Liars, Cheaters & Thieves (15 page)

Evans’ next question surprised him. “Did you grow up on a farm?”

“Yes. In Southern Oregon. Why?”

“What kind of animals did you have?”

“Chickens, rabbits, pigs. The usual. Why?”

“Did you help slaughter those animals?”

“Sometimes.” Sierra narrowed her eyes. “Why are you asking about this?”

“You know how to use a knife? You’ve cut into a pig and watched it bleed to death?”

Sierra jerked in anger. “I’ve also treated a lot of animals and saved their lives.”

Evans suddenly shifted gears. “Did Rafel carry life insurance?”

Sierra blinked in surprise. “When he was in the military, he had a policy. He bought it before he shipped out to Afghanistan. But I think it was terminated when he was discharged.”

They’d have to look into that—and a million other little things, Jackson thought. He took up the time line again. “When did you leave the tavern?”

“I’m not sure, but I think it was close to nine thirty.”

“Rafel was still there?”

“Yes.”

“What about Jake?”

“I don’t know.” She reached for her water bottle, and Jackson noted she used her left hand.

“Did you see Cody Sawyer at the tavern that night?”

“He stopped at our table and had a beer.”

Jackson wondered if Sawyer had overheard the couple’s fight. “What did the four of you talk about?”

“Nothing really. Rafel was too moody, so Jake and Cody left.” Her voice was clipped, as if she was losing her patience.

Jackson knew they were just getting started. “Did Cody leave the bar?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then what happened?”

“Rafel started talking about leaving me. It upset me, so I got out of there.”

“What did you do next?”

“I drove over to Game Day to see my friend Madison.”

Evans cut in. “Before you left Pete’s, did you walk around the parking lot for a while? Thinking about your pending divorce?”

Sierra shot her a look. “No. I wanted to get away. I left immediately.”

“What route did you take to the Game Day bar?” Jackson knew it was on Highway 99 next to a pizza parlor with miniature golf.

Sierra blinked, then hesitated. “Seneca to Highway 99.”

“What time did you arrive at the second tavern?”

“Don’t make it sound like that,” Sierra snapped. “I went to Pete’s to talk to my husband because he asked me to. Then I went to see my friend, who happens to be a bartender, because I was upset. I didn’t finish my beer in either place.”

“What time did you arrive at Game Day, and what time did you leave?”

“I’m not sure. I was only there about ten minutes. Madison was too busy to talk to me.”

“But you spoke to her? Will she corroborate your statement?”

“Of course.”

“Where were you between ten and eleven?”

“At home.”

A documented lie.
“Rafel’s sister says you didn’t pick up Adam until eleven.”

“Bullshit. She exaggerates to make me look like a bad stepmother.”

“An hour is a long time to be unaccounted for.”

Sierra was silent.

It was time to get to the heart of it, so Jackson asked, “When did you drop the syringe in the parking lot at Pete’s Pad?”

“What?” Alarm darkened her face.

“We found a syringe with your fingerprints about thirty feet from where Rafel was killed.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Tell me how it got there.” Jackson kept his voice neutral.

“I don’t know. I don’t carry syringes around with me.” Her eyes were a little wild now. “I don’t believe you. This is a trick.”

“The syringe is real, the prints are yours, and the DA is preparing to file murder charges against you.”

Sierra sucked in air as if she’d been punched. She gripped the table with both hands. “Rafel must have dropped it.”

Jackson cocked his head to express his doubt. “Why would your husband have a syringe with your prints?”

She paused for a long moment, her head down. “I gave him shots of ketamine at home sometimes. For his pain and stress.”

“What kind of drug is that?”

“It’s primarily an anesthetic, but it can be used for pain and depression.”

“Where did the drug come from?”

“The Animal Care Clinic.” A shadow of shame crossed her face.

“You stole doses of ketamine from the veterinary clinic where you worked and injected your husband with them?” Jackson tried to keep the disdain out of his voice.

