attackers, so he cut off the hand that struck him,” Jackson speculated.

Evans bounced on her feet. “Can we get a DNA test on the fetus?”

“I’ve already asked for it.” Jackson tucked his notes into his shoulder bag. “Let’s get back out there. Meet me at the crime lab at three, unless you’re on to something important. In that case, call me.”

As they stood to leave, the desk officer opened the door. “Detective Jackson, I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone here to see you.”

“Who is it?” Jackson noticed the officer looked uncomfortable.

“It’s your wife, sir. I mean, your ex-wife.”

“Oh crap.”

Schak slapped him on the back. “That’s the problem with bad wives, they make bad ex-wives too.”

“It’s probably about Katie.” Jackson’s heart pounded as he hurried toward the front of the building. Renee had hardly ever come to the department when they were married, and her presence here now disturbed him. This had to be about Katie. Jackson pushed through the security door into the small foyer on the other side of the plexiglass.

The sight of his ex-wife stunned him. She’d cut off her curly dark hair and now wore it mannishly short with spiky bangs in front. Her weight loss since their divorce had been steady, but today she looked almost gaunt in a black pantsuit. She stood by the door, staring at the fingernail she had just chewed. That hadn’t changed. Renee looked up and breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank God you’re here, Wade. I’ve been trying to connect with you for days.”

“Is Katie okay?”

“She’s fine. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”

Jackson instinctively reached for his cell phone. How had he missed her calls? “Do you have a new phone number?”

“Yes.”

“That’s why I didn’t pick up. I didn’t recognize the number, and I’ve been very busy. Let’s go into the conference room next door.” He stepped outside and started across the breezeway.

“You don’t want Schak and the others to see me, do you?”

“I just want some privacy.”

Jackson used his ID card to enter a small conference room in the building they shared with city hall. The department’s internal investigators had offices over here. Jackson couldn’t decide if keeping them separate from the other officers was brilliant or potentially crippling. He and Renee took seats on opposite sides of the table.

His ex got right to the point. “We need to resolve the issue of the house.”

“I thought we were going to wait a year.”

“Did Katie tell you I got laid off?”

The information surprised him. “She didn’t. I’m sorry.”

“We lost the Safeway account and they laid off fifteen people.” Her face twisted in a bitter grimace. “They cut everyone at the top of their pay scale.” Renee had worked as marketer for a design firm for almost a decade. Through all her years of drinking, she’d managed to keep her job.

“You’re collecting unemployment, right?”

“Of course, but it’s only about sixty percent of what I was making and it won’t last forever.” Renee started on another fingernail. “Nobody is hiring marketers in this economy.”

“What do you want from me?” He knew she’d come here with a specific request.

“I want to sell the house and split the equity.”

Jackson knew it was coming yet it still slammed him. “I think the timing is wrong.” He drew in a deep breath. “First, the housing market here has bottomed out. If we’re lucky enough to sell it, we won’t get anywhere near what it’s worth. Second, that house is my and Katie’s home. I’m not sure I want to move.” He wanted to point out he had invested more of his earnings into the house than she had, but he didn’t say it. Not yet.

“You’ve been staying with Kera. What’s the big deal?” Renee’s voice took on an edge.

“I was recovering from surgery. I’m back at the Harris Street house now.”

Renee sat back, arms crossed. “This isn’t fair to me. I paid half the mortgage for twelve years. I want to be compensated.”

Guilt and stress fought for control of his emotions. Jackson knew she was right, but he was not ready to sell the house. “Our divorce agreement says I have a year from the final decree before making a change.”

“My life has changed.” She lurched forward, hands flat on the table. “I’m divorced, living in a condo, and now unemployed. You’ve got the house and Katie. Work with me, Wade.”

Options bounced around in his head. “What if the house doesn’t sell? What is your plan B?”

“You were going to start buying me out, remember? Making payments on my half of the equity.”

Oh crap
. “I’m already struggling to make the mortgage by myself. Even if I could start paying you, it wouldn’t be much.”

“It has to be something. I don’t want to get lawyers involved.” Renee reached over and squeezed his hand, but not in a comforting way.

“A hundred dollars a month,” Jackson offered. “It’s all I can give you. I have to pay twenty percent of my surgery costs and the bills are still coming in.”

“A hundred a month is not enough. I have fifty thousand in equity in the house.”

“You
had
fifty thousand. In this market, it’s more like thirty.”

“At a hundred a month, it will take you twenty-five years to buy me out.” Renee’s ability to do math instantly in her head had always been a little creepy.

“I can’t afford any more.”

“There is another solution.”

He could tell by her tone he wouldn’t like it. “What?”

“I could move back in. That way Katie would get to live with both parents and we would both pay the mortgage and benefit from the house we own together.”

Jackson fought the urge to laugh. “We’re not getting back together.”

“I know. We’d just be roommates.”

“I don’t think so.” Jackson stood.

“Will you put the house on the market?”

“I don’t know.” His legs were shaking. “I have to get going. I have an investigation.”

“You always have an investigation.” Renee, as usual, got the last word.

