Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (24 page)

“But why would he kill her? I don’t understand.” She seemed genuinely confused.

“We are pretty sure he was having sex with her. Did you know they had a relationship?”

“Not that kind of relationship.” Mrs. Davenport’s eyes darted around at the church people in the parking lot. “But I saw him talking to her a few times.”

“Where?”

“Here, in church. And once at a fundraiser at the fairgrounds.”

“Did you ever suspect anything?”

“No!”

“Did you know Fieldstone personally? Were you friends?”

Davenport’s hands twisted in her lap. “He made a point of being nice to me.” She hesitated for a long moment. Jackson resisted the urge to prompt her. Finally she said, “He gave me money once.”

“How much? And what did he say when he offered it?” This was unexpected.

“He offered me fifteen hundred dollars so I could pay off Jessie’s braces. I wondered how he knew I needed the money.”

“Is there anything else I should know?”

Judy Davenport shook her head and began to cry.

Jackson squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

As he stepped out of the car, he noticed Trina Waterman, a reporter with KRSL, setting up in the parking lot for interviews with two churchgoers.

Oh shit. Not now. Jackson could not get back to his car without passing right by her. But he had no choice, he had a meeting with the chief of police in twenty minutes.

The reporter noticed him as he approached and signaled her cameraman to swing his camera around. Jackson smiled, nodded, and kept walking.

“Officer Jackson, is Miles Fieldstone your only suspect in this case?”

“I can’t tell you that.” He kept moving.

“What motive have you established? Were he and Jessie sexually involved?” Waterman called out her question from about five feet away. The two church women who were preening for their turn in front of the camera looked horrified.

“It’s too early to speculate. We’re waiting for lab results.” Jackson kept moving.

Waterman was behind him now and Jackson resisted the urge to run. But he suspected that her other potential interviewees had taken off. That was the gamble in going for the bigger fish.

Saturday, October 23, 11:46 a.m.

On the ride home from the prayer breakfast, Nicole and Rachel sat in the back seat of the Clarkes’ Ford Astro and didn’t talk much—not in the presence of Nicole’s parents. Rachel had come up to Nicole after the meal and asked to spend the afternoon together.

“I’m sad about Jessie too,” Rachel whispered in her ear as she hugged Nicole. “And I can’t bear to lose you as a friend right now.” Feeling guilty about not seeing Rachel for the past few days, Nicole agreed to have her over.

As they pulled into the driveway of their Potter Street home, Nicole noticed a blue sedan parked on the street. The men who climbed out were both wearing dark suits and carrying small notebooks. A sense of dread invaded Nicole’s stomach as she and her family climbed out of the van. The men looked like cops, and she knew this would be bad. Her parents, who were still arguing about when they’d taken the van in for a tune-up, hadn’t noticed the men approaching.

“Mr. and Mrs. Clarke?”

They both spun around. “Yes?”

“I’m Detective Michael Quince, Eugene Police. And this is Agent Daren Fouts with the FBI. We’d like to speak to your daughter Nicole for a few minutes.”

Her parents looked at each other, terrified. Rachel gave Nicole a wild-eyed look that meant “Don’t you dare tell them anything.” Nicole felt her face flush and her heart flutter. Was this about Jessie? Why did the FBI want to talk to her?

“About what?” Her mother was always the first to react, leaving her dad looking a little slow.

“We’d prefer to let Nicole discuss that with you afterward.” Detective Quince’s voice was soft and soothing, and Nicole was a little less scared. The other man hadn’t said a word yet.

Her mother turned to her. “Nicole, do you know what this is about?”

“No.”

“We’d like to be present when you talk to her.” Her dad finally spoke up.

The FBI agent stepped forward. “We’re investigating a very serious incident. It may, or may not, involve your daughter. Either way, it’s imperative that we speak to Nicole alone.”

Her parents looked at each other and communicated in that silent language adults speak with their eyes. While they all stood there, the sky began to spit moisture. Finally, her mom said, “Come inside and I’ll make you some coffee. You can talk in the sunroom.”

Nicole had mixed feelings about being alone with the cops. Depending on what they wanted to talk about, her parents could either be a protection or a nightmare. She wished Rachel could stay with them. Rachel had nerves of steel. But her mom had invited her friend into the kitchen to make lunch. Rachel rolled her eyes and went along. Now Nicole, Detective Quince, and Agent Fouts were seated in the sunroom, surrounded by plants, watching the rain drizzle down the glass.

“How well do you know Kera Kollmorgan?” Quince asked.

“Who?”

“Kera Kollmorgan. She’s a nurse at Planned Parenthood.”

“I don’t know her.” She didn’t, not really.

“You’ve never met her?” The detective’s expression said he did not believe her.

“No. Why would I know her?” Nicole asked God to forgive her lies. But how could she admit she knew Kera without starting down that whole road?

“I think you do.” Quince paused. “Do you own any pink stationary?”

“No. Why?”

Fouts leaned forward. “Why did you poison her?”

“What?” Panic tapdanced on her heart.

“Somebody sent Kera Kollmorgan a thank-you card laced with ricin,” Agent Fouts said. “She almost died.”

“I don’t even know what that is!” Nicole struggled not to cry.

“The card was signed NC,” Fouts said.

“I’m not the only person in the world with those initials.” It was almost a shout. Nicole hoped her parents hadn’t heard.

“You talked to Kera the day before she received the card.”

Nicole realized she was trapped. Kera had told the cops about their conversation. Her parents would find out she had been to Planned Parenthood! Her legs began to shake. Quince moved over and sat next to her on the couch.

“Tell me about it, Nicole,” he said in a quiet voice. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

“I did talk to Kera. I was upset about Jessie’s death, and I needed to talk to someone. And she was there at my school.”

