Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (21 page)

“Don’t move on the mayor until you get Grady’s labs. If there’s no match with Grady, then get a warrant to swab Fieldstone.” She leaned back with her arms folded across her chest. “Fieldstone is very well liked by a lot of powerful Republicans who want to see him elected to the Senate. That group includes the chief of police. So tread carefully.”

“I will.”

On the way back to his desk, Jackson turned his phone on and checked his messages. He had missed a return call from Katie, asking if she could stay over at Emily’s and a call from Kera agreeing to meet him for dinner. He checked his watch: 5:27. According to her message, Kera wouldn’t be home for another half an hour.

He played his last message. It was Kera again, and she sounded upset about some letters she’d received. Then suddenly her voice cut off, and he thought he heard some choking sounds. Then the recording stopped.

Jackson felt his pulse quicken. Was she in trouble? His gut instinct said yes, but his intellect told him he was overreacting. Her phone call had simply been interrupted by something or someone. Cell phones were notorious for cutting out.

He dialed her number, but she didn’t answer. It didn’t mean anything, he told himself. She could be in the shower. Or whatever. He plugged her phone number into LEDS, noted her address, then shut his computer off. He had planned to meet her soon anyway, so he might as well drive over there and check.

Before he reached his car on the lower level, Jackson ran into Schak coming up the stairs.

“Did something break for us?” he asked. “You’re moving like a man with a mission.”

“I’m late for a meeting.” Jackson stopped mid-step. “Did you get anything interesting on Fieldstone today?”

Schak shook his head. “Everybody loves the guy. Including his good-looking wife. When are we scheduled to meet again?”

“Not until Monday, unless you hear from me sooner. I’ve gotta run.”

Waiting for a left turn light at 18th and Chambers, he called Kera’s cell phone again. Still no answer. Jackson made the turn and headed up the hill. It was Friday at 5:40, and the traffic was thick and slow. Jackson felt his blood pressure rise. He was tempted to use his siren. He unbuttoned his jacket and took off his seat belt instead.

By the time he reached Kera’s place at the top of McLean, he could smell his own sweat. Jackson parked next to her Saturn in the driveway and rushed to the front door. He rang the bell, counted to five, and followed with a loud knock. No response.

He tried the doorknob, which turned easily. Her car was in the driveway and her front door was unlocked, so he figured she had to be home. Jackson pushed the door open and called out, “Kera. Are you here?”

No answer. His heart thumped against his chest. Had something happened to her?

Jackson drew his Sig Sauer and pushed inside. The living room was empty. He moved cautiously through the dining room into the kitchen. Kera was on the floor behind a chair. Her eyes were open, but vacant, and her hands clutched at her chest.

He holstered his weapon and reached for his cell phone, using speed dial to call the emergency dispatch center on the other end of Chambers. “This is Detective Jackson. I need an ambulance at 3245 McLean. The victim is conscious but seriously ill. Hold on for a moment.”

Jackson knelt down on the floor. “Kera, can you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her face was turning a bluish color.

“What happened? Are you injured?”

“My lungs. The letters.” She grimaced with the pain of speaking.

He spoke to the dispatcher again. “This is a possible poisoning. Have the ambulance meet me in the Bi-Mart parking lot at 18th and Chambers.”

Jackson jumped up and scanned the table. White latex gloves lay next to a couple of envelopes, one business-sized and white, the other square and pink.

He started yanking open kitchen drawers. “Do you have ziplock bags?”

She tried to speak, but her voice erupted in violent coughing.

Jackson located a couple of freezer bags in a drawer near the refrigerator, then quickly pulled on the too-small latex gloves. He didn’t have time to go out to his car for his own. He shoved each letter into a separate plastic bag, then crammed the evidence into his jacket pockets. The hospital would need to know what poisoning they were dealing with.

Jackson lifted Kera off the floor, but struggled to keep her up. She was tall and muscular and probably weighed a hundred and fifty pounds.

