Fenway blinked and leaned on the gate. “You got proof there’s a mole? Are you sure?”
“Almost positive,” said Piper. “I have the mole’s codename—it’s kind of silly. 37cuckoo37.”
“Yeah, that is silly. How do you know that’s the mole?” They continued to walk past the witness stand and up to the dais.
“Because,” Piper said, “there’s a payment of ten thousand dollars to the cuckoo the morning after Dylan Richards was killed in his cell. And a note written in the margin of one of the handwritten ledgers we got from Marisol Velásquez last week.”
“Which was?”
“Leo is cuckoo.”
“Did you just say ‘Leo is cuckoo’?”
“Right. I puzzled over that for a while. I hadn’t seen any payments to anyone with a codename of cuckoo or the name of Leo, but as soon as I noticed the timing of that payment, everything clicked into place.”
Fenway nodded. “Law enforcement officer.”
“Right. I should have known that—and it did pop into my head—but I rejected it because this was a criminal enterprise, not an internal police thing. Then, as soon as I saw that payment and the cuckoo codename on the day after Dylan was killed, I remembered how much work Domingo Velásquez did for Ferris Energy and for their security teams, and how many of them were former law enforcement.”
“Do you think cuckoo means anything?”
Piper shrugged. “I only found out about cuckoo’s existence a few minutes ago. Give me at least a half hour to figure out their social security number and their favorite fruit.”
Fenway chuckled. “Excellent work, Piper. You’re not holding back any other information, are you?”
Piper shook her head. “Nothing that seems very relevant, anyway. I did start looking at financials for some of the people in the room. Cynthia Schimmelhorn seems interesting, but she’s so rich she’s got most of her payments listed in secure systems. I did get an interesting cross-reference when I started looking at Evans Dahl, though.”
“Evans Dahl? Why would you look at him?”
Piper folded her arms. “Because he pissed me off. Talking about you like that.”
“Aw, thanks, Piper. You’re like the feisty little sister I never had.”
Piper grunted. “Well, I found a payment from Cynthia Schimmelhorn to Evans Dahl. It just went through this morning. He must have accepted it over the long weekend.”
“What’s it for?”
“I think,” Piper mused, “it’s for defending Professor Cygnus from the murder charge.”
“What?”
“There’s no record of payment from either of the Cygnus accounts, and Evans Dahl doesn’t come cheap,” Piper said. “Now, maybe, Evans is taking it purely for the publicity, or maybe he’s working out a payment arrangement with the Cygnuses.”
“Maybe.” Fenway leaned on the desk. “But why Evans Dahl? He’s a decent attorney, I suppose, but there are many criminal attorneys better than him. His reputation isn’t that great, and he’s expensive.”
“Cynthia Schimmelhorn is right there. You could go ask her why she hired him.”
Fenway nodded.
“And,” Piper whispered, “have you noticed that she’s got that cfo of Ferris Energy wrapped around her little finger?”
“Yeah, I have noticed that.”
“He looks at her all the time before he makes a move. Approval or something.”
“I mean,” Fenway said, “she is the most powerful person on the board of directors. Besides, Mr. Heissner seems to have an issue with impulse control.”
“But even so,” Piper said, “it’s odd, isn’t it?”
Fenway giggled. “What, you think maybe they have some sort of weird power-sex relationship?”
Piper’s eyes went wide. “No, that wasn’t was I was thinking at all.” She made a face. “Thanks for the visual.”
“What were you thinking?”
“Um—that Cynthia was the one trying to get your father kicked out. That Bryce is basically her lackey. Doing her dirty work for him.”
“Her heavy?”
“Uh—yes, I guess so.”
“And you think Cynthia is behind everything?”
Piper bobbed her head sideways and forward. “I don’t know. I suppose the notion occurred to me.”
The wheels turned in Fenway’s mind. “I suppose that does make a certain kind of sense.”
Piper shook her head. “But she’s doing the power grab so blatantly. She must have enough leverage to squeeze your dad out without a billion-dollar oil-to-terrorist scheme.”
“Plus, she’s rich,” Fenway said. “So I don’t know why she’d do it.”
Piper looked thoughtful. “She made a lot of money when Ferris Energy took over the division of Petrogrande that she led. I researched it—I don’t have the number in front of me, but it was several million dollars. Honestly, I’m surprised she’s so angry at your father.”
“Maybe she wanted to get a lot more out of the deal.”
“Maybe so. But she came out pretty well.”
“Maybe you could do some research into Bryce Heissner. He told me he was in the Navy—made it up to Lieutenant Commander.”
Piper nodded. “So his prints are on file anyway.”
Fenway paused a moment. “Have Schimmelhorn and Heissner been on the board since Ferris Energy took over?”
