Piper stared at the screen. “So, Fenway, I think I’ve uncovered something interesting. Maybe a little disturbing.”
Fenway blinked. “What are we looking at?”
“Rachel’s email,” Piper replied.
“Are we allowed to do this?”
“I’ve got admin access—I’m allowed to do this,” Piper said, “and since you’re investigating the attempts on her life, I hereby give you permission to review Rachel Richards’ email.”
“Jeez, Migs is rubbing off on you.”
Piper looked at her sideways.
“Oh, gross, Piper. You know what I mean.”
Piper giggled. “Okay, here’s Rachel’s emails the week before the fake suicide attempt.”
Fenway scanned through the first couple of pages. “I’m not seeing anything relevant in here at all.”
“Right,” Piper said, nodding. “There’s nothing in here that pertains to SRB Holdings, or Rachel’s meeting with the mayor and her son.”
“Yeah. So we’re out of luck?”
“Look what is here. Lots of communications back and forth on all of Rachel’s other to-dos. The concert in the park series. The symphony funding drive. The communications to reporters, everything. It’s obvious that Rachel’s preferred form of work communication is email.”
“It’s not that surprising. She’s new in her job and she is interested in documenting everything, to make sure everything’s on the up and up.”
“Sure,” Piper said, “that’s what I thought too. And you see who’s copied on every single work email.”
“Sure, Natalie Andrada. Rachel’s admin. That makes total sense. She’d want to be copied on everything. Did you know she’s a former Marine?”
Piper nodded. “Yes. I met her on Rachel’s first day. She’s really quite fantastic. Ruthlessly efficient. Way overqualified for that job.”
“Sure,” Fenway agreed. “So why are alarm bells going off for you?”
“Does it strike you as odd that there isn’t anything at all on the meeting with Alice Jenkins and her son?”
“Not if she tried to keep it quiet.”
“But there’s nothing. Nothing to hold her calls. Nothing to ask Natalie to cancel her other appointments that night. Nothing to even say to go home at five as usual, or to stay late, or anything.”
“Maybe—” Fenway said, and stopped.
“Why would there be no communication with the guardian of your schedule when you have a big stick of dynamite exploding your whole afternoon like this?” Piper asked.
“Because Natalie sat in the meeting too,” Fenway said.
“Right,” Piper said. “That’s the only thing I can think of.”
“But,” Fenway protested, “Natalie didn’t say anything about…” Then her voice trailed off.
“So why didn’t Natalie say anything about the meeting?” Piper said. “We’ve been pulling our hair out because we can’t talk to Rachel about what went on in that meeting. But Natalie was in it and didn’t say anything?”
“I can’t for the life of me think why she wouldn’t say anything.”
“It’s certainly suspicious,” Piper said, “so I did a little digging into Natalie Andrada.”
“Oh no,” Fenway said.
Piper shook her head. “Whatever you’re thinking, this isn’t it.” She clicked a few windows and took a deep breath.
“Okay.”
“So you know how you had Kav send over those fingerprint sets—that classified one, and that one from the other Marine?”
“Sure. Elena something.”
“Valenzuela,” Piper replied, clicking on the screen. Natalie Andrada’s face appeared—a decade younger, and with short, cropped hair.
“Did Natalie serve in Elena’s unit?”
“No,” Piper said. “You’re looking at a picture of Elena Valenzuela.”
Fenway gaped.
“Elena Valenzuela is a native of San Marcos, Texas.”
“Not local to California?”
“No,” Piper replied. “She’s on the G.I. Bill. Goes to UT San Antonio, studies mechanical engineering. Then goes through basic training, gets a year at Fort Davis up in Tacoma, then gets shipped to Afghanistan. On her second tour, a roadside IED gets her a Purple Heart and an honorable discharge.”
“So why did she change her name and take an administrative position for the county here?”
