Lammers plopped back in her chair and stared hard at Evans. “Do not discuss this case with anyone in the department except Jackson. Do not contact Bekker yet. We have to do this carefully.”
“Do you know Bekker? Is he a friend of yours?” Evans couldn’t believe she’d just blurted that out.
“I know Bekker. And he’s no friend.”
Chapter 12
Earlier that day, Tuesday, September 7, 9:15 a.m.
Sophie Speranza’s headache was making her cross-eyed. Some days the stress of trying to do two people’s jobs made her wish she had lower standards. The newspaper kept laying off people to cut costs, but the workload didn’t shrink with the staff. Now she had to write obituaries and short pieces for the City section as well as cover politics and crime, which her new girlfriend kept joking were one and the same. To top it off, she had to open all the email—meaning press releases—that came to the news desk. She hated the task even more than writing obituaries, but she loved being a reporter and would hang on to her job until the paper’s owner dragged her kicking and screaming from the building.
Grudgingly, she started opening emails. A local author had a new book contract (so what?), a yard products company was moving to a new location (snoozeville), and a charity was holding a walkathon to raise money (couldn’t drag her there if they served free champagne and Euphoria chocolate).
The fourth email announced that Roger Norquist, a local businessman and ex-Senator, had started raising campaign money to run for the Senate again next year. He planned to hold a fundraiser at the Eugene Hilton in late October and charge a hundred dollars a plate. The name and announcement caught her attention. Norquist had lost his re-election race in 2006 by a narrow margin and apparently didn’t want that to happen again, so he was starting early. That had been her first year on the paper and she vaguely remembered an allegation of sexual misconduct from Norquist’s first Senate race, which he’d won. She would have to dig that up if she wrote about him. Sophie googled Norquist’s name while she called the number listed for his campaign manager.
A woman answered: “Patty Smith speaking.”
“This is Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News. I’d like to get a quote from Mr. Norquist to run with this little fundraiser story. Is he available?”
“Not at the moment, but I’m sure the Senator would love to talk to you. I’ll check with him about his schedule and give you a call back.”
“We’ll probably use this press release as filler in the next few days so he should get back to me quickly.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Sophie glanced at her monitor. Norquist’s web page had loaded with an oversized smiling picture of him. He had an aging surfer look, with delicate features and intense blue eyes. She moved the press release to her
Maybe
file, then opened the next one.
The email came from Rosehill Care Center and she expected some trumped up occasion meant to attract attention. Dutifully, she scanned the text and her heart fluttered with excitement. A woman who had been in a coma for two years had come out of it, thanks to the
attentive and professional care administered by the dedicated staff
…blah, blah, blah. Sophie read the pertinent part again. The press release didn’t name the patient but she didn’t care. A woman had come out of a coma after two years. This was a story.
She threw her recorder into her big red purse that complemented her short red hair, emailed her supervisor about where she was going, and headed out to her Scion. Every time she left the building, she wondered if she would have a job when she got back. The newspaper was slowly dying and she’d been looking for employment elsewhere, but nobody was hiring print journalists. Sophie had moved to Eugene to take the newspaper job and although she liked the town, she had no real loyalty to it. Her last boyfriend had wounded her deeply, and she’d considered moving out of state, as well as giving up on men for a while. Now she was dating a bright beautiful woman, and leaving Jasmine would not be easy.
As she drove down Q Street, Sophie noted the care center was rather close to the freeway. She wondered if the patients even noticed or cared. Still, the property had nice landscaping and some trees for the old folks to gaze at through the windows of their little medical prisons. She pushed the buzzer and trotted inside, bracing herself for the experience. She loved old people and found them more honest and humorous than most others. Yet she believed the country needed to implement radical changes to keep Medicare and Social Security solvent.
Inside, she popped some peppermint gum in her mouth, then greeted the receptionist. “I’m Sophie Speranza with the Willamette News. I received a press release about a patient who came out of a coma. I’d love to interview her, if that’s possible. Or one of her caregivers.”
“Let me check with Gina’s nurse.”
Now she knew the patient’s name. Sophie was dying to learn the circumstances of her coma. Car accident seemed most likely. She wondered if she could find the original story on microfiche at the newspaper.
The receptionist paged someone named Jeri and they both waited. A nurse dressed in blue scrubs came hurrying up to the desk, looking annoyed. “How did you find out about our patient?”
“The care center sent me a press release.”
The nurse rolled her eyes. “Our marketer is new and young and I don’t know what the hell she was thinking.”
“Still, I’m here and I’d like to talk with Gina.”
