Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (23 page)

Sophie felt a little guilty for thinking that about Jackson. He seemed like a decent guy. And it wasn’t just the police. The television media were also guilty of the ‘more dead’ syndrome, in which young good-looking white women who had been killed or gone missing received much more attention than plain or minority women who had suffered the same circumstances. Sophie wanted justice for all women—even if they were old, brown, ugly, or gay.

She parked in front of the old house, took one last gulp of coffee, and walked up to the door. A young man on a bike whistled as he rode past. Sophie was still smiling when the door opened and a young woman with a buzz cut and a small broken-heart tattoo said, “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Hi, I’m Sophie Speranza with the
Willamette News
. Do you know Amy Hastings?”

“She was my roommate for the past year.”

“I’d like to talk to you about her.”

“Sure.” The young woman waved her in. “I’m Tara, by the way. Was that your story in the paper yesterday?”

“Yes. Did you read it?”

“I read the first few paragraphs.”

Typical, Sophie thought. Oh well. “What’s your connection to Amy?” Sophie plopped on the couch. “Were you lovers?”

“Yes. I love Amy very much. I wanted to go with her to Seattle, but I’m right in the middle of a term at the university.”

“Were you and Amy openly gay?” Sophie flipped open her notepad and clicked on her tape recorder.

“Of course.” Tara gave her a sexy smile.

“Was Amy ever harassed for being gay?”

“Not when she was by herself. Because she’s the girly type, she passes. But when she’s with me, we get looks and occasional comments.”

“Are you openly affectionate?”

“Sometimes. We always tried to be respectful of our surroundings.”

“Where did Amy live before Eugene?”

“She grew up in Ashland and moved here after high school.”

“Did she come to Eugene because of the lesbian community?”

“I don’t know.” Tara gave it some thought. “She told me she moved here because she had a friend who lived here and really liked it. Of course, those things could all be related.”

“Is Amy a student at the University of Oregon?”

“Off and on. When she can afford it.”

“What is she studying? I’m trying to get a full picture of who Amy Hastings is.”

“She hopes to get a degree in creative writing.” Tara smiled at her own private thought, then shared it with Sophie. “Amy sees herself someday as a college professor, teaching poetry writing classes.”

“She’s a poet?” Sophie felt a buzz of excitement.

“She writes all kinds of things, but poetry is her favorite.”

Keesha Williams wrote poems
.
Could this be the connection
? “Did Amy take a poetry class recently?”

“She did. From this woman who used to teach poetry at LCC.”

“What’s her name?”

Tara gave her a puzzled look. “I don’t know.”

“Where was the class held?”

“At her house, I think.”

“What’s the address?”

Tara shrugged. “I don’t know. Why are you asking? You seem a little excited.”

“Sorry. It’s probably nothing. But I would like to know this woman’s name. Can you help me with that?”

“I can ask around the creative writing department. Someone will know.”

Sophie was suddenly anxious to leave. She stuffed her notepad and recorder into her oversized bag and stood. “Thanks so much for your time. If you come up with the poetry teacher’s name, call me, please.” She hurried to the door, then thought of something and turned back. “Were there any guys in the class?”

Tara laughed. “I don’t think so. It was pretty much a lesbian-only experience.”

“Is the poetry teacher gay?”

“Indeed.” Tara snapped her fingers. “I think her nickname is Mac.”

“Thanks.”

In the car, Sophie called Martha Krell. The old woman didn’t pick up, so Sophie left a message. “Martha. Hi. It’s Sophie Speranza again. I have a funny question for you. Did Raina write poetry or take a poetry class? It’s important. Please call me back. 337-9821.”

Next she called Keesha Williams, who also failed to answer. Sophie left her a similar message: “Have you recently taken a poetry class from a gay woman named Mac? If so, please call me.” Sophie headed for the newspaper office so she could sit down in front of her computer. Her brain worked best when she was staring at a flat-panel screen.

First she clicked through the community college website, hoping to find a list of instructors but soon discovered there were no staff names except for counselors. Disappointed, she checked the University of Oregon website just to cover the bases. The UO site was visually superior and better organized but also did not list staff. A search feature allowed her to find someone if she knew the name, but typing in ‘Mac’ was no help.

Sophie called the art department at LCC, was put on hold for eight minutes, then was informed that a list of instructors was not available. Nor did the desk clerk know anyone named Mac. Sophie decided to check in with a few of her coworkers—the few who were in the building on Monday—but none had attended LCC, or any school in Oregon. Most of the
Willamette News
staff came from out of state. The owners preferred to hire reporters and editors with big city newspaper experience. The irony was that no one who had lived in Eugene all his life, and knew the town, its history, and its people, was ever employed to write for the newspaper. Instead, they had newcomers, like Sophie, who were getting to know the community from an outsider’s perspective.

Back at her desk, Sophie scanned through the list of contacts on her cell phone. Who had attended LCC recently? Her friend, Jamal, was currently a student taking diesel mechanics, which she thought was a huge mistake. He would not know the literary arts staff. In a moment, she came to Derrick’s name and flipped the phone shut. No, she couldn’t call him and ask a favor.

