Fenway dropped a small, heavy paper bag on McVie’s desk.
“What’s this?”
“Figured the least I could do for you is buy you and Piper dinner.”
“This isn’t your way of tricking me into eating lengua, is it?”
“Carnitas burrito, extra tomatillo salsa.” Fenway set the drink carrier down and pulled a soda out and set it next to the bag.
“This wasn’t really what I had in mind when I asked you to dinner tonight.”
Fenway shrugged. “It’s the job. And it’s a Tuesday.”
McVie reached into the bag. “I can give you some details of my investigation—the parts that are relevant to Frank Mortimer. Beyond that, I can’t provide any identifying information.”
Fenway nodded. “Anything you have that’s considered attorney work product is off the table, right?”
McVie pulled the foil-wrapped burrito out and set it on his desk. “Fortunately for you, I haven’t gotten involved with the lawyers yet. ” He raised his head. “Piper, would you bring in the Emma Northwall file?”
“Emma Northwall?” Fenway asked. “I just talked to her. This must be one of your cheating-spouse cases.”
A willowy redhead appeared in the doorway to McVie’s office, a folder squeezed between her elbow and her side.
Fenway handed Piper another burrito from the bag.
Piper took it. “You’re not eating?”
Fenway felt the color rise to her cheeks. “I ate my tacos in the car on the way over.” And spilled some salsa on her trousers. She took the folder from Piper and set it on McVie’s desk. “So, what am I looking at, Craig?”
“Six weeks ago, Emma Northwall hired me to determine whether her husband was having an affair.”
Piper looked up at Fenway as she unwrapped the top of her burrito. “He’s the CEO of Radical Familiar.”
Fenway nodded. “Emma seemed like she was going to a business dinner tonight.”
“She’s on the board of a charity—Dominguez Ocean Rescue. They have a fundraising dinner tonight.” Piper took a big bite of her burrito.
“Nice to have a client who works for good.”
Piper swallowed, then pulled the foil farther down on her burrito. “She told us her husband—Redmond Northwall—was acting strangely. Staying at the office much later than usual, saying he’d gone on a business trip, and when she called the office, he’d taken a sick day instead.” She took another bite.
“Classic signs.” McVie wiped his hand on a paper napkin. “Emma had taken a couple of pictures on her phone of Redmond Northwall and a young woman that Emma didn’t recognize. Seemed to be in her early twenties.”
Piper pointed with her pinkie, her mouth full. “Open the folder.”
The folder contained a stack of pages and photos; on top, a photo of a young white woman with strawberry-blonde hair, high cheekbones, full lips, large hazel eyes.
“Haley Sinclair,” Piper said. “Grad student at Nidever University, getting her masters in computer science.”
The next page was an array of smaller photos, all of Haley Sinclair in various superhero outfits. Several taken at conventions with what looked like rabid fans, and a few of her in a revealing Jewels of Carthage costume at a tradeshow booth with the Radical Familiar Software logo above a computer station.
“Full-time student, part-time cosplayer,” Piper said. “I’m still doing research on her—she’s got a lot of tangled-up social media accounts.”
“Her costumes are good.”
“I hear she has a designer, but that might just be from other envious cosplayers.”
Fenway pointed to the tradeshow photo. “That’s the company that Redmond Northwall owns.”
“The CEO,” Piper corrected. “Sold controlling interest to a private equity firm a few years ago, but otherwise, yes.”
“So he’s sleeping with Haley Sinclair? She’s got to be less than half his age.”
“Not that simple,” McVie said through a bite of burrito. He used his free hand to turn to the next page. A hotel bill from the Phillips-Holsen.
Fenway squinted. “Frank Mortimer—this is his bill?”
“That’s right.” McVie turned the page again, this time to another array of photos.
The first photo showed a Tesla Model S in the parking structure of the Phillips-Holsen. The second photo was the same Tesla, but with the photo enhanced. Haley Sinclair’s face could clearly be seen through the passenger window.
“Does this Tesla belong to Redmond Northwall?”
“It does,” Piper said.
The second photo showed Haley Sinclair, in a short white dress and strappy sandals—a much different look than her superhero outfits. She was frozen in mid-stride, walking confidently through the lobby of the Phillips-Holsen. The third photo showed her embracing a man, an inch or two taller than Sinclair. The man was white, late fifties, bald and clean-shaven, with a thin face and pointed features, a black leather laptop bag over his shoulder.
“That’s Frank Mortimer,” Fenway said.
“Right.” Piper pinkie-pointed at the fourth photograph. “That’s the two of them getting into the elevator, and that is definitely his hand on her ass.”
“You’re getting good with the camera, Piper.”
McVie cleared his throat. “I took those pictures.”
“Ah—you were already good.” Fenway smiled at McVie, then furrowed her brow. “I’m not following. Redmond Northwall chauffeurs a hired cosplayer to a hotel for one of his Monument Brothers to hook up with?”
“Didn’t make a lot of sense to us, either,” McVie said. “So we started digging into the financials.”
This time, it was Piper’s turn to clear her throat.
“And by we, I mean Piper,” McVie said, then took another bite of his burrito.
