Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller)

by Jason Pinter

  They needed to know who, exactly, was behind Albatross. Because whoever set up the fake company was willing to spend a whole lot of money to ruin Constance Wright’s life. And if they were willing to ruin her life, Serrano bet they’d be inclined to go a step further and take it as well. He was hoping J&J Accounting would have more information on Albatross. Leasing records. Signatures.

  Follow the money. Between the nearly half a million dollars Sam Wickersham had received and the $1.2 million Nicholas Drummond had received in spousal support, it had taken less than $2 million to utterly destroy Constance Wright. Or the annual salary of a mediocre baseball relief pitcher.

  Tally buzzed J&J from an intercom in the lobby vestibule. A woman answered.

  “J&J, how can I help you?”

  “Detectives John Serrano and Leslie Tally of the Ashby PD.”

  “Yes, Detectives, Mrs. Givens is expecting you.”

  She buzzed them in, and they took the elevator to the third floor. A rather plump woman with waist-length blonde hair wearing an unflattering floral print frock and too much rouge was waiting for them when the doors opened.

  “Detectives, I’m Anne Weems. Please have a seat. Mrs. Givens will be right with you. Can I get you water? Coffee? Orange juice?”

  They declined and took seats in two overstuffed brown leather chairs in the reception area. Tally picked up a J&J brochure and thumbed through it. Serrano checked his phone. It was a secure connection and encrypted through the department. He had two emails from Pat Connelly: background reports on Nestor Aguillar and Stefanie Steinman. He opened the Aguillar file first and cursed under his breath as he read.

  Nestor Aguillar had been arrested four times: drunk and disorderly in ’09; harassment and public urination in ’11; assault with a deadly weapon in ’12, for which he’d served three years in Pickneyville; and unlicensed possession of a firearm in ’15, which had sent him back to Pickneyville for another year.

  Stefanie Steinman was another matter entirely. She had no criminal record whatsoever, her most egregious offense being a string of unpaid parking tickets back in ’14. She had a concealed carry license and had not racked up a single firearm infraction. She was an eight-year, card-carrying member of the Lock & Stock Riflery Club on Greenwood Avenue in Ashby.

  She had also graduated from Ashby High with honors, then spent three years at Northwestern before dropping out for unknown reasons. This was a smart young woman with seemingly no history of illegal activity beyond parking tickets as well as access to excellent schooling. Her parents were Saul and Lexi Steinman, owners of several car dealerships in Ashby, Galesburg, and Bloomington. They lived in a large Victorian in east Ashby, which they’d purchased in 2001 for $2.4 million.

  So how in the hell had she befriended Christopher Robles and Nestor Aguillar?

  Serrano leaned over and shared the information with Tally.

  “What do you make of it?” he asked.

  “Strange,” Tally said. “Aguillar and Steinman are from two completely different walks of life.”

  “Her parents live in east Ashby,” Serrano said. “Not too far from where Isabelle and Nicholas Drummond live and where Isabelle grew up. Stefanie and Isabelle are of similar ages, grew up in the same neighborhood, and went to the same high school. My guess? Isabelle and Stefanie were friends. Chris and Nestor were friends. And they cross-pollinated.”

  “It would make Steinman and Aguillar loyal to the whole family,” Tally said.

  “Yeah . . . there’s something off with this girl, though.”

  “For some reason, she scares me more than Aguillar. And he’s the one with the record.”

  Serrano shrugged. “The smart ones know how to stay under the radar. But when they decide to make their presence known . . .”

  He let the sentence trail off.

  A tall, slim Asian woman in her early forties came into the reception area wearing a thousand-watt smile. She had straight shoulder-length jet-black hair and wore a smart gray blouse with heels that had probably cost a week’s pay. She walked toward them with long graceful strides, her right hand outstretched for the last five steps. Serrano and Tally stood up and shook her hand.

  “Detectives, I’m Dorothy Givens, CFO of J&J Accounting. Thank you for waiting.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Givens,” Tally said. “We know you’re busy. Thanks for making the time.”

