A Stranger at the Door

by Pinter, Jason

  Tuesday. 1:30. VF.

  Tuesday. One thirty in the morning. Voss Field. The next meeting with Bennett Brice. It had to be.

  Rachel texted Penny Wallace:

  Great job. Thank you. I owe you.

  Penny wrote back three minutes later:

  No biggie. U owe me nothing. Just help Eric.

  I’ll do whatever I have to do. What about his phone?

  Slipped it in his bag during homeroom.

  Smart. Now put your phone away. You’re in school. Thank you Penny. You’re a heck of a snoop.

  You ever need an apprentice, you know where to find me.

  It was accompanied by an emoji that Rachel suspected was supposed to be a detective holding a magnifying glass but for some reason looked more like a proctologist.

  Rachel knew where she had to go next: 98 Violet Road. The house Eric and Benjamin Ruddock stopped at right before her head was split open.

  Rachel drove to Violet Road. It was midmorning, a calm, bright day. Rachel parked on the street in the identical spot she’d parked the rental. Before she exited, she checked her surroundings. Every mirror. Every blind spot. Peered behind every bush and tree where somebody could hide. She saw nothing.

  She’d slipped a pair of TigerLady self-defense safety grips into her purse that morning and now gripped one as she exited the car. They were palm-size plastic handles that with a squeeze released three short retractable claws. Each claw held a narrow channel inset meant to scrape skin and blood from any assailant for DNA testing.

  Once the door was closed, Rachel backed up against the car and did a 360 turn, looking for any sign of life. She could hear her own breathing, feel the blood thumping in her temples. She saw an elderly woman walking a regal-looking poodle. Rachel wasn’t a fan of poodles—give her a golden retriever or a black Lab—but the woman’s taste in pets appeared to be the most dangerous thing about her.

  Rachel waited. Listened. Gripped the claw in her hand. She heard nothing but the faint rustling of leaves, car horns from far away, and the steady chirping of birds among the trees.

  Nothing.

  Still, she had to be cautious. She approached the house at 98 Violet Road slowly. When she got to the curb, she stopped again. Looked around. Still alone, as far as she could tell. She put her hand to her head and felt the staples in her scalp, the skin still tender. Somebody was going to pay for those.

  Two cars were parked in the driveway at 98 Violet Road: a silver Prius and a black Range Rover. As though the owners couldn’t decide whether they wanted to save the planet or destroy it. Rachel approached the front door, still scanning her environment. She rang the bell. She could hear a shuffling sound from behind the large oak door.

  The door opened, revealing a sixtyish woman wearing a faded yellow terry cloth bathrobe. Her hair was in curlers. She looked perturbed by the interruption.

  “May I help you?” OK, perhaps more than slightly perturbed.

  “Yes, hi. My name is Rachel Marin, and I work with the Ashby Police Department. Are you Wanda Meyerson?”

  “I am.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as she looked Rachel up and down, her curlers bobbing. “You’re a police officer? You don’t look like a police officer.”

  “I work with the Ashby police,” Rachel said. “I’m not police myself.”

  “I’m confused,” the woman said. “What’s the difference?”

  “Sometimes I ask myself the same thing,” Rachel replied. “But from your perspective, it means that I’m just here as a courtesy. I just have a few questions for you. I don’t need to bring in the actual police. Unless I find it necessary.”

  “Necessary for what? What kind of questions?”

  “The other day, two young men—teenage boys, actually—came to this house. They were here for over half an hour. Did you see them or speak to them?”

  “Two boys? What did they look like?”

  Rachel took out her cell phone. She heard a clanking noise behind her and whipped around. A toddler across the street had tipped over her tricycle and was propping it back up.

  “Sorry,” Rachel said. “A little jumpy.”

  “I’ll say,” the woman replied.

  Rachel showed the woman a photo of her son.

  “He doesn’t look familiar.”

  Rachel felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. She pulled up a photo of Benjamin Ruddock.

  “Him either.”

  “So neither of these boys came to your house?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. I had my weekly cribbage game and then saw a movie with my sister. I was out all day.”

  Rachel kept her irritation at bay. “Why didn’t you just tell me you weren’t home?”

