Fenway called Seth Cahill’s insurance agent on her cellphone to see if the decedent had changed anything else—added coverage, changed beneficiaries—but the office had closed for the day. Fenway crossed the street—stepping over another discarded Tailwhip electric scooter—and entered her office, where she typed her notes into the computer for about half an hour.
She’d just opened her email when Sarah opened her office door.
“I’m heading out.”
“Make any headway on the background of the boat or of the people who were in it?”
“Just that the Ariel has paid for a slip at the Harbor for about two years,” Sarah said. “I’ll know more tomorrow. You need me to stay?”
Fenway’s phone buzzed in her purse. She pulled it out. A text from Mark.
She held up the phone. “The Ariel isn’t in dock.”
“Maybe on one of those extremely common overnight whale-watching tours.”
Fenway chuckled. “With that cigarette I found on the beach, I would think the Ariel had made its delivery.”
“So you’d expect it to be in dock.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, look at the bright side,” Sarah said. “One less thing to do tonight.”
“Hang on,” Fenway said. “What if Seth’s death messed up the schedule last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“He was killed between ten and midnight. If he’d intended to drive his car down to Vista del Rincón and go diving to pull the drugs off the boat, but he was killed before he could do it—”
“I see where you’re going. Seth doesn’t show, the boat can’t make its delivery, so it might try again tonight.”
“Precisely.”
“Want me to see if Sheriff Donnelly can put a couple of uniforms on the beach?”
Fenway shook her head. “Not uniforms. We want them to keep out of sight.” Her phone rang in her hand. “Talk to Dez about it and see if she can get a team or two to cover the beach tonight. Then you can go home.” She tapped Answer as Sarah closed the door behind her.
“Hey, Melissa.”
“Couple of things you’ll want to note,” Melissa said. “We reviewed security footage. You can see Seth Cahill drive to the storage facility’s parking lot at about ten fifteen last night.”
“Does the tape show him leaving the facility?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, then, unless he wandered off somewhere on foot, without the camera seeing, sounds like he was killed on the premises. The question is, by whom?”
“Right. And no one else worked that late. The two employees, Isabella and Mathis, both left at nine o’clock, give or take.”
“So Seth was alone.”
“Well—we don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because about three minutes after Seth enters the office, the cameras go dead.”
“Really?”
“Yep. 10:18 PM. We looked at other footage, too. On a handful of days over the last three months, Seth drives up after closing time, goes in, and turns off the recording.”
“When do the cameras go back on?”
“Sometimes around two a.m. Sometimes just before the facility opens the day after.”
“Who else is at the facility when this happens?”
“Just Seth Cahill. They have alarms and gates, but no overnight security guard.”
Probably just for this reason—no witnesses. “You said this has been going on for three months?”
“They only have ninety days’ worth of footage.”
Fenway rubbed her forehead. “You got the message that we think Seth Cahill was involved in drug trafficking?” If that were the case, maybe Seth Cahill was the one to disconnect the tracking system on the Corvette, too. Hadn’t she read a news story last year about a cheating husband whose wife found out because of his car’s automatic tracking system?
“Yeah, I got the update.”
“If the ledger we found kept track of the drug trafficking payments, maybe we can use it to establish a timeline. Send over the times and dates when the cameras were turned off. I’ll cross-reference those with the entries in the ledger. See if the dates of payment match with the days Seth turned off the cameras.”
“Will do. You’ll get a text in a few minutes.”
“Can you do me a favor? Talk to Patrick Appleby in our IT department. See if he can cross-reference the dates and times of Seth turning off the cameras with any gaps in the Corvette’s SafeBoard tracking system, too.”
“Sure.”
“Thanks, Melissa. I’ll talk to you later—”
“Wait—there’s one more thing.”
“What?”
“Look at this picture.”
