“While our investigators are looking through the garage,” Fenway said, holding out the signed warrant to Emma Northwall, “I wanted to tell you that your husband was detained for questioning an hour ago at Los Angeles International Airport.”
“With that whore,” Emma said under her breath.
“There was a ticket for the young woman, yes, but she didn’t appear to be at the airport and hasn’t yet checked in for her flight. We’ve got a deputy heading over to Nidever University to see when she was last there.”
“He usually keeps things he doesn’t want me to see hidden in a long gun box that’s up in the rafters in the garage.”
Fenway tilted her head.
“We’ve been married for twenty years, Coroner. Very little gets past me.” She set her jaw. “Of course, I didn’t find out about the missing money and the girl he was screwing. I guess he still had ways to hide things.”
Fenway took out her radio and pushed the button. “Deputy Salvador, look for a long gun box hidden in the rafters.”
“Above the Porsche.”
“Above the Porsche,” Fenway repeated.
“Roger that.” Celeste’s crackly voice came through the radio.
“I went upstairs to the guest bathroom earlier,” Emma said, “and I found all kinds of hair in the sink. Gunk from shaving cream, too. He’d shaved—it looked like a lot more than just his beard, too.” She frowned. “And left me to clean it up.”
“I’m sorry,” Fenway said. “But this will all be over soon.”
“Over?” Emma scoffed. “It won’t be over. This is just the first phase. He’ll go on trial. I’ll lose this house—I’ll lose everything. I’ve got to go to the dealership later to see if I can sell my car—and that Tesla—just to get enough money to pay my bills this month.” She balled her hands into fists. “What am I going to do? I’ve volunteered for all sorts of organizations in the last twenty years, but I haven’t held a paying job. And with our name dragged through the mud, who’ll want to hire me?” She sighed. “You know what else I just found out—because it just came through to my email?”
“What?”
“He sold his entire stake in Radical Familiar.”
“But—I thought it was a private company.”
“He still owned thirty percent. He just sold his stake to an investment group out of Montreal. The deal was finalized this morning. Eight million dollars—a fraction of what it was worth.” She tapped her chin. “Although after the news gets out that Frank stole twenty-three million dollars from them, maybe it won’t be worth so much.”
“Frank stole twenty-three million?”
“I knew something was going on,” Emma said. “I thought at first he was looking to trade me in for a newer model.”
“That’s why you hired the private investigator?”
“Oh, you know about the P.I.? Yes, that’s right. But it seemed like more than an affair. He was being very secretive about everything. His precious little Monument Brotherhood meetings were lasting longer, and he was having more of them.”
“It looks to me like he was trying to catch Frank red-handed.”
The radio buzzed. “Coroner, we found something.”
Fenway glanced up at Emma. “Excuse me for a moment.”
“Certainly, certainly.”
Fenway walked outside into the dark night and across the driveway to the garage. The open door spilled light out onto the gravel. Dez was staring up into the rafters, where Celeste sat. She handed down a large gun box.
“This could hold a shotgun,” Celeste said, “but it’s not nearly that heavy.”
Dez grabbed onto the gun box, and Fenway rushed over and grabbed the other end.
Together, they laid it on the concrete floor—probably where the Tesla usually parked.
“There’s no lock,” Fenway mused.
“Maybe he needed the lock for something else, and he figured if he was going out of the country, he’d be safe enough with this hidden somewhere he thought no one would find it.”
“Maybe.” Fenway flicked the metal tabs and opened the case.
Inside, a long metal staff—titanium? Silver? Maybe just plated with a precious metal. It glinted with glory, even in the dim light of the garage.
And at the top of the staff, like a giant gaudy engagement ring, sat an emerald-cut stone, about five inches square. Yes—that could have made the wound Fenway had seen in Frank Mortimer’s skull.
Wherever his body was now.
The stone was a deep green, almost black, with orange-red flecks so large they looked like paint splotches.
