by Jason Pinter
“Did you try her cell phone?”
“It goes right to voice mail. I had your card in my backpack. You said to call you whenever, no matter what. I’m sorry for calling, but . . . we’re scared.”
“Don’t apologize for a second,” Serrano said. “I meant it. I’m glad you called.”
He mounted the phone into the hands-free on his dash and put it on speaker, then started the car.
“Just stay there,” he said. “I’m on my way. Stay on the phone with me. Can you do that?”
“Yes. Please hurry, Detective.”
Eighteen minutes later, John Serrano arrived at the Marin home. Rachel’s car was parked in the driveway. There was another set of tire tracks next to it. Serrano frowned. He parked at the curb so as not to disturb the other set of tracks. If her car was still here but Rachel wasn’t, that probably wasn’t a good sign.
The snowfall was growing heavier. The tracks would disappear before long. Before knocking on the door, Serrano took a dozen photographs of the second set of tracks. Then he surveyed the house and surrounding area. Nothing appeared to be disturbed. No broken branches on the shrubs lining the front steps, no broken glass, no blood. No sign of a struggle.
The front lawn was blanketed by a thin layer of powder. There were footprints but no shoe treads to make out. If necessary, he could have forensics down here to sift through it to study the soil underneath. But he didn’t want to jump the gun in case this was a misunderstanding. But something about the scene disturbed him.
Serrano knocked on the door. Seconds later, Eric appeared at the window. Serrano waved at him. Eric opened the door and said, “Thanks, Detective Serrano.”
“Of course,” he said. “Can I come in?”
Eric nodded. Megan was sitting on the floor in the living room, four books splayed out on the floor in front of her. But there was fear on her face, the books a clear attempt to divert her attention, which didn’t seem to be working very well. She looked like she was about to cry.
“It’s going to be all right,” Serrano said, closing the door behind him. “Walk me through what happened when you got home.”
“I came home, and Megan was sitting outside. I have a key, she doesn’t, so I let us both in. It was starting to snow, and she was shivering. I made her some chunky veggie soup.”
“You’re a good brother. Are you OK now, sweetheart?” Serrano asked her. Megan nodded. She definitely was not OK.
“Then what?”
“I called for my mom. She didn’t answer. I thought she might have slipped and hurt herself, so we checked every room. Bathrooms too. And she wasn’t here.”
“There’s a basement, right? Could she be down there?”
“I checked there,” Eric said, but there was hesitation in his voice. “She wasn’t downstairs.”
Serrano took out his phone and called Rachel’s cell. It went straight to voice mail.
“Do you have the Find My Friends app?” he asked Eric. The boy nodded.
“Yeah, but it’s turned off on her end.”
Not a good sign, Serrano thought. Eric’s lower lip was trembling.
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“This morning when I left for school.”
“And was everything normal then? Did she seem like anything was on her mind?”
Eric thought for a moment. “She’s been weird the last few days. More emotional than usual. More huggy, if that makes sense.”
Serrano nodded. In his experience, parents tended to become more emotional than usual when they’d either done something wrong or were anticipating something about to go wrong. Children knew their parents better than anyone, and Eric was a perceptive kid. He knew something was up.
“Could she have gone anywhere?”
“I don’t know,” Eric said. “I suppose. But her car is still here.”
“Yeah,” Serrano said, thumbing his chin. “Her car is still here.”
Serrano went over to Megan. A picture book was open to an illustration of a dragon eating a smorgasbord of tacos.
“What book is this?” Serrano said.
“It’s called Dragons Love Tacos,” Megan said. “I’m too old for it now, but my mom used to read it to me. I brought these out in case she was here and wanted to read to me tonight.”
“Did your mom tell you anything, sweetheart? Anything that might let us know where she is?”
Megan shook her head. “Is my mom OK?”
Serrano didn’t know how to respond.
“Listen, kids, give me a minute, all right? Eric, did you clean anything before I got here? Glasses? Dishes? Food? Anything at all?”