“You’re not family and I don’t think it’s a good idea.” The nurse looked around, as if to find someone who would back her.
“If I got the press release, then the TV reporters probably did too. At least I’m not shoving a camera in your face. I just want a statement from the patient or from you.”
“The patient is doing well and should make a full recovery.”
“What was the cause of Gina’s coma?”
“I can’t discuss a patient’s private information with you.”
“Will you please ask Gina if she’d like to see me?”
“I’m sure she wouldn’t, but I’ll tell her you were here.” The nurse spun around and walked away.
Sophie tuned back to the receptionist. “How do you spell her name?”
“G, I, N, A, S, T, A, H, L.”
Sophie suppressed a smile. She’d meant the nurse’s name for the quote. Now she knew the patient’s last name too. “What about the spelling of the nurse’s name? I plan to quote her.”
The receptionist spelled it out as well, then looked up. “Here come Gina’s parents.”
Sophie’s headache vanished. She turned and smiled at the older couple who’d just entered through the glass door. They were both gray, but the woman was tall and lean, while her husband had rounded shoulders and a pot belly. “Are you Mr. and Mrs. Stahl? I’m Sophie Speranza.”
“I know that name,” the woman said. “You write for the paper. You did a great job on that story about the Young Women’s Outreach Center.”
“Thank you. That’s nice to hear.” Sophie held out her hand.
The older woman shook it. “I’m Sharon and this is my husband George. What brings you to the care center?”
“I’m here to see your daughter Gina. I’d love to do a story about her recovery.”
They both seemed taken aback. The old man spoke up. “I’m not sure Gina’s ready for that.”
“I understand. Would the two of you be willing to answer a few questions?” Sophie could see they needed encouragement. “The fact that she came out of a coma after two years is so amazing. It’ll be nice to do an upbeat story for a change. People need some good news.”
“Boy, that’s the truth.” Sharon Stahl turned to her husband. “Besides, some media coverage might put pressure on the police to fully investigate this.”
The words
police
and
investigate
gave Sophie a jolt of adrenaline.
What had she lucked into?
She turned back to the receptionist. “Is there a visitors’ room where we can sit down?”
“It’s down that hall.” She pointed left. “It’s right next to the dining room.”
The beige room was windowless, but they were near the kitchen and the yeasty smell of baking bread made it bearable. Unable to hold back, Sophie clicked on her recorder and jumped right in. “What happened to Gina? Why do the police need to investigate?”
Sharon took the lead. “Two years ago, our daughter ingested an overdose of Valium and Demerol. She had a prescription for Valium, but not Demerol. Her neighbors found her and called an ambulance. They told the cops and paramedics it was an attempted suicide. We never believed that.”
Sophie hoped she wasn’t drooling with eagerness. “What do you think happened?”
“We think her ex-husband tried to kill her. Gina had filed for divorce but it wasn’t final yet.”
“What makes you think that? Had he threatened her?”
“He stalked her too,” George cut in. “He’s a prick. One of those guys who can’t stand losing.”
“Did you tell the police this at the time?”
“We did,” Sharon said. “But they told us Gary Bekker had an alibi and that the doctors said it was a suicide.”
“Has Gina talked about the incident since she woke up? Does she remember what happened?”
“She says a man in a ski mask attacked her in her apartment and she blacked out.” Sharon lowered her voice. “Gary must have forced the pills down her throat or given her some kind of injection.”
Sophie suddenly got a these-people-might-be-crazy vibe, but it didn’t change anything. This was still a good story. “Is Gary a medical professional?”
“He’s a cop, but he used to be a paramedic so he has medical skills.”
A cop?
Sophie practically came in her nice linen pants.
How juicy was this story?
“Is Gary Bekker still working as a police officer?”
“He’s even been promoted,” George said, showing distress for the first time.
“Have the police assigned someone to investigate?”
“A young detective named Lara Evans has been here to ask questions,” Sharon said, “but we worry nothing will come of it.”
Sophie paused her recorder. “Do you think Gina would be willing to talk to me?”
“Let’s go ask her.”
When they arrived in Gina’s room, the patient was sleeping. Her parents each took a seat, prepared to wait. Sophie was less inclined. She turned to Sharon. “Can I take her picture? Not a close up. Just a shot of the room and the bed.”
“I don’t think Gina would want that.”
“Okay.” Sophie stepped near the hospital bed and made a few mental notes for her story: Long gray-streaked hair, pale but beautiful skin, strong jaw line.
Had she met this woman before?
“What does Gina do? I mean, where did she work before the coma?”
