Fenway and Dez hurried out of the house just in time to see the beige sedan, headlights blazing, back down the driveway through the sheets of rain.
And a massive branch from the coastal live oak bisecting the cruiser behind the driver and passenger seats. Broken glass covered the wet sidewalk; metal shards stuck up from the police car’s roof.
That’s gonna be a lot of paperwork.
Then the beige sedan shifted from reverse to drive and shot forward, driving around the wrecked police cruiser and the branch of the enormous oak tree sticking halfway into the street.
He’s getting away.
Fenway, getting drenched by the downpour, stared for a split second at the cruiser. No way it was drivable.
The sky was so dark it was almost like nightfall—but there, on the corner, lay her only hope.
A Tailwhip electric scooter.
But there was no way she could catch a car. Those electric scooters topped out at, what? Twenty, maybe twenty-five miles an hour?
But she saw the beige sedan, with George Pope in it, turn onto the zigzagging street next to Prospero Park. Then she saw the central bike path through the park, straight as an arrow, right toward the brick mini-towers and the exit from the neighborhood.
Fenway sprinted toward the scooter through the downpour, her phone in one hand—had she left her purse in the house with Dez and Hope?—and splashed her way across the street to the scooter. She held her phone up in front of her face.
The Tailwhip app immediately appeared onscreen.
Rent Vehicle 03062?
Double-click side button to accept
She double-clicked the side button, and the scooter blinked blue and came to life. Fenway jammed her phone in her inside blazer pocket, pulled the electric scooter upright, and jumped on.
Her mind flashed back to Seattle.
“Like riding a bike,” she said out loud.
Fenway shifted her weight forward and leaned into the handlebars. The scooter shot forward so fast, Fenway nearly lost control on the rain-slicked pavement. But she gripped the bars tight and steered into the central path of Prospero Park.
If she was lucky, she could go at top speed through the park and meet Pope’s beige sedan on the other side of the park.
And then what?
She didn’t know. But she had to try.
The rain was pouring down now, like someone had turned a bucket upside down. She’d heard of rain like this in the southern United States or the Midwest, but not in Seattle, and certainly not on the California coast. She could barely see in front of herself.
Another flash of lightning illuminated the sky.
She was glad the path through the park was straight and flat—
A bump in the asphalt knocked her left hand off, and the scooter slowed, but she immediately grabbed the handlebar again and leaned forward even more.
Riding without a helmet! the nurse voice in her head screamed at her.
“Quiet, I’m catching a killer,” Fenway muttered. She stole a glance to her left, the rain stinging her face. The beige sedan had to slow for a left turn, then again for a hairpin curve. She was gaining.
When George Pope’s sedan reached the end of the hairpin curve, she was slightly ahead.
She tried leaning further over the handlebars, but the electric scooter was at maximum speed. Fenway squinted through the sheets of rain. The exit out of the Prospero Park neighborhood was coming up, maybe in a quarter mile. She had seconds to formulate a plan.
An action scene from a movie unspooled in her head: could she jump off and have the scooter fly through the air, smashing through the window of the car and disabling it?
She looked to her left again. The beige sedan was too big to be stopped by the scooter. Even if she could time it properly and make sure the scooter wouldn’t stop when she jumped off.
Maybe she could cut in front of the beige sedan. That might give Dez enough time to pursue Pope in Hope Dunkelman’s SUV. Which would clearly be better in weather like this than the sedan.
But George Pope had killed Seth Cahill, and he’d probably killed Mathis Jericho too. Maybe because Mathis knew that Pope had killed Cahill. Fenway took a deep breath—and almost vomited when the rainwater went up her nose.
The tail of the scooter wavered and Fenway nearly lost control, but her hands steadied the handlebars.
“Don’t overcorrect,” she muttered under her breath.
The sedan had pulled ahead of her. Another set of turns for him. She might be able to get ahead again.
Then Fenway got an idea. Maybe it wouldn’t work. But George might be scared of pursuit. Maybe he wasn’t thinking clearly.
“What the hell,” Fenway grumbled. “I can’t think of anything else.”
