Crimes of Memory (A Detective Jackson Mystery) (13 page)

“Then it’s probably one of the four. Someone who wants to step things up, maybe hit harder or move faster.” Fouts seemed
to vibrate with tension. “So if it’s a rogue operator, the next attack could come at any time.”

“That’s my concern as well. It’s why I’m looking to turn an informant.” River clicked off the images. “Our biggest unknown about these attacks is the access factor. How did the perp get into each of the two buildings? Or do they have insiders working at both JB Pharma and Rock Spring?”

“The door didn’t look jimmied or scratched,” Shoemaker said.

“I know. I examined it too. But here’s the kicker.” River glanced at her notes for the name. “The night watchman had a visitor, a woman who works at the factory who has the code and stopped in for a booty call. They’re both married, which is why he didn’t mention her presence last night. I just learned her name is Candy Morrison, and I plan to interrogate her next. She may be working with LTE.”

“How often does she visit him?” Quince asked.

“Bromwell has only been on the night watch for two weeks, but she visited him on all three Tuesdays.” She nodded at Detective Quince. “I know what you’re thinking. Someone casing the building spotted the pattern, maybe discovered the code by watching her or checking the keypad after she entered.”

“Or blackmailed her into giving it to him,” Fouts added.

“Or she’s complicit.” River looked at her notes from the earlier sabotage. “JB Pharma has far better security than Rock Spring, so we assumed that was an inside job. But we were unable to link any of the employees to LTE in a significant way. It’s disturbing to think they have people working at all their targets.”

“What do you think they’ll hit next?” Quince asked the million-dollar question.

River had pondered it, but she wanted to hear what everyone else thought first. “What is your best guess? Anyone?”

“What about the mining operation on Parvin Butte?” Fouts suggested. “The neighbors and tree huggers hate that.”

“What’s their complaint with the bottled water company?” Quince asked.

“I wasn’t sure about that either,” River said. “But I talked to Ted Rockman, the owner, this morning, and he showed me a threatening letter he received two weeks ago.” She clicked her laptop and displayed the scanned letter. “The sender is hyper-concerned about plastic bottles in the landfills and seems to think he or she knows something that Rockman would want kept private. A vague blackmail threat.”

“That seems more personal than just an eco-terrorist message.” Quince stared at the screen. “Where was the letter sent to? His home or business?”

“Rockman’s office. But he’s a state senator and uses his office as his political base as well, so he’s easy to reach there.”

“So the letter writer could be the rogue operator,” Fouts said. “Unless ELF Lite is focused on plastic bottles.”

“They’re working on an initiative to ban plastic bags,” Quince offered. “I read that in the paper a few days ago.”

“Any potential targets you can think of based on that?” After a moment of silence, River glanced at Agent Fouts. “I need you to analyze the Rock Spring employee files. Then look at possible connections with the JB Pharma employees. We have to find the insiders.” She turned to the EPD detective. “Quince, you already offered to do what you can to identify the two other men. Don’t forget to check social media sites like Facebook and Twitter. LTE has a Facebook page, but they have hundreds of followers, and I haven’t had time yet to look at them all.”

“I’ll start there.”

River added, “When we identify the other two members, I’ll ask for surveillance people from the Portland bureau.”

She wrapped up the meeting, passed off most of the Rock Spring employee files to Fouts, and headed back to her office. Her first priority was to find Candy Morrison, who might be an LTE sympathizer.

Candy’s employee file listed two phone numbers and River called both, leaving a casual message, indicating Candy was just one of the many employees the FBI wanted to talk to. River jotted down her home address, then googled the woman to see if she was involved in social media. Her Facebook page came up at the top of the search. After a few minutes of clicking through Candy’s list of friends, a familiar name popped up.

Chris Noonaz.

CHAPTER 10

Wednesday, March 13, 2:35 p.m.

Jackson was torn. He had a homicide to work, but he needed to be with Katie, at least for a while. He reached across the car seat and lightly touched her shoulder. “Do you want to go somewhere fun? Bowling or skating?” Why the hell had he said that?

