“Dez, can you take me over to the Hutash Bridge? I lent my car to Piper.”
Dez still stared at her monitor. “Let me guess—McVie is too busy to pack up his office, so she has to—”
“Yes, yes, all the women in McVie’s life are doing his grunt work for him. I’ll be barefoot and pregnant within the week.”
Dez chuckled. “Don’t let this become a habit, girl, that’s all I’m saying.”
“So can you take me?”
“I’m digging through Miranda Duchy’s phone records. I can go in maybe an hour.”
Fenway glanced at Sergeant Trevino’s empty desk. “Is Mark around?”
“He’s in San Miguelito. He’s following up on Scott Behrens’s medical records.”
“Oh—sounds like someone believes me that it’s not Miranda.”
“No,” Dez replied, “it sounds like someone had to pick up some material for Randy’s costume at Villa House Theatrical Supply before his retirement party tonight and needed the excuse to be out in that direction.”
“Ah. Well, two birds with one stone.” And yeah—Mark’s retirement party. A sense of relief that McVie had gotten the gift card, sitting wrapped on her desk.
“Brian could take you—he left a couple minutes ago. You could still catch him.”
“Uh—I’m actually following up on something I think Callahan might have overlooked.”
That broke Dez’s concentration, and she glanced up at Fenway, who shrugged.
“Then ask Celeste,” Dez said.
“I’ve made up my mind, by the way. I’m hiring her to backfill Mark.”
“Will wonders never cease,” Dez said. “You better tell HR first thing tomorrow.”
Fenway startled. “I’ve sent emails. I left a message this afternoon. It’s hard enough to hire someone when I’m in the middle of a murder investigation—the least they could do is reply to an email.” She stood. “I’ll walk over there right now.”
“You’ve missed her. Debbie leaves at three thirty.”
Of course—Celeste had said that yesterday. “Why so early?”
“She gets in at seven and takes thirty minutes for lunch.”
“Sometimes I miss being an hourly employee,” Fenway muttered.
“Isn’t Celeste off in a half hour? She doesn’t say no to overtime.”
“I didn’t think Callahan did either. But he said the department is cracking down.”
Dez frowned. “Wow, you and Rachel haven’t been talking, have you?”
“No, but we’re having a girls’ night after McVie leaves.”
“Be that as it may, Rachel and Brian have been dating for six months. Tonight’s their anniversary. I think he’s taking her to that fancy new bistro in P.Q. after Mark’s party.”
Ah. That would do it. That’s why Callahan had been too distracted to spend more than two minutes at the cabin. And why he didn’t want to take another hour or two to drive Fenway to the cabin.
Fenway considered this; Sheriff Donnelly might not like to spend the extra money, but Fenway could propose pulling Deputy Salvador’s overtime from her own budget. A little creative accounting could make it work.
“Thanks, Dez.” A pause. “Anything useful from Miranda Duchy’s phone?”
“Nothing to report.”
“Okay. Keep me posted.”
Dez turned back to her monitor and Fenway went into her office, sitting at her desk. She sent another email to Debbie Farzan, asking the HR specialist for the status of Mark’s backfill and the requisition. Since she hadn’t gotten a response before, she dug the requisition number from the hiring system, referencing it in her email. She hit Send. There. She should have an answer the next day.
Next, she called Deputy Salvador.
“Hey, Fenway.” Oh, good. They were back on a first-name basis.
“Hey, Celeste. Would you mind taking me to check out a suspect’s second house?”
“If you’ve okayed it with the sheriff.”
“I’ll call her. The overtime can come out of my budget.”
A pause. “You thinking about Miranda Duchy’s cabin by Hutash Bridge?”
“I am.”
“Callahan already did a drive-by this afternoon.”
“I have the report on my desk.” Fenway opened her mouth, closed it again, and thought about what she wanted to say. “There’s a carport in back of the cabin.”
“You think someone parked the Corvette there since Brian did the drive-by?”
“Uh—sure.”
Deputy Salvador sucked in a breath through her teeth. “Are you telling me that Brian didn’t check for a car in the carport?”
