by Jason Pinter
“That ‘someone’—was this the Albatross you mentioned?”
Sam nodded. “Albatross offered me the money. I still don’t know who was behind Albatross. I told that to the cops.”
“But Caroline was the facilitator.”
“She was my girlfriend,” Wickersham said.
“Right. Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. She stopped returning my emails and texts. I ran into Christopher Robles a few weeks ago, and he said he thought she was in Europe or something. A sabbatical.”
Interesting timing, Rachel thought. Caroline disappearing right before Constance was killed.
“So Caroline sets you up as a patsy and has you fake an affair with Constance Wright to help ruin her career and get her brother paid,” Rachel said. “And you go right on with your career. How much did Albatross pay you?”
“Four eighty.”
“Four hundred and eighty thousand?” Rachel said with a whistle. “So that’s what a life is worth.”
“I didn’t kill her,” he said.
“But you know who did.”
“No, I don’t. I swear to God.”
Rachel eyed Wickersham. Either he was telling the truth, or Meryl Streep had ceded the title of world’s greatest living actor to Samuel J. Wickersham. It still didn’t quite jibe. Albatross and the Drummonds had gotten what they wanted. Constance left office in disgrace. Nicholas remarried Isabelle and made a mint from the divorce. Wickersham moved on to a cushy new job and pocketed close to a half million dollars. Everything had gone according to plan.
So why would they want to kill Constance Wright now, years later?
It was possible Wright had found out about the plan and had been looking to clear her name, get even, or get her money back from Nicholas. And between the Drummonds and whoever this “Albatross” was, there were enough folks with serious money on the line who probably felt taking Constance out was quicker and cheaper than a lawsuit. But why wouldn’t Constance have gone to the press? If she had found out the truth, she’d kept quiet. Not something politicians were wont to do.
Something about the scenario didn’t quite sit right with Rachel.
“I need everything you know about Caroline Drummond, Albatross, and Constance Wright,” Rachel said. “I’m not a cop, but I’ve been working with them.”
A lie—but a white one, she figured.
“And what then?” Sam said.
“Then we find out who’s behind Albatross, what Caroline Drummond knows, and hopefully that will get us closer to getting justice for Constance Wright.”
Sam nodded.
“And what about me?” he said.
“You,” Rachel said, as though she hadn’t given it any consideration. Because, well, she hadn’t. “You’ll do some time. Perjury. Maybe accessory to murder. Fraud. But that’s not within my jurisdiction.”
Sam nodded again. He opened his desk drawer. Stared at it. Rachel leaned forward, but she couldn’t see what he was looking at. Then he reached into the drawer and came out holding a Ruger .22-caliber LCR pistol.
Rachel froze. The gun itself was not large. Less than seven inches long and five inches high. It weighed a hair under fifteen ounces. The snub nose made the Ruger LCR a poor choice for long-range targets. But at this distance, just three feet across the desk from Rachel, Wickersham couldn’t miss.
“Sam,” Rachel said, her heart pounding against her rib cage. “Put the gun down.”
Sweat began to trickle down her back. And suddenly Rachel realized that her coming here to confront Sam Wickersham had been a terrible, terrible mistake.
Sam held the gun listlessly, aiming it somewhere slightly to the left of Rachel’s head.
“It’s over,” he said. “If I go to prison or cut a deal, I’ll never work again. This . . . thing . . . will be the first item that comes up when anyone looks for me online.”
“You’re young,” Rachel said. “You made a mistake, and you have your whole life to atone. You have a chance to make it right. Caroline loves you . . .”
“No she doesn’t,” Sam said. “You said so yourself. She was using me to help take down Mayor Wright.”
“You’re going to listen to me?” Rachel said. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m a fool. Ask my kids. They’ll say, ‘Mom’s a fool.’”
She looked down at her purse. She could see her cell phone. If she could keep Sam distracted, perhaps she could dial 911. But even if she did, they would take minutes. Sam could end her life in less than a second.
