by Jason Pinter
“I need to get back to my children,” she said. “They have school.”
“We’ll have eyes on them throughout the day,” Serrano said. “You don’t need to worry.”
Rachel laughed nervously. “Let me ask you a question, Detective. How did those news vans get to the scene of Constance Wright’s murder so quickly the other night?”
“I don’t follow.”
“That night, you gave a statement to the media at two in the morning. A bunch of news trucks were already on-scene. Weird, right?”
Serrano could see where she was going with this.
“So how’d they know a woman had died? How’d they get to the scene so fast? It wasn’t dumb luck. My guess is their producers got tips from people in your department. Look at me and tell me I’m wrong.”
Serrano’s silence answered the question.
“So . . . let’s say there’s a cop or two in your precinct,” Rachel continued. “A deputy a little down on his luck. A watch commander getting cleaned out by her husband’s divorce attorneys. Isabelle Robles offers them some money. Real money, for information about the woman who put buckshot in her brother. Can you promise me they’ll say no?”
“It’s not your fault Robles is dead,” Serrano said.
“It’s my fault he was in the hospital to begin with.”
“Robles was a candle. Only a matter of time before he burned out.”
Rachel nodded. “Thanks, Detective. For apparently being one of the good ones.”
She walked back toward her room. Serrano followed her.
“These cops are good people,” Serrano said.
“Not all of them,” Rachel said. She opened the hotel room door. Eric was upside down on the bed, holding an iPad above him. Megan was crab-walking toward him, holding a pair of scissors, a mischievous grin on her face.
“Kids! Let’s go!”
They both popped up. Had Rachel waited thirty more seconds, Eric would have likely left for school missing either a lock of hair or an ear.
They grabbed their backpacks, jackets, hats, and gloves and trundled outside. Rachel grabbed her coat as well.
“Ms. Marin,” Serrano said. She held back a moment while her kids walked ahead. She turned toward Serrano.
“Find out who killed Constance Wright,” she said. “And Christopher Robles. Put them in jail or in the ground. That’s the only way I’ll know my kids are safe.”
The Marin family got in their car and drove off. Serrano took out his cell phone and dialed.
“This is Lowe.”
“Derek, it’s Serrano.”
“What’s up, Detective?”
“Who else knows where we’re keeping Rachel Marin?”
“Just you, me, Tally, Chen, Lieutenant George, and the watch commander.”
Serrano nodded. All people he could trust.
“Keep it that way.”
“Everything OK?”
“Yeah. Just don’t have a great feeling about all of this. Keep all information on the Marin family close to the vest. I don’t want anything happening to her or her kids.”
“You got it, Detective.”
Serrano hung up. He went back to the Crown Vic and climbed into the passenger seat.
“Let’s go talk to Sam Wickersham,” Tally said. “Find out why Constance Wright called the guy who helped break up her marriage and ruined her life.”
Serrano replied, “I spoke to the leasing office for the management company he rents from. Let’s just say Mr. Wickersham is living slightly above his means.”
Tally smiled as they turned onto the freeway.
But as they prepared to question Constance Wright’s alleged former lover, two things gnawed at Serrano.
First: he felt deep down that there was a connection between Christopher Robles’s death and Constance Wright’s murder. Second: he wasn’t entirely convinced that Rachel Marin wasn’t somehow involved in both.
CHAPTER 19
Samuel J. Wickersham lived in a condo complex on East Oakland Avenue in an upscale neighborhood just a ten-minute walk from Velos Strategies, the political consulting company where he had been employed since testifying to a prior affair with Constance Wright. Wickersham was twenty-seven years old, with shoulder-length black hair tied in a ratty ponytail, a thin face with high cheekbones, and skin so smooth and pale that Serrano wondered whether he’d ever shaved a day in his life.
He was skinny but not in shape and wore a white T-shirt just tight enough that a small belly protruded over his gray pajama bottoms. His three-bedroom apartment was modern and well furnished with a glass-topped round dining room table with four wooden upholstered chairs, a brown leather sofa, and several pieces of ornately framed artwork hanging on the walls.
