McVie didn’t want to eat in the car while they were driving, so they wolfed down their tacos at Dos Milagros. Fenway ordered the special, which she loved, but it had a lot of raw onions on it. She surreptitiously sneaked a piece of gum on her way to the car. Fenway knew she was being ridiculous, but couldn’t help herself; nothing would happen in the car requiring Fenway to have fresh breath.
They arrived at the sheriff’s personal car, an unassuming Toyota Highlander with a beige interior. Fenway thought about making fun of him for such an out-of-character car, but she remembered she had been driving an old Nissan with a rusted floor less than three months before.
They arrived forty-five minutes later at Fletcher Jenkins’ house in Vista Del Rincón. They pulled into the driveway; both the Jeep and the Toyota were parked in front of the garage.
Fletcher warily stepped out of his door onto his front porch. He looked exhausted. He wore the same clothes he had had on the night before during the interrogation.
“What do you want now?” he said.
“I just want to talk,” McVie said. “I’m not here as the sheriff. I’m just here as a guy. A friend.”
Fletcher chuckled mirthlessly. “You and I weren’t friends back in high school, and we sure aren’t friends now, Sheriff,” he said. “But sure. Let’s talk. Let’s talk like we’re old pals from back in the day.”
McVie came up to the porch and sat down. Fenway stood in the driveway, watching the house. She thought that Tracey would have come out by now, if only to yell at them, or simply to see what had happened. But Fenway saw no movement at the front door, nor through any of the windows that she could see. She must have had the second car, maybe to go into Estancia to discuss funeral arrangements for her mother-in-law, although that didn’t seem quite right. Maybe the girls had gone to a birthday party, or a soccer game.
“I’m not going to lie, Fletch,” McVie said. “There’s a lot of evidence that points to you, not only for your mother’s death, but for the attempted murder of one of our own.”
Fletcher’s eyes seemed to sink deeper.
“You didn’t tell me that you and your mom went to go see Rachel Richards earlier this week,” McVie said. “We asked if you knew her, and you said you didn’t.”
Fenway switched her gum to the other side of her mouth.
“No,” Fletcher said. “You asked Tracey if we knew her. Tracey doesn’t know her. She told you the truth. And I looked for those pills. I planned to tell you when I came out, but we started talking about other stuff and I forgot.”
“We had a really long drive to San Miguelito,” Fenway said. “You didn’t think to mention it then?”
“No,” Fletcher said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I started to tell you that I had some information that me and my mom found out. But you wouldn’t listen. You just read me my rights and assumed I had done it.”
McVie nodded. “Okay. Maybe I’m wrong. In fact, Fletch, I’d love nothing in the world more than being one hundred percent wrong about this.” He took a step closer. “But I’ll tell you, it looks bad. Your fingerprints were found on the pill bottle next to Ms. Richards. Someone left a phony suicide note on her kitchen table. And you didn’t tell us about the meeting.”
“I guess that looks pretty bad,” Fletcher admitted.
McVie nodded.
“So if you have something to tell us about the information you and your mom found, now’s the time.”
Fletch looked down at the ground.
“Does it have anything to do with why you and your mom went to see Rachel Richards—and spent all afternoon with her?”
Fletcher thought for a moment. He looked back at the front door. He scratched his head, then his beard, then he ran his hand over his face and exhaled.
“I did it,” he said. “I’m the one.”
Fenway’s mouth fell open in disbelief.
“What exactly did you do, Fletch?” McVie asked. “Are you confessing to the murder of your mother? Or the attempted murder of Rachel Richards?”
“It was me,” Fletch said.
McVie set his mouth in a line; Fenway could see he wasn’t pleased. “Both?” he said.
Fletch didn’t say anything else.
“Fletcher Jenkins, you have the right to remain silent,” McVie started, and Fenway tuned him out as he finished the Miranda warning and Fletcher agreed to it. McVie got on his phone right afterward, talking to the sheriff’s office, dispatching a unit to the small, unassuming mint green house in Vista Del Rincón.
“Ten minutes,” McVie said.
Fenway nodded.
He put his phone back in his pocket and turned back to Fletcher. “So when you say you did it, that it was you, what did you mean?”