She considered her options. She couldn’t reach him from where she sat. And she couldn’t grab the gun without lunging across the desk. And that would give him more than enough time to pull the trigger. Too much time. Too many variables.
If he wanted her dead, she was dead.
“I wake up every day wishing I could take back what we did to Ms. Wright,” Wickersham said. His gun hand was shaking. Rachel didn’t take her eyes off it, hoping an opportunity would present itself.
“You can’t take it back,” Rachel said. “But you can help us find who killed her.”
“I don’t know who killed her!” he wailed. At that moment, the door opened, and Edith appeared once again.
“Mr. Wickersham . . . oh my God!” When she saw the gun, Edith’s hand went to her mouth. Almost instinctively, Sam’s gun hand moved toward the sound, until the barrel was pointed directly at Edith’s heart.
“No!” Rachel shouted. Edith began to cry. “Point it at me!”
Sam looked at Rachel, his gun hand moving left until it was pointed at Rachel’s midsection. Edith didn’t move. “Edith,” Rachel said evenly, “go back to your desk.”
“Should I . . . should I call the police?”
“No!” Rachel said. She didn’t want Wickersham any more agitated. “Just sit down.”
Sobbing, Edith disappeared from view.
Sam looked down at the gun. Then he looked at Rachel. He seemed almost surprised by the weapon in his hand.
“There’s no coming back from this,” Sam said. “I never thought it through. I just wish I could tell Ms. Wright I’m sorry. I wish she still had her old job. She was good at it. And I messed it all up. I’m so, so sorry.”
In that moment, Rachel realized the gun wasn’t meant for her.
Just as Sam Wickersham brought the gun to rest in the soft flesh underneath his chin, Rachel dove across the oak desk. She wrapped her hands around his gun hand just as he pulled the trigger, redirecting his aim ever so slightly. The gun went off, the explosion shattering the air. She and Sam both toppled to the floor.
Instead of bursting through the bottom of his jaw and exiting through his brain, the bullet tore through the flesh on the side of Sam Wickersham’s neck. As they hit the floor, Rachel saw a river of red spreading on the tasteful gray carpeting. Blood was pumping out of a gash in Sam’s neck. She immediately knew the bullet had nicked his right external jugular vein.
The gunshot still ringing in her ears, Rachel pulled off her jacket, balled it up, and pressed it hard against Wickersham’s neck. Blood immediately soaked through it. His eyes were bulging and terrified.
“Edith!” Rachel screamed, hoping the girl hadn’t left the office in fear. “Dial 911!”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
A moment later, Rachel heard Edith’s quivering voice from the hallway, explaining the situation to the emergency dispatcher. Blood was pooling around Rachel’s knees as she held the jacket firmly against Sam’s neck.
A red bubble formed on Wickersham’s lips and then burst, leaving a foamy red coating on his chin.
“Stay with me,” Rachel said. The blood was coming out fast—too fast. “Edith!”
“What?”
“Tell the dispatcher that the victim has severe trauma from a gunshot wound to the neck, with a likely arterial severing. Tell them they’ll need clamps, a catheter, and blood for a transfusion. Edith, are you with me?”
“Yes!”
“When they confirm an ambulance is on the way, keep the dispatcher on the line. Find Sam’s employment file. It’ll list his primary physician. Tell the dispatcher what you’re doing, put them on hold, and call his physician. Tell them it’s a life-and-death emergency and you need Sam’s blood type. Then give that to the dispatcher. Edith, did you get all that?”
“Yes!”
Now there was nothing for Rachel to do other than try to keep Sam Wickersham alive. As she held her blood-soaked jacket against his neck, she felt something weak and sticky wrap around her wrist. Sam’s hand. He was staring into her eyes and holding her wrist. For a moment, Rachel thought he was clinging to her as he clung to life, his eyes wide and pleading.
But then she felt his hand pulling at her wrist. Trying to pull her hand away.
He wanted her to let him die.
Rachel fought back tears and gently removed his hand from her wrist. He was too weak to resist.
“Please,” she said, “stay with me.”
