Melissa walked back to the body, which was still covered with the sheet. “We’ll do a little role play here. I’m the killer. I got really angry at Levinson, grabbed his golf club, and whacked him on the back of the head.”
“Okay.”
“The first blow likely killed him,” Melissa said. “He was also struck twice in the shoulders and three times in the upper back.”
“Someone was pissed off,” Fenway said.
“I’d use the word rage,” Melissa said.
“Can you tell anything about the killer? Height, maybe?”
Melissa shook her head. “Too many variables. We might be able to narrow things down a little when we run some computer scenarios, but I doubt we’ll get a height or weight. And with the length of the club, a deadly blow could have been struck by anyone—male, female, even a preteen.” Melissa glanced at Fenway. “I believe the killer used their right hand to deliver the blow, however.”
“So probably right-handed.”
Melissa stood with her hand raised as if she were holding a stick. “So I’m standing here. I’ve just killed Levinson with a golf club—and then whacked him a few more times for good measure. He’s lying in front of me. He’s dead. Is the golf club still in my hand?”
“Yes.”
“Do I drop it on the floor, or do I go clean it off?”
“Since it was in the shower, I assume the killer went to clean it off.”
Melissa pointed to a dark smudge on the carpet. “There’s a smudge on the carpet consistent with the head of the golf club here.”
“Ah,” Fenway said, nodding. “So the killer did drop it—perhaps in shock.”
“Okay,” Melissa said. “You’re the killer. You dropped the golf club. What’s going through your head?”
The hotel room door opened, and Dez stuck her head in. “Maggie is on her way to the station.”
“So,” Fenway said, “we let the rest of the team continue about their business? Or are we confining them to the hotel?”
Dez shrugged. “That’s your call.”
“But I’m asking your advice.”
“We can’t hold thirty people here at the hotel,” Dez said. “You have any other strong suspects besides Maggie?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I’d say the answer is pretty clear.”
Fenway nodded, taking out her phone. “They’ll be glad they can go to practice.” She texted Deputy Callahan to relay the news to the team.
“We’re walking through the scene,” Melissa said. “Seeing if we can find explanations for the physical evidence.”
“What did you find?” Dez asked.
“So far,” Melissa said, “we’ve got the killer dropping the golf club on the carpet”—she pointed to the smudge on the rug—“after killing our victim.”
Fenway put her phone away and pointed to the body. “Melissa found several locations on the body where it had been struck, not only the obvious head wound.”
Melissa took a step forward. “Right now, I think the body blows were administered after the initial cranial hit.”
“Right-handed perp?” Fenway asked.
Melissa nodded.
Dez screwed up her face. “Maggie’s right-handed.”
“Along with ninety percent of the population,” Melissa said.
“Let’s keep going,” Fenway suggested.
“Right.” Melissa pointed at herself. “I lost my temper and beat the coach to death. I dropped the murder weapon. So now what do I do?”
“Clean up,” Fenway said.
“You’re covered in blood,” Dez said. “That kind of spray would have gotten all over the killer.”
Melissa pointed to a few drops of blood on the wall and the high ceiling. “And the backswing of the golf club flung some blood around, too.”
“So,” Dez said, “you’d try to get to a place where you can wash up, right? Without tracking the blood everywhere.”
“Okay,” Melissa said, “so you walk to the bathroom. Through the entrance from the bedroom or the sitting room?” She pointed at the carpet in the sitting room between the corpse and the bathroom door. “I’d expect quite a bit of blood tracked there. I see a light spatter of blood I believe is from the initial flurry of blows, and there are a few drips between the body and the bathroom, but not enough to be consistent with someone walking through the room with blood on their shoes, or dripping from their clothes.” She pointed at the sliding door into the bedroom. “And nothing on the door handle, either.”
“Does this mean the killer walked to the bathroom or not?”
Melissa furrowed her brow. “The murderer might have had something to use to wipe a lot of the blood off before going into the bathroom.”
“Hence your comment about two bath towels going missing,” said Fenway.
“Blood dries quickly when exposed to air,” Dez mused. “If Maggie—sorry, if the killer—had been standing over the body, being indecisive, might the blood have dried enough not to drip?”
