“How do you know?” she asked, her voice so plaintive and terrified that it broke his heart.
“I’m not going to leave until we know where your mom is. I promise.”
Megan nodded. Twelve minutes later, Tally pulled up. Serrano let her in.
“Kids, you remember Detective Tally, right?” They nodded. “Eric, go check on the pizza. Let me talk to my partner.”
When the kids left, Tally said, “No sign of a struggle I can see. No forced entry.”
“Nope.”
“And nothing out of place in the home?”
“Far as I can tell.”
Tally opened the coat closet. She flipped through the jackets.
“No empty hangers,” Tally said. “No coats missing.”
“This is goddamn bizarre,” Serrano said. “You think somebody took her?”
“That woman is no pushover. For her to be nabbed without a struggle, it would take one smart son of a bitch.”
“Yeah,” Serrano said. “Means whoever took her, she didn’t see it coming.”
“Trusted them. Maybe even let them in the house,” Tally said.
Serrano went to the front door. “She lets him in. No struggle.” Serrano knelt down, touched the hardwood flooring by the door. “Floor is dry. So he takes his shoes off before entering.”
“A boyfriend?” Tally said.
Serrano shook his head. “Doubtful. No sign of any food preparation. No dirty glasses or crumbs, nothing out of place, and the bed is made. This get-together was business, not pleasure.”
Serrano went into the bathroom. Looked around.
“Now this is interesting. The sink handles are wiped clean,” Serrano said. “Our friend used the bathroom and then wiped his fingerprints.”
He checked the toilet lid and flush handle. Same thing. Wiped down. Which meant the children hadn’t used this bathroom. The sink basin was still damp, but the hand towels were dry. Towels might have picked up trace evidence, loose fibers, moisturizer, dead skin. He sniffed the air. Then he did it again.
Was that . . .
“Hey, Leslie, come here.”
Tally joined him in the bathroom.
“Smell that?”
She inhaled deeply.
“Not sure,” she said. “Something kind of sweet, maybe?”
Serrano nodded. “There’s a scent. Definitely not a woman’s perfume. And I doubt Rachel’s thirteen-year-old son wears cologne to school.”
Serrano left the bathroom. Went into the kitchen. Sniffed the air. Tally joined him.
“That pizza smells good,” she said.
“Hold on a second,” Serrano replied.
Serrano entered the living room. Sniffed again. Went to the sofa. Knelt down. Sniffed. “Come here,” Serrano said, motioning Tally over.
“What?”
“Down here.”
She knelt down. Sniffed.
“What is that?”
“Yves Saint Laurent,” Serrano said. His heart began to pound.
“You recognize it?”
Serrano nodded. “Lieutenant George wears it all the time. He bathes in the stuff.”
Tally looked at him askance, cocked her head. “You don’t think . . .”
“Someone she knew,” Serrano said. “Someone smart enough to get the drop on Rachel. Maybe even someone strong enough to—”
“Toss a body from a bridge. Jesus Christ,” Tally said. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying.”
Serrano ran to the front door, threw it open, and sprinted to the adjacent house. He could see a couple sitting on a faded yellow couch through a side window. The window had an unobstructed view of Rachel Marin’s driveway. Serrano went around to the front door and knocked repeatedly.
“Ashby PD!” he shouted, continuing to knock.
A minute later, an older man with a handlebar mustache wearing blue pajamas answered the door.
“Ashby PD,” Serrano said, holding up his badge.
“Christ, I stopped dealing weed in 1977,” the man said.
“What? No, I’m not here to investigate you. Have you been home all day, sir?”
“I have. Wife and I are retired and content to watch our soaps during the day. Unbelievable how many evil twin brothers there are on these shows.”
“Did you happen to see another car in the driveway next door while you were home?”
The man scrunched up his face and thought. “Well, saw a blue car pull up earlier in the afternoon. A man went inside and stayed there awhile. Only noticed because other than the cops recently, Ms. Marin hasn’t had too many visitors.”
“What time was this?”
“Two o’clock? Around then? General Hospital was about to come on, and that’s when I turn my brain off.”
“Did you happen to get a look at the man?”
“Not really,” he said. “Looked like a man.”
“What about the car?”
“The car I saw good,” the man said. “A little too flashy for my taste.”
Serrano scrolled through the Camera app on his cell phone and showed the man a picture that had been taken at a police fund-raising barbecue the previous year. Serrano and Lt. Daryl George leaning up against George’s blue Camaro. “Did the car look like this?”
The man nodded. “Car that color, it’s a speeding ticket waiting to happen.”
“Did you happen to see the man when he left? Was he carrying anything?”
“Like I said, once GH comes on, I turn my brain off.”
“Thank you, sir; you’ve been a huge help.”
“You’d better not give me a hard time about that weed!”
Serrano went back to the Marin home and knelt down next to the second set of tire tracks. He pulled up the photo from the barbecue and zoomed in on the Camaro’s tires. The make was Goodyear Eagle F1 Asymmetric All-Season. The tread matched the tracks in Rachel Marin’s driveway.
Serrano barged through the front door, breathless, nearly knocking over Tally. He called dispatch at the precinct and said, “I need LoJack on a 2015 Chevy Camaro, registered to Lieutenant Daryl George. Yes, that Lieutenant Daryl George. I need GPS on his cell phone and all available street-camera recordings in the Lawrenceville neighborhood of Ashby from 2:00 p.m. today onward.”
Tally said, “You can’t possibly think—”
“Lieutenant Daryl George killed Constance Wright,” Serrano said breathlessly. “And he’s going to kill Rachel Marin, if he hasn’t already.”
CHAPTER 41
Rachel was jolted awake by her head slamming against something flat and metallic. She tried to scream, but her mouth was taped shut. She tried to pull the tape off, but her hands were bound together by a plastic tie. As were her ankles. She was locked in a car trunk. Every bump and bounce and pothole sent shock waves up her spine, making her cry out in agony. Her fingers scraped against some sort of cloth or burlap sack. The material scratched her face.
She was zipped up in a large canvas bag.
Panic set in. She had been restrained, stuffed in a sack, and thrown in a trunk. She didn’t have a jacket on, and the cold was penetrating her bones.
It was pitch black. Rachel took even breaths, calming herself. Her air supply was limited. If she hyperventilated and passed out, she was as good as dead.