The elitist little shit had broken up with her only a few weeks before, and she was still reeling. There had to be another way to get this information. Sophie opened the phone and continued scrolling through her contact list. She called her friend Monica, who wrote a column for the
Eugene Weekly
, a funky liberal-leaning alternative paper, and who had taught continuing education classes for Lane Community College.

“Hey Sophie, good to hear from you. What’s up?” Monica knew the call had a purpose and was ready to get right to it. Sophie loved that about her.

“I’m trying to locate a lesbian poet named Mac. She once taught at LCC.”

“The name Mac does not ring any bells. But I haven’t been associated with the college for a while.”

“What happened?”

“They cut my class. Lack of funding.”

“Can you ask around for me?”

“Sure. How are you doing, by the way?”

“I’m good. Chasing a big crime story. How about you?”

“Lucy and I are having difficulties, but we’re seeing a counselor.”

“Hang in there. You guys have been together a long time.”

Monica laughed. “I think that’s the problem.”

“Take care. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Sophie scrolled back to Derrick’s name. He would have the answer. Derrick not only taught composition classes at the community college, he had founded the Eugene Writer’s Group and knew every novelist, scriptwriter, and poet in town. That’s how she had met him. Anxiety ran through her like a sudden sickness. She told herself it was no big deal. Just ask the question, get the info, and get off the phone.

Sophie pressed call and instinctively closed her eyes. Maybe she would get lucky and he wouldn’t answer. She could leave a message and he could call back and leave a message and they wouldn’t actually have to speak.

Derrick picked up on the third ring. “Sophie, what a pleasant surprise.” His voice was a warm blanket inviting her to crawl in.

“Hey, Derrick.”

There was a painful silence while he waited.

“What’s up, Sophie? You called me, so it must be important.”

“I’m looking for a lesbian poet who teaches classes out of her home and has the nickname Mac.” She blurted it out in a hurried rush.

“Is this for a story you’re working on?”

“Yes, why?”

“Because this is why we broke up. Because you’re so focused on work all the time. Because everything is fodder for your writing. I know it was hard for you to make this call, but you wanted the information so badly you were willing to swallow your pride and do it anyway.”

“No, this is why we broke up. Because you think you know everything.”

Another painful silence.

“Are you going to tell me who the poet is?”

“What’s the story?”

“I shouldn’t tell you.”

“Do you want the name?”

Sophie hesitated. He was testing her, but she couldn’t win either way. “I’m looking into the serial rapes and the recent murder of Raina Hughes.”

“Do the police have a suspect?”

“Yes, but his association is proximity only. I have another lead that I’m pursuing.”

“A poet?”

“Or someone connected to the poet.”

“Her nickname isn’t Mac, it’s Mick. Her full name is Michelle Peterson, but she prefers to be called Mick. She taught poetry at LCC for ten years, then was fired when her ex-husband started showing up on campus and making an ass of himself. Now she teaches workshops out of her home and publishes an online poetry magazine.”

“Do you have contact information?”

“I can’t give it to you without her permission. I’ll e-mail Mick and ask. Anything else?”

“Peterson with an
o
or an
e
?”

“With an
o
. Good luck with your story.”

The phone clicked in Sophie’s ear. The finality of it was a jab to the gut. That’s what you get for dating men, she thought. The sex was more intimate, but overall, they were insensitive to other people’s feelings. Sophie jumped up from her desk and hurried toward the break room. She would grab a cup of crappy coffee, then get online and find out everything she could about Michelle Peterson. A nagging voice in her head asked,
When are you going to tell Detective Jackson about the poet
?

Soon. She just needed to check out a few more things.

The eight-unit complex on the corner of Jefferson and 23rd had been painted long ago, but Jackson perceived the color as light blue. The aging building seemed to cringe in the shadow of the huge new apartment complex behind it. Jackson grabbed his sunglasses and stepped out of the car. It was one of those bright warm February afternoons that made winter-weary Oregonians think it was spring…for a moment.

Unit three was downstairs on the corner farthest from the street. A small camping chair sat outside the door, and next to it was a coffee can full of sand and cigarette butts. Jackson rapped gently on the door. No point in sounding like a cop.

After a minute of no response, he knocked harder. Ted Conner had said Ryan Bodehammer worked nights at the Goodwill, so his suspect might be sleeping. Jackson checked his watch: 9:33. He used his fist and pounded loudly. He waited another minute, then walked around the complex to see if one of the units had a sign that said ‘Manager’. No such luck. Jackson called the front desk officer at headquarters and asked to have a patrol officer keep surveillance on the apartment. “See if Officer Whitstone is available. I’d like her to have this assignment.” Whitstone would be more committed to the task because of her connection to the original crime scene. The assignment would help advance her career. “Bodehammer is five ten, a hundred and seventy pounds. He has short blond hair, blue eyes, and bad teeth. Wears a jean jacket with fleece lining. No vehicle that I know of.”