Fenway walked up the aisle toward the double doors. No one watched her this time; everyone was back to doing their own thing. The clock above ticked past nine forty-five.
Leda Nedermeyer was reading Pride and Prejudice.
Judith Cygnus sat with her head resting on her palm, her elbow on the arm of the chair, dozing.
Jennifer Kim had removed her laptop from her briefcase and was tapping away, probably to get Fenway the code. Fenway stepped to the assistant district attorney and whispered, “Don’t worry about it. I got the code.”
“You did? From where?”
Fenway smiled. “A lady never reveals her secrets.”
“Does that mean you got through to McVie? He definitely has it. Piper didn’t see the code, did she?”
“The point is, Jennifer, we have the evidence safely locked up until the lab can get ahold of it, and you don’t have to worry about digging through your email to get the code.”
Fenway kept walking.
Evans Dahl had removed his rumpled suit jacket, pulled his briefcase onto his lap, and was reviewing papers.
Nathaniel and Charlotte Ferris were sitting next to each other, Charlotte’s head on his shoulder, talking in low voices, their fingers intertwined. Fenway almost did a double take. She’d always assumed her stepmother was a gold digger who cared much more for her father’s vast fortune than his feelings. But as her father’s fortunes had taken a turn for the worse over the last several months, and even with him on the verge of losing his company and possibly his freedom, Charlotte not only remained steadfastly by his side, but the two of them also seemed to grow closer. The love they showed seemed to be back to the bloom of a new relationship. Fenway’s stomach tightened.
Amanda was looking at an e-reader with a notebook on her lap, and Xavier was reading a dog-eared paperback of Jean-Paul Sartre’s No Exit. Fenway almost laughed out loud.
“Homework?” she asked.
“Figured we might as well,” Xavier said. “It looks like we’ll both miss our first class today.”
Rose Morgan sat at the edge of the gallery by herself, staring off into space. She’d be the next interview for sure, although Fenway wondered how she could convince her to agree to be interviewed, especially since she wouldn’t give up her purse to be searched.
Bryce Heissner had his arms folded, an angry expression on his face, as if Cygnus had been inconsiderate enough to get murdered and inconvenience him like this. Fenway decided to interrogate him after Rose.
As Fenway reached the end of the aisle, she turned toward Cynthia Schimmelhorn, who still stood where Fenway had left her. They hadn’t finished their interview.
“Apologies for how long that took, Ms. Schimmelhorn. I wasn’t expecting that to be so complicated.”
“You found some evidence, then?”
“I believe so.” Fenway cleared her throat. “After the shots were fired, what did you see?”
“Well, not too much, to be honest.”
“No?”
“It was—it was sort of a blur. People screaming.”
“Did you see the man you described to me earlier?”
Cynthia shifted her weight. “No.”
A stab of annoyance pricked at Fenway. “So why did you think he was the one who shot the professor?”
A crease appeared between Cynthia Schimmelhorn’s eyes and her mouth turned down at the corners. She blinked several times and shifted her weight.
“Never mind, Ms. Schimmelhorn.” Fenway started to turn away, then said, “I’m sorry—one more thing. I was sitting directly behind the defense table, and the professor said something about naming names in a money laundering scheme. Do you happen to know anything about that?”
“What?” Schimmelhorn’s mouth dropped open.
“I said—”
“I heard what you said. I don’t know if I can believe it!”
Fenway cocked her head. “You can’t? But surely you’re aware that Ferris Energy has been taking ‘ghost ships’ in one of their ports for over a year now. I was under the impression that part of the reason you want my father to be fired from the company is the lack of oversight he’s provided.”
Cynthia stayed silent.
“Of course, it could be the mere appearance of impropriety, but a member of the board with your intelligence and foresight should at least have some actionable data at your disposal before you kick out the founder of the company.” Fenway leaned against the wall and folded her arms. “But then perhaps you’re in a power struggle for control of Ferris Energy and you’re looking for any excuse to try to kick him out.”