Piper shook her head slowly. “I don’t know about Heissner, but Scimmelhorn disappeared for a while. A year, maybe two. Then she ran operations at another energy group in Mexico, then she was at a natural gas company in the Pacific Northwest. It was about five years after the leveraged buyout before she joined the board of directors. Apparently she lobbied the other directors pretty hard.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your dad gave me access to corporate email.”
“What? Is that—is that legal?”
Piper nodded. “Of course it is. Just like the county can access all of our email.”
Fenway pulled a chair out and sat, motioning Piper to take a seat next to her. “Okay, walk me through the timeline here,” she said.
“Right. About eight years ago, she’s the general manager of Petrogrande Western. Operations in Colorado, Nevada, California. Ferris came in and scooped it up. Ferris Energy had been investing in the lands where Petrogrande Western leased, and in the real estate properties where their offices were. Ferris Energy then bought a bunch of stock in Petrogrande—the international firm—and convinced them to carve off Petrogrande Western and give it to Ferris Energy.”
“Give it?”
“Ferris owned the oil fields and the buildings—pretty much everything except the equipment and the workers. And they obviously wanted the profit. I’m sure there was a threat made—give us Petrogrande Western or we’ll make it impossible to do business on our land.”
“That’s nasty.”
“That’s business. That’s how your dad got his reputation for being ruthless.”
“What did Petrogrande get in return?”
“Besides the money from the stock purchase? I don’t think they got anything. The press release says they got about $50 million out of it, but that’s a fraction of what it was worth. Cynthia Schimmelhorn had to spend a couple of weeks in intense negotiations, trying to save Petrogrande Western, but she couldn’t do it. And she was the first one let go, although they gave her a package and let all her stock options vest. I think it was just upwards of eight million dollars.”
“And she just disappeared?”
“Maybe she just wanted to take some time off. I know she’s been divorced, but I don’t know the timing yet. Maybe she was trying to save her marriage.”
“Ah, that makes sense. And she had a daughter, too. Did I tell you that Cynthia’s daughter was named Nerissa, after the character she played in The Merchant of Venice, directed by Professor Cygnus?”
Piper nodded. “I don’t think you mentioned it to me, but now that makes sense why she’d pay for his murder defense. If he made such a big impact on her, she might have needed to give back.”
“Right.”
“Nerissa went to Western Washington too, just like I did.”
“Oh, wow. A fellow Husky.”
Fenway scoffed. “No, no, Piper, that’s the University of Washington. Western Washington is the Vikings.”
Piper chuckled. “Pardon me for not being up on my college mascots.” She paused. “Did you know her?”
Fenway shook her head. “She was younger than I was by a year or two, I think. She committed suicide. Not sure if she was a problem student growing up, or what the story is there.”
“I could look into it. Maybe that has something to do with Schimmelhorn disappearing.”
Fenway turned and looked at Cynthia Schimmelhorn, sitting in the back row of the courtroom. “I don’t know if it’s relevant, but sure. I’ll talk to Schimmelhorn in the meantime.”
“Do you think that’ll get us closer to finding out who the killer is?”
“At this point,” Fenway said, “if it doesn’t get me Rose Morgan’s fingerprints, I’m not sure what will get me closer to catching the murderer. But the payment is a little odd. Maybe something will shake loose—who knows.” She lowered her voice. “Truth be told, I think there’s something fascinating about her. She’s gotten a long way in the energy industry, especially for it being so male-dominated. I kind of want to be her when I grow up.”
“Really?” Piper followed Fenway’s gaze to Cynthia Schimmelhorn. “She seems so sad to me. She might be rich, but she’s really unhappy.”
Fenway sighed. “You’re right. How can she not be with her daughter gone?” She stood up and stretched her long arms up above her head. “Okay, wish me luck.”
“You’re not being shipped off to war, Fenway. I’ll see you back at the judge’s desk in five minutes.”
“You’re no fun.” Fenway stuck her tongue out at Piper. “Let me know if McVie responds.”
Piper went through the gallery gate, and Fenway turned the other way, back down the center aisle. Cynthia Schimmelhorn sat primly in her seat, her legs elegantly crossed.
“Hi, Ms. Schimmelhorn.”
“Hello, Miss Stevenson. What can I do for you?”
“I just had a couple more questions.”
Cynthia sighed and leaned back. “Of course. I’m not sure when the sheriff plans to let us out, but I hope it’s soon. I don’t want to miss my lunch meeting.”
At the mention of lunch, Fenway’s stomach growled, and she put a hand on her stomach and grinned. “Aw, man, you woke it up.”
Cynthia laughed and shook her head. “It’s unusual, Miss Stevenson. So many people don’t feel like they can joke around me.”