  “Didn’t seem pertinent.”

  “Didn’t seem . . . OK. Let’s step back. Is it possible these boys have been to your home but you weren’t aware of it?”

  “I suppose so? My husband was home. He has to feed and walk the dog. And he doesn’t go out much. Said we paid enough for this house that folks can come here if they really want to see us. But I have friends I like to see. I’m not a hermit, even though Harold can be. He’s more than content to sit on the couch and watch television all day. But those shows he watches—utter crap. Personally I like baking shows. Do you ever watch a baking show and think they must do some creative editing? Because once I tried to make one of those cakes, and—”

  “Is your husband here now, Mrs. Meyerson?” Rachel asked, interrupting the woman’s meandering soliloquy.

  “No. He goes away every few weeks for business. He flew out yesterday morning.”

  Flew out yesterday morning, Rachel thought. He’s visited by Ruddock and Eric, given an envelope, then flies out the next day. There was no chance it was a coincidence.

  “Can you recall any other instances of young boys, again around high school age, coming by your house?”

  “Like delivery boys?”

  “In a way. Only they would have been invited inside.”

  Wanda Meyerson thought for a moment. “I do recall—and this would have been a few years ago at least—a time when a young man used to come around fairly regularly. Maybe every other week? He would disappear into the study with Harold for a bit.”

  Rachel showed Wanda Meyerson the photo of Benjamin Ruddock again. “Could it have been this boy, perhaps a few years younger?”

  “Oh no. Most certainly not. The boy who came over had—I’m not supposed to say fat these days—a metabolism problem. And he was short . . . er, vertically challenged. My grandchildren always give me a hard time for being politically incorrect. These days you never know what’s going to offend people. I say live and let live; everyone should stop being so sensitive, because back when I was a young girl, I—”

  “So the name Benjamin Ruddock doesn’t ring a bell?”

  “No. This boy’s name was . . . hold on . . . Alex. Yes, Alex.”

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “I’m afraid not. We were never properly introduced. Harold doesn’t have the best social skills. And the boy seemed like he wanted to get in and out as fast as possible.”

  Alex. Teen. Was younger than Ruddock is now. Chubby.

  “And where did you say your husband was flying to today?”

  “Where he always goes for some rest and relaxation,” Wanda said. “I just wish he’d invite me sometimes.”

  “And where would that be, Mrs. Meyerson?”

  “Oh, why, the Cayman Islands.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “John,” Rachel said, “you’re not going to believe this. Or maybe you are. Anyway, I went to the home of Harold and Wanda Meyerson on Violet Road and—”

  “Wait, slow down,” Serrano said. Rachel was driving to the Ashby PD station at speeds that could have gotten her license revoked. The skies were beginning to darken, a grayish pall descending from above, blotting out the sun. Patters of rain hit Rachel’s windshield. Within moments, she heard thunder, and the skies opened, a sheet of rain hitting her
car like a slap. “Did you say the house on Violet Road? The one where you were assaulted?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “The one you followed Ruddock and Eric to?”

  “You have quite the memory. Anyway . . .”

  “Rachel, are you kidding me? If Brice finds out you went to the home of one of his clients—”

  “Listen, Detective, I spoke to Wanda Meyerson, and she told me her husband, Harold, left for the Cayman Islands. For some ‘R and R.’ Without his wife. I thought it was too much to be a coincidence that he left the country the very day after Ruddock came by his house. So I also checked out the other homes the boys visited.”

  “Rachel, I can’t hear you over the rain. Did you say you went to more people’s homes?”

  “Yep. And get this: at least four other people Ruddock visited flew out of Peoria airport the next morning. Wanda said Harold Meyerson’s return flight comes in tomorrow. Two days in the Caymans. That doesn’t really sound like much of a vacation, does it? And going without his wife? Sounds to me like he’s going down there for business. I’m guessing it’s Bennett Brice’s business. And he’s not the only one.”

  Serrano paused on the other end. Rachel could tell he was weighing his anger at Rachel’s flouting Brice’s legal threats versus the fact that she may have legitimately uncovered information worth investigating.

  “Get here fast, but get here safe. If I know you, you’re driving at speeds that might challenge the sound barrier.”

