Six o’clock came early. Fenway swung her feet onto the floor, turned the alarm off. McVie rolled over, facing away from Fenway, and exhaled, a muted snore escaping his lips.
She padded out to the kitchen and looked out the front window.
The sky shimmered with pink and lavender, almost like a sunset. A perfect morning to take a cup of coffee out on the tiny porch—if only there weren’t so much to do before the storm arrived.
Fenway took a quick shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went into her bedroom, gently shaking McVie awake.
“You need to shower?”
“I’m moving a few pieces of furniture today. I’ll shower when I’m done.” He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You have time for Jack & Jill’s?”
“Not really, but it’s still early. I guess if we hurry.” Fenway looked at McVie. “You worried about the storm later?”
“Alonso is weakening by the hour,” McVie said. “But I left my flashlights and my camping stove out of the boxes. And I picked up a few gallons of water yesterday to be on the safe side. We might lose power for a few hours, but I doubt it’ll be any worse than that.”
“Will the storm be bad enough for you to postpone leaving tomorrow?”
McVie smiled sadly. “I can always hope.” He stretched his arms over his head. “I’ll get dressed. We can take two cars.”
Twenty minutes later, they were out the door. McVie looked up at the sky.
“Yeah, the storm is coming today,” he murmured. “I can tell by the sky.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You never heard, ‘red skies at night, sailor’s delight; red skies at morning, sailors take warning’?”
Fenway blinked. “Maybe. Not really a lot of boat owners in the neighborhood where I grew up.”
McVie followed Fenway’s Accord out of the apartment complex’s parking lot. Fenway stifled a yawn as she turned onto Estancia Canyon Road and tapped her phone to play her funk playlist. That would get her blood moving.
A little over five minutes later, they parked next to each other in the Jack and Jill’s parking lot. They got out of their cars. The light breeze off the ocean felt refreshing.
“Were you listening to the radio?”
“Uh, no. My funk playlist.”
“Yeah, well, the weather report said Alonso will make landfall further north than they thought.”
“Closer to us or further away?”
“Closer.” McVie frowned. “How are you on batteries?”
“I’ll get some today.”
“Pick them up at the grocery store before work. I’m afraid people will start buying them out of stock.” He shook his head as they walked toward the entrance. “This is a shitty time for me to be packing and moving.”
Fenway agreed, though perhaps for different reasons.
She checked the clock above the counter when they walked in. Not quite seven.
The ruthlessly efficient server brought their eggs and toast within a few minutes, and McVie paid the bill by twenty after.
After McVie signed the receipt, they walked out of the restaurant to find the wind had picked up. They kissed goodbye in the stiff breeze, standing between their two cars, Fenway tasting the smoky flavor of bacon on McVie’s lips. Fenway wrapped her arms around McVie and gave him a squeeze, holding it for an extra couple of seconds. He squeezed back.
As Fenway drove to the office, the muted purples and dusky rose colors, more suited to a sunset, glowed in the sky. Eerie.
Fenway opened the door to the coroner’s suite a few minutes past seven thirty.
“Oh, good,” Sarah said, standing behind the counter. “I knew you had a late night. I thought you wouldn’t get in for another few hours.”
Fenway blinked. “What happened? Was there a third murder?”
“The way Sheriff Donnelly is talking, you’d think so.”
“Donnelly? What’s her—”
Oh no. Fenway hadn’t talked to Donnelly about moving Celeste’s overtime to the coroner office’s budget. She’d gotten waylaid by Hope Dunkelman.
“Celeste put in for overtime,” Sarah said.
“We had a murder last night. Everyone got overtime. There must have been six deputies of Gretchen’s there.”
“Donnelly said you overstepped your bounds.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Oh—come on. Is this about Gretchen asking Brian to do a drive-by on the cabin, then me taking Celeste?”
Sarah nodded. “Ah, there’s the context I needed. Now some of her comments make more sense. She said you should keep in mind that Celeste doesn’t work for you.”
“Ugh.” Fenway pursed her lips. “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, and I’ve got a ton of stuff to deal with. And Gretchen wants to get all territorial.”
Fenway put her elbows on the counter. “Did we get any judges to sign off on the warrant for the phone location info?”
“It’s not eight o’clock yet. Plus, with the storm due to arrive this afternoon, a few of the judges cleared their dockets.”
“Then maybe they’ll have more time to sign warrants.”
“As soon as I get a signature, I’ll let you know.” Sarah clicked her mouse. “One thing that did come in—the three rideshare companies you asked me to look into? No pickups or drop-offs at Cahill Warehouse Storage. The last ride took place over a month ago.”
“Hmph.”
“Based on yesterday’s events, I requested everything near Hutash Bridge, too. I hope they’ll get back to me this morning.”
“Taxi companies?”
