Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 14

  “Thank you,” Rachel said.

  Serrano leaned forward in his chair.

  “Let me ask you a question, Ms. Marin,” he said. “Do you go looking for trouble on a daily basis?”

  “Listen, Detective. Robles came to my house, armed with a gun and a knife big enough to cut the Rock in half.”

  “And do you think there’s any chance he does all that if you don’t follow him home after the press conference?”

  Rachel didn’t respond.

  “I don’t know what your deal is. But tonight you just shot the brother-in-law of a murder victim’s ex-husband.”

  “I feel like there’s a joke in there somewhere,” Rachel said. “You know, like a priest, a rabbi, and a shaman walk into a bar.”

  “Laugh all you want, but this is serious.”

  “I shot a man tonight, Detective. I know how serious it is. So why would Robles come after me?” Rachel asked. “And what he said. ‘I’m not gonna let you.’ I still don’t know what he meant.”

  “Step back for a moment,” Serrano said. “You said your children went down to the basement. You told them they’d be safe there, that it was locked from the inside. Now if it was so safe, why didn’t you go with them?”

  “Pardon?”

  “If the intruder couldn’t get into the basement, why wouldn’t you wait down there with the kids until the police arrived?”

  “Response time for our security system is up to six minutes. We both know that’s on a good day. I wasn’t willing to take a chance that whoever was in my house could leave and then come back for us another time. He was there to hurt someone. Maybe next time he comes to my office. Or the kids’ school. I had to make sure he’d be taken into custody. For that to happen, he couldn’t get away.”

  Serrano nodded, but it was clear Rachel’s answer didn’t sit well with him.

  “I’ll drive you all home; you can pack up; then I’ll take you over to the hotel.”

  “Four star? Maybe somewhere with a spa where I can get a seaweed wrap?”

  “Best Western,” Serrano said. “And even that’s stretching our budget. Let me ask you something, Ms. Marin.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Funny you should say that. The Mossberg you shot Robles with. That’s not a small gun. Most people I know keep a handgun for self-defense. The Mossberg has a hell of a recoil.”

  “Don’t I know it. My shoulder feels like it got kicked by a mule. And I don’t think that was a question.”

  “Where’d you learn to handle a shotgun?”

  Rachel shrugged. “Spent some time on gun ranges. Wanted something for home defense. Something that would put somebody down quickly, if need be. The nine millimeter Robles carried would only put someone down if you hit them here or here.” Rachel pointed to her heart and then her head.

  “Did someone get you into shooting? You were married, right? Husband teach you?”

  Rachel glared at Serrano and said curtly, “Number one, I don’t need a man to teach me how to shoot. Number two, my personal life is none of your business.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Rachel knew Serrano wasn’t “just asking.” But she couldn’t answer that question. Still, something gnawed at her gut. A fear that this night had opened up a Pandora’s box she wouldn’t be able to close.

  “Listen, Detective, I’d really like to try and get my kids settled the best I can right now. We’ve all had a hell of a night. If you want to talk about my romantic past, let’s do it another time.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s go.”

  Rachel gathered her belongings, and Serrano led her into an office where the kids were watching a rerun of Modern Family on a small TV. Eric was sipping a hot chocolate, and Megan was devouring a bag of cheddar-flavored Goldfish.

  Serrano drove them home in his brown Crown Victoria. Rachel sat in the front with the kids in the back. Snow was coming down heavy. The roads would need to be plowed in the morning.

  “How long have you been a cop?” Eric asked from the back seat.

  “About eighteen years,” Serrano replied.

  “Wow. Ever shoot anyone?”

  “Eric!” Rachel scolded.

  Serrano laughed. “It’s OK. But yes. I have. It’s not cool like you probably think. And you never want to hurt anyone unless you have to. There’s usually an alternative.”

  “My mom shot a guy tonight. I guess there was no alternative.”

  Serrano nodded. “No, doesn’t seem like there was. She did a good job protecting you two.”

