The first was a blaring, intense yellow sun that pierced her eyes like needles, making it feel like her skull had been squeezed inside an iron maiden.
The second was the sight of John Serrano getting out of his Crown Victoria with a look on his face that said they were probably not going to fool around that night, or any night in the near future.
He opened his mouth to speak, but before a word came out, Rachel said, “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Tough,” he said. “Because you’re going to.”
She didn’t need to ask Serrano how he’d found her. They both knew where she was headed when she left the precinct.
“Eric is my son,” Rachel said, putting on a pair of sunglasses. “There’s only one person who gets to decide how to raise him, and it’s not you.”
“I would never tell you how to parent, Rach. And I care about Eric too. You know I do. But as of right now, the worst thing Bennett Brice has done is chat with some kids at a baseball field well past their bedtime. Trust me, if I told you some of the things I did on that field past my bedtime, you wouldn’t think what Eric did was so bad.”
“Eric wasn’t just there hanging out with some friends, smoking a joint or drinking some beers or making out with some poor chick who doesn’t realize I’d be the mother-in-law from hell. Brice is exploiting these kids.”
“It’s not exploitation if it’s legal,” Serrano said.
“Legal as far as you know,” Rachel replied.
Serrano nodded. “As far as we know.”
“Well, I can’t take the chance that ‘as far as we know’ isn’t actually as far as it goes.”
“I understand that. But right now, Bennett Brice is not a suspect in any crimes and as far as we know has nothing to do with the murder of Matthew Linklater.”
“There you go again with the ‘as far as we knows.’”
Serrano said nothing.
“Benjamin Ruddock is a person of interest. Ruddock was there last night. My son was out in the middle of the night with a boy who may have tortured a man to death.”
“Easy, Rachel,” Serrano said. “We have no proof that Ruddock was actually involved in Linklater’s death.”
“But we don’t know he wasn’t. And Ruddock is intertwined with Bennett Brice. Which at the very least makes Brice tangentially involved in Matthew Linklater’s death.”
“Careful. That’s a lot of hearsay. You don’t do your best thinking when you’re angry, Rach.”
“Actually, I do my best thinking when I’m angry.”
Serrano stepped forward and took Rachel’s hand. She hesitated but gripped it back. He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips. A warmth spread through her. She pressed back on him, her hands finding his waist.
“That’s not fair,” she said. “Cops aren’t supposed to be good kissers.”
“I was born with a gift,” Serrano said.
Rachel took a step back. “Let me ask you something,” she said. “Does the name Evelyn Boggs, or Evie Boggs, mean anything to you?”
Serrano said, “No. Should it?”
“How about Myra?”
“Myra what?”
“There’s no last name. It’s an alias. Can you do me a favor? Run the name Evelyn Boggs through the criminal records database. She has, or had, a residence in Connecticut, possibly in or near Torrington.”
“You want to tell me why?”
Rachel looked back at the YourLife office. She remembered what Brice had said about the recording devices.
“Not here,” she said.
“All right. I’ll call Tally and see what she can dig up for us while we head back.”
“Thanks, John.”
They got into their separate cars and drove back to APD. Tally met them outside.
“I’d have an easier time training a squirrel to salsa than training you not to make terrible impromptu decisions,” Tally said to Rachel. “So, has Bennett Brice filed any complaints against Ms. Marin yet for trespassing?”
“We just left Brice’s office. Give it half an hour,” Serrano said dryly.
Tally nodded, obviously finding no humor in the conversation, then said to Rachel, “One of these days you’re going to go after the wrong person the wrong way and make a mess that even we won’t be able to clean up.”
“Good thing I’m handy with a broom,” Rachel said.
“I hope it’s some magical Harry Potter–ass broom that can sweep away lawsuits and criminal complaints. Because if Bennett Brice makes a stink to the right people—or wrong people, in your case—it’s going to be harder for the department to justify keeping you on the payroll.”
“I don’t need the money,” Rachel replied.