  “Of course. Here, let’s talk in my office.”

  Givens led them down a long hallway with light-blue wallpaper and recessed lighting. Givens had a spacious corner office overlooking a small park with a handball court, a merry-go-round, and an empty kiddie pool. During the summer it must have been a joy to watch children playing, but in the faint light of a cold, bleak December, the park looked empty and sad.

  Givens closed the door behind them and took a seat in an ergonomic desk chair. She motioned for Serrano and Tally to sit.

  “So what can I do for you, Detectives?”

  Serrano began. “To cut to the chase, J&J owns this entire building, is that correct?”

  “We do,” Givens said. She sat back, folded her hands across her lap.

  “But the firm itself only occupies the third floor. You lease out the rest of the office space to other companies.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How much square footage is that, and how many separate offices are there?”

  “In total, we own about four thousand square feet. It can be broken up into various different layouts, depending on the needs of the tenant. Sometimes companies will lease an entire floor, and sometimes they’ll lease a single office.”

  “How much of that space is currently occupied?” Serrano asked.

  “Let me check.” Givens woke her iMac computer from sleep, clicked a few times, and said, “We’re currently leasing space to seven different companies, for a total of twenty-five hundred twenty-five square feet. We have another company whose lease starts next month, but they’re just taking up a single, small, four-hundred-square-foot office.”

  “Presumably you have records of every leasing agreement with your tenants.”

  “We do,” Givens said.

  “We’d like to see records of every tenant agreement from the last seven years, then,” Tally said.

  Givens narrowed her eyes. “May I ask why?”

  “You may,” Tally said. “But suffice it to say we need it as part of an ongoing criminal investigation.”

  “A criminal investigation,” Givens said. “Do I need to bring in our counsel?”

  “That depends,” Serrano said. “As of this moment, we’re only interested in the tenants that may have leased space from you during a specific time frame. If we find any of your tenants were involved in criminal activity, and your firm either leased it to them knowingly or aided and abetted them after the fact, then you might want to lawyer up.”

  “We have nothing to hide,” Givens said. “We file everything with the SEC, and we’ve never been cited for any improper practices. I’ve worked here for eleven years, and I’ve overseen leasing agreements of at least fifty companies in that time. I can assure you that at no point were we aware of any criminal activity. And if any took place without our knowledge, we’ll happily cooperate with law enforcement.”

  “Now you see?” Serrano said, smiling at Tally. “Who says accountants are always pains in the ass?”

  “Actually, I think you’re the one who always says that,” Tally replied.

  “Well, I’m going to make an exception for Mrs. Givens. Or is it Dorothy?”

  “It’s Mrs. Givens.”

  “Right. Mrs. Givens. Let me ask you this: Do you remember a company called Albatross LLC?”

  She tapped her lip with a red manicured nail. “I don’t recall the name and don’t recall ever meeting anyone from the firm.”

  “They were one of your tenants,” Serrano said. “They leased space here about three years ago.”

  “That’s odd,” Givens said. “In that time we’ve onl
y had about ten or so new lessees. I don’t recall ever meeting someone from Albatross. And I make it my business to get to know our tenants.”

  “Does anyone else sign the lease agreements besides you?”

  “No. Although after my son was born, other people at the firm handled leasing arrangements while I was out on maternity leave.”

  Tally said, “We’ll need the names of any J&J employees who had the authority to sign leases for the firm at any point in time.”

  “Absolutely. I know them offhand; there aren’t many. Esther Warren, our vice president. Alphonse Russoti, our managing director. And Caroline Drummond, in management services.”

  Serrano’s eyes went wide. “Caroline . . . Drummond.”

  “That’s right,” she said. “You probably recognize the name because of her brother and the whole mess with his ex-wife, Constance. Say, she died recently, didn’t she? Does this have anything to do with that?”

  Serrano looked at Tally, then said to Givens, “We need to see every leasing agreement signed off on by Caroline Drummond. Now.”

  As they were leaving J&J Accounting, Serrano called Lieutenant George on his cell phone.

