Fenway and Natalie took the elevator down to the ground floor together. Fenway felt the awkward silence and thought that she should say something, but after the advice that Natalie had given her, she couldn’t think what to say. Fenway didn’t know what to make of the ex-Marine—she knew that Natalie had a fake identity and had at least some involvement in the murder and the attempt on Rachel’s life. But no evidence linked her to the recent goings-on. She didn’t even act cagey.
Fenway could see that Natalie felt the awkward silence too, but she could tell it didn’t bother her. Fenway felt relief when the elevator dinged to signal their arrival on the ground floor. As the doors opened, she saw motion through the front windows of City Hall in the half-circle of steps that formed the small amphitheater area.
“Is there a play going on there tonight?” Fenway asked Natalie. “I didn’t think the Shakespeare in the Park people started until eight.”
“It’s not them,” Natalie said. “There are cameras out there. Looks like a press conference.”
Fenway looked at the bowl of the amphitheater and balked.
Barry Klein.
He had cleaned up and looked a million times better than he had that afternoon when he had been released. “What’s he doing?” Fenway murmured.
She walked outside, holding the door open for Natalie, who turned toward the parking structure. “You’re not going to stay for this?” Fenway asked.
“Not on your life,” Natalie laughed. “This smacks of political theater. And if you haven’t noticed, I tend to lose parts of my body when politics are involved.” She wheeled herself away from the amphitheater. Fenway watched her go, and then saw Migs standing on the top step of the amphitheater, all the way on the right-hand side. Barry Klein, dressed in a black suit with a red and blue striped tie standing out against a white dress shirt—subtle, Fenway thought—tested his microphone, and the babble of the small crowd started to die down. His wife stood by his side, in a soft gray blazer and matching skirt that went to mid-calf. Fenway walked over to where Migs leaned against a concrete pillar.
“I thought you went home,” she said quietly.
“Piper just had to finish up a couple of things,” Migs whispered back. “And I saw this and got curious. So I stuck around.” He looked at Fenway and searched her face. “Did you get what you needed?”
Fenway closed her hand around the fingerprint kit in her purse. “Not yet. Tomorrow morning.” She squinted at Klein. “What do you think he’s doing? Do you think he’s announcing his run for coroner?”
“I hope not,” Migs said. “I kind of thought that after what happened to him, he’d resign from the board of supervisors.”
Fenway pursed her lips. She had a bad feeling about this.
Klein’s wife stepped up to the podium microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to get started,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “I’d like to introduce you to a member of the county board of supervisors, an experienced doctor, a business owner, and a pillar of our community—and my husband for the last ten years. Dr. Barry Klein.” She took a few steps back as her husband walked forward and took his place at the microphone.
Fenway looked around during the polite applause from the small crowd. She counted only two photographers, and she recognized them from the Estancia Courier and the Independent Voice. There were a couple of reporters there too. One of them, an older heavyset man with a white mustache, scribbled on a notepad. She also saw the young Courier reporter she had met in Rachel’s office. The reporter held out a recording device. Fenway struggled to remember her name.
“Thank you, Catherine,” Barry Klein said, as she sat down on her folding chair. “I’ve had the pleasure to serve as a member of the board of supervisors for a couple of very rewarding terms now. I’ve stood up for small business owners, and I’ve accomplished a lot to attract high-growth industries to the area.”
He started going through a list of local tax incentives and pet projects that he spun in his favor. Fenway stifled a yawn, and looked around—a few people in the small crowd were looking around or were staring at their phones.