Jackson grabbed a burrito from a cart vendor across the street, then headed for his car in the underground lot. He sat in the dark space and wondered:
How many meals have I eaten in my car over the past twenty years? How many dinners have I missed with my daughter?
After a couple of bites, his stomach protested and he put his food aside. He couldn’t stop thinking about money. His share of the medical bills, including the trip to the emergency room and the stent procedure, was just under twelve grand, and he only had about forty-five hundred in accessible savings. He’d already contacted the accounting department at the hospital, and they’d given him sixty days to pay in full before they turned the bill over to a collection agency. The news had stunned him. He was still weighing his options, none of which he liked. The most obvious was to sell his ’69 GTO, lovingly restored over a period of five years and painted a shimmering midnight blue. It broke his heart just to think about watching some other guy drive away in it.

Jackson started his city-issued Impala and headed for the hospital. The sky had turned brilliant blue in the last hour and the temperature was climbing. Pedestrians and cyclists were everywhere, wearing shorts and looking happy. A motorcycle roared by on a cross street and Jackson thought about the trike, sitting there in the garage, nearly finished. He and Katie had been building the three-wheeled motorcycle for eight months. All that was left was a few wiring issues to work out, but his surgery had brought everything to a standstill. He and Katie had hoped to take the trike out for its first cruise this weekend. It seemed unlikely now.

Jackson pulled into the parkade and hurried across the skybridge. He hadn’t called ahead but he expected to find Lori still in the ICU. He wanted desperately for her to remember something about the attack. It might be the only way they would ever convict Shane…or Engall. If she couldn’t recall anything, he needed to know if the amnesia she was experiencing was a protection mechanism that would fade in time, or if her blood loss had resulted in permanent memory impairment.

Either way, he had to keep Lori safe. The idea that she might be in danger had started small but now seemed real and imminent.
Would it help to release the information about her amnesia to the media?
If the killer thought she had no memory of the murders, he might not worry about Lori’s testimony. Jackson wondered if he should tell Sophie the reporter about the amnesia, give her some exclusive information and get her off his back. The profile she’d written about him had published while he was suspended. People had called and e-mailed the department in his support and Lammers had reluctantly lifted his suspension. Once again, Jackson owed the feisty, little pain-in-the-ass reporter a favor.

Jackson grudgingly dialed Sophie’s cell phone number. After five rings, he started to hang up, then Sophie came on the line. “Jackson. I can’t believe you called. What’s going on?”

“I’ve got an exclusive for you. Lori Walker has amnesia and doesn’t remember anything about the night of the murders.”

Sophie was silent for a moment. “Is this true? Or are you using me to protect Lori?”

“It’s true, but telling the public also protects Lori.”

“Thanks, Jackson. Any other new leads or breakthroughs?”

“Not yet.”

In the waiting area Jackson saw an older woman with a young baby and a teenager with a buzzed head and a nose ring. He did not see a patrol officer. The punk kid watched him as Jackson looked around, then waited by the swinging doors. The uniform officer came hurrying up the hallway. She was in her late twenties and Jackson had never seen her before. With the weapon, flashlight, and radio on her waist she looked burdened by her uniform. “I’m Detective Jackson. Why weren’t you at your post?”

“I had to use the restroom, sir.” She sounded unapologetic.

“Has anyone been here to see Lori Walker?”

“Her aunt was in the room when I came on shift at eight this morning and two high school students stopped in around noon.” The officer pulled a small tablet from her pocket and read the names. “Jenna Larson and Mason Black. I frisked them for weapons and watched them for a few minutes in the room but they seemed harmless.”

“Thank you.” Jackson pushed open the double doors and walked softly past the rooms with unconscious patients. Older people who looked like they would not walk out.

A nurse was changing the dressing on Lori’s abdomen, so Jackson waited in the hall for a few minutes. The smell of diarrhea lingered in the air, then a cart went by with the aroma of applesauce. He grimaced. As often as he was in the hospital to question victims or suspects, he never got used to the weird combination of smells.

“You can go in now,” said a nurse in yellow scrubs as she came out. “Physically, Lori is doing much better, but she’s emotionally fragile. Please be gentle.”

“Of course.”
Did he look like a prick?

Lori pulled up her blanket and her lips quivered. He stood back from her bed to give her some space. “I’m Detective Jackson. I was here last night. Do you remember me?”

“Yes.”

“I’m investigating the crime that took place at your home Sunday night. Can you tell me what happened?”

She closed her eyes and Jackson felt guilty for even being there. Lori may have been a legal adult, but lying there in the hospital bed with her milk-white skin and traumatized expression, she looked Katie’s age. Jackson waited.

Finally Lori said. “I don’t remember that night but my aunt told me what happened. I know my family is dead.”

“I’m sorry for your loss. I know this a horrible time for you but I need your help.”

“I can’t help you. The only reason I’m not hysterical is the tranquilizers they’re giving me.” Lori looked as if she would cry at any second.

Jackson pressed ahead, feeling like a prick. “What is the last thing you remember?”

“I was at work, having a crappy day.”

“Your boss was sexually harassing you?”

Her eyebrows arched, then she glanced away. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Does your boss know your family? Is it possible he did this?”

“No.” She shook her head. “He’s grabby, but he’s not a monster.”

“What route did you take to get home?”

“I always take Delta Highway.

“What was the weather like that night as you drove?” Jackson’s theory, his hope, was if he led her gently through that evening, her memory might start to come back.

Lori’s mouth trembled. “I remember it was nice outside when I was working and I hoped it would still be daylight when I got off.”

“Did you stop anywhere on the way home? A store? Maybe buy gas?”

Another scowl. “I remember stopping to see a friend, but I think that was another day, maybe last week.”

“What time did you get home?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” She stared out the window.