  “This is George.”

  “Lieutenant, it’s Serrano.”

  “Detective. What do you have for me?”

  “Get this. Earlier today, we spoke with Sam Wickersham, Constance Wright’s alleged lover, who testified to an affair and helped blow up her marriage and career. Well, turns out Mr. Wickersham may not have been fully forthcoming in his sworn testimony.”

  “How so?”

  “He was paid nearly half a million dollars to create a false affair. Bank records show three payments of a hundred and sixty grand apiece deposited into Wickersham’s Bank of America account. He also claims Wright’s phone was cloned, which is where all those dirty texts on her end came from.”

  “Jesus. Who paid Wickersham off?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting,” Serrano said. “Wickersham never met anybody in person but still has records from the phone calls he received to help him fabricate the allegations. The phone number is registered to an Albatross LLC. There’s just one problem: there is no Albatross LLC. It’s a shell company whose only purpose, it seems, was to provide cover for those payments. Now, we traced the payments to Wickersham from an account in the Cayman Islands. And with their banking laws, it’ll be near impossible to trace those accounts back to anyone.”

  “OK. Tell me you have some good news.”

  “Good and bad. The good news is that Albatross leased an office in a building owned by an accounting firm called J&J. J&J confirms they leased out the space . . . and you’ll never guess who signed off on the paperwork.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  “Caroline Drummond.”

  “Caroline Drummond . . . is that any relation to . . .”

  “Nicholas Drummond’s sister.”

  “So you’re telling me Nicholas Drummond’s sister leased space to a shell company whose sole purpose was to help destroy the life of her brother’s wife.”

  “And I thought I had issues with my in-laws. Now, the name on the lease for Albatross is a Walter Mackey, but Walter Mackey is a retired octogenarian. His identity was stolen to create the LLC.”

  “Where is Caroline Drummond now?”

  “That’s where this gets tricky,” Serrano said. “Turns out Ms. Drummond took a somewhat unexpected sabbatical, which happened to begin one month before Constance Wright was killed. According to the J&J CFO, Dorothy Givens, she’s somewhere in Italy with no return date.”

  “Doesn’t sound like you think Ms. Drummond’s travel timeline is a coincidence.”

  “I do not. I think somebody had a feeling this was all going south, and Albatross is trying to tie up loose ends. Caroline Drummond getting out of the country is part of that.”

  “Can we extradite her?”

  “Not yet. We have enough to charge Sam Wickersham with fraud and perjury, but that’s about it right now. Wickersham said he doesn’t know who’s behind Albatross, so we wouldn’t be able to get much by offering him a deal in exchange for turning state’s evidence. But somebody wanted Constance Wright’s life to go up in flames in the worst way. And it appears her ex-husband and his sister were in on it.”

  “Are you going after Nicholas Drummond?”

  “Not just yet. He can claim plausible deniability, that his sister was acting independently, unless we have something concrete to tie him to Albatross or Wickersham. I’d rather find that link before bringing him in.”

  “Keep at it, Detective. Find the link. And keep me posted. Nice work.”

  “Will do, sir.”

  Serrano ended the call.

  “It’s possible Isabelle is connected to Albatross,” Tally said. “Would make sense. Gets Constance out of Nicholas’s life, frees them up to marry. And she has the money and connections to make it happen.”

  Serrano thought as they got in the car. “I don’t know. Doesn’t feel right. No doubt Isabelle made out well, got the man she wanted, but seems like a whole lot of trouble to go through just to break up a marriage. Why wouldn’t Nicholas just divorce Constance and remarry? This Albatross situation feels personal. Like a vendetta of some sort.”

  “So what now?”

  “Let’s head back. I want to come up with names of people who may have had motive to want Constance Wright ruined.”

  Tally slid into the driver’s seat. Serrano hooked his cell phone up to the stereo through a USB port.

  “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Clearing my head.”

  He opened the Audiobooks app and pressed play. A man’s voice came over the speakers. British and slightly nasal, but jovial.

