A Stranger at the Door (A Rachel Marin Thriller) Page 7
Rachel examined photos of all the windows in Linklater’s home. With few exceptions, the glass had been blown out by the fire. The frames still appeared to be intact. Linklater also had a home-security system. Had someone broken in through one of the windows, a call would have gone out to a security-monitoring station, and the murder-in-progress would have been interrupted. Not only did the killers need to prevent Linklater from alerting anyone to the crime, but they also needed to make sure no alarms had been tripped beforehand.
Which meant whoever killed Linklater had entered through the front door, then closed it upon leaving. Rachel looked at the photos. The doorframe was still intact. The chain was still attached to the wall. The wood had not been splintered in a way that would suggest the front door had been kicked in or tampered with. And if it had been, the security system would have gone off.
All of this meant one thing: Matthew Linklater had opened the front door for his killer.
It had to be somebody he knew. Someone he would open his front door for, without question, on a school night. Somebody he would not suspect. Somebody he believed was incapable of such a vicious crime.
Linklater did not come across to Rachel as a reckless man. He lived an ordered life. He did not fraternize with anyone outside a very, very small social circle. Which meant that whoever knocked on Linklater’s door the night he died was someone he trusted. But what if Linklater was right? What if the person he trusted actually was incapable of such violence?
The answer was obvious. There were at least two people in Matthew Linklater’s home the night he died. One of whom he knew and opened the door for. The other, Rachel surmised, was a stranger. Perhaps even someone Linklater did not see. Hiding just out of view. Waiting until Linklater opened the door before subduing him. Rachel rubbed her temples. Tried to picture the scene.
Linklater must have heard a knock at the door or the doorbell. He then went to answer it. He was a cautious man, so he looked through the peephole. He saw someone he recognized. Someone he trusted. Whoever had the gasoline, bucket, and rodent was out of view.
Rachel went over the case notes. Officers had interviewed many of Linklater’s neighbors and every teacher in the school. Nobody claimed to have seen Linklater within three hours of his death.
Everyone in his small circle of friends had an alibi. Stu Bendix, an old college classmate who lived in Ashby, was confirmed to be at home with his wife. ATM footage showed Dinesh Pandit, a former colleague at Pemberly Middle School, entering a movie theater with his son in Peoria and exiting two hours and eighteen minutes later. There were a few others, and all had airtight alibis.
Rachel had to wonder: If it wasn’t a fellow teacher or a friend, who else would Matthew Linklater have opened his front door for without hesitation?
She needed a break. Her eyes were bleary, and her shoulders ached from hunching over the computer. She’d drained the pot of coffee and felt jittery. Her tongue tasted like the underside of a carpet. She trudged upstairs to get a glass of water. She heard footsteps, grabbed a knife from the butcher’s block, and spun around, expecting to see Evie Boggs standing in her living room.
“Mom! Stop!”
Eric stood there, terror in his eyes. Rachel immediately put the knife in the sink and took a step toward her son. He took a step back.
“Eric, I’m sorry, I . . . my head isn’t right. I’ve been buried in paperwork.”
“Who did you think I was?” he said.
“Nobody,” she replied. “I’m just a little paranoid. I’m working on it. You can understand.”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
Eric held out a piece of paper. He did not come forward to hand it to her. It was a printout from her research. She’d obviously left a page in the machine. The printout was a picture of a large Norway rat.
“Why were you researching Midge?” Eric said.
“Midge?” Rachel said, confused.
“Yeah, isn’t this Midge? Midge is the rat Ms. Genova keeps in the biology lab. She went missing the other day. We all figured she finally escaped. This is her, right? Are you trying to find Midge?”
Rachel’s stomach did a flip. She knew where Midge was—at the Ashby City Morgue. She hadn’t escaped; she’d been taken. By someone with access to the biology classroom. It wasn’t a teacher, friend, or neighbor who knocked on Matthew Linklater’s door the night he died.
It was one of his students.
