by Jason Pinter
She sneaked back to the bathroom, silently opened the door, and slipped in. She flushed the toilet, washed her hands, and then dried them on a hand towel. She refolded the towel perfectly and replaced it on the rack.
But when Rachel opened the door, she jumped back and nearly yelped. Christopher Robles was standing right outside the bathroom door, like he was waiting for her. The man said nothing. Just stared at Rachel. His eyes were sunken and red rimmed. His cheeks were the sallow grayish yellow of someone who’d ingested large quantities of illicit substances that the human body was not meant to process. But behind those sunken eyes was suspicion.
“Sorry about that,” Rachel said, composing herself. “How do I get back to the sitting room?”
Robles did not respond. Rachel simply apologized again and slid by him. She could feel his eyes following her.
She rejoined the others, still thinking about Robles’s face. She didn’t like how he seemed to recognize her. That was the thing with junkies: they were all paranoid until they found someone who actually was out to get them.
Isabelle looked at Rachel, who mouthed the words That bathroom is gorgeous, accentuating it with an eye roll.
Isabelle smiled, blushed slightly, and mouthed, Thank you.
Rachel sat there, silent, as Serrano and Tally continued questioning Drummond. Routine stuff. He didn’t have much of an alibi for the night Constance died—Isabelle was out to dinner with friends, and Drummond claimed he’d stayed home, ordered from Mr. Foo’s, and binged season three of Breaking Bad on Netflix. Serrano told him they would check with Mr. Foo’s to confirm. Rachel got the sense they simply wanted to gauge Drummond’s reaction. See if he got nervous. Other than likely feeling the general discomfort of being questioned by police about his ex-wife’s death, he didn’t appear overly defensive.
When they finished, Serrano and Tally gave Isabelle and Drummond their cards and asked them to get in touch if they thought of anything else. Drummond looked at Rachel, expecting to be given a card as well. Rachel froze for a moment, then said, “Crap, left them in my other purse. But Serrano and Tally are leads on this. I’m just along for the ride.”
Drummond got up to walk the detectives out. Isabelle stayed seated.
As he opened the heavy wooden front door, Drummond said, “I hope you find him.”
“Sorry?” Tally said.
“Or her. Whoever did this to Connie. I know how it might look,” Drummond continued. “Everyone looks at the ex-husband. But our marriage ended a long time ago. Even before the actual divorce, it had been over for a long time. I had no reason to want to hurt her after all this time. My wife and I have other things to worry about. We’re trying to start a family.”
“Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. and Mrs. Drummond,” Serrano said. “If we need anything else, we’ll be in touch.”
“Good luck with the family,” Tally said. “Things like that test a marriage.”
“Don’t I know it,” Drummond replied. There was a weight to the comment that Rachel picked up on that the detectives did not.
Rachel looked over her shoulder as they walked to the Crown Vic. Drummond watched them depart. Then he turned around and went back inside.
When they reached the curb, Serrano put his hand on Rachel’s arm and said, “We need to talk. Now.”
Rachel whipped around and said, “If you don’t take your stubby little fingers off me right now, the next time you jerk off, it’ll be with a prosthetic hand.”
Serrano removed his hand and stepped back, surprised at the anger in Rachel’s response. Tally’s hand moved toward her sidearm.
“You are a civilian, Ms. Marin,” Tally said coolly. “You threaten my partner again, and I’ll have you in handcuffs before you take your next breath.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachel said. “That was an instinctual reaction. Lot of pent-up stress. It’s been a while since I’ve been to yoga.”
“Now let’s talk about just what in the hell you think you’re doing,” Serrano said.
“They’re lying,” Rachel said. “Drummond and his wife. Both of them.”
Serrano cocked his head, and Tally laughed.
“Is that so?” Tally said. “And what, pray tell, are they lying about, Nancy Drew?”
“Well, the timeline to start. Drummond and Isabelle started dating while he and Constance were still married. That ‘two years’ claim is crap.”
“How do you figure?” Tally said.
Rachel took out her phone and opened the Photos app. She showed them the pictures she’d taken in Isabelle’s coat closet.