Fenway hesitated. “I’m not telling you that.”
“But that’s what happened.”
Fenway was quiet.
Salvador exhaled, low and long. “Okay. I can pick you up in front of the Coroner’s Office in ten minutes.”
“Deal.”
Fenway ended the call.
She looked at the clock on the corner of her computer screen. If they headed out there in ten minutes, she could be there and back by six and still make it to the retirement party at six thirty. She’d call the sheriff on her way to meet Deputy Salvador.
Fenway put the PC to sleep and left her office. She went to the supply cabinet, grabbing several sets of blue nitrile gloves and evidence baggies.
“Heading out, ladies,” she said.
Sarah stood. “Just one thing before you go.”
“Sure.”
Sarah leaned across the counter. “I got Mark a sterling silver pen and pencil set and a two-hundred-dollar gift card to Walleye & Claw.”
“That seafood restaurant on the wharf?”
“Yes, you think it’s overpriced, but that’s where Randy proposed to Mark. It’s their favorite place, and you will shut up about the quality of their seafood tonight at the party.” Sarah smiled sweetly. “Your name is on the pen and pencil set, and ‘from all of us in the coroner’s office’ is on the gift card. Four hundred ten dollars and thirty-two cents total. I’ll send you my cash app info for your share, if that’s most convenient.”
Yikes—over four hundred dollars? But Sarah was a lifesaver—these two gifts were a lot more thoughtful than a home improvement gift card, as kind as McVie’s gesture had been. “You’ll have it tonight.”
Fenway exited the coroner’s suite and walked down the hall. She had to call Sheriff Donnelly to make sure Deputy Salvador could take her—still seven minutes until Deputy Salvador would pick her up. She pulled her phone out and brought up Donnelly’s number—
Fenway startled. Hope Dunkelman and George Pope appeared right in front of her, looking harried and out of breath.
“Coroner—I’m glad I caught you,” said Dunkelman. “Sorry for being so late. They said you’d be over here.”
“That’s all right.” Fenway smiled, but her mind raced. Could she discuss what she needed to with Dunkelman in the next seven minutes?
“George told me that you thought I lied to give Tyra an alibi,” Dunkelman said.
Pope avoided eye contact, but Fenway let him off the hook. “Well, ‘lied’ is a strong word. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I believed everything people told me, right?”
Hope gave Fenway a sad smile. “No, I guess not.” She turned to George. “Why don’t you wait in the car?”
“We’ve got to pick up the generator by six. I want to get it in the garage before the storm hits.”
“It’ll just be a minute.”
George nodded stiffly and exited out the front of the building.
Fenway paused, then broached the topic herself. “It’s merely due diligence, Ms. Dunkelman. I don’t want to open old wounds, but if we arrest someone else and we don’t explore Ms. Cahill’s possible motive—”
Hope Dunkelman’s forehead creased. “I don’t want it to come out in open court, for sure. But look, Tyra was with me the whole time—from nine forty-five until I drove her back to our house, and then until the next morning.” She set her jaw. “And you wouldn’t believe what the three of us went through in high school when Tyra got pregnant.”
“I’m sorry—the three of you?”
“Everyone abandoned Tyra except George and me.” Hope folded her arms. “Honestly, I expected George to dump me once he knew I planned to support my best friend through the pregnancy. Tyra and I did birth classes together instead of me going to parties or out to the movies. I’m lucky George stayed with me. What other sixteen-year-old kid would stick around?”
Fenway looked up and down the hall. “Do you want to go where we have a little more privacy?”
“I really can’t stay long.”
“Did you come to tell me something specific?” Fenway paused. “Was it about Scott Behrens?”
Hope flinched. “Oh. You know about him.”
“That he was Tyra’s biological son? Yes.”
Hope grimaced. “I guess you think Tyra wanted revenge—that she blamed Seth for Scott’s overdose.”
“After discovering Seth wouldn’t let Scott come to Tyra’s Thanksgiving dinner? Yes, that crossed my mind.”
“Seth knew she’d gotten pregnant in high school and put the kid up for adoption. When Scott reached out to Tyra a couple of years ago, it put a strain on their relationship for sure.”
