by Jason Pinter
Tally looked at Serrano, annoyance on her face. Serrano sighed.
“She saw Robles on the news. He was at the bridge the night Constance Wright died, standing among the onlookers. Then she saw Robles at the presser, too, got suspicious, and followed him. We all happened to arrive at the Drummond residence simultaneously. She made up a story on the spot in front of Drummond about being an Ashby PD ‘forensic consultant.’ Had we blown up her story and sent her home, Drummond would have immediately been suspicious and lawyered up. It might have been our only good crack at him. We made a judgment call.”
“Your judgment call nearly got her killed last night. And she put a bullet in a suspect’s brother-in-law.”
“To be fair, Lieutenant,” Tally said, “Robles has a long rap sheet. He didn’t need any pushing to do something stupid.”
“Maybe so. But this investigation is operating under a microscope. Cable news is dredging up all the old Wright family scandals; we’ve had more press requests in the last twenty-four hours than I’ve seen in my career. We need to keep this ship tight. If Marin doesn’t back off, arrest her for interfering with the investigation. The last thing we need is some loose cannon thinking she’s the star of a police TV show showing up at crime scenes and badgering witnesses or suspects. She does it again, lock her up.”
“Sir, with all due respect, someone tried to kill Rachel Marin last night. She has two young children. We throw a single mom in prison right after an armed gunman broke into her home, the press is going to eat us alive.”
George considered this. “Fine. But it’s on you two to make sure she stays away from this case and away from the press.”
“Done and done,” Tally said.
“We were just on our way over to Mackenzie North to question Christopher Robles,” Serrano said.
“Then you’d better bring a priest with you,” George said. “Mackenzie North just called over. Christopher Robles died this morning.”
CHAPTER 17
The hospital morgue was located in the basement of Mackenzie North, a gorgeous four-wing medical center with one of the best cardiology and NICU centers in the country. After Christopher Robles had been shot, Isabelle Drummond had been notified of his injuries by the Ashby PD watch commander. She’d insisted her brother be operated on at Mackenzie North, despite the Lovett-Hewes Hospital being fifteen minutes closer to the Marin residence. Given that the Robles family had donated over $100,000 to hospital charities over the years, they’d been more than happy to acquiesce to her demands.
Serrano couldn’t say he blamed Isabelle. Mackenzie North had the best trauma unit within a hundred miles. If he was wounded on duty, he’d want to be taken there.
So the question was, How did a man admitted to such a renowned medical center without a life-threatening injury wind up dead twelve hours later?
Serrano and Tally drove to the hospital in silence. Strong gusts from the northeast had brought the windchill factor down to four degrees. Ashby looked frostbitten, moving in slow motion. Puffy coats and thick gloves, scarves and hats covering ears and mouths and noses. The city looked anonymous and bleak.
Upon arriving at the hospital, the detectives took the elevator down to the morgue level and were met by two attendants. One ME, Stevens, was thirtyish and pale and suffered from a bad case of rosacea; another, Krish, was a fiftysomething Indian man with a firm handshake and kind eyes. Krish offered the detectives masks and gloves, which they put on.
“Thank you for coming, Detectives,” Krish said. “He’s this way.”
Krish led them to an examining room with three metal tables side by side. Robles lay naked on the middle table. The air was thick with the sickly-sweet scent of antiseptic and death. Every surface gleamed. Harsh overhead lights gave the dead man’s body a grotesquely illuminated sheen.
Robles was even thinner than Serrano remembered, his body all angles. His rib cage looked like twigs covered by tissue paper. His collarbones protruded from his torso like the ends of a coat hanger. And Serrano could have fit a golf ball into the hollows of his cheeks. His skin was covered in thin scars and cheap tattoos that had already begun to fade despite his young age.
Serrano circled the body. He noted track marks on Robles’s arms and between his toes. A large putrid abscess had formed in the crook of Robles’s right elbow. Serrano leaned in, took a whiff, and recoiled.
“Sepsis,” he said, stepping back. “A few more months without treatment, and Robles would have needed his arm amputated.”
