A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Read online

“Then I’ll make it quick,” Barnes said. “As you investigate the untimely death of my client, Bennett Brice—may he rest in peace—I will be looking after his interests, both legally and financially.”

  “By interests, you mean his family,” Serrano said. “I assume you’re referring to Evelyn Boggs.”

  “Mr. Brice had a not-insignificant amount of assets,” Barnes said. “He expected all disbursements to occur as he wished. I will be making sure that none of Mr. Brice’s assets are unduly . . . penalized or frozen as a result of your investigations.”

  “Right now we just want to know who killed your client,” Serrano said. “If our investigation proves that his finances were obtained through illegal means, we will do with those monies as the law sees fit.”

  “And as the law’s representative, if one penny is withheld, I will rain hellfire on you and your sad, small bureau that will leave the Ashby Police Department in a crater the size of Illinois.”

  “Hear that?” Serrano said. “He’s going to rain hellfire down upon us.”

  “I love barbecue,” Tally replied. “I’ll bring the A.1.”

  “No A.1.,” Serrano said. “Too sugary. Nothing I hate more than drowning a good steak in goopy sweetness.”

  “If you’re finished, Detectives,” Barnes said, a slight flush creeping into his cheeks, “I have something you need to see.”

  “Need to see?” Tally said. “I need to see my wife in dark-red lingerie. I don’t need to see anything you have to show me.”

  “This is growing tiresome. If you choose not to watch it and then act without having done so, you’ll have to answer to the courts. And the media.”

  “Both scary,” Serrano said. “OK, Attorney Barnes, let’s see what you’ve got. But if it’s a cat GIF, I’m going to be really ticked off.”

  Barnes unlocked the phone with his thumbprint and opened the video tab. He swiped to a file, then pressed the play arrow. Serrano and Tally both leaned in. Serrano took Barnes’s wrist and tilted it slightly to reduce the glare on the screen.

  The clip began to play. It lasted a total of fourteen seconds.

  The video appeared to be security-camera footage from inside a pub or bar. Serrano couldn’t tell the exact location without being able to pause or zoom in. The paneling was dark wood. The ceiling was covered in soccer flags and jerseys. There were ten to twelve people at the bar and in booths dining and drinking. That was all. Nothing out of the ordinary. And then the video ended.

  “That’s it?” Tally said. “I’ve seen more action in my garden.”

  Barnes restarted the video, then paused it at the seven-second mark. He zoomed in on a man sitting alone at the bar. The patron wore black chinos and a crisp white long-sleeve button-down shirt. He was slim, his back straight, one hand in his lap and the other on a pint of dark beer. The time stamp on the video was 1:46 a.m. the previous night.

  But it was the man’s face that got their attention. Serrano heard Tally curse softly under her breath.

  “It’s Randall Spivak,” she said.

  “That’s correct,” Barnes said. “This video was taken at the Cask and Dragon pub on Northwest Tenth Street. It is authentic, so feel free to have it reviewed by your technicians. I know that due to the unfortunate demise of Mr. Brice, your police department, always quick to act without proof or wit, might in its haste falsely accuse my client, Mr. Spivak, of a heinous crime of which he is completely innocent.”

  Barnes handed Serrano a thumb drive.

  “The full video is on this drive. You’ll be able to see that Randall Spivak was at the Cask and Dragon for one hour and twenty-two minutes. He is visible for the duration of the video, except for one minute and forty-three seconds in which he goes to the restroom. His time at the bar overlaps with the time of Mr. Brice’s death. Not even your second-rate AG would have the balls to claim that Mr. Spivak was able to leave the bar, kill Mr. Brice, and be back on his stool in under two minutes.”

  “We’ll review the file,” Serrano said.

  “I expect nothing less. Mr. Spivak enjoyed two pints of ale and an order of potato skins. To my knowledge, neither of those actions breaks any laws.”

  “If he got potato skins without sour cream, that is considered a crime in many states,” Tally said.