“And did Tyra find out about Seth storing the morpheranyl?”
Hope paused. “Not at first. In fact, not until about halfway through the divorce proceedings.”
Finally an answer. “Halfway through?”
“How do you think Tyra came out of her divorce with everything tilting in her direction?”
“She told Seth she’d go to the cops?”
“I’m not sure, but Tyra told me she’d found out about his drug business.”
“How did she find out?”
“Maybe someone on the inside told her—”
“Like Mathis Jericho?”
Dunkelman shrugged. “She’s not dumb. She can put two and two together. After she confronted Seth, he stopped contesting most of what Tyra asked for in the divorce. More than anything, she wanted him out of her life.” She scoffed. “I think George and I were angrier at Seth for the drugs than Tyra was.”
“But Seth stayed in the drug business.”
“Tyra insisted he was getting out of it. Seth told Tyra everything would stop this past weekend—the drug storage, the people staying in the units, everything. I guess the shipment was delayed. Not that Seth kept Tyra in the loop.”
“No wonder Tyra didn’t want to give me Unit 176,” Fenway said. “Because Seth was using that space. Off the books—probably intending to store the morpheranyl. And that’s why Isabella didn’t know it was taken.” Or she knew his dead body already lay on the floor inside the unit—but Hope didn’t need to hear Fenway’s alternate theory.
Hope nodded. “That kind of thing happened all the time. Seth would mark some unrented units as ‘reserved.’ Tyra finally figured out that Seth was doing something shady.”
“She knew about Unit 176 on Monday night?”
“I don’t remember the number she said,” Hope said, “but she was complaining about the unit on the phone with us.”
“I appreciate you coming in,” Fenway said. “You’ve given me valuable information. But it doesn’t prove that you and Tyra were at her house during the time of the murder.”
Dunkelman thought for a moment. “Can’t you track our cellphones?”
“Sure, but you could have left your cellphones at Tyra’s house and left to commit the crime.”
Hope blinked. “Both of us? You mean—like, we both killed him?”
The Persian rug fibers on the concrete walkway—no, only one person had dragged the body in the carpet. “We’re still gathering evidence. But like I said, we need to cover our bases.”
“What can I do to convince you that we never left the house? Not until, like, eleven-thirty—and then we drove back to my house.”
Fenway blinked. “I can ask our tech people if there’s a way to be certain. You might have to give us your phone. Or Tyra might.”
“I’ll testify in court,” Dunkelman said. “I have nothing to hide.”
“But Tyra does,” Fenway said. “She won’t answer questions without a lawyer. I assume it’s because she’s not sure about her legal liability since she owns the storage facility where criminals have been storing morpheranyl.” Fenway paused. “But it could be because she killed her ex-husband, too.”
“I’ll testify that she stayed with me all night,” Hope said.
Fenway nodded. “I appreciate that.”
Dunkelman looked behind her. “I should get going.”
“Just one more thing.”
“I really must go—”
“Even if Tyra didn’t blame Seth for Scott’s death, maybe someone else did? Her parents? Maybe the father?”
“The father?” Hope shook her head. “A college freshman visiting Estancia on spring break. He told her he went to Stanford. He’d given Tyra a fake name. She figured it was pointless to try to find him. I would imagine he never found out about her pregnancy.”
Oof. A rough spot for a teenager.
“You didn’t meet this guy?” Fenway asked. “I thought you two were best friends.”
Hope rolled her eyes. “My parents took me down to San Diego to visit my aunt. I remember being ticked off the whole week—spring break of junior year and I’m stuck with my parents. Six weeks later, I find out my best friend is pregnant.”
“I’m sorry.”
She pointed a finger at Fenway. “Don’t you dare judge her. An older guy, at least nineteen or twenty, took advantage of a sixteen-year-old girl. Maybe he lied about being a college student. It happens all the time. No one ever gives a shit about the guy. He got Tyra drunk. These days, he’d get arrested for sexual assault.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “All our friends abandoned her. It was like that book we read in American Lit senior year—that woman with that red letter around her neck?”