Fletcher looked out past his front yard. Fenway followed his gaze. From the porch, she could see the ocean on the other side of the freeway. “This beautiful sea,” he murmured. “I’m going to miss it.”
“You going to answer my question, Fletch?”
Fletcher shook his head. He hadn’t moved. “No, after you read me my rights, I thought about it, and it makes sense to remain silent.”
“Sure,” McVie said.
There was silence for a few more minutes.
Fletcher shuffled his feet. “Craig, you mind if I sit?”
“I don’t mind,” McVie said. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”
“You do what you have to do,” Fletcher said. “I understand.”
“Mr. Jenkins,” Fenway said, “should you tell Tracey what’s happening? Do you want to say goodbye to your girls?”
He shook his head. “I knew why you were here,” he said sadly. “I said my goodbyes right when you pulled up.”
“We’ve got time.”
Fletcher looked up at Fenway but couldn’t look her in the eye. “Tracey just wants the girls to be safe,” he said. “I put them in danger. That’s all there is to it.”
Fenway nodded. Her gum had lost its flavor long ago. Something didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t identify it. Fletch had put them in an awkward position, sounding like he confessed to one of the two crimes, but without his confirmation, it would be challenging to arrest him for the correct crime.
She stepped to the front door. “Since we have to wait for the cruiser, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”
“Sure,” Fletcher said, miserably.
Fenway opened the door and stepped inside. She didn’t walk into the bathroom; she went into the living room, which looked messier than the night before, but about the same. “Tracey?” she called.
She listened but got no answer. She walked into the small but tidy kitchen. A large red faux-leather purse hung over the back of a kitchen stool.
“Tracey?” she called again. She paced around the kitchen and found the trash can. She opened the lid and almost spit her gum in it when a white three-by-five index card, half under a few pieces of junk mail and a paper towel roll in the trash, caught her eye.
Fenway could see neat block printing, written in black pen, that said:
IF YOU’RE GUILTY
The rest of the card hid under the other trash.
Fenway looked around. She didn’t hear any movement in the house.
She reached down and pulled the index card out from under the other trash.
IF YOU’RE GUILTY, THEN SHE LIVES
NO COPS
Fenway thought for a second and weighed her options. For a moment, she thought about searching the kitchen drawers until she found a zip-lock bag and pair of tongs. But she didn’t know how soon it would be before Tracey came in. And Tracey would certainly notice a pair of tongs in Fenway’s hand.
She looked on the counter. There were several plastic grocery bags. She hesitated for a brief second, then decided she needed to take action. She took one of the plastic grocery bags off the counter, but it made a noticeable loud rustling noise—she couldn’t sneak the note out inside that.
She scanned the counter for any other options, but found none. She dropped the index card in her purse. It was far less than ideal—they probably wouldn’t be able to get any usable prints off it—but Fenway figured the value of having it, even without prints, outweighed the idea of letting it stay in the trash.
She heard a noise in the next room. Fenway looked down to her purse to see if the index card stuck out. Fenway put her wallet on top of it, and she thought she could get away with it if she kept Tracey’s attention on other things.
Tracey walked in and jumped a little when she saw Fenway. Her face, red and puffy, was devoid of makeup and her hair stuck up crazily.
“Sorry, Tracey,” Fenway said. “I just—I don’t know, I felt bad, I thought he should say goodbye to you and the girls.”
“He already said goodbye,” she said, in a rough voice, like she hadn’t slept. She stopped and covered her face with her hands. “Did he tell you he did it?”
“Yes,” Fenway said. “I’m so sorry.”
Tracey looked like she wanted to say something, but she stopped. “I think you better leave,” she finally said, not looking at Fenway.
“I’m so sorry,” Fenway said again, and started to walk out of the kitchen. Tracey reached out and grabbed Fenway’s arm.
“He’s innocent,” she whispered. “He’d never hurt his mother.”
Fenway looked in Tracey’s eyes. They were desperate, pleading. Then, suddenly, they went back to sullen and dark.
“Forget I said that,” she said. “I just don’t want to believe it. He told me himself that he did it.” She looked for a moment like she might cry, but she held it together.
Fenway squeezed her arm, trying to imbue it with meaning. I know something else is going on, she wanted to say. But Tracey didn’t try to take meaning from Fenway. Fenway hesitated a moment, not sure she should take the index card without telling her.