Sam’s eyes closed. For a moment, she thought he was dead. But she could see his chest rising and falling with the breath of life. She could feel a weak pulse. He was still alive. For now.
A single tear slid down Rachel’s cheek and fell noiselessly into the pool of Samuel J. Wickersham’s blood.
CHAPTER 29
Rachel sat on the back bumper of an ambulance outside the Velos offices. She shivered in the frigid winter air, her bloodstained suit jacket having been taken away and bagged as evidence. She watched as EMTs loaded Sam Wickersham into the back of another ambulance, blood seeping through the towels held to his neck. He was strapped to a gurney, an IV already inserted into his vein, just enough blood left in his body to keep his heart pumping. Rachel asked the EMTs if they thought Sam would live, but they ignored her questions and focused on the wounded man.
Rachel was still shaken, her nerves jangling. If she’d been a split second slower, Sam would be dead.
She’d given a statement to the first officer on scene. She didn’t go into much detail or say why she’d been there in the first place, just that Sam took a gun from his desk and tried to kill himself. She left out the part about Caroline Drummond.
Even though Sam contributed to Constance Wright’s downfall, lied about their affair, and then helped cover it up, she believed him when he said he didn’t know who’d killed her. She’d sensed genuine remorse in his voice. He was a tormented young man who’d done something terrible. But he didn’t deserve to die.
She rubbed her eyes, forgetting for a moment that her hands were still coated in someone else’s blood.
“You all right, Ms. Marin?” the EMT asked.
“Yes. Long, very bad day.”
Then Rachel saw a familiar brown Crown Victoria pull up in front of the Velos entrance.
“Guess the day can only get worse,” she said to nobody.
Detectives John Serrano and Leslie Tally exited the vehicle. Serrano had a look of disappointment on his face that made Rachel feel sick and ashamed. But Tally had a look of pure anger, glaring at Rachel with eyes that could light a match. An EMT was checking Rachel’s vitals, to her embarrassment. Sam Wickersham was headed to the hospital near death, and some guy was checking her blood pressure.
Rachel had nearly forgotten that she hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, but it was all starting to hit her. Serrano and Tally went over to a young officer writing in a notepad outside the Velos lobby. Rachel eavesdropped.
“How is he?” Serrano said.
“Partially severed jugular vein,” the cop replied. “Lost a ton of blood.”
“He gonna make it?” Tally asked.
The cop shrugged. Then he pointed at Rachel. “That woman there saved his life. Kept pressure on the wound, had Wickersham’s secretary give the 911 dispatcher the trauma details so the EMTs knew what they would be looking at. Even had the foresight to get his blood type to the hospital to prep for a transfusion.”
Serrano nodded but looked at Rachel gravely. She couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Is it true,” Tally said, nodding at Rachel, “that she gave a false name to the security guard to get into the building to talk to Wickersham?”
The cop nodded. “Guard said she gave her name as Caroline Drummond. Security tapes confirm it. Now why would she do that?”
Tally marched over to Rachel with a purpose. Rachel shooed away the EMT.
“I’m fine,” she said, then turned to Tally. “Detective, I can explain—”
Before she knew what was happening, Tally had spun Rachel around, bent her over the bumper, pulled her hands behind her back, and clapped a pair of handcuffs on her.
“Rachel Marin,” Tally said. “You are under arrest for interfering in a criminal investigation. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?”
“Detective Serrano?” Rachel said. She caught a look of surprise on Serrano’s face, which said that he didn’t know Tally had been planning to arrest her. But the look quickly faded. He had to back up his partner. Anger and panic and adrenaline flooded Rachel’s body. “Detective?”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Marin,” Serrano said. “We have to take you in.”
If looks could kill, Rachel was reasonably sure her glare would have killed not only John Serrano but all his ancestors as well.
Tally brought her around to the back of the Crown Vic, opened the door, and held Rachel’s head down as she pushed her inside. Then Tally slammed the door and threw Serrano a look that Rachel caught but that was clearly not meant to be seen by her.
It said, We have to clean up this crazy bitch’s goddamn mess again.