“Now many of you,” Klein continued, “know that I ran for county coroner last year—but unfortunately, the rich and powerful in this county outspent and outmanned my grassroots campaign.” Fenway rolled her eyes. Klein went on. “I’ve kept going with the board of supervisors, though, never wavering in my commitment to the residents of this county.” He cleared his throat. “The tragic murder of Alice Jenkins has shaken me to my core, and I don’t mind admitting that.” He looked around; people were looking up and starting to pay closer attention. “And so close to the murder of another public servant, Harrison Walker, this great county’s previous coroner. I don’t think I need to remind anyone here that the killer turned out to be the handpicked head of security for Ferris Energy. The same energy company responsible for that monstrosity of a refinery we have just over the grade. The same energy company that’s filling our beaches with black tar. The same energy company whose owner likes to think he can do whatever he wants in this county.”
Klein found Fenway in the crowd, looked right at her, and narrowed his eyes.
“When I think of Alice Jenkins, I think of a brave woman who put this community above herself. Not for a year. Not for a decade. But over her whole life of public service. As a mayor, as a judge, as a civil rights lawyer before that,” he said, looking out over the crowd and raising his right hand in front of his face in a fist; it looked awkward, but the crowd seemed to like it. “Whoever the next mayor of Estancia is, they need to remember Alice Jenkins’ commitment to the people, to the values of fairness and justice, and to this community.”
Catherine Klein stood and started to applaud, and soon a few scattered members of the crowd joined her. People walking by on the sidewalk stopped to listen. A few of them walked toward the amphitheater and stood at the sides, watching.
“Alice Jenkins and I often disagreed on what needed to be done,” Klein said. “I’m not going to deny that. But we both wanted the best way forward for the county—the best way forward for Estancia. And while I can never fill Alice Jenkins’ shoes, I would be honored if you, the voters, would let me do my best to try.”
Migs and Fenway looked at each other. “He’s not announcing his candidacy for coroner,” Migs said.
Catherine Klein stepped forward and leaned around her husband to get to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, clearly and distinctly, “the next mayor of Estancia, Dr. Barry Klein.” She began to applaud, as several people in the front row rolled out red, white, and blue canvas signs they were holding that said, “Klein for Mayor.” The people nearest the front clapped along with Klein’s wife. The photographers clicked away.
“I’m not sure that went as well as he hoped it would,” Migs said into Fenway’s ear. “Kind of a tepid reception.”
“A little too soon, I think,” Fenway agreed. “But he’s got name recognition, and he’ll own the local news for a week or two.”
The young female reporter jumped up and down, trying to ask a question.
“No questions,” Catherine Klein said.
Fenway could just make out the last part of the reporter’s question, “...in jail overnight for?”
Dr. Klein and his wife clasped hands, raised them above their heads, and walked off to the side, away from the reporter still gamely trying to get their attention.
Fenway ran over to the reporter. The couple went into the City Hall building, flanked by a few other people holding “Klein for Mayor” signs. Fenway supposed that they were going in there to symbolically turn in their paperwork to the county clerk to make it official.
The reporter, disappointed, turned away just as Fenway reached her. “Excuse me,” Fenway said, “but how did you know that Dr. Klein had spent the—”
“You’re the coroner I met in Rachel’s office a couple of days ago,” the reporter interrupted. She switched the recorder back on. Fenway’s eyes widened. “Miss Stevenson, there was much speculation that Dr. Klein would be running for coroner,” she began.
“I’m sorry,” Fenway cut in. “I can’t remember your name.”
“Oh, of course,” the woman said. “Sascha Abrams. I’m on the political beat.”
“The Courier has a political beat? I thought you were writing about the attempted murder of Rachel Richards.”
Sascha laughed. “That was two deadlines ago. So, Miss Stevenson, with Dr. Klein announcing for the mayor’s race instead, how does that affect your decision to become a candidate in November?”
Fenway stared at Sascha. “What?”
“I asked how it affected your decision to become a candidate.”
“For coroner?”
“So you are considering it,” Sascha said.
“I’m sorry,” Fenway said, “but I, uh, disagree with the premise of your question.”
“That Dr. Klein just announced his candidacy for mayor? I think we just saw that pretty clearly.”
“No,” Fenway said, “that there’s any decision to be made about running for coroner.”