  They hung up. Rachel put the wipers on full speed but could still barely see through the monsoon. Her head swam. From the concussion, the staples she could feel biting into her scalp, but also the many, many tendrils the murder of Matthew Linklater seemed to have sprouted. And every time she felt she had a hold of one, three more grew in its place.

  She parked in the visitors’ lot at the Ashby PD station and ran inside, not fast enough to avoid getting drenched. She showed her ID, and the officers manning the security desk buzzed her through. She found Serrano and Tally waiting for her at their desks. Tally handed her a wad of tissues, which Rachel used to dab at her face.

  “You look like the rat that the drowned rat dragged in,” Tally said.

  “You only get away with that because you helped me,” Rachel said. “Thank you, Detective. And thank Penny again for me.”

  “Just for the record, if I’d known you were asking for Penny Wallace’s help,” Serrano said, “I would have told you no.”

  “That’s why I didn’t tell you,” Rachel replied.

  Tally said, “You know I care about your kids. But this is starting to sound like a bit of a vendetta. And if that’s the case, I won’t do anything that could jeopardize this investigation. Or violate a restraining order.”

  Serrano pulled out a seat and motioned to it. Rachel sat down.

  “Tell us everything you found out,” he said.

  “Four homes,” she said. “I started with the Meyersons on Violet Road. Harold Meyerson flies to the Cayman Islands the day after he’s visited by Benjamin Ruddock and my son. Wanda Meyerson says he’s going on a vacation but will be back in two days. Sounds fishy, right? So I backtrack. Go to the other houses Ruddock and Eric visited before the Meyersons’ that I know about. At each house, the owner or co-owner flew out to the Cayman Islands the very next day. I’m thinking that these good ol’ folks are laundering money and hiding it overseas for Bennett Brice.”

  “Laundering how?” Serrano said.

  “Brice could wire the money to the Caymans himself. But it would leave an electronic trail. By having these people act as couriers, he’s off the hook. At every house, Ruddock delivered a manila envelope. I’m thinking they contained financial documents. Bank account numbers. Then Harold Meyerson and the others fly to Grand Cayman and deposit the funds, and Bennett Brice is free and clear.”

  Tally said, “But why would Harold Meyerson agree to do that? Brice might be clear, but if it looks like Meyerson is squirreling away money to avoid paying taxes, he’s liable for either a hefty fine or jail time. So why risk all that for Bennett Brice?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Rachel said.

  “I don’t doubt there’s something hinky about this,” Serrano said. “But at the moment, all we’re doing is looking for a crime. It’s not a crime to fly to the Caymans. We need something more tangible.”

  “More tangible?” Rachel said. “Matthew Linklater was murdered. Darren Reznick’s arm was broken in the school parking lot. I nearly had my brains scooped out and deposited on Violet Road. My son is—”

  “Your son is preventing you from thinking straight,” Tally said.

  “Brice went to my son because he wanted the cops to think I had a vendetta. It scared him that Linklater was on to him, so he’s trying to discredit me since I’m the one Linklater reached out to. Brice knew if I found any dirt on him, he could claim I had a personal vendetta against him because of Eric. He’s using my son to shield himself.”

  “But right now you have no proof that Brice is connected to Matthew Linklater’s murder,” Serrano said. “And as of right now, we don’t know any laws he’s broken regarding your son. We have a crime. Linklater’s murder. All of this is tangential.”

  “Tangential,” Rachel said sardonically. “Sometimes I can’t believe I let you inside of me.”

  Serrano’s cheeks reddened.

  “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Tally said. “But if you two want to turn a murder investigation into couple’s therapy, take it outside.”

  Rachel felt anger bubbling within her. These were the moments she saw John Serrano not as a partner or a lover but as an obstacle. Still, she had to temper her emotions. She was acting as a mother. A protector. Serrano was a cop. He had to stay within the confines of the law. Rachel had no qualms about tiptoeing outside the law. And if that’s what it took, she would simply keep the detectives out of the loop.

  “I do have one thought,” Serrano said.

  “That’s a record,” Tally said.

  “Look, I don’t need both of you on my case. Anyway, Rachel, the kid who pulled the gun on you. You said you disarmed him and hurt his leg.”

