by Jason Pinter
Detectives John Serrano and Leslie Tally exited the car and began walking toward the house. Serrano said, “Mr. Drummond, Detective John Serrano with the APD. A few minutes of your time.”
Then Serrano turned and saw Rachel standing at the foot of the driveway. His eyes grew wide. Rachel heard Tally say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Serrano walked briskly toward Rachel, who stood there, rooted in place.
He leaned in and whispered acidly, “What in the hell are you doing here?”
CHAPTER 11
Before Rachel could respond, Nicholas Drummond gingerly walked down the front steps to meet the detectives. He wasn’t wearing a coat, just a lightweight red-and-black-checkered flannel over a gray T-shirt. He folded his arms tight across his chest for warmth. Breath misted in front of him. He seemed confused and pained and irritated. The thin man had gone inside. Isabelle was standing atop the steps, watching them, eyes narrow and suspicious.
Serrano waited for a response from Rachel. Clearly they’d come to question Drummond about Constance Wright. Was he a suspect? Or were they just getting background info?
“Mr. Drummond,” Tally said, approaching him. Tally eyed Rachel like she would give anything to feed her to a school of piranhas. “My name is Detective Tally. This is my partner, Detective Serrano. May we have a word?”
Drummond said wearily, “This about Constance?”
“It is,” Serrano said. “But just routine questions trying to piece together her life before this happened. Dot the t’s, cross the i’s, you know.”
“Yeah, routine,” Drummond said, nodding. He didn’t seem to trust Serrano that this was routine. “Listen, my wife has had a long day. Her brother, Christopher, went missing, and, well, he’s a handful. He’s had issues.”
“Your wife?” Tally said. “Isabelle Robles, correct? That’s her brother who just went inside?”
“She’s Isabelle Drummond now, Detective. And yes. Chrissy, Isabelle calls him. Like he’s a little girl.”
“In-laws can be hell,” Tally said with a laugh to put Drummond at ease. “Trust me, I married a woman with three kids who know how to push buttons like they’re getting paid. We’ve been together a long time, and half the time I still worry about saying the wrong thing and getting kicked to the curb.”
Drummond offered a weak smile, shivered.
“Listen, I know Chris has had a rough life,” Drummond said. “Their dad was a pharmaceutical big shot, and when they got fed up with Chris’s extracurriculars, they cut him off. So Isabelle has basically been the kid’s surrogate parent since Chris was a teenager. She’s his rock. Helped him get straightened out, tried to get him off the drugs. But it’s hard on a marriage to have someone that volatile dependent on you, not to mention living with you. And Chris has friends . . . let’s just say you wouldn’t want to get on their bad side.”
“How so?”
Drummond eyed the front door. “Listen, Detectives, it’s cold out, and my sciatica is worse in the winter. You mind if I . . .”
“Do you mind if we ask you some more questions inside?” Tally said.
Drummond hesitated. Then he looked at Rachel. “Who’s she?” he asked.
Serrano opened his mouth, but before he could respond, Rachel said, “Rachel Marin. Forensic consultant. I’m helping the Ashby PD on the Wright murder. Detectives Serrano and Tally have asked for my expertise on this case. It’s official police business.”
Both Serrano and Tally glared at her with barely contained anger. Rachel could tell it took every ounce of willpower for them not to rip her head clean off. But she knew starting a fight in front of Drummond could make him skittish, suspicious. And the cops needed him calm and, ideally, unlawyered. Rachel was happy to exploit that need.
“That’s right,” Serrano finally said, through gritted teeth. “Ms. Marin consistently surprises us.”
“Yeah, like diarrhea,” Tally muttered under her breath.
“All right,” Drummond said. “But let’s make it quick.”
Drummond led them into the house. Rachel followed but felt Serrano’s hand on her elbow, holding her back.
“We’re going to have a serious talk when this is over,” he said.
“I know, I know. Detention, right? Maybe take away my iPad for a month?”
“This is a criminal investigation, Ms. Marin,” Tally said. “You are a citizen. And if Drummond realizes that, you’re a lawsuit waiting to happen.”