“Exactly my question,” Piper said. “And after she got out of the hospital, with a few weeks’ less of rehab than expected, she pretty much vanishes.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Nothing. We don’t get her applying for jobs, or postgrad programs, or VA assistance. No record of where she’s living. No record of any of her movements.”
“No clues at all to what she did when she got out?”
Piper tapped the screen. “Except for this, three years after her release.”
Fenway blinked and looked at the screen. The photo showed a table in a fancy restaurant with a couple, dressed to the nines, smiling for the camera. “I don’t get it. Who are these people?”
“You remember a news story about El Magnate?”
Fenway squinted at the picture. “Sure. Well—I don’t remember it, but Kav and Melissa were telling me about him. About seven or eight years ago, right?”
“Close enough.”
“They arrested some big-shot tech CEO as the kingpin of some major drug cartel.”
“Right,” Piper said. “But not for cocaine or heroin or meth—opioids. Oxycontin, Norco, all that stuff. He had a huge network of doctors to skim just a few bottles each. But on a massive scale.”
“Is this El Magnate?”
“Yes. This is a picture taken of him and his wife—not twenty-four hours before his arrest.” Piper tapped the face of a woman who was sitting behind the couple. “Now look closer at the picture.”
Fenway leaned over Piper’s shoulder. At first she struggled to arrange the slightly out-of-focus features in her head, the woman’s light brown hair, the elegant evening gown. Then she saw the handle of a wheelchair behind her shoulder and recognized the face, despite the heavy application of makeup. “Oh. That’s Natalie.”
Piper nodded.
Fenway stood up. “Was Natalie—or Elena, or whoever she is—part of their opioid cartel?”
Piper paused. “It could be a coincidence, the photo of her in that restaurant. But that’s a big coincidence.”
“She doesn’t look like herself.”
“You probably looked different nine years ago, too.”
Fenway nodded. “Do you think she used the opioids for pain after her injury? Maybe they realized she’d be valuable with her military background?”
Piper hesitated. “I don’t know. I guess that’s how she could have gotten involved. I mean, if she got involved.”
“And now, with Nozithrapham coming onto the market, she’s aligning everything so she can be the new kingpin, now that El Magnate is taken down?”
“That theory fits,” Piper said glumly.
“But you’re not convinced.”
“I mean, it’s a photograph in a restaurant.” Piper pursed her lips. “There could be a hundred reasons why she’s there. Maybe it’s a friend’s birthday, maybe her boyfriend took her to a fancy dinner.”
“Where’s the restaurant?”
“It’s in a rich little suburb of San Jose, where that tech CEO had his above-board company. Little town called Los Gatos. Apparently, the high school there is next to a Ferrari dealership.”
Fenway nodded. “So how did she get there without leaving a financial footprint?”
Piper tapped her fingers on the desk. “I have some ideas, but no evidence. She might have been able to live under an alias for a few years, for instance. She obviously changed her name here—and convincingly enough to get a government job. I’m sure she left a trail of aliases, which would have left a financial footprint somewhere I’m not looking.”
Fenway thought back to her conversation with Natalie. “She tried to get me and McVie to ignore ‘SRB’ when we found it on the Post-It on Rachel’s monitor,” she mused. “She said it must stand for one of Rachel’s PR things—State Research Board or something like that.”
“Well,” Piper said, “if that is the case—if Natalie really is the kingpin behind some new white-collar painkiller drug organization, then she’s probably got all kinds of backup. People willing to do her dirty work for her.”
“Yes,” Fenway agreed. “Including hiring someone to shoot up a hospital and try to kill her boss.” And including hiring the man in the track suit to kidnap the mayor’s granddaughter, and stab the mayor, Fenway thought. Although who knew what she hired out and what she did herself. Fenway suspected that Natalie had more physical strength and agility than most people who still had their legs. She wouldn’t put it past her to have killed the mayor and the private investigator herself. The wheelchair, an old-lady crocheted blanket over her shoulders to hide her chiseled upper-body muscles, and maybe even a gray wig would have given the impression of a weak, infirm person—not a kick-ass former Marine on the wrong side of the law.