  She nodded. “Dislocated kneecap, ACL and PCL injuries.”

  “There were no police reports of any injuries on Violet Road that day. Rachel had the idea to check with local hospitals to see if any kids in that age range were admitted with leg injuries that line up with what you’re telling me.”

  “And if there are none?” Rachel said.

  Tally replied, “We can check with local schools. You said the kid pulled the gun on you within half an hour of you staking out the Meyerson place. That gives us a half-hour radius, at most. I’m guessing there are about a dozen schools in that area with kids between the ages of twelve and sixteen enrolled. It wouldn’t take long to call up the principals, nurses’ stations, see if they’ve seen any students with noticeable new injuries or restricted activities.”

  “It’s a start,” Serrano said. He looked at Rachel, his voice bordering on contempt. “That is an actual criminal investigation. Finding the kid who assaulted you.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I probably don’t need to say it since, you know, you spend a fair amount of time with me. But I don’t always work well with others.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Serrano said.

  “I will tell you this, though,” Rachel added. “If I can prove that Bennett Brice was behind these attacks, or that he’s involving my son in criminal activities, I’m going to bury him so deep they’ll find oil in Ashby before they find his body.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Benjamin Ruddock had been in Bennett Brice’s house only twice before. The first time was when he had been promoted, the circumstances of which had never been discussed again. He’d only met the boy—Alex something—once. And the next week, Alex and his family had moved far, far away from Ashby. The second time was three weeks ago, when he and Brice met to go over the latest group of YourLife r
ecruits. At the time, the list of recruits did not include Eric Marin. Marin’s inclusion was a last-second decision, due to special circumstances.

  Always be ready to adapt, Brice had told him. And so far, Benjamin had.

  Brice had invited him over for lunch. Invited was too nice a word. You didn’t refuse an invitation from Bennett Brice.

  Ruddock watched as Brice took the gleaming steel sharpening tool from the walnut knife block, then slid out an eight-inch chef’s knife. He looked at the blade, admired its craftsmanship, then gently placed the tip of the tool on the quartz countertop. He held the knife at a fifteen-degree angle to the sharpening tool, then, with a swinging motion, slid the length of the blade across the metal.

  Brice repeated this five times, then switched to the other side of the blade and gave it five strokes. He then held the blade up to the light, nodded, and placed the sharpening tool back in the block. Brice was wearing a thin linen shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, olive-colored chinos, and a pair of light-blue slippers. He looked comfortable yet classy.

  First, he sliced the garlic thin enough to be translucent. He then set a nonstick pan on a burner and dropped in a pad of unsalted butter. When the butter melted, he added the slivers of garlic. As they began to sizzle, a pleasant aroma wafted up from the pan. To the cooking garlic, he added the sliced white tops of several scallions, then a dozen sea scallops, which he’d had dry-packed and overnighted from a fishery near the Canadian border. As he stirred, he took a sip of Catena Zapata chardonnay.

  Then he turned around and said, “Benjamin. Have a seat.” He looked at the Omega watch on his wrist. Ruddock knew that watch ran a cool $18,000. “Lunch will be ready in twenty minutes. I’m willing to bet this tastes better than whatever gruel they serve you in that school cafeteria.”

  Benjamin Ruddock approached the kitchen island tentatively. “I definitely don’t remember them ever serving scallops,” the boy said.

  Brice’s home was spotless and white, all marble, quartz, and white tile with state-of-the-art appliances and first-rate cutlery. The spacious living room was adorned by a white-brick fireplace, its mantel covered in framed pictures. The ornate, expensive furnishings included a floating wood coffee table, two rust-colored iron floor lamps, and four pristine white bookshelves made from reclaimed wood. The shelves were overstuffed with books several rows deep, spines dangling precariously over the edge. They contained old volumes with cracked leather spines, biographies of world leaders and business luminaries, several classics in their original languages (according to Brice these included Anna Karenina in Russian, Les Misérables in French, The Tin Drum in German). Plus a selection of popular mystery novels and science fiction thrown in for good measure. Ruddock had no idea if Brice had read all, or any, of the books, but they looked fantastic in his home, and Ruddock supposed that was partly the point.