  Barnes did not smile. “I hope you catch Mr. Brice’s killer, Detectives. I knew Bennett for a long time. He was a friend and a good man. Once again, I expect you to leave any and all of Mr. Brice’s assets untouched. And now that you have proof that Mr. Spivak was not the perpetrator of this terrible crime, I expect you to leave him be.”

  “Maybe we will, maybe we won’t,” Tally said. “Depends whether there are any other crimes he’s the perpetrator of.”

  “You went to a lot of trouble just to make sure your client—who has not even been questioned—has an alibi for this murder,” Serrano said.

  “I’ve been around this city for a long time, Detective. Longer than both of you. I’ve seen cops come and go, and I’ve seen a lot of innocent people’s names smeared due to shoddy police work. To the extent that I can lessen my clients’ exposure to your hostilities, I will do that. Now, if you approach my client, or impede in any way the disbursement of his assets, I will make sure you’re both guarding a soybean farm in Nebraska within the week.”

  “That sounds like a sweet gig,” Tally said.

  “I bet you get an employee discount on popcorn,” Serrano added.

  “Have a good day, Detectives,” Barnes said as the Escalade window closed. “I hope you are more skilled at finding this killer than you are at comedy.”

  The Escalade sped off, leaving Serrano and Tally in a cloud of dust at the curb. Serrano looked at the thumb drive in his palm.

  “What do you make of it?” Tally said.

  “We’ll get the lab to authenticate the video,” Serrano said, “but I highly doubt Barnes would have brought it to us if there was even the slightest chance it was faked. He knew we’d be looking into Spivak. But he’s also planting seeds. If we go after Randall, he can send this video to the media and claim police harassment. Chester Barnes is a whole lot of things, but he is not someone who sets himself up to fail. We have to consider the very real possibility that Randall Spivak didn’t kill Bennett Brice.”

  “So what now?”

  “We’ll have the contents of Brice’s hard drive analyzed and his bank records subpoenaed. But right now, I want to talk to perhaps the only person on earth who’s definitely not a suspect in Bennett Brice’s murder.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Evie Boggs sat on a rumpled comforter atop a hard mattress inside a dirty motel room that she’d paid thirty-three dollars for, in cash. Her clothes from the previous night were inside a plastic garbage bag on the floor. She wore a clean white T-shirt and cheap yoga pants, which she’d purchased for twenty-one dollars total at a bargain clothing store next door to the motel. She stared at her cell phone. She couldn’t keep up with the barrage of text messages and calls. The Ashby PD. Rachel Marin. Mackenzie North Hospital. She was trapped inside a hurricane. Still grounded, but so close to being blown away.

  One number among the missed calls terrified her. She ignored it for the time being.

  Her brother was dead. Gunned down by some coward in the dark. She’d lain in the dirt of the baseball field, watching Bennett’s life spill from his body, powerless to do anything other than wail.

  The ambulance had arrived quickly. The police soon after. By the time the EMTs had loaded Bennett’s pale, blood-soaked body onto a gurney, all the boys had disappeared. As had Rachel and Eric Marin. Evie was left alone to ride with her brother’s desecrated body to the hospital. They pronounced him dead upon arrival.

  Evie felt like she was trapped in a balloon, the air being sucked out of it, the walls collapsing inward around her. She couldn’t breathe. She had to go. She had a vague memory of stumbling outside the hospital, still covered in gore, getting into a cab, and telling the driver to take me somewhere I can sleep. She
supposed that’s how she’d ended up in a grimy hotel room looking like an extra from a Saw movie.

  Bennett was not a saint, yet deep down Evie truly believed he’d given these boys an opportunity they never would have received otherwise. People had gotten hurt along the way, but she and Bennett could both say that the ends justified the means. Evie knew, though, that the Spivaks were demons deep down. Volatile and vicious. Any peace would be short lived. She just wished Bennett had known that as well as she did. To Bennett, the Spivaks were merely unorthodox business partners. At the worst, they were necessary evils. Evie knew that was bullshit. They were just evil.

  Linklater’s death ate at her, but she’d agreed to try to quash the investigation because the other option was her brother spending the rest of his life in prison.

