“Morning, Sarah.”
“Morning, Fenway.” Sarah Summerfield stood and handed Fenway a stack of paper. “These forms came in from the M.E. for your signature, and I’ve printed out a few résumés.”
“Anyone look good?”
“Migs is leaving some big shoes to fill, but with some training, the woman I put on top might work out. Got her associate’s only last year, but she has a bunch of awards and volunteer programs. I think she’ll be a good fit.”
“Thanks,” said Fenway, glancing at the topmost résumé. She walked into her office and set the stack of papers down on her desk. Sitting in her leather chair, she plugged her laptop into the docking station. She’d forgotten to grab coffee before she sat down; now she was wondering if maybe this was a Java Jim’s day instead of coffee out of the office carafe. But when she heard and smelled the machine finishing its work—Sarah had brewed a fresh batch just for her—she decided to stay in. A minute later, she was at her desk again with a steaming mug.
She was working through her email when Sarah came in with another printout.
“Hey,” Fenway said. “Something else?”
Sarah shut the door behind her.
Fenway’s head snapped up. “You better not be quitting.”
“No, no.” Sarah smiled. “But you’d been asking about the Vegas Neons. The women’s soccer team.”
Had Fenway said too much to Sarah a few days before and jeopardized McVie’s investigation? Mathilda Montague might be a pain in the neck, but she was a rich pain in the neck, and McVie’s business could use the cash. “What about the Neons?”
Sarah placed the printout in front of Fenway.
Neons Coach Levinson Fired on Sex Abuse Charges
The Las Vegas Neons fired coach Paul “Flash” Levinson on Thursday after multiple allegations of sexual misconduct, harassment, and inappropriate relations with players came to light in a report obtained by the Las Vegas Gazette. The report alleges the misconduct, which includes sexual coercion, goes back more than a decade, and refers to evidence from when Levinson coached his former team, the St. Louis Gateways, as well as his time at Shellmont University in North Carolina.
Neons owner Sandra Christchurch called a press conference at 8 a.m. Friday morning to make the announcement. “The Neons organization has no tolerance for the appalling behavior exhibited by former Coach Levinson. Those who have come forward are heroes and should be treated as such.” The women who made the allegations have not been identified.
AFF Commissioner Bartholomew Yates said via a prepared statement that the league is cooperating with the investigation. Yates provided no further response about the allegations.
Levinson took the Shellmont program to prominence, including a college championship, in his two-year head coaching stint between the Gateways and the Neons. He is often credited with discovering goalkeeper Maggie Erskine, whom the Neons selected in the first round of last year’s AFF draft, and who was announced as the starting goalkeeper for the upcoming season.
Levinson could not be reached for comment.
Fenway felt the bile rise in her throat, and she squeezed her eyes shut. Suddenly she was back in her first year at Western Washington. Her Russian Lit professor. Her face pressed against his office carpet. He grunted as he pushed her dress up.
Fenway opened her eyes, her mouth dry. Her heart was pounding.
Okay, breathe. It’s just a news story.
But she saw Paul Levinson, in her mind’s eye, slip something—a card, maybe his hotel room key—into Maggie’s hand. And the look on Maggie’s face. Resignation? Duty?
Fear?
Levinson could not be reached for comment.
Had Levinson known about his imminent firing when he’d whispered into Maggie Erskine’s ear the night before?
And suddenly Annabel’s relationship with Maggie seemed much less like an affair.
“Where—” Fenway’s voice broke, and she coughed to cover it up. “Where did you get this? It’s not even 8:30 yet.”
“Got the news alert on my phone.” Sarah looked at her watch. “Must have been a short news conference. I thought it might be useful.”
“I appreciate you keeping your eyes open.” Fenway stood and looked out her office’s glass wall at Dez Roubideaux’s empty desk. “Have you seen Dez?”
“She was called out just before you got here. Death at a hotel—I’ll check to see which one.”
As Sarah left her office, Fenway tried to read another email. But the mention of a hotel nagged at her. Please don’t be the Broadmere. Just thinking about the place made her feel stupid. She didn’t want to go there, where the Neons would be crowding the lobby to talk about the coach’s firing. She’d talked to Annabel like a fan and then, to Maggie, pretended she knew nothing about soccer. If she ran into the two of them together, it could get awkward.
She told herself to relax. There were other hotels than the Broadmere, and anyway, if the death was something routine, like a heart attack or a stroke, Dez would handle it. There’d be no reason for Fenway to go.
She turned her attention back to her inbox. Things had calmed down in Estancia in the last month or so, so there was nothing too pressing. But the bad feeling about the hotel lingered, and she deleted an email she’d meant to file. Just as she was about to undelete it, Sarah’s voice called out.
