Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (25 page)

“Maybe today. Or Monday.”

The chief nodded. “If Grady matches the trace evidence, close the case out. Hold a press conference and exonerate Fieldstone.”

Jackson was so angry he was afraid to speak. “What if the mayor’s DNA is a match?”

“We’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Warner stood, indicating the meeting was over. “If it doesn’t match, I want your resignation.”

Saturday, October 23, 1:28 p.m.

Jackson felt stunned—as if he’d just been assaulted. The chief seemed willing to protect the mayor, no matter what the evidence said. Would he be forced to pin a murder on a dead man, so Fieldstone could save his career? Jackson was as disturbed by that possibility as he was about the prospect of losing his job.

As he walked to his car, his phone rang.

“Wade, it’s me.” Only his ex-wife called him Wade.

Jackson braced himself. “Hello, Renee.”

“That was quite a splash you made on the front page today. Looks like this one could be a career-boosting case.”

He laughed out loud. “Not likely. What can I do for you?”

“Did Katie tell you I’m in rehab?”

“Yep.”

“I haven’t had a drink in three days. I think you should let my daughter come visit me.”

He knew this question would surface, but he still didn’t have a good answer. “What does your sponsor think of the idea?”

“She thinks it would be good for me.”

“But will it be good for Katie? I think it’s too soon to get her hopes up. Why don’t you give it a month?”

“You’re so self-righteous.”

Jackson didn’t respond.

“I will get sober. And you will let her see me.”

“I hope so. I mean that, Renee. I hope you make it. Thanks for the call.”

Jackson hung up. He climbed into his car, locked the door, and laid his head back against the seat. He was so tired. He felt like he could sleep for twenty-four hours. Logistically, this case had not been that difficult, but emotionally, it had sucked the life out of him. And it was far from wrapped up.

He sat up, put on his seat belt, and started the engine.

He couldn’t rest yet. He had people to see.

Twenty minutes later, he was stepping off the elevator on the third floor of the downtown hospital. Kera was in a small beige-walled room, separated from a snoring old man by only a beige plastic curtain. She was upright and reading a copy of Newsweek. Her face was pale and her braid was a mess, but her eyes lit up when she smiled at him. He felt a load of tension melt away. Thank God, she was going to recover.

“Detective Jackson, I owe you one. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I might not have made it.”

“Happy to be of service.”

“Sorry about vomiting in the back of your car.” Kera made a face.

“I’ve been treated worse.”

Jackson scooted the chair closer to her bed and sat. “How are you feeling? You look great for someone who was near death last night. What’s the prognosis?”

“Possibly some impaired lung function. They say I’m lucky, that I could have died.” She grinned, and he noticed her dimples for the first time. “But I say, a truly lucky person wouldn’t have someone trying to kill them.”

“Any long-term problems?”

“Minor brain damage.” She laughed. “Kidding. But I do feel a little sluggish, like my brain isn’t really clicking like it should.”

“It’s the hospital environment. It’s not a good place to be.”

“Careful. I’m a nurse, remember? I’ve worked in hospitals.”

Jackson cringed a little. “I just meant that you’ll feel better when you get home.”

“Damn straight. And I’m leaving in the morning with or without their permission.”

“Do you have a ride? I could pick you up.”

“Thanks, but a friend from the clinic already volunteered. The whole gang came in to see me today.” Her smile faded. “They’re pretty upset. Sheila and Andrea also got letters from God’s Messenger.”

“Detective Quince is investigating. And he called in the FBI.”

“I know. They came to see me this morning.”

Jackson remembered the initials on the pink card. “Do you know anyone with the initials NC?”

Kera smiled. “Quince asked me that too. The only person I could think of was Nicole Clarke, but I don’t believe she had anything to do with this.”

“Nicole Clarke? Friend of Jessie Davenport?” She was one of the Teen Talk group he’d interviewed.

“Yes. Why?”

“It’s odd that her name would come up in both cases. How do you know her?”

“When I was at Kincaid the other day, she approached me and wanted to talk. That’s all I can say.”

Jackson tried to weave this new information into his Jessie-and-the-mayor scenario, but it didn’t fit. How would an anti-abortion extremist be connected to a pedophile?

Kera looked worried. “What is it, Jackson? Do you know something about Nicole that I should know?”

He touched her hand lightly. “No. I was thinking about Jessie’s funeral service. It’s tomorrow afternoon at the First Bible Baptist Church.”

“Do you plan to go?”

“It’s standard procedure. Killers often come to their victim’s service.”

“Do you have any idea who the killer is?”

“Did you see the paper this morning?”

She frowned. “I missed it. Do you have someone in custody?”

Jackson leaned in and spoke softly. “I’m waiting for DNA results, but I think Miles Fieldstone was sexually involved with Jessie. If so, he may be our killer.”

She choked on her sip of water. “The mayor? Are you serious?”

Jackson put his finger to his lips. “I am serious. But you can’t repeat that to anyone.” It wasn’t like him to talk about his cases with civilians, but after the front-page photo this morning, everyone in Lane County was talking about whether the mayor killed Jessie. Jackson felt like he had nothing left to lose with this one. If he was right, Fieldstone’s career was toast anyway. If the mayor was clean, then Jackson was out of a job.

Kera suddenly closed her eyes and grimaced. Jackson jumped up.

“Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

She opened her eyes. “I’m fine. But I get these searing pains in my head every once in a while.”

“What does your doctor say about that?”