“That’s not the point, and you know it.”
“Let’s get back to what’s important here,” Serrano said, playing peacemaker. “Leslie, what did you find on Evelyn Boggs?”
Tally showed Rachel a printout with a photograph of Evie Boggs in the upper-right-hand corner. “That her?”
“Yup,” Rachel said. “That’s her.”
Rachel took the page from the detective. It was an arrest report. Dated five years ago. Which was a little over two years after Rachel had met Evie Boggs. The report had been filed in Litchfield County in Connecticut, charging Evelyn Marie Boggs with one count of felonious assault, one count of trespassing, and one count of possession of a deadly weapon, which was noted in the report as a folding pocketknife. Rachel read the report.
On the night of October 12, five years ago, Evie Boggs had gone to the Bethlehem home of a man named Raymond Spivak. Bethlehem, Rachel noted, was just a few towns over from Torrington.
When Spivak answered the door, Boggs apparently threatened him with the folding knife. Spivak locked himself inside his bedroom. He then made two phone calls: first, to his brother, Randall Spivak. The second to 911. When the responding officers arrived, Boggs was sitting in Spivak’s kitchen, sipping a mug of peppermint tea. Evie was taken into custody and booked at the Torrington Police Department on Main Street.
A photo of the “victim,” Raymond Spivak, accompanied the report. He was big and bald, with a thick neck and thicker eyebrows, and given the size of his shoulders looked like he could pry the door off a car.
“Evie Boggs showed up at this guy’s home and threatened to filet him,” Tally said. “He looks like a rhino, only less cuddly. Why the hell would he be scared of her?”
“You don’t know Evie Boggs,” Rachel said. “Besides, rhinos don’t move all that fast, and a good knife cuts through muscle quite nicely.”
“I don’t want to know how you know that,” Tally said.
Rachel pointed at the report. “It says that all charges against Evie Boggs were dropped. Why?”
“That, I don’t know,” Tally said. “I can contact Torrington PD to find out.”
“Great,” Rachel said.
“But I won’t.”
Rachel blinked. “Come again?”
“I said I won’t,” Tally replied. “Unless you tell me what this is all about and what your relationship is to Evelyn Boggs. Otherwise I have enough on my plate with the Linklater murder to be doing you blind favors. And I’m sure Torrington PD has things they’d rather be doing than to go digging into half-decade-old arrests that led to no convictions.”
Rachel said, “I know Evie Boggs. She came to my home the other day and threatened me.”
“She did what?” Serrano said. “Why?”
“Let’s just say we have a history.”
“All right,” Tally said, crossing her arms. “I did you a favor by running this report. You return the favor by telling us the truth about you and this Boggs woman.”
Rachel looked at Serrano. After the Constance Wright case was closed, she had told him more than she’d ever thought she would tell anyone ever again. The death of her husband had made Rachel push everything inward. There was nothing to be gained by emotionally flaying herself. She’d thought she could never trust anyone again. Un
til the night John Serrano told her about his son.
Serrano’s son, Evan, had died following a freak accident during a baseball game. It had ripped apart Serrano’s life, destroyed his marriage, and sent Serrano into a tailspin of alcohol and depression. It had taken him a long, long time to pull himself out of the muck. But when he told her the truth, sitting next to her at the very field where his son had been fatally wounded, Rachel felt she could trust someone for the first time in a very, very long time.
Since she’d befriended Evie Boggs.
“When I first met Evie,” Rachel said to the detectives, “I knew her as Myra. She taught a self-defense class in Torrington that I joined after . . . my husband died. It was free and open to anyone who had been victimized and wanted a way to defend themselves. To fight back. To feel like their broken pieces could be mended. I needed that. In a lot of ways, Evie saved me.”
The detectives listened in silence.
“Evie . . . Myra . . . she and I grew close. That class was my salvation. I was so scared and angry and just terrified of everything. She helped me to focus my negative energies. To channel them into something positive and use them to protect myself and my children. Evie Boggs—Myra—saved my life.”