“I just want to know who killed Constance Wright,” Rachel said. “If it wasn’t for me, her death would have been labeled a suicide and forgotten about. She would be buried, and a killer would be walking your streets, Detective.”
“I hate to say this,” Serrano said softly, “but if we send her packing, it’s going to make Drummond wary. That’s not how we want to start this questioning.”
“What, so she comes, then?” Tally said, exasperated.
Serrano nodded resignedly. “Lesser of two evils.”
“Goddamn it,” Tally said. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “All right, Ms. Marin. Come with us. But you’re going to look, and you’re going to listen. That’s it. Anything else, and I’m sending you home in an Uber. In one piece if you’re lucky.”
“That’s all I want.”
Rachel entered the house. She could feel their eyes on her. The entryway of the Drummond home opened up into a large foyer, with clean black-and-white marble flooring, a curved wooden staircase with a wrought iron railing that led up to a second floor covered with taupe carpeting, recessed lighting dotting the cream-colored ceiling, and a crystal chandelier dripping with ornaments overhead. Every fixture looked custom built, every appliance renovated and upgraded. Given these furnishings, Rachel revised her estimate to $4.5 million. And she knew it hadn’t been purchased with Drummond’s money.
In his divorce filing from Constance Wright, Nicholas Drummond had claimed that, during their marriage, he had become accustomed to a certain luxurious style of living. And despite the Wright family’s debts, much of which Constance was on the hook for as a minority owner, he was entitled to a substantial portion of her liquid assets. Drummond managed to negotiate a hefty spousal support, a decision many derided, given Constance’s perilous financial situation and that Nicholas had developed a reputation as a freeloader early on. The press derogatorily referred to him as “Saint Nick,” since he expected other people to bring him presents.
So he’d cleaned Constance out, married Isabelle Robles—a woman seventeen years his junior and wealthy—and consequently become the envy of most men in Ashby and a scoundrel to most women.
“Would you mind taking your shoes off?” Isabelle asked them. Rachel noticed the immaculate foyer was lined with a white Surya Milan carpet. The cost of cleaning it was probably more than a Fifth Avenue mortgage. They took off their shoes and assembled them neatly on a small maple bench next to the front door. Rachel placed one of her shoes six inches in front of the other, as a test. When she stepped away, Isabelle made sure to line them up precisely side by side. Rachel saw Tally notice it as well.
Drummond led them into a sitting room covered in fine Oushak rugs with gilded floral patterns. Rachel had seen them in magazines; they cost about four grand apiece. They sat on a pair of overstuffed white Haute House Smith sectional sofas. A quick Google search told Rachel that each one retailed for about $9,000. Large bay windows overlooked an expansive, fenced-in backyard with a pool, covered for the winter, and a large swing set, dappled with fresh snow. The slide looked like it had never been used. The swings and ladders were pristine, no rust on any of the metal. No scuff marks. Rachel noticed that the house had not been childproofed. The swing set was built on a wish, and for a moment she felt a pang of sympathy for Isabelle and Nicholas Drummond.
They all took seats on the Haute House couches: Isabelle and Nicholas on one, and Rachel, Serrano, and Tally on another. Rachel could feel Tally’s gun against her hip. She guessed it was a Glock—those were the most popular law enforcement
handguns—but couldn’t tell whether it was a 19 or a 22.
Isabelle looked miserable. Rachel could understand. The young woman thought she’d married a man whose ugly past was behind him, yet now the police were sitting in her home preparing to question him about his dead ex-wife. Christopher had disappeared somewhere in the house. He seemed too disorganized, too erratic to have killed Constance without leaving an abundance of evidence. But she still didn’t know why he was at both the press conference and the river the night of Constance’s death. Even if he wasn’t the killer, Christopher Robles knew something.
“Mr. Drummond,” Tally began, “thank you for taking the time to speak with us. And let me say first off, we’re sorry for your loss.”
Drummond nodded slightly. He put his hand on his wife’s knee.
“Connie and I had our troubles, we’d both moved on, but of course I was sad to hear about her death.”