“She’s a clothing designer. She ran her own business, Goddess Garments.”
“How old is she?”
“Forty-six.”
Sophie jotted it down, then decided to turn her recorder back on. “What was it like for you during those years?” It was an idiot question but she had to ask it to get some good quotes.
The couple glanced at each other, then Sharon spoke for both of them. “We visited Gina almost every day and talked to her for hours. We thought the sound of our voices would help keep her connected to us and to the world around her.” Sharon cleared her throat, holding back tears. “We played her favorite music too, hoping that would help.”
“What kind of music?”
“She loves funk and rock and anything she can dance to.”
Gina’s father spoke up. “We paid for daily physical therapy as well. That’s why she’s recovering so quickly. They said we could take her home in the next day or so.”
“Wow. That’s fast.”
“She doesn’t have any brain damage.” Sharon beamed. “We’re so excited. We still have to bring her back every day for the therapy pool and the special treadmill, but Gina really wants to come home.”
“Do you think she’ll be awake soon?”
The nurse Sophie had spoken to earlier strode into the room and glared. “Gina needs rest. Will you please leave?”
Sophie ignored her and dug in her wallet for a business card. She handed it to Sharon. “Here’s how to contact me when Gina comes home. I’ll be in touch. Thanks so much for your time.” She gave the nurse a friendly smile and left. If she hurried, she might get the preliminary story into tomorrow’s paper.
Chapter 13
Tuesday, September 7, 4:45 p.m.
Jackson took two naproxen and stood to relieve the pain in his intestines. He’d been on hold with the phone company for fifteen minutes and was glad he’d used his desk phone. The manager at Quest headquarters finally came back on. “I think I’ve found the phone records you need, but my computer is being really slow. I’ll fax them to you as soon as they load.”
Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I appreciate your effort.” He’d been prepared to get a subpoena for the documents, but the manager had been so skeptical about finding eleven-year-old data she hadn’t even asked for one.
Jackson pulled on his jacket and headed out. It was time to connect with his family.
In the car, he checked the time on his cell phone and called his daughter. Katie surprised him by answering. “Hi Dad. I’m glad you called.”
Jackson laughed. “That worries me. Where are you and what are you going to ask for?”
“I’m at the mall with Zoe and her mother, and we want to see a movie. Can I have dinner here with them, please? I’ll be home by eight-thirty or so.”
Having a meal together every day was an important routine that kept him in touch with his daughter. In the past, he’d missed more than a few dinners when he worked tough homicides. Now Katie was more likely to be the one who wanted out of their time together. “I’d rather you came home. You can see the movie this weekend.”
“Why do you get to excuse yourself from our dinner plans whenever you have a hard case, but I never get a pass? That doesn’t seem right.”
The truth was, Jackson felt a little relieved that she had other plans, because he wanted to meet with Evans, which also made him feel guilty. “For starters, I’m the parent. Second, my job is rather important. But to be fair, I’ll let you have a pass this time.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll see you around eight-thirty.”
“Okay. Later.”
Jackson missed the sweet little girl his daughter had been, but he liked this new spunky version too. He just didn’t trust her as much as he used to. No matter how responsible Katie was about homework and chores and checking in, she was still a teenager and Jackson remembered what that was like.
He called Evans and arranged to meet her at the Sixth Street Grill. He was pleased she wanted his help with her investigation and he looked forward to talking about his parents’ case. He would have liked to discuss the investigation with Kera, but some details he just couldn’t share with a civilian. Tonight, his girlfriend was volunteering at the Veterans Rehab Center, so she wasn’t available, anyway.
The restaurant was only a few blocks from the department and offered little parking, so Jackson left his cruiser under City Hall and walked over. The warm breeze felt pleasant on his face and he was grateful for the chance to be outside. As he crossed 8th Avenue, a nearly naked man with dreadlocks to his waist bicycled past, pulling a homemade rainbow-painted trailer with a small dog inside it. Jackson smiled. Summer in Eugene was especially colorful.
Inside the eatery, nearly every booth was filled, reminding him that Tuesday was burger-and-brew night. Not the best timing for an important conversation, but they’d make it work. The hostess sat him near the front window and he saw Evans cross the street. Her heart-shaped face was animated and the wind tousled her freshly cut hair. He’d come to really like working with Evans. She was insightful and energetic and a visual change of pace from looking at Schak and McCray. Jackson was glad he’d met Kera soon after Evans joined the unit. Taking the Evans option off the table made their situation easier. Department romances usually ended in disaster, with one person being terminated or transferred.
