Fenway hurried out of her office and stopped at Sarah’s desk. “Miranda Duchy isn’t the killer,” she said.
Dez popped her head up from her workstation. “What?”
Fenway turned. “Miranda isn’t the killer. Dr. Yasuda said the killer was right-handed. Miranda’s a lefty.”
Dez pursed her lips. “And we didn’t check that out before she was arrested?”
“Maybe we were all blinded by the life insurance policy and Miranda’s debt.” Fenway paused. “Sarah, have we received the mobile phone location information yet?”
“Miranda Duchy’s mobile?”
“No, no—Tyra Cahill’s phone. And Hope Dunkelman’s phone.”
Sarah furrowed her brow.
“Sorry—you’re not a mind reader.” Fenway gave Sarah a small smile. “If Hope or Tyra’s phone location info show that they made a trip to the storage facility at the time of the murder, that should give us enough evidence to arrest one—or both—of them.”
“And release Miranda Duchy,” Dez said.
“Have the phone companies complied with the warrant yet?” Sarah asked.
Dez walked over to the counter. “We just served the warrant this morning, but the telecoms work fast.”
“Patrick didn’t mention getting the telecom records when I went over there,” Fenway said.
“Did you ask him about the phone records?” Sarah tapped in a number on the phone. “Patrick, hi. It’s Sarah in the coroner’s office. Have you gotten the records from the mobile phone companies? Cahill, Dunkelman?” She paused, then nodded. “Send them over—me, Fenway, and Dez. Thanks. Talk to you later.” She lifted her eyes to Fenway. “He’s got to log into their system and download the data, but he said he’d send it over within the hour.”
“Great.” Fenway glanced at Dez. “What do you want to do for the next hour, Dez?”
“What are you suggesting?” Dez responded. “Go to Hope Dunkelman’s workplace? Maybe convince her to get ahead of this?”
Fenway shook her head. “I want to find out where her phone was before we talk to her.”
A boom of thunder sounded.
“We might not have an hour,” Dez pointed out. “Businesses are closing and sending people home. I think they’re about to do that with non-essential personnel here.”
Sarah nodded. “We got an email about ten minutes ago. We’re supposed to leave here at three o’clock.”
Fenway shook her head. “I still don’t want to confront Hope Dunkelman without the phone records—”
A flash of lightning outside the window.
Fenway blinked.
A thunder crash. The storm was getting closer.
“Dez,” she said, “doesn’t Anton Venn have a problem?”
Dez blinked. “What do you mean?”
“A storage problem. The same kind of problem we thought of when we first found out that Seth Cahill had stored morpheranyl at his facility.”
“That the people in the organization were mad at him for their storage going away.”
“And we thought maybe Mathis Jericho was taking over. Or that Tyra Cahill had somehow agreed to store the morpheranyl after taking over the business.”
Dez put her hands on her hips. “But we never answered the question. Where are they storing the morpheranyl now?”
“Right.”
Sarah stood. “When Mathis Jericho’s body was found in Seth’s Corvette, wasn’t it surrounded by bricks of Nyllie?”
Fenway nodded. “Eighteen bricks.”
“Why?”
“To make it look like Anton Venn was sending a message…” Fenway’s voice petered out. Was it? That was an assumption they’d made—that it was a personal motive, and the killer was trying to point to the cartel. “Sarah,” she said, “can you call Captain Alvidrez?”
“Sure. Speaker?”
“Please.”
Sarah tapped buttons on the landline phone and lifted the console to the counter. Through the phone’s speaker, a ring.
“Alvidrez.”
“Captain,” Fenway said, “it’s Coroner Stevenson.”
“Of course. What can I do for you?”
“The Venn cartel. They had a problem with where to store their morpheranyl after Seth Cahill lost the facility to his ex-wife.”
“It’s possible.”
“One of our original theories was that someone in the drug business had killed Seth because the loss affected a crucial part of their business.”
“Not unheard of. But the murder weapon and the way he was killed? Not a cartel killing.”
“So—why not?”
“What do you mean?”
“This is an illegal business worth millions of dollars. Seth loses the storage facility. Why does the cartel keep him alive?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’s a loose end, right? If he can’t store their drugs, he knows too much.”
