A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 2

  Rachel Marin had been dating Detective John Serrano of the Ashby Police Department for about six months, and they were the happiest months she’d had in a long, long time. She’d hesitated to get involved romantically. She was concerned with how her children, Eric and Megan, would react to having a boyfriend around the house. The only man they had ever seen Rachel with was their father, and when he’d died, Rachel had wondered if they would ever approve of seeing her with anyone else. But they had warmed to John Serrano and, in doing so, allowed her to feel more comfortable. More like herself again.

  Serrano spent time with her kids. Asked them questions. Listened, patiently. Never smothered them or made his presence feel forced. He had befriended Eric, even if only for a few brief months, until her son retreated back into his shell. Serrano now sat on the floor, rapt, as Megan read from her latest Sadie Scout story, remarking on the pint-size heroine’s uncanny ability to both fight evil and look super cute while doing so.

  He watched movies with the Marin family. Ate dinner with them. And when the children were in bed (and confirmed by Rachel’s CCTV monitors in their bedrooms to be asleep), they made love. Quietly but passionately, both knowing that the children were far more aware than they might let on.

  She had received Matthew Linklater’s disturbing email the previous night as Megan read them a new Sadie Scout tale, and in an effort to be present for her daughter, she’d promised herself to respond the next day.

  Rachel lay in bed. She watched John Serrano as he snored lightly, his face mashed against the pillow. She stretched and stepped into the shower. She heard him stir and left the door open a crack in case he felt like joining her. He did not. And when Rachel stepped out, Serrano was sitting up, on his cell phone, a look of grave concern on his face.

  “Text me the address,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You said the fire is out. Has anybody been inside the house? Tell Montrose and Beene to wait. Even if it’s out, we need to assess any structural damage before sending in forensics. Call Tally. I’m on my way.”

  “What is it?” she said.

  “House fire,” John said. He stood up, cracked his back, and headed for the shower. “North Ashby. Possible arson.”

  “Was anyone home?”

  “Yes,” Serrano said. “They’ve found one body so far, but we’re waiting on dental records to confirm the victim’s identity.”

  “So the victim died in the fire.”

  Serrano nodded.

  “Once the kids are out the door, I’ll meet you there,” Rachel said.

  Serrano nodded again. “Tell Eric and Megan I’m sorry I couldn’t eat breakfast with them.”

  “I will. You know, when we started seeing each other, Eric seemed to get better. He was opening up. But the last couple of months, it’s like he’s been . . . gone.”

  “I’ve noticed,” Serrano said. “That boy has been through things I can’t imagine. If you want me to talk to him, let me know. I can’t be his father. But I can be his friend.”

  “Thanks, John. He’s not a kid anymore, but he’ll always be my baby. Seeing him in pain . . . there’s nothing worse. I know you know.”

  “I do.” The detective gave Rachel a quick but firm kiss.

  After Serrano showered, he put on a clean white shirt, socks, and underwear; a pair of freshly pressed pants; and a suit jacket. Rachel had cleaned out space in her closet for his clothes, and she couldn’t help but smile as he dressed. After dating for several months, they’d both agreed it had become silly for him to carry a gym bag of dirty linens to and from her house. To Serrano, it might have just been an empty drawer, a couple of coat hangers. But to Rachel, it signified that she was moving on. Making room for him not just in her house but in her life.

  “Can I tie your tie?” she said.

  Serrano laughed. “You still haven’t learned how to do it. You’re the only woman I’ve ever met who can clean a shotgun but not tie a tie.”

  “To be honest, only one of those skills is practical knowledge. If push comes to shove, I’d rather be able to pump a load of bird shot into a criminal than try to strangle him with a necktie.”

  “Now that sounds like a romantic evening.”

  Serrano did his tie, then leaned down and kissed Rachel deeply.

  “See you in a bit,” he said.

  “Remember,” she replied, “if the floors are hardwood, see if they squeak. If they do, they’ve suffered severe fire damage and could collapse. If they think it’s an electrical fire, check for soot or black streaks near any outlets. If you find any, there could be—”

  “Damage inside the walls. I know, Rachel. You forget I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.”