She chanced a glance down at the handlebar. Just to the left of the handlebar grip was a round knob-like screen. Would this work the way the Tailwhips in Seattle had?
She tapped the top of the knob, the scooter slowing.
“No, no, keep moving,” she yelled.
The knob’s screen lit up. Another brief glance down.
A blue light, and a white touch button. Was that it?
She moved her finger over the white button—
Then another bump in the asphalt knocked her hand off the knob. It went dark and the scooter slowed again.
Fenway let loose a stream of obscenities, leaning forward farther. The scooter whined and shot forward again. Another glance to her left. The sedan was ahead of her now. If Pope got to the front gate of the Prospero Park neighborhood before he noticed Fenway on the scooter, all hope was lost. She leaned forward more, scooting her right thumb to the top of the knob. The screen lit up again.
“White button,” she muttered.
Her thumb struck home.
A bright LED headlight mounted between the handlebars sizzled on. The cold light reflected back in the heavy rain, blinding Fenway for a moment, but she blinked and looked to her left. The beige sedan was completing the third hairpin turn, its headlights shining directly at the scooter.
Surely George Pope saw her that time.
And the beige sedan sped up. Yep—that did it.
Fenway grinned—and got a mouthful of rainwater.
She coughed, the scooter slowing slightly, and she turned her head and spat. She leaned forward again.
George was out of the twistiest part of the road, and he had a straight shot until the stop sign and the left turn onto Tres Arboles Road.
He accelerated—he wouldn’t let Fenway get ahead of him.
“That’s right, George,” Fenway murmured. “Don’t let me win. Go faster.”
The beige sedan turned toward the exit—
And hit the five inches of standing water where Dez had hydroplaned earlier.
The front of the beige sedan, instead of steering to the left toward Tres Arboles Road, lost traction and swung to the right.
The right front wheel jumped the curb.
Smash.
The front of the sedan crashed into one of the brick mini-towers and popped back into the road. The right headlight went dark. The engine idled, then died.
Fenway wished she had her firearm.
She slowed her scooter and stopped when she was a few feet behind the rear bumper of the beige sedan. She looked over her left shoulder; headlights on the road to that side of the park. Hope Dunkelman’s SUV. Fenway hoped Dez was driving it—or was at least a passenger.
She turned back to the beige sedan. The figure in the front seat was slumped to the side. With the angle that the car had hit the brick mini-tower, it was possible that the airbag hadn’t gone off. And George Pope had been in a hurry to get away. He might not have put on a seatbelt. He could be injured. Maybe badly.
She got off the scooter, her phone giving her a beep from her blazer’s inner pocket. “I’ll take care of you later,” Fenway muttered.
She cautiously crept forward, looking for any signs of movement from the driver’s side. The sheets of rain made it hard to see, and she blinked hard as the rain dripped off her eyelashes.
“Come on,” she muttered. “Give me something.”
No movement.
Fenway reached the driver’s door. The window was covered with rain, and the downpour kept pounding on the windshield and the driver’s-side window. The figure inside—definitely George Pope—sat slumped to the right.
Pope moved his head, then gritted his teeth.
Fenway recognized the movement from the clinic. That was serious shoulder damage. Maybe a separated shoulder, maybe a broken collarbone.
Would the driver’s door open?
Fenway took a deep breath and pulled the handle. The door swung out toward her.
“George Pope,” she shouted over the sound of the pouring rain, “you are under arrest for the murders of Seth Cahill and Mathis Jericho. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will—”
“Don’t tell Hope,” he interrupted.
“What?” She leaned into the car.
“Don’t tell Hope.”
Fenway stood dumbfounded for a moment, the rain pouring off her. “I think she figured out you’re the killer.”
His eyes blinked back tears.
Oh. That wasn’t it.
“You mean, don’t tell her you’re Scott’s biological father,” Fenway said.
Tears started pouring down George Pope’s cheeks.
“Is that it?”