Schimmelhorn stared at Fenway for a moment, mouth agape, then chortled. “It’s quite surprising how much you’ve uncovered in your investigations.” She nodded. “Yes, of course we know that there are insiders who are performing illegal activities inside Ferris Energy. We didn’t believe that local police had the resources to ferret out the criminals without putting themselves—or us—in harm’s way. That’s why the board put in a discreet call to the federal government. We’ve been cooperating with the u.s. Attorney’s Office down in Santa Barbara.”
“Really?” Fenway straightened up. “Normally they try to coordinate that kind of thing with local authorities. Make sure no one steps on anyone’s toes.”
“You mean the u.s. Attorney never contacted you about this matter?” Schimmelhorn asked. “I never thought to inform the sheriff’s office. I assumed it would all be coordinated from the top down.” She gave Fenway a level gaze. “I don’t want to speculate, Miss Stevenson, but perhaps the u.s. Attorney was unwilling to provide details to the daughter of the ceo of the company at the center of the investigation.”
Fenway paused. That made sense. After all, there was a paper trail leading right to her father’s bank accounts for the murder of her Russian Lit professor. It wasn’t connected to the money laundering—at least, Fenway hadn’t made any connections yet—and he maintained his innocence. Fenway, for once, believed him. But it looked bad from the outside, so of course she would be excluded from a federal investigation.
In fact, from the u.s. Attorney’s perspective, she would be in the perfect position to cover up any murders. She shuddered with horror. If Nathaniel Ferris had been behind all this—the embargoed oil, the camouflaged supertankers, the sale of the fuel to the East Timor rebels, the complex network of money laundering over a billion dollars, and the murders of the people who had threatened the scheme—she knew he would have contacted her to convince her to either cover up his wrongdoing, or at least look the other way. The fact that he hadn’t cemented his innocence in Fenway’s mind.
If her father was being set up to take the fall for a murder he hadn’t committed, she could be set up too. Manufacturing false evidence wasn’t outside the realm of possibility with the people who were actually running the show.
She blinked. Cynthia Schimmelhorn was standing in front of her, looking at her expectantly.
“Did you see anything after the shooting, Ms. Schimmelhorn?”
Cynthia shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember much. The gunshots seemed loud to me, but I figured it was because we were in an enclosed space, not because the shots were fired in the area around me.”
“Where were you looking when you heard the shot?”
“I was—uh, let me see. I suppose I turned my head to see if I could locate the shooter.”
“Toward the aisle?”
Schimmelhorn paused. “That sounds right.”
Fenway cocked her head and studied Cynthia Schimmelhorn’s face. It was impassive. She wasn’t certain about what she’d seen, yet she wasn’t worried about providing incorrect information to the police. Or whatever authority Fenway was. But perhaps the steely countenance was her default. After all, Schimmelhorn had lost her daughter to suicide a few years before, and she was a female executive in a man’s world. She must have needed to force down her emotions to thrive in her career.
“You don’t remember, do you?” Fenway said quietly.
Schimmelhorn blinked.
“The human brain can process an amazing amount of information, but when some of that information is traumatizing, it will wall off that information so your conscious mind can’t access it.” Fenway’s voice was gentle. Her psychology professors would object to the horrific overgeneralization, but Fenway was concerned about solving the murder, not about being completely accurate in describing brain function. “So it’s understandable if you don’t remember what happened.” She leaned forward slightly. “You stood less than five feet away from where the shots were fired, Ms. Schimmelhorn. I understand if you can’t remember what happened, but it’s important that you’re honest with me. I can’t solve the crime if you give me wrong information.”
Schimmelhorn pursed her lips. “You’re right,” she murmured. “I can hear the shot in my head, but I don’t remember anything else until the click of the doors locking.”
Fenway nodded and put a comforting hand on Schimmelhorn’s arm. “All right. Thank you. That’s all for now.”
Schimmelhorn nodded “If I remember anything—anything at all—I’ll let you know. I’m sorry.” She turned and walked slowly back to the left side of the gallery, where she took a seat behind Bryce Heissner, who was still leafing through his briefcase.
