“Based on this equation on the tape?” Tally said. “We’ll let the medical examiner confirm whether or not you’re correct.”
“He already did,” Rachel said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”
Serrano and Tally remained silent.
“Let me ask you one question,” Rachel said. “Was Constance wearing heels? Or flats?”
Serrano hesitated, then said, “Heels.”
“And I’ll bet she was found without her purse as well.”
Serrano and Tally exchanged glances.
“Why do you say that?” said Tally.
“A woman leaves home without her purse, presumably planning to off herself. She figures she doesn’t need her wallet, keys, or credit cards where she’s going. Just her and fate. So if she thinks that far in advance—why on earth would she go out wearing heels in eight-inch snow and eleven-mile-an-hour winds? I’m willing to bet she’d also done some personal grooming recently. Shaved her legs. A mani-pedi, perhaps.”
“Who are you?” Serrano asked.
“Rachel Marin,” she responded. “Mother of two. Legal secretary. At your service.”
“But how do you know all this? Why does a legal secretary know the velocity of a falling human body? Or that a victim wearing heels might point to homicide?”
“I watch a lot of Law & Order. Olivia Benson is my spirit animal.”
“Cut the crap,” Serrano said. “You could have walked into the station and asked to speak with me. You made us chase you for a reason.”
Rachel looked into her coffee mug. “Somebody once told me I would have to make a choice,” she said. “I could help people or just live my life. I made the wrong choice once. I swore I wouldn’t do that again. Constance Wright was murdered. And her killer wanted us to believe she killed herself. Think about that. They took her life and wanted her buried in shame too. That’s beyond cold. That’s diabolical. I know about her ex. Her family. The lawsuits. But surely there were people who loved her.”
Rachel’s head jerked up.
“That,” Rachel said, pointing at Serrano. “Your lip just twitched when I said there were people who loved her.”
“It did not,” Serrano said.
“When I said that people loved her . . . that struck a nerve. Tell me why.”
“I think you’re forgetting the fact that you’re a civilian, Ms. Marin,” Serrano said. “You have no legal authority. We have no obligation to answer any of your questions.”
Rachel stared at Serrano.
“She was pregnant,” Rachel said. “Wasn’t she?”
“That’s enough,” Tally said. She stood up from the table. “Ms. Marin, you are not a part of this investigation. But if this ever goes to trial, you might be asked to testify. If your calculations are correct, it may help us prove the manner in which the victim died.”
“Not if they’re correct, Detective,” Rachel said. “They’re correct.”
“And if this was a homicide,” she continued, “we’ll be the ones to bring the perpetrator to justice.”
Detective Serrano stood up as well. He dropped thirty dollars on the table and said, “Finish your coffee. If you’re still thirsty, buy yourself a beer. Apologies again for ruining your date. Thank you for your time, Ms. Marin.”
The detectives left the diner. Rachel downed the rest of her coffee, grabbed her purse, and followed them. The parking lot was slick with ice. Rachel had to walk tentatively in her heels.
“Tell me one more thing,” Rachel shouted. Serrano and Tally continued toward their brown Crown Victoria.
“Go home, Ms. Marin,” Serrano said.
“Was she drunk?” Rachel shouted. She noticed a hitch in Serrano’s step as he took out his car keys.
“Why?” Tally said.
“Call it a hunch. And I can tell from your hesitation that she was. What was her blood alcohol level?”
“Ms. Marin,” Tally said, “that has not been releas—”
“Point four three,” Serrano answered. Tally shot him a look.
“That’s crazy high,” Rachel said. “At a blood alcohol level of point three, her speech, balance, and coordination would have been severely impaired, and she may have lost consciousness. A woman her size, her motor skills would have been diminished, and her heart rate and breathing would have slowed to dangerous levels. At point four, there’s no way she would have been able to even get to the bridge, let alone throw herself over it. I would check her teeth if I were you.”
“Her teeth?” Tally said.
“See if any of her teeth are sheared, most likely front teeth, her incisors. They would look like an ice cube split by a pick. Any teeth broken from the fall would be pulverized, like a pretzel stomped on by a shoe. What I’m talking about would be a much cleaner cut.”
“Why . . . ,” Serrano began to say before catching himself.
“Because with a BAC at that level, plus a tooth with that sort of damage, it would indicate that she was force-fed alcohol shortly before her death. They may have even continued pouring it down her throat after she lost consciousness. Somebody wanted to make sure Wright was fully unconscious but didn’t want any tranquilizers or drugs in her bloodstream that could raise questions on a tox screen. Plus the abundance of alcohol could bolster the suicide theory. But whoever killed her overdid it. This was deliberate. And it was planned.”
The way Serrano looked at Tally, it confirmed to Rachel that they’d found such a chipped tooth during the medical examination.
The detectives got into the car. Rachel jogged up to the passenger side door, where Serrano was seated. She noticed a paperback copy of The Fellowship of the Ring on the dashboard. She pointed at it.
“My son loves those books,” she said. “He practically speaks Orc.”
Serrano offered a smile. It was genuine and wide and threw Rachel off.
“So does mine,” he said. Tally looked at Serrano with a hint of confusion. Something passed between them that Rachel picked up on.
Then they drove off.
Her cell phone chirped with an incoming text. She took out her phone, looked at the message. It was from Adam.
Ur forgiven. Lucky 4 u I’ll give u another chance, but only b/c ur
And then he added a fire emoji.
Rachel groaned, shoved the phone back in her purse, got in her car, and headed home. She had a sudden urge to hug her kids.
CHAPTER 8
Three Years Ago
The knock at the door made Rachel’s head swivel in the direction of the shotgun locked in her bedroom safe. In less than a second, her pulse went from its resting rate of fifty-eight beats per minute to nearly eighty.
She stood in the kitchen, a bag of groceries in her hand, waiting. The person knocked again. Rachel gently placed the bag down and immediately estimated how much time it would take to grab the kids, grab the shotgun, and flee.
She inched around the kitchen wall to get a view of the window overlooking the front door. Her visitor was a woman. She could not see her face, but Rachel’s pulse returned to normal. None of his followers were women, as far as the FBI knew. Just a local busybody, most likely. A neighbor to welcome them to Ashby with a fruitcake and an invitation to the next PTA meeting.