by Jason Pinter
Serrano could see beads of sweat forming at Bacik’s temples. He didn’t need to look around to know that Bacik’s colleagues were listening to every word or that the constant opening and closing of the front door meant prospective clients may have suddenly changed their minds upon seeing a police presence. Every moment Bacik hesitated, he was costing the firm money.
“I don’t know all the details,” Bacik said, “but something very bad happened to her. Very bad. I’ve known Jim Franklin for twenty years. I sold him his first house.”
“I can’t imagine the Ashby real estate market is more lucrative than Darien,” Serrano said. “Why did you move out here?”
Bacik said, “I got into trouble. I had a bit of a cocaine problem. Front Door hired me, and I was making a solid six figures within two years. Well, there’s nothing worse than having a burgeoning drug problem and money to throw at it. So I showed up one day at an open house, high out of my mind, and got in a fight with a buyer. Front Door fired me within twenty-four hours. Jim Franklin paid for me to go to rehab. And when I got out, he set me up here. I’ve been clean for fifteen years. So, yeah. I owe Jim Franklin. He saved my life. But he also wouldn’t ask me to do anything illegal for him. Not after what I’d been through. This was a favor, sure, but a legal one. Whatever that Marin woman did in Darien, I had nothing to do with and have no knowledge of, and that’s the God’s honest truth. You can talk to Jim Franklin, if he’ll talk to you, but that’s the extent of my involvement. I sold a house, took a commission, and that’s the end of it. Now, please, Detectives. That’s all I know.”
Serrano looked at Tally and nodded. He believed Bacik.
Tally placed her card on the desk. Bacik looked at it like it was a poisonous frog.
“If you remember anything else, call me. And if we find out you’re holding back, it’s porta potties for you.”
Serrano and Tally left Aleksy Bacik and headed out. But as Tally opened the door to the Irongate office, another woman came barreling through the entryway, careening into Tally and sending them both sprawling to the floor.
“I’ll be goddamned,” Tally said, picking herself up off the street. “Funny running into you here, Ms. Marin.”
CHAPTER 36
Rachel knew why they were there even before Tally said a word. Tally and Rachel both stood up. Rachel brushed past the detectives and walked swiftly toward Aleksy Bacik’s cube.
When she got to his desk, Bacik was sitting down and dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief and yet looked relieved. Until he saw her.
“Ms. Marin,” he said. “I—”
“What did you say to them?” Rachel demanded. She heard the ruffling noises of a dozen brokers popping their heads up to witness the commotion. Bacik had a look on his face that said Oh hell, not again.
“I did nothing illegal,” he said. “You know this.”
“What did you tell them?”
Aleksy looked to be on the verge of a heart attack. His face was pale, and dark blotches of sweat dotted his blue shirt.
“I didn’t tell them anything,” he said.
He was lying.
Rachel could guess what he’d told them. It wasn’t everything—Bacik didn’t know everything—but he knew enough to cause serious problems. She had to assume he’d told the detectives all of it.
Rachel turned around, her purse knocking a pile of papers off Bacik’s desk, and ran back to the front door. She flung it open and found the detectives still outside. Waiting for her.
“Why are you looking into me?” she said, eying Serrano like she could rip his throat out with her fingernails.
“Your involvement in the Wright murder has been bizarre since day one,” Tally said.
“The only reason you even know it’s a murder is because of me,” Rachel shot back.
“Maybe, maybe not. You give yourself far too much credit,” Tally said. “Regardless, then you show up at the press conference. And at the Drummond residence. And at Sam Wickersham’s office, where he just happens to shoot himself.”
Rachel said nothing. At this point, the truth was lodged in her gut like a searing-hot ball of lead. Even if she wasn’t a suspect, she was certainly a person of interest.
“I had absolutely nothing to do with Constance Wright’s death,” Rachel said. “I’m trying to help.”
Tally shrugged. “Funny how in your world helping is synonymous with lying. Guess we’ll find out the truth one way or another.”