“But no other candidates have announced,” Sascha said.
“It’s early,” Fenway replied. “The deadline to file isn’t for another few weeks.”
“So you have looked into it.” She raised the recorder again. “And maybe you know this, Miss Stevenson,” she said in a rush. “Why did Dr. Klein spend last night in the Dominguez County jail?”
“Oh, I think we might have to wait for the paperwork on that one,” said Fenway. “It’s probably all detailed in there.”
Sascha clicked the recorder off; Fenway saw the red light flicker and fade. “Just so you know, Miss Stevenson, I thought you handled the whole Harrison Walker case really well. I’ve been covering the political races since my college days and I don’t want Barry Klein anywhere near the politics of this county. You sure you’re not thinking about running?”
Fenway shook her head. “My father has already picked the horse in this race,” she said. “And I’m a nurse, not a politician. I want to save lives in an ER, not be worried about re-election every four years.”
“I think that’s exactly why so many people I’ve talked to think you’re the best coroner we’ve had in a long time,” Sascha said.
Fenway averted her eyes and tried to ignore the compliment. “Hey—one question. The Courier has a reporter who visited Alice Jenkins the day before she was killed. I wanted to talk to him, see if anything there would help the investigation.”
“Who is it?”
“James Monroe.”
“Ha,” Sascha said. “Reporters give names of presidents when we don’t want to divulge our real names. Kind of an in-joke.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you James Monroe?”
Sascha smirked. “Now what would be the fun in telling you that?” She clicked her recorder back on at her side, hoping Fenway wouldn’t notice. “And one more question for you, Miss Stevenson. Which horse did your father pick?”
“He told me never bet against American Pharaoh,” Fenway said with a wink, then turned to go back to Migs. She almost ran into a photographer who immediately snapped her picture.
“I appreciate the time,” Sascha called after her. “And that James Monroe wrote one hell of a doctrine.”
• • •
She found her way back to Migs, who offered her a ride home.
“Thanks, Migs. I’ll take you up on that.”
“No problem.” Migs paused. “Everything okay?”
“I guess. No. I’m kind of annoyed. Dr. Klein, announcing his run. It seems, I don’t know, really disrespectful, so soon after the mayor’s death. And dealing with that reporter, too.”
“You’ve dealt with reporters before.”
“I know. Maybe I’m just in a lousy mood.”
Migs nodded. “Anything I can do?”
Fenway smiled. “Yes. You can stop for tacos on the way home.”
Migs laughed. “Dos Milagros, right?”
“Do you even have to ask?”
Migs tried making some small talk during dinner, but Fenway found herself thinking about how Natalie could be the kingpin—El Magnate Nuevo—from the administrative assistant’s desk outside Rachel’s office. Although, Fenway reasoned, remembering her high school Spanish, it should be La Magnate Nueva. She shook her head to clear it.
Fenway snapped back from her own little world about halfway through the meal. She raised her head and asked Migs about how things were going with Piper. Migs’ family still hadn’t met Piper, and he worried about how the family would feel about him dating a white woman.
“I mean, my brothers are totally cool with her,” he said. “Sure, they’re dicks about it—they call me ‘Latino Lover’ in front of her, and they call her guera—but they do it in front of her face, so I know she passed the test with them. But mi litta—that’s a different story.” He shuddered.
Fenway paused halfway through a bite of her carne asada taco. She still hadn’t worked up the nerve to try the lengua. “Your what?”
“Litta. My grandma. She’s a tiny little woman—I think even Rachel’s taller than her—but she’s mean. And there’s a girl from back in Alcaraces that I think she’s picked for me.”
Fenway nodded through the next bite of her taco.
When they were done, Migs drove Fenway back to her complex. It was just past eight o’clock, and the sun scattered reds and purples across the buildings on either side of Estancia Canyon Boulevard.
