A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 21

  The entire home gave off a vibe that Bennett Brice was smarter, cleaner, and more worldly and could cook a better dinner than you. If there was such a thing as modest conceit, Brice’s home was a perfect example of it.

  Brice washed and dried a bunch of asparagus, placed them in an aluminum tray, and seasoned them with salt, pepper, and a sprinkle of freshly shaved parmesan. He put the tray into the oven, set the timer for fifteen minutes, and turned to Ruddock.

  Ruddock took a seat on a padded wooden kitchen stool. He absently picked at a scab on his hand.

  “The rest of the drop-offs went without a hitch?” Brice said.

  Ruddock nodded, still focused on the scab.

  “Benjamin? Please do not be distracted when you are a guest in somebody else’s home. It’s rude.”

  Ruddock looked up as though he suddenly realized where he was.

  “I know. Sorry, Mr. Brice. The Meyersons were the last on the list. So once we got out of there, we were done.”

  “It’s very fortunate you noticed the Marin woman following you,” Brice said. He spooned melted butter over the scallops. “That’s part of the reason I liked you right from the start. You’re perceptive. Aware of your surroundings. Anyone can follow instructions. Or a recipe. Not everyone can improvise.”

  “Harold Meyerson . . . he really didn’t like that we hung around the house for so long. He said it drew attention to him. He was worried that if the neighbors saw us, they’d ask questions. I guess they like to snoop. He said they already ask questions about his trips, and he’s running out of excuses.”

  “We may need to cut the Meyersons out for a while,” Brice said. “When a client gets skittish, their decision-making can no longer be trusted. Let’s cut him out until this dies down.”

  “You got it,” Ruddock said. “One more thing. Eric Marin.”

  “What about him?” Brice said, attention focused on his cooking.

  “He kept asking why we couldn’t leave. He’s in, but he’s questioning things. I don’t think he’s as reliable as some of the other guys.” Ruddock paused. “Speaking of which . . . I think we need to drop Eric Marin.”

  Brice nodded and continued to spoon. After a moment, he said, “Keep Marin in. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d agree. But these are extraordinary times. We need the leverage the Marin boy gives us. Keep him close. Is he coming to the next meet?”

  “He said he was.”

  “Good. Keep the pressure on, but keep it gentle.”

  “You got it.” Ruddock paused. “How’s Peter Lincecum? Sounds like Rachel Marin hurt him pretty bad. Busted his knee.”

  A splash of butter flew from the pan and landed on the floor. Brice ripped a paper towel from a roll and sopped it up, then tossed it in the trash.

  “Mr. Brice? How’s Peter?”

  “Peter will be fine,” Brice said. “I spoke to his father. I apologized for any harm that came to Peter and said he would be compensated for the injury.”

  Brice was acting strange. Ruddock felt like he’d touched a nerve.

  “But aren’t you worried?” Ruddock said. “If Peter needs medical attention, they’ll ask what happened. I like Peter a lot, but if he tells the truth, it’s a big problem, right? With the brothers?”

  “You let me handle the brothers,” Brice said angrily. “They are not your concern.”

  “Pete’s a good kid,” Ruddock said. “I told him we’d take care of him. He and Tony Vargas are tight. Maybe I could talk to Tony. Get word to Peter that we have his back.”

  “You will do no such thing,” Brice said. “We do not need this Linklater situation getting any more fragile than it already is.”

  “Not to argue, Mr. Brice, but it’s my reputation out there too. I tell kids like Peter and Eric Marin that if they work hard and put themselves on the line, they’ll be taken care of. If one of the kids gets hurt and then gets ignored, or worse, the others might start to ask questions. If there really is a chance of the brothers going after Peter, he needs to know. We need to protect him.”

  “Benjamin,” Brice said. He left the spoon in the pan and turned to his protégé. “I have done more for Peter Lincecum than you could ever know. I will handle the brothers. And I will address any concerns regarding your perceived loss of reputation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Brice.”