“Starting in November,” Piper said, “Haley Sinclair has been getting weekly checks from Radical Familiar for a thousand dollars. Then three weeks ago—in fact, the day after this photo was taken—she gets a check for seventy-five hundred.”
Fenway pinched the bridge of her nose. “The company paid a grad student to have sex with one of the CEO’s secret society brothers.”
“That’s what we thought at first, too,” McVie said. “Then Piper suggested we look into both the company financials and into Frank Mortimer’s finances.”
“But—Piper, you just said Radical Familiar is backed by a private equity firm. Those numbers aren’t public.”
Piper shrugged. “There are people who will share those numbers with you if you ask them the right way.”
“I don’t think I want to hear about this,” Fenway said. “And if you didn’t obtain these legally, I can’t use any of this in court.”
“What I can say,” Piper said, “is that Frank Mortimer celebrated his thirtieth wedding anniversary last month. And I can also say that he’s the chief financial officer of Radical Familiar.”
“Redmond Northwall didn’t mention that at the temple. The CEO is paying for his own CFO to sleep with—” Fenway’s eyes went wide. “Is this setup for blackmail? Trying to force Frank Mortimer out?”
“Or it could be some weird sex thing with the Monument Brotherhood,” Piper said.
“Those are both possibilities,” McVie said.
“But we haven’t been right about anything yet,” Piper said. “I’m still digging. Mortimer’s made some big withdrawals from his 401(k). I’m trying to figure out where that money went.”
“Maybe paying off the blackmailer,” Fenway suggested.
Piper shook her head. “This happened months ago. Not just his 401(k)—Mortimer liquidated some of his other assets, too. Sold some land he had up in Humboldt county.”
“So suddenly a bunch of money is freed up from his monthly expenses.” Fenway shook her head. “And you suspect the blackmailer is the CEO of one of the biggest software firms south of Silicon Valley?”
“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” McVie admitted. “Northwall earns millions of dollars a year, plus the private equity firm paid him millions more when he sold the company. Why would he resort to blackmail?”
“Gambling problem?” Fenway mused.
Piper shook her head again. “There’s no sign of that.”
“What do you think, then?”
Piper grinned. “I think it’s the thrill.”
“I’m sorry—the thrill?”
“Think about it, Fenway. The guy’s done everything he can with money. Started a business from scratch, sold it for hundreds of millions, gets an eight-figure salary. He can take vacations anywhere he wants, he can buy any car he wants. What’s left?”
“So you’re saying he’s blackmailing his own CFO—his own secret society brother—because he’s bored?”
Piper bit her lip. “When you put it like that, it doesn’t seem so feasible, but that’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”
“This was three weeks ago—when Mortimer visited the Phillips-Holsen with Haley Sinclair. Any sign of blackmail payments?”
“No. Although if Northwall is doing it just for the thrill, it could be he’s just keeping the cash. Maybe putting it in a safe deposit box or putting it in the top drawer of his desk at work.”
Fenway crossed her arms. “So now Frank Mortimer is dead on the floor of the ballroom of the Monument Brotherhood Temple. Explain that.”
“Confrontation with his blackmailer that got heated,” McVie said. “Northwall kills him. I don’t know how he died—gunshot? Stabbing?”
“I suppose it could have happened like that,” Fenway admitted. “But why target the CFO? Frank and Redmond were secret society brothers. Isn’t there supposed to be some sort of bond?”
“People break bonds all the time,” Piper said.
Fenway frowned. “That might explain why Redmond killed Frank. But it doesn’t explain why Chad, Brad, and Tad are covering for him.”
McVie furrowed his brow. “Chad…”
“Sorry—the three other people who were at the temple. They’re all covering up for Redmond Northwall.”
“I believe it,” Piper said. “Bros before—uh, something.”
“I don’t,” McVie said. “Even if Redmond Northwall is the High Worshipful Master. Honesty, especially in finances, is highly valued. No one in the Monument Brotherhood would let anyone get away with the murder of one of their own, especially if the killer had been blackmailing the victim.”
“Then why are they obstructing our investigation?” Fenway asked. Then she blinked. “What if…”
“What?”
“What if Frank Mortimer is stealing money from Radical Familiar?”
McVie tilted his head. “What makes you think that?”
“Because he’s pulling all his money out of his current life,” Fenway said, and thought briefly about her mother stealing her away to Seattle. “He doesn’t intend on retiring with his wife up north in the redwoods. He’s amassing all the capital he has—and I bet he’s getting some more.”
“That’s a leap, Fenway.” Piper shook her head. “Even if he was thinking of leaving his wife, that doesn’t mean he’s stealing from the company. Besides, I haven’t found any international deposits yet. Not in the Cayman Islands, not in the Bahamas, not in any of those Caribbean shell companies.”
“Then where is all that money going? He’s not carrying around suitcases of cash, right?”
“No, but—” Piper frowned. “I’ve been focusing on the Caribbean, but there are more countries I can look at. Maybe Central America.”
McVie took the last bite of his burrito and chewed thoughtfully. “While Piper’s researching where Frank Mortimer’s money went, I’ll make some calls. I know a few people who are still involved. See what they know. Maybe they’ve heard something.”