You mean you moved on, Rachel thought.
Isabelle spoke up and said, “Can we get this over with?”
“All right,” Serrano said. “As you know, Nicholas, your ex-wife, Constance Wright, is recently deceased. We are investigating her death as a homicide. Can you tell us the last time you saw or spoke to your ex-wife?”
Isabelle spoke up. “First off, is my husband a suspect? Because if he is, I’m going to want our lawyer here before we say another word.”
“Mrs. Drummond,” Tally said, “right now all we’re trying to do is understand the timeline of Ms. Wright’s life prior to her passing. I’d prefer to keep this cordial. Whether or not it stays that way is wholly up to you two.”
Isabelle said gruffly, “I saw her at the supermarket a few weeks ago. She definitely saw me too. Dropped a jar of almond butter on the floor. It shattered, and she walked out, fast.” Isabelle paused, then said, as if to clarify, “We weren’t exactly on speaking terms.”
Serrano nodded. Tally said, “And you, Mr. Drummond?”
“Haven’t seen Connie in a long time,” he said. “Our split wasn’t exactly the kind of thing where you sent each other Christmas cards.”
“I have an ex-wife too,” Serrano said. “I understand that. But can you tell us, specifically, the last time you spoke to her?”
Drummond thought. Too hard, in Rachel’s opinion. He breathed in through his nose and tilted his head back like a man who knew the answer but had to pretend he didn’t.
“I believe it was on the street, randomly,” Drummond said. “I was leaving a doctor’s appointment, and we just bumped into each other.”
“When was this?” Tally asked.
“Maybe a few months ago? I don’t remember the exact date.”
“Did you say anything to each other?” Serrano asked.
“We exchanged pleasantries.”
“What kind of pleasantries?” Tally said, leaning closer.
“Just this and that. Hello. Hope you’re well. That was it.”
“So it didn’t last more than a few seconds.”
“No. We both moved on with our lives several years ago, and I’m not much for small talk,” Drummond said. Isabelle seemed pleased with this response.
“I think Ms. Wright may have had some trouble moving on,” Serrano said. He took a folded printout from his pocket and handed it to Drummond. He underlined a number with his finger. “Is that your cell phone number?”
“It is,” Drummond said warily. Rachel sensed hesitation in his voice. Drummond was nervous. Isabelle leaned over to see the paper.
“Because Constance Wright called that number—your cell phone number—the day she died.”
Serrano let that sink in. Rachel looked at Isabelle. Her face showed no emotion. Either she knew about the call or wanted them to think she knew and simply didn’t care.
Drummond snapped his fingers. “That’s right. She did call my cell. But I’d deleted her number from my phone. So when it rang, I didn’t recognize the number. And I don’t tend to pick up calls from numbers I don’t recognize. Nine times out of ten it’s spam, you know?”
“Sure,” Tally said. “Spam.”
“So you didn’t speak to her?”
“I told you, Detective, I didn’t pick up the phone.”
Serrano nodded. “If you say so.” Drummond was getting defensive. If they kept pushing, Rachel thought, they’d lose him.
Serrano looked around, made a show of admiring the fabulous decor. Then he smiled and switched gears. “This is a gorgeous house. Which of you has the decorating touch?”
Drummond smiled. “That would be my wife.” Isabelle rubbed her husband’s hand.
“So when did you and Isabelle meet?” Tally said.
Drummond said, “Two years ago. I knew the second I laid eyes on her I wanted her to be my wife.” Isabelle smiled again. His answer was warm but practiced.
Tally said, “And where did Cupid strike, might I ask?”
“The gym,” Isabelle replied. “I was on the elliptical. He was using kettlebells—and with proper form. He was handsome. I don’t normally talk to men at the gym. They tend to be creeps.”
“That was two years ago?” Serrano said.
“Yep, two,” Drummond replied. He removed his hand from Isabelle’s and shifted in his seat. “Listen, I know my ex-wife had problems, and things didn’t end well with us. Not all of the issues between us were her fault. But when a couple gets divorced, you can’t blame the ex for what happens later.”