“How are the girls taking it?” she asked, as gently as she could.
Tracey shook her head and looked down at the floor.
Fenway opened her mouth to say something else, but then she heard the police cruiser pull up into the driveway. She didn’t know if she did the right thing, taking the threatening handwritten note from the trash, but she couldn’t figure out a better course of action. She tried to run through scenarios in her head. Could they use this as evidence, or was it too tainted? Could they get fingerprints from it besides Fletcher’s and Tracey’s?
She let herself out the front door. The police cruiser had arrived, and Fenway saw the sheriff put Fletcher in the back. He looked out the window, toward the west, where the blue-green ocean could be seen between the houses and trees.
• • •
Fenway was silent as they had turned out of Vista Del Rincón onto the ocean highway.
“You’re quiet, Fenway,” McVie said, keeping his eyes on the road.
“Yes,” she said. The ideas and scenarios were playing ping-pong in her head. Finally, she opened her mouth, then shut it again.
But McVie had noticed. “What is it?”
Fenway finally spoke. “I found something that, uh, really worries me at Fletch’s house.”
“What did you find?”
“That’s the thing; I’m not sure I should tell you. Quite frankly, I’m not sure that I’m allowed to tell you. It’s dangerous. It could be dangerous. I don’t know. I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if I did the right thing. I think I did the right thing.”
“Okay,” McVie said, “now you’re worrying me. Out with it.”
“I went in the house,” Fenway said. “And I opened up the trash can to spit my gum out. And I found this.” She took the index card carefully by the edges from her purse.
McVie glanced over. “What is that? A paper?”
“An index card,” Fenway said. “And it says, ‘If you’re guilty, then she lives.’”
“What?” McVie exclaimed. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“No, I didn’t,” Fenway said, raising her voice, “because under that it says, ‘No cops.’”
McVie quickly swerved into the right lane and took the next exit at Puerto Avila. The exit ramp split two sand dunes, ending at a stop sign; to the left stood the Puerto Avila state beach, to the right, a road winding up behind the granite rock face that buttressed Vista Del Rincón. He turned left toward the beach.
The parking lot was crowded, but he pulled his car into a fire lane and put his hazard lights on, engine and air conditioning still going. “Whoa, hold on, you’ve touched it?
“Of course I touched it. I had to get it out of the trash.”
“Your fingerprints will be all over it.”
“Yeah, maybe. I tried to be careful with it. But even if mine are on it, hopefully we can get other fingerprints off it too.”
McVie shook his head. “I don’t know if that will stand up to chain of custody rules,” he grumbled.
“Okay, Sheriff, what would you have done?”
He considered this for a moment. “I don’t know that I would have done anything different. Sorry.” He reached behind Fenway’s seat. “There’s a black plastic case on the floor back here. I’ve got an evidence bag in there.” Fenway heard the snap of plastic tabs and McVie straightened back up with the bag. He opened the top and Fenway eased the index card inside.
McVie took the evidence bag with the card in it and turned it over, seeing the blank back.
“They sell these index cards at every office supply store in the U.S.,” he said. “That probably won’t help us.”
“You never know. We might get lucky. With that, or maybe the ink.”
McVie rubbed his temples. “This is really tricky,” he said. “I’m not sure how we do this. I’ve never been involved with a kidnapping. Or a hostage situation. Who do you think it is? Who’s the ‘she’ on the card?”
“I suppose it could be talking about Alice. Maybe this was a threat to Fletcher, and he didn’t follow the directions, and they killed his mother.”
“I think it’s more likely that it’s one of his daughters,” McVie said.
“Me too. Especially since Fletch gave himself up so quickly. Last night it seemed like he had convinced himself to fight it tooth and nail.”
“I don’t know. He might have slept on it and realized he couldn’t get away with it.”
“Does that seem right to you?”
McVie paused. “My gut’s not always right.”
“But it’s saying that it’s more likely that something’s happened to Fletch’s daughter, right?”
McVie paused. “Even if we’re right, Fenway, I’m not sure what to do about it.”
“You’re going to search the house, right?”
“That’s part of the current plan,” McVie said. “I wanted to make sure we had a signed warrant.”