“So you searched their home without a warrant. Fantastic,” Tally said. She turned to Serrano. “You realize if Drummond is our guy and this case goes to trial, they could ram that down our throats and have this whole thing thrown out.”
“Ms. Marin, before you start showing us inadmissible evidence of God knows what, just how the hell did you end up here anyway?” Serrano asked.
“Christopher Robles,” she said. “Isabelle’s brother. He was at the bridge the night you found Constance Wright’s body.” She showed Serrano and Tally the screen grab from Charles Willemore’s broadcast. Christopher Robles’s face was visible among the bystanders.
“And then he was at the press conference today,” Rachel said. “So the brother-in-law of the victim’s ex-husband is at the murder scene and then the press conference. No way that’s a coincidence. Robles knows something.”
“So you followed Robles home after the presser?” Tally asked.
“Hey, you are a detective!” Rachel said.
“My patience is wearing real thin with you, Ms. Marin,” Tally replied.
“Try me,” Rachel said with defiant ease.
“Stop it, the two of you,” Serrano said, trying to defuse the situation.
“So, what,” Tally said, “you think Robles killed Constance Wright?”
“Not sure. I don’t know how Robles gets Wright to the bridge in the middle of the night,” Rachel said. “But it’s possible Drummond got her there and Robles knew about it somehow. Drummond said that Isabelle has been Christopher’s caretaker since their parents cut him off. And if Isabelle’s husband gets put away for murder, it ruins her. If the one person who cared about you was about to have their life torn apart, wouldn’t you be scared too? So maybe Robles knew something he wasn’t supposed to.”
Serrano walked up to Rachel and gently put his finger in the center of her chest. She looked at the digit like she wanted to rip it clean off. He saw her anger but didn’t move. Neither did she.
“You need to hear this,” Serrano said. “I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing. This armchair Sherlock Holmes BS doesn’t fly here. You want to sit at home, connect pushpins on a corkboard, solve the mystery of D. B. Cooper, find the Loch Ness Monster, or figure out who really killed JFK? Go right ahead. But you are a civilian. You have as much right to be at this house as my dog. Only difference is when my dog shits where he’s not supposed to, at least it’s confined to my house.”
“Did you just call me a dog?” Rachel said.
“No, that’s . . . it’s a figure of speech.”
“I’m not sure you know what figure of speech means.”
“Just shut up. Go home, Ms. Marin.”
“Just look,” Rachel said. She turned the phone’s screen to face Serrano and Tally. “That’s the hanging tag on one of Isabelle Drummond’s coats. This is a Lilly e Violetta Italian wool coat. Retails for about thirty-five hundred dollars. This particular coat was introduced in this year’s line. It’s brand new. Everything in that house is brand new and top of the line.”
“So?” Serrano said. Rachel swiped to the next picture.
“This is a Mischa wool beanie. Retails for seven hundred and fifty dollars. Based on the SKU, this make was also introduced the current year. And you can tell from the slight fraying at the edges that it’s been worn this winter.”
“OK . . .”
Rachel swiped to the next photo. An
unattractive, chunky gray winter hat. It looked out of place among the rest of Isabelle Drummond’s pricey apparel.
“This hat was manufactured by a company called Freida. Based on the SKU, it retailed for about fifty dollars. And it’s clearly never been worn. Every thread looks untouched.” Rachel pinched the picture to zoom in on the tag. “See that?”
Serrano leaned in. He shook his head.
“Look at the hole. Where the plastic tag used to be. See how it’s ripped? Like someone tore the plastic tag off instead of cutting it with scissors.”
“Fine, I see what you’re showing me,” Serrano said. “But what does that matter?”
“Whoever took off the tag, they ripped it out with their fingers.”
“So what?” Serrano said. “I do that.”
“Exactly. Now look.” Rachel swiped back to the previous picture and zoomed in. “This is the expensive Mischa beanie. The tag hole here is even. No pulling or stretching of the material. That means somebody trimmed it, delicately. Neat and tidy.”
Rachel swiped through a number of photos. “Every one of these articles of clothing had a hole just like the coat. Isabelle clipped them all herself. A different person removed the tag from the hat. They just ripped it off. Which means . . .”