“No. There wasn’t anything to clean. The place was like this.”
“OK. Do me a favor, and read that dragon taco book to Megan. I have some things I need to check on.”
Eric nodded.
“Where’s your mom’s room?”
“Upstairs, last door on the left.”
Serrano went upstairs and opened the door to Rachel Marin’s room. The bed was made. The room was clean. He opened the closet. There were no empty hangers. It didn’t appear anything had been disturbed, and it didn’t look like Rachel had packed up and left in a hurry. He noticed a large safe in the closet, checked the door out of curiosity, but it didn’t budge.
Then he called Leslie Tally.
“John, what’s up? Anything the matter?”
“Got a problem,” he said. “I’m at Rachel Marin’s house.”
“Oh hell, what now? Did she dig up Elvis’s grave to make sure he’s really dead?”
“Not quite. She’s missing. Kids came home from school, and she wasn’t here. Her phone is off, the car is still in the driveway, and clothes are where they should be.”
There was silence on the other end. “What do you think?”
“I don’t think she’d run. Not without her kids. I’m going to check with the cab companies and Uber to see if they have a record of any pickups at this address. But something isn’t right.”
“I’m coming over.”
“Good. But keep it to yourself. I don’t want anyone else involved in case she’s just down at the bar throwing back Jägerbombs.”
“Should I call the lieutenant?”
“Not yet. Let me see what I can find here before we officially report her missing.”
“I’ll be there ASAP.”
Serrano hung up. He searched the rest of Rachel’s room. Nothing seemed out of place or extraordinary. He went into the kids’ rooms. Messy, but nothing suspicious.
He went back downstairs. Eric said, “Megan’s hungry.”
“You guys haven’t eaten?”
Eric shook his head. Serrano was already in a bad spot. He had no idea if this was a crime scene, so he needed to use his best judgment. He opened the fridge. Not much. Some cold cuts and bread, vegetables, yogurt, and chicken thighs. He opened the freezer and got lucky. A frozen pizza.
“You’re in luck.” Serrano preheated the oven and went back into the kitchen. Megan’s eyes were red. “It’s going to be fine, sweetie,” Serrano said.
“How do you know?” she asked, her voice so plaintive and terrified that it broke his heart.
“I’m not going to leave until we know where your mom is. I promise.”
Megan nodded. Twelve minutes later, Tally pulled up. Serrano let her in.
“Kids, you remember Detective Tally, right?” They nodded. “Eric, go check on the pizza. Let me talk to my partner.”
When the kids left, Tally said, “No sign of a struggle I can see. No forced entry.”
“Nope.”
“And nothing out of place in the home?”
“Far as I can tell.”
Tally opened the coat closet. She flipped through the jackets.
“No empty hangers,” Tally said. “No coats missing.”
“This is goddamn bizarre,” Serrano said. “You think somebody took her?”
“That woman is no pushover. For her to b
e nabbed without a struggle, it would take one smart son of a bitch.”
“Yeah,” Serrano said. “Means whoever took her, she didn’t see it coming.”
“Trusted them. Maybe even let them in the house,” Tally said.
Serrano went to the front door. “She lets him in. No struggle.” Serrano knelt down, touched the hardwood flooring by the door. “Floor is dry. So he takes his shoes off before entering.”
“A boyfriend?” Tally said.
Serrano shook his head. “Doubtful. No sign of any food preparation. No dirty glasses or crumbs, nothing out of place, and the bed is made. This get-together was business, not pleasure.”
Serrano went into the bathroom. Looked around.
“Now this is interesting. The sink handles are wiped clean,” Serrano said. “Our friend used the bathroom and then wiped his fingerprints.”
He checked the toilet lid and flush handle. Same thing. Wiped down. Which meant the children hadn’t used this bathroom. The sink basin was still damp, but the hand towels were dry. Towels might have picked up trace evidence, loose fibers, moisturizer, dead skin. He sniffed the air. Then he did it again.
Was that . . .
“Hey, Leslie, come here.”
Tally joined him in the bathroom.
