Hide Away (A Rachel Marin Thriller)

by Jason Pinter

  Rachel had been in enough situations where men had taken liberties with their hands during “friendly” photographs. She’d felt hands on her buttocks, fingers gripping the hem of her skirt. And she’d had no problem informing them that if they didn’t remove the offending digits, she would open another hole in their urethra with a salad fork.

  But the photo of Wickersham and Caroline Drummond felt different. The touch was not unwanted.

  Rachel clicked on the website listed on Tyrone Wheatley’s feed. There were dozens of photo albums taken at weddings, engagement shoots, gender reveals, and more. Rachel clicked on one album and was prompted to enter a login and password. Crap.

  She clicked the “Contact” tab. A phone number was listed for Wheatley Photography. Under the photograph, it read “Call 24-7!” Rachel checked her watch. She wondered if anyone had ever tested that offer.

  She dialed the number and waited. On the third ring, a deep, sleepy voice answered.

  “Huh-lo?”

  “Mr. Wheatley? Of Wheatley Photography?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, my name is Rachel Marin. I do some freelance design work for the Ashby Bulletin, and we’re doing a story on the late mayor, Constance Wright. I see on your website that you photographed a fund-raiser for the mayor a few years back. I’d like to view your album with the possibility of using one or more of the photographs for our article. I’m sorry for the late call, but we need to get this layout finished immediately, and, well, you know, deadlines.”

  “Yeah, no problem. One sec.”

  Rachel could hear shuffling and muttering in the background as Tyrone pulled himself out of bed.

  “Who is it, hon?” came a female voice.

  “Work call,” Tyrone answered.

  “At this hour?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are they crazy? It’s the middle of the night.”

  “Go back to sleep, babe. I’ll take it in the other room.”

  She felt bad waking Tyrone Wheatley and lying about her motives, but somehow she had a feeling Tyrone would forgive her if he knew the truth. She heard a humming noise as a computer booted up. About thirty seconds later, Tyrone said, “So which album are you asking about?”

  “From an event at Rhinebeck Hall for Constance Wright.” She gave him the date.

  “Yeah, I remember that event,” Tyrone said. “She was a good woman, Ms. Wright. Damn shame what happened to her.”

  “Yes, it is,” Rachel said.

  “OK, got the album. So what can I help you with?”

  “Well, I’d like to view the full album so I can run it by our design chief and see what photos work with the current layout.”

  “All right,” Tyrone said. “Go to my website. Click on the album. When you’re prompted, use the login wheatleyphotography with the password guest74249. You’ll have access to view and enlarge the photos, but you can’t save them without a watermark. Once you know which photos you want to use, email me with the file numbers, and we can negotiate a usage fee.”

  “You got it. One sec.” Rachel clicked the link, entered the login information, and was granted access to the album.

  “You get in?”

  “Yep. All set. Thank you, Mr. Wheatley. I’ll be in touch.”

  She hung up. Rachel had no idea what common usage fees were for event photographs, but she would send Tyrone Wheatley $500 in cash in an unmarked envelope as an apology.

  There were nearly four hundred photographs in the album. She sighed. It was nearing 3:00 a.m. Rachel poured herself a cup of green tea to help her stay awake.

  Photo by photo, Rachel browsed the album. Most of the photos were typical event snaps. Attendees in snazzy dresses and crisp suits pretending to act candid. She even found herself in several photos, mainly in the background, standing alone. She remembered feeling out of place, lonely.

  Constance Wright was featured in many of the photographs. Seeing her gave Rachel chills. She was so animated, full of life. Nicholas Drummond looked tired. Irritated. By this point, he’d been sleeping with Isabelle Robles and was likely counting the days until he could formalize his split.

  Rachel created a folder on her desktop and saved every photo featuring either Sam Wickersham or Caroline Drummond. Three hundred photos in, and that Instagram photo was still the only one where they’d been photographed together.

  Rachel’s eyes were bleary. She downed two more cups of green tea, then turned the thermostat in the living room down to sixty-two degrees to keep her chilly and awake. The photographs were blurring together. Fancy people in fancy clothing eating fancy food in a fancy hall.

