Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (13 page)

“Call me if you get a hit.”

“I planned to.”

“Thanks.”

Jackson called the assistant district attorney as he walked to his car. The dark sky was breaking up, revealing patches of blue. A surge of optimism about this otherwise bleak case quickened his step.

After the short drive from the hospital to department headquarters, Jackson pounded up the stairs, feeling physically better than he had in months. His surgery site was now just a long white scar from pelvis to sternum, and as long as he took his prednisone, he had little pain. He was due for a CAT scan soon, and he hoped to discover that the white fibrous tissue
cloud
had stopped growing. It was probably wishful thinking.

At his desk, he pulled out the case file and started making calls. First, he left a message with Hailey Pittman, Jake’s wife, asking for a return call. Evans had already determined Sawyer’s alibi was iffy, so that left Sierra’s to check. He called Game Day Sports, looking for the bartender Sierra had claimed she’d visited Thursday night. Madison Riley wasn’t there, so he asked for her cell number. They wouldn’t give it to him but said they’d pass along his message.

Evans stopped by his desk. She looked sharp in a mint-green blazer and black slacks. Knowing her, she’d already run five miles that morning.

“Anything interesting from the autopsy?” she asked.

Jackson wanted to tell her about the abuse Rafel’s body had suffered, but it felt too personal. He would wait and tell everyone at the same time at the task force session that afternoon. “Yes, but it probably doesn’t have any bearing on the case. I’ll update you at the meeting today.”

“Okay.” Her face fell a little. “I’ve got some stuff to report too, but nothing critical yet. I’m headed out to talk to people
who know the three friends. Anyone you want me to question in particular?”

“Pittman’s wife, if you can find her. We still need to verify his alibi.”

“She’s first on my list. When’s the task force meeting?”

“We’ll say four and see how it goes.”

Evans squeezed his shoulder and walked away. She moved like a trained athlete, completely in tune with her body. He envied her self-discipline. Kera was like that too. Jackson vowed to start running more than twice a week.

He looked at his notes, then called Rafel Mazari’s sister, where Sierra had taken his son. Adam was not biologically related to either of the people who’d been raising him, Jackson realized. He felt sorry for the boy and wondered if Sierra would continue to make a home for him.

A soft voice answered. Jackson introduced himself, then said, “Is this Sasha Altman?”

“Yes. Are you investigating my brother’s murder?”

“I am, and I need to ask some questions.”

“I understand.”

“Where were you Thursday night?” As long as she was being understanding, he might as well get the ugly question out of the way.

“I was home with my family.”

“Was Adam with you?” It was a guess. The boy was too young to stay home alone while his parents drank in a bar.

“For a while. Why does it matter?”

“I’m trying to establish a time line. Who brought him over, and what time was he picked up?”

“Sierra dropped Adam off around eight fifteen and said she’d be back in an hour. But she didn’t pick him up until around eleven. That’s too late for him to be up on a school night.”

But plenty of time to have killed her husband in the parking lot before going home. “Do you know where Sierra is now?”

“Probably at the Saturday Market. She has a booth there and likely couldn’t find someone to handle it for her at the last minute.”

“Is Adam with you?”

“Yes. Sierra asked if he could stay with us for a few days while she works through the details in dealing with Rafel’s death.”

“Did Rafel ever talk to you about the boy’s paternity?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did he ever mention that Adam might not be his son?”

The sister drew in a sharp breath. “No. That can’t be true.”

“I may need to talk with Adam eventually, but I’ll call you first.”

“You wouldn’t dare mention that ugly gossip!” Her tone rose half an octave. “Adam is grief stricken about his father.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. I hope not to have to question him at all.” But if Sierra went to trial, Adam might be called to the stand. “Sasha, can you think of any reason someone would kill your brother?”

“No.” She cried quietly. “He was a good man.”

“What is Sierra’s booth at the market?”

“She sells braided dog leashes and baked dog treats.”

“Thanks for your time.” Jackson clicked off.

At first, it seemed odd Sierra would be at the Saturday Market the day after learning of her husband’s murder. Yet everyone reacted differently. Some people collapsed and took to their beds. Others kept moving forward, afraid if they slowed down or thought about it too much, the pain would be unbearable.

Jackson grabbed his coat but left his shoulder bag. The craft market was a half block away, nestled into a parklike area on either side of Oak Street, and he wanted to round up Sierra while he could. Hopefully, the subpoena for her fingerprints would come through shortly. He walked down Eighth Avenue, passed
by the county court building, and stopped at the market’s information booth. In the courtyard beyond, a group of ragtag drummers kept up a loud, steady beat.

After a five-minute discussion with the cheerful, older woman manning the directory, they finally determined that Sierra’s merchandise was near the fountain across the street. Hundreds of eight-foot booths jammed a two-block area, selling jewelry, ceramics, candles, wooden carvings, wind chimes, yard ornaments, and tie-dyed T-shirts. Jackson hadn’t visited the market since Katie was young and didn’t think he would again anytime soon.

The smell of pot smoke rolled off a young man wearing a kilt who crossed the street in the other direction. He seemed oblivious to Jackson’s suit jacket with the gun bulge. But then, possession of marijuana was a misdemeanor in Oregon, punishable by a small fine.

The crowd seemed thin, but it was the end of the season, possibly the last day of the market until next March. Jackson made his way past college students, hippies, and groups of female shoppers. He spotted Sierra in a booth near the fountain. She was talking to a couple and pointing to a tray of cookies on the narrow counter. As he approached, she listed the ingredients, and he realized they were for dogs.

Sierra spotted him, cringed, and excused herself from the couple.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need to ask a few more questions. Please come with me to the department.”

“I can’t leave my booth.”