“In order to dry enough not to drip, we’re talking about hours, not minutes,” Melissa answered.
“So—hold on, Melissa. You mean not enough blood dripped between the body and anywhere else in the room?”
“Correct. We’ll get in here with Luminol in a couple of hours. But I’m surprised there are so few visible drips of blood.”
“Does that make sense?” Fenway asked. “Do we really think Maggie, who was so drunk she was slurring her words and barely able to walk, hit her coach a bunch of times with his golf driver, then had the presence of mind to—to do something to stop from dripping on the carpet between his dead body and the bathroom?”
“If Erskine and Levinson had sex earlier in the evening,” Melissa said, “I’ll wager she wasn’t wearing shoes. In fact, she may not have been wearing much at all. Maybe he wanted to go for round two or three and that was too much for her.”
“According to Maggie, they first had sex on the table,” Fenway said. “They moved into the bedroom later.”
“Then it’s possible her clothes were piled on the floor. She wipes herself off with her shirt, which might explain why there are no drips on the carpet.” Melissa walked across the sitting room to the bathroom door. “And if this was open, she might have gone directly into the shower, washed herself off, ruined a couple of bath towels in the process, left her clothes in the bottom of the shower, and then realized her fingerprints were all over the golf club too. She comes out, grabs the murder weapon, dumps it in the shower, maybe washes it off with soap, then collapses, exhausted, into the bed, where she’s found in the morning.”
“After she just killed someone?” Fenway asked. “Wouldn’t the adrenaline make that difficult? And in that scenario, when did she get rid of the two bath towels?”
“Maybe they dried out,” Dez said.
Fenway shook her head. “No. They’d still be in the room, and they’re not. The other two towels in the bathroom haven’t been touched.”
“I’ll put a couple of deputies to search for two bloody towels in the hotel,” Dez said. “But I just want to point out that everything you’ve said so far—except the towels—fits with a theory that Maggie is the killer. I don’t like it, and I might think Coach Flasher—”
“Flash,” Fenway mumbled.
“—got what was coming to him, but we’re not here to argue a justifiable homicide defense. We’re here to figure out what happened. Let’s assume for the moment an explanation for the missing towels—assuming there were four in here to begin with—is forthcoming. Are there any other alternate theories either of you have?”
“Someone else,” Fenway said, “could have come in and done exactly what you’ve suggested. If Maggie’s clothes were in a heap in the siting room, the killer could have wiped off the blood, cleaned up and toweled off in the bathroom, then left the room, taking the towels with them.”
“And wouldn’t even see Maggie,” Melissa muttered.
“Someone else would need a key,” Dez said.
Fenway shook her head. “Not if Coach Levinson knew the killer. He answers the door, the killer comes in, they argue, and whack!”
Dez nodded. “Before I came up, I asked hotel security to get their recordings for us to review. They’ve gathered video footage and readied a viewing station. A little cramped, but it’ll do.”
“Excellent. If Levinson had another visitor last night, maybe it was caught on the recording. Maggie could have slept through everything.” Fenway turned to Melissa. “Do you have a preliminary time of death?”
“From rigor and liver temperature, I’d say some time between eleven and two.”
“Only three hours of footage to watch, Dez.”
“I can’t wait.” Dez opened the hotel suite door.
The security footage station was a cramped room with slate gray walls and three banks of small monitors. A Black man wearing a charcoal security uniform nearly matching the color of the walls squeezed in with Dez and Fenway.
“I’ll run the machines,” he said, pointing to his nametag, which read Ezekiel Washington. “Y’all let me know if you want to go back or forward.” He had an accent Fenway couldn’t immediately place, consonants forward on his tongue. Maybe from Georgia, although it didn’t sound cosmopolitan enough to be Atlanta.
“Are there cameras on each floor?” Fenway asked.
Washington shook his head. “Not in the hallways. Elevators, lobby, restaurant. Oh—and two cameras in the parking garage.”
“So, Mr. Washington—”
“Mr. Washington is my father,” he said. “Call me Ezekiel.”
“Of course—Ezekiel. Could someone enter via the stairs and not be seen?”