  The first ray of sunlight shocked her. It slipped underneath the drawn curtains and cast a faint yellow glow across the living room. She had lost all track of time. The tea was ineffective. Rachel put on a pot of coffee, then went back to the computer.

  She rubbed her eyes, knowing her time was limited. The kids would be awake soon. She had fewer than fifty photographs to go. And it dawned on Rachel that she might come up empty.

  Then, with twenty photos to go, she found what she was looking for.

  The photograph was of two couples, each in their midfifties. The men decked out in tuxedos, the women clothed in gorgeous, shimmering dresses, jewelry dripping from their necks and ears. They were all grinning from ear to ear and wearing large red, white, and blue pins that read “The Wright Way.”

  But Rachel didn’t care about the partygoers, their attire, or the pins. What she cared about was going on in the background. Slightly out of focus, but unmistakable.

  In the corner stood Sam Wickersham and Caroline Drummond. His hand was placed gently on her stomach, a touch that appeared light but incredibly intimate. Her hand grasped his tie. Rachel zoomed in. The striations in the blue fabric on his tie said to Rachel that Caroline was pulling on his tie, gently. Pulling him toward her.

  Her palm lay flat on his chest, half pushing him away. Being coy.

  Come closer, but not too close.

  Rachel had no doubt that Sam Wickersham and Caroline Drummond had been sleeping together. Rachel went back through all the Google Image photos of Caroline. In none of them did she appear to be wearing a wedding ring, and there was no indent or tan line that would indicate a previous marriage.

  Caroline was ten years older than Sam. But they both appeared smitten.

  Rachel rubbed her eyes, pinched her arm until it hurt, willed herself to stay awake.

  The young man who’d come forward about having an affair with Constance Wright had also been sleeping with Wright’s sister-in-law? Sam Wickersham may have been kind of cute, in a shaggy-dog kind of way, but he didn’t seem to Rachel to be the kind of heartbreaker who could seduce two older, successful women.

  Had Caroline Drummond been using him? If so, for what?

  Just as Rachel was about to start searching for those answers, she heard the door to Megan’s room open. She listened as her daughter shuffled out of her room and down the stairs. She wore her Wonder Woman pj’s, and her hair was a glorious bed-headed mess. Megan rubbed her eyes and smiled.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” Rachel said. “How’d you sleep?”

  “I had a dream I was a famous author,” Megan said. “Everyone loved my Sadie Scout books.”

  “Aw, that’s so wonderful, sweetheart. I bet one day it’ll come true.”

  “You think so? You think people will like Sadie?”

  Rachel nodded. “I do.”

  Then Megan’s smile changed. She looked confused. “Mom?”

  “Yes, hon?”

  “Weren’t you wearing those clothes when we got home last night?”

  Rachel looked down and realized to her embarrassment she’d never changed.

  “I guess I was, sweetie.”

  “Did you sleep in your clothes?”

  “Not really. Mommy had some work to do, and, well, I didn’t really go to bed.”

  “That’s weird,” Megan said. “I don’t know why you wouldn’t go to b
ed.”

  Then another door opened, and Eric sauntered downstairs. He was wearing mesh basketball shorts and a Stephen Curry jersey.

  “Morning,” Rachel said.

  Eric stood at the bottom of the stairs and cocked his head.

  “Mom,” he said, “did you go to bed last night?”

  “No, unfortunately I had work to do.”

  Eric nodded, a disapproving scowl on his face; then he turned around and went back upstairs. Megan shuddered as his door slammed shut.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Megan said.

  “Nothing,” Rachel replied. Her daughter came over, and Rachel gathered her into her arms. “There’s nothing wrong with him at all.”

  Rachel wondered if Megan knew she was lying.

  CHAPTER 28

  Rachel had four strong cups of coffee pumping through her veins by the time she arrived at the offices of Velos Strategies, a political consulting firm that also happened to employ one Samuel J. Wickersham. She parked on the second floor of a public garage and entered through the walkway into the office building where Velos was housed. She wore a gray pantsuit over a white blouse, large quantities of concealer hiding the dark circles under her eyes.