Evans slid in across from him and grinned. “You haven’t ordered us a beer yet?”
“I just got here. Rough day?”
“Sort of. I’ve got a stressful case.” Evans had a light sheen on her face and Jackson found it oddly attractive. She signaled a waitress, who came straight over. “I’ll have a Ninkasi Radiant.”
The waitress looked at him and Jackson hesitated. He almost never drank, a byproduct of being married to an alcoholic for fourteen years.
“Come on, have a beer with me,” Evans cajoled. “It’ll replenish your electrolytes after a hot sweaty day.” She laughed at her rationale and Jackson laughed too.
“I’ll have the same.” He probably wouldn’t finish the beer, but it sounded good.
Evans, on the other hand, took a long pull the minute their server set down the beers. They both ordered burgers with salad instead of fries, to take advantage of the special.
“I’ll have to run another five miles tonight,” Evans said. “But I don’t care. They make the best burgers here.”
“I haven’t had one in months so I’m due.”
“Thanks for meeting me. Lammers wants you to work with me on this case.
“The coma woman? Do you have any leads?”
“I do. The victim says her ex-husband tried to kill her.” Evans gave him a peculiar smile. “Guess who her ex is?”
Jackson waited.
Evans leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Sergeant Gary Bekker, Eugene Police Department.”
“I’ll be damned.” Hearing the name of one of the cops who’d browbeaten Hector Vargas surprised him. Jackson wondered if he should tell Evans. If it were his case, he’d want to know.
“What is it? Don’t tell me you and Bekker are friends.”
“We’re not. I’ve got some information for you, but first tell me about your case. Have you told Lammers about Bekker?”
“An hour ago. That’s why she wants you to get involved. She thinks I don’t have the experience to interrogate Bekker.”
As much as Jackson wanted to focus exclusively on his parents, Evans’ investigation intrigued him. “Is this case going to come down to a he-said, she-said situation for the jury?”
“It’s worse than that. The attacker was wearing a ski mask, so Gina can’t say for sure it was her ex.”
“The DA won’t want to press charges.”
“I know, but there’s more.” A wave of disgust passed over Evan’s face, then she caught herself. “Here’s our food, I’ll update you in a moment.”
While they ate, Evans told him about Gary Bekker’s sexual-predator visits and how his ex-wife had documented them, thus leading to her near-death experience. Jackson put down what was left of his burger, no longer hungry. “You’re saying the sexual coercion has been going on for years.”
“For one of the women, it started in 2006. We have to nail this guy.” Evans’ voice had an edge he’d never heard before.
Jackson sipped his beer, trying to decide how much he should tell her about Bekker’s involvement in his own case. Lammers had asked him not to discuss it, but how could they work together if she didn’t know? “I’m working a case from the past too. My parents’ homicides.”
“What the hell? Wasn’t that a decade ago?
“Eleven years.” Jackson explained about Vargas’ letter, the coerced confession, and Bekker’s role in it. “You can’t tell anyone else in the department about the allegations of abuse. Lammers wants to keep this under wraps.”
“What a total bastard. We have to get him off the force.” Evans reached over and squeezed Jackson’s hand. “It must be painful for you to work your parents’ case. Since you’re going to spend time on my investigation, let me help with yours. Do you have any leads? Is there anything I can do?”
Jackson told her about the guy in the sedan sitting outside the house and leaving shortly after the sound of gunshots. “I hope to have phone records soon, so maybe I’ll find something.”
“Do you have the old case file? Did they investigate anyone besides Vargas?”
“I have the folder but it’s slim. They focused on Vargas immediately, forced a confession, and never looked at anyone else.”
Evans raised her nearly empty beer in the gesture of a toast. “Here’s to our cold-case success.”
Jackson tapped glasses with her, thinking they would both need to catch a lucky break to bring justice to any of the victims.
Later at home, he carried in the boxes he’d gathered from Derrick’s. As he removed his Sig Sauer, jacket, and shoes, he wondered what his brother was doing at that moment. He pictured him sitting in front of the TV, alone, drinking. Jackson considered asking Derrick over for dinner some night, then anger flared. Why was his brother wallowing in his troubles instead of fighting for a good life?
Jackson set a box labeled
Personal Papers
on the table and sat down to his task. As an investigator, he often spent hours scanning through bank statements and phone recorders and he’d learned to be patient with the process. This time it was personal. He was digging through his parents’ private life. He wished he’d finished his beer.
