Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 01 - The Sex Club (32 page)

The interview was cut short by her parents, who stepped in and announced they were leaving and taking their daughter. Angel looked relieved.

Jackson’s interview with Rachel Greiner was not much more productive. “Did you speak with Nicole last night?” he asked. “Call her to chat while your parents were gone?”

The girl’s steel-blue eyes fluttered with impatience. “No.”

“Did she tell you about any plans she’d made?”

“No.” Rachel pushed back a loose strand of hair. The rest of her ash blond mane was pulled tight into a spiky bun on the back of her head.

“Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

“Not really.”

“Did Nicole have a boyfriend?”

Rachel made a face, but every other part of her body remained still. “In case you haven’t noticed, this is a religious group. We’re not allowed to date.”

“Are any of the boys from Teen Talk here tonight?”

“Greg Miller.”

“Send him in here, please.”

The interview with Miller was disappointing. The boy—an average-size kid with a pleasant face—gave monosyllabic responses and shook his head a lot.

“When was the last time you spoke to Nicole?”

Shrug. “Friday?”

“Have you had sex with either Jessie or Nicole?”

Another shake of the head.

“Do you know why anyone would want to harm either Jessie or Nicole?”

A little distress finally crept into his eyes. “No, man. They were both great.”

“Have you seen Tyler Jahn or Adam Walsh today?”

Another shrug. “I saw Adam at school, but Tyler hasn’t been around for a few days.”

“Any idea why?”

“No.”

“Have either of them been acting strangely in the past week?” Jackson wondered if the killer had been right in front of him all along—one of the boys in the Teen Talk circle.

“No.”

Evans stepped into the room and Jackson told Miller he could go.

“Anything?” Evans asked after the kid had left.

“Not really. How about you?”

“Nada. Although no one was home at the house to the immediate left, and one woman across the street kept saying she doesn’t keep track of her neighbors. Which makes me think she does. I’ll go back to both again in the morning.”

Jackson checked his watch: 9:17. “Let’s go examine Nicole’s clothes and write up some search warrants. I’ll meet you at the department.”

Out in the car, Jackson checked his cell phone for messages. There was one from his mother in Salem, who was just saying “Hi” and one from Kera. She sounded upset, so he decided to stop in and see her briefly.

Kera had the Mace in one hand and her cell phone in the other when the doorbell rang. Would a psycho ring the doorbell? From about twelve feet away, she called out, “Who is it?”

“Jackson.”

Her shoulders slumped forward, and Kera smiled at her own paranoia. She slipped the mace in her pocket and hurried to open the door. The sight of Jackson standing there gave her a sense of peace that she hadn’t felt in weeks.

“Officer Jackson. Thanks for coming.”

“You sounded upset. Is everything okay?”

“Not really. Please come in.” Kera stepped back and locked the door after he came through it.

“Would you like some wine or coffee?”

“Coffee sounds good.”

Jackson followed her into the kitchen, where Kera started a small pot.

“So how did you hear about Nicole?” he asked. “I don’t even think the news media has wind of it yet.” Jackson sat at her small kitchen table, looking particularly handsome in a tan blazer. She could feel him watching her even when she wasn’t looking at him.

“I went to that chat room that I told you about, where some Kincaid students post messages. And someone said their mother’s prayer hotline had called with the news about Nicole.”

“Any buzz I should know about?”

“Just that some boys may have found her when they were up at Party Rock smoking dope. One of the guys is Travis Walters.”

“Good to know.” Jackson jotted the name down. “I still need to check out that website. Do you have a password or user name?”

Kera felt her cheeks get warm. “I use Jessie’s. I’ll write it down for you.” As she jotted down the website’s URL and the
blowgirl
ID, Kera asked, “Can you tell me what happened to Nicole?”

He hesitated. “Completely confidential? Just like the way you protect your clients’ information?”

“Of course.”

“It looks like she was suffocated. At first glance, the scenario seems very similar to Jessie’s death.”

“Does that mean the mayor is a psychopath? It seems so hard to believe.”

Jackson rubbed his temples as Kera poured him a cup of coffee.

“I can’t figure how all this fits together,” he said after a long moment. “Fieldstone may have been in custody at the time of the murder. But maybe not. He may have an accomplice. Or it could be a copycat killing. Or maybe the mayor is a child rapist but not a murderer, and a serial killer is out there, preying on girls who attend my daughter’s school.”

Kera sat next to him and sipped her wine. She would need it to sleep tonight. “I’ve been thinking about all this too, and I had a strange idea earlier.”

He looked surprised and a little eager. “Tell me.”

“What if the murders are connected to the crackpot who bombed the clinic and poisoned me?”

A dark look flashed in Jackson’s eyes. “How so?”

“Jessie and Nicole both contacted me.” Kera’s scattered thoughts about the converging events finally came together. “What if the bomber, while targeting the clinic—and specifically me—zeroed in on Jessie and Nicole? What if he is a moralistic executioner type who punishes people he judges to be sinners?”

Jackson looked somewhat alarmed. “The FBI agent working the clinic bombing case has a theory along those same lines.”

Kera chewed her lip. “But I can’t figure why the poisoned card was signed NC.”

“This just keeps getting weirder.” Jackson scowled, and Kera noticed he was starting to get a furrow between his brows that gave his face even more character. Finally he said, “Both victims’ families attend the First Bible Baptist Church. And both girls belonged to a religious youth group. It could be somebody from the church.”

“And the letter to me was signed God’s Messenger.”

“I was so sure it was the mayor.” Jackson pushed his hands through his hair. “And it still could be. He goes to the same church. But I just don’t see him as the clinic bomber. I feel like I need to start all over with this investigation.”