“I can walk if you help me,” she whispered against his neck.

He lowered her feet to the ground, and moved his arm around her waist.

Half dragging, half carrying her, Jackson maneuvered Kera out of the house and down the walkway. Midpoint in the driveway, she had another coughing fit and her knees buckled. Jackson scooped her up and did a staggered run to his Impala. He folded Kera into the back seat, and she promptly fell over on her side.

Jackson climbed in the driver’s side, fired up the engine and raced down the hill toward town. He hoped he wouldn’t encounter one of the deer that were famous for darting out of the trees at dusk on Chambers. He was still breathing hard when he hit his first stoplight at 24th. He cursed the traffic for being there and himself for being so out of shape. Jackson turned on his siren, something he almost never had cause for, and cleared the intersection.

As he pulled into the Bi-Mart parking lot, he heard Kera vomiting in the back seat. The sour-acid stench made his stomach heave. Jackson bounded out of the car and opened the back door. Grabbing Kera around her knees, he dragged her from the car and eased her onto the ground, rolling her up on her side in case she vomited again. Her breath was shallow and ragged, and there was no pink left in her face. “Hang in there, Kera. Help is coming.”

He racked his brain to remember his first aid training. But for poisoning, as long as she was breathing, there wasn’t much he could do. The paramedics would soon give her oxygen, then the emergency room doctors would probably give her charcoal to absorb whatever was in her system. No, that was for ingested substances. If it came from the envelopes, the poison was probably in a powder form and she had inhaled it. He had no idea how to help her.

He reached for his pockets to make sure the envelopes were still there.

What had they used? Anthrax? Man, he hoped not. The hospital lab would test the envelopes. If they discovered which agent she had been attacked with soon enough, they could save her. Jackson squatted next to Kera and stroked her hair. Then he closed his eyes and pleaded with God to save her.

A moment later, he heard the siren.

Friday, October 22, 7:17 p.m.

Jackson paced the waiting area of Northwest McKenzie’s trauma center, unsoothed by the lush plants and neutral colors. It had only been ten minutes—too soon to ask the nurse at the intake desk if there was news about Kera’s condition. He called Katie and was relieved to hear her answer the phone.

“Hi Dad. How’s the case going?”

“Better now. I should be home this weekend.”

“I’m glad. I miss you.”

Jackson was surprised by how much he needed to hear that. “I miss you too. Are you feeling abandoned?”

Katie laughed. “Are you serious? You call me all the time.” She hesitated. “Mom called me today.”

“How is she?”

“She says she’s going into rehab.”

He’d heard that before. “That’s good news. I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got to make another call. Will you put Emily’s mom on the phone for a second.”

“Why?”

“I just need to talk to her.”

“You’re checking up on me. To see if I’m really at Emily’s.” The friendly daughter was gone, replaced by the petulant teen. “You don’t trust me all of a sudden.”

“Just do it, okay. I love you. See you tomorrow.”

Better get used to it, he thought after he was off the phone. I’m not going to let you become Jessie.

Next, he called Quince and told him about Kera’s letters. It seemed likely that the clinic bomber had also orchestrated the attack on Kera, and the sooner Quince examined the evidence, the better chance of stopping him before the next round.

“Do you know anything about Kera’s family?” Jackson asked.

“Not really,” Quince said. “Except that she lives alone.”

“Look into it, will you? They need to know she’s in the hospital.”

After a half hour of pacing, a male nurse in his mid-forties approached Jackson. “Are you the officer who brought Kera Kollmorgan in?”

“Is she okay?

“We just got word from the lab,” the guy in the blue scrubs said. “There was ricin powder on the pink card. It’s a deadly poison derived from castor beans, but fortunately, inhaling it is less toxic to the system than swallowing it.”

He’s stalling, Jackson thought. “Is she going to be all right?”

“We don’t know yet. There is no antidote. All we can do is treat the symptoms.” The nurse’s tone was detached; he could have been talking about a lunch order.

