Detective Wade Jackson Mystery - 02 - Secrets to Die For (17 page)

Ryan was tired of waiting. He hadn’t had a girlfriend in months. Jamie was different. She was sweet and pure. She wouldn’t call him names or make fun of his slightly crooked penis. He knew he would have to be patient with Jamie. She would need a little time to become emotionally attached to him. He believed it would happen. Ryan knew he was her type—strong, blond, and blue-eyed. He’d heard somewhere, maybe on the news, that people who were held captive eventually bonded to the guy who was holding them. Sometimes they even fell in love. If he could just avoid the cops and keep it together long enough, Jamie would start to love him.

The Toyota turned down Garfield Street, traveled three blocks, then turned into the driveway of a small white duplex. Ryan quickly pulled over and parked a few houses back. As Jamie got out of her car, a young man with a ponytail came out of the duplex and opened his arms wide. Jamie stepped in and they hugged for a long time.

Ryan’s legs shook with rage. He wanted to pound the guy. Grab him by the hair and smash his head into the side of the car. How dare he touch Jamie? Nausea filled his gut. Ryan closed his eyes and counted to ten. His father had taught him the control technique when he was still in middle school and got into fights so often they threatened to expel him. That was before he started taking the meds.

When he opened his eyes, Jamie and the ponytail guy were walking into the house. Had they kissed? How long had she had this boyfriend? Did this change his plans? Ryan shifted in the seat, realizing he had a stiff hard on. He wanted Jamie more than ever. And he would take her.

What if he couldn’t make her love him? What then?

For a moment, Sophie regretted not following Jamie when she turned down 24th. The temptation had been nearly overwhelming. Instinct told her to keep tabs on this young woman. Jamie was the central piece of this story; Sophie could feel it in her journalism bones. Knocking on someone’s door unannounced was one thing. Following them around until you found an opportunity to present yourself was something else entirely. Some people called it stalking. For public figures, especially ones who had broken the law or a public trust, stalking was permissible. Jamie, on the other hand, was a private citizen who had just suffered a terrible loss. Sophie would wait and get what she needed from people who knew Jamie…for now.

So she grudgingly kept driving and headed for Raina’s home where she had lived with her grandmother. Sophie laughed out loud when she saw Martha Krell’s house. Purple paint and pink flamingos! She liked this woman already. Anyone who decorated with that much color was likely to produce an attention-grabbing quote.

Martha was a tiny woman with a long gray braid and an expression that dared anyone to mention either. She led Sophie into the living room but didn’t offer her anything. “I’ve got about twenty minutes before I have to leave to meet with a funeral director, so let’s move this along.”

“Okay. First, let me say that I’m very sorry for your loss. I wish I could be talking to you under different circumstances.”

“But you’re not. What do you want to know?” Martha was holding herself together by projecting an attitude.

Sophie knew the strategy well. She had spent her whole life checking the box that said ‘Other’. Her father was Italian, Indian, and black, and her mother was Irish and Puerto Rican. She wasn’t heterosexual or homosexual. Her parents weren’t well off enough to help her with college or poor enough to help her qualify for financial aid. She had never fit in anywhere, and she always had more questions than answers. “Why did you agree to this interview?” she finally said.

“I think Raina would have encouraged me to talk about all this. She wanted to be involved with the gay rights movement, but she kept a low profile because of Jamie and her parents’ prejudice.” Martha paused, her face finally signaling distress. “It’s bad enough to lose a child to an accident or to drugs. But to think that someone killed my lovely Raina just because she was different is unbearable.” Martha shook her head. “So what else can I tell you?”

“Had Raina ever been harassed for being a lesbian?”

“In high school, yes. She came out of the closet early even though I advised her not to.” Martha smiled. “I’m proud of her for that. Raina always did what was right, not what was easy.”

“What about as an adult? In her workplace?”

“She went to work as a nurses aide straight out of high school, and there was only one employee at the nursing home who ever said anything to her about being gay. But he was a jerk to everyone. And the old people who Raina took care of didn’t know or care. They loved her. They cried when she quit.”

“Why did she quit?”

“She started college and it was too hard to keep up all the hours. The nursing home was always short staffed, and they wanted her to stay past her schedule. It was just too much.”

“Where was Raina working recently?”

“She had a part-time, work-study job on campus in the college cafeteria. She was focusing on school for a few terms, trying to get her core classes out of the way.” Martha’s expression tightened, and Sophie sensed that this may have been a point of contention.

“What was Raina studying?”

“Sociology, psychology, that kind of thing. She wanted to be a social worker, a child services case manager.” Again, Martha frowned. “I thought it was a bad idea, but Raina never listened to me.”

That struck Sophie as odd. “Why was it a bad idea?”

“Raina had a rough childhood. Her mother was a drug addict, and child services were in and out of their lives as often as Desi’s new boyfriends. Raina’s attraction to the profession was too personal.” Martha took a deep breath. “I think she wanted to save other children in a belated attempt to save herself.”

“Jesus. Poor girl.” The expression shot through Sophie’s censorship filter unchecked. “Sorry, if I offended you.”

Martha made a funny sound. “My daughter died from drug abuse, and my granddaughter was murdered. I’m not a fan of Jesus right now.”

“I’m so sorry for your losses. I can’t imagine what that’s like.”

“No, you can’t.” Martha sat up and pulled her shoulders back. “What else do you want to know? I’ve got about two minutes.”