“I was a stupid kid. Hope was away for spring break. I—I fooled around with Tyra.” He swallowed, his mouth dry. Fenway remembered Hope’s version of the story: Tyra had been drunk. “Tyra didn’t even like me—not like that. I don’t know why I did it. We both swore it would never happen again. And then Tyra discovered she was pregnant.”
“And Seth found out.” The DNA test—the fast, expensive one. “The Genome Genius.”
“Of course Seth found out. I never figured out how he got Scott’s DNA to test it, but he did.” Pope sucked in a painful breath. “You found out I was paying Seth, right?”
“Only we thought your wife was making the payments.”
“Yeah, well, I fucked up with Tyra in high school, and I fucked up my finances, too. My credit cards are all under Hope’s name. Even my phone is under her name.”
“She only has the one number listed.”
“Her work pays for hers. They manage the account.”
Of course.
The SUV, its lights shining through the downpour, came to a stop behind Fenway. “What should I tell her?”
“Tell her I killed Seth. I didn’t mean for Hope to take the fall. Tell her you don’t know why. Promise me. She can’t find out I cheated on her with Tyra.”
“That was a long time ago. You said it yourself—you were a stupid kid. What were you, sixteen?”
George tried to push himself up and winced. “It’d destroy her.”
“And her husband going away for murder won’t?”
Pope turned his head toward Fenway. A cut on his left cheek. His right arm at an odd angle from the rest of his body. “Please, Coroner. You got your murderer. I went over to the storage place to talk to Seth while Hope was taking care of Tyra. But he and I started arguing, and I got pissed off. Really pissed off.”
“And you hit him with the hammer.”
George closed his eyes and sucked in air through his teeth—he was in pain. He opened his eyes and stared at Fenway. “He wouldn’t even acknowledge that his drugs had killed someone. Someone that Tyra and I—”
He gulped, a tear rolling down his cheek. “Scott deserved better. I thought he’d have a chance at a better life if Tyra gave him up for adoption.”
“And her keeping the baby? Maybe you helping out?” But Fenway knew the answer.
George scoffed, then grimaced in pain. “My parents would have hit the roof. Not only did I get my girlfriend’s best friend pregnant, but she was—” George stopped, flicked his eyes to Fenway’s face, a sudden intake of breath.
Yep. Because Tyra was Black. That’s why George’s parents would have hit the roof.
The embarrassment shimmered in George’s eyes, and Fenway kept pressing. “So Seth wouldn’t talk to you about it?”
“He turned and walked away. Said it wasn’t a good time. He kept shutting me down, going back and forth across the property, checking locks on the units, practically running away from me. And then we were going between two buildings, and he finally turned around and screamed at me. He didn’t care that my ‘junkie kid’ had died—and I…”
“Where did you get the hammer, George?”
“It was lying on the concrete. Some lumber, a toolbox, and a hammer. Just lying there. Like the universe was telling me something.” George closed his eyes.
“Hey, hey,” Fenway said, scooting forward. “You still with me?”
Pope’s eyes opened again. “I hit Seth over the head with the claw side of the hammer. It was only once, but it felt—it felt, like I had to.”
Fenway nodded.
“And then I had to clean up. I got Seth’s keys. Figured there’d be plastic sheeting or maybe a stack of moving blankets in the office.”
“Or a Persian rug?”
“Yeah.” Pope cracked a small smile. “His rich girlfriend’s Persian rug.”
“Then you hid his Corvette at his rich girlfriend’s cabin. Even took a scooter with you.”
George looked through the windshield at the rain hammering on the glass. “Riding the scooter back into town, flying down the road at twilight, wind whipping through my hair, knowing Seth was dead, thinking my secret was still safe. Best feeling of my life.”
“And how did you get the hammer into Miranda’s shed?”
George turned his head slightly to look at Fenway. “When Tyra and I went over to take Seth’s boxes to Miranda’s house, I snuck around the side of the house while Tyra was yelling at the doorbell. I was planning to dump the hammer in her backyard, but the shed was open. Figured putting the hammer in there would look more convincing.”
Fenway blinked. How had she missed that? Oh—while the doorbell camera showed nothing but Tyra’s light blue blouse. Pretty lucky that Tyra didn’t step to the side.
