A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 25

  “What about the weapon?”

  “No sign of the gun or the spent shells,” Lowe said. “The shooter collected them.”

  “There were ten shots,” Rachel said. “But only four hit Brice. That means either the shooter was far away or was an amateur . . . or wanted to make it look like he was an amateur.”

  Lowe gave Chen a look. Like he wanted to say something but dreaded the consequences.

  “OK, what did I miss?” Rachel said.

  “We have an official complaint from the YourLife office,” Lowe said. “There was no love lost between you and the victim. I have to ask, Ms. Marin. Did you kill Bennett Brice?”

  “You can give me a GSR test right here and now,” she said. “And twenty people can testify that I was at the field in plain sight and never drew a weapon. Plus ballistics will tell you that the shots came from nowhere near where I was standing when he got hit.”

  “Wouldn’t prove anything conclusively,” Chen said. “We know how smart you are, Ms. Marin. There’s no way you’d do something as careless as fire the weapon yourself. But you obviously knew when the meeting was taking place, where it was taking place, and the layout of the field so that your entrance and exit wouldn’t be seen. Information that could have easily been relayed to a third party.”

  “You think I arranged for Bennett Brice to be murdered?” Rachel said with genuine surprise in her voice. “That I hired a hitman or something, like I’m a jilted wife who caught her rich husband diddling his secretary?”

  “I’m not saying you did,” Lowe said. “But you were also injured while following YourLife employees, including your own son, in violation of a court order.”

  “You have means and motive,” Chen said. “And you clearly don’t think the law applies to you. We’ve heard this song before, Ms. Marin.”

  “Check my phone records,” Rachel said. “Check my bank statements. I’ll email them all to you this afternoon. If you can find any evidence that I set this up, I bet you’ll also find records of me cooking the perfect cheese soufflé while getting busy with George Clooney. Am I a suspect?”

  “We’re not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation,” Chen said. “But if you plan on leaving the state, let us know.”

  Rachel could feel the blood pounding in her head, stinging the still-healing wound. She took a few deep breaths to settle her nerves. Antagonizing the cops wouldn’t solve anything. She knew full well there was nothing to connect her to Brice’s murder. But the person who killed Matthew Linklater and Bennett Brice was still out there—and a young boy’s life was in danger. Rachel wouldn’t be able to help anybody if she kept the microscope on herself.

  “Anything you need, Officers. For what it’s worth, I can assure you I had nothing to do with the death of Bennett Brice. And I’m willing to provide any information that will aid in your investigation. I’m on your side.”

  Lowe looked at Chen, as if to say, That’s good enough for me. Chen appeared more skeptical. But he stood up and said, “We’re glad you and your son are safe, Ms. Marin. If you can remember anything else from last night, you know where to find Detectives Serrano and Tally.”

  “I do.”

  “Just one more thing,” Officer Chen said. “We never found Bennett Brice’s cell phone. Certainly possible he didn’t bring it to the field. But any idea where it might be?”

  “I don’t. I’m sorry, Officer.”

  “Figured I’d ask. Thanks, Ms. Marin.”

  She stood up and shook the officers’ hands. Chen made sure to let his gaze linger on Rachel for an extra moment before they left.

  Cell phone.

  The police never found Matthew Linklater’s cell phone either. She doubted Brice would leave his cell unguarded, but it was entirely possible that in the commotion someone took it. But why?

  Once the police were gone, Rachel went upstairs. She could hear Eric showering. She poked her head into Megan’s room, finding her furiously scribbling in her Sadie Scout notebook.

  She went to her bedroom, peeled off her soiled clothes, and placed them gently in a pile on top of the laundry basket. Her shoulder ached where she’d hit the dirt to protect Eric. She was still in good shape, but the bruises hurt a little more; the aches and pains took longer to fade away. It was beginning to feel like she wasn’t merely burning the candle at both ends but taking a blowtorch to the middle simultaneously.

  After she got dressed—and confirmed that neither of her children had left the house while she was in the shower—Rachel texted Serrano:

  Any line on the shooter?