“His record might have been clean recently,” Tally added, “but Chris knew how to keep his extracurricular activities under wraps.”
“Or his sister did,” Serrano said.
“Mortuary van is on the way,” Krish said. “Cause of death was a pulmonary embolism. You need to know there was nothing in Christopher Robles’s medical history regarding the extent of his recent drug use. But as you can plainly see, his usage had been long, and it had been frequent, and it was ongoing.”
“You think there were complications postsurgery due to the long-term effects?” Serrano said.
“No doubt,” Stevens said. “I’m sure the autopsy will confirm it. Sepsis had already set in. See that abscess?” Stevens pointed to the green-and-black wound on Robles’s arm. “No doubt blood poisoning had already begun to develop. We pumped him full of antibiotics, but this infection should have been treated a long time ago.”
“Look at the scars,” Stevens said, pointing to the marks on Robles’s arms. “Those are years old. That kind of long-term usage, you develop thrombosis, tuberculosis, bacterial infections, you name it.”
“I’ll request his full medical records,” Serrano said. “We can get HIPAA waived given that Robles was the suspect in a crime.”
“I still don’t understand. Why in the hell wouldn’t all this be in his charts?” Krish said.
Tally looked at Serrano. They both knew Robles had spent time in rehab. No doubt his stints in prison had come with trips to the medical wing.
Tally said, “Pretty sure I can guess.”
Tally parked the Crown Vic at the curb in front of the Drummond residence. Snow fell into trenches where the streets had been recently plowed. The lawn outside the Drummond house looked lovely covered in a blanket of fresh powder. It brought back difficult memories for Serrano: sledding and snowmen and hot chocolate. Memories that, no matter how hard he tried, he was unable to suppress.
They began to trudge up the driveway when Nicholas Drummond came barreling out the front door, waving his arms like he was signaling a plane on a runway.
“No, Detectives,” he said. “Turn around. Not today.”
“We need to speak to your wife,” Serrano said. “I know emotions are running high, and our hearts go out to you both. But we need her to come to the hospital, and then we need to ask her a few questions.”
Tally added, “Christopher’s medical records were wiped clean of his recent substance issues. Meaning someone had them expunged.”
“And you think it was Isabelle,” Drummond said, his voice laced with anger and confusion, as though he hadn’t considered the possibility but was now forced to. Drummond came down the steps and lowered his voice. “Listen, this isn’t a good time. Chris was . . . I can’t say I ever knew the kid all that well. But to my wife, he was the most precious thing on earth. She doesn’t need this right now.”
“I’m sympathetic to that, Mr. Drummond,” Serrano said. “But Christopher was in police custody after breaking into someone’s home while armed and with intent to harm. This isn’t a courtesy call. We need to talk to your wife about her brother.”
Then a voice rang out: “You did this to him.”
Serrano and Tally both looked up. Isabelle Drummond was standing in the doorway, her eyes streaked with red. Her face was not marked with anger but hate. Pure hate.
“Mrs. Drummond,” Tally said. “We are so sorry for your loss. If we can just take a minute of your time—”
“You already too
k some of my time, and now my brother is dead. Maybe if you take more time, you can kill my husband too. Maybe me? You goddamn murderers.”
“Mrs. Drummond,” Serrano said. He took a step forward.
“Take one more step, I’ll consider you trespassing, and I’ll get my gun,” Isabelle said. Serrano couldn’t tell if she was serious.
“Please don’t threaten us, Mrs. Drummond,” Tally said. “We understand this is a difficult time. It doesn’t need to come to this.”
“You came here to talk to my husband about that bitch ex-wife of his. And you bring, who, that strange woman with you? And then I find out that she’s not even a real cop? What was it, some sort of fun ride along? Did you feel sorry for her and her two sad, fatherless children?”
Fatherless children? Serrano’s eyes narrowed. Clearly Isabelle had done some digging into Rachel Marin. Which made him wonder whether Christopher really had acted of his own accord.
“The sooner we talk to you,” Tally said, “the sooner we can find out why your brother is dead.”
