by Jason Pinter
Then Tally walked Rachel to a pair of holding cells at the far end of the station. She opened the door to one sepulchral chamber and gestured for Rachel to enter.
Rachel balked.
Three other people occupied the small cell, which Rachel estimated to be about eight by twelve, with metal benches bracketing each gray stone wall. The floor was an off-green, pea soup–ish color, made from an epoxy coating that adhered directly to the concrete underneath, preventing inmates from picking or peeling at the material, which could then be used as a makeshift weapon.
“Detective,” Rachel said. “You know I’m just trying to do the right thing. I never wanted that to happen to Sam. You and I are on the same side.”
“You say another word without getting your ass in that cell, I’ll add resisting arrest to your docket. You’re totally unhinged, Ms. Marin.”
“I never claimed to be fully hinged.”
Tally glared at her. Rachel sighed and entered the cell. Tally closed the door. The lock clicked into place.
Rachel looked around. She’d been arrested once, as a teenager. Three of her friends had closed down a bar on a road trip to New York and were stupid enough to smoke a joint outside. A cop happened to walk by, and the next thing Rachel knew, she was high as a kite and in the back of a police car. They released her the following morning and dropped the charges—a night in a holding cell was enough time served to pay for a public joint—but it was the last time Rachel smoked anything other than meat.
Still, that night had stuck with her. She never thought she’d be arrested again. Deep down, though, she knew she’d been playing with fire. The Drummond ruse. Going to Wickersham’s office. At some point, she’d have to answer for all of it.
Rachel observed her fellow cellmates. A fortysomething scraggly-looking white woman paced back and forth, scratching at the back of her hand. She was either a hooker or a meth addict or was just having a really bad hair day. A young black man with scraped, bleeding knuckles stood in the corner, looking anxious. And an older gentleman sat silent and contented on one of the metal benches, as though this was his usual spot to drink a cup of coffee and feed the pigeons.
She detected a faint whiff of perfume on the black man. No wedding ring. And other than his knuckles, there were no other scrapes or bruises. She immediately knew he’d punched a guy who’d insulted his girlfriend. His eyes darted around the station. He was expecting someone to come for him. But nobody had. The girlfriend was cheating on him. Poor guy. His day would only get worse.
The woman wore a lime-green halter top under a leopard-print jacket. Her stomach bore old cigarette burn scars. Her pale, blotchy legs were covered in sores. The cigarette burns weren’t deep, so it was more likely she had developed a habit of falling asleep with a lit cigarette in her hand and dropping them on herself than actually being burned by someone else.
The older man confused Rachel. He was in his seventies and wore brown corduroy pants, a chunky cable-knit sweater, and polished Cole Haan shoes. His hair was neat and parted. He wore thin wire-frame glasses. He looked like somebody’s kind grandfather or maybe a small-town pharmacist. Not someone who looked comfortable in a holding cell.
“What are you in for?” Rachel asked him, unsure of whether she’d broken some sort of unspoken jailhouse code of conduct.
“Attempted shoplifting,” he said.
“Attempted shoplifting,” Rachel said. “What does that mean?”
“I didn’t actually shoplift anything,” he said. “Just tried to.”
“Right,” Rachel said. “Attempted shoplifting. Did you, like, stuff too many Kit Kats in your pocket at the drugstore counter?”
“No,” the man replied. He paused. “You know, ATM machines are heavier than they look.”
Rachel laughed. “Can’t say I’ve ever tried to carry one.”
She took a seat on the metal bench next to the would-be ATM thief and waited. She knew how this went. Tomorrow, she would be arraigned. Which meant she would need a lawyer. But with no prior record (she’d paid a lot of money to ensure that Rachel Marin had no arrest record) and the recent threats against her family, Rachel was reasonably sure she could agree to a fine with no prison time and be released quickly.
