Passions of the Dead (A Detective Jackson Mystery/Thriller) by L.J. Sellers Page B

to take his second dose of naproxen this afternoon. He had some in his bag, but it would have to wait until he had a moment alone. Besides, they had a suspect to arrest.
    Small older houses lined the street, which was almost treeless compared to adjacent blocks. The sun was low in the sky but the air was still warm. The smell of beef grilling in a backyard made Jackson salivate. Two young boys skateboarded down the sidewalk as they approached the only blue house on the north side. The paint peeled in long strips and the front yard had a faded layer of bark-o-mulch instead of grass.
    Jackson’s hand was on his Sig Sauer as he rang the doorbell. Drug dealers were unpredictable. A forty-something, pot-bellied man in a wheelchair opened the door. For a moment, Jackson thought they had the wrong house. “Are you Zor?”
    “It’s what my friends call me. Are you a cop?”
    “Detective Jackson, Eugene Police Department. This is Detective McCray. We’re looking for Shane Compton.”
    Zor hesitated. Jackson watched him calculate the possibilities. Give up a friend / client or get arrested for possession with intent to distribute? Zor chose the former. “Shane’s here, but he’s sick. Obviously, I can’t do much to help you with him.”
    “We’ll handle it.” Jackson started to step forward but Zor didn’t move.
    “You’re not coming in without a warrant.”
    Jackson felt a flash of heat and fought for control. If the man had not been in a wheelchair, he would have pushed his way in. “We don’t need permission. We know Shane is here and we have a subpoena for his DNA. Get out of our way or I’ll arrest you for obstruction.”
    After another pause Zor rolled back. He was protecting his stash but Jackson didn’t care about it. A vice detective would visit Zor soon enough. Jackson strode into the small living room, glanced around to see no one else was present, then headed for the open door in the short hallway.
    Shane was on his knees in the bathroom vomiting.
    Lara Evans hurried out of Judge Cranston’s courtroom with a freshly signed subpoena to collect every pair of Roy Engall’s shoes she could find on his property and in his vehicles. Cranston had barely read the paperwork. As soon as she mentioned the mass killing, his face had changed and he’d been ready to sign anything.
    On the five-minute drive to the Engalls, Evans called Doug, the artist she’d been dating for a few months. “Hey, what’s going on?”
    “I’m heading out to teach my last class for the term. Are you working?”
    “That’s why I called. I can’t make our dinner date. I’m working the mass homicide case and it’s pretty intense.” The traffic on the bridge came to a near stop and she braked hard.
    “What mass homicide?”
    Evans’ teeth clamped together. How could he not know? “Three members of a family were killed and the fourth member is critically injured. It happened Sunday night and was all over the news yesterday.”
    “You know I don’t watch the news.”
    “You really should check the headlines every once in a while.”
    Doug laughed. “That’s why I see you. Do you want to reschedule our dinner or just come over here and slide in bed with me when you have a chance?”
    Evans visualized the scenario and got a little jolt. “As tempting as it sounds, I probably won’t see you for a few days.”
    “I’ll be here.”
    She clicked her cell phone closed and eased into the right lane. If it weren’t for the occasional great sex, she would break up with Doug. They had nothing in common. She had worked as a paramedic before becoming a police officer, and in her free time she volunteered at WomenSpace, a center for abused females. Evans lived for the adrenaline rush and sought out high-energy situations. Doug’s idea of excitement was discovering a new favorite color to paint with.
    What had Jackson said when she and Doug first started dating? You won’t be happy until you end up with a cop . He was right. But