“My brother is dead because of you and that woman. You’re lucky you’re police. You have all your buddies to protect you. I know how it works. You take in a suspect, he dies in your custody, you wipe your hands of it.”
“That’s not the case,” Serrano pleaded. “We want to know the truth.”
“The truth is that I’m not saying another word to you without my lawyer present. And that Marin bitch had better keep her loved ones closer than I did. You never know what could happen to someone when you think they’re safe.”
Isabelle went back into the house, leaving the door open. A signal that she expected her husband to join her. Nicholas sighed and said, “I’m sorry, Detectives. Our lawyer will be in touch.”
He turned around to join his wife.
“Please, just one question, Mr. Drummond,” Serrano said. Drummond turned around. “When did you really begin dating Isabelle Robles?”
Drummond said nothing, hesitated a moment, and then went inside and slammed the door. A shelf of snow loosened from the roof and tumbled to the ground.
CHAPTER 18
Tally pulled the Crown Vic into the parking lot of the Best Western as Serrano finished the last dregs of his now-cold coffee. Serrano saw the unmarked police car parked at the other end of the lot. They walked over and rapped on the driver’s side window. Officer Lowe rolled it down and offered a tired smile. Lowe and Chen appeared to be sleepy but lucid.
“Detectives,” Lowe said.
“Any action last night?” Serrano asked. Lowe shook his head.
“Nothing. Lights went out at 11:36, came on just a few minutes ago.”
“Getting the kids ready for school,” Serrano said. “Any sign of Isabelle or Nicholas Drummond?”
“Nothing,” Chen added. Serrano leaned over, saw half a dozen coffee cups, three Red Bulls, an empty bag of Twizzlers, two hamburger wrappers, and a box of Nerds littered beneath Chen’s seat. Serrano smiled. He remembered the joys of pulling all-nighters.
“I didn’t even know they still made Nerds,” Serrano said. “Aren’t they basically just flavored sugar lumps?”
“And they’re delicious,” Chen said. “Only downside is that my tongue feels like the underside of a carpet. I’ve never needed to brush my teeth so badly.”
“Go home; get some rest,” Serrano said. “I’m going to check on them. The kids have school, and I’ll keep an eye on Ms. Marin if need be.”
“You sure?” Lowe said.
“Please, for our sake, go shower,” Tally added, holding her nose. “And throw all this crap away. You’re gonna start attracting fruit flies.”
Lowe nodded. They pulled out of the lot and headed south on Lakeland.
“Give me a minute with Rachel,” Serrano said to Tally. She nodded, content to stay in the heated Crown Vic.
Serrano showed the desk clerk his badge and went up to Rachel Marin’s room.
He thought about what Isabelle Drummond had said. It unnerved Serrano. Not just her words, but the emotion behind them. The anger. Nothing in this world was more dangerous than someone with means and a grudge.
He still couldn’t figure out why Rachel hadn’t hid in the basement with her children. Police were on the way. Ninety-nine out of a hundred people would have headed for safety. But Rachel confronted Robles with a shotgun. She was smart. She knew there was a strong chance the confrontation would end in blood. He recalled what Rachel had said at the station, and it gave him chills.
I had to put him down to make sure he’d be put away.
He knocked on the door and said, “Ms. Marin? It’s Detective Serrano.”
“Hold on!”
He heard a commotion from behind the door and a young girl shrieking.
“Eric, what did I tell you about pulling your sister’s hair?” Serrano smiled. “And Megan, your dirty clothes do not belong in Eric’s backpack.”
“But Moooooom,” came a young girl’s voice, “Eric said he wanted my underwear and socks in his backpack.”
“I did not, you little monster!”
“You, Megan, finish getting dressed. Eric, you . . . go play a warfare brigade game or something.”
“My computer is at home, and the Wi-Fi here sucks.”
“I know. We’ll be home soon. Just grin and bear it for now. Please.”
“What does grin and bear it mean?” Megan said. “Is there really a bear in here?”
“No, sweetie,” Rachel said. “It’s a figure of speech.”
“What’s a speech figure?”
“It’s . . . ugh. I’ll explain later. Just finish getting ready.”