Fenway scanned over the eleven people sitting there—Piper was still perched at the judge’s station. She leaned against the back of the chair in front of herself and took a deep breath. Might as well get this out of the way.
“Rose?”
Rose Morgan looked up. “Sorry, Miss Stevenson,” she said. “I won’t be talking to you without a lawyer present.”
Fenway set her jaw. It was a long shot, but she might as well take it. “Mr. Dahl is a criminal attorney. He could step in for you if he doesn’t mind.”
Evans Dahl looked up at Fenway over the top of his glasses. “What?”
“I’d like to question Miss Morgan about what she witnessed this morning and what her relationship with the deceased was.”
Dahl shook his head. “I decline.”
Rose Morgan called out. “I decline too. I already have a lawyer. One I like. One who I’m positive has my best interests in mind.”
She shot a look over to Evans Dahl, who looked uncomfortable, but tilted his head. “Too many cooks spoil the broth, Miss Stevenson. I won’t step on another lawyer’s toes.”
Perhaps Morgan and Dahl knew something Fenway didn’t—it wouldn’t be impossible. But then Dahl grimaced and shifted his weight in the chair, moving his lower leg into a different position. Ah—he must still have quite a bit of pain in his ankle.
Fenway turned her head to Bryce Heissner. “All right. Looks like you’re next, Mr. Heissner.”
He glared at Fenway. “Maybe if she’ll wait for her lawyer, I should too.”
Fenway shook her head. “Miss Morgan and I have a bit of a history. A few days ago, I told her she was under arrest and she ran away. So I can understand why she’s a little reluctant to talk to me.”
“She wouldn’t let you search her bag, either.”
“Right, but like I said, we have a history.” Fenway put her hands on the back of the seat a row behind Heissner and leaned forward. “Don’t tell me that you’ve resisted arrest, too?”
Heissner scoffed. “Of course not. But I don’t have to talk with you.”
Fenway nodded. “You’re well within your rights. See, right now, I have my eye on the woman who was caught doing a lot of sketchy things last week.”
“Hey,” Rose said, “you can’t—”
“It’s a matter of public record,” Fenway said coolly, although she wasn’t quite sure if the police reports had been made public or not. She still stared Heissner in the eyes even though she was talking to Rose Morgan. “You can assert your innocence to anyone you like, just like you don’t have to talk to me without a lawyer.” She softened her voice and cocked her head slightly. Heissner drew back slightly. “You’ll never guess who’s at the top of my list of suspects for the professor’s murder.” She straightened up and stretched her arms over her head, and her spine lengthened and made a couple of quiet but satisfying cracks. “It’s not a problem. I’ll just tell the sheriff’s office that you wouldn’t agree to talk without a lawyer. Since you’re a material witness, you can simply wait at the sheriff’s office until your attorney arrives.”
Heissner paled. “You can’t do that.”
“I’m not doing anything, Mr. Heissner,” Fenway said. “The law is the law. Talk to me now, while we’re not going anywhere anyway, or talk to the sheriff down at the station after you’ve spent a few hours waiting for your lawyer to show up. It’s pretty straightforward.”
Heissner harrumphed.
“Oh, for the love of God, Bryce, just talk to the coroner,” snapped Cynthia Schimmelhorn. “You don’t constantly have to keep measuring your dick with everyone who asks you to do something.”
“Dammit, Cynthia—”
“Bryce.” Schimmelhorn’s voice was sharp as she leaned forward in her chair and her gray eyes burned. “Talk to the coroner.”
Fenway, whose head had swiveled toward the sound of Schimmelhorn’s voice, motioned for Heissner to join her in the nook.
He looked from Rose to Cynthia to Fenway, then back to Cynthia. Cynthia pursed her lips and motioned toward Fenway with her head. Bryce Heissner sighed and closed his briefcase slowly and deliberately, staring at Fenway as he did so. He placed his briefcase delicately on the seat beside him, then stood up slowly, brushing imagined crumbs off his suit, straightening his tie, and rearranging his suit jacket.