She’d messed up. Pushed too hard. But it felt like the threads were weaving together. Sam Wickersham. Albatross. Caroline Drummond. She was pleasantly surprised to find out that Serrano and Tally had already spoken to Wickersham—even if they hadn’t come across the Caroline Drummond angle yet. The detectives were growing on her. They were competent, and they cared.
If only they’d been the ones investigating Harwood Greene . . .
“Mom?”
Rachel’s eyes widened and her head snapped up.
No. No. I’m not ready. I don’t know what to say to my children yet.
Standing in front of the holding cell was Detective Serrano.
Eric and Megan stood on either side of him.
Megan looked confused. She couldn’t figure out the look on Eric’s face—revulsion?—but seeing her children broke her heart.
“Kids,” Rachel said, standing up against the cell bars. “Everything is going to be fine. This is just a big misunderstanding.”
The same thing she’d said to the lieutenant. He hadn’t believed her, and Rachel could tell her children didn’t either.
Megan stayed silent, then went over and hugged Eric. Rachel’s son just stared at his mother. He had his father’s eyes. God, were they striking.
“Mom?” Eric said.
“Hon, I swear this is going to be over very soon. Just stay with the detective for a bit while we figure this out.”
“Is this about the basement?” Eric said.
“What?” Rachel said.
“The basement. Is this about the stuff in the basement?”
Serrano looked at Eric. Rachel cursed silently.
“No, sweetheart, this has nothing to do with the house or you or anything else. Mom made a mistake, but it’s getting sorted out. I promise.”
Serrano knelt down so he could talk to the kids. “Listen. Eric. Megan. I’m going to take you to get a snack; then I’m going to talk to your mom.”
“People get killed in prison,” Eric said.
Serrano smiled. “This isn’t prison. And I promise, anyone who wants to hurt your mom is going to have to go through me. Nothing is going to happen to her.”
“How can you be sure?” Eric said. Serrano stood up and mimicked holding a staff in his right hand.
“Because I am a servant of the secret fire,” Serrano said dramatically, banging his invisible staff against the ground. “And you shall not pass!”
“In the books, it’s ‘you cannot pass,’” Eric said. “I never understood why in the movie he says shall not. And you’re a giant dork.”
But Eric was smiling.
“Guilty,” Serrano said. “Come on. Your mom will be fine.” As they left, Serrano looked back at Rachel, still clutching the bars of the cell. A few minutes later, the detective returned.
“Where are the kids?” she said.
“The lieutenant will watch Eric and Megan until we can figure out a longer-term solution. I’ll bring them some drinks and snacks.”
Rachel leaned against the cold metal. “Thank you,” she said. “And please thank the lieutenant.”
“I will. Now, one question.”
“Yes?”
“Just what the hell is wrong with you?” Serrano said. She lifted her head, shocked by Serrano’s sudden change in tone.
“Excuse me?”
“I thought I got through to you last night,” Serrano said.
“Oh, you did,” Rachel said coldly. “You got through loud and clear. You pretend to care for us, to care for my children. And then you do this?”
“You’re the reason you’re in here,” Serrano said. “Not me.”
“How many other single mothers have you told your sob story to?” she said. “How many other kids have you taken to th
at field?”
Serrano’s eyes narrowed.
“The world isn’t against you, Rachel.”
“You haven’t seen the world the way I have,” she said.
Serrano paused. “What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing,” she said.
“What was Eric talking about? Your basement.”
“None of your goddamn business.”
“Ms. Marin, you’re the only reason you’re in this cell. Not me. Not Tally. Not Sam Wickersham. You. You want to be angry, be angry at yourself.”
After the intimacy of the other night, hearing Serrano call her Ms. Marin felt cold, impersonal.
“I’ve spent a long time being angry at myself.”
“Tell me why,” Serrano said. He gripped the bars, his finger brushing hers. “All these comments. Insinuations. I have no idea who you are. So tell me.”
“Detective, you’re trying way too hard to get laid.”
