Rules of Crime (10 page)

“What’s your name?”

“Marco Salvia.”

Evans made a show of writing it down. “Do you know Lyla Murray?”

“No. Is she the victim?”

“She’s in critical condition and might die. If she does, this becomes a homicide investigation and Taylor Harris was one of the last people to communicate with Lyla. Tell me what you know.”

“I don’t know anything. I just work with Taylor and I haven’t seen her since last week.”

“Where were you Saturday night between seven and ten?”

“Drinking with friends at the Beer Stein.”

A gust of wind came out of nowhere. Marco crossed his arms and tried not to shiver. Evans pretended not to notice the cold.

“Where does Taylor live?”

He looked around, then said, “I don’t know the address, but it’s a big white house on Potter Street. It’s on the east side, right in the middle of the block. She lives there with a group of other students.”

“A sorority?”

“I don’t know. I just gave her a ride home once.”

“What is Taylor like?”

“She’s sweet and she’s studying to be a teacher. I can’t believe she had anything to do with an assault.”

“Thanks for your help.” She handed him a business card. “Let’s keep this conversation to ourselves, but if you hear anything that might be useful, let me know.”

Still hungry, Evans bought an egg roll from a street vendor and added another mile to the run she would do in the evening. She’d started the morning with a kickboxing workout, followed by push-ups and sit-ups. She liked to run at the end of the day to burn off stress and empty the garbage out of her mind after a day filled with liars, thieves, and assholes. She wished she had a hot cup of coffee too, but the vendor only sold green tea. She’d never been that desperate.

On the drive over to Potter Street, she munched on her egg roll and scanned through more of Lyla’s texts whenever she had to stop for traffic. After a few minutes, the multitasking made her laugh out loud. Cops had to be the most distracted drivers on the road. She shoved Lyla’s phone in her shoulder bag and turned on Potter Street.

A moment later, she saw the massive white house on the left. The Victorian home had been built a hundred years earlier, but even after decades of abuse by college students it was still stately and attractive. Someone had taken good care of it. Evans made a note to find out who the owner was. She guessed it was managed by a rental property company.

Scanning the street for a parking space, she finally left her car in a driveway down the street where no one was home. She was glad she didn’t live or work in the campus area. Parking was a nightmare.

After several loud knocks and a three-minute wait, a young woman came to the door. Thin, with magenta streaks in her otherwise colorless hair, the student had sleepy eyes and a molasses-slow voice. “Who are you?”

“Detective Evans, Eugene Police. I need to see Taylor Harris immediately.” Evans figured this wasn’t Taylor because Brooke had said her suspect looked like a cheerleader.

“I don’t think she’s here.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know. I’m not her mother.”

“Then I’d like to talk to you.” Evans stepped into the house, forcing the girl to move back and let her in.

“What’s this about?” The girl stood near the door, arms crossed.

“Let’s sit down.”

She sighed and moved to a couch, one of three in a long, cluttered living room with low-to-the-ground furniture.

“What’s your name?”

“Kate Bertram.”

Evans jotted it down. “Where were you Saturday night?”

“At a party. Why?”

“Lyla Murray was beaten nearly to death. Do you know her?”

The girl gasped and her hand flew to her mouth. “But she’s okay?”

“Not yet. She could still die. How do you know her?”

“She’s a friend of Taylor’s. She’s been here a few times to hang out.”

“What’s the name of this sorority?”

Kate blinked. “We’re just friends who live together.”

Liar.
“Was Lyla going to move in here?”

“I think so.”

“What’s the criteria for being admitted?”

“It’s up to Taylor. She picks our new roommates.”

“What was your initiation like?”

Fear flashed in Kate’s eyes and she glanced away. “There is no initiation.”

“Bullshit. I saw your reaction when I mentioned it. Were you physically assaulted?”

“No.”

“Did Taylor assault Lyla?”

“I doubt it.”

“If you knew about the assault and didn’t report it, you can be charged as an accessory to a crime.” Evans leaned in. “Everyone in this house can be charged, and if Lyla dies, you could all go to jail.”

Kate’s breathing pattern was suddenly irregular and she jumped up. “I don’t know anything about it.”

A door banged shut at the back of the house and footsteps pounded upstairs. Evans jumped to her feet. “Is that Taylor?”

Kate was silent.

Evans strode toward the hallway, breaking into a jog as she reached the stairs. As she hit the second floor landing, she caught sight of a door closing at the end of the hall. She hurried past four other doors to the end room and knocked loudly. “Eugene Police. We need to talk.”

No response.

Hot anger made her skin go clammy. Who did this girl think she was that she could beat her friend into a coma, then ignore a cop?

Evans pounded again and yelled, “Eugene Police. Open up!”

A loud thump came through the door, followed by scurrying sounds. Evans visualized Taylor trying to hide something. She grabbed the knob and shoved, but the door was locked. “Taylor! Open up! Eugene Police.”

A window slammed open.

“Crap, she’s gonna run.”

CHAPTER 12

Monday, January 9, 3:27 p.m.