“Stop preening and go interview,” Schimmelhorn hissed.
“Oh, stop it, Cynthia,” Heissner said. “You may be the most vocal member of the board of directors, but you’re not my boss.” He picked up his briefcase, and slowly walked toward Fenway, like a toddler who was intentionally trying to drag things out.
Fenway walked ahead of him, and by the time Heissner turned the corner into the nook, she was already seated, holding the phone in front of her, the recording app already loaded.
She clicked the record button. “The date is November twelfth, 10:52 a.m. Coroner Fenway Stevenson interviewing Mr. Bryce Heissner.”
She looked at Heissner, who grunted and took a seat across from her. “Do you consent to having this conversation recorded, Mr. Heissner?”
“What the hell, right?”
“So that’s a yes?”
“Oh, we’re being formal? Affirmative, Coroner Stevenson, I consent to having this conversation recorded. That better?”
Fenway raised her eyebrows. She could already tell this would be a slog. “Can you state your full name for the record?”
“Bryce Robert Heissner.”
“Mr. Heissner, would you state your occupation?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m the chief financial officer for Ferris Energy.”
“Where were you when you heard the gunshots?”
“I was standing in the back row.”
“Standing?”
“I was stretching my legs.”
“On which side of the courtroom?” Fenway asked.
“This near side. The defense’s side, I guess.”
“And on which side of the column were you standing?”
“Um…” Heissner furrowed his brow. “The side closest to the center aisle, I suppose.”
“So you were standing almost immediately behind Ms. Schimmelhorn?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
Fenway nodded. That’s almost exactly where Cynthia Schimmelhorn said she heard the shot fired. She tried to keep her face impassive. “Did you see who fired the gun?”
Heissner shook his head. “No.”
“Where did it sound like the shot came from?”
He shook his head. “I lost most of the hearing in my right ear when I was in the Navy. I can’t place sounds very well.”
“Oh—when were you in the Navy?”
“About thirty years ago.” He puffed out his chest. “Made it to Lieutenant Commander before I left to go into private industry.”
Fenway studied Heissner’s face. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
“No.”
“Ms. Schimmelhorn said she saw someone in the back aisle who looked suspicious. Did you see anyone?”
“There were a few people walking, trying to come into the room, trying to get out. I don’t remember anyone looking nervous or suspicious.”
Fenway nodded and paused briefly. “Did you know the decedent?”
“Jeez. Fancy words. I didn’t really know him at all.”
“So why were you at his arraignment?”
“I needed to meet Cynthia this morning. She and I had some paperwork to go over.”
“What about?”
“How to fire your daddy.” A slow smile spread across Bryce Heissner’s face. “You know, before the arraignment today, I figured we should play this really close to the vest. But now, you know the board of directors has recommended firing Nathaniel Ferris with cause,” Heissner said, raising his voice. Fenway cringed. Everyone in the courtroom would be able to hear Heissner’s pronouncement, which she was sure was the point. “It’s not like he’s run a tight ship—he’s hasn’t been able to keep his involvement with murderers and thieves under wraps. And it’s bad enough that his own wife was arrested for murder—”
“She was innocent!” protested Fenway.
“—but now he himself has been arrested for murder. He would have been arraigned for it, too, but he made damn sure that he turned this into a debacle.”
Fenway’s jaw dropped. “You’re saying that my father killed Professor Cygnus so he couldn’t get arraigned for the murder of Solomon Delacroix?”
“Had him killed, yes.”
“That’s a ridiculous motive.”
“According to you.” Heissner chortled. “Sure, you make it seem like you and your father don’t get along, like he’s at odds with you over all the high-profile arrests you’ve made of his political appointees and employees. But when the chips are down, he knows he can count on his little girl to make evidence disappear or to convince a crowded courtroom that the angle of the trajectory couldn’t possibly have come from that direction. And the entire county trusts you, because you’re the coroner. You won re-election in a landslide. Plus, you’ve got some fancy master’s degree in forensics. But blood is thicker than water, Miss Stevenson. Oh, and it’s a nice touch, using your mother’s maiden name instead of your father’s last name to really cement the popular misconception that you can’t stand him.”