Rachel looked at Serrano. He was listening intently, but there was a glint of hurt behind his eyes. Rachel had not told him any of this. She had accepted him into her home, into her bed, and into her children’s lives but had not allowed him one of her deepest truths.
“Go on,” Tally said. “I have a feeling this doesn’t end well.”
“It didn’t,” Rachel said. “One of the rules in Myra’s class was that everyone used an alias. So they could feel protected. That’s why Evie went by Myra. But Evie and I, we grew closer. Closer than she told the rest of the class we were allowed to get. We trusted each other. We told each other the truth. About our pasts. About who we were. Who we were really. She told me her actual name. I was the only one in the class who knew it. Anyway, one night we trained late and walked out together. A man assaulted us and held a knife to Evie’s neck.”
“I have to say, if I was going to mug two women, you and this Evie person would not be at the top of my list,” Tally said.
“This man was a stranger. Evie turned the tables on him. She broke his arm. Took his knife. Then she got this crazed look in her eye and held the knife like she felt his insides needed some fresh air. It reminded me of those nature shows where a lion takes down a zebra, and there’s this split second before the lion tears the helpless animal to shreds. Evie was going to kill that man. But I stopped her. I saved the man’s life . . .”
Rachel trailed off.
“And what?” Serrano said.
“And after that, we never spoke again. I prevented her from killing a man. She felt that he deserved to die. I did not. And because of me, he got away. That was the last time Evie and I spoke. Until the day Matthew Linklater died, when she showed up at my door.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about this?” Serrano said.
“Because she knows things about me. Things I’d rather not be public.” Her eyes pleaded with Serrano. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“So why show up now?” Tally asked. “After all that time?”
“She told me to back off the Linklater case. She knew about the email he sent me. I’m positive that’s why Brice and Ruddock went after Eric as well. Insurance. To keep me in line.”
“How did Evie know about the email Linklater sent you?” said Tally.
“When I was leaving Bennett Brice’s office today, Evie Boggs was going in. I think Ruddock killed Linklater. That would explain how Brice knew about the email. There’s a connection between Brice and Evie Boggs. And she’s using her leverage against me to protect him.”
Rachel caught Tally giving Serrano a look that said She’s not telling us everything. Rachel stayed silent because Tally was right. She was not telling them the whole truth, or even something close to it. She left out the name of the man who assaulted them that night, Stanford Royce, and the truth about what Rachel had done to him after she learned he was a serial predator. The truth was dangerous. The truth could not be controlled once it was set loose. Rachel saw distrust in Serrano’s eyes.
“So you wanted to look into Evelyn Boggs as a personal favor,” Serrano said.
“No,” Rachel replied. “She’s connected to this. I’m sorry for withholding information from you. But if you’d been through what my family has been through, you’d be careful what you share.”
A crackling sound came over Serrano’s radio.
“10-23, arrived at Ashby High School. Investigation ongoing. Victim has been transported by EMTs to Mackenzie North Hospital.”
“Ashby High?” Rachel said, her pulse quickening. Eric. Something happened to Eric. “What’s going on there?”
Serrano took the radio and said, “This is Detective Serrano. Dispatch, what’s the 10-101 at Ashby High?”
“Already have a detective en route, Detective Serrano. Appreciate your enthusiasm, but it’s under control.”
“Glad to hear it. But can you give me the details anyway for my slam book?”
The dispatcher chuckled. “Sure thing, Detective. There was a mugging just as the kids were getting off the morning school buses. Witnesses say two perpetrators jumped the vic and stole his backpack. They broke his wrist in the process. Vic is out of surgery and stable. Witnesses are being questioned. We have suspects, but both fled the scene. They were wearing horror-movie masks. No IDs have been made. We have officers canvassing. A few students caught the aftermath on their cell phones, but so far nothing usable has come up.”
Rachel took her phone from her purse. There were no messages or texts.
My kids.