“The two local companies are checking their logs, looking for people who paid in cash. No luck yet.”
“Thanks.” Fenway turned, then stopped. “Oh—Sarah, how bad do you think this storm will be?”
“First tropical storm to hit California in years. And the last one hit south of L.A.” Sarah shrugged. “They say it’s got a fifty-fifty chance of making landfall in Dominguez County. And the ocean here is cold enough that Alonso is losing speed. I think we might just get a whole lot of rain.”
“In June—here, in Estancia.”
“Crazy, I know. We’re usually lucky to get half an inch the whole month.”
“If you hear things are about to get bad, go home. Or go somewhere safe.”
“Will do.”
Fenway unlocked the door to her private office, walked in, and put her purse on her desk. She signed into her laptop and turned to the window. The blinds were closed, and she reached out to turn the stick to open them. The parking lot stared back at her; not a great view, and the eerie pinks and lavenders still shone in the sky, casting an uneasy pallor over her office.
She turned back to the computer and typed in her password. The browser window appeared, with the paused footage from Tuesday afternoon on six different virtual screens, from the back corner of the building to the front gate with the two electric scooters parked on the sidewalk.
Fenway narrowed her eyes.
Two electric scooters.
Weren’t there three?
She sat at the desk, grabbed the mouse, and brought up a new window. She had to type in the URL and log in to the security footage website again. Then she clicked on the link for Monday night from 9:00 PM to midnight, when Seth Cahill arrived—just before he turned off the cameras.
All six screens came online. The timestamp: 21:00:00.
The left bottom screen showed the front of the facility with the gate closed. Streetlamps were on, the camera setting at low light.
She counted the Tailwhip scooters. One, two, three.
The cameras had been off for nine hours.
Someone had driven Seth Cahill’s Corvette from the storage facility to Miranda Duchy’s cabin—and left it there. That person had to get back somehow. No bus routes went out there, but if FlashRide and the other rideshare companies didn’t have any record of anything—
Hang on.
The indentation in the passenger seat near the headrest. The scratches on the plastic above the footwell.
An electric scooter could have done that.
Fenway opened another browser window and brought up an online map of Estancia.
Four miles from Hutash Bridge to Cahill Warehouse Storage. Those scooters topped out at fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but if the killer had murdered Seth Cahill, put the scooter in the passenger seat, driven to Miranda Duchy’s cabin with the Corvette, then taken the scooter back to the storage facility so they could pick up their car, that would explain a lot. And it might have only taken a half hour to ride back. Perhaps a little harrowing on the downhill mountain roads, but doable.
Fenway stood and strode to Sarah’s desk. She looked up.
“I need to get usage records from Tailwhip.”
“The electric scooter company?” Sarah asked.
“Yep. And if we need those phone warrants signed, who’s available?”
“Judge Azurra. He’s thinking about canceling most of his docket for the day because of the storm. If you want him to sign anything, do it in the next hour.” Sarah pressed her lips together. “He’s a stickler for privacy rights, but we’ve got all the T’s crossed and I’s dotted, but I’ll double check the phone record warrants before I give them to you. We don’t have much of a choice of judges today, anyway.”
Fenway looked skeptical.
Sarah shook her head. “I promise, after I check everything, he’ll sign them.”
“I know. Sometimes your competence is scary.” Fenway grinned. “Okay, I’ll call Tailwhip while you finish up the warrants. Then, when I’m out tracking down Azurra, why don’t you look through the Estancia High yearbook? See if Tyra Cahill had other classmates connected to this case.”
“That sounds an awful lot like busy work.”
“It might not lead to anything, but Hope said Tyra lost a lot of friends when she got pregnant. And she said Tyra didn’t blame Seth for her birth son’s death. But maybe we’ll find something that makes the puzzle pieces click into place.”
“Maybe,” Sarah said. “You owe me Dos Milagros for this.”
Fenway chuckled. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
She went back into her office and closed the door, then found the Tailwhip customer service number online. After navigating their system and waiting on hold for ten minutes, she got a manager on the phone.
“Tailwhip, this is Vivian.”
“This is Coroner Fenway Stevenson with the Dominguez County Coroner’s Office. I need some scooter rental records.”
“Certainly,” Vivian said. “Now, I’ll need to verify your identity. That usually takes one to three business days.”
“One to three days? Is there a faster way?”
“Well, if you download our app…”
Fenway rolled her eyes.
After downloading the app, entering her credit card information—because of course Fenway’s records request required that she sign up to the Tailwhip service—Sarah dropped the phone record warrants on Fenway’s desk. It took ten minutes for Fenway to walk the warrants over to Judge Roland Azurra’s office.
“This is the Seth Cahill case?” he asked.
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“We don’t have someone in custody for that already? Gretchen told me they made an arrest last night.”
“That’s true, Your Honor.”
Azurra raised an eyebrow.