The phone buzzed in Fenway’s hand. She tapped on the screen and a picture of a small video monitor appeared. The images on the monitor were of Seth Cahill’s office, from a corner camera in the ceiling. The Scandinavian desk and the high office chair were directly underneath the camera.
She tapped on the top of the screen and turned on the speakerphone. “The office is empty,” Fenway said.
“Right—but look in front of the desk.”
“The metal guest chairs?”
“Look what’s on the floor under the guest chairs.”
Fenway blinked.
Dusky gold and navy blue. The Persian rug that Seth’s body was wrapped in.
The door seemed especially heavy, and Fenway pushed it open with her foot, the bag with a burger and fries in one hand and the large cola, already half-consumed, in the other.
The door banged against something—a stack of large boxes.
“Craig?” Fenway called. She squeezed through the space between the door and the jamb, into the small linoleum-covered foyer of her apartment. The door swung shut behind her.
Stacks of boxes covered her living room and the dining room, as well as one of the two counters in the kitchen.
“Craig?”
No answer. She pulled her phone out. Two missed calls from McVie, but no voicemail. She’d gotten to Baxter’s Burgers before they’d closed, and now it was 9:03 pm. There was no way—
She grimaced. Ah, that made sense. Most of the storage places closed at seven or eight. Cahill Warehouse Storage was one of the few in the area—maybe the only one—that stayed open until nine. The facilities in L.A. stayed open later, but the earlier hours—with restaurants, shops, as well as storage facilities—were part of the charm of living in a beachside community like Estancia.
So she’d seen McVie at five o’clock, or maybe just after. He’d had to go to a new storage facility, sign up, pass their credit check, all of that, then interview at the sheriff’s office about the body in his storage unit. Obvious that he’d only had time for one or two trips before the facility had closed for the night. But why not leave everything in his apartment? Not only was he leaving town, not only was he subjecting her to the pain of a long-distance relationship, but he’d dumped thirty or forty boxes in her apartment.
An annoying thought struck her. Maybe McVie hadn’t been able to get as large of a storage space as he’d needed. Maybe these boxes were the overflow. Would these be staying in Fenway’s house for the next week until…
She squeezed past two stacks of boxes in the living room and plopped down on the sofa. The coffee table was clear, so she set down her soda and opened the bag. The tang of Baxter’s Chipotle Burger sauce hit her nose. She popped a French fry in her mouth. Tasty, though not piping hot anymore. She pulled her burger out, unwrapped it, and took a bite. For not being Dos Milagros, the food was pretty good. For a moment, she could ignore the stacks of boxes.
The door opened.
Through the crack in the door, three more boxes. And McVie’s muscular legs.
“Hang on, Craig,” she mumbled loudly through a mouthful, putting the burger on the coffee table. She vaulted over the arm of the sofa and reached the stack of boxes behind the door. She pulled on the stack—
Oh, that wasn’t happening.
“Sorry,” said McVie’s voice from behind the stack of boxes in the doorway. “I wasn’t thinking with the last trip I made. I put them too close to the door.”
“Well, put those down and help me,” Fenway said. “It’s too heavy for me to move.”
After some grunting, McVie set the stack of boxes down next to Fenway’s front door, then stepped sideways through the door to get in. He stepped to the side of the stack behind the door, with Fenway on the far side, and they both grabbed the bottommost box and slid the entire stack on the dining room floor until the door could open most of the way.
“There,” McVie said.
“How many more trips do you have?”
“I can leave the rest of the boxes in the car for tonight,” McVie said. “These boxes have some of my sentimental stuff. Family photos, mostly. I can replace the other stuff.”
“Why did you bring the boxes here?”
“You didn’t get my voicemail?”
“Two missed calls. No messages.”
“I’m so sorry. The reception at the storage place was terrible.” He pushed one of the stacks away from the dining room table, closer to the wall. “Landlord wants a walkthrough, and since I’m leaving early, tomorrow was the only day I could schedule it. And the storage place I rented closes at eight.” McVie sniffed the air. “That’s not Dos Milagros I smell.”
