Maggie’s eyes showed no recognition of Fenway, only hope that someone might get her out of this situation.
“Can you give us a minute, Officer Salvador?” Dez murmured.
“Certainly. Door closed behind me?”
“Thank you.” Dez turned to Maggie and motioned to Fenway as Officer Salvador left the room. “This is my associate, Fenway Stevenson. She’s my boss, and we’re here to take your statement about what happened yesterday evening.” Dez studied Maggie’s face, then sat on the foot of the bed as Fenway took a seat in an overstuffed armchair in the corner.
“I was at the bar with you last night, Maggie,” Fenway said. “Are you still okay if I question you?”
“You were at the bar?” Maggie said groggily. She pressed a hand to her temple. “I’m sorry. I was really drunk.”
“What do you remember from last night?”
The heat rose to Maggie’s cheeks. “Annabel took me out to dinner. I thought it was like a striker-goalie bonding session, you know? But—but then, she started telling me she knows about Coach Flash and all the stuff he’s—uh… I think her words were ‘the stuff he’s done to you.’”
“What did she mean?” Dez asked.
Maggie pulled her feet up onto the bed and sat cross-legged. “Somehow she knew he’s been—been asking me to do things for him.”
“Running errands?” Dez asked gently. “Getting coffee? Picking up his kids from school?”
“No,” Maggie mumbled.
“What kind of things?”
“Personal things.” Maggie stared down at her hands. “Mostly, um, sexual things.”
“Ah.” Dez nodded and motioned her head toward Fenway.
“You were—having an affair?” Fenway asked.
Maggie curled her mouth down into a frown. “Ugh. No. Well—I guess technically. But no.”
“What was it, then?”
“I mean, it was usually after he’d yelled at me for fucking up on the field, you know? Screaming when I let a rebound in, or for misplaying a back pass. He’d bring me up to his hotel room after the game or after practice and give me a thorough dressing-down, you know? And then—” Her voice hitched. “I don’t really know what happened after. I don’t know how it happened the first time.”
Fenway was itching to ask her when it started, how long it had been, to make her make sense of this. She’d seen this before, up in Seattle in the E.R. There were five girls from the same high school field hockey team. They came in together and insisted Fenway do a rape kit on their teammate and friend. She remembered the scared look on the girl’s face, the reports of how he’d twisted her words, how he’d turned her noes into yeses and how the shame burned her. Fenway had thought she’d be called as a witness at his trial, but last she heard, the coach had taken a plea agreement.
The shame on Maggie’s face was the same look the field hockey player had given her.
Fenway wondered if she’d had that look of shame after her Russian Lit professor… She had to pull her attention back to the present.
“He—he thinks I’m talented,” Maggie said in a halting voice, “but says I don’t work hard enough. I’m not dedicated enough to the team. I don’t jell with his coaching style.”
There was silence for a moment.
“Keep telling me about last night,” Fenway said. “Annabel talked to you about what Coach Levinson was doing.”
Maggie looked at the ceiling, tears welling in her eyes. “He was my coach in college. We won a championship together and—I mean, he took me under his wing, you know? He’s—he’s one of the only people who believed in me. Who honestly thought I could take it to the next level.” She swallowed hard.
Fenway squinted at Maggie; she had a hard time wrapping her brain around the fact that Maggie thought her rapist “believed” in her. But she knew that all kinds of things were possible when someone like Coach Levinson had power over someone young and impressionable. And he’d gotten away with it for years. “So you argued with Annabel?”
Maggie’s face changed, her eyes narrowing as she leaned forward. “I’m not getting any special treatment from him, okay?”
“I didn’t say—”
“If anything, he works me harder than anyone else.” Maggie’s eyes flashed. “This is for the team. Don’t you get that?”
Fenway looked at Dez, who rubbed her forehead.
“Maybe we should take a break,” Dez said.
Maggie sat back on the bed, her eyes wide with fear. “I’m sorry. My head hurts.”
“Do you need some water?”
“Maybe the bathroom.”
Fenway shot a look at Dez. “We okay with that?”
Dez’s face held no expression—the bathroom was probably still a better option than walking Maggie through the crime scene before she’d finished her initial statement. “Sure.”
Maggie went into the bathroom, closed the door, and the sound of the modesty fan came on.
“Anger,” Dez said.
“Hungover,” Fenway said. “And think of what she’s been through.”
Dez stood and paced around the side of the bed. “I don’t know how to say this, but I think you’re putting the murder victim on trial.”
Fenway blinked. “I’m trying to figure out what happened.”
Dez cocked her head. “I remember seeing those pictures from your professor’s office, Fenway. I know this must be—difficult.”
Fenway inhaled sharply, then ran a hand over her short hair. “I’m fine. This doesn’t have anything to do with that.”
Dez studied Fenway’s face for a moment.
A knock at the front door. “Room service.”