“You don’t have probable cause after he confessed?”
“There’s a case before the appellate court right now about this very issue. With a murder as high-profile as the mayor’s, I want to make sure that a judge’s signature is on everything before we search the house.”
Fenway nodded. “If that’s the case, then we can’t make it known to anyone that we know about this note.”
“Fletch did give you permission to enter the house. Although I don’t think it can be argued that the note was in plain sight.”
Fenway shook her head. “No, I mean that if one of those little girls is kidnapped, we can’t jeopardize her by showing this to the cops.”
McVie rubbed his chin. “Let’s think about this, Fenway. All we have is this note. And the strange way Fletch acted. We don’t have enough evidence to conclude that one of the daughters has been kidnapped.”
“No, of course not,” Fenway said. “This could never go to a jury. But this isn’t about going to a jury. This is about doing the right thing. And my gut tells me we have to assume one of their girls is kidnapped, and that the cops can’t know. The risk is too high not to assume that.”
“This is barely enough to get the police to do a welfare check,” McVie said.
Fenway exhaled, exasperated. “Stop thinking like a cop for just one second and start thinking about what you and I should do with the information we have. There’s a threatening note. There’s a chance one of the girls is kidnapped. And you know as well as I do that in kidnappings, every second that the victim isn’t found means there’s a lower chance of survival.”
McVie thought for a moment. “Okay. We’re going to have to do some stuff in secret.” He sighed. “And because the girl hasn’t been reported missing, we’re going to have to go slower than I’d like.”
“Slower?”
“I don’t think there’s any way around it,” McVie said. “And I’m going to need to call in that favor your father owes me.” He put the car in gear and exited the parking lot, getting back on the freeway. “You said you were going to your father’s house tonight?”
“Yeah. I’m meeting him there at seven. We’re having a fancy dinner.”
“Is your father up for one more guest?”
“Tonight? For dinner?”
“Yes.”
Fenway cleared her throat. “I don’t see why not. What favor are you going to call in?”
“We’re going to need to do some digging without police resources. And that costs money.”
“Ah,” Fenway responded. “You think he’ll say yes?”
“He will if I call in the favor he owes me.”
Fenway gave McVie a tired smile. “And with you there, I probably won’t have to make as much polite small talk with Charlotte.”
“I’m glad I can help,” McVie put his hand on Fenway’s knee. She felt a spark of electricity between them and closed her eyes. He must have felt it too, because he moved his hand quickly.
Fenway tried to act as if she hadn’t felt anything. “Does it seem weird to you that the motel room was under the name William Matisse?”
“What do you mean by weird?”
“Well—that doesn’t seem like something Fletch would do. It seems like something that someone trying to frame Fletch would do.”
McVie nodded. His radio buzzed.
“All units, ten-thirty-two in progress in the ICU at St. Vincent’s hospital. Repeat, ten-thirty-two in progress. All units available, proceed to St. Vincent’s hospital. Repeat, ten-thirty-two in progress.”
“Holy shit,” McVie said, rolling down the window, reaching under his seat, and grabbing the siren ball. He floored it while putting the ball on his roof and Fenway was thrown back in her seat. The siren began to blare.
“That’s where Rachel is.”
“I know.”
“What’s a ten-thirty-two?” Fenway raised her voice over the roar of the engine.
“Man with gun.”
Fenway felt the color drain from her face.
McVie weaved among the cars—even with his siren, not all of the cars pulled over to let him pass. But he kept the accelerator down, and the old Highlander’s engine complained but kept going. Fenway sneaked a glance at the speedometer; they were doing 95. She felt a sinking feeling in her stomach.
“Hang on, Fenway,” McVie said, and slid onto the left shoulder to pass stopped traffic in the left lane. The shoulder was bumpy and Fenway felt her teeth chatter in her head. A big rig had stalled out in the fast lane, and McVie swooped from the shoulder onto the roadway after passing it.
They were in the southern part of Estancia now, coming up onto the exit to Vincente Boulevard. They passed a blue sign with a white H with NEXT EXIT under it in smaller letters.
“Is a SWAT team coming?” she said.