  It took twenty endless minutes for him to respond.

  Still interviewing the kids from Voss. Most tell the same story. Shots came from somewhere beyond the outfield fence. Nobody saw anyone. The list of people who wanted Bennett Brice dead is just slightly longer than the Magna Carta.

  What about Peter Lincecum?

  The Carltondale PD is on it

  We need to be on it too

  It’s outside our jurisdiction Rachel

  For some reason, the final Rachel irritated her. As if Serrano was scolding her about trying to prevent the death of a young boy.

  Then Serrano sent another text:

  I know what you’re thinking

  Is that so? Then you’ll be at my door imminently with a bottle of Rioja and some dark chocolate with sea salt

  Just be careful Rach. As dangerous as you think Bennett Brice was, he was a businessman. A shady one, but I don’t think he ended any lives himself. But Randall Spivak is still out there.

  Then he should hope he doesn’t run into me in a dark alley.

  That’s exactly what I was hoping you wouldn’t say.

  CHAPTER 42

  John Serrano watched as forensics technicians clad in white latex suits scoured Bennett Brice’s empty office at YourLife. What was just yesterday a workstation was now a mausoleum. Brice’s office, the security desk, and all surfaces had been wiped down thoroughly by the cleaning crew the previous day. They’d fingerprinted the security guard and Brice’s secretary for exclusionary measures—both had alibis that checked out—but so far had turned up barely a fiber. They had warrants waiting to be approved to gain access to Brice’s phone calls and text messages.

  They had not found Brice’s cell phone at the office or at his home. They’d found several chargers and cords, so they knew he had one. And wherever it was, it was turned off, so they couldn’t track it via GPS or a phone-finding app. Serrano had a very good idea who might have it. But until she turned up, they had to continue scouring the remnants of Bennett Brice’s life.

  Serrano and Tally had left several voice mails for Evelyn Boggs. Evie had kept her past well guarded, but she was officially Bennett Brice’s next of kin. Boggs had gone with the ambulance to the hospital, then disappeared after Brice was pronounced dead at 2:42 a.m. She was not a suspect, but Serrano hoped she could narrow down the grocery list of people who might want to see Bennett Brice dead.

  Tally finished speaking with Isaac Montrose from forensics and walked over to Serrano.

  “Clean as my stepson’s hard drive after he found out Claire installed spyware,” she said. “YourLife itself is a legitimate business. They pay taxes, have all their W-9s on file, and even pay an HR department in India. Freaky middle-of-the-night meetings and the odd murder aside, there’s nothing here that would incriminate Bennett Brice or give us a lead on who killed him.”

  “Let’s see what the phone company gives us,” Serrano said, knowing full well he wasn’t expecting to find much of anything in Brice’s phone records. “In the meantime, Brice is the victim here. We need to remember that.”

  “If you had to venture a guess,” Tally said, “who’d you peg for this?”

  Serrano thought for a moment. “Randall Spivak. With his brother being held for the murder of Lloyd Lincecum and the Carltondale PD looking for Peter, Brice and Peter Lincecum were the two people most willing and able to send him away. And if they could pin a murder
or two on him, with Brice’s help, he’d never see the light of day. And if the CPD finds Peter Lincecum before Randall can, Lincecum could bury YourLife. Brice is a businessman. White-collar guys would give up their mothers if it meant avoiding jail time. But with Brice dead, a jury would have to convict Randall based only on the word of a traumatized teenage boy.”

  “That’s if it ever even made it to trial,” Tally said. “After what Raymond Spivak did to his father, Peter will be put into protective custody immediately. That would mess with a grown man’s head, let alone a kid’s. With Brice gone, the number of people who would and could testify against the Spivaks is pretty small.”

  “People like us, we screw up, we suffer the consequences,” Serrano said. “But when kids are forced into a fate they never signed up for, it rips your heart out. Kids like Peter Lincecum, Eric Marin, and . . .”

  “Evan,” she said softly. “I know, John. I know.”

