Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (22 page)

“Slone, it’s Jackson. The bed sheets we took from Fieldstone’s apartment match the fibers in Jessie’s nose. I’m on my way to his home now with a warrant.”

“Don’t blow this,” the DA warned. “I want him to volunteer the sample. If we arrest him, and it leaks to the press, and then his swab doesn’t match, there will be hell to pay. The Republicans will punish you if you tarnish their golden boy.”

Shit. This was why Jackson hated politics. “What if Fieldstone refuses to cooperate? What if he decides to run instead of give us a body standard?”

“You’ll do the right thing.”

Jackson approached the mayor’s Blanton Heights home with some trepidation. If he was wrong about this, his job was on the line. The mayor headed the committee that hired—and could fire—Jackson’s boss, the chief of police. Ultimately, if Fieldstone held on to his position, he could pressure the right people and force Jackson out. If it got ugly enough, he could even lose his pension.

Jackson stood in the driveway, feeling dwarfed by the money surrounding him. Five years ago, this area had been a forest. Now it was a meadow sprouting three-thousand-square-foot homes, some with tennis courts and swimming pools. In addition to being mayor, Fieldstone owned a thriving construction business, and he had probably paid for his McMansion with the profit made from doing business with his neighbors.

Jackson squared his shoulders and strode up to the front door. Janice Fieldstone answered his knock. She was a soft, pretty woman in her late forties, who tried to look young by keeping her hair very blond and long. But her voice had the tight control of someone who has been drinking and is trying to hide it. Jackson knew the charade well.

“What can I do for you, Officer?”

“I need to speak with Mayor Fieldstone.”

“He’s not here.”

“Where can I find him?”

She was suddenly concerned. “Why do you want to see him?”

“It’s police business. But it will only take a minute.”

She hesitated, then shrugged. “He’s having drinks with some out-of-state visitors at the Statesmen. It’s a private club downtown on Oak Street, at the top of the US Bank building.”

“I know it. Thanks.”

In an effort to be discreet, Jackson called Fieldstone from the building’s lobby. The mayor did not appreciate the courtesy. “What do you want now?” he blurted.

Jackson resisted the urge to be sarcastic. “I have a search warrant for your DNA. Are you coming out to the lobby or am I coming in?”

“Why can’t this wait until tomorrow? I’m in the middle of an important meeting.”

“This will only take a moment.”

“Fine. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Jackson checked his watch: 9:02. He glanced over at the host–bouncer, who, despite his age, moved with the muscular grace of a dancer. “I’ll give him five minutes, then I’m going in.”

“I won’t stop you, sir, but I’d rather not have a scene. This is an exclusive club, and our members expect privacy and decorum.”

Decorum was a pretty highbrow concept for a man who had probably raped and killed a child, Jackson thought.

Seven minutes later, the mayor had failed to show. Jackson pushed past the gatekeeper and entered the club. The lighting was so subdued, he felt like going back to his car for a flashlight. Wouldn’t the members love that? A long bar lined the wall to the left, and attractive look-alike blonds in plunging white shirts poured drinks for the town’s elite. High-backed booths and partitions created a host of private meeting places, most of which were occupied by men in suits. Most members gave him only a cursory glance. The mayor was not among them.

But there was more to the club. Swinging doors led into a room with pool tables. Three private nooks with low-slung couches were carved into the left side of the room. Jackson could feel anxiety building in his chest as he realized that Fieldstone had fled. He ran down a short hallway that opened into a kitchen. The small dinner crew was cleaning up.

“Where’s the back door?”

A waiter pointed past the dishwashing room. Jackson ran for it, but he knew he was too late. The back exit led out to the parking lot, where there was no movement in the dark, no car doors slamming, no engines starting. The mayor had given him the slip.

Damn. How far would he go? Jackson wondered. Would he leave town? Or was he simply stalling to avoid giving a DNA sample? Jackson decided not to take any chances. Back in his car, he called in an attempt-to-locate request, which would go out over all local law enforcement radios. Then he notified the police units in the Eugene and Portland airports. Politics be damned. Fieldstone wasn’t getting away.

Jackson raced across town, running stoplights in the deserted streets. He reached Blanton Heights in less than ten minutes and parked his Impala across from the mayor’s home. He didn’t see Fieldstone’s Mercedes, but it was probably tucked away in the roomy three-car garage. He suspected the mayor was in the house now, packing his bags, and would come out on the run at any moment. Jackson had handcuffs in his jacket pocket just in case. He sat for a couple of minutes, trying to decide if he should call Slonecker and let him know what was going down. He decided against it.

Moments later, a car came up the dark road and turned into Fieldstone’s driveway. Jackson was out of the car and running across the street before the mayor could get his garage door open. He pounded on the car window.

“Fieldstone!”

The mayor shut off his engine and stepped out. “I have nothing to say. My lawyer and I will come in tomorrow morning to review your search warrant.”

“I’d rather not wait.” Jackson stood between the suspect and the walkway. “You can come with me now, voluntarily, or I’ll cuff you and take you in. Your call.”

Jackson held out his warrant for the mayor to see. There was no way he could read it in the dark, but Jackson didn’t want the DNA analysis to be tossed out of court later because the search warrant hadn’t been properly served.

The mayor didn’t even bother to glance at the paper. “This is harassment, and I intend to sue the department.”

You and everybody else, Jackson thought. “Let’s go.”

“I will come in with my lawyer in the morning.” The mayor spoke slowly, as if Jackson were either deaf or stupid.

“I trusted you once this evening, and you evaded me. I’m not making that mistake again.”

“I went to discuss the matter with my lawyer. I have that right.”

“You lied, then ran. Let’s go.” Jackson pulled out the handcuffs.