Migs turned into the driveway of Fenway’s apartment complex, and Fenway’s attention snapped to the black Mercedes S500 in one of the visitors’ spaces.
“Oh no,” she said, half to herself. “What’s my father doing here?”
Then she saw her new Honda Accord in her assigned parking space. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
Fenway opened the car door before Migs fully drove into the visitors’ space. “Dad!” she yelled.
The door of the Mercedes opened and Nathaniel Ferris got out. “Fenway!” he said, his arms open wide. “I knew how much you needed your car back, so I decided—”
“You flew up in your private jet to get my car and drive it back?”
Ferris looked taken aback by Fenway’s aggressive tone. “Not me, but yes, one of my drivers. He was happy to do it.”
“Why in the world would you spend that kind of money?” Fenway walked over to her father, purpose in her stride.
A confused look came over Ferris’s face. “Spend what kind of money?”
“I know it takes twenty-five thousand dollars just for you to take off and land,” she said, seething. She pointed straight at her father’s chest. “On the other hand, it’s three hundred bucks, tops, for me to take a commercial flight up there, take an Uber to where my car is parked, and then drive home.”
“You’re busy with this homicide investigation,” Ferris said. “Which I think is more important to the community.”
“Going round trip to Seattle in your jet costs more than the car does, Dad,” she said, more quietly, but still just as angry.
“So what?” Ferris said, and now anger crept into his voice too. “It’s my money, I can spend it how I like.”
“Do you have any idea what fifty thousand dollars would mean to me?” Fenway said, her voice cracking. “Do you know how much that forensics program at Seattle University cost? How much debt I’m in from that, and Western, and all the room and board?”
Ferris didn’t say anything.
“And you spend it like it’s nothing. Just to get my car back home.” She tapped her foot. “I’m sure you worked your magic to get it out of long-term parking without the ticket, and I’m sure you worked your magic at the dealership to get an extra key—”
“I had one made when I bought it,” Ferris offered lamely.
“So did you at least work your magic at the storage facility to get Mom’s paintings?”
Ferris was quiet.
“So when all of this is done, I still have to drive two days up there and two days back?”
Ferris shuffled his feet. “I thought you’d be happy to have your car back,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t easy to get a driver to agree to do it. He didn’t want anything to happen to the boss’s daughter’s car and him get blamed for it.”
“You didn’t think, Dad!” Fenway shouted. “You didn’t think what I would want, you just thought about how it would make you look!”
Ferris set his jaw. “I can tell this is just going to be unproductive. I spend fifty thousand dollars to do something nice for you and this is the thanks I get.”
“Maybe next time you can do something that actually helps me,” Fenway said. “Maybe do something yourself. Don’t just throw money at a problem and make it go away. Maybe be there for me.”
“I didn’t think you wanted me around,” Ferris said.
“After you didn’t show up for my high school graduation, or my prom, yeah, you better believe I didn’t want you around,” she said, her voice rising. “I didn’t bother inviting you to my valedictory ceremony because I didn’t want to be disappointed that you were choosing something else besides me. Again.”
“We’ve been over this, Fenway,” Ferris murmured.
“We may have been over this, but that doesn’t mean it went away.” Fenway raised her voice even higher. “You’ve got to do more than just say you’re sorry and listen to my favorite Coltrane album and tell pretty stories about the Red Sox in the back of your Mercedes. You’ve got to follow it up with some actual time. Some actual repair. You’ve got to be there for me. And you’ve never been there for me.” Fenway was almost shouting now. “Are you embarrassed of me? You ashamed of me? Maybe you don’t want all your rich white friends to know you have a black daughter?” She got right in his face and lowered her voice. “Or maybe you’re ashamed that I was raped. Maybe you think I’m not a good girl anymore.”
Ferris took a step back as if she had punched him in the chest. “That’s not true,” he stammered.
“Give me your keys,” Fenway snarled, a tear escaping her eye and running down her cheek. She took a step back. “I don’t want you screwing with my stuff anymore.”