Dez walked out of the room, then came back in with a large glass full of thick green liquid and a small pill bottle. “Ibuprofen and breakfast. Just what the doctor ordered.”
“I hope that’s a hangover cure.”
Dez shrugged. “It’s what she said she wanted. Some sort of kale smoothie.”
The door opened, and Maggie came back out. Her cheeks were stained with tears, but she was in control. She pointed at the bottle. “Is that Advil?”
“Yep.” Fenway forced a small smile onto her face.
“And that’s the smoothie I ordered?”
“Right.”
Dez shook two pills out onto Maggie’s hand, and the young woman washed them down with the green smoothie. There was silence for a moment as Maggie drank.
“You were telling us,” Dez said, “about what you did after your dinner with Annabel.”
“I went to the hotel.”
“How did you get back here?” Dez asked.
“Uh… I’m not too clear on that part.” She closed her eyes. “I remember walking out of the restaurant.”
“What restaurant was this?” Dez asked.
“The French place. It had a fancy awning in front. Gustine’s or something.”
“Maxime’s?” Dez suggested.
“Yes. Maxime’s.”
Dez shot a look at Fenway, who nodded—she wasn’t quite sure what she was nodding for, exactly, but whatever question was in Dez’s mind, the answer was probably yes.
“How did you get there?”
“Annabel drove me from the hotel. She borrowed one of the team cars.”
“Did you flag down a taxi when you left the restaurant?”
“Um—” She leaned backward and reached for the bedside table before flopping back. “Oh, right. You guys took my phone.”
“Covering our bases,” Dez said. “Why did you want your phone?”
“I probably got an Uber. I thought I’d check my app.”
“We can check it.”
“Okay. So the answer is, I don’t remember how I got to the hotel.”
“But you remember getting to the hotel.”
“I remember,” Maggie said, then bit her lip. “Oh—I ordered a drink from the bartender. And one for the woman sitting next to me. Was it a bourbon? I don’t really remember.”
Dez shot another look at Fenway, who nodded again.
“Then Coach Flash came into the bar too, and he told me I needed to be ready for the afternoon practice.” She looked at the clock on the bedside table. “This won’t take all day, will it? Because practice…” Her voice trailed off. “Practice is still on, isn’t it?”
Fenway shook her head. “I don’t know, but this is important, Maggie. Think. What else did Coach Levinson do? Tell you to stop drinking and go to bed?”
Maggie looked back down at her hands.
“He gave you something, didn’t he?” Fenway pressed.
“His hotel room key,” Maggie whispered. “But—it wasn’t—it wasn’t like I wanted to have sex with him. I didn’t want him to be too hard on the team the first day.”
Fenway cocked her head. “What do you mean?”
“Well—” Maggie looked like she wanted to crawl under the covers and never come out. “When he’s in a bad mood, he makes the team do this whole exercise series—the Seven Summits. It’s grueling. Sometimes we have two or three players throw up afterward.”
“That doesn’t sound good.”
“One time he had us run up the steps of the bleachers holding a six-foot-long pole in the middle with buckets full of rocks hung from each end. If the buckets fell, we had to start all over.”
Fenway tried to picture that in her mind—and immediately knew she’d be unable to balance heavy buckets on either end of a pole while running stairs. “How about when he’s in a good mood?”
“He’ll still work us hard, but nobody’s puking, you know?”
“Did he tell you what he needed you to do to put him in a good mood so the team wouldn’t have to do the Seven Summits?”
Maggie shrugged. “It’s kind of something I picked up. If I wanted to be responsible for the team having a rough workout like that—on our first day of camp, no less—I’d go to my room and get a good night’s sleep. If I wanted the team to have a decent day of practice—well, I knew what I had to do.”
Fenway cleared her throat. “So you came up to this room.”
“Yes.”
“What did you do when you arrived?”
“I—” Maggie screwed up her face. “I took off my clothes and waited for him on the sofa out in the living room.”
“Do you remember him coming into the hotel suite?”
Maggie tensed. “Yes.”
Fenway looked at Dez, who shook her head slightly.
Fenway opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.
“It went like it usually goes,” Maggie said evenly. “He brought me into the bedroom after—after a while.”
“What time did he—did he come back to the suite?” Fenway asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he…” Fenway bit her lip. She didn’t know how to phrase it.
“We had sex,” Maggie said. “He opened the door, saw me on the sofa, and we had sex on the table. Then he took me into the bedroom and we—” Maggie squinted. “He gave me more to drink after we…” She blinked. “Sorry. It’s a blur. I know he woke me up and had sex with me again. I don’t know what time. Then I went back to sleep, and I woke up when the paramedics were here.”
“You didn’t get up at any time during the night?”
“No.” Maggie shifted her weight on the bed. “At least, not that I can remember.”
Dez leaned toward Fenway’s ear and spoke in a low voice. “Melissa de la Garza just got here with the CSI team.”