The mayor must have thought Jackson was bluffing, because he turned and started to walk away. Jackson had him cuffed and pinned against the Mercedes in six seconds flat.

“Your career is over,” Fieldstone threatened with an ugly laugh.

“Yours too.”

When they pulled into the parking lot below city hall, Jackson considered uncuffing Fieldstone, then rejected the idea as an unnecessary courtesy. He wouldn’t do it for anyone else, and until he had a DNA sample, why take the chance? At ten in the evening, the parking garage was nearly empty and the surrounding city was eerily quiet. Fieldstone had not spoken on the way and stayed silent as he walked up the concrete stairs in front of Jackson. They crossed the open area and veered to the right toward police headquarters. Suddenly, two figures were running toward them in the dim light.

Instinctively, Jackson reached for his Sig Sauer.

Then a bright flash went off.

Shit. A photographer.

“Can I get a statement, Detective Jackson?”

And a reporter. Sophie Speranza from the Willamette News was suddenly in his face. Damn, she was tenacious.

The mayor tried to veer away from the pair, but Jackson held firm to his elbow and pushed past the two. Another flash went off, and Fieldstone swore under his breath.

“What are the charges?” Speranza called after them.

They rushed into the department’s foyer, and the desk clerk buzzed them in without any verbal exchange. She had probably seen the photographer’s flash. Or maybe it was the look on Jackson’s face.

They moved past the administrative desks and down the narrow hallway into the detective area in back. Jackson’s pulse would not slow down. This DNA swab should have been so simple, and now it was so screwed up. The crowded room was lifeless except for Pete Casaway, a vice detective. Casaway looked up, nodded, then went back to his reading. Jackson led Fieldstone into the interrogation room they had occupied that morning.

“Have a seat. I’ll be back.”

From a central cabinet, he retrieved a cotton swab and a small brown bag with a white label, then stopped by Casaway’s desk.

“Videotape a cheek swab for me?”

“Sure. Was that the mayor?”

“Yep. That’s why I need the video.”

“Is he your suspect in the Jessie homicide?”

“Lucky me, huh?”

Back in the interrogation room, Jackson said to Fieldstone, “We plan to film this. Would you like us to take the cuffs off and tell the camera you’re offering it voluntarily? Or leave them on and have you be labeled as an uncooperative suspect?”

The mayor gave it some thought. He must have figured his best bet for getting the DNA suppressed would result from being uncooperative now. “You do not have my permission to take my DNA,” he said with a certain smugness.

So the cuffs stayed.

Casaway filmed while Jackson displayed the warrant, took a cheek swab, and placed the swab in the evidence bag.

“Thanks, Casaway.” Jackson uncuffed the mayor and said, “You’re free to leave. If you’d like, I’ll take you home.”

“I’ll pass.”

Jackson escorted Fieldstone out of the building. He heard the mayor making a call as he walked away. Jackson went to his desk and sat for a moment to calm himself. His heart had been pounding since the photographer’s flash. It was one thing to bring the mayor into the department in handcuffs. It was another to have the scene photographed and displayed on the front page of the newspaper.

How had Speranza known Jackson would be bringing in a VIP tonight?

Oh shit. It was the attempt to locate bulletin he’d issued earlier. Crime-beat reporters often monitored police frequencies. Oh shit. Slonecker would be royally pissed. Lammers would be equally livid. Jackson felt a little queasy. If he was wrong about the mayor, his career was over.

Saturday, October 23, 6:49 a.m.

Kera tried to open her eyes but they would not cooperate. They only fluttered, letting in tiny flashes of light at the bottom of her vision. She could hear people’s voices, but she couldn’t wake up enough to see them or find out what they wanted. One of them kept saying her name.

“Kera? Kera? Can you hear me, Kera?”

Finally, her eyes stayed open long enough to focus on the face next to her bed. It belonged to a woman with flawless bronze skin and shiny black hair. She was wearing a yellow nursing scrub.

“Do you know where you are, Kera?”

She became aware of tubes in her nostrils. “Why am I in the hospital?”

“You were very sick for a while, but you’re going to be okay. We’re giving you oxygen.”

“What happened?” Pain seared her throat as she spoke. Kera remembered sitting at her kitchen table and coughing violently.

“You inhaled ricin powder. It looks like someone deliberately poisoned you. I’m Sheri, by the way.” The nurse smiled brightly, revealing a mouthful of beautiful white teeth.

Oh yeah. The letter from the crackpot. Kera remembered opening her mail, and she vaguely recalled seeing Jackson in her kitchen. After that, it was a blur of motion and sickness.

Kera pushed herself into an upright position, making herself a little dizzy. “I have to warn the other staff members.”

The nurse looked startled. “You should lie back down.”

“This is important.”

“I’m sure the police are taking care of it. In fact, the police are out there now, wanting to speak to you. I told them you weren’t ready.”

Was it Jackson? “I’ll see him. In fact, would you please put my bed into a sitting position and remove the oxygen tube?”

“I’ll sit you up, but I’m sure the doctor will want the tube to stay.”

As Sheri elevated her bed, Kera pulled off the tape holding the tiny tube in place.

“Please don’t do that,” Sheri protested, but she made no move to stop her.

“I’ll be fine,” Kera said, relieved to have the tube out. “The more I move around, the faster I’ll get better. Trust me. I’m a nurse.”

Sheri let out a little snort. “Only doctors make worse patients.” She appraised Kera for a moment, then said, “I’ll go get your visitors.”

It wasn’t Jackson. Michael Quince, the boyish looking detective who had taken over the bomb investigation, came in followed by another man in a dark suit. An older man with thick glasses and deep furrows around his eyes. They stood at the end of her bed, each with a notebook in hand.

“Hi Kera,” Quince said. “This is Agent Daren Fouts. He’s with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you okay to answer some questions?”