“It’s the Broadmere.”
Fenway ran her tongue over her teeth and inhaled deeply.
“Any information on the decedent?”
“White male in his fifties.”
Levinson could not be reached for comment.
She thought about all the people in management positions in sports organizations—coaches, athletic directors, team owners—who’d been caught in sex scandals, or stealing money, or worse. Sometimes they had no comment, but most often they strongly denied the accusations, then slunk away, saying they didn’t want to become a “distraction” for their team. And went on with their lives. Had this one felt enough shame to take his own life?
Fenway’s phone buzzed, and she took it out of her purse. A text from Dez.
Get over to the Broadmere NOW
Her stomach dropped. She grabbed her purse and hurried out of her office.
Fenway parked on the street in front of the Broadmere and hurried through the small front lot to the entrance. To Fenway’s relief, she saw neither Annabel nor Maggie on her way through the mostly empty hotel lobby to the elevators.
On the ninth floor, a uniformed deputy lifted the police tape to let her into the suite.
The door opened into a penthouse apartment-style room: a sleek, modern living area with high ceilings, painted in elegant earth tones. On the right: a sofa, two leather benches, a coffee table, and a large television mounted on the wall above the fireplace. On the left: a desk, dining table and chairs, all made from dark wood. Straight ahead: a red sliding door, possibly leading to the bedroom, and a door on the left which Fenway assumed was the bathroom.
The man’s body, splayed out on his stomach, lay between the coffee table and the television. Fenway was struck by the similar hues of the burgundy of the bedroom door and the pool of blood underneath his head. Right arm up at an acute angle, left arm awkwardly positioned with his hand by his hip. He wore black-and-gold sweatpants and a white T-shirt stained with blood, a large splotch between his shoulder blades. His feet were bare. His face was turned toward the television—it was Coach Flash. She cursed under her breath—this could get complicated.
Fenway’s paper overshoes crinkled as she walked around the coffee table. “Thanks for calling me, Dez.”
Dez was a few inches shorter than Fenway, her eyes boring into the body, taking in all the details. Her hair was dark, short, and tightly curled, and she motioned toward the body with her head. “Figured you’d need to see this one for yourself. Victim’s name is Paul Levinson. He’s the head coach of a Las Vegas-based soccer team.”
“The Neons.” Fenway crouched next to the body. “CSI coming?”
“Melissa de la Garza is on her way.”
“Who found the body?”
Dez took out her notebook. “An assistant coach who gave his name as Rocky Portello. His ID shows his given name as Roger.”
“Does everyone in this organization have a nickname? First Flash, then Rocky.”
“Flash?”
“Yeah, the decedent. Everyone called him ‘Coach Flash.’”
Dez harrumphed. “Wasn’t fast enough to get out of the way, I guess.”
Fenway narrowed her eyes at Dez.
Dez cleared her throat and shuffled her feet. “I understand they were here for their training camp.” She tapped the notebook. “You follow soccer?”
“Enough to know what the offside rule is, anyway.” Fenway gave Dez a small smile. “My dad’s been interested in—uh, talking to the Neons’ ownership. I’ve done a little digging.” She looked around the room to avoid Dez’s eyes—no need to mention McVie until it was relevant—but also to understand the layout of the crime scene.
The living room’s two benches and sofa were covered in sumptuous leather. The wallpaper design was a jumble of randomly sized circles, each full of smaller, concentric circles, predominantly cream and brown, matching the brown hardwood and cream rugs. Fenway suspected the designer’s target was thoughtful elegance, but it looked fake instead. When she looked at the red sliding wooden door near the back of the living room, Dez said, “Bedroom.”
Fenway pointed at the other door. “Bathroom? Or closet?”
“Bathroom. One door from the living room, one door into the bedroom.”
Fenway knelt beside the dead man’s head.
The red door into the bedroom slid open, and Officer Celeste Salvador stuck her head out. “Sergeant? Can we get a bottle of water?”
“I got it,” the deputy at the door said, and closed the door as he exited.
Fenway angled her head toward the bedroom and gave Dez a questioning look.
“A young lady is in there. Asleep when Coach Rocky made the 9-1-1 call.”
Not Maggie Erskine, please. If it was, Fenway might be a witness for sure. She was already in a gray area. “What’s her name?”
“She’s still fairly out of it. Quite a hangover, or at least she’s pretending to have a hangover.” Dez flipped a page in her notebook. “Margaret Lynn Erskine.”
Oh no. Fenway would have to disclose what she knew—at least, as much as she could without jeopardizing McVie’s investigation. “You know Coach Flash was fired this morning?”