“The Bloodstone Scepter,” Dez said.
Fenway pointed to a brownish-red splotch on the side of the stone. “Not just the Bloodstone Scepter,” Fenway said. “The murder weapon. I need to get my fingerprint kit.”
“I’ve got one in the cruiser,” Celeste said.
“Thanks. That’ll work.”
Dez’s phone rang. She looked at the screen, then turned and walked out of the garage. Fenway pulled on a pair of blue nitrile gloves as Celeste went out to her cruiser to get the kit.
Dez walked back in. “Redmond Northwall will spend the night in L.A. county jail, and he’ll get transferred up in the morning.”
“No sign of Haley Sinclair?”
“Not at LAX. Callahan just called from Nidever. She’s in her apartment off-campus.”
“She never went to Los Angeles with Redmond?”
“It appears not.”
“What does she have to say for herself?”
“Do you want to pull her in for questioning tonight? It’s past nine o’clock.”
“I don’t know. Can we arrest her?”
“On what charge?”
“Obstruction?”
“What exactly did she obstruct?”
Fenway nodded. “You’re right. Let’s ask for her to come in for questioning tomorrow.”
Dez paced around the garage. “I’m not sure how long we can hold off the feds on this one.”
“Murder trumps identity theft, doesn’t it?”
“Traveling on someone else’s passport is a federal offense. A big fine, up to twenty-five years in jail. They’re not messing around.”
Celeste walked back into the garage and handed Fenway a black plastic fingerprint kit case.
Fenway set the case down on the garage floor, then lifted the Bloodstone Scepter out of the gun case and placed it gently on the garage floor. She didn’t want to transfer any of the blood to any other surface, but fingerprints were more important. Besides, there was plenty of blood on the gemstone to get DNA and a blood type.
She realized she’d been holding her breath and exhaled long and slow. She opened the case and removed the fingerprint dust bottle and the brush.
Celeste watched over her shoulder as Fenway began tapping the bottle, the dust shaking out slowly over the shaft of the scepter.
But nothing stuck.
Fenway took a deep breath and slowed down. After the adrenaline of the day, she had to remind herself to be careful, to be deliberate, to go slowly. She hated dusting for fingerprints in front of an audience, but at least Celeste was being quiet.
Still nothing. No fingerprints at all.
“Celeste,” Fenway said, “what do you know about the Bloodstone Scepter? Do the people who use it wear gloves? Maybe something ceremonial?”
“I don’t know.” Celeste paused for a moment. “I spent a little time this evening researching bloodstone.”
“Yeah?”
“Not a lot—but I wondered if it had any significance to the murder.”
“Is there significance to the bloodstone?”
“It represents purification and vitality, or according to some people—let’s see, how did they phrase it—‘noble sacrifice.’”
“Noble sacrifice? From what I know about Frank Mortimer’s embezzlement, there was nothing noble about it.”
“Some religions believe the red splatters in the stone represent the blood of Christ.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that last one.”
“And there are others who think it clears out negative energy.”
“Hmph.” Fenway spun the scepter so she could dust the other side of the shaft. “Seems to me that whoever hit Frank Mortimer with this thing was expressing a lot of negative energy.”
Again—no fingerprint dust stuck. She sighed.
“No prints?” Celeste asked.
“I’m afraid not.” Fenway pushed herself to her feet. “There isn’t a single fingerprint on the staff part of the Bloodstone Scepter.”
“Maybe the killer wore gloves.”
“I’ll tell you something—Chad, Brad, and Tad weren’t telling the truth.”
Celeste nodded. “I saw the notes from the interview. Same answers, different people to blame it on.”
“That’s right. But no one mentioned gloves. No one was wearing gloves when we were at…” Fenway trailed off.
“What is it?”
“They didn’t want us in the temple,” Fenway said.
“Right.”
“We assumed it was one of the cleaning staff who called 9-1-1.”