Serrano removed his hands from the bars.
“Call a lawyer,” he said. “Your arraignment is tomorrow morning.”
“What about my kids?” she said.
“They can’t stay in the lieutenant’s office overnight. There’s a room upstairs we call the Bunk. It’s where officers can catch some sleep after a long night or between shifts. There are a few beds. They’re not that comfortable, but they’re clean. They can share one. I have some paperwork, and after that I’ll take another bed up there to keep an eye on them. Nobody enters that room who isn’t law enforcement. They’ll be safe. Just be careful.”
She looked over her shoulder at her cellmates.
“Be careful?” she asked. “Am I not safe in here?”
“I’m not worried about what these people might do to you, Ms. Marin,” Serrano said. “I’m worried about what you might do to them.”
CHAPTER 30
Serrano collected Eric and Megan from Lieutenant George’s office and brought them up to the Bunk. There was a library with a few tattered paperbacks, a bunch of magazines of varying ages, a deck of playing cards, a few board games, and a television. Eric took a Michael Connelly novel from the shelf, and Megan grabbed a six-month-old copy of Field & Stream.
Sgt. Inez Fortunado, a twenty-year vet, occupied one of the other beds. Serrano explained the situation, and Sergeant Fortunado offered to stay awake an extra hour and watch them while Serrano finished his paperwork. He thanked her and said a bottle of Maker’s Mark would be waiting on her desk.
Serrano gave each of the kids one of his cards and told them to call him anytime, day or night. No matter what.
Serrano went back downstairs and found Tally at her desk. He took a seat.
“You know we had to take her in,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’m running background on Rachel Marin,” Tally said, “and it’s very, very strange.”
Serrano rolled his desk chair over to Tally’s cubicle and leaned in.
“Strange how?”
“Look at this,” Tally said. She shifted to her right to allow Serrano access to her computer screen. “I ran Marin’s property records. She bought the house her family currently lives in just over two and a half years ago for 800 grand.”
“All right, so what’s strange?”
“She paid cash. In full. There’s no mortgage attached to it whatsoever.”
“Really . . .”
“Yep. Ms. Marin currently works as an executive assistant to a lawyer named Steve Ruggiero. Glassdoor states that the average exec assistant at that firm gets paid about 55 grand a year.”
“Factor in childcare, and . . .”
“There’s no way 55 grand a year buys you a house for 800K.”
“She might have had money before she moved. She was married before. Alimony? Child support?”
“See, that’s where it gets weirder,” Tally said. “There are no marriage—or divorce—records listed for Rachel Marin. There’s a marriage record for a Rachel Marin who lives in Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but the wedding took place in 1972. She’s currently eighty-four years old. And black. And that’s just the beginning.”
“Go on,” Serrano said.
“The NCIC lists no prior arrests. A few parking tickets, but nothing more serious than that, and nothing prior to her relocation to Ashby. But here’s where it gets really weird. I checked out the birth records for Eric and Megan Marin. Neither record lists their father. The birth certificates are both blank.”
“It’s possible she had them both on her own,” Serrano said. “IUI or IVF via donor. And just lied about having a husband because she didn’t want to get into it.”
“I thought about that,” Tally said. “Here’s the thing: Rachel Marin made enough money to buy an $800,000 house in cash. She could have had a good job prior, saved up a lot, right? But if she was smart and talented enough to have the kind of job before moving to Ashby that allowed her to buy a house for that amount of money, why would she then take a job as an assistant barely making enough to make ends meet?”
“Job market isn’t great,” Serrano said.
“True,” Tally said, “but I called Steve Ruggiero. Her boss. He said when Rachel applied for the job, she was the most overqualified candidate he’d ever interviewed. Said she was smarter than most of the partners at the firm. In fact, he said he was reluctant to hire her because someone with her skills would leave for another job within months. Plus, if she paid cash for the house, and then took a job barely making ends meet, I’m thinking she had a lot more money than that 800 grand stashed away. Enough to make taking a job below her market value manageable. Even preferable. To me, this all sounds like a woman who wanted to stay under the radar.”