“This is important. Can you call someone to come down and watch it for you?”

“You think I didn’t already try? If I didn’t need the money, I wouldn’t be here today.” Distress filled her voice, and he noticed dark circles under her eyes. She was still beautiful.

Jackson’s phone rang. He glanced and saw it was Parker from the lab. “Excuse me, I have to take this.” He answered without taking his eyes off Sierra. “Hey, Parker, what have you got?”

“I ran the prints on the syringe and got a match. She was arrested five years ago during a demonstration. Printed, fined, and released.”

“Who?”

“Sierra Kent.”

CHAPTER 13

Saturday, November 12, 4:55 a.m.

Evans woke before the alarm went off and rolled out of bed. Her thoughts went immediately to the new homicide case. They would get a breakthrough today, she could feel it. She hurried to the kitchen, made a small of pot of Italian coffee, and turned on her computer.

She downed a tall mug of java while catching up on news—mostly about protests around the world, including ones planned for Portland and Eugene that day. She was glad not to be a patrol officer or SWAT member. She didn’t sympathize with the anarchists and tree huggers who demonstrated regularly in Eugene, but she could relate to the 99-percenters and their anger at Wall Street. The recession had crippled law enforcement in Oregon, and the county jail was little more than a joke now.

Humming with energy, she changed into workout clothes and headed for the back bedroom. The thick mats on the floor
felt cool to her bare feet. She’d padded the walls too, after she’d injured her ex-lover during a sparring match. Evans loaded a mixed file of techno music and began a rigorous thirty-minute kickboxing routine, followed by fifteen minutes of Brazilian jujitsu. She missed having a sparring partner and wished Ben, the IA detective she was dating, was more interested in martial arts. So far, he seemed content to keep it casual: dinner and sex once or twice a week, with little or no involvement in each other’s personal lives. Sometimes she wondered if he had a secret wife and kids.

Evans laughed at the thought, then went out for a quick run. She preferred long runs after her shift to burn off the tension and calories of the day, but knowing Jackson, they would work late again. That was fine with her. She loved his obsessiveness, among other things.

At headquarters, Sergeant Lammers intercepted her on the way to her desk. “Where’s Jackson this morning?”

Evans was surprised to see her boss on the weekend. “He’s at Rafel Mazari’s autopsy.”

“I know it’s early in the investigation, but do we have a viable suspect?”

“We’re leaning toward the wife, but we don’t have anything solid yet. And we’re still looking for a guy from the tavern who had an altercation with the victim.”

“Shit. The mayor called me last night. He was planning a special event to honor our returning young veterans, and he’s taking Mazari’s murder rather personally.”

“We’re doing what we can.”

“I know. Tell Jackson to keep me in the loop.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Evans resisted the urge to grin. Lammers was built like a refrigerator, had no patience for idle conversation, and
barked at the male detectives just to remind them who was in charge. But she had promoted Evans a few months back, making her a full member of the team instead of a trainee, and for that she’d always be grateful.

When the boss strode away, Evans turned on her computer and made a quick list of sites to check: their local criminal database, the citizen’s database, CODIS (the national criminal database), and Facebook. In the recent past, she’d tracked down a few witnesses on the social-networking site, and it sometimes provided key information.

After twenty minutes in the criminal databases, all she uncovered was that Jake Pittman had once had a DUII and, two months later, had pleaded guilty to a menacing charge in exchange for a one-year probation. Both incidents were seven years old. Cody Sawyer hadn’t even had a traffic ticket since he was nineteen. Pittman was not on Facebook, but Sawyer was. Evans learned his date of birth, place of employment, and favorite music, but didn’t find anything indicating he belonged to a survivalist group. She noticed his status said
Single
rather than
In a relationship
, even though Sawyer had told her he had a girlfriend.

Evans heard Jackson come in and settle down as his desk. She glanced over. He looked great in a royal-blue shirt under his black suede jacket.

After sifting through Sawyer’s friends for a few minutes, Evans found Hailey Pittman, who she assumed to be Jake’s wife. The photo showed her in a deck chair, and it wasn’t flattering. Hailey had limp, ash-colored hair, a narrow face, and only fifty-eight Facebook friends. She worked at Evergreen Insurance, only a short drive from the department, so Evans decided to head over and chat with her. She would verify Jake Pittman’s alibi and see what else she could
learn about the guys. Evans tucked her iPad in her shoulder bag, stopped to check in with Jackson, and headed downstairs to her car.

The insurance office was in one of the black-glass buildings behind Valley River Mall. Shaped like bathtubs, the buildings were a local joke, but still commanded high-dollar leases because of their location. Evans took the stairs to the second floor and found Hailey in the office across the hall. She was behind a tall counter, wearing a headset and talking rapidly to a customer.

Evans waited for her to disconnect and introduced herself. “Do you have a moment, Ms. Pittman? I need to ask some questions about Rafel Mazari.”

She looked nervous. “I have to answer the phones.”

“I only need a few minutes. We can step out in the hall.” Evans didn’t want her distracted every time the phone rang. “This is important.”

Hailey excused herself, then stuck her head into an office in the back and asked someone to answer the phones.

Out in the hall, Evans realized Hailey was only about five foot one. Evans pulled her shoulders back, feeling tall for a change. “Did you know Rafel Mazari?”

“Yes. He was Jake’s best friend.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to kill Rafel?”

“No. I can’t believe what happened. Rafel was a veteran, a hero, like Jake.”

“Jake is in the military?”

“He was in the army and did a tour of Iraq in 2006.” Her pride was evident.

The information seemed significant and Evans wrote it down, but she couldn’t make a connection, so she jumped to the meat of the interview. “Do you know anyone connected to Rafel or Jake who has a shaved head and a beard?”