Fenway’s jaw dropped open. “So—where did the money go?”
Piper giggled. “I have no idea.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Oh, Fenway, but it is. Didn’t you say Redmond Northwall cleared out all his accounts and was leaving his wife penniless?” Her eyes sparkled. “It’s almost a shame he didn’t get to Belize only to find he had nothing.”
“Where did it all go?”
“My guess is some account that SinCitySuper controls.”
Dez furrowed her brow. “But—Haley was in class. The girl steals twenty-five million dollars and you mean to tell me she’s not quitting school and partying in a penthouse in Vegas?”
Piper shrugged. “Maybe she wants to finish her degree first.”
Fenway shook her head. “How did she think we wouldn’t be able to find this? Do we have enough evidence to arrest her?”
Piper shifted in her seat. “Uh—well, you can’t actually use anything I just showed you.”
“What?”
“This is all stuff protected by international agreement. Belize’s banking statements aren’t admissible in U.S. courts.” Piper cleared her throat. “And all the stuff I just showed you was highly illegal if I’d done it to a U.S.-based bank.”
“What?” Fenway repeated faintly.
Piper crossed her arms. “You wanted answers. I gave you answers.”
Fenway looked at Dez. “So why did Redmond blame Haley for everything?”
“I figured it was just because he knew she was the one who initiated all the transactions,” Dez said.
“So when he was arrested at LAX, he figured she’d betrayed him,” Fenway said. “And now he’s trying to throw all the blame on her.”
Dez folded her arms. “The transactions might have been illegal, but Frank Mortimer initiated the original fraudulent transactions to his account in Belize. If Northwall did anything, it was all outside the country. We have no jurisdiction there.”
Fenway shook her head. “So the money’s gone, Piper?”
“I might be able to locate it, but SinCitySuper is good. She obfuscated the name of the bank. Tokenized all the identification numbers. It might take me a couple of weeks.” She tapped her chin. “Or if she used a 1024-bit hash for the tokens, I might not be able to break it at all.”
Fenway smacked her hand on the work table behind her. “Emma was the one possibility we had to get Redmond to slip up and say something about the murder!”
Piper pushed herself away from the desk. “What do you mean?”
Dez gave a mirthless chuckle. “Fenway promised Emma that if she helped us catch Northwall, she could get her money back. If she can’t get her money back, we have no leverage.”
Piper arched her eyebrow at Fenway. “Why would you promise—”
“No,” Fenway said sharply. “It was absolutely not a promise. I told her that there was no way we could get her money back if Redmond didn’t get charged with murder. But I never promised her she’d get it back.”
“Well, now, she won’t.” Dez tapped her chin. “But she doesn’t know that.”
Piper looked like she’d eaten something rancid. “Oh, now, Dez, that’s cruel.”
“We can start a collection plate around the office for Emma. Besides, if we nab Northwall, we could have something to show to the authorities in Belize. They might be able to take action with the bank.”
Piper leaned back in her chair. “I suppose it would be worth a shot.”
“We need to tell Redmond’s attorney that we need to speak with him tomorrow, don’t we?”
“I wanted Emma talk to him separately,” Fenway said.
Dez shook her head. “She’s an agent of the county in this situation. We don’t tell his lawyer that she’s talking with him tomorrow, they could exclude anything she says at trial—and everything else that goes with it.”
Fenway made a face. “But then he won’t let his guard down.”
“With his wife in front of him—who’s screaming about betrayal, theft, who knows what else? Might not be the most productive conversation.” Dez shuffled her feet. “Besides, it’s not like we have a choice. We either call Counselor Hayes, or we risk this evidence getting rejected. And we’ll be forced to let him go.”
The next morning, Fenway stared at her computer screen. She’d been reading this email for almost five minutes, the information never getting into her brain. She blinked and her eyes focused on the clock in the right corner of her screen. 8:19 a.m. Where was Emma Northwall?
The door opened, and Dez stuck her head in.
Fenway looked up. “Emma’s here?”
Dez shook her head. “Frank Mortimer’s body washed up on Cypress Point Beach.”
Fenway jumped to her feet. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Dez held up her keys. “You want me to drive?”
Fenway grabbed her purse, and the two of them rushed out of the office. Five minutes later, they were turning onto Ocean Highway heading to the Route 326 turnoff.