CHAPTER 12
Per orders from their APD superior, Lieutenant Mazzera, Serrano, and Tally joined the assembly at Ashby High to answer questions from the grief-stricken students and faculty about the death of Matthew Linklater. Their aim was to help calm a community reeling from a horrific act of violence toward one of their own and assure everyone that the crime would not go unpunished.
The entire high school, a thousand strong, filled the Seymour J. Esch gymnasium bleachers. Those who didn’t fit in the bleachers sat on the floor. The mood was somber. Serrano could not recall seeing so many children so eerily quiet all at once. He could hear soft whimpers from the bereaved, saw many of the students—and faculty—holding hands to give each other strength and solace.
Serrano and Tally sat on uncomfortable polyethylene steel-back chairs in the center of the gym, along with Principal Alvi and several other faculty members. Alvi wiped away tears and took the microphone.
Alvi’s voice cracked as she spoke, fat tears spilling down her cheeks.
“It is with a heavy, heavy heart that I begin today’s assembly with the news that Matthew Linklater, beloved teacher, colleague, and friend, has been taken from us.”
Taken from us, Serrano thought. Like someone came by and gently put him in a car and drove away, rather than being tortured and burned alive.
After Alvi’s remarks, Serrano and Tally gave a brief statement about the investigation and implored any students with information to come forward.
“We’re not looking to get anyone in trouble,” Tally said, to quell concerns about “narking.” “We just want to make sure Mr. Linklater gets the justice he deserves. Some of you might be able to help us do that.”
“Everything matters,” Serrano said. “Something you saw. Something you heard. Even if you think it doesn’t matter, maybe it does.”
Principal Alvi informed the students that grief counselors would be available and that substitutes would be filling in for Mr. Linklater until the end of the school year. There was a murmur of disapproval from the students; Serrano wondered if a few cold hearts had hoped social studies might be canceled, those with poor grades being granted a morbid reprieve.
The detectives stayed in the gym for an hour following the assembly, hoping a student or faculty member might come forward, take a business card, or ask to talk in private. Nobody did. Either Matthew Linklater’s death was a total mystery to Ashby High . . . or people were scared. They all watched the news, had access to social media. They knew how Linklater had died. The killer’s message had come across loud and clear, and nobody else wanted to be next.
Walking back to their car, Serrano and Tally noticed a small memorial for Matthew Linklater outside the school’s fence. Dozens of flower bouquets, framed photos of smiling students posing with Mr. Linklater, delicate votive candles, and prayer cards had been left in a neat, respectful circle. Taped to the fence was a large photograph of Matthew Linklater taken at the prior year’s graduation ceremony. He was wearing a brown sport coat, his hair neatly combed and parted, his arms around two graduating seniors, all three of them caught midlaugh. Written in yellow chalk underneath the memorial were four words, encircled by a red heart: We will miss you.
“God, what a waste,” Tally said.
“How do you think it went in there?” Serrano said.
“Unusual that not a single person came forward after the assembly,” Tally said. “All these flowers and mementos, but apparently not one of the people in that building knows anything about what happened to Matthew Linklater. I don’t buy it.”
Serrano and Tally drove back to the precinct and settled in at their desks.
“OK, let’s start from the top. What do we know about Matthew Linklater?” Tally sipped a cup of coffee and grimaced. “Ugh, I’m starting to think they use washing machine runoff in the pot.”
“Other than the fact that he died in a way that should be reserved for pedophiles and telemarketers?” Serrano said. “Matthew Linklater was a single, Caucasian male, forty-eight years old. No prior arrests, no marriages, no children. He worked at Ashby High for the past thirteen years, and prior to that was on the faculty at Pemberly Middle School in Chicago. I spoke to his former headmaster at Pemberly, who recalls Linklater as an exemplary educator with no known legal or personal issues. No reprimands or warnings in his file. He was Mr. Freaking Rogers.”