“So you already knew her?”

Nicole sucked in a big gulp of air. “I recognized her from the clinic. I went there once with Jessie, just to keep her company. Please don’t tell my parents. They’re very religious. They’ll freak.”

“Did anyone else see you talking to Kera?” Fouts again.

“No. Uh. Actually, yes. A friend of mine. A guy.”

“What’s his name?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Nicole wished she could cut out her own tongue. “He just came up to the car when I was talking to Kera and flirted with me. He doesn’t know her, and he wouldn’t hurt her.” The sobs she held back threatened to choke her. “I swear to you in God’s name, I didn’t send any poison to Kera. Please don’t tell my parents that I know somebody at Planned Parenthood.”

“Tell me the boy’s name,” Fouts pressed.

“Trevor Harvick.” Wow, was he going to be pissed at her when the FBI showed up at his house.

Detective Quince took over again. “Do you know anyone who would want to cause you trouble?”

“No. It must be some other NC.”

“Do you know anyone who would want to hurt both Jessie Davenport and Kera Kollmorgan?”

“No. None of this makes any sense.”

Detective Quince stood and handed her a business card. “Please call me if you think of anything that might relate to this incident.” Agent Fouts hesitated, then got up as well.

“What are you going to tell my parents?” Nicole spoke directly to Quince.

“That we talked about Jessie.”

“Thank you.” Nicole cried with relief.

As they walked away from the Clarkes’ home, Agent Fouts asked, “Who is Jessie Davenport?”

Quince hesitated. “She’s a fourteen-year-old girl who was murdered last Tuesday.”

“What makes you think her death is related to the attacks on the Planned Parenthood clinic and its staff?” Fouts frowned. “And why didn’t you tell me about her?”

Quince felt compelled to play it down. “I don’t think they are related. But it occurred to me to ask Nicole because she is a friend of Jessie’s and her initials came up in the ricin card. It was just a long shot.”

“You still believe in coincidences?” They had reached the car, and Fouts stared at him over the top as they stood by the doors.

Quince was quiet as they climbed into Fouts’ sedan. Then he asked, “In your experience, has an anti-abortion fanatic ever turned out to be a sexual predator as well?”

Fouts gave it some thought. “No. But I intend to investigate the possibility. Who’s handling the Davenport case?”

“Detective Jackson.”

“I’ll set up a meeting.”

Saturday, October 23, 1:05 p.m.

For the chief of police and the district attorney to come into the department on a Saturday afternoon was an occasion so special that it could only result in someone being fired or arrested. Jackson was keenly aware of this as he walked into the chief’s office.

Slonecker was already there, standing at the window. As usual, he had too much energy to sit and wait. The chief was behind his desk, his squat muscular body looking out of place in a tailored gray suit. He had a salt and pepper flattop, a crooked nose, and wild eyebrows in need of a trim. It was the first time Jackson had seen either man without a tie.

Jackson realized he didn’t know the chief well enough to make any predictions about how this conversation would go. Owen Warner had been imported from Texas a year ago—pissing off the entire department, who had hoped one of their own, Captain Tillager, would end up with the position.

“Officer Jackson.” Chief Warner stood to greet him. But he was not a tall man, and this put him at a disadvantage to both Jackson and Slonecker. He motioned everyone to sit.

“I had a very unpleasant conversation with the mayor this morning. He wants you off this case. He threatened to sue the department.” Warner’s fleshy face turned pink as he talked. “You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

“He’s our main suspect, sir, in the murder of Jessie Davenport. He has an apartment near where her body was found, he spoke with her on the phone seven times last month. The fibers in her nose match–”

Warner cut him off. “I know all that. I want to know why you brought him into the department in handcuffs and how the hell that photo ended up on the front page.”

“He also gave Mrs. Davenport fifteen hundred dollars.”

“What?” Slonecker turned to stare. “When did you learn this?”

“A half hour ago.”

Warner slapped his desktop. “More circumstantial bullshit. I want to know why you went out of your way to turn this investigation into a PR nightmare.”

Jackson kept his voice deadpan as he described his call to Fieldstone offering the mayor a chance to come in voluntarily for a DNA swab. He detailed the mayor’s uncooperative behavior, both at the club and later at his home. “I believe he was, and is, a flight risk, sir. I had no other choice.”

“And the press? Did you call the fucking newspaper?”

“No sir.” Jackson fought to keep his cool. The question was on par with accusing him of taking bribes. “The reporter must have been monitoring our radio frequency and heard my attempt-to-locate request. Then she and a photographer ambushed me at the department. I am sorry it happened. But I can’t say I would do anything differently if I had to do it again.”

“I would,” Slonecker interjected. “This whole case could get suppressed.”

“I had a search warrant for DNA. It’ll hold.”

There was a long silence while Warner stroked his chin. “How sure are you that the mayor’s DNA will match the trace evidence found on the victim?” he asked finally.

Doubt squeezed Jackson’s bowels. How sure was he? The victim had sex with two different men in the hours before she died, one of whom may have been a known sex offender. The orange panties found in the mayor’s apartment did not belong to Jessie. The 600-thread blue cotton fibers were somewhat common.

“I believe the mayor was screwing this girl. She got pregnant. He got scared and killed her to save his career.” Jackson paused and the chief jumped in.

“Even if Fieldstone was having an affair with the girl—and I’m not saying he was—that doesn’t mean he killed her. What about the sex offender you brought in?”

“He killed himself last night.”

“Sounds like a guilty man to me.” Warner seemed unaware of his own hypocrisy.

“Oscar Grady’s DNA results aren’t back yet.”

“When will we know?” Warner impatiently drummed the desk.