Fenway squinted through the window. “I suppose if Emma Northwall doesn’t show—”
“You know, Fenway,” Dez interrupted, “she said nine thirty. Eight was too early for her.”
“But she agreed to eight.”
A sardonic smile touched the corners of Dez’s mouth as she steered the Impala into the fast lane. “That’s cute. No matter how many charities she supports, she’s been a rich man’s wife for two decades. I’ll bet you she shows up at nine forty-five, insisting that you’re the one who told her nine thirty.”
Fenway looked out the window. “I guess it won’t do any harm to have Redmond stick it out in his cell another hour and a half. Especially since we need to deal with Frank’s body.”
“As long as we either charge or release him to the Feds by about six o’clock,” Dez said, glancing at her watch. “I asked Celeste to take over for us if she gets there earlier than nine thirty.”
“Or if we don’t make it back in time.”
Fenway took out her phone. “I could call her. See if she’s still planning on coming in. Maybe make it later if she wants. That way, we don’t have to rush through this.”
Dez stared straight ahead. “Sure.”
Fenway called Emma’s number.
“You’ve reached Emma Northwall. If you’d like to—”
Fenway ended the call. “Went right to voice mail.”
“Maybe she’s in the shower. Or on the road.”
“I’ll try again in a half hour or so.”
They turned onto Highway 326 and drove for about five miles, parking behind an ambulance.
The highway was a hundred feet up from Cypress Point Beach, with a ravine running parallel to the shoreline. Dez and Fenway navigated the steep descent via a long set of wooden steps leading down to the beach, with a footbridge over the ravine.
“I love this beach,” Fenway said, reaching the bottom of the steps. “The dead body only takes away from it a little.”
The body lay supine about fifty yards down the beach from the end of the staircase, and Fenway snapped on a pair of blue nitrile gloves as she approached. Two paramedics stood about twenty feet away, a stretcher next to them.
The body was still recognizable. Fenway knelt on the sand next to the corpse. She placed her hand on Frank Mortimer’s cheek. “Hasn’t been in the water more than a day,” she murmured. “Probably less than twelve hours.” She lifted her head. “Current coming from the north?”
“That’s right.” Dez tapped on her phone, scrolling, then was quiet for a moment.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking out high and low tides. Assuming the body didn’t get caught on anything, it probably traveled about four or five miles in the last twelve hours.”
“We don’t know when it washed ashore.”
“True.” Dez put her phone down and stared out at the sea. “I guess we won’t be able to narrow down where he went into the water.”
Fenway blinked, then squinted. “Easy enough to weigh the body down, though, isn’t it?”
“Weights could have come loose.”
Fenway shook her head. “I don’t see any ligature marks on the arms or legs. No distressed clothing—no stretched-out pockets where someone might have put rocks.”
“So whoever got rid of the body did it in a hurry.”
“Dez,” Fenway said, “check the vehicles of the three gentlemen who greeted us at the temple. See what vehicles they drive. If any of them have a pickup or an SUV, see if we can match their plates to any of the cameras in the area last night.”
“I’ll call Sarah.”
Fenway nodded.
She continued to examine the body but found nothing else of note. Fenway turned Frank’s head to the side. The ocean had washed the wound of most of the blood, as one would expect from it being in the water for hours—and that had also made the shape of the wound clearer. She wished she’d brought the Bloodstone Scepter with her, but that was in the evidence locker back in the Sheriff’s Office. Still, the shape was evident.
After her examination of the body, Fenway motioned the paramedics over. Once they had Frank Mortimer inside the body bag, the paramedic placed him on a stretcher and began the slow, steady walk across the beach to the wooden steps.
Dez put her phone down as Fenway stood and removed her gloves. “Sarah already got a hit. Chad Wilkenson drives a Ford F-250 pickup.” She held up the phone and woke it up; a map showing Cypress Point Beach appeared on-screen. “We might not be able to narrow down the distance the body traveled from measuring the currents. But look at this.” Dez used two fingers on the screen and it zoomed out. “San Sebastian Road exit about three miles up Ocean Highway.” Dez pointed to the screen where the road split. “It’s an easy road to drive for a big pickup, and there are two places where the road gets close to the water—and they’re both secluded. I bet the body went in there.” She tapped a finger to San Sebastian Road and centered the screen to where it met Ocean Highway. “There’s a gas station at the exit. I’ve gotten camera footage from there before—the cameras cover part of the road. I bet we look at footage from last night, we see Chad Wilkenson’s pickup.”