“Smell that?”
She inhaled deeply.
“Not sure,” she said. “Something kind of sweet, maybe?”
Serrano nodded. “There’s a scent. Definitely not a woman’s perfume. And I doubt Rachel’s thirteen-year-old son wears cologne to school.”
Serrano left the bathroom. Went into the kitchen. Sniffed the air. Tally joined him.
“That pizza smells good,” she said.
“Hold on a second,” Serrano replied.
Serrano entered the living room. Sniffed again. Went to the sofa. Knelt down. Sniffed. “Come here,” Serrano said, motioning Tally over.
“What?”
“Down here.”
She knelt down. Sniffed.
“What is that?”
“Yves Saint Laurent,” Serrano said. His heart began to pound.
“You recognize it?”
Serrano nodded. “Lieutenant George wears it all the time. He bathes in the stuff.”
Tally looked at him askance, cocked her head. “You don’t think . . .”
“Someone she knew,” Serrano said. “Someone smart enough to get the drop on Rachel. Maybe even someone strong enough to—”
“Toss a body from a bridge. Jesus Christ,” Tally said. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
Serrano ran to the front door, threw it open, and sprinted to the adjacent house. He could see a couple sitting on a faded yellow couch through a side window. The window had an unobstructed view of Rachel Marin’s driveway. Serrano went around to the front door and knocked repeatedly.
“Ashby PD!” he shouted, continuing to knock.
A minute later, an older man with a handlebar mustache wearing blue pajamas answered the door.
“Ashby PD,” Serrano said, holding up his badge.
“Christ, I stopped dealing weed in 1977,” the man said.
“What? No, I’m not here to investigate you. Have you been home all day, sir?”
“I have. Wife and I are retired and content to watch our soaps during the day. Unbelievable how many evil twin brothers there are on these shows.”
“Did you happen to see another car in the driveway next door while you were home?”
The man scrunched up his face and thought. “Well, saw a blue car pull up earlier in the afternoon. A man went inside and stayed there awhile. Only noticed because other than the cops recently, Ms. Marin hasn’t had too many visitors.”
“What time was this?”
“Two o’clock? Around then? General Hospital was about to come on, and that’s when I turn my brain off.”
“Did you happen to get a look at the man?”
“Not really,” he said. “Looked like a man.”
“What about the car?”
“The car I saw good,” the man said. “A little too flashy for my taste.”
Serrano scrolled through the Camera app on his cell phone and showed the man a picture that had been taken at a police fund-raising barbecue the previous year. Serrano and Lt. Daryl George leaning up against George’s blue Camaro. “Did the car look like this?”
The man nodded. “Car that color, it’s a speeding ticket waiting to happen.”
“Did you happen to see the man when he left? Was he carrying anything?”
“Like I said, once GH comes on, I turn my brain off.”
“Thank you, sir; you’ve been a huge help.”
“You’d better not give me a hard time about that weed!”
Serrano went back to the Marin home and knelt down next to the second set of tire tracks. He pulled up the photo from the barbecue and zoomed in on the Camaro’s tires. The make was Goodyear Eagle F1 Asymmetric All-Season. The tread matched the tracks in Rachel Marin’s driveway.
Serrano barged through the front door, breathless, nearly knocking over Tally. He called dispatch at the precinct and said, “I need LoJack on a 2015 Chevy Camaro, registered to Lieutenant Daryl George. Yes, that Lieutenant Daryl George. I need GPS on his cell phone and all available street-camera recordings in the Lawrenceville neighborhood of Ashby from 2:00 p.m. today onward.”
Tally said, “You can’t possibly think—”
“Lieutenant Daryl George killed Constance Wright,” Serrano said breathlessly. “And he’s going to kill Rachel Marin, if he hasn’t already.”
CHAPTER 41
Rachel was jolted awake by her head slamming against something flat and metallic. She tried to scream, but her mouth was taped shut. She tried to pull the tape off, but her hands were bound together by a plastic tie. As were her ankles. She was locked in a car trunk. Every bump and bounce and pothole sent shock waves up her spine, making her cry out in agony. Her fingers scraped against some sort of cloth or burlap sack. The material scratched her face.
