Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (20 page)

Working his cell phone keys with thick fingers while squinting at the tiny print in the display screen, Jackson scrolled back through his incoming calls until he found Kera’s call from last night. Then he pressed OK and send. If he had witnessed a civilian doing that while driving, he would have written them a ticket for failure to maintain control of the vehicle.

Kera’s lovely voice asked him to please leave a message.

“It’s Detective Jackson. I couldn’t access that website you gave me last night, so I’d like to discuss it with you. I’ll buy you dinner while we talk. Call me at 729-8154.”

A few minutes later, he called Katie, but she was in class and didn’t answer. He left a message saying he’d be home late and suggesting the two of them do lunch and a movie that weekend. The call left him feeling frustrated and guilty.

As much as he loved his daughter, what he really wanted to do this weekend was start collecting the parts he needed to build a trike. He’d fixated on the idea for crafting a three-wheeled motorcycle fifteen years ago when he was a patrol cop. He’d stopped a man who was driving one for speeding on Beltline. The Volkswagen–Harley combination rig with its fat tires and chopper front end had intrigued him so much he had asked a dozen questions and never ticketed the man. Jackson had walked away with the idea that one day, he would build one for himself. Over the years, he had visited trike websites and drawn a few designs, but life had gotten in the way of his actually building it. But taking care of Renee and Katie was no longer eating up all his free time, so he thought he could finally make it happen. Next weekend, he promised himself.

In the state medical examiner’s office, Jackson checked in the new evidence with Debbie and asked her to prioritize it, then met briefly with Ainsworth. She was ready with a manila envelope containing the full autopsy and lab reports.

“I ruled it a homicide,” she said, handing him the paperwork. It was only the second time Jackson had ever seen her without a surgical-style hair covering, and it surprised him to see that she had gone completely gray. Jackson reflexively touched his own hair, which had begun to sprout some silver at the temples. His life was flying by and there was so much he hadn’t done yet.

“I found cotton fibers in her lungs, which could indicate a struggle to breathe.”

“Anything special about the fabric?”

“Not really. Six-hundred-count baby blue cotton sheets, available in every Bed, Bath and Beyond.”

“I brought in some sheets to compare the fibers to.”

“You have a suspect.” She looked pleased.

“Circumstantial only. I still need a physical connection.”

“Then you’re not going to like this.” Ainsworth scowled behind her big glasses. “The pubic hair DNA does not match the semen deposit.”

Jackson processed the information. “You’re saying she had sex with two unknown and different men before she died?”

Ainsworth gave him a small smile. “Although the semen deposit was fresh, the hair could have been there for a day or so.”

The information was a curve ball—Jessie was having sex with more than one partner. Fieldstone and Grady? Had Jessie been obsessed with older men? The mayor was still his prime suspect, because, so far, McCray had not established a physical link between Grady and Jessie. But a second lover, no matter who, would make it harder to convict Fieldstone for the killing.

“There’s more.”

“Yes?”

“She had hydrocodone in her bloodstream. It’s a prescription pain reliever. An opioid that’s often used recreationally.”

Jackson sensed that Jessie’s pain had been emotional. “What else?” He prepared himself for more bad news.

“She was pregnant.”

It shouldn’t have stunned him, but it did. He still thought of Jessie as a kid. “How far along?”

“Four to six weeks. She probably didn’t know.”

“Could she have known?”

Ainsworth shrugged. “It’s possible. But a lot of girls that young don’t have regular periods or don’t keep track of their periods, so they don’t even suspect they’re pregnant until they start to show or their breasts start to swell.”

“If she knew and she told him, it would be a motive for killing her.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jackson leaned back in his chair and let it soak in. The hodgepodge of evidence couldn’t be sorted out until he had Grady’s DNA results and a DNA sample from the mayor. But this report didn’t give him anything new that he could take to Cranston that would convince the judge to sign a warrant demanding that the mayor submit to a DNA swab. Unless one of the other task force members came up with something today from their interviews with Fieldstone’s family, friends, and neighbors.

“I brought in panties and lip gloss today, both found in the suspect’s apartment. How soon can I get a DNA comparison to the victim?”

“Three days is a best-case scenario. We had to cut two lab positions this spring when the bond measure failed.” Ainsworth sounded weary. Jackson sympathized, yet he had more evidence that needed immediate attention.

“I brought in some bed sheets too. If they match the fibers found in Jessie’s nose and lungs, I should be able to get a search warrant for a DNA sample from the suspect. Once we have that, we’ll have a standard to compare the hair and semen to.” It was a lot of tenuous connections, but it was all he had. “Any chance of getting the sheets processed today?”

“We’ll try. That’s all I can promise.”

“Thanks.”

Friday, October 22, 12:05 p.m.

On her lunch break, Kera walked around the block—soaking up some weak autumn sun—and checked her cell phone messages. First, her sister Janine asked her to come to Bend for the weekend, which she was seriously considering. She could use an out-of-town break. It had been an intense week.

The next message was from Detective Jackson, asking to meet with her. And buy her dinner. Kera’s stomach fluttered with a twinge of excitement. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and laughed at herself. How lonely she must be, to look forward to meeting with a police officer who was conducting an investigation. Kera vowed to get out more often with her friends.

She called the number Jackson had given and left a message. “I’m free to meet with you this evening, but I’m not sure that I have any more information to share. Dinner sounds good, but there’s no reason for you to buy. Either way, I’ll be home by six.”

Did that sound casual? She hoped so.