“What are you actually doing for her?”

“Fluid keeps building in her lungs, so we’re keeping them drained. We’re also giving her oxygen. But her blood pressure is still dropping.”

“How long do the symptoms last? When will you know?”

“It depends on how much she inhaled and how healthy her immune system is.” His pudgy face betrayed no emotion. “You should contact her family.”

“We’re trying.”

The nurse turned and went back through the solid swinging doors. For a split second, Jackson glimpsed a group of medical professionals all in drab blue scrubs, surrounding a trauma table. The scene was surprisingly quiet. Then the doors closed, and he was alone in the hallway again.

Fifteen minutes later, Quince showed up.

“How is she?” The vice detective was in his mid-thirties, but with his blond hair and thick smooth skin, he looked twenty-two. It had worked against him as a patrol cop, and the physical confrontations he’d had with offenders had almost kept him from making detective.

“Hanging in there. There was ricin on one of the letters, and there’s no antidote for it. If she’s healthy, she’ll make it.”

“She seemed healthy to me.” Quince said it with a straight face, but they both knew what he meant. “Where are the letters?” Quince asked

“In the lab on the fourth floor.” Jackson knew that Quince could figure it out on his own, but he might as well give him a head start. “The envelope that contained the poisoned thank-you card does not have a postmark. So it was probably hand delivered to Kollmorgan’s mailbox. So I’d start by dusting the box for prints and asking her neighbors if they saw anything.”

“Why do you think the bomber is targeting Kollmorgan?”

“I don’t know.” Weariness hit Jackson like a wave, threatening to knock him down. “But we’d better warn the other Planned Parenthood employees not to open any suspicious mail.”

“I made the calls on the way over. Yesterday, I sent a full report to the FBI. An agent from the Portland office is coming down to meet with me tomorrow.”

Quince started to leave, but Jackson called after him. “Did you find any of Kera’s family?”

“I’ve got a dispatcher working on it. She’ll call the hospital as soon as she has anything.”

“Thanks.” Jackson sank into a couch. He had things to do, but he didn’t feel right about leaving the hospital until Kera’s family showed up—or until he knew she was going to make it.

At 8:26, he got a call from Debbie in the state lab. “You’re working late,” he commented.

“I need the overtime pay, and you need the lab results.” She paused. “Ready?”

“Sure.” Jackson got the feeling this would be good.

“The sheets you brought in this morning match the fibers we found in Jessie’s nose and lungs.”

He felt his chest muscles loosen. Finally. He had a piece of physical evidence connecting one of his suspects to the victim. “It is an exclusive match?”

Debbie let out a little sigh. “No. This type of sheet is somewhat common. And so far, I haven’t spotted any irregularities that would prove the threads came from the exact same batch. But the upside is that the nose fibers may very well have come from those sheets. It rules them in, not out.”

“Any DNA evidence on the sheets? Saliva or vaginal discharge?”

“We found a spot with a significant amount of saliva. We’re running a DNA comparison to the victim, but it’ll take another day.”

“Thanks Debbie. And thanks for working late to do the sheets.”

“No problem.”

Jackson hated to leave the hospital without knowing if Kera would pull through, but getting a DNA sample from the mayor was urgent business. Sergeant Lammers had said to wait for Grady’s results, but now that he had a fiber match, it was a whole new scenario. Impulsively, he strode over to the double doors and pushed through. The nurse who had spoken to him earlier looked up. “How is she?” Jackson demanded.

“The same. We’ll let you know if it changes.”

The night sky brightened with stars as Jackson drove out from under the lights of the city and climbed Lorane Highway. He had already been to Judge Cranston’s home for a signature on the search warrant, and he was starting to feel optimistic that Jessie would get justice for what had been done to her. He phoned Slonecker. The fact that it was late on a Friday night didn’t matter. Not to him, the judge, or the DA. There was no time clock in their world.