  “Thanks, partner. We didn’t have much religion in my house growing up. My dad believed in the word of his bookie more than the word of God, and my mother never tried to change his mind. I can’t say I think about spirituality all that much. To me it feels like leaning a ladder against air and hoping it’ll stay put. But last night I prayed for those kids. And if there is someone up there, I hope they’re listening.”

  “I hope so too,” Tally said. “So let’s consider finding Bennett Brice’s killer your path back to the light.”

  “Kind of like when Indiana Jones had to find the cup of Christ after his dad got shot by the Nazis and found some old dude who’d apparently lived in a cave for a few hundred years and ate nothing but dust bunnies, right?”

  Tally rubbed her eyes in exhaustion. “Whatever medication you’re on, I think we need to triple it.”

  “Detectives.” Montrose waved them over. They joined Montrose, who was in front of a desktop computer home screen. “We’re in.”

  “Nice work.” Serrano slipped on a pair of latex gloves.

  Brice’s hard drive was neatly organized. He had valid receipts, tax statements, employment and payment records, and inventory data from hundreds of products sold by YourLife. It would take a week to go through it all, but at a glance it looked remarkably detailed, organized, and most likely legal.

  “I don’t buy it,” Tally said. “Zero chance this company was on the up-and-up.”

  Serrano replied, “Brice was obviously careful enough to make it appear to be that way. Benjamin Ruddock worked as Brice’s recruiter in Ashby. He was able to get to Eric Marin because of proximity. They saw each other in school every day. But Peter Lincecum lived several towns away. I doubt Benjamin Ruddock was recruiting in Carltondale. So the question is: Who was?”

  “This feels like the mob,” Tally said. “Brice at the top, captains like Ruddock designating responsibilities to soldiers lower on the chain. Money flowing to the people at the top like Brice and Spivak.”

  “Any chance one of the kids took out Brice? You know, kill the king and take over his kingdom?”

  “You’re thinking Benjamin Ruddock orchestrated it,” Tally said.

  “The thought crossed my mind.”

  “I considered it,” Tally said. “But Ruddock and Brice seemed tight. Brice was Ruddock’s golden goose. Maybe one day he saw himself at the top of the food chain, but not as a high school student. Just feels like too much of a stretch.”

  “So you’re still thinking it was Randall Spivak?”

  “It makes sense. Raymond kills Lloyd Lincecum while looking for Peter because Peter is a loose end. But since Peter is missing and a threat to testify, Randall would have motivation to eliminate anyone else who could flip.”

  “Speaking of which, any word on Evie Boggs? I’m guessing she knows more about Bennett Brice’s dealings than the Spivaks are comfortable with.”

  “Nothing yet,” Tally said. “Voice mails and texts unreturned. You should tell Rachel too. Those two have a past, and if Randall is really tying up loose ends, he’ll come looking for Evie. And we both know Rachel has a tendency to be a lightning rod for violence.”

  Serrano nodded and tapped out a text to Rachel.

  “Now let’s find Randall Spivak,” he said. “I want to bring him in for questioning.”

  “If I’m Randall Spivak,” Tally said, “I’m hiding under a rock. He’s a person of interest in two different murders involving two different police departments. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s in Scandinavia by now.”

  “Maybe so, but if he’s still after Peter Lincecum, he isn’t lying low. Speaking of which, I think we need to aid our friends at the Carltondale PD. Lloyd Lincecum’s murder might be outside our jurisdiction, but it’s clearly connected to Brice’s death and likely Matthew Linklater’s. We find that connection, we tie all those murders together into one big conspiracy.”

  “You think the same person who killed Linklater killed Brice?”

  “I don’t know. Linklater clearly knew something about Brice that imperiled Brice’s operation. I doubt Brice himself lit the match. The Spivak boys seem more likely to do that. But Brice may have orchestrated the blaze.”

  A young officer approached Serrano and Tally. She looked nervous, maybe a year or two out of the academy at most. Given the large police presence at the YourLife offices, she was likely there for crowd control. Serrano remembered his first few years on the job, walking into every crime scene like you could lose your job at any moment, wanting to impress the veterans but not wanting to come across as brash or cocky. It was a thin line rookie cops had to walk, and nobody taught you how to walk it. Serrano always tried to be helpful, understanding. Those rookie cops would become detectives, lieutenants, chiefs. Hell, he could end up working for this girl in ten years.