  She had come to Ashby to try to contain things. Prevent her brother’s company from crumbling, and keep him out of jail. Try to keep the police and Rachel Marin away from YourLife. But things were out of control. Too many people had died. And more lives were still at risk. She no longer had to look out for her brother. There was only one person she needed to protect.

  From her pocket, Evie pulled a cell phone covered in bloody fingerprints. She ran her finger over the screen, then pressed the “Home” button. A picture appeared on the home screen. She recognized the person in the photo and had to stifle a cry.

  She entered six numbers into the password screen, and the phone unlocked. Then she opened the contacts app and scrolled down to the R section. Once she had the information she needed, Evie texted Rachel Marin.

  CHAPTER 44

  Rachel’s cell phone lit up with a text. She checked the ID and laughed out loud both from surprise and a complete lack thereof. The text was from Evie Boggs. It was the first time she had heard from Evie since Bennett Brice was killed.

  There was no message. Just an address.

  1362 Wambaugh Street. Now.

  Rachel did a quick search to find the owner of the home at that address. She let out a breath when she saw who owned the property. Here we go.

  Rachel looked out the window. Two police cars were parked out front. She could see Lowe and Chen having coffee in one of them. Lowe appeared to be singing along to something on the radio, to Chen’s great annoyance. Rachel went upstairs. Eric was lying on his bed, reading a worn copy of Dune, by Frank Herbert.

  “I’ve never been so glad to see you living in other realities,” she said. “I’ve never read it. Should I?”

  “Should you?” Eric said, incredulously. “It’s, like, a classic. Detective Serrano gave it to me a few months ago. This is the third time I’ve read it.”

  “You know, when I see you with your head in other worlds,” Rachel said, “somehow it lets me know you’re a little closer to this one. And that makes me happy.”

  Eric smiled. “Everything OK?” he said.

  “I have to go out for a little bit.”

  Eric sat up. Folded the top-right corner of the page to hold his place.

  “I thought treating books like that was a sin,” she said.

  “The more you love something, the more it shows,” he replied.

  That is truer than you know, she thought.

  “Are the police still outside?” he said. Rachel nodded. Eric gave a sly smile. “I bet you can get out of here without them noticing. You’re way sneakier than I am.”

  “I’m not sure if that’s a compliment. But I am glad you have faith in my sneaking abilities.”

  “I’m sorry if you ever lost your faith in me.”

  “Eric,” she said. She sat down next to her son. “I would never, could never lose faith in you. I will love you no matter what, for every single day I’m lucky enough to be your mother.”

  She kissed him on his forehead, and he squirmed. “Hey, come on, Mom.”

  “Sometimes you’re just going to have to put up with those,” she said. “But I promise not to do it in public. Or around Penny Wallace.”

  She playfully punched his arm.

  “Mom, stop.”

  “Am I going too far?”

  “When you’re super old, and not like a ninja anymore, I’m going to steal your dentures.”

  Rachel laughed. “That’s fair.”

  “OK, go do what you need to do. I’ll watch Megan. She asked me to start reading her Sadie Scout books. I think she wants me to read all of them.” He paused, concerned. “How many are there?”

  “I think at least twenty. You’d better get to it.”

  Eric’s jaw dropped, and he sighed. “Fine.”

  His tone had the irritated petulance of a teenage boy. At that particular moment, though, it brought Rachel immense joy.

  “I want a book report on each and every one of them,” she said.

  Eric began to protest, but then he stopped. “You’re not serious.”

  Rachel winked at him. “Maybe. Maybe not. Love you, hon. No matter what.”

  Evie Boggs was standing on the corner of Wambaugh Street and Oakmont Terrace, smoking a cigarette, a nasty curl to her lip that could have been the taste of the cig or just the general disgust with how the last few days had left her life a pile of rubble. When Evie saw Rachel Marin coming, she tossed the cigarette into a pile of leaves. Rachel rolled her eyes at Evie, pressed the toe of her shoe into the pile, and ground the butt until the tip was snuffed out.

  “All it takes is one leaf to catch fire and get blown into someone’s lawn,” Rachel said.

  “Who are you, Smokey the Bear?”

  “He’s a distant relative,” Rachel said. “I didn’t know you smoked.”