Fenway shrugged. “You do come off as a little serious.”
Schimmelhorn nodded. “I suppose so. I am a rather somber person.”
“So—my questions.”
“Yes.”
“They have to do with Professor Cygnus.”
“I should hope so. This is an investigation of his death, is it not? Even though your hands are a bit tied?”
“I don’t have access to the things I usually do, that’s for sure.” Fenway sat down in the row in front of Schimmelhorn. “I found a payment you made to Evans Dahl recently. Can I ask what that was for?”
“It was for legal representation.”
“For yourself, Ms. Schimmelhorn?”
Cynthia tightened her smile and stared at Fenway. “No.” She paused and blinked.
Fenway waited for moment. Schimmelhorn would offer nothing further without prompting. “For who, then?”
A calmness passed over Cynthia Schimmelhorn’s face as she continued to pause, but finally leaned forward and said, “Professor Cygnus.”
“Why did you pay for his representation?”
Schimmelhorn examined her fingernails. They were short, with a simple clear coat. It was nothing over-the-top, but it looked like a professional manicure. “Because, Miss Stevenson, Professor Cygnus was a great inspiration to me when I went to university. I was a rather spoiled child, and I was used to trying very little but scoring high marks on tests anyway. Professor Cygnus and I fought terribly when I was at school here, but I learned an enormous amount from him. Not just about Shakespeare. Not just how to perform in a play. I learned about myself. What I could do with effort. What I could do if I applied my intelligence to solving problems and not just trying to skate by doing as little as possible.” Schimmelhorn raised her eyes to the ceiling and she clicked her tongue. “It was the most valuable lesson I’ve ever been taught.” Her voice took on a dreamy quality. “I even named my daughter after the character I played. I found a depth in Nerissa that at first I refused to believe was there. But I just wasn’t looking hard enough.” She blinked and focused on Fenway again. “Anyway, perhaps it’s poor judgement to get a decent attorney for the professor, but it was the right thing to do.”
“Why did you choose Evans Dahl, Mrs. Schimmelhorn?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—look, nothing against him, he’s a good attorney. But that’s just it. He’s a good attorney. There are much better attorneys in the area. And, you’ll forgive me for saying so, but I don’t think money is as much of an issue for you as it was for Professor Cygnus.”
Schimmelhorn smiled. “Well, Miss Stevenson, as you are no doubt aware, this was a three-day weekend, and the professor was arrested Friday night and arraigned first thing on the docket the next business day. I may be able to afford expensive lawyers, but they can all afford to say no to me when they have weekend plans with their families. Or their mistresses.” Schimmelhorn smiled innocently.
Fenway nodded. “Fair enough.”
“Is that all?”
“With the questions?” There was something scratching at the back of Fenway’s brain, but she had no idea what it meant. Only one line of questioning was left. “Just about. I just wanted to know how long you’ve been on the board of directors of Ferris Energy.”
“Almost three years.” Cynthia Schimmelhorn sighed. “I knew I was a diversity hire, but I didn’t care. I’d been away from the oil industry for a few years, and I wanted to come back.”
“Weren’t you were forced out originally when Ferris Energy forced Petrogrande to sell their Western division?”
Schimmelhorn nodded. “That they did. It was, shall we say, rather backhanded.” She set her mouth in a thin line.
“Is it fair to say you’re not over it yet?”
“All’s fair in love and business, Miss Stevenson.”
“You must admit it’s a little strange that Ferris Energy still let you on their board of directors.”
“By then your father barely gave me a second thought. Even though it was the most painful experience of my life, and even with my unusual Dutch surname, it simply didn’t register with your father.”
“Okay—yes, that sounds like my father. But why would you even want to be on the board of a company you obviously detested?”
Cynthia nodded. “There’s such a thing as changing a company from the inside, Miss Stevenson. In fact, it’s the only way positive disruption is possible.”
“What changes did you want to see?”
“I wanted to see the removal of stagnant ideas. And, from a personal perspective, I wanted different voices to be giving those fresh ideas. It’s one thing to have groupthink at a company. It’s quite another one when the room doing the groupthinking is full of people from the same demographic.” She sighed. “I did get Arlene Petersbury approved. And Jamal Kincaid, which was a struggle because he’d spent so much time in the public sector. Seven external members on the board, and now we have two women and two African-Americans. That, believe it or not, is in the top five percent of Fortune 1000 companies.”
“I believe it,” Fenway said. “And you fought to save Petrogrande Western.”
“A little too hard, I’m afraid,” Schimmelhorn said. The muscles in her neck tightened visibly.
“You think you could have stayed on at Ferris Energy if you hadn’t pushed so hard?”