  This book is largely concerned with hobbits, and from its pages a reader may discover much of their character.

  Tally looked at Serrano and said, “Speaking of suffering, I can’t listen to this again. Listen to the radio like a normal person.”

  “This helps me think,” Serrano said. “Just ignore it. Or better yet, pay attention. You might learn something.”

  “Not a chance. No more hearing about hobbits or their hairy feet while I drive.” She unplugged the USB.

  “Come on, Tally.”

  “God, you’re whiny sometimes.” Tally sighed. “I didn’t mean that, John. But this can’t be healthy. You need to speak to someone.”

  Serrano’s voice lowered and he said, “Just because I want to listen to The Lord of the Rings on audiobook?”

  “You know it’s not the book. It’s why you’re listening to it. You can’t carry this around with you, this . . . weight. It’s crushing you.”

  “Sometimes I want the weight, Leslie. When I feel it, it helps me remember.” Serrano turned to her. “Sometimes . . . I have trouble picturing his face. It takes a minute to remember. Isn’t that terrible?”

  “No. Memory is fickle. What you feel in here,” Tally said, tapping her chest, “that, you’ll never forget.”

  Serrano smiled. “When we first got paired together, did you ever think you’d have to be my part-time shrink?”

  “Hell, I keep doing this, you’d better pay me like a shrink. Let’s head back to Ashby. We’re close on this. I can feel it.”

  Tally pulled out of the J&J parking lot and merged back onto I-84. They hadn’t gotten far before Serrano’s cell phone rang again.

  “Serrano.”

  “Detective, it’s Connelly at watch command.”

  “Hey, Pat, what’s up?”

  “Anonymous tip just came in. Said Nestor Aguillar and Stefanie Steinman have been casing the hotel where Rachel Marin is staying. And that they may try to make a move on Marin’s family.”

  “Christ. How did they find out where we put her?”

  “I don’t know, Detective, but somebody was thankfully keeping an eye on these two. Tipster said they left the hotel and were heading south.”

  “Where are Aguillar and Steinman now?” Serr
ano listened. His eyes widened. A look of fear spread over his face.

  “Where are they?” Tally said. “John?”

  He turned to his partner. “Aguillar and Steinman are going to try to kill Megan Marin. Floor it.”

  CHAPTER 22

  The silver 2014 Dodge Avenger idled at the corner outside of Bennington Elementary. Behind it was a blue Mercedes-Benz E-Class wagon. In front of it was a red Volvo V90. The block was littered with station wagons. Parents milled about outside waiting to take their children home. Nobody paid attention to a well-kept Dodge Avenger with two people sitting inside because, frankly, there was no reason to. At pickup time, cars came and went constantly. It was cold out, and everyone was far more concerned with grabbing their kid and getting home. Nobody gave them a second look.

  Stefanie Steinman figured this was serendipitous.

  “It’s serendipitous,” she said.

  “Seren . . . what?”

  “Fortunate,” she clarified.

  Nestor Aguillar nodded. Stefanie was wearing a black Eddie Bauer coat with a fur trim and a blue wool cap to hide her green hair. People would notice the hair. Nestor had on a gray Old Navy sweater fleece. He hadn’t dressed warmly enough and had forgotten to bring mittens. Their clothes didn’t matter; they’d burn them after it was done. They each had a pair of unopened leather Isotoner gloves. They would be used and then discarded immediately.

  The Dodge Avenger would never be seen again. The plates had been taken off a Subaru at a rest stop off Grissom Parkway. And the car itself was registered to a Mr. Donald Kovacs. Mr. Kovacs would be mighty pissed when he came back from the restroom to find his parking spot empty.

  Both the car and the plates would be burned in the abandoned quarry southwest of Peoria. And by this time tomorrow, Stefanie and Nestor would be on their way to Bermuda for three weeks of R and R at the Elbow Beach resort, courtesy of Isabelle Drummond. Isabelle had promised them that fifty grand would be waiting for them in a Cayman Islands bank account by the following morning. Two more payments would then follow six months apart.