Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (21 page)

The alley had only a few homes and was overgrown with blackberry and laurel. She was parked in a turnout next to a truck that had moss growing in the seams. Only one car had traveled the alley since she’d arrived. Dallas kept busy doing research on her computer and writing up a report of her activity. She couldn’t imagine life without 24/7 access to the internet. She thought about all the money her aunt had invested sending her to college and felt guilty about how she now spent her time. But without the formal education, Dallas never would have gotten into the bureau. Or been able to afford years of therapy—most of it conducted via Skype—in her quest to figure out why she enjoyed sex with strangers and not with men she cared about.

About the time she was ready to drive off and look for a place to pee, the front door of the little blue house opened and Cricket walked out. Dallas recognized his shaggy ash-blond hair and ever-present denim jacket. The LTE leader sauntered to his van and climbed in.

Now what? One choice was to follow him and see where he went and/or who he connected with. Cricket could be on his way to buy bomb-making materials, and she would love to document that. Or he might be headed to Sundance Natural Foods to pick up some tofu, and that would annoy her greatly. There was a second choice. Take a quick peek inside his house while he was out and see what he had lying around. More risk, more potential reward.

Dallas bent down and waited for the van to pass, then made up her mind. She would search his house. If she could find out what the group had planned next, the bureau could put people in place. They could bust the eco-terrorists before they did more damage and possibly hurt someone. Dallas drove down the alley
and parked where his van had been. Brazen was often the best approach. If Cricket came back early, it made more sense to say she was looking for him—as Fiona the LTE groupie—than to get caught being sneaky and blow her cover entirely.

She pulled a black bag from under her car seat and dug out thin gloves, a lock-picking tool, and a thumb drive. She realized that someone might be in the house, so she knocked on the front door and waited. When no one answered, Dallas trotted around to the side of the house, hopped over a short white fence, and made her way to the back porch. The wood was graying, and a giant outdoor grill took up half the space.

The lock gave easily, but the door didn’t open. Dallas guessed it had a second sliding bolt. She checked a tall window next to the door: old-fashioned, with a catch on the wooden frames that met in the middle. She could see it wasn’t fastened. With a hard push, the bottom window slid up and Dallas slipped in.

The kitchen was wall-to-wall cupboards, but she didn’t bother looking in any of them. She had only a few minutes and had to prioritize. After a quick scan around the living room—ugly couch, dying plants, gaudy posters, but no computer or paperwork—she ran to a bedroom. A laptop sat open on the nightstand, its power pack plugged into the wall. Recoiling from the smell of sweaty sheets, Dallas sat on the edge of the bed, grabbed the computer, and hit the space key. The monitor lit up. Hot damn! He’d left it on and she wouldn’t have to fuck around with passwords. A little warning flashed in her head, cautioning that if Cricket had left his computer on, he probably didn’t plan to be gone long. She gave herself seven minutes.

His e-mail program was open and she clicked the top file, which had come in moments before. An e-mail from someone named Melody who said the FBI had just been to see her about the firebomb. Melody claimed she’d convinced the agent
that Cricket hadn’t been involved. Dallas didn’t get the sense that Melody believed Cricket was innocent. Melody referred to the agent as
she
, so Dallas assumed it was River. Her boss wouldn’t be happy to know Melody had warned Cricket they were closing in.

Dallas opened the second e-mail, a note from the utility company urging him to pay his bill or they would terminate his service. Could they use that to their advantage? Two minutes gone. She scanned down the list of e-mails looking for headers indicating LTE meetings or plans. Nothing jumped out. But the members were probably smart enough not to communicate about anything illegal on traceable documents. The thought made her laugh. No one ever thought they’d get caught, and some very smart and powerful people had sent some very incriminating e-mails.

Four minutes left. She scanned his e-folders, clicked open one labeled Priorities, and quickly found a text document called Goals. As she double-clicked the icon, she heard a car in the alley. Her heart skipped a beat, then started to pound.
No! He couldn’t be back yet.
She froze, listening for the sound of the engine. Was it slowing at all? She didn’t think so, but Dallas put down the laptop and hurried into the hallway. She stopped and listened again. The car was right outside. She stood in the hall, willing herself to be calm, and waited.

The car passed by.

Dallas charged back to the laptop and stared at the open document. The goals were grouped into Legislative, Protests, and Targets. Under targets were JB Pharma, Ridgeline Plastics, and Cascade Lumber. She thought it odd that Rock Spring was not on the list. Dallas snapped a picture of the document with her phone, then shoved her thumb drive into the open USB port and copied the file. It took too long and she regretted the effort. She would probably never show it to anyone since she didn’t have legal permission to be here. Just knowing now that Ridgeline Plastics was
next had made this incursion worthwhile. She closed the document, put the laptop back exactly where she’d found it, and bolted from the room. She was over her time limit, but couldn’t resist taking a quick look at the room on the other end of the short hallway. The door was open a crack and Dallas gave it a light push.

A woman slept on a mattress on the floor.

Oh fuck!
Dallas spun and speed-walked across the kitchen, moving as quickly and quietly as she could. She climbed back out the window, closed it gently, and ran to her car. Once she was backing out into the alley, her brain kicked in and processed what had just happened. Her first thought was,
Idiot!
Then she burst out laughing. Sometimes the scariest things were the most fun.

CHAPTER 19

Thursday, March 14, 1:45 p.m.

Still parked in front of Maggie Brennan’s house, Jackson called Katie. He’d texted his daughter the night before and earlier that morning, reminding her she had a counseling appointment. Katie hadn’t responded to either message and she didn’t pick up now. Every rejection was another blow to his battered heart. For a moment he couldn’t think or breathe. Katie had to get help. She had to come to terms with her mother’s death. And she had to forgive him. He couldn’t live like this.