“That’s what I heard, too.” Celeste paused. “The call was tracked, wasn’t it?”
“I already asked Sarah,” Fenway said, taking out her phone, tapping the screen, and putting it on speaker.
“Hey, Fenway,” Sarah answered.
“Still at your desk?”
“For now. I’m about to call it a night.”
“I’m in the Northwalls’ garage with Celeste. Any luck tracing that 9-1-1 call?”
“Not if you call a prepaid phone lucky. I was able to track it to the store where it was purchased. I’ve got a call into them—maybe we’ll get a break with credit card receipts.”
“But it was a member of the cleaning crew?”
“Uh—I think that was the dispatcher’s assumption.”
“Man or woman?” Fenway asked.
“The dispatcher?”
“No, the caller.”
“They didn’t identify themselves,” Sarah said. “The voice was high-pitched. The dispatcher thought it was a woman—and since there aren’t any female or non-binary members of the Monument Brotherhood—”
Celeste shot a quizzical look at Fenway. “Does it raise your suspicions at all that it’s a burner phone?”
“Not that uncommon,” Sarah said. “If the cleaning crew member is living paycheck to paycheck, a prepaid phone makes sense. Or if they’re undocumented.”
Fenway was silent.
“Everything okay?”
Fenway shrugged, even though Sarah couldn’t see her. “Something’s bothering me, but I can’t put my finger on it.”
“Don’t you have this case all but wrapped up? The rich software CEO found out his CFO was stealing millions of dollars, killed him, stole his identity, and decided to run off to Belize with Frank’s money and a pretty girl.” Sarah chuckled. “It’s not even that original.”
“Still,” Fenway said, “I think this was a murder we were never supposed to know about. One day Frank Mortimer is here, the next he’s gone—and Redmond Northwall appears under Frank’s name in a country without a financial crime agreement with the United States.”
“How would you explain the disappearance of Redmond Northwall?”
Fenway paused. “He would have taken over Frank Mortimer’s life in Belize.”
“Right,” Sarah said quickly, “but if he’s living as Frank there, then how does he explain what happened to him here? Surely people will notice when he stops showing up to work.”
Fenway furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure.”
“We can ask him,” Celeste piped up, “when he gets to Estancia for questioning tomorrow morning.”
“Maybe Haley Sinclair can shed some light on Redmond’s motive,” Fenway said. “But that burner phone is still bothering me. You’re looking into it?”
“I don’t expect a lot of other information,” Sarah said. “I’m fairly certain it was purchased with cash—that’s another thing you can count on.”
“You don’t think it’s the killer trying to throw us off the scent?”
“If it is, they’re doing a pretty good job of it.” Sarah paused for a moment. “Maybe I should have contacted you earlier. I wanted to have all the information before I called.”
“No, no, Sarah, that’s fine.” Fenway scratched her scalp. “I’d hoped that we could find whoever made the call and interview her.” She paused again. “Still…”
“What is it?”
“The order of events makes it seem like it was—I don’t know—unplanned. Like the cleaning crew just happened to…” Fenway trailed off again.
“Is everything all right?”
“Sarah,” Fenway said, “can you find out who the cleaning crew is? If they use an outsourced company, and when the building is scheduled to be cleaned?”
“I hope the Monument Brotherhood doesn’t keep that information as secret as the rest of their organization’s details.”
“Do what you can.” Fenway paused. “And it can wait until tomorrow morning.”
“Aww, and I was just settling in,” Sarah said. “I’ve made a note—I’ll do it as soon as I get in tomorrow.”
It took about half an hour to clean up the garage. Fenway went into the house.
“Emma?” she called from the large tiled entryway.
Emma’s face appeared at the top of the staircase. “Are you finished?”
“Yes. I’m sorry we had to stay so late.”
“Did you—did you find what you were looking for?”
Fenway nodded.
Emma paused. “You said earlier he was traveling with that girl.”
