Her head hit the pillow at two-fifteen in the morning, but she woke at five, an hour and a half before her alarm, wide awake. She could feel the nervous energy coursing through her. She lay in bed for ten minutes, trying to get back to sleep, but it didn’t happen; her brain wouldn’t shut up. She reluctantly pulled herself out of bed and put on some running shorts and a tank top.
She went for a run out through the butterfly waystation just as the first fingers of light were snaking over the mountains, and stood for a few minutes, watching the morning light play on the water. She wished again that her father had brought back the painting she had gone to Seattle to get.
When she returned, she took a long shower, making the time to put the shea butter and avocado oil treatment on her hair. She put her makeup on carefully and deliberately. She looked in the mirror and thought she had done a good job.
Fenway transferred everything back to her larger purse from her clutch, and saw Rachel’s apartment key still in her purse. She reminded herself yet again to give the key back to Dez.
As Fenway drove to the parking garage at City Hall, she had a hard time figuring out what she would tell Natalie. She didn’t want Natalie to think Fenway suspected her of anything, so she’d have to dust much of Rachel’s office for fingerprints.
She got out of her car; she still had the thoughts of Craig and the motel room in her head. She closed the door and walked halfway down the ramp of the parking garage before she snapped her fingers and ran back to the car, getting the fingerprint kit from the floor of the passenger side.
She walked quickly, looking at her phone—it was 7:35. She was already five minutes late to meet Natalie—and she didn’t think Natalie would look kindly on tardiness. Probably a great fit as Rachel’s assistant, Fenway thought, if it weren’t for the whole drug kingpin thing.
She went into City Hall and took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, catching her breath when she reached the landing at the top. She smoothed her blouse down and shook her hair out, then cleared her throat and entered Rachel’s office.
Natalie looked up from behind her desk. “Good morning, Fenway,” she said. She pulled a key out of her drawer. “Okay, you still need to get in there?”
“Sure,” Fenway said, nodding her head, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, and pulling out her fingerprint kit.
Natalie wheeled over to Rachel’s office door and unlocked it, swinging it open.
The scent of pine and rubbing alcohol tickled Fenway’s nose. She looked at the desk, a single neat stack of papers in the corner. The post-it notes had been taken off the monitor, which looked polished and new.
“What happened in here?” Fenway said, dazed.
“Oh, no,” Natalie said, putting her hand to her mouth. “The cleaning crew must have been in last night. Usually they just empty the wastebasket, but once a week they give the office a thorough cleaning. That must have been last night.”
Fenway closed her eyes and shook her head, and had to suppress a laugh. She had thought she had been telling a lie about the cleaners coming last night when she persuaded Huke to get her the fingerprint kit. Not only had she been unwittingly telling the truth, but now there were no fingerprints to recover.
“I am so sorry, Fenway,” Natalie said. “I didn’t realize they’d be in here last night.”
“It’s totally my fault,” Fenway said, trying not to break into sardonic laughter. “I knew yesterday that the cleaning crew would be in last night; that’s why I came over here in such a rush. And then I just forgot about it when we got to talking.”
“Do you think you can get anything useful?” Natalie said.
Fenway shook her head. “I specifically wanted to get prints from the monitor, where all those post-it notes were.” She looked around. “I suppose I should dust for prints anyway. Just in case the cleaners missed something.”
Natalie nodded as Fenway snapped on her blue gloves.
Fenway didn’t really want to fingerprint everything; the dust got everywhere, and she had dressed more nicely than usual—certainly nicer than she would ordinarily be dressed to fingerprint an office. But in her experience, cleaners wouldn’t get all the fingerprints wiped off; they were looking to make the room clean, not to eliminate all traces of fingerprint evidence. Her original plan had been to limit the dust to the desk and the monitor. But now, she’d be dusting some of the bookshelves, the light switches, and the metal arms of the guest chairs, even though they were curved surfaces. She sighed, resigned to the fact that this would take a messy hour or two. She couldn’t see a way around it, however; Natalie—or Elena—likely would see through her ruse if she just gave up. She thanked Natalie and shut the door.
Fenway started with the desk, now cleaned off completely. She expected just a few fingerprints, probably of the cleaners themselves. She thought she would quickly find a corner that hadn’t been wiped clean. She dipped the brush in the carbon and tapped off some of the excess. She held the brush just on the surface of the desk and spun the handle of it between her thumb and her first two fingers to spread the carbon powder on the desk’s surface. The large desk made for tedious work, but Fenway exercised as much patience as she could muster.
But she found nothing. No traces of fingerprints at all. She even did the edges of the desktop, and not a single particle of carbon stuck to anything.
“Damn,” she said to herself, “I wonder if these cleaning people are available for my apartment.”