Tally said, “That Isabelle didn’t buy the Freida hat for herself.”
“Precisely,” Rachel said. “And whoever bought it for her ripped the tag out.”
“That hat,” Serrano said. “When was it produced?”
Rachel smiled. He was catching on.
“Freida went out of business and was liquidated three years ago, right after this particular SKU was manufactured. Which means that hat was almost certainly purchased prior to Constance Wright’s divorce from Nicholas Drummond.”
“So Drummond bought it for her as a present,” Serrano said. “No way Isabelle spends three grand on a coat and fifty bucks on a hat.”
“So you think Drummond bought the Frieda hat for Isabelle?” Tally said.
“Absolutely,” Rachel said. She swiped back to the hat photo. “Look at the wool on the Freida. No fraying. This hat has barely been worn, if ever. Isabelle doesn’t keep it for practical reasons. It has sentimental value to her.”
“Could be a gift from anyone,” Tally said. “An ex.”
Rachel shook her head. “If that fifty-dollar hat was a gift from an ex-boyfriend, no way it’s sitting in the closet in plain sight. She’s tossing that thing out as soon as she gets an engagement ring. And if she still holds a candle for an ex, she keeps it somewhere safe and hidden where her husband won’t find it.”
“If that’s true,” Serrano said, “it could mean Drummond started dating Isabelle Robles before he claims he did in his court filings.”
“Why does that matter?” Tally said.
“Because in his divorce proceedings from Constance Wright,” Serrano said, “Nicholas Drummond received spousal support to the tune of $100,000 a month. He only actually married Isabelle Robles two years ago. Which means there was a period where Drummond may have been dating Isabelle Robles while still raking in $100,000 a month from Constance. So if they were dating for a year, that adds up to . . .”
“One point two million dollars,” Rachel said.
Tally whistled. “If a spouse engages in illicit sexual behavior prior to a legal separation, a court can bar postseparation alimony. If the court knew that Drummond was in a relationship with Isabelle Robles, who has her own money, there’s no way they award Drummond that kind of spousal support. So he hid his relationship with Isabelle to make sure he got paid.”
“If I was Constance,” Rachel said, “and I found out that my ex-husband started dating his rich, practically teenage girlfriend while we were still legally married, and he then took me for a million two under false pretenses, I’d be pretty pissed off. I’d demand he give that money back. With interest. And maybe I’d murder him, too, just for kicks.”
Tally said, “So if Constance did find out and demanded the money back, why wouldn’t Drummond just get it from his new wife? Seems like she could afford it.”
Rachel said, “Nicholas Drummond married a political star, then left her in ruins and married a rich heiress. He’s been indebted to women his whole life. Asking his current wife for a million dollars to pay off his ex-wife would be tantamount to cutting off his dick and flushing it down the toilet.”
“You’re suggesting he’d kill someone before impugning his masculinity,” Tally said, incredulously.
“You ever meet a man?” Rachel replied. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
Serrano looked at Tally and said, “A million two is a heck of a motive for Drummond to not want Constance Wright around anymore.”
Tally replied, “Or it’s possible Isabelle bought that hat herself, got drunk, pulled the tag out, and this is all speculative BS.”
Rachel said, “Detective Tally, you saw how she straightened my shoes in the foyer. That house looks like Mary Poppins floats down from heaven and dusts everything twice a day.”
“Still doesn’t prove anything,” Tally said.
“It might prove that Nicholas Drummond lied to save himself a million bucks,” Rachel said.
“Isabelle Robles is loaded,” Tally said. “Why risk so much for one point two mil?”
“Hedging his bets, perhaps,” Serrano said. “He couldn’t be sure he’d marry Isabelle. And even if he was, she probably has a prenup forged by the greatest lawyers money can buy. He’d need cash of his own if the marriage went south.”
“Maybe Isabelle knew about the settlement money, maybe not,” Rachel said. “She was probably happy to stick her head in the sand. But like your partner said, Detective Tally, bilking Constance for one point two million is a pretty good motive for Nicholas Drummond to want something bad to happen to her. Now your job is to prove it.”