“Will this psycho target another young girl? Or should I be worried about my own safety?”

Jackson grabbed her hands and held them in his own. “Can you get out of town for a while? Maybe take a leave of absence?”

“I could. But I won’t. I don’t run from things.”

“I knew you would say that.” He let go and reluctantly stood to leave. “You need a perimeter alarm.”

“I made an appointment to have one installed, but they can’t be here until Thursday.”

“You should carry mace with you at all times.”

Kera laughed and pulled the little canister from her pocket. “I had some in my hand when I answered the door.”

“Excellent. Other safety basics.” Jackson used his fingers to tick off his points. “Stay in groups of people, stay in well lighted places, and vary your route to work but always take busy streets.”

They were standing six inches apart. Kera could feel the warmth of his body and the lingering scent of his deodorant. “You sound like my mother.” She smiled. “Except for the part about varying my route to work. She advocates for consistency.”

Jackson pulled back and gave her a serious look. “Consistent patterns are how killers and rapists target their victims. Mixing it up is important right now.”

“Okay. I can do that.”

Kera walked him to the front door. He opened it, then turned. She thought he was going to give her one more piece of safety advice, but instead, he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

“Take care of yourself. The world needs people like you.”

Monday, October 25, 9:06 p.m.

On the drive home, Ruth had second thoughts about leaving the kids alone, but Sam showed up a few minutes after they walked in the door.

“Where have you been?” Ruth asked out of habit when they were alone in the kitchen. She was too preoccupied at the moment to feel any real concern.

“At a meeting with supporters,” Sam said, opening a cupboard. “Businessmen with deep pockets who want to fund our Moral Marriage campaign.”

“That sounds promising.” Ruth kissed him lightly on the cheek. “I have to run out to the store. Need anything?”

“Mothers Taffy cookies.”

Ruth laughed. “I knew you would say that.”

She grabbed a light jacket and headed out.

Ruth stopped at Safeway and bought the cookies and some chocolate soymilk, so she wouldn’t forget them later and walk in the house empty-handed. The drive up to Kollmorgan’s took only six minutes, despite the climb. As she passed the address, she realized the house was within walking distance of her own home.

Ruth was also struck by the obvious value of the home. Not to mention the view Kollmorgan must have from her backyard. Was her husband a lawyer? Or a plastic surgeon?

Ruth made a U-turn at the next intersection, then circled back and parked across the street, one house down. There weren’t many streetlights up here, but the homes all had porch and yard lights, so she had just enough illumination to assess the situation’s tactical possibilities. Kollmorgan’s front yard was narrow, and a tall brick wall snugged up tight against the building on either side, keeping the backyard private. Except for the front door, most of the points of entry were on the other side of the brick barrier. Not good. But there was no sign or sound of a dog anywhere nearby. That made up for the lack of access.

Ruth quietly opened her car door and slid out. She scurried across the narrow curving street, then moved down the sidewalk and stood in the shadows at the edge of Kollmorgan’s property. The abortionist’s little white SUV was parked in the driveway, despite having an oversized garage. Another unexpected bonus. This would be so simple.

Just as Ruth turned to leave, Kollmorgan’s front door opened. Her heart fluttered in panic as she backtracked. As she darted up the sidewalk, Ruth glanced back at the house. A familiar man stood near the doorway, then leaned in and kissed Kollmorgan. Ruth ducked behind a van parked on the street, then peeked back.

The man moving toward the sidewalk was Detective Jackson! The cop who had just questioned her and the other CCA members right in the middle of a prayer session and made them feel like criminals. Now he was kissing the killer! Ruth’s fists balled in anger, and she could feel blood swooshing in her ears. Who would Kollmorgan seduce next? She was the devil!

Ruth decided she must act immediately. The Bible said so. The revenger of blood himself shall slay the murderer: when he meeteth him, he shall slay him. She would target the car tomorrow night.

Tuesday, October 26, 7:05 a.m.

After a short night’s sleep, Jackson was in his car, gulping coffee and making the familiar drive to Portland. The morning was dark and wet, and he was in an agitated mood. This second murder was turning his brain into a pretzel. Fortunately, traffic was light, the Impala had cruise control, and he was able to let his thoughts percolate.

So far, all he knew was that Nicole Clarke had disappeared from her house Sunday evening while her parents were gone, then turned up dead—suffocated—the next day, five miles away in a city park. If Jessie had not died under similar circumstances a week earlier, Nicole’s parents would have been Jackson’s primary suspects. But not only did Joanne and Steve Clarke have alibis for the time of her disappearance, he also had no gut reason to believe they were involved in her death.

Of course, they were still suspects. Everyone was.

Last night, driving home around 2 a.m., it had occurred to Jackson that the core group of Bible Baptist Church members might be involved in a conspiracy to cover up the girls’ sexually motivated murders to protect one of their own. Even though in the fresh energy of the morning he realized the idea was unlikely—one born of frustration and exhaustion—he would not dismiss it. The Clarkes’ alibis came from other church members, and Jackson had left Evans a message, asking her to verify that all of them had actually been at the meeting.

The light rain turned into a steady downpour, so Jackson turned his wipers up a notch, then passed a semi tractor-trailer that was kicking up a wall of water. Once he was out front, alone on the road again, his thoughts returned to the two murders.

The idea that the killer and the clinic bomber could be the same person now intrigued him. If this person saw himself as God’s avenger, perhaps he had moved beyond saving fetuses to killing girls whom he believed to be promiscuous and offensive to God. And if the avenger had been following Jessie and saw her leaving the mayor’s apartment, he may have killed her for her sins.