The old Katie would have laughed at the thought of him on roller skates. The new Katie jerked her head toward him and stared openmouthed, as if he’d just suggested they get gang tattoos. “I’m really not in the mood.”

Yeah, he got that. “Katie, I realize these are the worst months of your life, but you have to understand that they will pass. Your life will go on. Someday soon, you’ll be twenty, and if you’re lucky, you’ll hit forty. You have to ask yourself: Do I want to be a forty-year-old woman with a drinking problem, a suspended driver’s license, and a criminal record? Or do I want to be someone with a good job, a house, and a car?”

She was silent.

Jackson took that as a sign that she was considering what he’d said. “I love you. I can’t bear the thought of losing you too.” He never talked about it, but he grieved for Renee. She’d been the love of his life once, and being responsible for her death had crushed what little optimism he had left.

He drove toward home, thinking they would watch a movie together, then he would take Katie to Aunt Jan’s. He would meet with his task force, then pick up Katie by eight. “Let’s stop by your school, and I’ll go in and get your assignments from today.”

“Please don’t. I can’t face anyone I know right now.”

“All right. We’ll go home and watch a movie.”

“Just take me to Aunt Jan’s. I know you have to work.”

“I can take a couple hours off. In fact, I want to.” He tried to sound sincere.

“A movie won’t change anything. I’d rather be at Aunt Jan’s house.”

It stung, but not as much as the first time he’d heard it. They would get through this. The phrase had become his peace of mind. “I found a new therapist for you. Your caseworker recommended her.” Jackson tried to form his next words carefully. “The court says you have to get grief counseling, in addition to the treatment program. It’s not optional. So I’ll make an appointment and go with you.”

“Whatever.”

Jackson’s phone rang, and he touched his earpiece automatically. “Jackson here.”

“It’s Schak. I found Patrick Brennan. But based on what his ex-wife tells me, I want you there when I pick him up.”

Jackson glanced at Katie, who stared out the window. He pulled off into a parking lot. “Where is the suspect?”

“Up on Wolf Creek.”

Not a quick trip. “Where are you now?”

“Heading back to the department.”

“I’ll meet you there. We’ll drive out together.”

He hung up and repeated his daughter’s name until she turned to face him. “I love you. I’m never giving up. We’ll always be a family.”

“I know. I just don’t want to be around you.” Katie looked back out the window.

He dropped off his daughter, hugged his ex-sister-in-law, and drove downtown feeling uneasy. He should have been more assertive about spending time with Katie, and he should have told Schak to take Evans with him. But as skilled as she was, Evans just wasn’t as intimidating to suspects. She’d proven she could kick ass if provoked, but Jackson preferred to keep suspects docile. And it wasn’t just about gender, Jackson reasoned, it was about size and looks—because Sergeant Lammers scared everybody.

After a second brief call, Schak met him in the parking lot under City Hall and climbed in. In this scenario, it made sense to take one vehicle. It was an hour trip, and once they got back, they would question the suspect together.

They drove west out of town, then turned on Crow Road, which would take them directly to the Wolf Creek turnoff. On the way, Schak updated him. “I found Kathy Brennan, Patrick’s ex-wife, when I read about the original robbery. Which happened on Saint Patrick’s Day, by the way.”

“Is that significant?”

“The Brennan family is Irish.”

“Perps love symbolism too.” Jackson wondered if the men had gotten drunk and done it on a stupid impulse. “What did she say about Patrick’s involvement?”

“She’s adamant that Patrick is innocent, and she says the cops ruined his life by implicating him. She says Danny was always the troublemaker.”

“And the money?”

“She has no idea, and she doesn’t live like someone who’s had a windfall.”

“It was nine years ago,” Jackson reminded him. “It doesn’t take long to burn through a hundred grand.”

Schak laughed. “With a kid in college, I can do that in a year.” His partner unbuttoned his jacket. “I think Danny hid the money, and it’s just sitting somewhere untouched. It sure would be fun to find it.”