She turned to face Serrano. A cold, bitter wind was blowing from the north. It stung her cheeks. She felt anger and desperation, fear roiling up inside of her.
“John,” she said. “You know I had nothing to do with this.”
“Then you have nothing to be afraid of,” he said.
“That’s not true. I have plenty to be afraid of.”
“Then tell us,” Serrano said, his voice sympathetic, reminding her of the way they’d spoken that night at the baseball field. “What happened back in Darien? Why did your lawyer have Bacik sign an NDA? What are you afraid of?”
Yes, full of care and compassion. But he was still a cop. And she kicked herself for believing a cop could do right by her. They knew about Jim Franklin. About Aleksy Bacik and the home purchase. That she’d lived in Darien. It was only a matter of time before they pieced it all together.
“Right now, I’m afraid of you, Detectives,” Rachel said. “Because if you’re looking at me, then you’ve strayed very, very far from the path.”
“Have we?” Tally said. “Because if I had a brick for every convict who told me I had the wrong person, I could have built a mansion by now.”
“Tell us the truth,” Serrano said. “And we can help you.”
Deep down, Rachel knew that at some point, someone would learn the truth. She had only hoped that she would be the one sharing it with someone who’d earned her trust. A friend. A partner. Someone she loved and cared about. It was not meant to be found by someone overturning rocks looking for pay dirt.
But the fact that they were looking at her meant they didn’t think they had Constance Wright’s killer in custody. Which meant the cops were essentially investigating two separate crimes: the conspiracy to drive Wright from office and ruin her life and her actual murder several years later. And the possibility that the crimes were committed by separate people with different motives.
“Am I under arrest?” Rachel said.
Tally eyed Rachel like she was dying to say yes. “Not at the moment,” she said. “But I promise, if you had anything to do with Wright’s death, we’ll find out. And you’ll wish you had the creature comforts of the holding cells.”
“So if I’m not under arrest, I’m going home to my children. It’s movie night, and we’re watching The Polar Express. Good luck, Detectives. I hope you find the actual killer before they get the bright idea to do it again.”
Rachel walked away, not letting the detectives see the panic in her eyes. But she knew two things:
One—whoever had killed Constance Wright was not a serial killer. He’d targeted her specifically. That she was sure of. Her comment about finding the killer before they struck again was total BS, just to give the detectives something to chew on.
Two—she needed to find out who killed Constance Wright before the detectives found a way to pin it on her.
She would not lose everything she had fought so hard for.
Her children.
Her sanity.
Her new life.
And if Serrano and Tally were looking under the wrong rocks, Rachel had to find the right one.
CHAPTER 37
Megan watched the entire movie with her head resting on Rachel’s chest. They laughed and squirmed and ate enough popcorn to sate an entire theater. Eric spent the majority of his time playing some game where sprites with battle-axes massacred other sprites with larger battle-axes. But still, he stayed. She couldn’t remember the last time the three of them had watched a movie together. For one hundred minutes, Rachel fo
rgot about Constance Wright, Detectives John Serrano and Leslie Tally, the Drummonds, Sam Wickersham, and Darien.
The popcorn feast had Megan wired. After the movie ended, she frantically wrote six more pages in a new Sadie Scout story, reading it to Rachel as she went along. Rachel sat on the carpeted floor of her daughter’s bedroom, a smile plastered to her face as Megan created tales of Sadie Scout’s bravery in the face of danger.
“Sadie always gets the bad guy,” Megan said. “I know it’s not always like that in real life. But I can do whatever I want in my stories.”
“Yes, you can,” Rachel said, kissing her daughter good night. She tucked Megan in, then went to see Eric. He was typing on his computer, focused.
“Still working?” she said.
He nodded without turning his head from the screen. “Paper on ancient Mesopotamia due next Wednesday.”
“You know I’m proud of you.”
“For what?” he said.
“For working so hard. For being you. You’re the best son a mom could hope for.”