“Depends on whether the ex had anything to do with it,” Serrano said.
“Constance and I went our separate ways, and that was that,” Drummond said firmly. “I never wished any harm on her. I had nothing to do with Connie’s death, and I never had any ill will toward her. We broke up. I moved on. I have a wonderful wife. A great life. Now, if you’d like to ask more questions, I’ll be happy to call my lawyer. I’ve talked to you today out of respect for Constance. She was a good woman, and she deserved better.”
“Yes. She did,” Rachel said. They all turned to look at her. Serrano’s eyes grew wide. “I’m sorry, do you have a bathroom I can use?”
Isabelle stood up. She seemed more than happy to get away. “This way, Ms. . . .”
“Marin. Rachel Marin.”
“This way, Ms. Marin.”
Rachel followed Isabelle out of the sitting room. Rachel looked back at Serrano. He was biting his lip so hard she thought he might chew through it. He mouthed Don’t fuck us.
The sitting room was off a long hallway lined with ornate brass sconces ending in a T-junction. They passed a gorgeous open kitchen with stainless steel Viking appliances and a beautiful wooden island inset with a second sink. Nonstick pots and pans hung from a hammered steel rack.
“Wow. Now that is something,” Rachel said, stopping to marvel at the kitchen. She pointed at the island. “Look at the grain. What kind of wood is that?”
“Australian red ironbark timber,” Isabelle said proudly. There was a lightness to her voice that hadn’t been present in the sitting room. “It’s maybe my favorite piece in the whole house. We had it shipped over from Queensland. The locals call it Mugga.”
“It’s simply stunning,” Rachel said. “You have exquisite taste, Mrs. Drummond. Do you cook?”
Rachel already knew the answer, but she wanted to give Isabelle the satisfaction of answering. Let her feel confident and comfortable. Most of the pots and pans had scorched bases, a sign of frequent use, and Isabelle’s fingers sported several miniscule, long-healed-over cuts, evidence of culinary training.
“I do,” she said. “I try to cook at least five nights a week.”
“Oh my God, you’re my idol,” Rachel said. “With two kids at home and no husband, it’s all I can do to keep the house from burning down. I’m on a first-name basis with the delivery guy at Giuseppe’s.”
“I’m sure you do the best you can,” Isabelle said. Her voice dripped with both sympathy and superiority. Rachel was happy to let her feel both.
“I try,” Rachel said. “But i
t’s so hard.”
“You must be quite skilled to work with the police department. What did you say you do again?”
“Forensic consulting,” Rachel said. She actually liked the way it sounded. “Mainly, I’m just another set of eyes. But those two out there are pros. They don’t really need me. I’d rather be learning how to cook like you.”
Isabelle beamed. “Maybe one day I’ll give you a few lessons. The washroom is at the end of the hall.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said. “I promise to leave it the way I find it!”
Rachel headed toward the bathroom but stopped before she got there. She waited for Isabelle’s footsteps to confirm she was returning to the sitting room.
Rachel found the bathroom door and opened it. It was beautiful. Quartz countertops, a stone inlaid shower with a rainfall showerhead, and a deep soaking tub with massaging air jets. She might just have to befriend Isabelle in order to use her tub.
Without entering, Rachel closed the bathroom door. Loud enough to make a noise. Next to the bathroom was a small closet. She opened it. High thread count linens and soft towels. Artisan soaps and expensive cleaning supplies. Rachel scanned the shelves but didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy.
She gently closed the closet door, then followed the T-junction. She opened another door and found a walk-in closet filled with coats, scarves, hats, and shoes. The closet itself was the size of Rachel’s bedroom and far more organized. Rachel thumbed through the coats. More specifically, the small tab of cloth by the neck where each store had affixed its price tag.
She took out her cell phone and snapped pictures of as many items as she could, then flipped through the photos. One piece of clothing stood out. She looked up the SKU. Rachel whistled under her breath.
Very interesting. Serrano and Tally needed to see it.
Rachel had been gone four minutes. Any longer, and Isabelle would get suspicious—either that Rachel was snooping around or that she’d eaten a burrito for lunch.