“I said her name was on the second ticket,” Fenway said, “but no, she wasn’t with him. She never checked in for the flight.”
Emma’s brow furrowed. “I see.”
“You seem disappointed.”
“I don’t know—I expected if he was leaving me, he’d be going with her.” A smile touched the corners of her mouth. “Perhaps she didn’t want to leave her cushy life here and travel with an old man to Belize.”
Fenway grinned. “You’d think all that money would be reason enough, but I suppose anyone can change their mind.”
Emma cleared her throat. “I appreciate you telling me, Coroner.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry you had to go through this.”
“What happens to my husband now?”
“They’ll transport him up from L.A. tomorrow,” Fenway said.
“Will I need to come down to the station?”
“I’m not sure yet. Can we contact you?”
“Certainly. I believe I gave the deputy my cell number.”
Fenway nodded. “I’ll get out of your hair now. Have a good night.”
Fenway left through the front door and closed it solidly behind her. She squeezed her eyes shut. What was it that didn’t make sense?
She walked down the stone path to the street, pulling out her phone. 10:43. It might be too late to call McVie, but with their abandoned dinner plans, she figured she should chance waking him up.
He picked up on the first ring. “Oh, hey. I didn’t think I’d hear from you tonight.”
“I wasn’t so sure either. Is it too late to come over?”
“I think I can make time in my busy schedule.”
“You’re not working late?”
“Nope—you’ll never guess who called me this evening to tell me my services are no longer required.”
“Emma Northwall.”
“Ha. Right you are. How did you know?”
“We can talk more when I get there,” Fenway said, unlocking her car and opening the door. The Accord still smelled faintly of tacos.
“So,” McVie said when he opened the door, “Was the Emma Northwall guess just lucky, or did you have information that I didn’t?”
Fenway walked into McVie’s apartment. “I’ll just say that it would be hard for you to follow her husband around when he’s in jail.” She pulled McVie’s face down to hers and kissed him on the mouth.
“Hi,” McVie said.
“Hi yourself. I’m glad you didn’t have to work all night.”
“Me too.”
Fenway angled her head up and kissed McVie again. “I missed you.”
McVie closed the door to the apartment. “You know, I don’t have to be at work until, like, ten. We could sleep in.” He pulled Fenway close, his hand on the small of her back. “Or something.”
Fenway groaned. “I have to be at the sheriff’s office early. They’re bringing Redmond Northwall up from L.A. in the morning.”
“So, does that mean he’s your killer?”
Fenway paused.
“Uh oh,” McVie said, pulling away slightly.
“What do you mean, uh oh?”
“He’s your primary suspect. All the evidence points to him. And yet…”
“And yet,” Fenway repeated, breaking from McVie’s embrace. “Yeah. I think this was the perfect crime. A man steals millions from his company; the CEO finds out, kills him, then steals his identity. By this time tomorrow, he would have been sipping a rum punch on the beach with millions of dollars. And no one would have suspected him of murder, because everyone would think he’s the person who he killed.”
“So, what’s throwing it off for you?”
“Redmond Northwall controls every single aspect of his life,” Fenway said. “He’s got his schedule down to five-minute chunks. He’s not only the CEO of where he works, he’s the Grandmaster Flash of the Monument Brotherhood, too.”
“Most Worshipful Master.”
“Whatever—the point is, he needs to be in control. And you would think that if he were planning the perfect murder, he would know that the cleaning crew would be there—and he’d either alter his plan or alter the cleaning crew’s schedule.”
“Maybe he did, and someone didn’t get the message.”
“I suppose it’s possible,” Fenway said. “I just wish we could talk to the person who made that 9-1-1 call.”
“Anyway, enough work talk.”
Fenway grinned. “You planning on distracting me?”
“For a little while, anyway. Tomorrow morning is going to come mighty quick.”
Fenway elbowed McVie in the ribs, then went into the bedroom, McVie following.