“Scarlet, not red.” Fenway nodded. “Her name was Hester Prynne.”
“Right. No one gave a damn what happened to the father of Hester’s kid. They wanted to make sure the whole town shunned Hester. That she knew everyone thought she was a whore.” Dunkelman spat the last word.
Fenway nodded; she felt no need to point out that the father of Hester’s kid died at the end of the book. “What about Tyra’s parents? Maybe they wanted revenge for the death of their grandchild?”
Hope guffawed. “Are you kidding? They acted like the pregnancy never happened.” She folded her arms. “And besides, they moved to Phoenix to be near their other daughter and her kids.”
Fenway exhaled. So Scott’s father and grandparents—those were a couple of dead ends.
“I’m glad you were there for her.” Fenway hoped she sounded as sincere as she felt.
“Yeah, me too. George and I were the only people who treated her like a human. And that includes her parents.”
Fenway nodded.
“I really have to go,” Hope said, casting another furtive look over her shoulder.
“Have a good evening, Ms. Dunkelman.”
The cruiser’s tires crunched on the gravel as Fenway and Deputy Salvador pulled up in front of the cabin.
Not what Fenway had in mind for a “cabin”: no logs or stone walls. It didn’t look rustic. Just a relatively small stucco house, single story, with woods surrounding the clearing.
“Doesn’t look like anyone’s home,” Salvador said.
“Pull to the right,” Fenway said, pointing to the side of the driveway.
And from the passenger seat, Fenway saw it: the very corner of a red sports car tucked into the carport, half-hidden by the house.
“That’s it,” Fenway murmured.
“The Corvette?” Salvador put the cruiser in Park and killed the engine.
“Not a hundred percent sure, but it looks like it from here. And it’s red.” Fenway unbuckled her seatbelt. “Come on, let’s go look.”
Salvador nodded. “You’ve got gloves?”
“Just restocked.” Fenway handed Salvador a pair, then pulled a pair on herself.
The two of them walked toward the carport. The more the sports car came into view, the more it looked like a Corvette. Then she saw the license plate: the same as the APB they’d posted the day before.
“Radio it in,” Fenway murmured.
Salvador got on her radio and informed the dispatcher they’d found the missing Corvette.
They were twenty feet away from the rear bumper when Fenway elbowed Salvador. “The windows are down.”
“Yep. Weird.”
“Who leaves the windows of an eighty-thousand-dollar sports car down outside? Especially with a tropical storm coming?”
“A murderer,” Salvador said.
Fenway nodded, took another step, then sucked in air through her teeth. “There’s someone in the driver’s seat.”
Salvador already had her hand on her holster. “This is the sheriff!” Salvador called. “You’re in a stolen vehicle! Come out with your hands up!”
No movement.
“Sir!” Salvador barked. “I said, step out of the car with your hands up!”
Still nothing.
Fenway took a step closer. A blur in front of the head of the Corvette’s occupant.
Fenway’s stomach leapt into her mouth.
“Wait for backup?” Salvador whispered. “Do you think he’s dangerous?”
“I don’t think so,” Fenway said. “That blur around his head?”
Salvador gulped. “Flies.”
The deputy was right. Not a swarm of them, but enough, especially out here in the woods on a warm day.
Fenway had seen corpses before—many of them. Cut them open on metal tables, lost patients in the hospital, seen plenty of overdose deaths. Some whom she’d encountered in her time as coroner had been dead for a day, two days, sometimes more. But the more she saw, the less it affected her, of course. Working the jobs she did, first as a nurse in Seattle and then a coroner here in Dominguez County, had exposed her to enough where she didn’t have to suppress the urge to vomit. But she’d never completely gotten used to dead bodies. And seeing the cloud of flies around the body in the driver’s seat didn’t help.
They stood stock-still for a moment that seemed like an hour. Fenway steeled herself and took a deep breath. “You ready?”
Salvador nodded.
Fenway took the driver’s side of the car, while Salvador went around the passenger side. They both crept closer until they stood even with the side windows.
Deputy Salvador’s hand dropped off her holster. “That’s Mathis Jericho.”