A pair of walnut bookshelves bracketed a sixty-inch LCD television, packed end to end with books. Serrano, always drawn to bookshelves, went to check them out. A cursory look told him that none of the books had had so much as their spines cracked. And curiously, Wickersham seemed to own only copies of canonical titles. Nothing contemporary. They could have been the bookshelves of an English lit major who’d never been to class.
Middlemarch, Anna Karenina, Ulysses, Lolita, The Tin Drum, The Sound and the Fury, Brideshead Revisited.
In fact, Serrano was reasonably sure that Wickersham had simply printed out the Modern Library Top 100 and ordered a copy of each title. This wasn’t a bookshelf owned by someone who liked to read but someone who wanted people to think he liked to read. To Serrano, there were few greater sins. Maybe homicide. But that was debatable.
Two years ago, Samuel J. Wickersham, at the time a volunteer canvasser, had testified in open court that he’d carried on a ten-month sexual relationship with then mayor Constance Wright. He produced text messages, emails, and explicit photographs traded between them. Wright denied every word of it but couldn’t explain the dozens of outgoing calls and messages sent from her phone to his. Wright had left office in disgrace, a punch line. Wickersham had trundled off and taken a cushy job with Velos.
Serrano had to mask his contempt as he and Tally stood in Wickersham’s apartment.
Wickersham went into the kitchen and scooped coffee into a drip machine. “Can I make you guys a cup?” he said.
“No,” replied Serrano.
“Sure,” said Tally.
Tally’s response seemed to surprise Wickersham, but he tossed an extra two scoops into the filter. He took a gallon of Poland Spring from the fridge and used it to fill the tank, pressed “On,” and turned back to the detectives.
“I don’t have any doughnuts,” Wickersham said. He was met with silence. “You know. Coffee and doughnuts. Isn’t that a cop thing?”
“I prefer croissants,” Tally said.
“Danishes,” said Serrano.
“Right,” Wickersham said. “So what can I do for you, Detectives?”
“Obviously you know that Constance Wright died the other night,” Tally said.
“I heard,” Wickersham said. He didn’t appear to be too beat up about it. “She was killed, right?”
“Appears so,” Serrano said. Wickersham pulled a metal stool from under the granite countertop and sat down. “Obviously you two had a history.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Wickersham looked at the coffee maker as though hoping it had miraculously brewed in the thirty seconds since he’d turned it on. “That’s exactly what it is. History. I’ve moved on. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Nobody said you did,” Serrano said. “By the way, this is a nice place. What do you pay in rent?”
“Scuse me?” Wickersham said.
“Rent. What do you pay?”
“I don’t know. Three grand a month. Why does that matter?”
“Try fifty-one hundred a month,” Tally said. Wickersham looked up from the coffee maker.
“What’s your point?”
“Point is,” Serrano said. “We checked the FEC records for your time at the mayor’s office. Lucky for
us you were a government employee, so your salary is a matter of public record. You were making thirty-seven grand a year. Before taxes.”
Wickersham turned back to the coffee maker, seemingly trying to will it to finish brewing. “Stupid thing takes forever,” he said. He looked at Serrano. “Did you say you did or didn’t want a cup?”
“I prefer iced,” he said.
“It’s twenty degrees outside,” replied Wickersham.
“Coffee tastes better when it’s frosty.”
“We spoke to other employees at Velos,” Tally said. “Do you know a woman named Adeline Bowers? She’s your age. Been there five years. Started a month before you. Do you know her?”
“Of course,” Wickersham said. “Adeline works in the office next to mine. Boyfriend is always coming by to take her to lunch. Sends her flowers, like, every other week. I mean, some people just don’t act professional.”
“You really have it out for her,” Serrano said.
“It’s nothing personal,” Wickersham said, in a tone of voice that made it sound very personal. “I mean, don’t you hate when people can’t keep their personal and professional lives separate? It’s gross. Like, this is a place of work, right?”