Schimmelhorn laughed derisively. “Not a chance.”
Fenway blinked. “You still sound angry.”
“I am.” Schimmelhorn smiled again, her eyes dancing with animation. “Angry enough to kill? I don’t know—killing people is just giving into your base urges, isn’t it? And don’t we as a species like to think we’re better than that?” She clapped her hands together. “Now, when Nathaniel Ferris drops dead and foul play is suspected,” she whispered, “I shall be honored to be considered a suspect. But are you seriously asking whether or not I’m angry enough at Mr. Ferris to kill my beloved Shakespeare professor?”
Fenway absently nodded, not as an affirmative answer to her question, but as an acknowledgment of the absurdity of the question. “One last thing, and then I’ll leave you alone. Did you know or did you suspect that anything was going on with the embargoed oil, the hidden supertankers, the money laundering—any of it?”
Cynthia Schimmelhorn shook her head. “I get compensated in stock for my work on the board of directors, Miss Stevenson. Do you think I’d have risked millions of dollars of my investment if I had known about it?”
“You didn’t see anything that made you suspicious? No ledgers, no secret communications about supertankers, no areas of the docks that were off limits, but where you could still see activity happening?”
“I never went to the docks. I’m sure none of the board did. And as for suspicious activitiy—if I had seen something, don’t you think I’d want to protect that investment?”
“You might not have blown the whistle,” Fenway pointed out. “You might have just wanted to sweep it all under the rug.”
“Not without putting a stop to it first,” Schimmelhorn said, glaring at Fenway. “Really—hiding a supertanker. That takes balls, if you’ll pardon the expression. Or a monumental amount of stupidity.” She smirked. “Or, in your father’s case, perhaps an overgenerous amount of both.”
Fenway grinned back at Cynthia Schimmelhorn. “Yes, that sounds like my father.”
Schimmelhorn leaned forward. “I do think your father is an evil sonofabitch, Fenway. You must know that.”
“It doesn’t surprise me. Sometimes I’m close to that impression myself.”
Her eyes softened. “But you have to know that he loves you very much. He knows he has to make up for two decades of lost time, and it will kill him if he doesn’t figure out how to move past this with you.”
Fenway was startled. “How—how in the world do you know all this?”
Shrugging, Schimmelhorn said, “I’d like to tell you that I’m some sort of magical creature who can take all the pain and suffering away. Or perhaps I can chalk it up to the sorcery of women’s intuition.” She smiled. “Or perhaps it’s the woefully pedestrian explanation that your father speaks more loudly on personal calls during board meetings than he likes to think he does.”
Fenway chuckled. “That also sounds like my father.” She started to get up and then hesitated. “Um—look, I don’t know if this is appropriate for me to say, but I just lost my mother earlier this year, so….” She cleared her throat. “I went to Western Washington too. I’m not sure if it was at the same time as your daughter—I only went for two years—but I know it can be a tough place to go to school. A lot of commuters. It can be tough making friends.”
“Yes,” Schimmelhorn said, “and I’m sure that the professor your father had killed didn’t make things any easier for you.”
Fenway’s stomach dropped. “I—uh….”
“I may not think much of your father,” Cynthia Schimmelhorn said, “but I do admire him for that. If that Delacroix bastard had touched Nerissa—much less recorded it and put it on the web for sale—I’d have wanted to torture him and watch him die, slowly, painfully, as gruesomely as possibly.” She straightened up. “Perhaps I don’t have the right mindset to kill the man who wronged my daughter, but perhaps I do.” She moved her hands outward slightly, as if she couldn’t be bothered to shrug. “At any rate, I admire him for it. And you can tell him so, should you wish.”
“We actually found a way to prove he’s innocent of Delacroix’s murder,” Fenway said, and then immediately regretted saying it.
“You what?”
“I mean—well, I’ve probably said too much.”
“If you’ve found evidence your father didn’t commit the crime, surely it will be public knowledge soon enough.”
“That’s true,” Fenway admitted. “Okay—there are payments that my father supposedly made to the hit man, but we can prove it’s not really his account—someone opened it in his name.”
“Who?”
“We haven’t figured that out yet, but we’ve already sent the documentation to his lawyer. What she does with it is anybody’s guess.”
Schimmelhorn nodded. “I don’t think his lawyer will just sit on it and let him rot in jail.” She folded her arms. “Is there another suspect?”
Fenway shrugged. “We’re working on it.”
“Oh—well. I guess I’ll have to rescind my admiration of your father, then.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
Fenway stood up, with a sudden desire to end the increasingly strange conversation, and her stomach rumbled again.
“Let’s hope this is over soon,” Cynthia Schimmelhorn said. “We wouldn’t want you to miss another meal.”