“What do you think we should do?” Fenway said. If a rogue with military knowledge wanted to take over a prescription-based drug organization in her county, she could barely wait to get started on the case.
Piper shook her head. “I have absolutely no idea. We don’t have any evidence—just some stuff that looks shady, and a suspect with an empty space where her past should be.”
Fenway felt a familiar surge of adrenaline—she hadn’t felt like this since she found out that Robert Stotsky was Rachel’s father. She hadn’t had evidence then either—but she pushed forward, manipulated the situation, and got Stotsky to reveal himself as the murderer that night.
“We should definitely talk to Miss Andrada—or Valenzuela,” Fenway said. “She’s been caught in a lie to the sheriff, at least. That might shake something loose.”
Piper frowned.
“What is it?” Fenway asked.
“If you’re not sure of her involvement—and you’re not,” she said sharply when Fenway tried to interrupt, “then you’re not going to be able to get backup from the sheriff’s department—or the DEA, or the SWAT team, or whatever you need to make sure this woman isn’t going to pull you inside and cut your throat.”
“I don’t think—”
“Let me finish, Fenway.” Piper stood up. “You were lucky Rachel came for you when Stotsky went after you. You were lucky she brought a gun. And you were really lucky she was willing to shoot her own father to protect you.” She put her hands on her hips. “If Natalie Andrada is as dangerous as her dossier would leave me to believe, you’re not going to go in there with McVie and ride out with Rachel.”
I’m more worried about Olivia, Fenway thought.
So Fenway pressed forward. “But she doesn’t know we know,” she said. “She won’t be able to tell that we think she’s got Rachel. She won’t be on her guard.”
“How many Marines have you met?” Piper said. “My ex’s older brother served in Iraq as a Marine. He’s always on guard. He’s always going to think that people are after him. He says he can relax, but you just look at him—especially if you knew him before—and he’s changed. He’s never going relax again in his life.” Piper shook her head. “I don’t think Natalie’s ever going to be the same either. Especially since she lost both legs over there. It’s a constant reminder that one second—one second—off your guard can ruin your life forever. Every morning when she swings her legs out of bed and her feet don’t touch the floor.”
Fenway didn’t say anything.
“You think you’re going to go in there with your clever questions and my list of stuff that ‘doesn’t quite add up’ and rattle her? That woman’s been through hell, Fenway. You and your questions won’t even rate as a blip on her radar. She could stab you in the neck and be a different person in another state tomorrow. Don’t forget that.”
“If she’s the one who did it,” Fenway said weakly.
“You’re not going to find out anything going to her house,” Piper said. “It’s just five o’clock now. You might be able to go over to Rachel’s office, see if Natalie is still there. Pretend you need to go through her desk one more time. Really casually ask a few questions. That might be worth it. But you need to be careful. You have a good win under your belt, but you can’t let on why you’re there. You’re still new at this.”
“I’m not that new at this,” Fenway protested.
“Oh, come on, Fenway. I’m only twenty-four and I’ve been at this for a year longer than you. If it were me, I’d take Dez or Mark along.”
Fenway nodded. “I guess that would be a good idea.”
Piper sat back down. “I know you trust your gut, especially after last time, but just be careful,” she said softly.
• • •
Fenway rushed back to the coroner’s office. Migs had just packed up for the day, and Mark was on the phone.
“How’s everything going?” Fenway asked.
“Dez called it quits at five,” Migs said. “She said she had a pretty rough day.” He thought for a second. “Although she was in a really good mood when she left.”
“Did Mark get any information on the taxi that picked up Mayor Jenkins from the restaurant?”
“He’s been on the phone for over an hour,” Migs said. “I think he wants to talk with you, so don’t leave yet.”
