Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (30 page)

He pulled out his compiled notes and started reading through them. The nagging feeling that he was missing an undercurrent in this case was still with him.

A few minutes later, a silver Miata pulled into the driveway. A sixty-something woman with shoulder-length gray hair got out of the car and stood looking at him. He shoved his notes back in his carryall and stepped out to greet her.

“Detective Jackson, Eugene Police.” He held out his hand, hoping she would offer her name.

“Susan Sawyer. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your son Cody.”

Her face tightened with worry, a reaction he’d seen from many parents.

“I just have a few questions.” He wanted to smile and reassure her, but he couldn’t.

“What is this about?” A tiny quiver in her voice.

“The deaths of Rafel Mazari and Jake Pittman, friends of Cody’s.”

“We’re all devastated by this. I’ve known both those young men for decades.” Her eyes were puffy from crying.

“Can I come in?”

“All right.”

She led him into the house and took a seat on the couch. Jackson sat across from her on the edge of a padded chair. The home was nicely furnished, with a walnut hardwood floor and a collection of expensive-looking pottery. Cody Sawyer probably didn’t lack money in the same way his friends had. “Do you know where Cody is?”

“It’s his day off and he’s grieving, so I’m not sure.”

“Does he have a girlfriend?”

“Sort of. They used to be a couple, but now they’re just friends.”

The timing was interesting. “Why did they split up?”

She gave a little shrug. “I think they just grew apart.”

“What’s the girlfriend’s name?”

“Melissa Jenkins.” Mrs. Sawyer squeezed her hands together. “You don’t think Cody had anything to do with these horrible murders, do you? Rafel and Jake were his best friends since grade school, when we all lived in Junction City. If you knew Cody at all, you’d know he couldn’t hurt anyone. He’s the sweetest young man.” Her eyes begged him to believe her. “Cody did volunteer work the whole time he was unemployed, just to feel useful.”

“What kind of volunteer work?”

“He spent a lot of time at Southside Senior Center. He read to old people and helped them learn computer skills.”

A jolt of energy shot through Jackson’s tired body. Was Cody the mastermind of the charity fraud? “Cody has good computer skills?”

“Sure. Most young people do.”

“Does he know how to build websites?”

“Of course. The templates make it easy for anyone.”

She obviously stayed current on technology and thought people who didn’t were Neanderthals. “Have you ever heard Cody mention Veterans Relief Fund?”

Mrs. Sawyer shook her head, puzzled. “What does this have to do with the murders?”

“Where was Cody Saturday night?”

“He went over to Melissa’s.”

They heard a car outside and both looked toward the window. A red Dodge Charger had parked behind Susan’s car in the driveway.
A young man climbed out and stood for moment, looking at Jackson’s cruiser, much the way his mother had.

In the silence of the large house, they both watched to see what the young man would do, on edge for different reasons.

Finally, Cody strode toward the house, gave a small wave, and came inside. Jackson and Mrs. Sawyer both stood as her son entered the living room. Jackson put Cody at six feet, with short dark hair, a soul patch on his chin, and a thin build.

Jackson introduced himself, then said, “I’d like you to come in to the department and answer some questions.”

“He can answer them here.” Mrs. Sawyer moved toward her son.

Protective parents could be the worst roadblocks, and Jackson worried that if he pressed the issue, they’d lawyer up and he wouldn’t learn anything. “Can you leave us alone for a moment, then?”

She hesitated, and Cody said, “It’s okay, Mom. Maybe you should call Dad, though.”

Mrs. Sawyer quickly left the room, and Jackson wondered what he’d missed. “Let’s sit down.”

Sawyer took the spot his mother had occupied. “I’ve lost two friends in the last four days,” he said. “And I’m very upset, so I’d like to keep this short.” His eyes had a tired look that didn’t quite make direct contact.

Jackson nodded, but intended to keep to his own agenda. “Where were you Saturday night between nine and midnight?”

“I was with my girlfriend, Melissa. We watched a movie at her house.”

“What time did you leave?”

A slight hesitation. “Around eleven.”

It was outside Pittman’s time-of-death framework. “Give me Melissa’s phone number so I can verify it.”

Sawyer didn’t hesitate, and Jackson wrote the number next to the girlfriend’s name.

“What about Thursday night between nine and ten?”

“I was right here, and my parents can vouch for that.”

Jackson decided to step up the intensity. “Are you having an affair with Sierra Kent?”

Sawyer’s eyes came open, startled by the question. “Of course not. Rafel was my good friend.”

“We’ll have her phone records tomorrow. If you’re in there, we’ll know you lied.”

“She called me a few times. We were friends. So?”

“May I see your cell phone?”

“No.” He offered no explanation or excuse.

“What have you got to hide?”

“Private messages that have nothing to do with this.”

“What did you do as a volunteer at the Southside Senior Center?”

“A variety of things. Mostly just kept old people company.”

“What about Molly Pershing? Did you keep her company?”

Jackson thought he detected a flicker of recognition.

“I don’t know the name.”

“Are you sure? Molly’s dead now. She had a heart attack.”

“I don’t know why you’re telling me this.” Sawyer’s shoulders hunched forward a little, as if he were cold.

“Molly was a victim of fraud. What do you know about the Veterans Relief Fund?”

“Nothing.”

At the sound of another car, Sawyer looked visibly relieved. Jackson started to ask another question, but he realized he’d lost his suspect’s attention. A few moments later, an older version
of Cody walked in the door. Jackson stood to acknowledge him.

“I’m Jim Sawyer, Cody’s father and lawyer, and I’m advising him not to answer any more questions.”

Oh, boy.
A lawyer-father. It didn’t get any worse. “I’m just trying to clear Cody as a suspect so we can resolve a couple of homicides.”