Jackson debated his next move. If this were a homicide, he’d simply round up Striker and bring him in for questioning. But Renee’s life was still at stake and he couldn’t do anything to jeopardize it. On the other hand, if Striker was the kidnapper and had drowned in the river, Renee could be locked in a shed on his property, abandoned and dehydrating…or hurting herself trying to get free. He pushed the awful image away and made a decision. With an hour before the task force meeting, he had just enough time to run out to Striker’s place and take a look around. Jackson googled the location, left word with Schak, and headed to his car.

The last known address in Striker’s file was on Bethel Drive, about a mile west of the Jesco Club. Jackson passed the railroad office and slowed down, watching for the numbers on the left. A couple of neglected homes stood near the road, but the house he wanted
was in between the two shacks, down a fifty-foot driveway. The muddy little house sat under a giant oak tree, but no vehicle was present. Striker could still be home. With a DUI on his record and a predisposition toward alcohol, he might not have a driver’s license.

Jackson climbed out, his hand automatically touching his Sig Sauer. He was always careful around suspects, but this neighborhood made him wary. Eugene’s growing gang population congregated in cheap rentals, and the other dirt-poor residents here had nothing left to lose.

Train cars slammed together behind him and made him jump. How did people live here? Could you ever get used to the noise?

Glancing around, he noticed the property’s boundaries: a laurel hedge on the right, a grassy strip on the left, and what looked like a beat-up wooden fence in the back. The corner of a green metal shed was visible behind the house.
Where did Striker build the chicken coops?
Jackson wondered. Was there a shop in back he couldn’t see?

He stepped past an overflowing garbage bag and knocked on the door. A faint movement inside, then nothing. A moment later, a cat appeared in the window to the right.
Better than a dog
, he thought. He knocked again and waited a full minute. At this point he had no right to search the man’s property, but Jackson couldn’t make himself walk away. Renee could be captive here.
The mother of his child.

He heard a voice near the backyard and told himself it had to be investigated.

Jackson strode around the corner and down the narrow path between the wood siding and the tall hedge. The green shed he’d spotted had a lock on it—no surprise—so he pounded on the door. No response from within. He pounded again, then moved to the back of the shed and put his ear against the cold metal.

No sign of life.

He turned to the rest of the yard. A makeshift carport filled most of the space. The grass under it had been trampled by work boots, and a table saw stood near the edge of the covered area. Two wooden birdhouses lay near the saw. Striker’s shop. He was making do with the space he had. Jackson had a brief flash of respect for the man’s effort to earn a living.

Then he imagined Renee tied up in a back bedroom of the house.

After a quick search of the perimeter, he tried the back door handle. The door pushed open. Jackson hesitated. If Renee were not his ex-wife, would he enter this home without a warrant? He had probable cause, he told himself. A woman was being held hostage and he was following a viable lead.

Jackson moved quickly through the small laundry room into the hallway. The overpowering stink of cigarettes and cat piss made his eyes water. He pushed open a bedroom door and called out softly, “Renee.”

Right hand near his weapon, he stepped into the bedroom, which was spare and cold. He checked the closet, then backed out of the room. He was searching for a hostage. Anything else was illegal.

After a quick glance in the bathroom, he headed toward the small living room. It held only a beat-up recliner, a TV and a computer—both sitting on a brick-and-board shelf—and a large laminate table. On the table sat a row of plastic jars, an unopened pack of coffee filters, a Pyrex bowl, an eyedropper, and a funnel. Striker was starting a meth production business. Or had he decided it wasn’t worth the hassle and moved directly into kidnapping for ransom? Was he a meth addict? The thought sickened Jackson. If so, Renee might already be dead.

Time to get a warrant. Jackson hurried for the back door, stopping in the kitchen to glance around. A photo taped to the
refrigerator caught his eye. He stepped toward it and his heart skipped a beat. An image of Renee, sitting on a folding metal chair, wearing a red sweater and not smiling. The Jesco Club.
Striker was obsessed with Renee.
Had he also kidnapped her? Jackson leaned in close, resisting the urge to touch the picture. It had been printed on thick white paper rather than photo stock. He’d seen an old tower-style computer in the living room but no printer. Did Striker have more photos of Renee on his hard drive?

Jackson grabbed his camera from his carryall and snapped a picture of the refrigerator, then moved in closer for another shot. Could he take this photo to a judge and get a search warrant? Or would he just get himself in trouble?

A car pulled into the driveway, tires crunching on the gravel. Jackson spun toward the back door. He caught sight of the kitchen window, its blinds partially closed. He quickly pulled them open a little more, then bolted for the backyard. Camera still in hand, he zoomed in and took a photo of the refrigerator through the window. No one ever needed to know he’d been in the house.

Jackson grabbed his phone called for backup. In this neighborhood, a patrol unit would not be far away.

CHAPTER 13

Monday, January 9, 3:13 p.m.

Evans bolted down the stairs and made a left, running straight into a laundry room. She tried again. The old house had small rooms and short hallways, but she found the back door and charged into the yard. A young blonde woman opened a gate in the back fence and ran into an alley. Out of the corner of her eye, Evans spotted the giant oak tree next to the house, complete with hammered-in climbing boards. Taylor had clambered down like a pro.

Evans chased after her, glad she’d left her shoulder bag in the car. Adrenaline rushed into her veins. She could run faster and longer than anyone in the department, but Taylor was young and scared and knew the neighborhood better.