“Due diligence, Your Honor.”
“Due diligence?”
Fenway took a breath. How much should she say? What the hell—she’d put it all out there. “There’s another theory of the case.”
Azurra grunted. “Is there?”
“Yes.” Fenway leaned forward in her chair. “Our victim was paid to store drugs—specifically, morpheranyl—at his storage facility. The ex-wife of the victim gave up a baby for adoption at sixteen and recently reconnected with him as an adult.” Fenway paused. “The adult son died from a morpheranyl overdose about seven months ago.”
“And the conflicting theory of the case is that the victim’s ex-wife blamed him for her son’s death?”
“That’s correct—or, at least, that’s what we think the defense might try to say. And if we haven’t explored this possibility, that could create reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind.”
“Gretchen is confident she got the right person.”
“The existing evidence suggests we did get the right person, Your Honor,” Fenway said. “It’s hard to argue you’re innocent when both the victim’s missing car and the murder weapon are found on your property. But isn’t it worth discovering if our case has a hole in it?”
Azurra tilted his head. “If you think the ex-wife is a legitimate suspect, I see how her phone records are relevant. But”—he glanced at the warrant paperwork—“Hope Dunkelman?”
“Ms. Dunkelman is Tyra Cahill’s alibi, and this will either confirm the alibi or cast doubt on it. Ms. Cahill had the means, and if she blamed her ex for the death of her son, she’s got a motive. Plus, she was angry at Miranda Duchy for the affair with Seth. I don’t want Duchy’s expensive defense attorney to plant this theory in the jurors’ minds and for us not to have an answer.”
A smile crept over Azurra’s face. “That’s a lovely story, Coroner. But I think you believe we have the wrong person in custody.”
Fenway couldn’t suppress her grin. “I’d love to be proven wrong.”
Azurra cackled. “Now I know you’re lying.” He pulled the warrant paperwork toward him and looked over the pages for a moment, then signed it and handed it back to Fenway. “Happy fishing.”
Fenway gripped the warrant paperwork folder tightly as she exited the City Hall building to go back to the Coroner’s Office—then she stopped. Yes, Fenway had the investigation in full swing, but neither Miranda Duchy nor Tyra Cahill would talk without a lawyer. She could be doing other things, but since she was already by City Hall…
She turned around, went back in the door, walked down the hallway to the administrative area, and opened the door of Suite 130, Human Resources. HR had consolidated into this section of the City Hall building right after the new year, and the woman who had replaced Lana Cassidy—after the infamous shooting incident—was nice enough, if a little scattered.
A dark-haired woman with an olive complexion, schoolmarm spectacles and a thin, white cardigan over her shoulders looked up from her computer. “Oh, hello, Miss Stevenson! How can I help you?”
“Hi, Ms. Farzan,” Fenway said. She took a breath and began. “I meant to call you this morning. I wondered what the holdup was with Mark Trevino’s backfill.”
“Of course.” Debbie gave Fenway a disapproving look over the top of her glasses. “When were you planning to start looking at the candidates?”
Fenway blinked. “Looking at the candidates? What do you mean? I’ve gotten three applications and I’ve made my decision. I asked for a status update.”
“And I sent you the status update yesterday and asked—” Debbie cocked her head. “I don’t believe I have anything in the system. Hold on just a moment.” She turned to her computer and began clicking the mouse. “In fact, I emailed two weeks ago to see if you didn’t want the position filled.”
“I do—I most definitely do.” Fenway bit her lip. “I don’t understand where the disconnect is. I’ve been adding the interview notes into the system. I hoped we’d be ready to make an offer.”
“An offer? I don’t even have the first steps of the backfill complete.”
Fenway furrowed her brow as Debbie tapped on the keyboard again.
“Now, Sergeant Trevino helped you out by filling in the first two forms that you need to get this process started.”
Fenway’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ll miss Mark.” Then her brows knitted. “Wait—Mark filled out the forms online? What forms?”
Debbie pointed at her computer screen. “The backfill paperwork. Here—you’re listed as the supervisor. We’ve had the job posted on the website and on the job board for—let’s see, six weeks now. Minimum is thirty calendar days, so we’re all good there.” Debbie grinned at Fenway. “I wish all my outgoing employees made it this easy.”
“I’m glad Mark was so helpful.” She lifted her chin hopefully. “So, where are my interview notes?”
It was Debbie’s turn to look confused. “You haven’t even logged into the system.”
“No, that’s not true—I submitted the job req a few weeks ago. I’ve done three interviews. Have you not received any of my notes?”
“They’re certainly not in here.” Debbie cocked her head. “I am equally surprised. You haven’t received any of the emails stating that you need to move the hiring process forward?”