“Who was the victim?” she said, grabbing Serrano’s arm and speaking into the radio. He pulled away from her, with force.
“Dispatch, do we have an ID on the victim?”
“One second, Detective Serrano.”
Every second felt like an eternity. She could feel sweat dripping down her lower back. They stared at the radio, waiting.
“Detective, the victim is one Darren Reznick, aged seventeen.”
Rachel closed her eyes and allowed herself to breathe.
When she opened them, she saw Serrano gritting his teeth. He cursed under his breath.
“What?” she said. “What’s the matter?”
“Darren Reznick was there last night at Voss Field. He mouthed off to Brice. Reznick is the kid Ruddock attacked.”
“And this morning Reznick gets ‘mugged’ and has his arm broken,” Tally said. “You think . . .”
Serrano nodded. “Brice sent a high school kid a message. Matthew Linklater gets burned alive as a message. No wonder nobody would talk to us after the assembly. Having your arm broken means you got the easy way out.”
CHAPTER 23
Rachel drove home, parked, then called an Uber. Serrano and Tally were going to look into the Reznick assault. Rachel felt bad for Reznick. He had no idea what he’d gotten himself into. Which meant Rachel needed to find out.
Seven minutes later, she was picked up by a sixty-five(ish)-year-old man wearing a red flannel shirt and an old tan-colored cap with a bass fish embroidered on the bill. According to the app, his name was Stan, and he had 584 rides under his belt. Given his age, Rachel guessed Stan had been laid off and was now driving to make ends meet. Stan seemed far more upbeat than Rachel felt, whistling as he drove off.
Fifteen minutes later, Stan pulled up at the destination Rachel had entered into the app. “You have a good one, Miss.”
“You too, Stan.”
Stan waved and drove off. Rachel opened the ride-sharing app. When prompted, she gave Stan a five-star rating and added a $500 tip. At least she could make somebody’s day. Then Rachel entered the building, strode up to the desk, and said, “I’d like to rent a car.”
She left the rental-car lot with a Toyota Camry the color of soaked wood. It
was a hideously unattractive ride but also the kind of vehicle you would notice only if you had a waterlogged timber fetish. Popular make, popular model, no noticeable scratches or dents.
She looked at Eric’s text. Home late. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.
At 3:00 p.m., Rachel drove to Ashby High and parked her turd-colored rental a block and a half from the school entrance. She had a clear view of the school bus lanes. She noted two police cars parked in the school lot, likely investigating the Reznick assault.
As she sat there waiting for the school day to end, Rachel thought about all the people who had tried to help Eric after his world was upended. So many teachers and counselors and therapists that she had forgotten their names. Rachel had gone with him to innumerable appointments, watched in pain as he cried, his body shaking with fear, wondering just what kind of salve could heal those kinds of emotional wounds.
“I see my dad at night, in my dreams, when I go to sleep,” she remembered Eric saying to one counselor. “I know it’s not real, but I try to stop it. I go into my room, and I see him on my bed. But he’s in pieces. There’s no blood, but it’s like . . . everything was taken apart and just put there neatly. Even though I know he’s dead, I try to talk to him. ‘Dad,’ I say. He doesn’t answer. I don’t want to touch him, because all the pieces might fall apart. ‘Dad,’ I say again. Nothing. But then he looks at me. His mouth opens, and blood comes gushing out like a river. And I start screaming. And then I wake up, and I’m screaming for real.”
How a child could move past that, Rachel did not know. She used to have nightmares of her own. But hers had largely subsided. Her only nightmares now were about things that might befall her children. Things she could not prevent. Which is why she’d gone to Evie Boggs in the first place. Why she became obsessed with honing her mind and body to knifepoints. She needed to control everything humanly possible. Leave as little to chance as she could. Maybe she had suffocated Eric. But it was for his own protection. She knew that, even if he did not.
Being a parent meant keeping your children safe at all costs. Even if they hated you for it.
A Stranger at the Door Page 14