“Baxter’s. I went to Dos Milagros for lunch.”
“Sorry. I really was planning on taking you to a fancy dinner tonight.”
“It’s okay—I would have had to cancel.” She climbed back over the arm of the sofa and picked up her burger. “How was the interview at the sheriff’s office?”
“Fine. My name was on the rental agreement, but I didn’t have anything to do with either the squatter or the dead body.” He scratched his chin. “I don’t envy Sheriff Donnelly. Everyone is screaming for her head because of the spike in overdose deaths. She’ll have to do something dramatic if she wants the town back on her side.”
Fenway chewed and swallowed. Ugh, she hadn’t savored that bite properly. “So, are you getting these boxes out of my apartment tomorrow?”
“Yes, but first I have to go on another stakeout. The woman I’m supposed to be following has a Pilates appointment tomorrow morning at nine thirty. And I don’t know when it will end.” He stepped toward the sofa and rested his arm on top of the stack of boxes next to the coffee table. “Besides, I need the money right now. Colorado is a big question mark.”
“I get that,” Fenway said. She took another bite.
McVie looked at her burger hungrily.
“Have you eaten?” Fenway said with her mouth full.
“Uh—no. Part of the voicemail you didn’t get was me asking if we could grab something when you got home.”
“Okay. Well, I have some stuff in the freezer. Maybe some leftovers in the fridge. The spaghetti with meat sauce we had the other night.”
“That sounds great. You don’t mind?”
“Go ahead.”
“Thanks.” McVie walked around another stack of boxes into the kitchen, around the corner, behind the wall separating the living room from the dining area. The sound of plates clicking together, then of the microwave opening and closing. Beep beep beep beep, then a final beep. The microwave powered on.
“I have to start on the case early tomorrow,” Fenway said, “but I’ll take a few boxes over for you in my car before work.”
“I appreciate it, but you really went out of your way today. I’ll take care of everything tomorrow.” McVie took a comically giant step over the sofa arm and sat next to Fenway, then pulled her close and kissed the top of her head.
After McVie got the spaghetti from the microwave, Fenway polished off the rest of her burger. She turned on the TV, then lay down on the sofa, her feet sticking over the far arm of the sofa, the top of her head pressed against the side of McVie’s thigh while he ate. She breathed in; a light scent of cardamom, a bit of musky sweat, as he’d been carrying boxes up and down stairs for most of the last two hours. Fenway didn’t mind too much.
The next thing Fenway knew, McVie was shaking her awake.
“Hey,” he said. “You want me to go?”
“No,” she mumbled. “Stay here tonight.” She pushed herself to a sitting position. The bowl of spaghetti was empty and the ice in her soda had completely melted. “Is the show over?”
“Yeah.”
“What time is it?”
“Ten fifteen.” He stood and grabbed the plate. “Want to get ready for bed before I take a shower?”
“Sure.” She stood and rubbed her eyes, then walked around the coffee table, shimmied between two stacks of boxes, then walked into the bathroom.
She stared at herself in the mirror. She looked tired. The last couple of weeks—really, the last year—had been trying sometimes. Tonight was no exception.
But compared to a little over a year ago? When she’d been driving back and forth to the hospital where her mother went from bad to worse? Trying to get through her shifts at the clinic?
The work was hard and mentally demanding, but she felt so much more in control. And her father—well, maybe their relationship wasn’t perfect, but it was better than it had been since her mother had moved them both to Seattle twenty-one years before.
The fatigue showed in her eyes. She wasn’t getting any younger—she’d be thirty this year—but the bags under her eyes were so much less noticeable than they’d been that last week when she’d visited her mother in the oncology ward. Her hair had come in a little fuller, too, and while this latest twist with McVie had—
Oh no. Was that a gray hair?