“Only a few times.” Sierra sounded scared, but also angry. “Sometimes he had groin pain that was unbearable, and it triggered his PTSD. I couldn’t stand to see him suffer.”

Jackson decided it was time to empathize and give her a way out. “He was a troubled man and you felt sorry for him, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She bit her lip again.

“He talked about suicide sometimes, didn’t he?” Jackson was winging it.

“Sometimes.”

“He faced a life of pain, with no job, no self-esteem, and no penis.”

Evans jerked and dropped her pen on the table, and Jackson wished he’d told her earlier. “So you killed Rafel to put him out of his misery,” Jackson said softly, “the way you would a wounded animal.”

“No.” Sierra closed her eyes and shook her head. “I wanted him to get counseling.”

“You gave him a dose of ketamine in his Jeep to take the edge off. Then when he relaxed, you cut his throat, like you would a farm animal.”

Sierra pushed back from the table and shouted, “No!” as she stood up.

Jackson and Evans were on their feet just as quickly. Jackson had his hand on his taser. “Sit down!” Sierra started to cry, and Jackson wondered if it was all an act. “Sit down or I’ll cuff you.”

The suspect slumped into her seat. He had a few more questions, then they would give her a break while he conferred with the DA. “Did you know Rafel had done a paternity test on Adam?”

“Yes. What does this have to do with his murder?”

“How did the results affect him?”

“Rafel was crushed, but I think he’d always suspected.” Sierra shifted in her seat.

“Did it change things for you two as a couple?”

“It brought back memories of his first marriage, and Rafel got more paranoid and started accusing me of cheating.”

“We’ll take a break now. Would you like anything when we get back?”

“I want to call a friend who knows a lawyer.”

CHAPTER 15

Victor Slonecker was putting on his jacket as Jackson and Evans walked into the conference room. The district attorney’s suit was expensive, his dark hair perfectly groomed, and his expression hungry, like a man who never quite got what he wanted.

“We can’t charge her yet, and if she gets a lawyer, we have to let her walk out of here.” Slonecker snapped his briefcase shut. “The prints on the syringe are not enough to convict her, and I don’t want any more lawsuits.”

“What if the residue in the syringe matches the victim’s toxicology and her alibi falls apart?” Jackson asked. He made a mental note to follow up with her bartender friend.

“Maybe.” Slonecker moved toward the door. “But she already admitted to injecting her husband with tranquilizers. We can’t prove she’s the one who left the syringe.”

“We could charge her with theft from the clinic.” Jackson didn’t want to let Sierra out of custody until the evidence became clear.

“She’d be released almost immediately,” Slonecker argued. “And arresting her could prejudice a potential jury against her, giving her a reason for a change of venue.”

“Arresting murder suspects on minor charges to hold them is standard procedure.”

“Suit yourself. But she’ll be released in days. No one does jail time on minor theft charges.”

“What about the explosives?” Schak threw in.

Slonecker spun toward him. “What explosives?”

The DA must have missed the first part of the interrogation.

Schak said, “We found dynamite and blasting caps in the house the victim shared with his wife. She claims she knew nothing about it.”

“Oh christ. Just keep it off the news.” Slonecker strode toward the door. “And keep me informed.”

After the DA left, they were silent for a moment. Finally, Jackson said, “His staff has been cut, and he’s under a lot of pressure.”

“He’s right about the media coverage,” Schak added. “It could get crazy if they find out about the explosives.”

“It’s probably too late,” Evans said. “Neighbors saw the Explosive Device Unit at the house and were asked to vacate their homes, so they’re already speculating. And if reporters talk to the neighbors…” She didn’t need to finish the thought.

“No one knows the quantity. It could have been a single pipe bomb. The EDU response is the same.” Jackson turned to Schak. “Did you notice anything we should know about before we go back in there and try again?”

“The two times where Sierra’s body language suggested discomfort were when you asked what the four of them talked about at the bar and at the end when you asked about the kid.”