  “Doesn’t make you any better at it,” she said with a knife-edge smile.

  “Say bye to the kids for me.”

  He blew her a kiss and disappeared. Rachel stood there, wondering whether it was stranger that Serrano had not yet said I love you to her or that part of her didn’t want him to.

  CHAPTER 3

  Serrano could see the thick black smoke pouring into the sky as he approached Glenmore Lane in North Ashby. It was a wooded residential neighborhood, tree lined and quiet. A decent-size three-bedroom ranch style ran about $400,000. A lifetime ago, he and his ex-wife, Deirdre, had looked at homes here. If they’d ever tried for the second kid they’d talked about for so long, they would’ve needed the extra bedroom.

  A lifetime ago.

  Fire trucks and cop cars blocked off the roads adjacent to Glenmore. Residents lined the streets, most still in their pajamas, several holding cups of coffee in one hand while taking cell phone photos with the other.

  Images and video of the fire had already begun blanketing social media. It wasn’t long ago, Serrano thought, that cops could control the flow of information from a crime scene. There were savvy reporters, and sure, occasionally a citizen would trundle by with a camcorder. But local news stations hardly ever needed camera crews anymore; they could just sift through Twitter and Instagram, and suddenly some teenager’s shaky cell phone video would lead the morning news.

  Serrano pulled up to the curb and got out of the car. The stench of smoke and burnt wood was pungent. He saw his partner, Detective Leslie Tally, standing in the driveway, speaking to Isaac Montrose from forensics. Montrose towered over Detective Tally, an easy six four both vertically and horizontally. His bald head, dotted with sweat, peeked out from his breathable protective coverall. He had on latex gloves and protective eyewear. A NIOSH-approved particle respirator hung from his neck. Tally was about five six, black, her hair tightly braided on the sides and curly on top. Just the other day she’d come into work in a mood that suggested the IRS had notified her about a tax audit but was actually because she’d noticed her first gray hair. She told him she’d named it Serrano, her reasoning being that either her partner or old age would be the death of her.

  “Detective,” Montrose said as Serrano approached. “Sorry to ruin your morning.”

  Serrano pointed at the smoking remains of the house at the end of the driveway. “What do we got?”

  “One victim,” Tally said, “as yet unidentified. Male, likely Caucasian. Hector Moreno already has the body at the medical examiner’s office, and he’s running dental records as we speak. It’s likely that the body belongs to the owner of the home, but we don’t want to confirm anything before Moreno gets a positive ID. For that reason we haven’t yet contacted next of kin.”

  “Where was the body found?” Serrano asked.

  “Still in bed,” Tally replied. Serrano looked at her, confused. “I know. We don’t have an answer for that yet. It’s possible he was drunk or on drugs and slept through the first kindlings. With the extensive damage to the body and organs, Moreno said they’ll be lucky to get any sort of accurate tox screen.”

  “Time of death?”

  “We couldn’t make that determination at the scene,” Montrose said. “Liver was cooked, so we couldn’t get a good internal
temp reading.”

  “Hopefully Hector can work his magic,” Tally said.

  Montrose said, “We removed the body, but we’re still assessing the foundation to make sure the structure won’t collapse with us in it.”

  Serrano said, “I seem to remember another murder not that long ago where we were worried about the ice swallowing us up. Now it’s fire.”

  “Constance Wright,” Montrose said. “And speaking of the Constance Wright investigation . . .”

  “So, what did I miss?” The trio turned around to see Rachel Marin walking toward the house. Serrano had left the Marin home barely twenty minutes ago. She must have shooed the kids out the door and ignored all posted speed limits.

  “Ms. Marin,” Montrose said. “Pleasure to see you, despite the circumstances.”

  “Hey, Rachel,” Tally said as they shook hands. “How are Eric and Megan?”

  She sighed. “Megan is going to be a famous writer by the time she’s in high school. Eric is . . . I don’t know. I might know my way around a crime scene. But I’m like the blind leading the limbless when trying to understand the mind of an adolescent boy.”