  As they approached their house, Rachel could spot the police vehicles from several blocks away. Red and blue lights bouncing off the snow-covered streets. By this time, the neighbors had left their houses and were congregating on their front steps to watch the scene unfold. Rachel did not look forward to having to deal with all the questions from local busybodies.

  Serrano led them inside. Forensic techs were still doing blood-spatter analysis. There were several yellow tags stuck to the stairwell where some of the buckshot from the shotgun shells had embedded in the wall and stairs.

  They laid a plastic tarp over the stairs so Rachel and the kids could get upstairs to pack. She grabbed a suitcase from her closet and packed several outfits for work and evening and toiletries, then went to each kid’s room and helped them do the same.

  “Don’t forget your schoolbooks,” she said. “Take anything you might need for a few days.”

  “Ugh,” Eric said. “I’m going to have to pack, like, eight books. They weigh a hundred pounds each.”

  “Then pack eight books, and pretend you’re strength training.”

  “I’ll help you carry them to the hotel,” Serrano said. He looked around Eric’s room. There was a wistful smile on his face. He went over to Eric’s bookshelf.

  “Do you mind?” he asked. Eric shook his head. Serrano took out a tattered copy of each of the Lord of the Rings books and held them gently, delicately, like they were the Dead Sea Scrolls.

  “How many times did you read this?” he asked, holding a dog-eared copy of The Fellowship of the Ring.

  “Ten? Maybe eleven times?”

  “Wonderful books.”

  “You read them?”

  “I have,” Serrano said. “My son . . . he loved them when he was your age.”

  “Cool. How old is he now?”

  Serrano ignored the question. “It’s late. Let’s get you settled.”

  Serrano carried the luggage to the Crown Vic and drove to a Best Western off Lakeland Drive. Another officer followed in Rachel’s car, parked, and gave Rachel the keys. Serrano talked to the pimply clerk at the front desk and handed Rachel two keys.

  “Officers Lowe and Chen are going to check on you from time to time. We may need you to answer some more questions about the shooting, so don’t leave the state without letting me know.”

  “I have two children in school, Detective. I barely leave the house.”

  Serrano laughed. “Get some rest, all of you. I’m glad you’re safe.”

  “How is he?” Rachel asked. “Robles.”

  “You shattered his collarbone into a jigsaw puzzle. He’ll live, but he’ll never do a full jumping jack again.”

  Rachel nodded, taking no joy in the news. “So you think Robles might have killed Constance Wright?”

  Serrano didn’t respond.

  “Me either,” Rachel said. “That kind of murder took planning. Precision. Getting Wright to the bridge, incapacitating her. What happened tonight was sloppy and spur of the moment.”

  “I’ll call to check on you tomorrow,” Serrano said, ignoring her comment. “If anything comes up, or you remember anything else, you have my card. Robles is in the hospital. You know who his sister is. She has money, and Chris has some friends in low places. Be careful.”

  “Christ, you think Isabelle will come after me for shooting her brother?”

  “Just play it safe. No more stunts like you pulled at their house,” Serrano said. “Lay low. Now
I have to head to the hospital to check on the guy you unloaded a shotgun into.”

  Serrano headed to his car.

  “Detective?”

  Serrano turned around.

  “Thank you,” Rachel said. “And I’m sorry about what I said before. At the Drummond house. I believe you’re a good cop. That you look out for people.”

  Serrano said nothing. Just smiled thinly and walked back out into the cold.

  Rachel brought the children to the second floor. The hotel room was sparse. Two single beds, a small desk, an empty minifridge, and a combination shower and bathtub. Tomorrow she’d pick up some groceries and cleaning supplies. She didn’t want to frighten the kids, but laboratory petri dishes tended to have less bacteria than the average hotel room.

  Megan read a Fancy Nancy book while Eric put on his headphones and got lost in an iPad game. Once Megan was asleep, Rachel tapped Eric on the shoulder. “Your turn.”

  Eric nodded, switched off his game, put on shorts and a T-shirt, and climbed into bed next to his sister.

  When they were finally down, Rachel changed into sweatpants and a fleece. Her brown hair was a bedraggled mess, and she could see blonde roots poking through her scalp. There was a massive red welt in the meat of her shoulder where the Mossberg had kicked after she’d shot Christopher Robles.

