Rules of Crime (9 page)

Jackson thought about Evans and her little tablet with its internet access. She’d be sitting here scanning the databases now. He vowed to buy one before the day was over, even if the department wouldn’t reimburse him. They couldn’t afford to put computers in the detective cars either and it was a damn shame. To top it
off, Lane County was losing its federal timber payments, and the sheriff’s department had cut more jail beds and eliminated probation supervision for minor offenses. Gang members were moving to Eugene because it had become so soft on crime. Sometimes the lack of funding made him want to quit. What was the point of rounding up the bad guys if the system was just going to release them?

Driving across Ferry Street Bridge, Jackson was reminded of the search for the waterlogged courier. He called Sheriff Walters. “It’s Jackson. Any word from the boat patrols or search-and-rescue teams?”

“Not yet. I’ll call as soon as I hear.”

“Thanks.”

As he entered the Violent Crimes area, he ran into Schak. “What did you find out about Renee’s phone?”

Jackson plopped down at his desk and Schak grabbed a nearby chair. “It hasn’t been used since Saturday at three seventeen p.m. T-Mobile pinged it and got no signal. I think the kidnapper destroyed it when he grabbed her.”

“We’re dealing with someone smart.” Jackson shook his head. “Except the final escape method. Getting on the river in the winter is always dangerous.”

“Yep, but if he had made it ashore, he would’ve had a hundred grand and no eyes on him.”

“Don’t forget the tracker in the backpack.”

“He could’ve found that in two minutes flat. Then thrown it on a passing car.” Schak grinned, warming to the subject. “He may have been looking through the cash as he floated down the river. That tracker might be at the bottom of the Willamette.”

“We’ll know soon enough. We have a task force meeting at four thirty at Anderson’s house.”

“Anything I can do before we head out?”

“We need a list of Renee’s calls and texts for the last week.”

“I’ve already made the request, but it could take a day or so.”

“Find out what you can about Dave Lambert. He’s an AA leader and a manager at the West Eleventh Fred Meyer. Meanwhile, I’ll be tracking down a guy who attended AA meetings with Renee and calls himself Striker.”

“Sounds like a nickname for someone with insecurities.”

“Lambert says Striker seemed obsessed with Renee.”

“Your ex
is
kinda hot.”

Jackson ignored the comment. After he’d kicked Renee out and filed for divorce, she’d gotten sober, lost fifteen pounds, and cut her hair. She looked better now than she had at any point during their marriage. But it didn’t change anything for him. “Something about Lambert bothers me. He might be the one who’s obsessed and purposely diverting me toward Striker.”

“I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Jackson decided to start online. Sometimes websites had more current information than law enforcement databases. He googled
urban chicken coops Eugene Oregon
and found two local businesses, but neither was owned by someone named Striker. On a whim, he called Down to Earth, a local home and garden store, and asked to speak to the manager. After a brief conversation, he learned Striker had built a custom coop for the store’s display and his first name was Gus.
No wonder the man went by Striker.
Jackson tried to get a phone number but the manager wouldn’t say anything more. Eugene citizens were often like that. They tended to err on the side of protecting people until proven guilty. Even then, many people in his liberal hometown wanted to
fix
criminals rather than
punish
them. It made his job more difficult, but it also made him—and everyone in the department—better law enforcement officers.

Jackson clicked open the criminal-history database and keyed in
Gus Striker
. A list of arrests and convictions surfaced. Possession of meth, theft 1, unauthorized use of a vehicle, DUII, public intoxication, and several probation violations. But nothing for the last three years except a trespassing report.

Curious, Jackson read through it and learned Striker had been arrested at the home of a Molly Hansen. She’d called dispatch right before midnight to report seeing someone in her backyard. Patrol officers had found Striker hiding in a shed on her property. He’d claimed to be lost and drunk, pled guilty to trespassing, and paid a fine. Now Jackson wondered if there was more to it. Had Striker been stalking Molly Hansen?

Locating an address from Striker’s last probation report, Jackson jotted it down, and shoved his notepad into his pocket. He started to get up, then had another paranoid thought. He opened Facebook and searched for the name Molly Hansen. He scrolled through about twenty until he found one in Eugene. When he opened her profile, he drew in a sharp breath.

Molly Hansen looked very much like his ex-wife, Renee.

CHAPTER 11

Monday, January 9, 1:35 p.m.

A damp, musty smell seeped out of the plastic bag as Evans removed the faded jeans.
Dirt
, she thought,
and a little moss
. Probably from the graveyard where the clothes had been found. Evans ignored the trace evidence, leaving it for the technicians, and dug into the pockets. She wanted Lyla’s wallet or cell phone, or even a scrap of paper. She needed a solid lead.

“Why would she take her clothes off outside in January?”

Margaret, the campus police coordinator, scowled at the thought. “I’m sure it wasn’t her idea.”

Evans found nothing in the jeans, which had probably fit so tight there wasn’t room for personal items. She pulled out the gray fleece jacket, shoved her gloved hand in a pocket, and it connected with a mobile phone. Tension flowed out of her shoulders. “I need to take all these to the lab.”

Margaret nodded.

Evans shoved the jeans and jacket back in the bag, along with a green T-shirt that said
Go Ducks
. She would put everything in separate evidence bags once she got to her car. If she’d picked up the clothes at the actual crime scene, she would have processed them correctly from the beginning.

“What do you know about the person who turned in the clothes?”

“Nothing. The note just says they were found in the graveyard.”

“That’s a big area to cover.”

“I know. I might be able to round up some volunteers to search.”

“Thanks, but I think I’ll request a canine and save a lot of time.”

“Good idea.” The campus officer looked relieved. “I’ll keep asking about the sorority and let you know if I hear anything.”