“I pulled his bank statements and got his employment records from Principal Alvi,” Tally said. “Linklater was making a shade over sixty-seven grand a year, paychecks deposited biweekly. No deposits out of the ordinary. The only thing that raised my eyebrows was a onetime deposit of eleven thousand dollars on March eighteenth of last year, but we were able to trace it to a horse racing bet at Fairmount Park. Linklater nailed a trifecta. Lucky, but not illicit. He even declared the winnings on his tax return.”
“Nobody on the faculty had an unkind word to say about him,” Serrano added. “But none of them seemed to know him all that well either—you know, quiet, kept to himself, seemed nice, et cetera, et cetera. Principal Alvi said there were absolutely no hints of any sort of impropriety.”
“But somebody went to a whole lot of trouble to kill him,” Tally said. “He did something or had dirt on someone. But he was scared enough of the potential repercussions to keep it quiet. Until he emailed your girlfriend.”
Tally drained the rest of her mug and set it on her desk. Photos of Tally’s three stepchildren covered the sides of the mug. It was last year’s birthday present from Claire’s children. Serrano remembered the day she brought it into the office. Tally’s face glowed like someone had turned on high beams behind her eyes. Serrano’s partner always had purpose, but that day she had passion. The mug was proof that Leslie Tally was no longer just somebody’s wife but part of somebody’s family.
Claire’s ex-husband, Alonzo, the father of her children, had been out of their lives for several years. He lived in Baton Rouge with his new wife, a Pilates instructor fifteen years his junior. Serrano had heard Claire wonder how Alonzo might even meet a Pilates instructor, given the extent of his physical exertion was lifting nachos into his mouth. Serrano knew it had taken a long time for the Wallace children to come to terms with Claire’s admission of her sexuality and even longer to accept Claire and Leslie’s relationship. That mug was a symbol. You’re one of us now. The Wallace children approved. Tally drank from it every day, washed it diligently, and when she left for the night, always placed it on her desk with the kids’ pictures facing out.
It made Serrano burst with happiness for his partner. But her good fortune reminded him of the hole in his own heart that would never mend. Even though Rachel had brought him into her life, he was not her children’s father. Unlike Alonzo Wallace, Rachel’s husband did not abandon his family. He was torn from them, a page ripped from a book that could never be replaced.
Tally’s cell phone pinged. She opened her email app. Smiled.
“We might have something,” she said.
“Go on,” Serrano replied.
“Linklater’s cell phone hasn’t been found yet. More than likely it was taken or destroyed by the killer. But we got the carrier to send over Linklater’s cell data, including texts and emails from the weeks leading up to his death.”
“Anything interesting?” Serrano said.
“Mostly work-related emails. A few calls and texts to his sister, debating whether to move their mother into an assisted-care facility. But there are over a hundred texts to and from a woman named Gabrielle Vargas. Their most recent communication was confirming a dinner date from last Monday. Ms. Vargas is an accountant, forty-six, divorced, and lives with her sixteen-year-old son, Antonio, in North Ashby. Antonio also happens to be a junior at Ashby High.”
“Looks like somebody had a girlfriend,” Serrano said. “None of Linklater’s colleagues mentioned him being in a relationship. He obviously kept things with Ms. Vargas under wraps since it’s dicey to date the parent of a student. Think their relationship could have something to do with him getting killed? Jealous ex?”
“Let’s talk to Ms. Vargas and find out,” Tally said.
“Be gentle,” Serrano said. “Her boyfriend just got killed like he moved into the wrong house in a Stephen King novel. Go easy. But get answers.”
“Gentle is my middle name.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Maybe so, but it should have been.”
Serrano laughed. “You have an address for Ms. Vargas?”
“421 North Grove Street.”
“All right,” Serrano said. “Here’s hoping Ms. Vargas knows what information the good professor was keeping to himself.”
Serrano and Tally went to the lot outside the precinct and got into their Crown Victoria.