Fenway blinked. She wasn’t sure how to respond to Heissner’s accusations.
“You don’t have to say anything,” Heissner said, a snarl on his lips. “The board of directors have been cooperating with Kim, and she would have introduced many more charges than a single murder indictment. Your father’s in deep water. He wouldn’t be going home today. He wouldn’t be going home ever. Three more counts of murder. Conspiracy to commit murder. Fraud. Racketeering. And selling fuel to the rebels in East Timor? To a group on the terrorism watch list? I don’t know if the u.s. Attorney wants to add treason into the charges, but ‘aiding and abetting a terrorist cell’ has a certain charm to it, right?”
Fenway’s stomach dropped and the room started to spin. This was so much bigger. She’d suggested that Charlotte hire Piper to dig into the trail of evidence that Fenway was sure had been planted. But this? This was another level completely. This might be beyond what even Piper could fight against.
Heissner’s face was full of a crazed glee as he stood up and stuck his head around the corner of the nook. “Did you hear that, you bastard? You’re being brought up on a dozen different charges. You’ll rot in jail while the Feds and the county fight over who gets to fry your ass.”
Charlotte’s voice shimmered with concern. “Nate—don’t—”
She was on her feet and scooted around the corner in time to see her father storm past the large square column and head toward the nook.
“You know those are damn lies,” Ferris said.
“And I bet your wife pulled the trigger, too,” Heissner yelled. “I’ve seen those targets from the gun range. Some man you are, using your wife to do the dirty work.”
Ferris got right in Heissner’s face. “You’ve got a funny way of clawing your way to the top.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” Heissner said. “We might have stopped this long before now if you weren’t so busy pimping out your daughter to the sheriff so he’d look the other way.”
“Dad—” Fenway shrieked. A flurry of movement of her father’s fist. Heissner was looking at Fenway, a sneering grin on his face, and never saw the blow coming. Ferris’s uppercut connected with Heissner’s chin.
It was like the scene was in slow motion. Heissner’s whole face rippled with the punch, the skin from his mouth to the receding hairline of his forehead condensing and expanding, up and down like a spring that had been stepped on.
Heissner’s head snapped back and he fell over the chair he’d been sitting in. There was a crack as the back of Heissner’s skull smashed into the wall of the nook. He let out a sharp yelp of pain that almost drowned out the sound of tearing cloth as his suit jacket sleeve caught on the arm of the chair.
Voices from the gallery and footsteps. Charlotte, Jennifer, Xavier, and Amanda all came running.
“What the hell happened?” Xavier exclaimed, rushing to Heissner’s side.
Charlotte had a look on her face like she didn’t know whether to yell at her husband or kiss him.
Fenway looked at Jennifer, whose face slid from concern for Bryce Heissner into guilt. Fenway set her jaw. “You’re adding a bunch of charges to my father’s arraignment?”
“Of course I couldn’t tell you, Fenway. You’re too close. You’ve got a conflict of interest.”
Fenway shook her head. “The coroner’s office has been investigating the murders that have happened over the last week, as well as the accident at the Ferris Energy plant, and you’re telling me that instead of reassigning my office due to a conflict of interest, you simply let us flounder away? Did you obstruct my sergeants from doing their jobs? Withhold information?”
Jennifer Kim looked at her shoes.
“It’s one thing if you thought I should recuse myself, Jennifer, but you wasted our time. And you wasted the taxpayers’ money.”
“We couldn’t risk you telling your dad we were onto him,” Kim said softly.
“Couldn’t risk—” Fenway’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “Listen here, Ms. Kim. My father abandoned me when I was eight years old.” She clenched and unclenched her fists. “He never paid my mother a cent because he had expensive lawyers and my mom had nothing. He missed my school plays. My high school graduation. Even my college graduation.”