  She walked up to the curved glass-topped security desk. The guard eyed her, knowing she didn’t work there, and said, “Photo ID, name of company, and person visiting.”

  Rachel handed over her driver’s license and said, “I’m here to see Sam Wickersham at Velos.”

  The man nodded and scanned her ID. Then he tapped a few buttons on his computer.

  “I don’t see you registered as a guest. Do you have an appointment with Mr. Wickersham?”

  “He must have forgotten to add it in the system. Call Mr. Wickersham and tell him Caroline Drummond is here to see him. He’ll clear it up.”

  “Your identification says Rachel Marin.”

  “Sam and I are old friends. Trust me, he’ll know what I’m talking about.”

  The guard eyed her suspiciously, then nodded and picked up the phone. He dialed, waited, and then said, “Mr. Wickersham, there’s a Caroline Drummond here to see you. Um, yes, that’s what she said. Ms. Drummond. Caroline Drummond. All right, thank you, Mr. Wickersham.”

  The guard tapped a few buttons, then handed Rachel a sticker that read GUEST. “Take the second elevator bank to the sixth floor, Miss . . . whatever your name is.”

  Rachel thanked him and followed the instructions. The receptionist at Velos was a young blonde woman who appeared to be barely a day out of college. She seemed both bored and angry about her boredom. She didn’t look up when Rachel approached.

  “Help you?” she said.

  “Here to see Sam Wickersham.”

  “Name?”

  “Caroline Drummond. He’s expecting me.”

  She picked up the phone, pressed a button, and said, “Mr. Sam, there’s a Caroline something here to see you. OK, hots, you got it.”

  Rachel wondered if calling Sam “hots” meant they were hooking up or if that was just how millennials greeted each other these days.

  “Give him a minute,” the girl said. “He comes quickly.”

  “I’ll bet,” Rachel replied.

  “Huh?”

  “Nothing. I’ll wait.”

  Rachel barely had time to sit before a young man with a haphazardly tied ponytail and a crinkled suit entered the reception area. He looked at Rachel, his eyes full of utter confusion. But behind them was a trace of fear. He couldn’t have actually been expecting to see Caroline Drummond but knew that her name was being used as some sort of leverage. I know your secrets.

  “Mr. Wickersham,” Rachel said, offering her hand. He took it, waited for Rachel to give her name. She didn’t.

  “Um, please, come with me,” he said. Wickersham’s face was covered in five-day-old scruff, and his cheeks looked ashen, eyes bloodshot. He was wearing an unfortunate amount of cologne, and his suit jacket was wrinkled. He looked like he hadn’t showered—or slept—in several days.

  Rachel followed Wickersham into a small office. She heard the handle rattle slightly as he closed the door behind them. His hands were shaking.

  Wickersham’s desk was glossy, polished oak, covered with just enough papers to make him look busy, but each page had a freshly printed look, which said to Rachel that they were just for show. There were no photographs anywhere around the office, no pieces of memorabilia, nothing that gave the space a personal touch. It said to Rachel that he was either a bad decorator or was waiting to be fired.

  Wickersham stood behind his desk. He was already sweating. Surely hearing the name Caroline Drummond would have upset him, but Wickersham was acting like something had already gone terribly, terribly wrong.

  “Are you going to sit down?” Rachel asked. “Or should we talk standing?”

  “P . . . please have a seat,” he stuttered. Wickersham sat down but leaned forward. He was as relaxed as a guy who’d just been pulled over by a SWAT team. Rachel took a seat on the other side of the desk.

  “Nice place you got here.”

  Wickersham didn’t respond.

  “I guess you figured out by now that I’m not Caroline Drummond,” she said. Wickersham still didn’t speak. He was either trying to figure out what this lady was trying to pull—or he was petrified. Rachel guessed a little of both. But she wasn’t quite sure why. Something else besides her ruse had spooked him.

  Serrano and Tally, she thought. Do they know about Sam and Caroline Drummond?

