“You’re really stressed out tonight,” McVie said, eyeing Fenway across the table at Dos Milagros.
“Yeah, well, it’s official—I let a murderer go.” She’d ordered three tacos instead of her usual two, and her first bite of the lengua was tender and spicy and perfectly balanced as always. And it tasted like cardboard.
“That was two weeks ago.”
“And yet I’m still pissed off about it.”
McVie nodded. “You said you got a postcard?”
Fenway wiped her hands off on her napkin, then dug in her purse and pulled out a postcard. Galápagos Islands. The front had several pictures: beautiful trees, the ocean, sea turtles. She turned it over and noted the red Correo Aéreo stamp.
Dear Miss Stevenson,
I must apologize for misleading you during your investigation. By now, you’ve doubtless seen that the money is back with Radical Familiar, and that Frank Mortimer’s personal money has been distributed to his wife. She will no longer lose her house or retirement savings. Maybe that can be a small comfort to you.
Best regards,
Emma
Fenway flicked the card over to McVie. “How often did this happen to you when you were sheriff?”
“You’ve got to remember that Harrison Walker wasn’t nearly as diligent as you are. Dez and Mark closed a fair amount of cases. We maybe had half a dozen murders in the time he was coroner. About half were domestic cases, and it was clear who was the killer. The other half? People fighting over drugs. There was a home invasion. We never solved those—we never had a prime suspect, either.” McVie took a bite of his carnitas burrito. “Look at the bright side: because of you, an innocent man won’t spend the rest of his life in jail for a murder he didn’t commit.”
Fenway swallowed with difficulty. “He will spend ten years in federal prison for his passport issues. The U.S. attorney wanted to prosecute after all. Set an example, I guess.” She took a drink of her horchata. “Probably some prison with a golf course and chef-prepared meals.”
“Ten years, huh?”
“Well—the judge might give him ten. My guess is he gets out in five and he’s running another tech company as soon as he’s released.”
“But he won’t be running the Monument Brotherhood.”
“No.” Fenway took another bite. She’d seen the news article that morning: The national organization had pulled its association with the Central Coast chapter. The most powerful people in the chapter were either dead or in prison, and the building was up for sale. Fenway wondered if Emma had anything to do with that—maybe she’d ask Piper when she saw her again.
McVie picked up the postcard. “You’re mad you had to give the case to the Feds.”
“No, no.” Fenway gave a slight chuckle. “Maybe a little.”
He turned the postcard over and read the back. Then he returned it to Fenway, shaking his head. “When I was sheriff, if I didn’t solve an embezzlement case, it meant that I couldn’t help the victims. Maybe a family would miss their rent payment, or a single mom would lose her car and wasn’t ever getting it back. At least the employees of Radical Familiar still have jobs.”
Fenway sighed and took another bite of her taco. The taste came back—at least a little.
“And Emma Northwall paid on time—and in full,” McVie said wistfully.
“Her house is on the market,” Fenway said. “I saw the listing. Four and a half million.”
“That’ll go a long way in Ecuador. Or wherever she is.”
Fenway took a drink of horchata. “I just wish I could arrest Haley Sinclair for something. The feds would be interested if I could figure out what might stick. If it weren’t for her—”
“Then Frank Mortimer would be sitting on a beach with twenty million dollars in the bank and Radical Familiar would have had major layoffs.” McVie took another bite, then talked with his mouth full. “Haley is more hero than villain, Fenway.”
“She operates in a gray area.”
McVie gave Fenway a sad smile. “Maybe you need some rum in that horchata.”
Fenway looked up at McVie. “Maybe I do.”