“It doesn’t—” Kim started weakly.
“You don’t think I want to see him to pay for what he’s done? You think I’ll have some sudden change of heart and not push for the maximum penalty if he’s done something like this?”
“I think he’s the only family you have left,” Kim said softly.
Fenway blinked. It was true, but that didn’t mean she’d look the other way. Far from it.
“And you think I want him to be the only family I have left? You don’t think I wish every day that it was him who’d died of cancer in that hospital and not my mom?” Fenway shook her head. “You may care about the appearance of impropriety, but you sure don’t care about getting at the truth.” She pointed at her father, who stood with his mouth hanging open. “You think I’ll let him get away with assault when we get out of here because he’s my father?”
“No,” Cynthia Schimmelhorn interrupted. “You’re going to let your father get away with it because Bryce was insulting and uncouth and deserved to get punched in the face.”
Fenway looked at Cynthia and burst out laughing. “Yeah, you’re right.” She waved her hand at Jennifer Kim. “Do what you’ve got to do, Jennifer. I couldn’t stop you even if I wanted to.”
She pushed past her shocked father, who was holding his left fist as if it were sore, and walked toward the aisle. She had to get away from ada Kim, her father, Charlotte, and Bryce Heissner. Maybe she’d hide out with Piper behind the judge’s death. The interviews hadn’t gone well, and not having a closed-off, soundproof area made the subject tighten their grips around what they were willing to say in public.
Fenway reached out her left hand and touched the back wall as she walked. She didn’t know where she would go to get the alone time she needed to reset herself. The wall had the slightly gritty feel associated with new paint, but it felt cool to the touch as well, probably because of the anti-radio signal paint underneath the top coats. She lifted her hand before her fingers touched the minor scratches in the paint around the bottom corner of the audio speaker enclosure.
Fenway took a right turn, up the aisle toward the front of the courtroom, then stopped in her tracks.
Minor scratches in the paint.
Were there minor scratches in the paint when she’d first seen the back wall?
Maybe. If the speaker enclosure had been installed after the room had been painted. If the audio technicians hadn’t done the job correctly, or if they hadn’t gone back to touch up what they damaged.
It was probably nothing. Fenway had probably overlooked it the last time.
And besides, even though the minor scratches looked relatively recent, that didn’t mean anything. She wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between a scratch made last week or a scratch made half an hour ago. And even if those scratches were made half an hour ago, what significance could it possibly have?
Fenway took another two steps and stopped again.
Jennifer Kim had fainted. Everyone had turned their attention to Fenway, trying to revive Kim. No one was paying attention to the back wall.
It would eat at her until she knew for sure.
She looked up at the judge’s bench. Piper was watching Fenway with curiosity on her face.
Fenway sighed. What the hell—it’s not like she was going anywhere.
She turned around and walked back to the speaker enclosure along the back wall.
She peered at the scratches on the bottom left. Two scratches: one in a stretched z shape, the other a swoosh that turned slightly up at the right hand side. It’s possible that when the audio installers slid the speaker into the wall, the enclosing frame was slightly out of position, so one of the mounting screws could have made those scratches.
But the scratches were heavier on the left side than the right. As if whatever had damaged the paint had been pushed hard then dragged to the right as it got lifted up. If the scratches had been made from trying to shove the speaker enclosure in the wall opening, wouldn’t they be deeper the closer they got to the wall opening as the frame was being pushed in?
It certainly didn’t prove anything, but it was unusual.
Fenway studied the edge of the enclosure frame. Where there should be screws, there were only holes.
That was enough to pique Fenway’s curiosity. There were many scenarios in which the scratched paint and the missing screws could be innocently explained away, but it’s not like she needed a warrant.
She put her hand up to the edge of the frame and caught the edge of it with all four of her fingertips. The frame easily gave way and pulled out about six inches.
At the bottom of the wall opening was a ledge.
On the ledge was a black handgun.