“Gotcha.”
“I’ve been on the phone trying to figure out if we could get a warrant for any of Carpetti Pharmaceuticals’ financials.”
Fenway nodded. “I guess that’s a pretty good idea,” she admitted.
“Isn’t that still the main theory of the crime?” Migs said.
“I have a slightly different take on it,” Fenway said. “It has to do with the black market for their new painkiller.”
“Okay,” Migs said. “Should I call off the dogs?”
Fenway thought a moment. In spite of what her gut was telling her, she had to admit that she should still get financials for Carpetti Pharmaceuticals. “No, don’t call them off just yet. Are you having any luck?”
“I tried Martinez and Wainwright first,” Migs said. “Thought they’d be most likely to weigh the interest of the state heavily. It might be a long shot, but all the other judges are longer shots. Neither of them were in—Martinez is in probate court until five-thirty. I’m hoping to get a call back then—I left my cell number with the clerk.”
“Okay, good work, Migs,” Fenway said. “I’ve got to head over to Rachel’s office. Try to see if there’s any paperwork that we missed or anything like that.”
“Need anything else before I go?” Migs said.
“Just give me a call if the warrant for Carpetti’s financials comes through,” Fenway said, opening the office door. “I want to get on that as soon as we can. Wake up a financial forensics specialist if we need to.”
“Good night, Fenway.”
“Good luck, Migs.”
Migs walked out just as Mark hung up the phone.
“You have some information for me, Sergeant?”
Mark nodded. “I do, but it’s not about the taxi. I haven’t been able to locate it yet—I think I might have to go down to the cab companies to look at their log books. But I did finally get the phone records back. Mayor Jenkins did get a call that night, but we traced it to a burner phone.”
Fenway thought for a minute. “That doesn’t really tell us much. Did you get any information about the burner?”
Mark said, “It was purchased in Texas.”
Fenway paused. “Bought in Texas?” She thought of Elena Valenzuela of San Marcos, Texas. “Does it say when?”
“Two weeks ago,” Mark said.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if Alan Patrick Scorrelli bought it,” Mark said. “He had a Texas driver’s license. We’re still running down where he flew in from, but my money is on Dallas. The phone was purchased from a convenience store in McKinney.”
“Is that near Dallas?”
“More or less.”
Fenway wondered if Natalie had known Scorrelli in Texas—an awfully big state, however.
“Do you know where San Marcos is?” Fenway said, trying to sound as casual as possible.
“Between Austin and San Antonio. Hundreds of miles from McKinney. Why? You got a person of interest in San Marcos?”
“No, I just don’t know Texas geography as well as I should.” Fenway thanked Mark and walked across the street to City Hall, lost in thought. She wondered what she would use for a cover story if she walked into Rachel’s office and found Natalie working late. What would she need to uncover in Rachel’s office? Maybe she could get in there with the idea that Fletch might have been acting threatening in the meeting. As far as anyone knew, besides her office mates and McVie, Fletch was still the guilty party. Gathering evidence of his whereabouts that day would be standard procedure. And she didn’t think Kav or Melissa had dusted for fingerprints in Rachel’s office. It gave her a great excuse to do it herself.
She got to the City Hall building and decided to take a sharp right and go to the sheriff’s office instead. She opened the door and found herself face to face with Officer Donald Huke.
“Officer Huke,” she said.
“Miss Stevenson.”
“I need a favor, Don—Officer.”
“What do you need? Car won’t start or something?”
“No, Officer Huke, I need a fingerprint kit and gloves right now. It’s time sensitive.”
Officer Huke hesitated. “I don’t know, Miss Stevenson. You’ve usually got to fill out a form. You can take some from your office, can’t you?”
“I’ve got to get into Rachel’s office right now,” Fenway said, “and it just dawned on me that no one has dusted her keyboard or her desk for fingerprints, even though the mayor met with Rachel on Wednesday afternoon.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Officer Huke said.