Dez shook her head. “Like I said, I don’t really follow the league.”
“He was accused of sexual misconduct with his players. And Margaret—she goes by Maggie—is one of his players. Star goalkeeper. The organization fired him after a report came out.”
Dez pursed her lips. “She’s a person of interest. Maybe a suspect.”
Fenway held up her hands. “Maybe you shouldn’t tell me anything more. I was here last night. I saw our decedent talk to Maggie Erskine.”
“You were here last night?”
“At the bar in the hotel.” Should she say she’d shared an Uber with Maggie?
“Did you see them enter?”
“Yes, but they entered separately. Maggie was sitting at the bar. When Coach Flash came in, he spoke with her about being ready for tomorrow’s practice. Then it looked to me like he slipped something into her hand. Whispered something in her ear, then took a seat across the bar.”
“So, they didn’t enter together, and they didn’t sit together?” Dez blinked. “Did they argue? Did she get mad after he told her what to do?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“What did the coach slip into Miss Erskine’s hand?”
“The way they both acted, I suspected it was the coach’s room key.”
“Why?”
Fenway crossed her arms. She wasn’t used to being grilled. “Because they didn’t acknowledge they’d touched hands. No ‘excuse me’ or anything. It was the way you’d act if you wanted to pass something off but didn’t want anyone to know.”
“And you thought it was a room key?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see a room key?”
Fenway shut her eyes and thought. It definitely looked like Coach Flash had pressed something into Maggie’s hand. But she didn’t see anything pass between them.
“No.”
“So, you saw the two of them talk. You saw them touch hands? Like, holding hands, or a high-five, or what?”
Fenway shook her head. “Nothing so specific.”
“Did they leave together?”
“No. A minute or two after the coach talked to Maggie, she left. She took the elevator upstairs.”
“And the coach was still in the bar?”
“Yes. He had a drink, then he left a couple minutes later.”
Dez took a step back. “What were you doing here last night?”
Fenway considered. She could say it was none of Dez’s business, but that wouldn’t be helpful. She hated to mention McVie, but telling a half-truth about him seemed best just now. “After that drink with Maggie, Craig met me here.”
Half-truth. Okay, maybe one-third.
A quarter, at least.
Dez rubbed her chin. “I don’t think you saw anything either the prosecution or defense would want you to state in court.”
Fenway inwardly bristled. Dez had twenty years on her, but Fenway was still the boss. “I’m aware of the conflict-of-interest guidelines, Sergeant.” Her voice was gentle but firm.
Dez closed her notebook. “You know what I mean, Fenway.”
“Yes.” Fenway bent down to examine the body, then straightened up again. “I believe Maggie Erskine was drunk when she left. She was slurring her words and could barely walk. I don’t know if that’ll make any difference.”
Dez frowned. “I don’t know either. Did you want to sit in when I question Maggie?”
Fenway shook her head. “She might recognize me from the bar. I sat at the stool next to her.” She didn’t say they had talked. Or shared an Uber. “After I examine the deceased, I’ll question the coach who found Levinson’s body.”
“He’s next door.”
“Any reason you didn’t keep him in here? It’s unusual to let the person who found the body leave the scene.”
Dez hooked her thumb over her shoulder in the direction of the bedroom. “With Maggie Erskine in there, I didn’t think it was a good idea to let anyone besides the investigation team stay in the room.”
“Makes sense.”
Fenway turned back to the prone form of Paul Levinson and studied the body for a few moments. His head was turned slightly to the right, a bloody mass near the crown of his skull. “Wound appears to be in the parietal bone, roughly ten centimeters from the coronal suture.” She looked up at Dez. “Blunt force trauma. Lots of blood. Consistent with a massive head wound.”
“I figured.”
Fenway leaned in closer. “Hmm. Shape of the wound suggests something… oval in shape? Not a baseball bat. The angle is wrong. And it’s too thick to be a fireplace poker. Well—‘thick’ is the wrong word. Maybe flat on—” She looked up. “Oh, of course. A golf club. Probably a driver.”
Dez nodded. “Set of golf clubs in the hall closet—and you’re right, the driver’s missing. Guess what we found in the shower?”
“Ah. Someone tried to wash all the blood off it?”
“That’s what it looks like. CSI will probably find some.”
“Why is it still in the shower? You’d think someone would try to get rid of it.”
Dez scratched her temple. “Do you know what else we found in the shower?”
“What?”
“All of Maggie’s clothes.”
Fenway rested her elbows on her knees. “Her clothes?”
“Stained with blood,” Dez said. “It looks like most of it’s been washed out. It was all in a big wet puddle on the floor of the shower.”