Not lucky that George Pope hadn’t thought of leaving his cellphone at home.
“I’ll plead guilty,” Pope continued. “Save you the cost of a trial. Just don’t tell Hope that Scott—” His voice broke, and he pressed his lips together and cleared his throat. “Scott was my son.”
Sloshing footsteps on the wet pavement behind her. Fenway stepped back and to the left. Dez was holding out a pair of handcuffs, her hand resting on her holster.
“He needs to go to the hospital,” Fenway said. “He’s in no condition for cuffs.”
Dez took out her phone, the rain splashing all over. “I’ll get an ambulance.”
Fenway turned to Pope. “We need to immobilize your right arm, George. Can you hold it next to your body with your left hand?”
Pope grunted. “I’ll try.”
Another set of footsteps, these faster, a little tentative, a little rushed. Hope Dunkelman, soaked to the skin, pushed past Fenway. “Why?” she wailed. “Why did you do it, George?”
Then she knelt down. “You’re hurt.” She turned to Fenway. “He’s injured. Look at his arm.”
“Sergeant Roubideaux is getting an ambulance here as fast as possible,” Fenway said. “Maybe a broken clavicle.”
“I’m sorry, baby,” Pope said. “I didn’t mean for you to get involved. I love you. More than anything.”
“But why?” Now Hope was sobbing, her tears mixing with the rain.
“Because,” Pope gasped, gritted his teeth, then slid slightly to the right, more awkwardly than before. “I went to talk to Seth. Told him it was shitty of him to keep distributing Nyllie after Tyra’s son died from an overdose.”
“You went to talk to him?”
“You’d gone over to Tyra’s. She was upset. And it was all Seth’s fault. I couldn’t take it anymore.” Pope swallowed hard. “But Seth—Seth said he’d always been pissed off that Tyra had a kid before they were together. Said Scott was a—” He coughed, sucked in air. “I don’t want to say what Seth called him. But Seth said Scott deserved to die.” A sob caught in his throat.
Fenway’s eyes widened. How much of this was true, and how much was Pope saying for Dunkelman’s sake? She looked in Pope’s face. Either he was a fantastic actor, or most of what he was saying was the truth.
“I don’t know what came over me, baby.” And now George Pope was blubbering. “It was like I left my body. One minute I was following him down a sidewalk between two of the storage buildings, and the next I was holding a hammer covered in blood.”
“And you tried to pin it on Miranda?”
“Well, I—” Pope closed his eyes. “I’m not proud of that. What else was I supposed to do?” He opened his eyes again, and met Dunkelman’s gaze, pleading. “I thought I’d feel better. But I didn’t. Miranda had already agreed to let Seth use the cabin to store the—” He swallowed hard. “And Miranda slept with Seth, even though she knew he was married. Tyra doesn’t deserve—” He started sobbing again. “What’s wrong with me?”
Hope Dunkelman carefully put her hand on the side of his face. “We’ll fight this,” she said. “With the right jury—and Tyra knows good lawyers…”
“No,” he said emphatically. “I did it. I didn’t plan to do it. I didn’t mean to kill him. But I was just so angry.”
“I don’t understand,” Hope said quietly, tears streaking her cheeks.
Fenway could believe it. Maybe the blackmail had been why Pope had gone to talk to Seth that night. But Fenway suspected the hammer’s claw in the back of Seth’s head had less to do with the blackmail and more with Seth’s callous attitude toward Scott’s death.
“We can fight it.” Hope set her jaw. “It was the heat of the moment. You were defending your friend.” A gleam in Hope’s eye. “Did he threaten you? Was it self-defense?”
Pope’s lower lip trembled. “No, sweetie. He was an asshole. But he didn’t threaten me.”
“We can still—”
He shook his head forcefully, then winced in pain. “I won’t put you through that.”
“But we can win—”
“You’re not wasting your life savings on a lawyer when I’m guilty.”
Fenway startled—she hadn’t finished reading Pope his rights. She wiped the rain from her face and cleared her throat. “George Pope, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law…”