“Dennis Lewiston’s dad got arrested a few years ago,” Eric said. “He was a dentist. Dennis said it was bogus, but I found the newspaper article. They said he was doing things to his female patients while they were unconscious. He lost his medical license and spent two years in Pinckneyville. Dennis said the other inmates did stuff to him while he was inside. Now Dennis and his dad don’t talk.”
“Eric, that’s terrible. What made you think about that?”
He shrugged, the kind of shrug that let her know he knew exactly why he’d thought of it. “Dennis’s dad got arrested. You got arrested.”
“Eric, that was a big mistake. And I was released right away.”
“Dennis said his dad’s arrest was a big mistake, too, and now he said his dad probably has two assholes.”
“Eric!” she shouted. “I will not have you talking like that.”
“Why not?” he said. “You’ve been telling me what to say and who to be for so long now. Telling me to move on past Dad. But you haven’t moved on past Dad. You have his picture in the basement, but you won’t allow us to have his picture in our rooms. You’re a hypocrite.”
Rachel didn’t even know Eric knew what that word meant. But he’d used it correctly.
“Yes. Yes I am,” she said. “And I’m sorry.”
Eric seemed unnerved by her honesty. He’d expected a fight, not a white flag. Rachel took a seat on the floor next to Eric’s chair. He swiveled to face her. He didn’t seem to know how to react, looking down at his mother in such a way.
“When everything happened back in Darien,” Rachel said, “my world collapsed. Like yours. I didn’t know how to handle it. All of a sudden I’m alone with two young children to raise, after being with your father pretty much my whole life. And not just two children to raise but figuring out how to move on after one of the most awful things imaginable. I know what it did to you. What finding him like that did to you. It changed my outlook on everything. Protecting you and your sister became my only priority. That doesn’t mean I always did the right thing. But I tried. And I’m still trying.”
“I know you are,” Eric said softly.
“And now you’re old enough to see that I make mistakes. We live strange lives, our family. I think it was a little bit easier on Megan. She was so young. She didn’t have the memories you did. But you, you’re one of the smartest kids I’ve ever met. And to be here, now, after everything . . . your father is smiling at you from up there. He’s proud of you just like I am.”
Rachel saw a tear slide down her son’s cheek.
“I miss him,” Eric said. “I miss him so much it hurts.”
Rachel stood up. Wrapped her arms around her son. She could feel the wetness of his face against her arm, and she remembered the day she’d taken him home from the hospital, so impossibly tiny but so beautiful. His skin slightly bluish, as his blood circulation began to mature. Just the slightest scruff of blond hair. He’d always had her hair coloring. But the proud chin, bright eyes, and high cheekbones—those were his father’s.
“I miss him too,” Rachel said. “Every single day. And I promise, from now on, we’ll find a way to properly remember him.”
“I’d like that,” Eric said.
It took every ounce of strength she had not to weep.
“Finish your work and get some rest, sweetie,” she said.
“I will.” Rachel turned to leave. “Hey, Mom?”
“Yes, hon?”
“Please don’t get arrested again.”
Rachel laughed. “I’ll do my best.”
When both children were asleep, Rachel went down to the basement. She switched on the monitor bank. It was the same feed that was connected to the television in her room and simultaneously displayed a dozen cameras throughout the house. She watched her children sleep for a minute, then turned to the job at hand.
Since she’d left Serrano and Tally, Rachel hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Christopher Robles. She had assumed Robles had gone to the press conference and subsequently attacked her in order to protect Isabelle and Nicholas. But she couldn’t shake the look he’d given her when she bumped into him leaving the bathroom at the Drummond house. Like he knew something, had seen her snooping around. But now, with Nicholas in prison for the Albatross conspiracy, Rachel had a hard time believing Robles would have been willing to kill to hide simple financial impropriety on his brother-in-law’s part.