“I’m still pissed off about the round-robin story they told,” Fenway said. “How we knew at least two of them were lying, but couldn’t arrest any of them since we couldn’t prove—”
“Yes, I was there,” Dez said. “But we need to get evidence of the truck before we arrest Chad.”
They walked across the beach, up the steps, across the footbridge, and back to the Impala. Fenway stared out the window as they drove to the gas station at the San Sebastian Road exit.
The office at the gas station was small, and folders, mail, and paperwork had been strewn across the desk and the side table next to the guest chair. Dez had folded herself into the task chair and stared intently at the small monitor in front of her. She hit pause, and the screen froze. Dez looked up at Fenway, who stood behind her with her arms crossed.
“The technology might not be from this millennium,” Dez said, pointing to the screen, “but it works. That’s Chad Wilkenson’s F-250. The license plate’s even visible.”
“Time stamp?” Fenway asked.
“11:36 p.m.” Dez grinned. “Think Chad will roll on Northwall once we arrest him for obstruction?”
“It’s tough for one person to move a body,” Fenway mused. “It’s possible one of his ‘brothers’ helped him out.” She squinted at the screen. “It’s too bad you can’t see the people in the truck.”
“We’re lucky to get the plate,” Dez said. “This video evidence might help unstick the three-way logjam with their stories covering for each other.”
Fenway tapped her chin. “I assume that whoever dumped Frank’s body in the ocean took it from the Monument Brotherhood Temple. First Street has a bunch of businesses that have cameras. At least one of them must have caught the F-250.”
“We’re probably not lucky enough to see the actual body being loaded into the truck, though.” Dez said.
Fenway took a step back and bumped into a floor lamp. “Sorry.” She looked up. “What about Haley?”
“What about her?”
“This SinCitySuper handle of hers—can we get her on anything? She moved the money into Northwall’s account. Aiding and abetting?”
“She’s already admitted to moving the funds,” Dez said, “but under the guise of getting the money back that Mortimer stole.” Dez hit Play, and the truck drove out of the picture. “Besides, we can’t use any of the information Piper showed us.”
Fenway sighed, then took out her phone and tapped.
“You’ve reached Emma Northwall. If you’d like to—”
Fenway pressed End Call. “Went right to voice mail again.”
“She could be on the road to the Sheriff’s Office. It’s almost nine thirty.”
The door opened and a man with a thin face and graying beard stuck his head in. “Did you find what you needed?”
“We did.” Dez cleared her throat. “We’ll need the tape for evidence.”
The man frowned. “Oh—it’s tough to get replacement tapes. How long will you need it?”
“Just long enough to digitize it. We can have it back to you in a day or two.”
The man shifted his weight. “Yeah, I guess that’s okay.”
Dez wrote in her notebook, ripped out the page, and handed it to the man along with her business card. “That’s your receipt. You don’t hear from me in forty-eight hours, you call.”
Fenway reached across Dez and ejected the tape from the machine.
“Surprised you knew how to operate one of those.” Dez said to Fenway, giving her a mischievous smile. Then she stood and addressed the man. “Thanks for your cooperation.”
He stood to the side, and they passed him, walking into the main store, then continuing outside.
“What now?” Fenway asked. “Shouldn’t we go to Chad’s house, impound his truck? If he put the body in a carpet or something, the wrap might still be in the back of the pickup. We could get DNA that matches.”
“Chad’s probably at work.” Dez took her phone out of her purse. “Let’s see… Chad Wilkenson.” She frowned. “Oh—I misspelled it. Hold on.” She tapped a few more times, then held the phone out for Fenway to see. “Accountant at Hardy Nichols.”
“That’s in the business park off State Street.” Dez unlocked the Impala with her key fob.
“I’ll call CSI in San Mig. They should get their lab ready.” Fenway paused. “And I’ll call impound, too. Get Chad’s truck towed to our lot.”
“Do it fast,” Dez said. “We don’t want another cease-and-desist order from Judge Haggarty.”
As Dez drove her Impala into the parking lot of the business park, Fenway squinted through the passenger’s window, searching for a black Ford F-250.
“There.” Fenway pointed at the pickup in the fourth row of cars.
Dez swung her Impala around and pulled into a space about fifty feet away, then killed the engine. Fenway looked up; the county’s blue-and-yellow tow truck drove into the lot.