  “You should talk to Claire,” Tally said. “When she and her ex-husband split, her kids didn’t speak to her for a month.”

  “I appreciate that, and I’ll take you up on it,” Rachel said. “So what’s the story here with Cinderville?”

  “I was just filling the detectives in,” Montrose said. “What do you think, Rachel?”

  Rachel took a few steps closer and surveyed the property. Then she pointed at the charred remnants of the house.

  “See the blackening on the eastern and western walls? How they’re much darker than the material around them?” she said. Serrano, Tally, and Montrose looked, noted the discoloration. “Now look at the roof. You’ll see a similar blackening. Normally a fire starts from one specific flash point: faulty wiring, a space heater, a candle. But from what I can tell, there appear to be at least three separate flash points. Home fires don’t begin from three separate spots concurrently. And we haven’t even examined the rest of the house. There could be even more.”

  “That would suggest arson,” Montrose said.

  “Not only that,” Rachel said, “but it would mean that someone took the time to prep the house to go up fast and burn down fast. That would be one way to make sure whoever was inside wouldn’t be able to get out.”

  “We don’t know that the victim was alive when the house went up,” Tally said.

  “Yes, we do,” Rachel said. “The arsonist wanted it to burn fast. Any one of those flash points would have eventually done the job. But we have at least three. Meaning they wanted all exits blocked by fire. You don’t seal off the exits for a corpse. Check the windows and staircases. If you find other flash points, it was the killer sealing off the tomb.”

  Serrano thumbed his lip. “If the arsonist was smart enough to get inside the home, subdue the victim, and prep numerous flash points, they’d also have to know we’d determine quickly that the fire was intentional.”

  Tally said, “That would mean they didn’t care if we knew it was arson. In fact, the obviousness of it might have been the entire point. They wanted us to know it was arson and that the victim, presuming he was inside, was murdered.”

  Rachel said, “And someone either wanted us to know immediately this was not an accidental fire or didn’t care one way or the other. Speaking of which, do we have an ID on the victim?”

  “Moreno needs to wait until dental records come back to officially make an ID so we can notify next of kin. But the house was owned by a man named Matthew Linklater.”

  Rachel’s head snapped up, eyes wide.

  “What?” Serrano said. “What is it?”

  Rachel took out her cell phone and showed them her email account.

  “Matthew Linklater is my son’s social studies teacher,” she said. “He emailed me yesterday—right before he was murdered.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Eighteen-year-old high school senior Benjamin Ruddock was eating a bowl of cereal, his third helping, when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his right pocket. An incoming text. He immediately froze. This cell phone rang infrequently, but when it did, it necessitated an immediate answer. He checked the text. One word.

  Call.

  “Dad, turn the TV down,” the younger Ruddock said. His father, Timothy, was sunk so deep into his faded green easy chair that it looked like the piece had tried to swallow him whole but gave up. The elder Ruddock simply stared at the state-of-the-art sixty-inch LCD, which looked out of place in the dilapidated home.

  The remote was on the coffee table a whole six inches away from his father’s grasp, which meant there was a higher chance of him suddenly deciding to get a degree in thermal engineering than lifting a finger to help his son.

  Benjamin grabbed the remote and turned the volume down from twelve to two.

  “I can barely hear it now,” his father rasped. Benjamin eyed the man with furious contempt, the rage thick in his veins like motor oil in a straw.

  “Who bought you the TV?” Benjamin asked pointedly. “Oh. That’s right. I did. So I’ll turn down the volume if I want. I’ll throw it out the damn window if I want. That’s my television. You’re lucky I even let you use it.”

  “Kid gets a little money and suddenly he’s a big shot,” Timothy Ruddock said to nobody in particular. “You just better hope nobody asks me how you got it.”

  “What’s that?” Benjamin said, looming over his father’s lethargic form.

  Ruddock senior snorted and spat a glob of tobacco juice into a red Solo cup. Benjamin Ruddock was bigger, stronger, and smarter than his father and spent far too much energy just cleaning up his old man’s (literal) messes. But Benjamin would be out of the house soon enough and would leave skid marks on his way out of this miserable town. Not only that, he would leave with a full bank account, thanks to the man who’d sent the text, and a future of endless possibility. Which is more than his old man could ever say.