  “Detectives?” the officer said.

  “Name, Officer?” Serrano said.

  “Cutrone. Shelley Cutrone. Deputy Shelley Cutrone.”

  “Deputy Shelley Cutrone, what can we do for you?”

  “There’s someone outside who’d like to speak with you,” Cutrone said.

  “Does this person have a name?” Tally said.

  Cutrone handed Tally a business card. She looked at it, frowned, and passed it to Serrano like it had lice. He read it and cursed.

  Chester Barnes. Attorney at Law.

  “Once you start turning over logs, the insects come out,” Serrano said. He sighed. “Let’s see what brings the esteemed counselor to our crime scene.”

  Serrano and Tally went outside. The sun was high in the sky, baking the streets and turning Ashby into a dry sauna. The YourLife building was cordoned off with police tape. Officers kept a small group of onlookers behind a row of barricades. Many had cell phones out, taking pictures and recording videos. Serrano knew some of those recordings would be shared on social media and possibly picked up by local or national news organizations covering the Brice murder. Citizen journalism at its finest.

  There was no such attention paid to the death of Matthew Linklater. Money and publicity tended to go hand in hand, even after death. But at the same time, it meant the detectives had to be even more careful about what they did and said at all times. Citizens had a right to know law enforcement was on the up-and-up, but single images could be taken out of context, and videos could be edited deceptively.

  The detectives slipped on sunglasses. Cutrone pointed them toward a black Cadillac Escalade down the block, away from the police activity. Through its open window they could see a man sitting in the back seat. The other windows were tinted to the edge of legality. The passenger was facing forward, motionless, almost bored, as though waiting patiently for a drive-through order.

  “Assume we’re being recorded,” Tally said. Serrano looked at the mob of people rubbernecking Brice’s office. Most of them held out cell phones. Some were taking selfies with the crime scene in the background.

  “Always do,” he said. “I’ll bet that Cadillac has more cameras and mic setups than a Spielberg movie.”

  At the car
, Serrano put his elbow on the window and leaned down. “The honorable Chester Barnes,” he said. “Please, don’t get out.”

  Chester Barnes was forty-nine years old but, depending on the light, could look either a decade younger or a decade older. He had garish, unnatural golden skin that looked like he’d been locked inside a tanning booth for an entire presidential administration and veneers the size of pocket squares. His hair color lay somewhere between pumpkin orange and muddy brown, and his face looked like it was continually moisturized. Serrano wasn’t much of a clotheshorse and couldn’t tell offhand how much his suit cost, but the fine cloth and subtle pinstripes didn’t look like they’d been taken off the rack. He wore cologne that smelled to Serrano like a generous mixture of grapefruit and mildew. Chester Barnes was the most successful and notorious defense attorney in Ashby, and everything about how he presented himself seemed to be done with the express intention of making him very, very hard to forget.

  “Detective Serrano. Detective Tally,” Barnes said.

  “So what brings you to our humble crime scene?” Tally said.

  Barnes reached into his suit-jacket pocket and took out a cell phone.

  “I already have an unlimited LTE plan,” Serrano said. “But I’m glad to know AT&T was willing to hire you.”

  Barnes sighed wearily. “I’ve been working with police departments for over twenty years on the side of the law, and it will never cease to amaze me how unfunny cops can be. It is almost as though God decided to make a percentage of people on this earth inherently unlikable and put them all in law enforcement.”

  “I don’t know—I still think I have a shot at a career in stand-up,” Tally said. “But nothing will ever be as funny as you pretending to be on the side of the law.”

  “I’m on the side of my clients, Detective, as is any good legal representative.”

  “I’ll ask again,” Tally said. “Why are you here? We’re investigating two different murders, plus we can’t get the thermostat at the station to work, so we don’t have much time for you.”