  “It took me a long, long time to quit,” she said. “Lucky I never got sick or got anyone else sick. Today was the first craving I’ve had in years. Do you know how much they charge for a pack these days? I could put a down payment on a house or buy some avocado toast.”

  Rachel laughed, then said, “How are you holding up?”

  “How am I? Let’s see. My brother was murdered last night, I slept on a mattress probably stuffed with roach carcasses, and now I’m here with you and giving myself cancer. I feel like a freaking human rainbow. How are you, Rach?”

  “I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “I am. Last night . . . I just wanted to find Peter Lincecum and prevent anyone else from getting hurt. I had no love for your brother, but I never wanted to see him dead.”

  “Yeah, well, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  “I lost someone close to me before too. You know that. And I won’t lie to you. You won’t feel better for a long time. Maybe not ever. All you can do is try to piece together little bits of goodness to keep patching up the hole. You need to make right whatever you can.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Evie said. “Let me ask one question. Does it ever heal?”

  Rachel hesitated, then said, “No. Not really.”

  “Well, that’s just peachy.” Evie eyed the leaf pile forlornly, clearly wishing she hadn’t tossed the smoke. “So. I know why we’re here. You know why we’re here.”

  “I do,” Rachel said. “So how do you want to handle this? Good cop, bad cop?”

  “After the day I’ve had, I’m more in the mood for bad cop, bad cop.”

  “I can do that.”

  They approached the ranch-style home. It was faded beige with white trim, with a slate-gray gabled roof, aluminum siding, and an attached garage. A rusty John Deere sat surrounded by overgrown grass on the unkempt lawn. The house would have felt dated twenty years ago.

  Evie rang the doorbell. They heard a shuffling sound from inside. A minute later, the front door opened, revealing a man of about sixty wearing a light-blue terry cloth bathrobe, an undershirt stained yellow. His craggy, unshaven face was covered in white stubble. He had an irritated grimace like Evie was there to ask him to undergo a colonoscopy.

  “Electricity bill is paid up,” he said. He looked the women up and down, a crooked smile spreading on his thin, chapped lips. “You two’re better looking than the fella th
ey usually send to harass me.”

  “Unfortunately for you, we’re also a whole lot meaner,” Evie said. “Timothy Ruddock?”

  “Yes?” the man said, with an obvious distrust for anyone who knew his full name.

  “Mr. Ruddock, we’re here to talk to your son.”

  The smile on his face disappeared. “What do you want with Benny?”

  Rachel said, “That’s between us and him.”

  “Boy goes off on weekends. Think he goes looking for strange, like most kids his age,” the elder Ruddock said, eyeing his slippers. “You’ll have to come back another time.”

  “I’m sorry . . . he goes looking for what? Strange?” Rachel asked.

  “Strange,” Timothy Ruddock said. “You know—strange pussy.”

  “Charming,” Rachel said. “Your family knows how to raise gentlemen.”

  “Know what? I don’t think you’re with Central Electric,” Ruddock said, folding his arms across his chest.

  Evie clapped sardonically. “Give the man a prize.”

  Ruddock’s eyes bounced between the two women. “So then who the hell are you? And what do you want with Benny?”

  “My name is Rachel Marin, and this is my associate, Evelyn Boggs. We want to talk to your son about Bennett Brice. You may have heard that a man named Bennett Brice was shot and killed last night. Your son has had some dealings with him. We think he can help us find who did it.”

  Ruddock spat a glob of yellowed phlegm into a hedge off the porch.

  “Good distance,” Rachel said.

  “If only there was an Olympic sport,” Evie replied.

  “I got nothing to do with that Brice fella, and any dealings my son might have had with him are his business and his business alone.”

  “Your son is a high schooler and has made thousands of dollars working for a man who was just murdered,” Rachel said. “And you look about as bothered by your son’s possible criminal activities as you do about global warming.”

  “What are you, Mother of the Year?”

  Rachel said, “Compared to you I’m June fucking Cleaver.”

  Evie said, “Listen, Mr. Ruddock. We just want to talk to your son. Then we’ll be on our way.”