Ferris stared at his daughter for a moment, then fished a Honda key out of his pocket and handed it over.
Fenway clenched and unclenched her fist around the key. “Thank you for getting my car back to me,” she said through gritted teeth. She turned on her heel and walked upstairs to her apartment.
She heard the sound of a car starting, and it didn’t sound like the Mercedes. She vaguely remembered that she had left Migs in the parking lot, caught between helping his boss and minding his own business. She fumbled with the key to the door as more tears ran down her face, rushed inside, closed the door behind her and threw herself face-first on the sofa, trying to keep control of herself. She grabbed a throw pillow that her mom used to like and buried her face in it as she screamed as loud as she could.
She thought she had gotten over this. She thought she had left it all behind her, that seeing the photos—enough of a gut punch in itself—and confronting Barry Klein had moved her past it. But the room spun and she couldn’t breathe. And not just because the pillow still covered her mouth.
She got up and paced around the room restlessly. She couldn’t stay in her apartment tonight.
Getting out of her apartment sounded good. Something that would make her forget everything that overwhelmed her thoughts—something that would drive out the bad images, the rash of shame, the crash of guilt for keeping her father out of the loop, the horrible feeling in the pit of her stomach.
She went to her mirror. In spite of everything that had happened, miraculously, she was having a good hair day. The flat iron’s effects were gone from her hair, but her loose curls were behaving, framing her face and her high cheekbones. A touch up on her makeup—or maybe modifying it like she did when she was going to see Akeel—and she could really turn heads tonight. Lose herself in loud music. Get a few drinks. Maybe even meet someone who looked like Akeel. It would be salve for her wounds.
She found the black dress in her closet, the one she’d thought about wearing the day after she spent the night with Craig, the day of the previous coroner’s funeral. As she changed into it, she remembered everything about the dress, a great purchase that really flattered her body. It showed off her curves in all the right places, or at least she thought that’s how Akeel would see it. And Craig. And whatever guy might be on the dance floor, looking for her that evening. She looked in the mirror again and saw her body in the dress, all slink and slither. She stood up on tiptoe and turned her head down, just to imagine how good those strappy black heels would make her calves look, how she’d walk into that dance club and knock back a whiskey sour and just let her body move to the music and let Craig’s hands go all over her, starting at her hips and working their way up until she went crazy. Or Akeel’s hands. Or whoever.
She looked down at the floor of her closet and saw the strappy black heels lying on the floor. She started to retrieve them and then she remembered.
The cleaners had been able, after three tries, to get Stotsky’s blood off them. Some of the black on the back of the heel had faded in the cleaning process, but she could barely even see it. If she hadn’t hit Stotsky in the face with that sharp heel, slicing his cheek, she might not be alive.
And she might not be trying to go out dancing tonight. To meet someone. To maybe forget that Akeel was a thousand miles away and Craig was still very married.
She took her shoes to the bedroom. She pulled a small black clutch off the top shelf in the closet and put just her wallet, keys, phone, and compact in it.
Crap. She had never given Rachel’s key back to Dez. She’d have to do that tomorrow.
She did her makeup carefully, and added a bit more eyeliner and mascara than her usual clean look, and dug in her drawer to look for the lipstick she wanted. Then she remembered it was still in the makeup bag in her suitcase. She had used the red shade when she had seen Akeel on Saturday afternoon. She found the lipstick in the bag, and did her lips in the mirror. She took a step back and looked at herself. She liked her outfit, flattering and sexy, perfect for the club. She liked the way she felt in it, and how she carried herself in it.
She walked in her bare feet out to the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of water, realized she’d have to redo her lipstick, but drank it anyway. It was only nine o’clock; the clubs had barely opened their dance floors. If she wanted to meet someone, she’d be waiting awhile. Although, she supposed, dancing away her frustrations wouldn’t be the worst thing to do before she needed to turn her charm on.