  If so, she had to give the detectives some credit.

  “I’m here for Constance Wright,” Rachel said.

  “She’s dead,” Sam said matter-of-factly.

  “Did you facilitate that?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you have anything to do with her death?”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “Who are you?”

  “An interested party,” Rachel said. “I know about you and Caroline Drummond. Not many guys have the kind of game to carry on an affair with a mayor while also sleeping with her sister-in-law. And I’m guessing you’re not one of them.”

  The blood drained from Sam Wickersham’s face, leaving his cheeks the color of printer paper.

  “I . . . we . . .”

  “Save it,” Rachel said. “I don’t think you killed Constance Wright. But I think you know who did.”

  “I swear to God I had nothing to do with it,” Wickersham said. “Just leave me alone. It was a long time ago, and I already talked to the cops. Wait, are you a cop?”

  He already talked to the cops, Rachel thought. Which explained why he had been on edge from the moment she’d arrived. But the fact that they hadn’t arrested him meant either he hadn’t committed a crime—or they were using him to hook a bigger fish.

  “Tell me about Constance Wright,” Rachel said. “Your affair. The truth.”

  “I already told the cops, the black lady and the white guy. Albatross paid me to make up the affair with Ms. Wright. I just went along with it.”

  So there was no affair.

  Rachel’s brain started whirring. Albatross. Paid him. Went along with it.

  “So how was Caroline Drummond involved?” Rachel said.

  Wickersham hesitated.

  She slammed her fist down on Wickersham’s table and shouted, “How?”

  A petite brunette in a sharp yellow blazer knocked softly and opened the door.

  “Mr. Wickersham?” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  Rachel glared at him.

  “It’s fine,” he said. “Go back to your desk, Edith.”

  Edith nodded, skeptical, and disappeared. She closed the door behind her.

  “Caroline was playing you,” Rachel said. “Sleeping with you to get you to do what she wanted.”

  “She wasn’t playing me,” Wickersham pleaded. “We were in love.”

  “Oh come on,” Rachel said dismissively. “Successful woman, sister-in-law of the mayor, a hotshot politico on the rise?
She suddenly decides to start doing the devil’s dance with some pissant twenty-year-old? No way. She was diddling you to convince you to go ahead and testify against Constance Wright. She was worried—they were worried—that the money wouldn’t be enough.”

  “Stop it,” Wickersham said. Tears had begun to spring up in his eyes. Rachel felt a modicum of sympathy for this poor young sap. But then she remembered that Constance Wright had been thrown off a bridge like an empty soda can, and this little asshole knew something about it.

  “How did you two meet?” Rachel said. “You and Caroline.”

  “A fund-raiser when Ms. Wright was first running for office. I had just graduated high school, and her campaign held a rally in our gym. My folks were big supporters of Ms. Wright. At one point I wandered off and saw Caroline standing alone. She’d finished her drink. I offered to get her another. She laughed, asked how old I was. When I told her, she said to get her a cranberry vodka. I did, and she seemed impressed. I told her I loved politics and would love to work for someone like Ms. Wright. She gave me her email address and said to get in touch. I did. We emailed every now and then, no big deal, just friendly. But when I graduated college, she hooked me up with a job in Ms. Wright’s office.”

  “When did you start sleeping with her?”

  Wickersham looked at his lap.

  “About a year into the job, there was a cocktail party. Just for staff and family. Caroline was there. She wore this little black dress, and . . . we hit it off, and . . .”

  “Was she the one who approached you to lie about the affair?”

  Wickersham nodded. “She told me that Ms. Wright had made some people angry. Her family had lost them a lot of money. She wasn’t trustworthy. She said for the good of the people of Ashby, they needed to get her out of office. I figured if the mayor’s husband’s sister was saying this, it had to be true.”

  “You were already sleeping together by this point.”

  “Yes,” he said softly.

  She was grooming him. And she got the sense from the anguish in Sam Wickersham’s eyes that he’d just realized it.

  “Caroline told me someone would be in touch. To handle all the details. She said there would be a lot of money in it for me. That I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.”