Alvidrez paused for a moment. “He did have two broken fingers. Maybe that was a warning?”
“Yet he was still alive—for another four months. And we’re pretty sure the cartel didn’t kill him.”
“Oh,” Alvidrez said. “So you’re thinking the cartel threatened Seth Cahill, broke his fingers to make sure he found another place to store the morpheranyl?”
“And I think he found that other place.” Fenway scratched her temple. “The drugs don’t need to be stored in a warehouse facility, right?” Fenway asked.
“I suppose not.”
“Where else do dealers store drugs?”
“Residences, mostly, but like I said, you get neighbors complaining. And trucks can’t really show up without drawing attention.”
“What about a residence out in the sticks?”
Alvidrez paused. “You mean like Miranda Duchy’s cabin?”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. The road is winding, but it’s wide—it’s a truck route—all the way to Hutash Bridge.”
“I like your thinking,” Alvidrez said, “but we found no drugs in the house. Sheriff Donnelly performed the search herself.”
Fenway remembered: Donnelly wanted to wait for the warrant, and Deputy Salvador thought she’d steal the credit. “You weren’t part of the search team?”
“I was in a training in P.Q. Couldn’t get over in time.”
Fenway frowned. “She got the warrant awfully fast.”
“I didn’t see the warrant. But with probable cause, she wouldn’t have needed one. Maybe she wanted a warrant to make sure her search was airtight, but couldn’t get one?”
“Yeah, maybe Judge Solano was in court.” Fenway furrowed her brow. “Still, if there were no drugs found in the cabin, that doesn’t mean there hadn’t been any earlier.”
Alvidrez clicked his tongue. “True, but without a panel truck, I expect it would have been hard to trek everything out of there.”
Fenway glanced at Dez. “If the drugs were stored at Duchy’s cabin, that would explain why we found an entry in Seth Cahill’s ledger, but no sign of drugs stored in either of the storage units.”
“Could have been in other units,” Dez said.
“Yes, of course—I mean, that was our thought at the time. But I think they’d already moved the storage to the cabin. Cahill was simply meeting Banning at the office for payment. And Banning only stayed in Unit 112 the night of Cahill’s death to make sure Cahill wasn’t tricking him.”
“Let me call Sheriff Donnelly,” Alvidrez said. “See what she noted. Maybe she has bodycam footage of the cabin search.”
“Thanks, Captain.”
“Oh, and Fenway, I want to thank you.”
“Thank me? For what?”
“Those eighteen bricks of morpheranyl. Vice hit our six-month target.”
Fenway looked at Dez, who shrugged.
“Is this for the SJRD incentive?” Sarah asked.
“That’s right,” Alvidrez replied. “Donnelly and I submitted the paperwork last night, and we got confirmation about an hour ago. I forgot to tell you when I ran into you earlier.”
“That’s great,” Fenway said.
“The available incentive money isn’t as much as last year,” Alvidrez said, “but we’re getting a much bigger chunk of it, thanks to you and Salvador. Just shy of five million.” He sounded both proud and relieved. “It’ll be in our account by the end of the month. The Board of Supervisors should be delighted. No more budget shortfall.”
“Delighted,” Fenway said distractedly.
They said their goodbyes, and Sarah ended the call.
Fenway clenched and unclenched her fists. Donnelly knew about the incentive application. She had written up Deputy Salvador for insubordination, citing a budget issue for overtime she knew was going away. Fenway closed her eyes. Not the time to be focusing on interdepartmental personnel issues—their prime suspect in the Cahill murder had been exonerated, and the investigation needed to accelerate.
“That wasn’t too helpful.” Sarah tapped her fingernails on the counter, then sat down in front of her machine.
“Maybe,” Fenway said cautiously, pulling her train of thought back on the investigation track. “If Seth Cahill was using Miranda Duchy’s cabin as morpheranyl storage, that might explain a lot.”
“Like what?”
“What Mathis Jericho was doing there, for one,” Dez said.
Fenway nodded. “And what Seth’s Corvette was doing there, too.”
Dez grunted in agreement. “Mathis was the last one seen with the hammer, going into the area where the murder occurred. Maybe he’s the one who killed Seth Cahill, trying to take over the business for himself, and then Miranda Duchy killed Mathis—in revenge for Seth.”