She did the light switch next. But again, the same thing—no traces of any fingerprints at all. And then the bookcase. Even the bottom shelf. Then the edges of the monitor. Then the back of the monitor. Then the squishy armrests and metal arms of the guest chairs.
Not a single fingerprint. Not a partial. Nothing at all.
Fenway sat in Rachel’s chair and thought. This wasn’t the work of a thorough cleaning service. The office had been cleaned by someone specifically trying to eliminate all traces of fingerprints. Someone who knew what they were doing. It took a level of patience, determination, and discipline almost military in precision.
She should have known as soon as the scent of pine hit her nostrils: she had underestimated Natalie. Natalie had convinced her to return the next morning, but had obviously come back and cleaned everything. She should have listened to Piper—Fenway wouldn’t be able to rattle Natalie or talk her into a corner. Fenway was angry with herself; she should have seen this coming.
She wiped down all the surfaces and packed up her kit. It was past nine when she finally removed her gloves. The fingerprint kit had taken much longer than she had expected—but McVie should have called at least a half hour ago. As if reading her mind, her phone rang, McVie’s name popping up onscreen.
“Hey, Craig,” she said.
“I’m done with HR,” he said quietly. “Sorry, it took me a lot longer than I thought.”
“What did you find?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Nothing?”
“Well, that’s not exactly true,” he said. “I found a big red stamp marked ‘Classified.’ And a big brick wall where the information should be.”
“All right,” Fenway said. “I’m still in Rachel’s office. I just finished up. Why don’t you meet me in the plaza?”
“How about the coffee cart downstairs?”
“Okay. Give me five minutes.”
She hung up the phone and got up from Rachel’s chair, trying to see if she could work up the resolve to talk to Natalie, to try to catch her between a rock and a hard place. She took a deep breath. Maybe Fenway would ask Natalie about the Marines. Maybe some talk of rank, or how Fenway had toyed with the idea of the G.I. bill before she chose the route of massive college loan debt.
She picked up the fingerprint kit and walked to the outer office.
“Did you find anything?” Natalie asked, looking up from the computer, but still typing.
“I’m afraid not,” Fenway replied. “Those cleaners did a pretty good job in there.”
Natalie nodded sympathetically.
Fenway opened her mouth to talk—to try to get Natalie talking—and then shut it again.
“Did you need anything else?” Natalie’s fingers finally paused on her keyboard.
Fenway shook her head. “Nope. I guess I keep hoping Rachel will just magically show up.”
Natalie averted her eyes and nodded. “I know what you mean.”
Fenway hated herself for being so indecisive, but finally said goodbye and went out into the hallway.
She trudged down the stairs. McVie, waiting at the coffee cart, watched her come down. She got to the landing and walked up to him.
“Hey,” she said.
“Got you a large latte,” he said.
She brightened. “Thank you, sir.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“So,” Fenway said, lowering her voice, “you didn’t find anything at all?”
“I got Natalie’s address from payroll. That’s it.”
“What did HR say?”
“They told me that they couldn’t give me any more information unless I had the proper authorization.”
“But you’re the sheriff. You’re leading this case.”
“Not right now. And even when I’m reinstated, I don’t get first dibs above the Feds.”
“The Feds? They’re the ones who locked Natalie’s files?”
“I think so,” McVie said. “I said I’d speak to the state attorney and they said she didn’t have the proper authorization either.”
“The Feds locked Natalie’s HR files just because Piper nosed around a little?”
McVie shook his head. “No, apparently the files were locked down as soon as Natalie arrived. Whatever’s happening has been going on for weeks, if not months.”
“So—who do you think locked the files? You think the FBI is involved in catching Natalie?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say the ATF.”
The barista handed both their coffees to them and they walked outside. The day hadn’t heated up just yet.
Fenway took a sip of her coffee. “This isn’t good, Craig. If Natalie killed Mayor Jenkins and if the Feds have a claim to her, we’re not going to be able to give the city any closure.”
“I know,” McVie said, gloomily. “We’ll have to think of something else. I kind of hoped you would’ve had better luck in Rachel’s office.”
“I didn’t find anything either,” Fenway said. “Not a single fingerprint.”
“What do you mean, not a single print?”
“I mean someone went in there and wiped every single surface clean of prints. They did a very thorough job. Much more thorough than a normal cleaning staff would do. I’m positive Natalie cleaned that office last night.”
McVie paused. “I think we’re dealing with someone very good at this.” He rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t know who we can trust and what we can’t.”
Fenway shook her head. “It’s pretty obvious to me that we can’t trust Natalie. We know for a fact that she isn’t who she says she is.”
McVie nodded.