“Can’t use the stairs for mobility between floors,” Ezekiel said. “The doors lock from the outside. Security issue.” He stroked his chin. “Could maybe exit without being seen by the cameras. But not enter.”
“What if someone propped the door open?”
“We’ve got sensors on each door. If someone props it open, it’ll beep, and then about thirty seconds later, an alarm will sound.”
“Pretty serious about security?”
“Our guests think it’s important.”
Fenway nodded. “Let’s start the video when Maggie came into the bar last night—right around ten.”
They sat in silence for a moment as Ezekiel found the spot in the recording.
“You and Maggie walked in together,” Dez murmured to Fenway.
“Yes. She was pretty drunk. She offered to get a round of scotches.”
“Any reason for her generosity?”
Fenway shrugged. “Like I said, she was pretty drunk.”
On the screen, Levinson came in and spoke to Maggie, who stood. Levinson pressed something into Maggie’s hand—that would be the hotel room key. He went to sit down at the other side of the room, giving his order to the server. A minute later, Maggie stood and carefully walked to the elevator.
“What room was Maggie assigned?” Fenway asked.
“612,” Dez replied. “But hold on; I want to see what Levinson does.”
Fenway pointed to the screen. “Look, there I am, trying to pay for both drinks.”
“But the bartender doesn’t take your card.”
“No. He said it was taken care of. I think Levinson got it.”
“Hmm.” Dez looked at Fenway out of the corner of her eye and lowered her voice. “I’m pretty sure there’s something you’re not telling me.”
Fenway hesitated.
“Is this about one of McVie’s investigations?”
“Yes.” Fenway motioned with her head toward the door.
“Excuse us for a moment, Mr. Washington,” Dez said.
When they were out in the empty hallway, Dez closed the door softly behind them. “All right, what is it?”
“Craig’s client is Annabel Shedd’s wife.”
“Her wife? Isn’t Shedd married to some big casino mogul?”
“Mathilda Montague. She thinks Annabel is cheating on her.”
“With who?”
“With Maggie Erskine.”
“So—wait, is that why you and McVie were at Maxime’s?”
“Right. I was helping out on his investigation.”
“Stalking Annabel? And that’s why you were sitting next to Maggie in the bar?”
Fenway grimaced. “Well—yeah. Maggie stormed out of the restaurant. She and Annabel had an argument.”
“An argument? Like a lovers’ quarrel?”
“More like—like when your friend says she doesn’t like the person you’re dating.”
Dez brought her hand to her chin and tapped her fingers, one at a time. “So you’re eating dinner with McVie, eavesdropping on dinner conversation between Annabel and Maggie. They have an argument, Maggie leaves, and you—follow her?”
Fenway rubbed her hands together nervously. “I pretended that I was having a fight with Craig, and Maggie and I both got in an Uber and went to the Broadmere.”
Dez pressed her lips together. “Did you discuss Paul Levinson?”
Fenway shook her head. “Only when she mentioned that he was the coach. I was trying to figure out if Maggie and Annabel were having an affair. I didn’t care who else Maggie slept with.”
Dez rubbed her temples with both hands. “Had you ever met Maggie before?”
“No. We didn’t talk about anything that would affect evidence collection. Or that would get grounds for appeal.”
Dez studied Fenway’s face for a moment. “Hmph. All right.” She opened the door, and Fenway followed her in, where Ezekiel was sitting in front of the monitor, the same paused image of the bar on the screen.
“Everything all right?” Ezekiel asked.
“Perfectly fine,” Dez said. “Shall we pick up where we left off?”
Fenway pointed at the monitor. “It’s been two or three minutes since Maggie left the bar and got in the elevator. Look at Levinson—right here. He gets up and goes to the elevator too. Doesn’t even settle his bar tab.” Then she stopped.
“So he obviously planned to follow Maggie upstairs,” Dez said, then glanced at Fenway. “What is it?”
“They had a coaches’ meeting just a couple of hours before this,” Fenway mused. “Rocky Portello said Christchurch gave no hint that she’d be firing Levinson the next morning.”
“Some people are really good about hiding stuff like that.”
Fenway shook her head. “I think something happened last night that changed the owner’s mind.” She kept one eye on the monitor, which showed the bar’s half-full seating area.