“Did Miranda know her cabin was being used for drug storage?” Fenway asked.
“Let’s hold that thought—you’re assuming a lot.”
Fenway bit her lip.
“You’re assuming a lot, Fenway,” Dez repeated. “You heard Captain Alvidrez: the sheriff didn’t find any drugs or evidence of drug storage.”
Fenway pressed her lips together and took a step away from the counter.
Dez tilted her head. “What is it?”
“I, uh—” She glanced at Sarah. Could she tell Dez and Sarah that she didn’t trust Sheriff Donnelly?
Well, yes, she could, but for a reason like Donnelly writing up Deputy Salvador? For something that didn’t even affect her budget—the poor excuse she came up with? Fenway folded her arms and looked at the floor. There must be a way she could get around the roadblocks Donnelly had put in her way. Dez and Sarah—two smart people from two entirely different backgrounds. Maybe one of them, or both of them, would see something she couldn’t.
But trying to block Deputy Salvador from getting hired, while annoying, was no reason not to trust Donnelly when she said she’d found no evidence at the cabin.
“Nothing,” Fenway finally said.
Dez stared at Fenway for a long time, then shook her head. “You want to go see the cabin for yourself, don’t you?”
Fenway was quiet.
“Out with it, Fenway.”
She rolled her options around in her mind, then found a way out. “Patrick said he didn’t find anything on the video of Duchy’s doorbell cam. And he was mostly right. There wasn’t any evidence on the footage itself—except Patrick hadn’t heard the killer was right-handed, so he wasn’t looking for Miranda Duchy to write with her left hand. Maybe it’s something like that. I’ve been around this case. Donnelly hasn’t. She could have been looking for drugs when evidence of the murder was in front of her.”
Dez was quiet, tapping her chin. “Maybe.”
“I’ll be awake all night if we don’t check out the cabin.” Fenway tapped her fingers on the counter.
“Gretchen got the warrant,” Dez said. “Think it’s still valid?”
Fenway turned to Dez. “We’re going anyway. Dead guy found in the carport. Searching the cabin is probable cause.”
“It’s been over twenty-four hours…”
“You’re okay,” Sarah said. “Last year, the California Supreme Court ruled that the sheriff’s department had standing without a warrant. And that was a week, not a day.”
“Let me grab my purse,” Fenway said. “We’ll get the key from evidence on our way out.” She looked at the clock on the wall; two fifteen, then she turned to Sarah. “You can check out the phone location info when it comes in, right? Tell me if Hope and Tyra were together?”
“Sure.”
Fenway motioned to Dez. “Let’s go. I don’t want to be out in this storm any longer than we have to.”
“Give me a second,” Deputy Donald Huke said. “The key to the cabin was originally with Ms. Duchy’s effects, but it’s not there now.” He was tall, his beige uniform stretched tight across his chest. He looked a little less doughy and more muscular than the last time Fenway had seen him. Dating Melissa de la Garza was looking good on him.
“You don’t know where the key to the cabin is?” Dez asked. Her brow was creased, the way it was when she was in a hurry but trying to be polite.
Dez and Fenway were both dripping wet. The gentle drizzle when they’d left the coroner’s suite turned into a downpour when they were halfway to the sheriff’s office. Fenway was glad Huke hadn’t commented on their soggy state.
“Sheriff Donnelly brought it back earlier. The key’s here somewhere. Maybe in the wrong box, or maybe not put away.”
“Thank you, Donald,” Fenway said, shooting a glance at Dez.
Huke disappeared into the back for a moment, then returned with the key in a baggie.
“Here it is.”
“Where was it?”
“Box on the shelf underneath. The labels aren’t clear.”
Fenway took the baggie. “How long before Duchy’s arraignment?”
“They pushed it to tomorrow. With the storm and all.”
“Duchy’s lawyer won’t like that.”
“She squawked a little, but then the lightning started, so she got quiet pretty fast.”
Dez took Fenway in her Impala. Ocean Highway was almost empty, the rain coming down in sheets, turning the midday into a gray dusk. Dez drove about ten miles per hour under the speed limit and took the offramp onto the Windkettle cut-off through a large puddle on the right side that sprayed a sheet of water to the side.