His first task was to prioritize. He set aside his father’s sports scores and crossword puzzles and his mother’s family recipes. Seeing his father’s familiar neat print and inhaling the faint scent of cigar made Jackson realize why Derrick had not been able to throw all this in the recycling. It would have been tantamount to pushing away a warm hug.
Jackson started with a little yellow notebook that had a dollar sign on the cover. In his mother’s handwriting was a list of charitable contributions and the date of the donation. They’d given money to the Mission, Food for Lane County, Planned Parenthood, and Womenspace. The list went on for pages and dated back three years. He started to set down the notebook, then flipped through the empty pages to see if he’d missed anything. Near the back was another list of dollar amounts and at the top of the page, his brother’s name. Were these loans or gifts to Derrick? Jackson mentally added up the entries: $1500, $3000, $1500. All the notations were dated and had been recorded in the two months before the murders.
Why had Derrick needed six thousand dollars? His brother had been working and making decent money. The timing of the loans and the homicides was too close for Jackson to write off as coincidence. He reached for his cell to call Derrick, then changed his mind. This needed to be handled face to face. It was too easy to lie over the phone. The money given to his brother unsettled him. How much of a burden had Derrick been? Had his parents made sacrifices in their own lives to help him?
Jackson checked the time: 7:35. Katie wouldn’t be home from the movie for an hour. Since he wasn’t technically on duty, he decided to take his personal car. Still, he grabbed his weapon and shoulder bag before heading out to the garage. In the harsh fluorescent light, he took a moment to admire his midnight blue ‘69 GTO. He’d spent years restoring the vehicle on weekends, buying the materials one paycheck at a time.
Next to the muscle car sat the trike he’d recently completed with the help of his daughter. He’d been so pleased when Katie had decided to join him on the project and even learned to weld. The three-wheeled motorcycle had a Volkswagen engine/rear end and a Goldwing front end, which they’d welded together with a home-built frame. He’d painted the body a dark burgundy at his daughter’s request and he loved riding the damn thing. Especially when Kera or Katie rode with him. He knew he hadn’t done a professional job, but he got compliments from everyone who saw it.
Jackson was tempted to take the trike, wanting Derrick to see it, but again, his instinct told him to be prepared for anything. He climbed in the GTO and the engine roared on the first turn of the key as always. The rumble warmed his heart.
Only a dim light shone in the back of Derrick’s house, but his Town Car was in the driveway so Jackson knew his brother was home. He pounded on the door, assuming Derrick was drinking and watching TV and would not hear anything less.
After a short wait, Jackson pounded again, then used the key he’d found earlier to let himself in. Since Derrick had never bought him out, Jackson still had half ownership in the house. It was odd, and frustrating, to be in that position with both his brother and his ex-wife. He would be glad to get at least one of the situations resolved.
“Derrick.” Jackson stepped into the house as he called out, but his brother didn’t answer. Jackson moved through the foyer into the living room.
Derrick, who’d been half asleep on the couch, jerked upright. “What the fuck?”
“Sorry, but I pounded on the door and you didn’t answer.”
“So come back later. You can’t barge in here like this.” Derrick tried to sound angry, but he lacked the will. “What do you want?”
Jackson pushed an empty pizza box off the recliner and sat down. “You borrowed money from Mom and Dad in the weeks before they were killed. I want to know about it.”
“What makes you think that’s any of your business?”
“I’m investigating their homicides. I have to look at every possibility.”
“Forget it. The money had nothing to do with their deaths.”
“Don’t make me subpoena your financial records. What was it for?”
“Don’t go all authoritative on me, you little shit.” Derrick rubbed his face. “Why do you always get like that? You’re so self-righteous.”
“I’m just doing my job. Why did you need six thousand dollars?”
“It was for a business I bought into.”
“What business?”
“Eco Solar Panels. A guy at work decided to start his own company and he asked to me come in as an investor. I didn’t have the money so I borrowed it from our parents.”
“I’m surprised they loaned it to you. Mom and Dad didn’t usually take financial risks.”
Derrick was quiet, then looked away.
“What are you not telling me? Did you lie to them about what it was for?”
“Mom gave it to me and Dad never knew.”
Jackson didn’t believe him. “Tell me what really happened. Mom didn’t keep things from Dad.”
Derrick made a snorting sound. “You’d be surprised.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Derrick pushed himself off the couch, moving like an old man. “Want a beer?”
“No thanks. What happened to the business?”
“It went to shit, like everything else in my life.”
“You lost your investment?”
Mom’s investment,
Jackson mentally corrected.
“Yep.” Derrick shuffled into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of beer. “None of this matters now. Can you let it go?”