“Thanks.” Jackson touched Evans elbow. “Let’s question our suspect again before her lawyer gets here. We’ll make her take us through the evening backward and see if we can trip her up.”

The second round of questioning was mostly unproductive, even though Sierra’s supposed lawyer never showed up. The suspect stuck to her story and refused to discuss the injections she’d given her husband. She wouldn’t elaborate on the guys’ conversation at the tavern either, and she became uncomfortable when Jackson asked about Rafel’s child from his first marriage. Finally, Sierra admitted she didn’t want to raise the boy, but didn’t know how to get out of it. After thirty minutes, she simply stopped answering. They gave her a bathroom break, put her back in the interrogation room, then met with Schak in the conference room.

“She’s a tough one to read,” Schak complained. “I think she’s lying about the explosives and minimizing her husband’s pain medication use. But her denial about the murder is almost convincing.”

“She’s a mixed bag,” Jackson agreed.

“Are we going to arrest her?” Evans asked.

“It’s almost three,” Schak cut in. “I’ve got to run over to the Dining Room and see if our buddy Prez is in line for a free meal.”

“I’ll go with you.” Jackson turned back to Evans. “Would you book Sierra into jail on theft-one charges? I want to keep her out of circulation for a day or so if we can. We’ll meet back here in an hour.”

“I’m on it.” Evans started for the hall, then spun back. “There were moments when I believed her. We have to keep considering other suspects, other scenarios.”

“We will.” Jackson stood to leave. “I keep coming back to motive. What did she have to gain by killing him? Nothing that
seems worth a murder charge. Unless she had simply started to hate him and couldn’t bear the thought of a messy divorce.”

“What about the shaved-head guy from the tavern?” Evans asked. “How are we coming with that?”

“I have a call in to Officer Rice, but she hasn’t gotten back to me. She might be unavailable for the weekend. We need to keep asking everyone connected to this case if they recognize the description.” Jackson nodded at Evans. “See you in an hour or so.”

The Dining Room was four blocks away on Eighth Avenue, so they decided to walk. An ominous sky threatened rain again, but they ignored it. Their overcoats would keep them dry, and it wasn’t cold enough yet to wear a hat. Jackson started at a brisk pace, then heard Schak breathing a little too hard, so he slowed down. He wanted to ask his friend if he was eating better and exercising after his heart attack, but he would never do it. Schak had a wife. That was her job.

“This case seems pretty squirrelly,” Schak said, as they crossed the street. “I keep thinking there’s something else going on we haven’t tapped into yet.”

“I know what you mean. I’d love to look at all their bank records.” He remembered he’d assigned some of those subpoenas to Quince. “Hold up.” He stopped and sent Quince a text:
Task force meeting at 5:00. Bring bank records?
After originally hating getting texts from his daughter, Jackson had come to love the new communication tool. It was fast, silent, and efficient. As he started forward again, he said, “We need more people on this. I miss McCray. I still can’t believe he’s retired.”

“I went golfing with him last month. He looks great.”

“Good to hear.”

They crossed Lincoln and could see the crowd forming outside the Dining Room. The concrete building sported a colorful mural
on the side. A crowd formed a loose line that snaked through the parking lot, which had only a few cars because most of the patrons didn’t own a vehicle. Most didn’t have a home to go to either. These people were in survival mode. The free meal, eaten in peace in the dignity of a restaurant atmosphere, was likely the best hour of their day.

They stopped fifty feet away, and Jackson flipped through his notes for Prez’s description. “We’re looking for a fifty-five-year-old with light-brown hair going gray, wearing a long brown coat with a fur trim.”

“I see him.” Schak nodded, but didn’t point. “He’s near the front, carrying a green plastic bag. What’s our approach? We don’t want him to bolt.”

“Let’s wait until he’s inside, then we’ll sit down at his table. He won’t walk away from a meal, and the public place will make him feel safe.” Some patrol cops were less than gentle with homeless people, so transients had learned to be distrustful. On the other hand, Jackson also knew two senior officers who bought clothes and blankets for the homeless every winter.