“And—the police found Maggie in bed when they came in?”
“She was asleep. Coach Rocky calling 9-1-1 didn’t wake her up.”
Fenway stood and took a step back from the body. “So, what do you think happened, Dez?”
“I’ll tell you what it looks like from what I can see. But this is preliminary.”
“Of course.”
“It looks like Miss Erskine hit Mr. Levinson over the head with the golf club and tried to wash the murder weapon off in the shower. But then realized there was blood all over her as well. She took all her clothes off and tried to wash the blood off them, too.” She pointed at the bedroom. “Then, in her drunken stupor, she figured she’d deal with it in the morning, and she passed out on the bed.”
“Ah. It’s open-and-shut in your mind?”
Dez shook her head. “Not at all. That’s a first glance. The girl’s steady and strong enough to clobber a man to death and then can’t stay awake ten more minutes?”
“Odd.” Fenway tilted her head. “You mean someone wants us to think it was Maggie?” Fenway flashed onto the name Mathilda Montague, who thought Maggie was sleeping with her wife. It would be a long way to go for someone to commit murder just to frame their spouse’s supposed mistress, though.
“Not impossible, but it doesn’t feel right. Let me sit with it for another half hour and maybe I’ll see it different.”
“And of course we haven’t questioned her yet.”
Dez was quiet.
“Have you been in the room with Maggie?” Fenway asked.
“I brought her some clothes when she wanted to know where hers were. I’d like to bring her down to the station to question her. Things might not line up perfect, but she’s still the prime suspect.” Dez set her mouth in a line. “And I hate to say it, but if the coach is accused of sexual misconduct with his players, there’s even more of a reason to think Maggie is involved.”
Fenway nodded soberly.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to bring Maggie out past the body until we cover it, and I don’t want to cover the body until Melissa gives her okay.”
Fenway looked at the closed door. “Does she even know he’s dead?”
“Yeah, but not that his skull’s bashed in.”
“What did she say about the golf club and the clothes in the shower?”
“We closed the shower curtain before we let her into the bathroom to get dressed.”
“How do we know she didn’t see anything?”
“Celeste kept an eye on her.” Dez shrugged. “Only so much we can do. We either let her into the bathroom where she might see the murder weapon, or we lead her through the crime scene before we interview her. Neither is ideal.”
Fenway nodded grimly. “Probably the right call—but she’s been shut in the bedroom since she woke up? Kid must be miserable.”
“We’re getting her some ibuprofen, and room service is bringing a little breakfast. Not much else we can do.”
“Take her statement in the bedroom. If she’s guilty, she’s got nothing but time to think of explanations to make herself look innocent. The more time you give her, the more convincing the lie will be.”
“Okay,” Dez said, “let’s both go do it.”
“We? No, Dez, I sat at the bar with her—”
“Let’s see how foggy her memory is. If she recognizes you but pretends she doesn’t remember anything from last night—”
“It won’t mean much.” Fenway pointed to an empty tequila bottle on the coffee table. “Coach may have gotten her twice as drunk as when I saw her.”
Dez went quiet for a moment, then looked sideways at Fenway. “You don’t think she did it.”
“What? Uh—I’m trying not to assume too much. Based on what we’ve learned about this guy, the hotel may be crawling with women who hated him. Men too, in all likelihood.”
“But you think Levinson got her even more drunk and—”
“Yes. Maggie wasn’t sober enough to give consent.” Fenway blinked. She tasted copper in her mouth.
“Are you implying,” Dez said slowly, “that she did it in self-defense? Or that it was justifiable?”
Fenway paused. “I’m not ruling out the possibility. Maybe she was sober enough to—” She shook her head. “No, I’m not saying anything else. Let’s get her statement.”
Dez leaned in close to Fenway and lowered her voice. “Celeste Mirandized her when I got here. Real smooth, too, like it was for her protection, in the middle of a conversation about her role on the team this year.”
“She didn’t ask for a lawyer?”
“Not yet.” Dez took a step back. “Celeste is going for the detective’s exam, you know.”
“I heard.”
Dez shifted her weight from foot to foot. She opened her mouth, but Fenway spoke first.
“Yes, yes, Dez, I know. Mark hasn’t put in his retirement paperwork yet, but if he does, and Celeste passes her exam, you know I’ll consider her.”
“All right, as long as you know what I think.” Dez stepped over to the door and slid it open. Maggie sat on the king-size bed with her back against the headboard. The young goalkeeper wore a gold-and-black T-shirt with the Neons logo on the front, paired with gray sweatpants.
Maggie looked up at Fenway. “I’m ready to talk.”