Kera arrived home an hour early. Clients were starting to come back into the clinic, but it still wasn’t as busy as usual. And Sheila was cutting staff hours to help pay for the security she’d hired. Kera parked her Saturn, then walked back out to her mailbox on the street. She hadn’t checked it in days, and the metal box was stuffed to capacity.

Kera hauled the pile into the house and dumped it on the kitchen table. A pale pink envelope caught her attention. Curious, she scooped it up and looked for the sender’s name. In the return address corner, the initials NC were scrawled in fat cursive letters with an exaggerated flourish. The recipient line contained only her first name, Kera, also done in cursive, followed by her address in small block print. Overall, the effect seemed childlike.

Kera tore the envelope open and extracted a matching pink card with a simple “Thank You” printed on the front. A lovely fruit scent wafted from the card. Instinctively, she lifted it closer to her nose and sniffed. It was a melon and cucumber blend, like the body wash she used.

Inside, the message was handwritten in the same small block lettering, except for the signature, which repeated the cursive flourish:

Kera,
Thanks for spending time with me. It means a lot to me.
NC

It had to be Nicole, she thought. What a sweet and surprising gesture. Most adults never bothered with thank-you cards, and it never occurred to Kera that a teenager would. In fact, it struck her as a little peculiar that Nicole had penned and mailed the note so quickly. Kera had only talked with her yesterday.

She set the envelope down, grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper, then sorted through the rest of the mail. A plain white envelope caught her eye. This one contained no return name or address, only a sticker in one corner that said God is Love. This will be amusing, Kera thought, running the letter opener along the seal. Some church group either wanted her money or her soul.

Dear Sinner,
Planned Parenthood is the work of the devil and you are his pawn. You must repent your sins and stop murdering unborn babies. It is the worst transgression against God. Teaching God’s children to fornicate freely is the second worst transgression. You must stop or God will punish you. This is a promise. And God does not break His promises.
— God’s Messenger

Kera dropped the letter and jumped up from the table. The anti-abortion bomber–crackpot was targeting her personally. Her heart pounded wildly, and Kera began to pace. The clinic had received piles of hate mail over the years, but it had never come to her home before. If the bomber knew her address, then he knew where she lived. A nerve in the pocket of her thumb began to twitch, and Kera put her soda back into the refrigerator. She had to stop drinking so much caffeine. She went back to the table and stared at the letter.

She started to pick up the envelope to examine it more thoroughly, then thought better of it. If it had fingerprints, she didn’t want to ruin them. She retrieved some latex gloves from the bathroom and slid them on, something she did twenty times a day in the clinic, then carefully picked up the envelope again. She started to feel a little lightheaded.

The postage mark was local. The stamp sported the popular blue-heron-in-flight image. Her full name and address had been printed from a word processing program. It looked like Times New Roman or Minion font, about twelve point. It matched the font in the letter. Very standard stuff, available on any computer.

Out of curiosity, Kera picked up the pink envelope. The stamp was also from the Blue Heron series. But there was no postage mark, no sign that it had been processed through the US postal system. That was very odd, indeed. Nicole—or someone—had put it directly into her mailbox. How and why would Nicole learn her home address?

Kera told herself that it was coincidence that the two letters had the same stamp. It was a popular stamp choice in Oregon. She had a book of Blues in her desk drawer. If the same person had sent both, why had one been mailed and one delivered directly?

Kera’s chest tightened, and she fought to take a deep breath. Don’t panic, she told herself. They’re just letters. They can’t hurt you. But her heart knew better. In the recent past, letters had caused her a lot of pain. Kera grabbed her cell phone and pressed redial. Jackson’s voicemail picked up.

“It’s Kera again. I received some letters in the mail today that I think you should see.” Her chest began to burn. Was she having a heart attack? “Or maybe I should call Detective Quince…”

All of sudden, Kera felt as if the oxygen had been sucked out of her body. She tried to speak, but could only make shallow grunting noises. The room began to spin, and she grabbed for a kitchen chair.

Friday, October 22, 5:15 p.m.

Jackson shut his phone off while he met with Sergeant Lammers. She despised interruptions and had once tossed Casaway’s cell phone out the window after the detective had taken one too many calls in the confinement of the car they were riding in.

A thirty-year police veteran, Lammers had no patience for small talk either.

“You called the meeting, Jackson,” she said, seconds after he stepped into her office. “It’s your show.” She was six feet of fleshy muscle and political power, and even sitting down, she could be intimidating.

“I thought you should know that our top suspect in the death of Jessie Davenport, you know, the girl found in the dumpster…”

“I know who she is.”

…is Mayor Fieldstone.”

“No.” Her poker face went slack. “Tell me it’s circumstantial.”

“So far, it is. He rents a secret apartment five hundred feet from where the body was found. He talked on the phone to Jessie seven times in the last month. And another tenant saw the girl outside his unit.”

“So they know each other.” No high-ranking city employee wanted to jump to conclusions about the mayor.

“We searched his apartment yesterday and collected fiber evidence and some female panties. I hope to get a warrant for a DNA sample soon.”

“You should have informed me sooner.”

“I’ve been driving back and forth to Portland, taking evidence to the lab.” Jackson knew he was late with this conversation, but he’d been so damn busy.

“Who else have you looked at?” Lammers was obviously worried about a lawsuit. Police departments in Oregon had been sued recently for not investigating enough suspects.

“We’re investigating a sex offender named Oscar Grady. He lives about four blocks from where the body was found and has a penchant for young girls. The state lab is comparing his DNA to the trace evidence now. I should have results soon.”