“Tell me more about Raina. Who was she?”

“She was a bleeding heart. She loved people, kids especially. Couldn’t say no to anyone in need. As a kid, she was always giving away her stuff because someone needed it more than she did. It drove me crazy because I paid for it all.” Martha smiled at the memory. “Raina was like that as an adult too. I saw her take off her sweatshirt once and give it to an old homeless woman on a street corner because she looked cold.” Martha stood up. “I’ve got to get going.”

“Do you have a recent photo of Raina I could borrow for my story?”

Martha pulled a photo album from the bookcase and flipped it open to the end. “This is one of my favorites. She’s smiling and wearing green and getting ready to go somewhere. This captures Raina’s spirit really well.”

As they walked to the door, Martha said, “When you write about Raina, please don’t make it sound like her troubled childhood turned her gay. It’s just who she is.” Martha squeezed her eyes closed. “I mean, who she was.”

From headquarters Jackson drove west toward the evidence lab, taking a moment to call Kera. He planned to leave her a message, figuring she was at work at the clinic and wouldn’t answer her phone. She surprised him and picked up.

“Hey, sweetie. Good timing. I’m on a break.”

“Lucky me. Can you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Sure. I’d like that. Where?”

Jackson was a little surprised. “What’s going on with Daniel?”

“He’s still around. But he has other plans.” She laughed softly. “You’re handling this very well. No macho bravado. And just enough jealousy to let me know you care.”

“Thanks. I think. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Feeling guilty, Jackson called his daughter, who didn’t answer, and left Katie a message inviting her to join them. He wanted to see Katie, but he hoped she would pass on dinner. He needed some alone time with Kera. He had rethought his decision to step back and give her space now that her estranged husband was back in town. Kera was worth fighting for, and Jackson wanted her to know he felt that way. He wanted Daniel, the ex, to know he had some serious competition. The idiot had abandoned his wife, and it was too late to get her back. So he hoped.

He made a right on Garfield and crossed the railroad tracks. The neighborhood was an odd mix of small, aging homes and giant red-brick public safety buildings. The city manager’s office put staff wherever it could find cheap office space or cheap land. As he passed the new police/firemen training facility, Jackson felt a pang of jealousy. He remembered his own training in a decrepit facility in Salem all those years ago.

A little farther down the street, the new evidence lab stood out from its older surroundings. It had a brick exterior with few windows, but the building was still far nicer than the tomblike police headquarters downtown. Jackson especially liked the high ceilings. He used his security card to enter, and a technician named Joe greeted him from a desk in the corner. “Detective Jackson. I’ve been expecting you.”

“I hope that means you’ve got good news for me.” Jackson peeked through the opening into the lab area. “Is Parker here today?”

“No, but I’ve got her reports. She knew you would come in sometime today to ask for them.” Joe stood, and Jackson realized the technician was only about five-five, but he was sturdy and had the face of a boxer. “Let’s start with the car,” Joe said, hustling through the door into the evidence bay.

Various parts of the car were laid out on the concrete floor around the Volvo. Joe headed straight for the driver’s side door, which stood open. “This smear is definitely blood.” Joe pointed to the dark spot above the door’s top seam. “It’s the same type as the victim’s, B positive, which is not that common. We sent a sample of this to the state lab for comparison with the victim’s blood.”

Jackson reminded himself to be patient, but he was anxious for the technician to tell him something he didn’t already know. “What about the dent near the front? The one with the orange paint fleck?”

“Parker found a body shop that uses that particular aftermarket color. It’s Precision Paint on Franklin Boulevard. They’re still pulling together a list of clients who’ve used that color in the last year.”

“Good. Let me know when you’ve got it.” Jackson wasn’t optimistic the paint would produce a lead, but it was worth pursuing. What if that was how the rapist targeted Raina and the others? Staged a little fender bender in a parking lot and took the woman’s name and phone number for insurance purposes? Once you had that, an address was easy. “What else have you got for me?”

Joe looked at his clipboard. “We struck out with the vibrator. That particular brand is not sold in any local adult store. But dozens of Internet sites sell it. There is no way to track the purchase.” Joe shrugged. “Sorry. But Parker did find a bullet inside the flat tire. It was fired from a .22 caliber rifle. No special markings.”

“I’ll be damned.” Jackson needed a moment to process the finding. His first thought was that it validated Gorman’s story. Then again, Gorman could have fired the shot at Raina’s tire as he chased her down the driveway. They hadn’t found a gun in the trailer, but Gorman could have tossed it. As a parolee, it was illegal for him to have any weapon, including a pocketknife.

“Would you like to see the bullet?”

“In a minute. Any other major findings?”

“We found nothing on the jeans. No blood, no semen, no hair.” Joe’s tone indicated a little surprise.

“Did you find panties?”

“We did not.”

Had the perp taken them as a souvenir? “What about fingerprints?”

“We just received the victim’s fingerprints from the pathologist this morning, so we haven’t done a full comparison. But at a glance, I’d say the only prints on the steering wheel and tire jack belong to the victim.”

So Gorman had worn gloves when he changed the tire and drove the car. He wasn’t quite as dumb as he looked. What was he forgetting? After a moment, Jackson asked, “Where’s her purse? Anything there?”

“No blood or trace evidence.”

“I’d like to check out the purse and take it with me, if you’re done with it.”