Dez got out of the car first, Fenway quickly behind, snapping on a pair of gloves. The tow truck stopped behind the F-250, and the roar of the diesel engine changed to a lower pitch.
The driver’s side door opened, and a figure dressed in blue coveralls jumped onto the asphalt. The figure turned; it was a woman with an olive complexion, about five-eight, hair hidden by a Dominguez Tow baseball cap.
Dez grinned. “Shay—long time.”
The woman broke into a grin. “Desirée—how you doing? It’s been what, five years?”
Dez cleared her throat. “Closer to fifteen. But who’s counting? I thought you were in Spokane.”
Shay shrugged. “Bethany and I didn’t work out.”
“How long have you been back?”
“About six months.” She cocked her head. “You still with Michi?”
Dez shot a furtive glance at Fenway. “It’s complicated.”
The grin returned to Shay’s face. “It was always complicated with you, Dez.”
Dez pointed at the F-250. “That pickup isn’t complicated. We believe that truck was used in the commission of a felony last night.”
Fenway rushed over to the bed of the F-250 and looked inside. It was empty—if a carpet or any other sort of makeshift body bag had been in the back of the pickup, it was gone now.
“Hey!”
Fenway cast her gaze across the parking lot.
A white man with a mustache and goatee, wearing a light blue dress shirt, a navy striped tie waving over his shoulder, came running out of the building. “Hey! That’s my truck!” As he came closer, Fenway could see it was Chad Wilkenson.
Dez chuckled. “Good, now we won’t have to go looking for him.”
“I’d hate to make a scene by pulling him kicking and screaming out of his workplace,” Fenway said.
Dez walked halfway across the parking lot to meet him, Fenway following about ten feet behind.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Wilkenson.” Dez pointed at the F-250. “That your truck?”
He hesitated. “No.”
“You just told us this was your truck, Mr. Wilkenson. DMV records say this is your truck. You want to try again?”
“Fine, it’s my truck.”
“Where were you last night between eleven and one?”
“Home. Asleep.”
Dez shook her head. “We’re not off to a strong start, Chad. You lied about that being your truck. Now you’re lying about where you were. We have you on video driving this truck on San Sebastian Road toward the beach.”
Wilkenson paused. “Didn’t realize it was illegal to drive on San Sebastian Road.”
“A dead body was dumped at that beach last night, Chad.” Dez said it as if it were fact. “We demonstrate how you know the victim, we show the video—you really think the D.A. will think that’s coincidence?”
Wilkenson’s eyes darted all around the parking lot. He turned his head to look back at the entrance.
“Who you looking for, Chad?”
Chad smoothed his mustache and goatee, staring at the office building.
Then he turned and ran.
Fenway took off at a sprint after him.
“Fenway—” Dez said, but she was ten, twenty, fifty feet away.
Wilkenson was about Fenway’s height, and her strides matched his.
He reached the exit of the parking lot and turned right onto the sidewalk, his legs and arms pumping, his tie flying behind him.
Fenway was gaining.
Then a roar behind her, and Fenway turned to see Dez’s Impala fly out of the parking lot. Tires squealing, the car made a hard turn and headed straight for Wilkenson.
He turned his head to glance at the Impala, and Fenway leaped forward. Her hand smacked Wilkenson’s right ankle, knocking it behind his left leg, and he fell headlong onto the concrete.
Fenway rolled, her right shoulder taking the brunt of the impact on the sidewalk, and she tumbled into the grass on the parking strip.
Dez braked hard next to Chad’s crumpled body, and she jumped out of the car, gun drawn. “Hands where I can see them.”
Chad’s face was turned away from Fenway, but she saw a drop of blood land on the concrete as he got to his knees and put his hands above his head. “I haven’t done anything illegal!”
Dez pulled her handcuffs out. “Chad Wilkenson, you’re under arrest for destroying evidence and obstructing a police officer.”
“Obstructing a—” Wilkenson’s mouth fell open. “Judge Haggarty said—”
“Haggarty isn’t here,” Dez said, turning Wilkenson around and cuffing his hands behind his back. She read him his Miranda rights.
Blood dripped from Chad’s nose onto his shirt, which was torn at the shoulder. His trousers had dirt all down one of his pant legs.
“Now,” Dez said, hauling Wilkenson to his feet, “maybe you can explain how a dead body was in the back of your pickup.”