“None.” Fenway felt her heart rate speed up. She thought there was a bureaucratic hiccup—not that she was this far behind. “I don’t understand what I did wrong. I know I made some mistakes when I hired Sarah, but I thought I’d done a better job—”
“Sarah?”
“Sarah Summerfield. My assistant.”
“Hold on—you used the system that you used to hire Sarah Summerfield?”
“Sure.”
Debbie closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You can’t use the same system for hiring administrative and support staff that you use for hiring law enforcement officers.”
Fenway blinked. Oh no.
“Log into the law enforcement officer hiring system,” Debbie said, “and go to the section of the job boards that says, ‘Hiring Manager Access.’ Then enter your username and password—”
“Just my regular system name?”
“No, no, the law enforcement hiring system credentials.” Debbie tilted her head. “You should have received the training from Human Resources when you joined.”
Fenway shrugged. “I jumped right into an investigation when I started.” Plus, the former HR manager tried to kill me.
“Well,” Debbie said, “if you can dig out that email with all your credentials, you’ll have to log in. Then you go in and score all the candidates.” She frowned. “If you never signed up for the law enforcement hiring system, that might explain why you haven’t received any of the email updates.”
“Can you check to see if I’m in the system?”
“It will take me a minute,” Debbie said, staring at the monitor and tapping the keyboard.
“I’ve got time,” Fenway said, though it wasn’t true. The investigation wouldn’t wait. But then, she didn’t want to lose out on hiring Celeste Salvador just because she didn’t have the right credentials in the hiring system.
“Yes, here it is—oh, dear.”
“What?”
“Your name was changed in the system, but the email address is wrong. It should be fstevenson, but instead it’s hwalker. Who is that?”
“He was the coroner before me.”
“But you should be getting his email. It automatically forwards to you for a year.”
Fenway smiled. “I’ve been here fourteen months.”
Debbie clicked on the keyboard, read the screen, then frowned. “I’m so sorry, Miss Stevenson. It looks like you’ve entered notes for three candidates in the administrative hiring system, not the law enforcement hiring system.”
“Can you move them over to the law enforcement system?”
Debbie stifled a sigh. “The fields are slightly different, but I’ll make sure they’re moved over. I feel terrible. Someone should have trained you properly.”
“Well, I’m glad we caught it,” Fenway said calmly, though her heart pounded in her ears. “It’s just three candidates. Hopefully, we can get this back on track.”
“Oh,” Debbie said, primly putting her hands in her lap, “you are required to score all the candidates, not just the ones you interviewed.”
“All the candidates?” Then Fenway closed her eyes. Of course. The job had been posted for six weeks. There must be candidates who applied to the law enforcement hiring system—the correct hiring system. Fenway sighed. “Okay, how many are there?”
“Well, as of this morning…” Debbie turned to the computer, clicked a few times, then pointed at the screen. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?”
“That’s correct.”
“But—but I’ve identified who I want to hire.”
Debbie winced in sympathy, meeting Fenway’s eyes. “I’ve only been in this role six months, but we must follow the rules. Often, they have to do with the union or with laws written for public employees. I’m afraid we can’t change the rules due to our miscommunication.”
Fenway exhaled and put her hands over her face. “Thirty-one.”
“Plus the candidates you’ve already interviewed.” Debbie pressed her lips together. “The form for candidate evaluation is pretty straightforward, but I must warn you, it’s a bit time-consuming.”
“Just what I need when I’m reviewing the applications of three dozen people.”
Debbie’s eyes turned toward the monitor again. “Well—let’s see what we can do.” She tapped the keyboard. “I can run a few algorithms and if the applicant doesn’t meet the minimum requirements, we can disqualify them without the full evaluation.”
Fenway hesitated. She remembered when the clinic closed in Seattle, how desperate she was for work, and how she hadn’t gotten anyone to respond to her job applications. Was it algorithms like the ones Debbie suggested that kicked her out before she appeared as more than a series of ones and zeros to the hiring organizations?
Debbie was the only one in the office, but she looked around conspiratorially, then lowered her voice. “Can I ask—who did you want to hire?”
“Oh—Deputy Salvador. One of the top scores on the detective exam, and I’ve been in the field with her. She’s great. Fast learner, quick thinker, everything I want in a detective.”
“Ah yes—here she is. Applied online.” Debbie paused. “But—there’s an issue with her application.”
“I know, I know, she’s not at the level of a sergeant yet. But I expect her to get there in another year or two.” Fenway smiled at Debbie. “She’s an exemplary employee, too. Surely that counts for something.”
Debbie paused and looked at the floor.
“Are you saying that her prior performance holds no weight?”
“On the contrary. It’s one of the few things that could affect her score compared to more experienced candidates.”
Something about Debbie’s word choice: affect her score. Not improve her score. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Debbie?”
Debbie looked up at Fenway with wide eyes. “Deputy Salvador was just written up. Insubordination.”