The Windkettle cut-off road was wide, and it began to wind into the hills. The rain lessened, but Dez still kept her wipers on high.
“A panel truck could take this,” Fenway said. “Not in this weather, but normally, it’d be easy enough.”
Dez pointed to a sign mounted below the California Highway 331 sign. No Trucks Over 10 Tons. “On the smaller side of box trucks, but yeah.”
“It means the cabin could have solved Seth Cahill’s storage problems with the Venn cartel.”
Dez nodded.
About ten minutes later, a sign on the right: Hutash Bridge 500 Feet. Fenway leaned forward and pointed out the windshield. “That’s the cabin.”
Dez slowed the Impala and followed Fenway’s finger, squinting. “Back from the road a little.”
Fenway nodded. “Look at those eucalyptus trees. Not very thick, but there are so many of them, you might not see a box truck from the road.”
“Might be the rain.”
Dez pulled the Impala up in the front of the driveway, as close to the front door as she could. She applied the emergency brake and gripped the steering wheel. “You ready?”
“We’ll get soaked.”
“It’s ten feet to the front porch. By the time we get our umbrellas open, we’ll be underneath the overhang.”
Fenway took a deep breath and opened the car door. She hadn’t brought her umbrella, anyway.
Dez and Fenway raced to the front porch. The wind blew hard, throwing some rain on their shoes and the bottom of their trousers as they stood under the overhang. Probably would have taken an umbrella right out of her hand.
“Key,” Dez said.
Fenway pulled the baggie out of her inside blazer pocket and took the key out. Dez took it out of her hand and put it into the lock—
—but it didn’t fit.
“What the hell?” Dez muttered under her breath, turning the key upside down, but it still didn’t fit. “Is this the wrong key?”
Fenway pressed her lips together, then spoke. “Donald was in charge of the evidence room—and he wouldn’t mess up like that. He’s the most detail-oriented person I’ve ever met. Even more than Patrick.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Fenway. The key doesn’t fit.”
“Maybe Gretchen took the wrong key, but maybe the door was open when she got here.”
“Possible.” Dez tried the doorknob, but it was locked. “If it was open then, it’s locked now.”
Fenway’s stomach roiled. Why didn’t the key work?
Fenway’s phone buzzed—and so did Dez’s. She looked at the screen, suddenly aflurry with texts:
Severe Weather Alert for ESTANCIA, CA THU 18 JUNE 04:02 PM
Tropical Storm Alonso advisory number 11
A tropical storm warning is in effect from Tierra del Verano north to Point Dominguez
Maximum sustained winds are near 50 mph (80 km/h), with higher gusts
Slow weakening is expected until 9:00 AM Friday June 19
Landfall is expected between 5:00 PM and 6:00 PM between Estancia and Point Dominguez
Fenway’s stomach sank. The tropical storm was coming to Dominguez County.
Dez ignored their phones. “If Donnelly had brought the wrong key, and the door was open and she tried to lock it when she left, do you think she would have told anyone she had the wrong key?”
“Possibly not. But if she couldn’t lock it when she left, why is it locked now?”
“Or if it’s one of those locks that you can lock before you close the door.”
“That would explain it.” Fenway’s shoes were getting drenched. “It’s also possible that Miranda Duchy had a friend come by after law enforcement left to make sure everything was locked up.”
“Also possible,” Dez said. “Although she’d have a tough time coordinating that from her jail cell.”
Fenway looked on either side of the door. Windows, but the shades were drawn. They wouldn’t be extracting any information out of this visit.
Fenway’s phone rang in her purse. Cell service here: that was always a crapshoot. She took the phone out: Sarah. She tapped Answer then turned on the speakerphone.
“Hey, Sarah. You’ve got me and Dez. And Tropical Storm Alonso in the background.”
“I went through the cellphone records for Hope Dunkelman and Tyra Cahill.”
“Anything of note?”
“Tyra Cahill’s phone location says she never left her house until she went to Hope and George’s house—exactly when she said she did.”
“I’m hoping there’s a ‘but’ coming.”
“But,” Sarah said, “Hope’s phone shows she didn’t go to Tyra’s at all.”
Fenway knotted her eyebrows. “Not at all?”
“No,” Sarah said. “Records show she left home and went to Cahill Warehouse Storage.”