“Sure,” Serrano said.
“And I don’t need my desk smelling like whatever hooker scent she decided to wear that day.”
Tally’s eyes widened. “Hooker scent?”
“Just, it’s overpowering is all I meant. I have sensitive nostrils.”
“Sensitive nostrils,” Tally said. “That’s a first.”
Serrano said, “Ms. Bowers told us she makes sixty-four grand a year. She seems like a smart and ambitious woman. She even wants to open up her own consulting firm down the road.”
“And?”
“And if she’s making sixty-four grand a year and seems to have far better people skills than you, I have to ask: What do you pull down a year, Sam?”
“None of your business,” he said.
Tally said, “No way you’re clearing more than sixty, sixty-five grand a year.”
Serrano added, “I can tell from your reaction that’s on the high end.”
“So what?” Wickersham said.
“So you’re on the hook for over sixty grand a year in rent alone. So, after taxes, you must be running at quite a loss.”
“I have money,” Wickersham said. “In savings.”
“That right?” Serrano said. “Where’d that money come from?”
“An inheritance,” he said, with just enough of a pause between the two words so that all three of them knew he was lying.
“Oh yeah? Who died?”
“My . . . aunt.”
“On which side?”
“Mom’s,” he said quickly.
“When did she die?”
“Last year.” Again, too quickly.
“Last year,” Tally said. “So how did you afford the apartment when you first moved in?”
“I meant she died five years ago,” Wickersham said. The coffee maker beeped. Wickersham poured himself half a cup, filled the rest with half-and-half, and then added two Splendas. He sipped it and grimaced.
“Too hot?” Serrano said. Wickersham shook his head and took another sip.
“What was your aunt’s name?” Tally asked.
“Why do you want to know?”
“I’m making a collage of the Wickersham family tree for a class project,” Serrano said. “Now what. Was. Her. Name.”
Wickersham opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He looked from Serrano to Tally and back. His eyes were despondent, his confidence evaporated.
“What do you want from me?” Wickersham asked. His voice had changed. Fear dripped from it.
“Constance Wright called you the day she died,” Serrano said. “We cross-checked her phone records against yours. In fact, she had called you eight times over the past three weeks.”
“We want to know why,” Tally said.
“I never spoke to her,” Wickersham said. He put his coffee on the counter, placed his palms on the granite, and took a deep breath. “She kept calling and calling, but I never picked up.”
Tally said. “Why didn’t you want to speak to her? You two had a thing, right? You’re single, she’s single . . .”
“How do you know I’m single?” Wickersham said.
“There’s a condom in your change dish by the door, Romeo,” Tally said. “You show me a girlfriend who isn’t suspicious of that, and I’ll show you an imaginary girlfriend. So why didn’t you want to speak to Constance?”
“I had nothing to say to Ms. Wright,” Wickersham said. Serrano noted the respectful way he addressed her. Ms. Wright.
“She obviously had something to say to you. And we think we know what it was,” Serrano said.
Wickersham looked up at Serrano. Even he was curious.
“I think she wanted her money back,” Serrano said. “I think you were paid, and paid well, to lie about having an affair with Constance Wright. You brand her an adulterer, a drunk, maybe plant a bottle of booze where a photographer can get a shot of it, and she subsequently gets annihilated in her divorce settlement and ends up resigning from office. Everybody wins.”
“Except the dead woman,” Tally said, “and her child.”
Wickersham’s jaw dropped. He studied Serrano’s and Tally’s faces to see if they were serious. Serrano nodded.
“That’s right. She was pregnant when she died.”
He stammered, “I . . . I didn’t know. It’s not mine, I swear to God.”
Serrano looked at the kid. Nobody was that good of an actor. He believed him.
“Maybe it wasn’t your kid,” Serrano said, “maybe it was. We’ll need you to submit a DNA sample to confirm paternity or lack thereof. Will you submit to one?”
“Yes, in a second, yes,” Wickersham said. “What do I need to do?”