“You think they’ll share it with you?”
“Probably not. But I can ask.”
When Fenway drove her Honda onto First Street toward the Monument Brotherhood Temple, several cruisers, their red-and-blue lights spinning, were parked at a variety of angles, one police car even up on the sidewalk next to the door.
She parked a block away, then hurried across the street. Dez stood in front of the door, a bullhorn in her hand, several deputies flanking her. As Fenway approached, Dez raised the bullhorn with a snap of static and a squeak of feedback.
“This is the Dominguez County Sheriff’s Office,” Dez said, the electronic bullhorn amplifying Dez’s voice. Fenway blinked. They all had Kevlar vests on.
Behind her, a deputy hoisted a battering ram into his arms.
“We have a warrant to search the premises,” Dez continued. “If you are inside, open the door, raise your hands above your head, and allow our deputies inside.”
The building stayed silent.
After a moment, Fenway hurried over to Dez.
“I take it you got the warrant.”
“Pretty cut and dried for Judge Harada. Dead body inside, we’re locked out. Easy call.”
“What about the arrest warrant for Northwall?”
“Harada said we were looking to get in the building. She thought the arrest warrant was—how did she put it?—an ‘unnecessary scare tactic.’”
“Maybe someone mentioned how powerful the Brotherhood used to be in the county.”
“That was me. I thought she should know what she’s getting herself into. We’ve got another deputy stationed at her house tonight, just in case.” Dez raised the bullhorn to her mouth again. “Repeat, we have a warrant to search the premises. If you do not open the door, we will break it down.”
Fenway thought back to watching Dez break open the door of a warehouse several months before. Unlike that door, however, these doors were significantly thicker and more secure. “Think the battering ram is strong enough?”
Dez glanced over her shoulder at the deputy holding the battering ram. “I’m not sure,” she said. “A door is only as good as its lock, though, and this lock is against a second door, not against a doorframe. There are a few other doors around the back and the sides we can try if this doesn’t work. We’ll see what we see.”
Fenway had a moment of panic—she had forgotten to ask Dez to make sure the warrant for the Northwalls’ home included the garage. “Is another team at Redmond Northwall’s house?”
“No. Judge Harada was reluctant to issue a warrant for his house. Said there wasn’t enough evidence to reasonably assume the murder weapon was in any specific location except the temple. Said we could come back if we didn’t find it here, though.”
Fenway crinkled her nose. “I didn’t tell you and Sarah about my interview with Emma Northwall.”
“Oh, that’s right—I didn’t even ask how that went.”
“She told me that Redmond had been home just after we spoke with him. He went in the garage for about fifteen minutes and then left again.”
Dez’s eyes went wide. “That sounds like just enough time to find a hiding place for a murder weapon.”
“That’s what I thought too. But then Emma declined to allow me to search. Since we’re getting search warrants for both here and the Northwalls’ house, we’ll find some evidence soon enough.”
“Do you think Emma Northwall is hiding something?”
Fenway crossed her arms and stared down at the floor in thought. “She was on her way out the door—Piper said it was some charity fundraiser.”
“Oh, right, the Dominguez Ocean Rescue.” Dez scratched her head. “If the Bloodstone Scepter isn’t here, we’ll go back and ask Judge Harada again. This time with the information from your interview.”
Fenway motioned with her head to the front door. “You going to break it down?”
“Yep.” Dez lifted the bullhorn. “This is your last warning. We have a warrant to search the premises. Stand clear of the doors.”
Dez handed the bullhorn to Fenway, and the deputy behind Dez handed her the battering ram. Four other deputies, all in Kevlar vests, fanned out in a half-circle on the sidewalk behind Dez. Vaguely, Fenway remembered McVie saying that Dez was the best on the staff with a battering ram.
Dez walked up to the tall, thick double doors, then turned her body slightly to the side. With a hand on each of the two handles, she swung it back just in front of her hips, and drove the ram where the two doors met, next to the lock—hard.
A thud—higher-pitched than Fenway was expecting.
Dez grimaced. “This door is solid.”
She swung the battering ram again, back and forth, back and forth, then drove the ram into the door in the exact same place.
The squealing of tires around the corner. Fenway jerked her head around. An Acura TSX braked hard just in front of a cruiser. The deputies all turned toward the Acura, with their hands on their holsters.
“Injunction!” a woman’s voice yelled from inside the car—its driver's window was down. A piece of paper appeared out of the window.
“Injunction?” Fenway murmured.
“Shit,” Dez said, lowering the battering ram to rest against her hips.
“Lynn Hayes, attorney for the Monument Brotherhood. I’ve got an order for an injunction signed by the honorable Michael J. Haggarty. You must stop breaking into the temple.”
Fenway strode over to the car, approaching the driver’s side, and looked at the woman. She was in a brown business suit with a cream-colored blouse. Her pale face was flushed red and her dark hair was tousled.
Lynn Hayes handed the document to Fenway. She scanned it—but it looked legitimate. Michael F. Haggarty’s signature decorated the bottom.
Fenway looked at the deputies, warily holding their hands over their gun handles. She locked eyes with Dez and shook her head. “Stand down.”