“Thanks.”

Evans headed out, wondering if Lammers would approve the expense of the canine. The victim wasn’t dead and the perp or perps were long gone. Finding the spot where Lyla had been attacked might prove to be completely useless. Or it could hold the key to solving this heinous assault. She had to try.

A cold wind stung her eyes as she hurried to her car, which was parked illegally across the street near the recreation center. The old redbrick buildings, surrounded by grassy commons, made Evans wish she’d gone to school here instead of at a modern community college in Seattle. The University of Oregon campus exuded an air of timeless knowledge as well as a sense of belonging. Evans didn’t really have that with any place…or person. Eugene was growing on her after ten years, and her relationship with Ben kept getting better. But the only time she felt completely
at home was when she was with Jackson. And she had to get over that.

In the car, she locked the doors out of habit, pulled her latex gloves back on, and activated Lyla’s phone. A low-battery message came up immediately.
Damn.
She wanted to scroll through the text messages. Evans grabbed her phone charger, plugged it into the cigarette lighter, and tried it in Lyla’s phone. Luckily, they both had newer smartphones and it fit. The battery icon began to flash.

While she waited for the phone to charge, a parking-ticket enforcer stopped next to her. Evans held up her badge and waved him on.
Jackass.
He knew she was a cop. Evans’ stomach growled, and she realized the soup hadn’t been enough lunch after her kickboxing workout that morning. She dug into her shoulder bag, hoping to find a half-eaten protein bar. No luck, but the survival bag had everything else. In addition to all the crime scene tools she carried—evidence bags, plastic gloves, cameras, and tweezers—she also kept band-aids, a tiny sewing kit, a utility knife, sunscreen, and a miniflashlight. Growing up with alcoholic parents in a backwoods cabin outside of Fairbanks, Alaska, had taught her to be prepared for anything. Surprises were the enemy. Six years as a patrol cop had reinforced that learning.

Leaving Lyla’s phone plugged in, she clicked the text message icon and began to read. The last text, sent at 7:10 p.m. Saturday evening, had gone to
Mom
and said,
Too busy to talk now. I’ll call you this weekend.
Evans’ heart went out to the girl’s mother, who was probably racing up the interstate now, frantic with worry that she’d never speak to her daughter again. You never knew what your last communication was with a loved one until it was too late.

Evans scrolled to the previous text, an incoming message from Josh:
Do you have notes from biology class today?

Lyla’s quadmate had mentioned Josh, but she’d said he and Lyla were just friends. Before that, someone named Taylor had texted:
Be there at 8.

A shimmer of excitement traveled up Evans’ neck. Taylor must have planned to meet Lyla in the graveyard. Who was Taylor? A guy or a girl? The assault on Lyla had been so violent, Evans was inclined to believe a male had committed it. She looked through the phone’s contact list and found Taylor Harris, but with no picture and no details. Was Taylor a new friend or a casual acquaintance?

Evans’ blood pulsed with possibilities, like a hound picking up the scent of prey. She played out a few scenarios. She could call Taylor and try to arrange a meeting, but if he was guilty or sensed danger, he might panic and hang up or simply not show. It made more sense to find Taylor Harris and confront him personally. If she could do it quickly.

Evans used her own phone and called Brooke Hammond, Lyla’s friend who’d reported her missing. Brooke picked up right away and whispered, “Is this important? Is Lyla okay?”

“I haven’t heard anything yet. Why are you whispering?”

“I’m in class but it hasn’t started yet.”

“I need to know who Taylor Harris is.”

A hesitation. “I’ve heard her name but I don’t really know her.”

“Don’t fuck with me.” Evans rarely swore at citizens, but her adrenaline was pumping. “Lyla was supposed to meet Taylor Saturday night. So she probably knows what happened. I need to find her right now.”

“I think she belongs to the sorority Lyla wanted to join.” Brooke spoke so softly, Evans strained to hear.

“Where can I find Taylor?”

“She works at the campus daycare center.”

“Where’s that?”

“It’s at Sixteenth and Moss.”

“What does Taylor look like?”

“A cheerleader. Pretty and skinny, with long ash-blonde hair.”

“Where is the sorority located?”

“I don’t know. I have to go.” Brooke hung up.

Evans was glad she hadn’t left campus. Moss Street was only a few blocks away. Taylor Harris might be in class, or at home sleeping, or damn near anywhere, but it was worth checking.

Inside the daycare center, she was hit with the aroma of applesauce and baby wipes, while high-pitched little voices overrode her thoughts. Small children were a mystery to her, and Evans had never experienced a desire to breed. People told her she would eventually, but she was thirty-three and didn’t see it happening.

A young man noticed her and came over, carrying a plump little boy. “How can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Taylor Harris. Is she here?” The irony of questioning an assault suspect in such a nurturing environment made Evans cringe a little.

“No. Why?” His tone seemed protective.

“I’m Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I’m investigating an assault and I need to speak with Taylor immediately.”

“She’s not here today.”

“Do you know where she lives?”

“No.” He looked away and shifted the toddler to his other side.

“I’d like to talk to your manager.”

“She’s not here.”

Evans sensed the young man knew Taylor, maybe even had a crush on her. “Please put the child down and step outside with me.”

For a long moment, he didn’t move. “I really can’t. There’s only one other provider here—”

Evans cut him off, stepping forward as she spoke. “A young woman was beaten nearly to death. What do you know about that?”

“I’ll be right back.” He scurried over to the group of kids listening to a young woman read and set down the toddler.

Evans held the door open for him as he returned. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and would soon be shivering in the January cold.
Good
, she thought,
that might expedite their conversation
. They stepped outside.