Jackson started the car and drove toward South Eugene and the address McCray had given him, which was a block from the school Katie attended. He just wanted to see her, even from a distance. It would give him some peace of mind. Was he being obsessive? Jackson wondered if he needed more counseling. Other parents lived in different states from their children and managed to function.

He stopped at a light and called McCray. His old partner didn’t pick up. Worry vacillated with irritation. McCray was supposed to be watching Katie. What was he doing that he couldn’t answer the phone? Or more likely, what was Katie up to?

Jackson forced himself to chill. Katie was fine, and McCray knew about the two o’clock appointment. Maybe he was talking to Katie and trying to convince her to go. Maybe Katie had gone to classes today and McCray was taking a nap in his car.

After a few minutes, Jackson turned on Ferry Street and spotted McCray’s black jeep. Jackson parked two cars behind him but didn’t see McCray in the vehicle. He climbed out for a better look at the house where Katie was staying. Small, white, and well maintained. No black paper or heavy curtains over the windows. Probably not a drug house. His shoulders relaxed a little.

No car was in the driveway. Where was everyone?

The front door opened, so Jackson slipped back into his car, feeling self-conscious, as if he were spying on Katie. Confused and frustrated, he watched McCray come out of the house, followed by his daughter. His heart lurched, a jumble of relief and anguish. Dressed in all black, Katie was thinner than he’d ever seen her. Her hair was pulled back in a tight knot and her mouth twisted down. But she walked with purpose, no drunk wobble. Jackson slouched a little, not wanting to be obvious, even if she did spot his car. If she and McCray were headed to the counseling appointment, it was best not to interfere. Jackson felt grateful she was going.

He couldn’t resist texting McCray:
Are you headed to counseling apt?

As soon as Jackson pressed send, he let out a laugh. His old partner probably didn’t even know how to check for text messages, let alone respond. Feeling better, he decided to stop at the crime lab and see what Joe had for him, then go out to the therapist’s
office to arrange payments. He mostly wanted Charlotte Diebold to know that he was as involved as he could be in Katie’s life and not willingly shirking his parental responsibility.

McCray called him a minute later. “I got your text. And yes, we’re on our way.”

“Thank you for this. Thank you for finding her.” A rush of emotion caught in his voice.

“Nothing you wouldn’t do for me. I gotta drive now.”

“Call me back when you can talk.” Jackson hung up. He had a dozen questions. For starters: Who was Katie staying with? He made quick calls to Jan and Kera to let them know his daughter was safe. Jan cried with relief, and Jackson was reminded that he wasn’t in this alone.

The crime lab’s gray-brick exterior, with no signs and no windows facing the street, had a secretive facade. Tucked into a low-rent, mostly industrial area with little street traffic, few members of the public even realized it existed.

Jackson rolled down his window, flashed his ID card at the camera, and waited for the arm to lift. The tall metal fence around the back lot reminded him of the storage business. He parked and hurried into the building.

He trotted upstairs, feeling a tug of pain with every step, and stuck his head into Jasmine Parker’s office. “Hey, Parker. Just thought I would say hello. What are you working on?”

“Processing prints from your storage unit crime scene, so there’s no need to schmooze me.” The corner of her mouth ticked up, the closest she came to a smile. Parker didn’t need fluffy hair or makeup to look good.

“Can’t hurt anyway.” He smiled back. “Got anything for me?”

“Nothing you don’t already know. Patrick Brennan’s fingerprints are on both sides of the torn Bible. But the only prints on the door handle and lock belonged to the victim, Craig Cooper.”

“Thanks.” Jackson gave a little wave and continued down the hall.

Joe wasn’t in his office, so Jackson checked the lab, a compact space that contained high-powered microscopes, a refrigerator, a downdraft table, and superglue oven—the latter two used for fingerprints.

Joe had his eye pressed against a microscope and didn’t look up. “Give me a second.”

Jackson waited. Finally, Joe pulled away. He had a gleam in his eye that made Jackson hopeful.

“I was looking at the material Konrad found in the victim’s wound. I have a few more tests to perform before I can be sure.”

Jackson’s hope plunged. “How long?”

“By tomorrow morning. But don’t be too disappointed. I have another interesting report.”

“Good. I need something.”

“Remember the blood sample you submitted?”

Jackson had to think for moment. Then he recalled the swab he’d taken from Todd Sheppard, the brain-damaged ex-football player who’d discovered the body.

“It has two types of antigens, both A and O, which means it came from two different people.”

What the hell?
“What type is our victim?”

“Type O. I sent a sample from the victim and a sample from the suspect’s swab to the state lab for DNA analysis, but that could take a week or so.”

“So Todd Sheppard did have a nosebleed, but he had the victim’s blood on his face too?”

“Most likely. But it’s not certain until we get the DNA reports.”

It was enough to bring Sheppard in for more questioning. “Thanks, Joe. Let me know on the wound evidence as soon as you have it.”

Jackson returned to his car, strangely disappointed to learn the homeless giant had likely killed his neighbor and friend. He’d felt sorry for Sheppard and believed he was too simpleminded to lie. But Jackson knew better than to think that way. Everyone lied, at least a little, when they talked to cops.

His phone beeped and he discovered he’d missed two calls. The first message was from Ed McCray: “Katie is staying with her boyfriend and his mother. She wouldn’t give me names, but I looked at their mail, and the mother is Donna Shubert. I convinced Katie that seeing the counselor would keep her out of juvenile lockup. She seems depressed but otherwise all right. Do you want me to keep watching her? I can’t do this ’round the clock.”

Jackson’s heart said yes, but his head knew it was ridiculous.