“I appreciate that you’re just doing your job. So am I.”

Jackson handed the father a business card. “If your client is innocent, I suggest you bring him in to make a statement. Call me when you’re ready.” He nodded at both men and left.

Sitting in his cruiser in front of their house, frustration building, Jackson called the girlfriend. If she corroborated Sawyer’s alibi, his team would have to work a lot harder to get a subpoena to search Sawyer’s phone and bank records. They would also have to keep looking for a third man in the fraud ring—who might not be a man at all. If the charity debit card were only used to pull cash from an ATM, the gender of the fake ID didn’t matter. Sierra could be the third person, or even Hailey Pittman.

The girlfriend’s phone rang five times, then went to voice mail. Jackson identified himself and asked Melissa for an immediate callback. He started his car and considered going in to the department to check in with his team. Then he changed his mind. It was time to go home, cook a meal in his new kitchen, and spend a moment with his daughter.

Deep in thought, Jackson turned down his old street out of habit and didn’t realize his mistake until he saw a strange car parked in the driveway of his old house. He wondered how many more times he would do that until the new route was automatic. That was one problem with staying in the same neighborhood.

Once he made it home, Katie came out of her bedroom and greeted him cheerfully. “Hey, Dad. How was your day?”

“Not bad. How about you?” Apparently, the morning’s unpleasantness was forgotten.

“Good day for me. I got a B on my algebra test.”

Jackson grabbed a Diet Pepsi from the fridge. “Congratulations on the test. You must have studied while you were at your mom’s.”

“I did.”

“Let me get out of this jacket, and I’ll be right with you.” They both knew that was code for
I need to put my weapon away
. Katie didn’t like to be around it and wouldn’t let him hug her if he was wearing a gun.

Back in his bedroom, he pulled off his jacket, locked away his Sig Sauer, and took off his shoes. Tension drained from his body.
Damn, that felt good
. Could he take the night off and sit and watch a movie with Katie? The thought made him laugh a little. As good as it sounded, he knew he couldn’t do it. Not as long as this case was still tied in knots.

Jackson headed back to the kitchen, where Katie was marinating pork chops. She turned to him. “I know it’s dark and cold out, but you said we could grill.”

“Sounds good. What else are we having?”

“You pick.”

“I’m not even sure what is here.” Jackson rummaged through the cupboards, noting his brother still ate Captain Crunch cereal, and finally found a box of instant mashed potatoes. “We’ll smother them in gravy,” he said, holding up the box for her approval.

“I’ll pass, but you go ahead.”

Dieting again. Jackson didn’t comment. “What else is new with you?”

“I thought about what you said this morning, and I’m thinking of signing back up for drill team. I would have to wait until next term, though.”

He couldn’t help but grin. “I look forward to seeing your next performance.” He decided to push his luck. “Will you also make time to work on the trike with me?”

“Sorry, I’m just not into it anymore.”

“That’s fine. We’ll find something else we can do together.”

She gave him a funny smile. “Sorry about this morning.”

“Thanks for saying that.”

“Don’t get too excited. I’m not breaking up with Harlan.” Katie grabbed the meat tray and headed out the back door.

Hearing that made him think of Kera. Should he tell Katie about it? Or wait and see if he could salvage the relationship? His daughter had held Kera at arm’s length until she’d accepted that her parents were never getting back together. Then Micah, Kera’s baby grandson, had come to live with Kera, and Katie had bonded with the baby in a way that surprised him.

Jackson decided to wait. He wasn’t giving up Kera without a fight. He would call her after dinner.

CHAPTER 29

Tuesday, November 15, 9:35 a.m.

Quince hurried into the Southside Post Office, subpoena in hand. Before the Veterans Relief Fund website had gone down, he’d made note of the post office box listed as a place to mail checks. The 97405 zip code indicated this post office, and he was determined to walk out of here with a name—and hopefully a real one. To open a mailbox, the post office required a photo ID and one other solid piece of information, such as a vehicle registration or insurance policy.

The line was short, and he quickly stood in front of the clerk, an older man with crazy-curly gray hair. Quince pulled his eyes away from it when the clerk greeted him. He gave his name, presented the subpoena, and waited while the clerk checked his records.

“The box was opened by Brice Farley on July twenty-seventh of this year.”

Damn.
That was one of the names on the charity’s bank account, which he’d learned yesterday was fake and belonged to a young man who’d died in a car accident. The person who’d set up the charity and all its accounts had been very careful, smarter than most of the desperate or drug-stupid criminals who usually committed this kind of fraud.

“You don’t have a copy of his ID, do you?” Quince knew it was wishful thinking.

“We ask to see ID, but we don’t keep it on file.”

“Will you check and see if there’s anything in the mailbox?”

“Sure.” The clerk turned and headed into the bowels of the processing center. In a moment, he came back and shook his head. “It’s empty.”

“Thanks.” Quince strode to his car. He had just enough time to make a quick stop before the task force meeting that morning.

He entered the Rosehill Estates, waved at the receptionist, who’d seen him a few times by now, and headed down the long corridor toward Molly Pershing’s apartment. He’d found nothing helpful in her paperwork or on her computer, and he’d talked to most of her neighbors over the weekend. But the woman who lived directly across from Molly hadn’t been home any of the times he’d been here. Her name was Glenna Hastings, or so said the pretty plaque on her door.

He heard someone inside moving slowly, and Quince was relieved to be able to check this task off his list. A tiny woman who looked at least ninety opened the door a few inches and peered out. “Who are you?”

“Hi, Glenna. I’m Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police Department. I’d like to ask a few questions about your neighbor, Molly Pershing.”

She opened the door a few more inches. “Let me see your badge.”

Quince pulled it from his pocket and showed her. “Can I come in? I only need a minute.”