Fenway nodded, never taking her eyes off Maggie. “You didn’t put your clothes back on?”
Maggie shot Fenway a confused look. “Of course not. And I don’t know where my clothes from last night are, either.”
Fenway was quiet for a moment. She glanced at Dez, who clasped her hands together but said nothing.
“Did you know,” Fenway began, “Coach Levinson was fired by the team this morning?”
“What?” Maggie’s eyes went wide.
“Yes. Allegations of sexual misconduct.”
“But—but I never said anything!” Her face hardened. “Did Annabel say something? Because she doesn’t—”
“Multiple allegations,” Fenway said.
Fenway and Dez were quiet for a moment, then a look of realization crept over Maggie’s face. “Oh my God,” Maggie said, then her face crumpled into anguish. “Oh my God. I’m so stupid. I’m so, so stupid.”
Maggie began to shake, and Fenway sat on the bed next to her as the quaking turned into sobs and Maggie’s body folded.
A few minutes later, Maggie stopped sobbing and sat up, glassy-eyed, leaning her back against the headboard of the bed.
“Are you okay to continue?” Fenway asked.
Maggie shook her head. “I need a few minutes.” She looked up. “How did you know Coach Flash was fired?”
“Sandra Christchurch held a press conference this morning. Only five minutes or so before the paramedics arrived.”
“Do you know who reported it? Who else he’s been doing this with?” Maggie’s brow was creased, her shoulders tight.
“I don’t,” Fenway said, “but let’s keep focused on last night.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“After the last time—the last time he, uh, woke you up, did you hear anything? Maybe came out of sleep for just a moment, thought you were dreaming?”
Maggie shook her head. “Nothing like that.”
“Did you see Coach Levinson before he came into the bar?”
Maggie shook her head. “Not that day. In fact, not for a couple of months. We spoke on the phone a couple of times during the off-season.” She paused. “Oh—and I flew out to Vegas to see him when they made the decision to trade Gabby to Boston.”
“Gabby?” Dez asked.
“Gabriela Fortuna,” Fenway said. “The starting goalie last year.”
“And a backup on the World Cup team,” Maggie added. “The coach wanted to inform me in person that I was the starting keeper going forward. I think he wanted to assess my mental state.”
“When was this?”
“Right after New Year’s,” Maggie said. “Nice time of the year to come to Vegas, I guess.”
“Did he—” Fenway began.
Maggie averted her eyes. “I was in town for three nights. He and I had afternoon meetings and workouts all three nights.”
“And where did he stay?”
Maggie was quiet.
“All right,” Dez said. “Let’s say another team finds out about the coach sleeping with you. And they accuse you of this being a quid-pro-quo kind of thing. What would you say?”
Maggie hung her head. “It wasn’t like that. It wasn’t anything like him saying if you let me screw you, you’ll become the starting goalie. It was like I needed to show him I was grateful. I knew no one else would…” Her voice broke. “I’m so stupid.”
Fenway turned her head toward Dez. “I think we can move to a different—”
“Were you angry at him?” Dez asked.
“I wasn’t. No, we didn’t really have anything between us,” Maggie said. “He’s been my coach for years. Since first year of college. He and I have been working together for… well, it’s been a long time.”
“And how long has he been—” Dez’s phone dinged. She looked at the screen briefly, then took a breath. “How long has he been asking you to, uh, show him you were grateful? Or get the rest of the team out of the Seven Summits?”
Maggie blinked. “I don’t know. Years.”
“As long as he’s been your coach?”
Maggie nodded curtly.
“Okay, we’ll take a break,” Dez said.
They walked out of the bedroom and into the living room, closing the pocket door behind them. Fenway leaned toward Dez and lowered her voice. “You’re getting into some dangerous water. This was sexual coercion. Let’s not make it sound like we’re blaming her.”
“There’s a dead man lying on the floor, Fenway,” Dez whispered back. “If she killed him to get away from him, whether it was justified or not, we need to know. She’s not on trial. I’m trying to get information.”
“How much more time does Melissa need before we can cover up the body?”
Dez held up her phone. “That was Melissa texting me. She’s taking a break. We can cover the body and get Maggie out of here.”
“Let’s have Celeste drive Maggie to the station,” Fenway said firmly. “Our witness could use a break.” She opened the door into the hallway. “I’ll talk to the one who found the body.”
Deputy Brian Callahan walked up to Fenway and Dez.
Dez frowned. “Deputy, you’re supposed to be guarding the door to Coach Portello’s room.”
“I am—but I need to tell you that the woman at the end of the hall reported a theft.”
“I’m sorry—a theft?” Fenway asked.
Dez motioned down the hall. “That’s Sandra Christchurch’s room.”
Callahan nodded.
“What was stolen?” Fenway asked.
“A diamond tennis bracelet,” Callahan said. “She’d put it in the room safe.”