  Benjamin went into his bedroom, closed the door, and dialed the number he knew by heart.

  “Good response time,” the voice on the other end said.

  “What do you need?” Ruddock said.

  “There’s a boy in your school. A few years younger. A freshman. His name is Eric Marin. Do you know him?”

  “Not personally, but I’ve heard the name a few times. Has a bit of a rep. One of those kids who’s just a little too quiet, know what I mean? Like if he ever murders a bunch of people with a ballpoint pen, everyone’s gonna say, ‘Yeah, I saw it coming.’”

  “Your amateur psychiatric evaluations aside,” the voice said, “what else do you know about him?”

  “Not much. He’s a freshman, so we don’t have any classes together. Just pass him in the hall sometimes. Don’t think I’ve ever said a word to him.”

  “Does he have friends?”

  “He seems like kind of a loner. There’s one girl I’ve seen hanging around him: Penny Wallace. I know that Wallace’s stepmom is a cop.”

  “What else do you know about him?”

  “Wasn’t his mom in the news a little while back? Something to do with a murder? I feel like a lot of people at school were talking about her, like she was some kind of vigilante—”

  “Never mind what people might have been talking about. I need you to get closer to this Marin boy.”

  Benjamin Ruddock was silent for a moment. “I thought I just said that his mom—”

  “And I thought I just said I need you to get closer to him.”

  “Is this related to what happened yesterday?”

  “I think you know the answer to that question, Benjamin.”

  The high schooler was silent.

  “We need to bring Eric Marin into the fold. His mother, Rachel, may try to get involved in our business, and I’d like her attentions diverted. Besides, sometimes boys who are, to use your delicate phrasing, loners wind up being our most valuabl
e assets. Troubled children have tremendous potential. They just need guidance. What have I taught you to do?”

  “Know the customer. Learn what they need. Make them believe what you have to offer is the key to their happiness.”

  “So what might a young man like Eric Marin—a loner, as you say—what might he need? What does a lonely child need?”

  “Someone who listens to him. Makes him feel like he’s being heard. Like he’s full of untapped potential that only you can see.” Ruddock paused. “I can do that.”

  “You’re a good kid, Ben. Offer him a little signing bonus as well. The usual. I’ve taken care of the arrangements. Just make sure Eric Marin is at the next meeting. We’re about to change his life.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “I’m telling you, there’s something wrong,” Penny Wallace whispered. “Mr. Linklater has never even been ten seconds late for class. And it’s already ten ten.”

  “Maybe he won the lottery,” Ronnie Parness said. “Got a new wardrobe and moved to LA to be an actor. That’s what happened to my cousin. He was a school superintendent in Chicago, but just last year he got cast in a five-minute role as a pedophile on some cop show, and now he acts like he’s Brad Pitt.”

  “Mr. Linklater isn’t hot enough to be an actor,” Lucy Wiles replied.

  “I don’t know, he’s got kind of a cool, schlumpy, middle-aged-librarian vibe,” Aaron Middlestein said. “Not like cool as in hot, but cool like he’d be comfy to snuggle up against and binge a few episodes of something with.”

  Eric Marin listened to all this speculation but remained silent. Though he was maintaining an A minus average, he did not speak in Mr. Linklater’s freshman social studies class unless explicitly called on and never joined in on the conversations that dominated pre- and postclass. Not that anyone ever tried to bring him in.

  Eric had joined Ashby Middle School in the seventh grade following the death of his father and his mother’s decision to move their family to the middle of nowhere. By seventh grade, friendships had already been established, cliques hardened into concrete. There was no room for a “random” like Eric Marin. That’s what kids like him were called—randoms—since they joined the school at random times, usually due to unstable family lives: divorces, relocation, abuse. Even prison, like Tony Vargas’s father. Eric had enrolled at Ashby alone, and for the most part, he’d remained that way.