“I say we go over to her place now,” Fenway continued. “Before she has an opportunity to get back there. Before she suspects that I know anything.”
“It might be too late for that,” McVie said. “If she’s the one who cleaned the office last night, you’re probably already on her radar.”
“She might still be holding Rachel there,” Fenway insisted.
McVie shook his head. “I don’t think so. I think that would be too close to home. She’d be keeping her somewhere. She’d have people working for her guarding Rachel.”
“You’re probably right,” Fenway said, “but I’m at least going to go look.”
“That’s dangerous. Didn’t I just say there might be a guard there? Or the person who killed the private investigator might be there.”
Fenway shrugged. “I can talk my way out of it.”
McVie pressed his lips together. “Look, Fenway, I appreciate that you feel like you need to do something about Rachel, but that’s just—” he sighed. “That’s just not a smart thing to do. There’s such a high chance of something going wrong.”
Fenway tapped her foot. “Listen, Craig, if I am on Natalie’s radar, that gives us until about five o’clock tonight to get whatever is at Natalie’s house. If that’s evidence, if that’s Nozithrapham—or if that’s Rachel. Once she leaves the office, the first thing she’s going to do is move everything from her house. I need to go there. Have the police come with me if you want.”
“No, Fenway,” he said firmly. “It’s too dangerous.” He exhaled loudly, clearly irritated.
“Of course it’s dangerous,” Fenway snapped. “But I’m afraid the next place Rachel goes will be in a shallow grave. I don’t think it’s the safe move either, but I don’t think we’ll have another chance to get Rachel. Period.” She crossed her arms. “I’m sorry, Craig, but our master plan didn’t work. We didn’t find anything to question Natalie about. No fingerprints. No nothing. And I think we’re running out of time.”
“Don’t forget, no warrant,” McVie said. “If we move now and we’re wrong, or we’re caught, we can kiss any chance of finding Rachel—and, by the way, solving Mayor Jenkins’ murder—goodbye.”
Fenway put her hands on her hips, ready to counter the argument, and then sighed and put her arms at her sides. “You’re right,” she said. “I want to find her, I want to pull her out of danger, but you’re right. It’s stupid.”
“I said dangerous, not stupid.”
“You said it wasn’t smart.”
McVie rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m heading over to the prosecutor’s office,” he said. “I’m going to see if anyone knows when I can come back. Maybe they’ve scheduled a hearing.”
“You’re expecting them to do a hearing?”
“No,” he said. “But I want to be prepared for the worst. I thought I took care of all the reports and paperwork at the scene, but I haven’t heard anything.”
“Okay,” Fenway said. Then, trying to sound as nonchalant as she could: “You want to grab some lunch later?”
Craig looked into Fenway’s eyes, paused for a moment, and smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I’d like that.” Then he turned and walked down the sidewalk toward the district attorney’s offices.
Fenway watched him walk away, admiring his body in spite of herself, and went across the street to her building. She turned the information over in her mind. Rachel’s office had just been cleaned. Natalie was probably still attempting to conceal her true identity—which meant that Natalie didn’t know Fenway had seen the report from Piper.
Fenway set her jaw; she knew McVie warned her of the danger of going to Natalie’s place, but she knew in her gut she’d find Rachel there, and she saw the window of opportunity closing quickly.
She walked in. Migs, Mark, and Dez were all behind their desks.
“Good morning, everyone. I hear congratulations are in order.”
“They sure are,” Mark said, beaming. “We rescued Olivia Jenkins from the warehouse district last night.”
“How’s she doing?”
“Physically, she’s okay,” Dez said. “Mentally, I don’t know. But some kids are really resilient. I couldn’t tell if she really understood what had happened to her.”
“Everything okay with the warrant, Migs?”
Migs nodded. “Yeah, the anonymous tip looks to me like it’ll stand up in court, and the judge agreed.”
“So I know why Mark and I didn’t get here till nine,” Dez said. “But you’re not usually late, Fenway.”
Fenway shot a look at Migs, wondering if Migs had said anything about the screaming match she had gotten in with her father, but Migs’ lips were pressed tightly together and he avoided eye contact.
“I dusted for fingerprints in Rachel’s office this morning. Natalie and I met at seven-thirty.”
“I thought we got everything we needed from the guest book.”
Fenway shook her head. “I thought there might be something on her monitor. There were a bunch of post-it notes on there.”
“You heard the news?” Dez said.
Fenway paused. “You mean there’s more than Olivia’s rescue?”
“Yep, good old Mr. Smellsgood,” Dez cackled. “He sent out a press release this morning announcing his candidacy for coroner. Apparently he had the press conference at Carpetti in their boardroom.”