  “Now onto Eric Marin. One thing you will learn over time is that leverage in the right hands is more powerful than any firearm. Any man can hold a gun. But the right leverage will make him afraid to fire it. Eric Marin provides us with leverage.”

  “Like Elliot Pine,” Ruddock said. “One of the newbies. I know his dad, Willis, owes money, like a hundred K, to the brothers. And that Elliot is working for us to help pay off his dad’s debts. We have leverage on Willis Pine and motivation for Elliot. Either one of them turn on us, Willis either goes to jail or gets done up.”

  “Done up?”

  “Whacked.”

  “This is not the mob, Benjamin. Violence is never the preferred tactic. But to answer your query, yes. Elliot Pine has a great deal to fear from people who might do him harm.”

  “People. You mean the brothers.”

  “You have answered your own question,” Brice said.

  “I have to ask,” Ruddock said. “You’re working for them too. And if I’m going to progress in this field, I need to know the full story. What leverage do they have over you?”

  Brice stopped cooking. He turned to face Benjamin Ruddock. The boy stood his ground. A look came over Bennett Brice’s face that Ruddock had never seen before. The man’s voice cracked as he spoke. Ruddock felt a shiver of fear run up his spine.

  “What I owe,” Brice replied, “is something money cannot buy.”

  Just then, the doorbell rang.

  “Answer that, please,” Brice said. Ruddock went to answer it.

  He opened it to find a woman standing there. She wore a dark-brown tank top and jean shorts. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail. She was forty or so, with toned, trim arms and shoulders. For some reason, Ruddock knew she could handle herself. The woman smiled at Ruddock.

  “So you’re the apprentice,” the woman said. “Nice to meet you. Evie Boggs.”

  She extended her hand, and Ruddock shook it. “Ben Ruddock,” he said.

  The woman sniffed the air.

  “Let’s see: buttered scallops and asparagus. Am I right?”

  Ruddock nodded. The woman smiled.

  “One thing you can say about my brother: he knows how to cook.”

  CHAPTER 35

  It took eleven schools before Serrano and Tally hit pay dirt. They’d spent the morning calling every junior high and high school within a thirty-mile radius of Ashby, inquiring about any recent notable injuries to students. Two hours into their calls, Tally snapped her fingers to get Serrano’s attention. He had just hung up on the school nurse at Macadam High, who informed him of three cases of lice, one broken nose suffered during an apparent highly competitive game of dodgeball, and one case of hives when sophomore Sally Watkins had an allergic reaction to a shrimp po’boy served in the school cafeteria.

  Serrano put down his phone and listened as Tally spoke. When she hung up, she turned to him and said, “Got it. Let’s go. I’m driving.”

  Tally merged onto the parkway and said, “Peter Lincecum. Sixteen years old, about to finish his sophomore year at Toni Morrison High. Homeroom teacher noticed him walking with a bad limp and sent him to the nurse. The teacher, Carol Lyons, said she practically had to fight with Lincecum to get him checked out. When Peter got to the nurse, she took one look at the knee and knew he had ligament damage that would require medical attention. She said when she went to examine it, Peter Lincecum screamed like he’d been gored by a bull. Principal Sloane Barker told me the nurse reported the injury to her. Teachers and nurses are required to report any suspicious or out-of-the-ordinary injuries or illnesses to the head of school.”

  “In the event the injuries occur at home and s
ocial services needs to get involved,” Serrano said.

  “Exactly.”

  “Did Lincecum say how the injury happened?” Serrano asked. “Or why he hadn’t seen a doctor? And what about Lincecum’s parents?”

  “That’s where it gets hinky,” Tally said. “Principal Barker told me the nurse stepped away for a moment to get some ice to try to reduce the swelling, but when she got back, Lincecum was gone.”

  “Gone? Is he still at school?”

  “Barker doesn’t know,” Tally said. “He didn’t show for his AP calculus class.”