  She was bone tired. She’d call out sick from work tomorrow. She couldn’t fathom dealing with Steve Ruggiero after a night like this. Plus, her sitter had just quit. She’d have to fill in until she could find a suitable solution. Someone trustworthy.

  Someone who wouldn’t ask too many questions.

  Rachel turned the light off, plugged her phone in, and closed her eyes.

  Just as she began to doze, Rachel heard Eric’s voice.

  “Mom?” he whispered.

  “Yes, hon?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t let him get away.”

  Soon enough Rachel heard the twin rhythmic sounds of both her children sleeping. Rachel lay awake in bed in the darkness for a long, long time.

  CHAPTER 16

  Serrano was already at his desk when Leslie Tally walked into the precinct. She was pleasantly surprised to see him.

  “I figured you’d wake up beside the train tracks somewhere without your pants and with a hangover that would pain the devil,” she said. Tally sat down and sipped a cup of coffee.

  “No way; I’ve had a busy night. Heard about the Marin shooting over the radio,” Serrano said. He was freshly shaven, had on a clean suit, and smelled like cologne rather than liquor and stale coffee like she’d expected. “I came in, took Rachel Marin’s statement. Set her and her kids up in a hotel while forensics goes over the house. Stopped by the hospital to see if Chris Robles was lucid enough postsurgery to answer any questions.”

  “Surprised you did that for the Marin woman after what happened at the Drummond place.”

  “Yeah, well, I surprise myself sometimes.”

  “So you didn’t go to Voss Field?” Tally asked.

  Serrano nodded. “I was going to but decided against it. It’s a battle. Every day. I just happened to win this one.”

  “Proud of you,” she said. “I know it still hurts.”

  Serrano nodded. “Thanks, partner.”

  “So what’s the word from the Marin home?” Tally asked.

  “It appears to be a clean shoot. Woman knows how to handle a shotgun. Montrose found footprints in the dirt outside that matched the boots Christopher Robles was wearing when he was brought to the hospital. GSR test came back positive. Ballistics found a slug embedded in the wall in the kitchen that matched Robles’s SIG Sauer. Marin’s gun permit checks out. Everything appears to have happened just the way she said it did.”

  Tally tapped her lower lip. “So Marin BSes her way into Isabelle and Nicholas Drummond’s house. Then later that night, Isabelle’s brother goes to Marin’s home and tries to kill her. Why?”

  “Maybe he saw her snooping around,” Serrano said. “Those photos she took in Isabelle’s closet. Possible Robles spotted her, assumed the worst.”

  “Which was what, exactly? Even if Drummond and his wife are lying about the timeline, why would her brother go after Rachel?”

  “I ran background on Chris Robles,” Serrano said. He dug around in the pile of mess on his desk and pulled out a brown manila folder. “He has quite a record. Did two stints in his early twenties at Baskerville penitentiary. First one for possession of heroin with intent to sell. The second for prostitution.”

  “Prostitution?”

  “Yep. Seems after his first stint in the joint, the Robles family cut him off. They were worth millions but didn’t appear to want the black sheep getting any of it. So he started turning tricks off Dewey Circle, solicited a cop, and did three months upstate. And while Chris is locked up, their parents, Arturo and Yvette, are killed in a plane crash. They leave every cent to Isabelle.”

  “So she goes back on her parents’ wishes, takes Chris in.”

  Serrano nodded. “Sibling love. He moves in with her. She enters him into a 20K-a-month rehab program. Didn’t seem to fully take, because three years later Robles is arrested again for trying to buy crystal off an undercover. This time, Isabelle hires him a fancy-pants lawyer who convinces the judge that Robles is bipolar and gets him committed for a year. He got out and has a clean record since.”

  “So Chris owes sis,” Tally said. “Big time. But there’s still nothing on his record that suggests violent tendencies, let alone homicide.”