“I sure hope so.” He ran a red light at the bottom of the Vincente Boulevard exit, narrowly missing a minivan driving through the green light the other direction. He accelerated through the next green light, and Fenway saw the sign for the hospital parking lot on the next block. He turned into the lot at forty-five miles per hour, coming to a hard stop just before the hospital entrance.
“You’re staying here,” he barked at her. She had started to open the door.
“But—” she said.
“No!” he shouted. “There’s a guy shooting in there. You won’t help. Stay here!”
He pulled his gun out—Fenway hadn’t even seen him get it—and checked it before running into the building.
Fenway realized McVie’s car, right in front of the entrance, was a sitting target—not just for her, but as a possible getaway car for the shooter. She slid over to the driver’s seat—McVie hadn’t even turned the car off—and drove across the parking lot.
She parked behind a Chevy Suburban and killed the engine. She got out of the car and ducked down, shuttling around to the other side, putting the Highlander between her and the hospital entrance.
She heard three shots from inside—a single report, followed by two more shots.
About twenty people ran out of the entrance, making a beeline for the parking lot.
Another shot.
And then silence.
The air was deathly still for about forty-five seconds—although it seemed like an hour. Then Fenway heard more sirens, then heard the sirens turn off. She turned around to see two additional cruisers come into the parking lot, although they weren’t speeding or driving like they were in a hurry. Both cruisers stopped in front of the entrance, and all four officers got out of the cars, and walked quickly—but didn’t run—into the hospital.
It must be over, Fenway thought. Whatever happened, it must be over. She tried to move, tried to walk over to the entrance, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate. She tried not to think about Rachel, or Craig, or Dez. Dez had gone home, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t have come back to the hospital—Rachel had gone back to sleep.
After ten minutes more, she saw some movement at the front entrance. McVie walked out. He looked at where the cruisers were and stared in disbelief for a few seconds, then looked up and scanned the parking lot. Fenway’s knees felt like they were about to give out, but she stepped out from behind the car and waved at him. He nodded and started walking toward her.
She smiled weakly, and then she started feeling the same tightness in her chest that she had felt at Rachel’s before she walked home. She pushed the feeling down. McVie walked up to her.
“You made it,” she managed to say.
“I, uh,” McVie said, his voice breaking. He coughed. “I got him.”
“You got him?”
“Yes,” McVie said. “He shot a nurse and a security guard in the ICU. I got him.”
“The gunman’s dead?”
McVie nodded.
Questions flooded Fenway’s mind. Why did the gunman come to the hospital? Who was he? Had McVie ever shot anyone before?
“You’re okay?” she said.
He nodded.
And she took another step forward and wrapped her arms around him. Inhaled his scent, mingled with sweat from the stress and the faintest hint of gunpowder. “I’m glad you’re okay,” she said, whispering in his ear. He shook a little. Almost imperceptible.
He hugged her back. He wrapped his arms around her, squeezed her. “Me too,” he said softly, his mouth near her ear. The embrace was too close to be a co-worker hug. She held him, breathing him in, not wanting to let go.
A van from the local Estancia television station raced into the hospital driveway. McVie broke the embrace. “Thanks, Fenway.”
She cleared her throat and took a step back. “He didn’t go after Rachel?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “Uh, yes,” McVie said. “Yes, he did. Rachel had woken up and had just called the nurse when a man dressed in dark slacks and a dress shirt came into her room and pulled a gun out.”
“How did he get in?”
“Callahan and Salvador are sorting that out,” he said. “I don’t know how Rachel got away. The ICU nurse has a bullet in her shoulder. It doesn’t look life-threatening. At least that’s what the doctor said.”
“I guess if you’re going to get shot, it helps to already be in the hospital.”
McVie managed a tired smile. “I’m not sure about the security guard. He was shot in the abdomen. They’re trying to stabilize him now.” He looked over Fenway’s shoulder at the news van. “The media is here. I’ll probably have to go say something, since our public information officer isn’t here.”
“Oh—how is Rachel doing? She must be scared out of her mind.”
McVie hesitated. “That’s the thing. She escaped.”
“Right, you said that—you didn’t know how she got away from the gunman.”
McVie shook his head. “That’s not what I mean, Fenway. I mean, she escaped from the hospital. Tore the IVs out of her arm. We can’t find her.”