Finally Rachel opened the door. She wore a shiny blue work shirt tucked into a gray skirt. Her brown hair was tied in a slightly unkempt ponytail. Her makeup was uneven, and there were small clumps of mascara caked on her lashes. She looked frazzled, harried, overwhelmed, and weirdly enough, kind of cute. Serrano coughed and pointed to her collar, where only one button was fastened. Rachel fixed it.
“Thanks, Detective.”
He could see Megan in the background twirling around a pair of what appeared to be boys’ athletic socks, which she then threw at her brother’s head as he sat in a chair tapping on an iPad. Rachel looked back into the room and let out an exasperated sigh.
“It’s hard enough when we’re in our own home and I have a handle on things,” Rachel said. “Living out of a suitcase and sharing a bathroom with two quarrelsome devils? Forget it.”
“Need me to throw them into solitary confinement for a little while?” Serrano asked.
“Actually, that sounds wonderful. Maybe for a year or two.”
Serrano said, “I could just keep them in the holding cells for a few days. Bet the drunks and hookers would scare them straight.”
“I may take you up on that,” she said. “So what can I do for you, Detective?”
“Just came to check on you and the kids. Last night could have gone another way. I’m glad it didn’t.”
“Me too,” Rachel said.
“So how are you all holding up?”
Rachel shrugged. “Kids are acting out. Hopefully we can get home soon and get them back into the routine where my son barely speaks to me and my daughter works on becoming the next Sue Grafton.”
“We’re moving as fast as we can. So far your story checks out. That will speed things up.”
“It will check out,” Rachel said. “It was clean and justified.”
Serrano nodded. He toed the floor.
“There’s one more thing,” Serrano said. “Christopher Robles is dead.”
Rachel’s eyes grew wide, and her mouth opened slightly. She looked back inside the hotel room.
“Hey, kids, give me a minute. Try not to set anything on fire.”
She stepped out of the hotel room and closed the door. Serrano motioned for her to follow him. They walked to a small alcove down the hall with a pair of vending machines.
“How did he die?” Rachel
said. “I shot him in the shoulder. It was a nonlethal wound. I could have cut his spinal cord in half, but I didn’t because I wanted him to live.”
“I know,” Serrano said quietly. “It wasn’t you.”
“So, what? Complications during surgery? Did a doctor screw up?”
“We don’t know for sure,” Serrano said. “But he suffered a pulmonary embolism postsurgery. It’s not uncommon in intravenous drug users, since their veins are often shot to hell to begin with.”
Rachel pinched the bridge of her nose. “Isabelle. She’s going to blame me.” She looked at Serrano. His facial expression didn’t change. “She already said something, didn’t she?”
“We’ve made it clear to Mrs. Drummond that her brother was about to be booked on charges of breaking and entering, trespassing, and attempted murder. Whatever happened to him, he brought on himself.”
“Look at me, Detective,” Rachel said. “Do you think she believes that?”
Serrano hesitated, then said, “No, I don’t.”
“Shit shit shit,” Rachel said. “My children . . . Robles was at the bridge the night Constance died,” Rachel said. “And he was at the press conference. Somebody else knows that besides me. Somebody wanted him dead.”
“We don’t know Robles’s death was a homicide,” Serrano said.
“Yes you do,” Rachel said. “You just can’t say it yet.”
“You’ll have protection twenty-four seven until we can establish there are no threats,” Serrano said. “We had two officers in the parking lot all night last night watching the hotel. You’re safe.”
“Thank you,” she said. “He was there for a reason. Robles. At the press conference. He was scared of something he saw that night at the bridge.”
“If you were right about the money Drummond swindled from Constance Wright, and Robles knew about it, he might have thought he was protecting his sister and her husband. Not the most logical thing to do, but Robles had a mother of a rap sheet. He didn’t really have a tendency to do the smart thing.”
Rachel paced back and forth. Serrano could sense her mind was racing. She was scared. And based on his somewhat limited knowledge of Rachel Marin, Serrano couldn’t be confident that she would do the smart thing either.