She was zipped up in a large canvas bag.
Panic set in. She had been restrained, stuffed in a sack, and thrown in a trunk. She didn’t have a jacket on, and the cold was penetrating her bones.
It was pitch black. Rachel took even breaths, calming herself. Her air supply was limited. If she hyperventilated and passed out, she was as good as dead.
Eventually the ride became smooth. Fewer bumps. The car was on a highway or interstate. She didn’t know how long she’d been out. She still had circulation in her hands and feet, so it was likely minutes rather than hours.
The trunk had a chlorinated smell, like a swimming pool. She closed her eyes, listened close. Based on the sound of the cars around them and the vibrations from the chassis, Rachel estimated they were driving at about thirty miles an hour. Too slow to be on the highway but too fast for residential streets. She could hear cars passing them in both directions but no horns, which meant traffic was minimal. She tried to think about the layout of Ashby. Which streets permitted such speeds. And no doubt Lieutenant George would be driving at the speed limit.
Lieutenant George. Images swam through Rachel’s head of her children playing in the lieutenant’s office. His hand tousling Megan’s hair. Her daughter laughing.
Monsters in our midst.
The lieutenant had done a thorough job restraining her. The plastic bit into her wrists. And the bag prevented her from attempting to pry the trunk open. The lieutenant didn’t want her dead—at least not just yet. If she expired, she would involuntarily loose her bladder and bowels, giving him a whole new mess to clean.
Rachel kicked herself for allowing Daryl George into her home. She had been so fixated on Serrano that she’d overlooked any other possibilities. That was why Constance had been dressed up the night she died, why she’d had on heels and willingly drunk some alcohol. She’d been meeting her lover: the already-married future mayoral candidate and father of her unborn child, Lt. Daryl George.<
br />
It had been the last date night of her life.
The rage against Serrano had blinded her. She’d wanted it to be him. And because of her overzealousness she had put herself and her children in danger.
Oh God, my children.
Panic set in. She wriggled and writhed, but her bonds were secure. Eric and Megan were surely both home from school by now and likely worried sick. Eric at least had a house key and could let them in from the cold. He was smart. Resourceful. Rachel’s car was still in the driveway. He would realize something was wrong. He would call the cops.
Serrano.
He would call Serrano.
Then Rachel felt a hard jolt, and the roadway changed. She heard a muffled, metallic sound underneath and realized they were crossing a bridge. The Albertson Bridge. Where George had thrown Constance Wright over the railing to her death.
They were traveling east over the bridge, toward Woodbarren Glen. That’s where he would kill her and dispose of her body. April through October, Woodbarren Glen was a bustling park filled with families, hikers, campers, runners, and bird-watchers. Rachel had taken Eric and Megan there last summer. She remembered beaming as she watched Eric clamber-jump off a tire swing at Crystal Glen Lake and plop feetfirst into the water, Megan giggling in her adorable pink two-piece bathing suit. But in the winter, the Glen was cold, desolate, and largely deserted. Camping trails and running paths were covered in snow and ice and would be largely abandoned until the thaw.
A body buried in the Glen would go undisturbed for months, at which point natural decomposition would destroy most, if not all, forensic evidence.
Then, with horror, Rachel realized what the smell was. Chlorinated lime. George had brought it with him to dispose of her body. Chlorinated lime had the same tissue-altering properties as quicklime and would destroy any trace evidence, but the chlorinated scent would mask the natural decomposition smell. It would keep animals—and humans—away.
Lieutenant George had planned to kill her the moment he’d hung up the phone.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, the metal humming ended. They’d crossed the bridge. Rachel could picture the landscape. About a mile down the road, there was an entrance on the right into Woodbarren Glen. After that, the road branched off into several forks, leading to campsites and Crystal Glen Lake. The Glen itself was over a thousand square acres. It was possible she’d never be found.