“And yet here she is in our holding cell,” Serrano said. “Not quite what I’d call staying under the radar.”
“Yeah,” Tally said, rubbing her cheek. “Still haven’t figured that out yet. But you’ve seen how far she’s been willing to go. The Drummond house escapade. Showing up at Wickersham’s office. Something primal in that woman is overriding her need to lay low. And I’m betting it’s related to money and this missing husband of hers.”
Serrano rubbed the bridge of his nose and exhaled.
“You feel something for her,” Tally said sympathetically.
He replied, “Something terrible happened to that family. She won’t tell me what it is, but there’s this awful cloud hanging over them. You see it in her son. A sadness. An anger. And somehow what happened to that family is connected to everything Marin has done.”
Tally listened.
“I told her about Evan,” he said. Tally sighed.
“Oh, John. Why?”
“After Robles, Aguillar, and Steinman, I wanted her to see that her children were being brought along for this insane ride, whatever it is, against their will. That whatever crusade she was on, she wasn’t on it alone. That I lost a child and it nearly broke me. That there’s a responsibility to protect people who depend on you. Because you can lose them just like that.” He snapped his fingers to accentuate the last word.
“She’ll go free tomorrow,” Tally said. “More than likely they’ll let her off with a fine. But I want Caroline Drummond. I want Albatross. And now I want to know who the hell Rachel Marin is.”
“I’m with you, Leslie.”
“On all of it? Marin included?”
Serrano hesitated, then said, “Yes.”
“Good. Because I have a call in to the broker she used to buy that house. I want to see her application package.”
“If she paid cash, there won’t be bank records since there’s no mortgage.”
“No, but I’ll bet she had a lawyer review the contract. We can start there.”
Serrano nodded. “In the meantime, I have a subpoena in for Caroline Drummond’s phone records for the last five years.”
Lieutenant George approached Serrano and Tally and stopped by their desks. He looked bone tired, no doubt from fielding questions about the Wickersham shooting. Hi
s normally clean-and-steamed suit was rumpled, with a soy sauce stain on the tie. On an ordinary day, the fifty-nine-year-old lieutenant looked forty. Today, for the first time Serrano could recall, he looked his age.
“The Marin kids in the Bunk?” he said.
Serrano nodded. “Sergeant Fortunado is keeping an eye on them.”
“Lord, what a clusterfuck,” George said, rubbing his eyes. “Let me ask you both a question. What do you make of this Marin woman? She seems to either have a vendetta or a death wish.”
“Maybe both,” Tally said.
“Something bad is going to happen if she doesn’t get a grip. She’s lucky that Wickersham kid didn’t blow her head off. If she was smart, she’d either stay home or in our holding cell. At least there she can’t endanger herself or those kids.”
“I’ll give her that choice, Lieutenant,” Serrano said.
“Don’t be shocked if she becomes a regular in that cell,” Tally said. “Moths who circle flames always get burned.”
“Hopefully a night in holding will wake her up before someone gets killed,” George said. “Speaking of which, that Wickersham boy is damned lucky to be alive.”
“They think he’ll make it?” Tally said.
“Bullet nearly severed his vocal cords, so he’ll never sing opera, but he’ll live.”
“And probably spend the rest of the decade in prison,” Serrano said. “We have him cold on conspiracy and fraud for the fake Constance Wright affair.”
“So what are you waiting for?” the lieutenant said.
“We still don’t have all the pieces. Wickersham was in a sexual relationship with Caroline Drummond, Nicholas Drummond’s sister. She works for an accounting firm that set up a lease with a shell company called Albatross, which paid Wickersham for his role in the setup. But we still don’t know who was behind Albatross, or which of them may have actually killed Constance Wright.”