  “Something about this isn’t right,” Serrano said.

  “You mean less right than a teenager putting a gun to your girlfriend’s head, getting his knee kicked in, keeping the injury quiet, then disappearing from school once people start asking questions?”

  “Yes. Less right. Far less right. The boy is scared of something. To not report the injury means he doesn’t want it made public. You get the feeling I’m getting?”

  Tally nodded. “That Peter Lincecum is scared to death about something. And that his injury might be connected to the Linklater murder.”

  “That’s the feeling I was talking about,” Serrano said.

  Tally said, “I got Peter Lincecum’s home address from Principal Barker. Maybe we’ll get lucky and he went home.”

  Twenty-two minutes after they’d left the precinct, Tally pulled into the driveway of 119 Kennesaw Lane in the town of Carltondale, just outside Ashby. The mailbox read “Lincecum.” The ranch-style house had a dated yellow paint job, and the overgrown lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed in months. Weeds sprouted between cracks in the cement walkway leading up to the distressed-brick front steps. A thin layer of grime covered the windows, and the peeling paint exposed rotting wood beneath. The entire property looked ignored—with the exception of the brand-new blue BMW 5 Series parked in the driveway.

  “Not too often you see a car worth more than the home it’s parked in front of,” Serrano said. “That’s a fifty-five K ride, easy.”

  Serrano ran the plates. The registration came back to a Mr. Lloyd Lincecum at the current address.

  “So they can pay for the car but not a lawnmower?” Tally said.

  “Bennett Brice,” Serrano said. “Recruiting vulnerable kids to make money. I’m willing to bet Peter Lincecum works for YourLife and bought his dad a new car.”

  “Maybe your girlfriend was right to go after Brice from the beginning,” Tally said. “Stay sharp. Bad things have been happening to people looking into Bennett Brice.”

  They got out of the car. Serrano had begun walking toward the front door when he heard Tally say, “John. Stop.”

  He halted in his tracks. It took less than a second for him to see what had caught Tally’s attention. Serrano could see four small windows inset in the front door, each about ten inches by ten inches.

  The glass in the lower-left window had been broken inward.

  Serrano’s hand went to his Glock. The detectives crept to the front door and took positions on either side. Tally pointed at Serrano. He nodded.

  “Lloyd Lincecum?” Serrano shouted. “This is the Ashby Police Department. If you’re inside, make yourself known. If there is anyone else inside, come out now with your hands above your head.”

  They waited. They heard nothing but silence.

  “I don’t like it,” Serrano mouthed to Tally.

  “Me either.”

  “Lloyd Lincecum,” Tally said, banging on the door with her fist. “Peter Lincecum. We are going to enter your home. If you are inside your domicile, make yourself known.”

  Still no response. The detectives looked at each other. They were sweating, controlling their breathing, guns drawn. Serrano reached up and tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. Tally nodded. Serrano turned the knob and pushed the door open. They both waited on either side of the doorframe. Serrano could see inside the home, at an angle. Furniture was overturned. Papers were strewed about. Serrano crossed his wrists in an X to let Tally know to be careful. She nodded.

  Serrano moved slightly to his left, preparing to enter the home. Then a gunshot boomed from somewhere inside the house, the bullet sizzling past Serrano’s head close enough for him to feel the brief gust of wind.

  Serrano dived backward, away from the door. Tally grabbed her radio and shouted, “Shots fired at 119 Kennesaw Lane. Officers need backup. One shooter, maybe more.”

  Another shot rang out, and the doorframe directly above Tally’s head exploded into a shower of wood chips.

  Serrano inched closer to the door. He had a poor angle. He couldn’t tell where the bullets had come from. The acrid smell of gunpowder laced the air. Both gunshots had sounded the same. Serrano heard footsteps from inside the house.

  He mouthed to Tally, “You OK?”

  She nodded.

  Serrano made a circular motion with his finger and mouthed, “One shooter.”