  “Everyone starts somewhere,” Serrano said. “But if you’re Chris Robles, in and out of prison and psych wards your whole life, the odds of you being dead by thirty are fairly high. Then his sister swoops in like an angel of mercy and saves him. Uses her family’s resources to get him help. Keeps Chris out of jail, where, by the looks of him, he’d easily be worth a Twix bar and a pack of cigarettes. He owes his life to Isabelle.”

  “And you think he’d do anything to repay that,” Tally said. “So you think Chris going to Rachel Marin’s home was his messed-up way of trying to protect his sister? Maybe because he knows Drummond killed Constance and doesn’t want people digging?”

  “Possibly,” Serrano said. “But here’s what I don’t get. Constance Wright and Nicholas Drummond divorced several years ago. He remarried right away. Isabelle Robles is rich. I don’t see a motive in Drummond wanting her dead now.”

  “Unless the Marin woman is right,” Tally said, “and Wright found out she’d been swindled out of one point two million and was planning to come after it.”

  “So you think Robles finds out and offs Constance to protect Nicholas?” Serrano said. “You’d have to presume Isabelle didn’t find out about Chris’s bad intentions—which, given his history and their closeness, I don’t buy. I think if Wright decided to go after Drummond’s money, Isabelle Robles finds a way to keep her quiet.”

  Tally chewed a fingernail. Then stopped. “Claire hates when I do that.”

  “She should. It’s a disgusting habit.”

  “Let’s not go there. I remember the days when I used to find you passed out in the dugout at Voss Field regularly, smelling like you’d been fermented in a distillery.”

  “Point taken. But I’m having a hard time seeing how this plays out with Drummond as the killer. Even if Constance goes after him for the money, I think he tells his wife, and they pay her off. Isabelle has the money. Maybe they have to liquidate some stock holdings, sell a property or two, but that seems like a safer plan than killing her.”

  “But it still begs the question: Why was Chris Robles so scared for his sister that he felt compelled to try to murder a woman who was snooping around?”

  “Robles isn’t right in the head,” Serrano said. “Let’s not immediately assume his actions were based in logic.”

  “I think we should talk to the Robles black sheep,” Tally said. “See what Chris has to say.”

  “No doubt Isabelle will have one of Sauron’s minions rep
resenting her little Chrissy. We’ll be lucky to get a sneeze out of him before her lawyers shut us down.”

  “Doesn’t Sauron work for the Zackowitz & Keenan law firm? Dale Sauron, am I right?”

  Serrano stood up, closed his eyes, and shook his head in shame. “One of these days we’re going to have to get you to watch some real movies.”

  “One of these days we’re going to need to get you a psych eval.”

  “Fair trade. Robles is at Mackenzie North, Maitland ward. You drive.”

  As they got up to leave, Lt. Daryl George rounded the corner and headed for their desks.

  “Perfect timing,” George said. His posture was straighter than a two-by-four, his gray hair close cropped at the sides and receding ever so slightly on top. “Detectives, what’s the latest on the Marin shooting?”

  “Checked her in to a hotel myself,” Serrano said. “Was just telling Detective Tally that the shooting looks clean. Forensics and ballistics seem to confirm her story. Robles shot out a window; she took him down in self-defense.”

  “And the Wright investigation?”

  Tally said, “I spoke to Annette Zhang, who owns the Fancy Nails salon on Mutterman Way. Credit card receipts show that Constance Wright came in for a pedicure the day before she died. Ms. Zhang recognized Constance but said she only came in sporadically. Maybe two or three times a year.”

  “My hunch is that she was seeing someone romantically,” Serrano said. “She was prepping for date night.”

  “So you think her paramour may have had something to do with this?” George replied. “Any leads on the guy?”

  “Not yet,” Serrano said. “But the theory would explain why there were no defensive wounds and confirm that she knew her assailant. But there’s nothing that stands out in her phone records. If she was seeing someone, both parties were keeping it heavily under wraps. So we’re still working the Nicholas Drummond angle as well.”

  “Good work. Now, your report also says Rachel Marin was with you when you questioned Nicholas Drummond yesterday. Care to explain why a civilian tagged along during your homicide investigation?”