“You’re right,” Serrano said. “That’s our job. Not yours.”
“If you two did your job, you wouldn’t need me,” Rachel said. Tally stepped forward, fists clenched. Serrano gently took his partner’s arm, held her back.
“You don’t know the first thing about what we do,” Tally said. “You snoop around some closets, and suddenly you think you know how to investigate a homicide? We’ve seen more in one night than you will in your lifetime.”
“You don’t know me,” Rachel said.
“And I don’t want to,” Tally said. “Go home, Ms. Marin.”
Rachel glared at Serrano. Then at Tally. She said, “A woman lost her life because no one cared enough to help her. I’m tired of seeing people slip through the cracks. A life was broken, and now you’re just cleaning up the mess. Even if you do your jobs correctly, which is the mother of all ifs, you never should have let her break in the first place.”
“What do you have against the police?” Tally said.
“The same thing I have against genital herpes.”
“We’ll say it once more,” Serrano said, “Go home, Ms. Marin.”
“Find whoever did this,” Rachel said.
“You don’t give us orders,” Serrano said.
“It’s not an order, Detective, it’s a cry for help. I want to make sure someone is fighting for Constance Wright.”
“We are fighting for her,” Serrano replied.
“Easy to say that after the fact.”
“You can’t investigate a crime before it happens,” Serrano said, “and you can’t always prevent someone’s pain.”
“Pain is almost always preventable,” Rachel said, her voice solemn. “I hope it doesn’t take either of you losing someone you love to realize that, Detectives. Neither of you know the first thing about loss. Maybe one day you will.”
When Rachel finished speaking, she saw Serrano’s face turn ashen. The light left his eyes. His arms fell to his sides. Rachel knew she’d struck a nerve, crossed a line she didn’t know was there. She immediately wished she could take the comment back.
Serrano turned around, wa
lked to the car, and got in. Tally looked at Rachel with a mixture of disgust and disappointment on her face.
Tally said. “It’s getting late. I’m sure your children would like to see their mother. Know that she’s there for them.”
Tally got into the car, and the detectives drove off, leaving Rachel standing in the icy Drummond driveway alone. At that moment, Rachel realized how cold she was. She looked back at the house. Christopher Robles was staring at her from an open upstairs window. She wondered how much of the conversation he’d heard and why he was watching her. Even though she couldn’t quite understand why, she felt tremendous guilt for what she’d said to Serrano.
For the first time, Rachel noticed that night had fallen over Ashby. Snowflakes gently drifted around her, beautiful in the evening glow. She checked her watch. Felt her heart clench. She was supposed to have been home an hour ago. She looked at her phone. There were four missed calls from Iris. Rachel felt frustration and rage well up in her chest as she ran to her car, the cold wind freezing a stream of tears on her cheeks.
The car felt like a tomb. Serrano hadn’t said a word since they’d left the Drummond residence. The silence unnerved Tally. Not the quiet itself. Lord knew she sometimes relished a respite from all of Serrano’s talk about books full of goblins and magic. But the reason behind the quiet ate at her. As soon as the Marin woman had said those words—Neither of you know the first thing about loss—she had felt Serrano withdraw. Eight years since that night, and the wounds still hadn’t healed. She knew they probably never would. The silence worried her. She’d seen the man’s darkness. And she knew it had never fully lifted.
Tally would head home to her family and spend the night in bed, warm, next to her loving wife. Serrano would spend the night in a cold, empty house, alone.
Tally’s wife, Claire Wallace, was ten years her senior. Claire had been married previously, to a man, and had given birth to three wonderful children. Claire and Tally met eighteen months after the divorce, on a blind date of all things, and they both fell hard. It was not an easy situation for Tally. Claire’s children were struggling mightily with the split and their mother’s coming-out. Their father was a good man—even Claire admitted that—and for a long time they struggled to forgive their mother. Detective Tally had the ignominy of being Claire Wallace’s first girlfriend. At first, the children hated her. Refused to speak to her. But over time, the wounds from the divorce healed, and the children began to accept Claire’s new life. And began to accept Leslie Tally.