Ugh. In a curl about an inch and a half above the right side of her forehead. She rolled the hair between her fingers until she isolated it, then squeezed her fingers together and gave a yank.
Fenway stared at the single strand of gray hair in her hand for what seemed like a long time, then she shook her head, grabbed her face cleanser, and turned the faucet on.
She fell asleep as soon as she got into bed, and woke with a start again, the overhead light and the ceiling fan on above her. Fenway glanced over at the clock. Not quite eleven. The sounds of water running. McVie was still in the shower—not that unexpected, although he usually didn’t shower for this long. It must have been twenty minutes.
She turned her pillow over to the cool side and fluffed it before setting her head down. She parted her lips—they were dry. Water.
She swung her feet out of bed and padded to the bathroom. The door was closed; a little unusual, but maybe McVie hadn’t wanted to wake her up with the sound of the shower.. She reached out to grab the door handle.
Locked.
That was odd.
Then she heard it, almost imperceptible under the sound of the water running, the cascading streams of water hitting the bottom of the tub. Fenway furrowed her brow, then she grimaced.
McVie was sobbing.
Fenway straightened up.
How long had he been crying?
Dazed, she walked into the kitchen and took a short glass out of the cabinet, then pulled out the pitcher of filtered water from the fridge. She poured a glass, and the water went down easily; cold, refreshing. She debated pouring herself another, but instead she put the pitcher back into the refrigerator and closed the door. She stood there for a moment, listening carefully, but from the kitchen she could barely hear the water running, never mind any sobbing underneath.
Had she ever seen McVie cry before? She couldn’t remember. Not when he’d lost the mayoral election, though that was a tough defeat. He hadn’t cried in the past when Fenway cried either, though he’d held her and comforted her. Maybe when Amy had said she’d wanted the divorce? Fenway hadn’t been there for that.
Part of her understood. McVie was scared. New town, new job. He didn’t know anyone except the ex-wife he hated and the daughter who tried to avoid him. He hadn’t really talked to Fenway about how he felt about moving, but it was reasonable to assume he was crying because he was scared about the future—wasn’t it? She hoped she wasn’t one of those girlfriends who McVie felt he had to hide his feelings from.
Should she comfort McVie about his decision to move? He’s the one who wanted it, even though he knew how hard it was for Fenway to trust anyone, knew how she’d never had a romantic relationship that had lasted more than a few months.
He’d made it clear that he valued his relationship with Megan more than his relationship with Fenway. And Fenway had been fine with it. Fine. Really. It made sense; of course it did. Megan was his daughter. Fenway was his girlfriend, and they’d met just over a year ago.
Fenway set down her water glass on the sink and padded past the bathroom door. As she crossed the threshold into her bedroom, she heard the water turn off. She put on the bedside table light on McVie’s side of the bed, turned off the overhead light, and lay down, her back to McVie’s side.
McVie came in, padding around the bed, smelling of Fenway’s soap. He climbed into bed and turned his bedside light off, turning onto his back.
“You okay?” she asked tentatively.
“Sure. Little stressful today, I guess.”
She turned to face him. “Anything you want to talk about?”
A slight hesitation, then a comforting chuckle. “Honestly, I’m just tired.”
She scooted closer to him, then rested her head on his shoulder. He shifted so his arm wrapped around her back and he pulled her in to him. “I’m sorry things are so crazy right now.”
“I—” Fenway began, but she didn’t know what else to say.
For a moment, Fenway lay in the dark, listening to McVie breathe. His breath didn’t hitch; there was no clue he’d been crying or emotional. After a minute or two, his breathing slowed and deepened, and his hand slipped off her back.
Fenway shifted herself carefully and wrapped her right arm around his bare chest. She buried her face in his shoulder.
“I wish you didn’t have to leave,” she whispered, muffled by his shoulder so he couldn’t hear. “But you have to, and even though I hate it, it’s okay. We might not be okay, but you’ll be okay. It’s the right thing to do.”
If only she believed it.