She thought back to the night he broke into their home. Robles had been muttering under his breath. She’d dismissed it before as the rantings of a drugged-out lunatic, but now . . .
Rachel booted up the Microsoft Surface Studio desktop, upgraded with an Intel Core i7 processor, thirty-two gigs of RAM, and two terabytes of built-in memory. She also had six wireless Seagate external hard drives with five terabytes of memory.
Each hard drive contained files from one calendar year. She opened the drive containing files from the previous month and selected the folder “SecCam.”
Inside the folder were hundreds of video data files, each marked with a date. She found the folder marked the day of Robles’s break-in and opened it. There were twelve files, each corresponding to one of the home’s security cameras. She opened seven of the files. Seven different videos popped up on the screen, each from a camera recording a different part of the house.
She enlarged the video from the kitchen feed and scrubbed it to 9:29 p.m. About two minutes before the gunshot. The feed showed Robles skulking around outside the property, looking for a way in.
Rachel opened the other six videos and brought them all to 9:29 p.m. Then she pressed play.
She watched Christopher Robles enter and exit every camera. He tried to open the sliding back door. Then each window around the house. And, of course, he checked the front door. While Robles was testing her security, Rachel was up in Eric’s room. Oblivious. It was fortunate Robles had not been of sound mind. A smarter man might have done real damage.
Finally, Robles seemed to get frustrated, pulled the gun from his jacket pocket, blasted out the back window, and climbed through. Just as Rachel thought. The break-in had been spur of the moment. Robles had not exactly been a planner.
Then Rachel watched each monitor as Robles wandered through the house, the SIG Sauer clear even on the grainy feed. She turned the volume all the way up. Robles was muttering. And now, for the first time, Rachel could hear what he was saying. Some of it, at least.
“Told Isabelle not to trust him,” Robles said. “Money talks and bullshit walks. He wants her money after he took his wife’s money? Bitch, please. He won’t protect Sis, then I will.”
Rachel listened. She took out a notepad and transcribed Robles’s words.
“I know it’s his. Has to be.”
Rachel paused the videos. What had to be his? Robles had clearly been referring to Nicholas Drummond. He was worried that Drummond would go after Isabelle’s money. Not an unreasonable concer
n, given his history of draining his wives’ bank accounts.
But what had to be his?
Then, it hit her.
The baby.
Constance Wright had been pregnant when she died. And Robles had thought Nicholas Drummond was the father.
She leaned back in her chair, thinking. Early on, she had pegged Drummond as the number one suspect in Wright’s murder. But surely Serrano and Tally had run Drummond’s DNA against the fetal tissue. And if it had come back a match, they would have had enough probable cause to charge him with Constance’s murder.
Even Robles had thought Drummond was the father. But he’d been wrong. But how had Robles known that Constance was pregnant?
Rachel recalled her conversation with Serrano and Tally at the Drummond house. Serrano had said Constance Wright had called Nicholas Drummond just prior to her murder. It was possible Robles eavesdropped on Nicholas and Isabelle or simply listened to Nicholas’s voice mails. If Constance told Nicholas she was pregnant and going after his money, Christopher may have assumed Nicholas was the father.
Rachel was convinced that Constance was making a play to get restitution for Nicholas’s $1.2 million fraud. That money was rightfully hers. And her baby’s.
Christopher knew something. His death at the hospital was beyond suspicious. Someone wanted him out of the picture. But Nicholas Drummond had neither the stomach nor the smarts to off his brother-in-law in a hospital. Especially since Robles, charged with breaking and entering and attempted murder, would have been heavily guarded by—
Rachel bolted upright.
Cops.
Robles would have been guarded by cops. There was only one way someone could have gotten to him.
Of course. How could she not have seen it?
Serrano.
CHAPTER 38
She cursed herself for being so blind. Serrano said it himself at Voss field: Wright singlehandedly torpedoed his play to make sergeant. Kicked him when he was down. Added insult to injury when Serrano was at the lowest point in his life. And grudges died hard.