“Of course not,” Fenway said, growing impatient. “But are you going to follow the rules to the exact letter, or are you going to follow the spirit of the rules and help me get those fingerprints lifted tonight?”
“It can’t wait till tomorrow?”
“The cleaning crew comes in tonight,” Fenway said, although she had no idea if that was true. “Tonight’s their night to do a full wipe-down of the office. If we don’t do it tonight, any evidence we could’ve collected will be lost.”
Officer Huke nodded. “Okay, give me just a second.” He turned and sprinted to another office. In that moment, Fenway could see what Melissa saw in him.
He returned less than a minute later. “I’ll go back and fill out the paperwork,” he said. “Go.”
“Thank you,” Fenway said, feeling a little guilty for her lie. “I won’t forget this.”
“Just make sure Fletcher Jenkins doesn’t walk,” he said. “The more evidence against him, the better. You’d be surprised how many confessions get thrown out of court.”
She nodded and ran back to City Hall. She sprinted upstairs and opened the door to the communication directors’ office.
Natalie looked up from behind the desk. “Oh, Miss Stevenson,” she said. “I didn’t expect you—I was just about to pack up and leave.”
“Yes,” Fenway said, a little out of breath, “that’s why I rushed over. I wanted to catch you before you left. I wanted to look at a few other things in Rachel’s office. See if I could find anything I missed the first time.”
“I hate to do this,” Natalie said, “but I really should get home. This can’t wait until tomorrow? I’m already a little late getting out of here.”
“I hope I won’t be too long,” Fenway said.
“Isn’t that a fingerprint kit?” Natalie pointed out. “Won’t that take you at least an hour?”
“Well, maybe I can lock up.”
Natalie shook her head and winced. “After what happened with Rachel, I don’t really trust anyone else to do that.”
“Of course. I understand. Maybe I don’t have to do the fingerprint kit tonight. Maybe I can just check the drawers and the desk one more time.”
Natalie sighed. “Listen, Miss Stevenson, I appreciate that Rachel’s your friend, and she’s missing and you’re trying to be thorough. But I bet you’ve been going through the wringer. Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll come in early tomorrow if you want—seven-thirty, maybe? And I’ll open up the office and you can spend all morning in there if you want. Honestly, I’ve had a tough day, and when I’m stressed out I start feeling pain in limbs I don’t have anymore.”
Fenway hesitated, turning it over in her mind, then nodded. “Right. You’re right. I have been going crazy with this investigation—first Mayor Jenkins’ death, then the attempt on Rachel’s life, then her disappearing after the shooting in the hospital. I just want to get this solved before anyone else is in danger.”
“Look,” Natalie said, leaning forward on her desk, and lowering her voice, “I get it. I served in Afghanistan. I know what it’s like when you need to do a job, and just feel powerless, like you can’t get your job done, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You think you’re not worthy of Valhalla. Everything you try feels like running in quicksand.”
Fenway nodded.
“You’re going to look back on this time, and you’re going to realize you were working your ass off,” Natalie continued. “You’re going to wonder where you got the energy to press forward when it looked like there weren’t any more stones to turn over, like there were no clues left, and I don’t doubt that you will find her. And, Fenway, you will be worthy of Valhalla.”
Fenway turned Natalie’s words over in her head. This conversation had started out the way she had been expecting—trying to get Fenway out of the office—but she didn’t expect these words of encouragement.
“But just like I needed in Afghanistan,” Natalie said, “you’ve got to give yourself a break. You’ve got to slow yourself down. Your brain will thank you. You’ll see everything from a different angle in the morning. You might even find the breakthrough you need.”
Fenway swallowed hard. “Thanks, Natalie,” she said. “That’s just what I needed to hear.” Fenway meant it—although she didn’t trust the messenger. She said goodbye to Natalie, who grabbed her purse and briefcase, and rolled out the door right behind her.