“Now that Dr. Klein is running for mayor,” Migs piped up, “Everett Michaels is going to need a challenger to keep him honest.”
“That’s not me,” Fenway said defensively. “No way. He’s handsome, he’s charismatic, he’s rich, and he’s—”
“He’s an entitled sonofabitch, is what he is,” said Dez.
“Sure,” Fenway said, “but he’s also my father’s preferred candidate. Talk about swimming upstream. And besides, I’ve got my state nursing boards next month. I need to start studying.”
“Your dad isn’t the superhero he thinks he is.” Dez tapped her foot. “He endorsed Michaels this morning, and I’ve gotta say that the audience reacted, uh, tepidly. The public might not trust Ferris anymore after his right-hand man turned out to be a murderer.”
“Alleged murderer,” said Migs. “Trial date hasn’t even been set yet.”
Dez gave Migs a nasty look and Fenway laughed. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.” She walked into her office, shutting the door behind her, and woke up her laptop. She typed in her password, then did a web search for US Marines Keepsake Clock.
She found it on the third link—a clock with all the Marines paraphernalia that Natalie had on hers, and the exact same design. She clicked on the order form and scrolled down to the section for the soldier’s information for the nameplate. Fenway entered some phony information—“Barry Klein,” with a rank of “Major Pain in the Ass”—and clicked the button to continue.
A mocked-up graphic of the nameplate appeared—with no indication that it would be checked against a master database. Only a credit card information form stood between Fenway and a U.S. Marines keepsake clock with false identification data. She leaned back in her chair.
There was a knock at the door and Dez stuck her head in. “Fenway?”
“Come on in.”
“This just came over.” Dez walked in with a few sheets of paper and set them in front of Fenway. Fenway glanced at it; there were graphs and chemical names and phrases like “TLC densitometry” and “analysis of aqueous solutions of synthetic dyes.”
“Forensics came back with the ink analysis?”
“Yes,” Dez said. “Just the fake suicide note that they found at Rachel’s, though. The credit card receipt from Maxime’s was lower priority.”
“They’re analyzing that too?”
Dez held up her hand. “Hey, I know, it doesn’t seem like it would tell us anything, but Kav was insistent. It’s San Miguelito’s budget, not ours. If they want to set fire to their money, so be it.”
“So what does it say? Bic ballpoint, only a bazillion of those in the world?”
Dez looked at Fenway, a half-smile on her face. “No,” she said. “It was Montblanc ink, the blue-black. Some sort of special blue dye in it that turns black after it oxidizes.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It is.”
“Sounds like the kind of ink you’d use in a keepsake pen set.” She turned the monitor around to face Dez. “The kind of keepsake pen set that would come with a U.S. Marines keepsake clock.”
Dez looked at the monitor and looked at Fenway. “That’s the same kind of clock Natalie Andrada has on her desk.”
“Yep,” Fenway said.
Dez noticed the nameplate on the mock-up. “Nice that you can keep your sense of humor about Dr. Klein.”
“It’s not humor, it’s misplaced rage,” Fenway said, smiling sweetly.
“Do you think Natalie has something to do with all this?” Dez asked incredulously.
“I should have told you about this yesterday, Dez,” Fenway said. “This is a long story. It might take a while.”
“You know you’re talking about an ex-Marine,” Dez said, shaking her head. “She lost both her legs fighting for this country. You’re saying she’s behind everything? From the mayor’s murder to the little girl’s kidnapping to Rachel’s disappearance?”
“Don’t forget the murder victim in the trunk of the car at McVie’s house.”
“You think she’s behind all of that?”
Fenway nodded. “And if you can believe it, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Yes?”
Migs opened the door. “Everett Michaels is here to see you, Fenway.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Did he say what he wanted?”
“He said it was important that he discuss an ‘action plan.’”
“Whatever he means by that,” Fenway muttered. “Okay, Migs, tell him I’ll be right with him.”
Migs nodded and shut the door behind him.
Fenway turned her attention back to Dez. “While I’m getting rid of Mr. Smellsgood, call the sheriff. Both of you should go see Piper—she’s got all the intel on this. I couldn’t believe it either, but she can show you all the evidence—fingerprints, photographs, false identities.”
Dez cocked her head to the side skeptically. “You’re sure about this? It’s hard evidence, not just circumstantial?”
Fenway hesitated. “Most of it is circumstantial,” Fenway admitted, “but there would have to be a lot of coincidences for Natalie to be innocent.”
“I don’t like coincidences,” Dez said quietly.
“Not even when veterans are involved?”
Dez paused. “No. Not even then.”
“Would you ask Mr. Smellsgood to come in?”
“Sure.” Dez walked out of Fenway’s office.