“Until we had to hand it over to the bank.”

Schak turned to face him. “If no one but us knew, would you be tempted to keep it?”

“I can see how the idea might flash through a person’s brain, but no. Money won’t solve my problems.”

“Wait until Katie starts college.” Schak shook his head.

“I’ll feel lucky if she makes it to that point.”

“Things still bad with her?”

“Yeah.”

Jackson turned on Wolf Creek and they started the winding climb. If they stayed on the road long enough, they would pass the Forest Work Camp buildings, where they used to house inmates who served their time putting out forest fires and cleaning up state parks. The facility had been shuttered when the recession hit and tax revenue shrank. A shame. Men who spent their time at the camp had lower recidivism rates.

“I’ll watch for the address,” Schak added. “His ex-wife says it’s only a mile from the turnoff.”

“Why did she tell you where to find him?”

“Pure charm.” Schak grinned. “But she says Patrick owns weapons, which is why you’re here.”

“Nice.”

A minute later, his partner called out an address and announced they should take the next turnoff. Jackson almost missed it. The dirt driveway had weeds growing in the middle and overgrown blackberry bushes along the side.

Uneasiness crept into Jackson’s gut. “What else do we know about this guy?”

“He did a stint in the army, then worked for Coyote Steel. Patrick’s been collecting disability for the last ten years. Only two charges in his file: reckless driving in 2005 and possession of cocaine in 1993.”

No violence. Jackson felt a little better. “What motive are we going to press?”

“That he killed Cooper in a rage when Cooper wouldn’t tell him where the money was?”

“Or maybe that he confronted Cooper and they fought. We’ll play it soft.”

“We’re not bringing him in?”

“I don’t know yet. We don’t have anything on this guy.”

The cabin perched on the edge of a bluff, its wood siding weathered and gray. Under a cheap canvas awning sat a battered yellow Bronco. Jackson wrote the license plate number in his notepad. Behind the vehicle was a massive pile of split wood and, behind that, a forested hillside. A hound dog came around the Bronco and stood guard as they parked in the small clearing.
A damn dog.
Jackson had dealt with more than his share of dogs lately, and it hadn’t warmed his heart toward them. The scar above his left eyebrow reminded him every day that the creatures couldn’t be trusted.

As they stepped from the car, a burly man in a thick plaid jacket pushed out the door. He held a rifle at his side.

Jackson brought up his weapon and Schak did the same. “Put the gun down,” Jackson called. “We’re just here to ask a few questions.”

“Who are you?” The man’s voice was deep but ragged, as if his throat was scarred.

“Detective Jackson and Detective Schakowski, Eugene Police. Put the rifle down.”

Jackson’s mind flashed on the bed-and-breakfast in the south hills, and he saw Renee bleeding on the stone path. Dread filled his stomach. He never wanted to fire his weapon at a human again. Three weeks of leave hadn’t changed that.

Schak stepped forward and took the lead. “We just want to ask you about Craig Cooper. Put down the rifle and step away from it.”

Surprise registered on Patrick’s face. After a hesitation, he squatted and carefully placed the rifle on a grassy spot instead of on the dirt under his feet. “I’d rather take the rifle inside. It’s gonna rain again.”

“It’ll be fine. Let’s go in the cabin.” Schak moved quickly, his broad body forcing Patrick Brennan to turn and go into the house.

Jackson followed, relieved that they had avoided a showdown but disturbed by the weapons collection on the back wall. Three hunting rifles, a shotgun, a tomahawk, and a compound bow. Without a warrant, they couldn’t even determine if the guns were registered.

Sacks, canned goods, and mail covered the kitchen table, so Schak gestured for Patrick to sit on the couch. From the stains and the dirty breakfast plate on the coffee table, it seemed obvious that Patrick ate most of his meals in front of the TV. The suspect
sat down slowly, as if his back hurt, and Jackson wondered about his disability. Could he climb a fence like the one at the storage business? Maybe he hadn’t had to.