Serrano eyed Tally. They were thinking the same thing. If Wickersham thought there was any chance he was the father of Constance Wright’s unborn child, there’s no way he’d offer to submit to a DNA test without a fight.
Tally took a red plastic bag labeled “Buccal Swab Kit” and tore open the top. She removed a pair of latex gloves, two swabs, and a small plastic tube. She slipped the gloves on, opened the tube, and told Wickersham, “Say aah.”
He opened his mouth, and Tally collected the sample. Then she put the swab in the plastic tube, screwed the top back on, and placed it in the plastic bag.
Both she and Serrano knew it would come back negative.
“We’re going to subpoena your bank account statements,” Tally said. “I’m going to personally review every single penny that’s come in and out of your accounts for the last ten years. And by that look on your face, we both know there’s going to be money you can’t account for legally. So let’s stop pretending. You didn’t bring down Constance Wright by yourself. So who helped you? If you’ll be a good boy and talk to us, you might not spend the next twenty years of your life making license plates.”
“Let’s start with the text messages,” Serrano said. His voice was soft, nonjudgmental. Now he wanted Wickersham to feel comfortable. “In court, there were texts between you and Constance.”
“They cloned her cell phone,” Wickersham said resignedly. He’d placed his hands behind his head, interlaced his fingers, and started to pace around the room. “They wrote up a script. Almost like a movie. They would send me texts from the cloned phone, and I responded on mine.”
“There were records of you paying for hotel rooms around Ashby,” Tally said.
“I’d rent a room out every now and then, just so they’d have a credit card receipt of me being there. And the desk clerks could testify that they’d seen me.” Wickersham looked up. “Everyone figured, Why the hell would this kid rent a hotel room for no reason? They just assumed I was telling the truth because—”
“It was a great story,” Tally said. “The mayor and the coffee boy.”
“S
crew you, man; I wasn’t a coffee boy,” Wickersham shouted. “I was good at my job. It was just . . . I was making thirty-seven grand a year. My parents have lived in the same crummy house for forty years. I don’t have a ‘rich aunt.’ You know what thirty-seven grand buys you in Ashby? Three roommates and ramen for dinner.”
“It’s called paying your dues,” Serrano said. “I made fifteen five my first year on the force.”
“Well, good for you,” Wickersham said, dripping sarcasm. “I wanted a life.”
“So you stole someone else’s,” Tally said.
“That’s not true. Besides, after what her family did? They’re all crooks.” Then Wickersham grew concerned. “Wait, are you going to tell my boss about all this?”
“Your boss?” Tally said, laughing. “You’re worried about your job? Kid, you might spend the next few years of your life in prison.”
“No . . . ,” Wickersham said. “I . . . I can’t do that.”
“So tell us. Who paid you to be their patsy?” Serrano said. “Somebody wanted Constance Wright cleaned out and embarrassed. Who?”
Wickersham shook his head. “I feel like I need a lawyer.”
“If you’re guilty,” Tally said, “then sure. Call your lawyer. We want to know who killed Constance Wright. Where were you the night she died?”
“I was here,” he said, eyes level, deadly serious. “But I’ll swear on a Bible that I had nothing to do with it.”
“I’m not sure if God would be the best character witness for you. If you didn’t kill her, help us find who did. Make this right. You owe her.”
Wickersham went around the counter and removed his cell phone from a charging pad. He spent several minutes scrolling, then returned to the detectives. “Here you go.”
Serrano leaned in and looked at the screen, where Wickersham’s Contacts list was visible.
“Mr. X?” Serrano looked up, incredulous. “Seriously?”
“I never got a name,” Wickersham said. “So I called him Mr. X. He contacted me about a year before it all went down. From this number. Whoever it was knew everything about me. Everything. Knew my parents’ names, where they lived. That my dad had his hip replaced. That my mom likes pistachio ice cream. Hell, they knew I had a cocker spaniel named Titus growing up. It scared me half to death. They made it clear that if I didn’t cooperate, something bad would happen to me or my family.”