Dez cocked an eyebrow. “Sandra Christchurch found out her diamond tennis bracelet was stolen. I wonder if that had anything to do with Levinson’s firing.” She turned to Ezekiel. “She held the press conference here, right?”
“In the ballroom,” Ezekiel said. “It was arranged fast—it wasn’t on the calendar.”
“There’s Annabel,” Fenway said. On the screen, Annabel appeared in the bar. She was walking, staring at her phone, then she looked up and craned her neck as if searching for someone.
“Who’s she looking for?” Dez asked. “Maggie?”
“I think so.” Fenway watched Annabel walk slowly to the elevator, and get in. A moment later, Fenway got up and walked out.
Dez leaned over Ezekiel’s shoulder. “You can speed up.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ezekiel said, turning a dial on the controller. The digital recording sped up, but the faces, entrances, and exits were still clear. “We’re at ten o’clock now.”
Dez and Fenway leaned forward slightly and took in the bar scene, but no one else of interest—no one Fenway or Dez recognized, at any rate—entered or left.
“We’ll need to identify any of the players or staff who were in the bar,” Fenway said. “Log their in and out times, and what floor they exited on if they went into the elevator.”
Dez nodded.
“One of the assistant coaches can identify all the Neons staff and players,” Ezekiel said.
“Fine,” Fenway said. “Can we look at the cameras for the elevators now?”
For the next hour, Fenway and Dez watched the whole night again in fast forward, this time with the monitors showing the elevators. As they suspected, Maggie Erskine exited on the ninth floor where the coaches and the owner had their rooms. A few minutes later, Paul Levinson entered the elevator and also got off on the ninth floor.
Several players from the team, including Annabel, got on the elevator, all getting off on the fifth or sixth floors. They continued watching, asking Ezekiel to scan to the moments of people entering and exiting the elevator.
A Black woman entered the elevator, her neat black braids hanging just to the top of her shoulders. She looked tall in the elevator and wore a tracksuit the telltale black and gold of the Vegas Neons. “Lorraine Sunday,” Fenway murmured. “She’s the other assistant coach.”
“Does she have a history with Paul Levinson?” Dez asked.
“A history with the World Cup, for sure. Not sure about Levinson.”
“Wait—she’s a coach?”
“I know. Looks younger than some of the players, doesn’t she? I think she’s forty-five or so.” Fenway took out her notebook and wrote Lorraine Sunday’s name. “Coach Portello said she was always complimenting Christchurch on her tennis bracelet. What’s the time stamp?”
“11:32,” Ezekiel replied.
“We’re now in the window of time when Paul Levinson could have been killed,” Fenway said, “at least according to our preliminary estimates.”
“Who else has a room on this floor?” Dez asked.
Ezekiel tapped on the keyboard in front of him, and a spreadsheet appeared on another screen. He squinted and placed his finger on the monitor.
“Sandra Christchurch. Paul Levinson. Roger Portello. Lorraine Sunday.”
“So the owner, the head coach, and the two assistant coaches,” Fenway mused. To Ezekiel, she said, “No one else was on the ninth floor? It was all the management of the Vegas Neons?”
“That’s everyone,” Ezekiel said.
“I haven’t seen Sandra Christchurch on the elevator yet. Or Rocky Portello, for that matter.”
“The video’s start time was ten o’clock,” Dez pointed out. “It’s the day before training camp. The owner might, wonder of wonders, be responsible and is either working or getting a good night’s sleep.”
Fenway rubbed her chin. “If Sandra Christchurch was prepping for an eight o’clock press conference where she was announcing the firing of her head coach for sexual misconduct, she was probably on the phone with a team of lawyers or with a P.R. firm specializing in, uh, what do they call it—reputation management.”
Dez squinted at the screen, fast forwarding through video of the empty elevator. “It’s twelve fifteen on the recording now. Looks pretty quiet.”
A flash of light in the screen. “Wait,” Fenway said.
The red number above the elevator buttons read 6, and Annabel Shedd, dressed in the Neons’ black-and-gold tracksuit, hair pulled back into a ponytail, entered the carriage.
“What do you think she’s doing?” Fenway whispered.
Annabel frowned and shot her hand out.
She pushed 9.