“Be patient. They’ll eventually go away.”

“I should let you rest.”

“Thanks for coming. I appreciate the company.”

“When you’re feeling better, I’ll buy you that dinner I promised.”

“Deal.”

Jackson didn’t want to let go of her hand. “See you soon.”

On the way to pick up Katie, Jackson caught himself humming. It surprised him. The only time he hummed was when he was in his shop tinkering with the engine on his midnight blue, 1969 Pontiac GTO or while spreading bark mulch around the edge of his neatly mowed yard. Kera, he thought, smiling. What little he knew about her, he liked very much. He looked forward to their dinner together, which now seemed much like a date.

Katie bounded out of Emily’s house before Jackson reached the door. He tried to give her a tight hug, but her bulging backpack got in his way. She gave him a quick squeeze, then wiggled free.

“It’s only been a couple days, Dad.”

“I’m just happy to see you.”

They both climbed into his Impala.

“It stinks in here,” Katie announced immediately.

“Sorry. Roll your window down a bit.”

“It’s too cold.”

Jackson noticed she was wearing a tank top—with little bra straps showing—but nothing over it.

“Where’s your coat?”

She turned away and he knew she was making a face. “I don’t need one. Where are we going to lunch?”

“Your choice.”

They ended up at Kowloons, eating spicy noodles and deep-fried shrimp. Jackson chowed down like a wilderness survivor—he’d missed many meals in the last four days—but Katie picked at everything. She wasn’t skinny like most of her friends, and he knew she worried about it. He thought she looked fine, but he had learned not to make food-weight-body comments, even positive ones. Katie either got upset or shut down. And Jackson had something very important to talk to her about. He needed her to be open and friendly when he brought it up.

They talked about school (“boring”), soccer (“okay, but not as fun as she thought it would be”), and staying at Aunt Jan’s (“fun, but too crowded after a while”).

“When mom gets out of rehab, will you guys get back together?” she asked suddenly.

He hadn’t seen that question coming. “Is that what she’s saying?”

Katie squirmed in her seat. “Sort of.”

“It’s not that simple. My feelings for her have changed.”

“If she stops drinking, could I go live with her?” Katie looked out the window at the millpond. “I mean, if I wanted to.” She looked back at him. “Not that I do.”

Jackson tried to smile, but he knew the effort was weak. He finished chewing his bite of shrimp but found it hard to swallow. “I don’t know. We’ll see if she gets sober.”

His phone rang and Jackson looked at the number. It was the ME’s office in Portland. “I have to take this, honey.”

“That’s okay. I need to go to the bathroom anyway.” Katie scooted off.

“Detective Jackson? It’s Debbie. I have the results on the first body standard you brought in.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“It doesn’t match the semen or the pubic hair found on Jessie.”

The news hit him hard. Oscar Grady had not been involved with Jessie. Jackson had pushed an innocent man to suicide. Maybe not innocent, but not guilty of this murder.

“Detective?”

“Thanks, Debbie. Overnight me the report, okay?”

Jackson pushed his plate away. In a minute, Katie came back. Then the waitress brought a to-go box, poured more tea, and left. Jackson decided it was time to ask the question. It seemed even more important now.

“Why did you and Jessie stop being friends?”

Katie let out a groan. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was a long time ago. It’s over. Forget it.”

“What’s over?”

“We stopped getting along, okay? Why are you trying to make something out of it now?” She slumped back against the booth and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Next, she would shut down or walk away.

“I’m asking now because Jessie was sexually active, with more than one person. And you used to be her best friend. Do you know who she was having sex with?”

Katie’s eyes darted around the restaurant. “Will you please not talk to me about this right here?”

Jackson reached for his wallet. “Will you please just answer the question?”

“I can’t.” She scooted out of the booth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jackson watched his daughter through the giant windows as she hurried out to the Impala, only to find it locked. He watched her stamp her little foot and slump against the car. She was so young, and so worldly at the same time. He paid the bill, tipped the waitress, and strolled out to the car. Katie gave him a look to let him know she didn’t like to be kept waiting.

When they were rolling down the road, he asked casually, “Have you had a sexual experience?”

“No!” She shouted in her best “Are you crazy?” voice. But she didn’t look at him. And Jackson had taken his eyes off the road to watch her reaction. He decided he believed her.

He turned his attention to the street again and took a right on Coburg Road. “Do you want to attend her memorial service with me tomorrow?”

She chewed her pinkie nail. “No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like that church.”

Jackson wanted to probe, but Katie was staring out the window, and he knew he had pushed far enough for now.

When they reached home, a dark blue sedan was parked on the street in front of the house. Jackson sent Katie inside as the car’s driver got out and strode up the driveway. The man wore a dark blue suit and thick glasses. He looked about sixty and walked with a slight favor to his right leg.

“Detective Jackson? I’m Agent Daren Fouts with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”

Jackson smiled and shook the outstretched hand. Inwardly, he cringed. He had occasionally asked the FBI for help, but when they came to you, it meant they wanted to take over a case. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to discuss the Davenport homicide.”

“What’s your interest?” Jackson wanted desperately to sit down, but he wasn’t going to invite Fouts into his home. He resented the fact that the agent had shown up here without calling.

“I think Davenport’s death may be related to the attacks on the clinic and Kollmorgan,” Fouts said.

“How so?”

“Nicole Clarke is one link. She’s a friend of Jessie’s, and her initials were on the ricin card.”