A woman sat at a bus stop across the street. She held a cell phone. She nervously chewed the thumbnail on her other hand, caught a cuticle in her teeth. Peeled it off, tasted her own blood. When the detectives pulled out, Evie Boggs snapped a dozen pictures of the car, zooming in on the make, color, and license plate. She then sent a selection of photos via text message. A minute later, she received a text message back.
Moonlight diner. Two hours. In person. Come alone or we hurt someone you love.
Evie had to stop herself from crying out. She wiped an errant tear from her eye, slipped the phone into her purse, and walked away.
CHAPTER 13
Gabrielle Vargas lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment covered in wood-paneled floors and decorated floor to ceiling with poorly assembled IKEA furniture. Drawers that didn’t close fully, dressers tilted at a slight angle.
Detectives Serrano and Tally sat on one end of an L-shaped green microfiber sofa. Gabrielle sat on the other end holding a cup of tea that she had not sipped from. Her eyes were bloodshot from crying, lack of sleep, or both. She was an attractive woman with shoulder-length hair, brown speckled with hints of gray, tied in a ponytail. She wore a thin gray cashmere sweater over a white tank top. She held her face over the full cup of tea, even though it was no longer hot enough for steam to rise.
“The truth is I didn’t know Matthew that well,” Gabrielle said softly. “We only went out a handful of times. And whenever it seemed like we were getting closer, he would stop responding to my texts. I think the kids call it being ghosted. But then he would pop up again a few weeks later. My friends all thought it was because he wanted to see other people, but he always struck me as kind of lonely. I’ve dated players, and Matthew wasn’t that. It was more like he didn’t know how to be in a relationship or handle going steady.” She laughed wistfully. “Do people even use that term anymore?”
“I wish kids today were that old fashioned,” Tally said. “Now it’s all hookups and apps. Technology has made dating so complicated.”
“That’s the truth,” Gabrielle said. “When did emojis replace phone calls and actual conversations?”
“I don’t know,” Tally said, “but I never agreed to those terms.”
Serrano said, “Again, we are sorry for your loss, Ms. Vargas. Now, just to confirm. You did see Matthew Linklater last Monday evening. Is that correct?”
She nodded. “We hadn’t talked in a few weeks. It wasn’t the first time he’d disappeared. I didn’t take
his reluctance as malice. As I said, he just didn’t seem to really know how to function in a relationship, how or when to take the next step. But he was always kind.”
“That must have been hard,” Tally said, “trying to parse the mixed messages.”
“Especially from a scheduling perspective, making sure my son is fed. I don’t go out all that often, and when I do, if I don’t cook before I go, Antonio will just order in and eat an entire meatball pizza.”
“That would be your son. Antonio.”
“He was Antonio until about twelve years old, and then he insisted on going by Tony. But I kept calling him Antonio, and eventually he gave up trying to correct me.”
“And Antonio is a junior at Ashby High.”
“That’s right. He didn’t have any classes with Matthew. They didn’t know each other.”
“Did Tony know you were seeing Mr. Linklater?”
“He knew I was seeing someone,” Gabrielle said. “But I make it a point not to introduce men to my son until I know they’re going to be around more. That I can count on them. I never got to that point with Matthew.”
“After all the headache,” Serrano asked, “and with Linklater being so unreliable, why did you agree to see him again?”
“Do you know how it feels to be lonely, Detective?”
Serrano’s eyes met hers, and he nodded. “I do, Ms. Vargas.”
“Most nights I come home, take my makeup off, cook for Antonio, then read or watch TV. I’m asleep most nights by nine thirty. Sometimes it just feels good to have a reason to dress up. To do my hair. To stay up late, to have someone to talk to about your life, where you’ve been and where you want to go. Who will share theirs with you. And I guess I hoped one day I’d meet someone who could share my loneliness. So that neither of us would be alone.”
“What about Tony?” Serrano said.
“I love my son with every drop of blood in my body, but teenage boys aren’t exactly known for their conversational skills.”