Thing was, Rachel couldn’t really blame Tally. She was the one who’d gone to Wickersham’s office and posed as Caroline Drummond. She’d wanted to get under his skin. In fact, Rachel felt a little lucky that she hadn’t been arrested before this.
“My children,” Rachel said, as Tally got behind the wheel. “My kids are in school. Detective, please.”
“We’ll have a blue and white pick them up and bring them to the station,” Tally said.
“You’re going to have a strange police officer go pick up my children from school after what happened with Aguillar and Steinman? Are you kidding me?”
“I’ll get them myself,” Serrano said. “Tally will book you, and I’ll get Eric and Megan.”
Rachel wasn’t sure whether to thank him or spit in his face. She said nothing. She knew fighting would get her nowhere. But her heart hammered.
“You can’t let my children see me like this. In handcuffs,” Rachel said.
“You should have thought about that before you faked your identity to question a witness in a murder investigation,” Tally said.
“I didn’t know Wickersham was involved in the investigation. I was just following a hunch. Please, Detective Tally,” Rachel said. “You don’t know what my kids have been through.”
“Let’s get one thing clear, Ms. Marin,” Tally said, pulling onto the highway. Snowflakes dusted the windshield. Rachel was cold, and she could feel the handcuffs sticking to the blood still caked to her hands and wrists. “You’re the reason you’re in this situation right now. Not us.”
“I’m just trying to do the right thing,” Rachel said.
“And a boy is on his way to the hospital, and he might not make it,” she said. “Did you do the right thing with him?”
“That boy helped ruin a woman’s life,” Rachel said. “You know it. You obviously spoke to him and know about Albatross. The only innocent person in this equation is Constance Wright. And it took a long, long time for someone to finally fight for her.”
“We’re fighting for her,” Serrano said.
“A little too late for her,” Rachel replied coldly.
Then there was silence. Tally drove them to the
station. Rachel rubbed her wrists together to keep circulation flowing, but her fingers were growing numb. The ride was pure agony.
Finally they pulled into the Ashby police station. Tally came around back and dragged Rachel out of the car.
“Take her inside, book her, and put her in holding,” Serrano said. “I’ll go get the kids and bring them back here.”
“Eric is in class,” Rachel said. “Social studies right now, then history next period. Please be discreet. He’s been through enough.”
“What exactly has he been through?” Tally said.
Rachel merely said, “I’m asking you, Detective, to look out for my son and daughter. They did nothing wrong.”
Serrano could tell she was holding back, hiding something. He nodded and said, “I will.”
Then Serrano got back in the Crown Vic and drove off.
“Guess it’s just me and you,” Rachel said, smiling politely. Tally did not return the warm gesture.
“Let’s go.” Tally led Rachel into the station, her hands still cuffed behind her back. Suddenly Rachel felt nervous. She’d spent time with these people. They’d been kind to her after the Robles break-in and Aguillar-Steinman incident. And now she was being hauled into the station like a common perp.
As Tally led her inside, Rachel saw Lieutenant George. He gave Tally a look that said, She’s back again?
“Is this necessary?” Rachel said to Tally. “The handcuffs.”
“Oh, so you expect special treatment now?”
“No, it’s just . . .”
“Just what?”
Lieutenant George walked over to them. “Back again, Ms. Marin?” he said.
“Misunderstanding,” she said, but her voice let him know it wasn’t.
“Fine example you’re setting for Eric and Megan,” he said, shaking his head. She opened her mouth to curse him out but stopped. She felt ashamed. The lieutenant had shown her children such kindness. And he wasn’t wrong.
Tally led Rachel to the booking desk, where the clerk wrote down her name and address, took her fingerprints, and confiscated her purse and other belongings. They removed her bloody clothing and gave her a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt that looked like they’d been passed down among various incarcerated women since the 1920s. They also gave her a pair of socks. She desperately wanted to refuse them—Lord knew how many grungy feet had worn them—but she was still frigid from the ride over. So she turned the socks inside out and promised to bathe herself in Clorox the moment she got home.