  “Going around back. Keep him busy.”

  “Be careful.”

  Serrano crouched so that his head was lower than the first-floor windows and duckwalked through the grass around the side of the house. There was a side window, but the shades were drawn. He heard Tally shout, “Backup will be here in seconds. Put your weapon down, and come out with your hands above your head. There is no way out of this. Nobody needs to get hurt.”

  Another gunshot rang out. Serrano stopped. Tally.

  He heard Tally shout, “Active shooter! Get back in your homes!”

  Tally was trying to clear the street of civilians. Serrano moved around to the back of the house. His heart was hammering in his chest. Sweat had pooled at his lower back. Behind the house he found a small unkempt yard, a rotted wooden table, three rusted metal chairs on a chipped and weather-worn concrete patio . . . and a back door.

  Serrano tried the knob. It was locked. There was a small inset quartet of windows in the back door, similar to the front. All the panes were intact. Serrano stood to the side and peered in. A thick layer of grime prevented him from seeing much. He looked at the doorframe. The wood around the lock was moldy and weak. Small favors.

  Serrano took out his cell phone and texted Tally:

  Count down from 5. On 0, fire one round into the house. Respond with YES to confirm and that will start the countdown.

  Four seconds later a reply.

  YES

  Serrano began counting down. He took a step back from the door.

  Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

  Serrano kicked in the back door at the same moment that Tally fired a shot, masking the sound of the doorframe crunching inward.

  Serrano ducked inside, around the broken door. He found himself in what could charitably be described as a living room. An old television sat atop a dusty metal stand, and the tangled black wires from the set and cable box looped around the room haphazardly. Food, cigarette butts, and even small shards of broken glass were embedded in the dirty gray carpeting.

  Serrano saw one door, off to the right. He held his gun out and walked slowly to the doorway. He heard a creak. About fifteen feet in front of him. Somebody walking on warped wood. Footsteps. As far as he could tell, just one set.

  The doorway led to a galley kitchen. The countertops were all old laminate, the appliances caked with dried food. He proceeded through the kitchen. At the end, he could see a foyer.

  Another creak. This time closer.

  Then he saw a figure move across the room in front of him. It was a man, thickly built, bald, about five seven, with a neck thicker than his head. The man’s back was to Serrano, but the detective could see a gun in his left hand. He was peering through the window, waiting for Tally to show herself.

  Serrano raised the gun and aimed at the man’s spine.

  “Police! Freeze!”

  The man did freeze. But he held on to the gun. He slowly turned around, gun still aimed at the floor. He looked at Serrano, eyes wide, panicked.

  What in the hell is he doing here? Serra
no thought.

  “Raymond Spivak!” Serrano shouted. “Drop your weapon!”

  Spivak’s eyes grew even wider. His mouth opened as if to say, How . . .

  Suddenly Tally appeared out of nowhere and tackled Spivak with the kind of form an NFL linebacker would have applauded. She drove through his knees, avoiding a steer’s worth of upper-body muscle. Spivak crumpled sideways, his large head thudding off the floor.

  The moment the big man hit the ground, Serrano launched himself into the room and kicked Spivak’s gun hand. Spivak cried out as several of his finger bones cracked. The gun skittered away.

  Spivak reached for the gun, but Serrano pointed his Glock at the man’s head and said, calmly, “You can take your brain with you or you can leave it here. Your call.”

  Spivak stopped moving. Tally rolled Spivak onto his stomach, pulled his wrists behind his back, and snapped a pair of handcuffs on him. He squealed as she squeezed his broken fingers, then made a grunting noise as she cinched the cuffs tight around his massive wrists.

  They heard sirens outside. Backup.

  Serrano and Tally stood beside Spivak, breathing heavily.

  “Nice tackle, Detective,” Serrano said.

  “‘You can take your brain with you or you can leave it here’?” Tally said. “Not exactly ‘Go ahead, make my day.’”