“I appreciate you interrupting your business meeting for this.” Fenway pulled her father’s chair out. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
“Not at all,” Christchurch said. “Will you be starting with the theft, or with the death of Coach Levinson?”
Fenway blinked at her. She’d never worked a robbery before, but she’d seen her sergeants do it. She took her notebook from her purse and flipped it open to an empty page, then glanced up at Christchurch. How did she want to play this? If Christchurch thought Levinson’s death was a murder, she might be less than forthcoming. But there was another card Fenway could play.
“Let’s start with your missing tennis bracelet.”
“It was stolen from my hotel room safe.” Christchurch set her jaw. “I don’t travel with a lot of expensive jewelry, but Warren gave me that bracelet on our anniversary before—before he passed.”
Fenway wrote in the notebook, then looked up at Christchurch. “I’m sorry. Do you have a picture of the bracelet? Or a description?”
Christchurch took her phone out of her purse, tapped on the screen, then showed the phone to Fenway. It was a picture of a tennis bracelet on the Dresden & Diadem website.
“This is what he got you?” Fenway winced at the price—it cost more than her car.
“Inscribed, too. ‘To my beloved Sandra.’”
“That’ll make it easier to track.”
Christchurch gave Fenway a tight smile. “Is that supposed to give me some hope of finding it?”
“I—I couldn’t say, Ms. Christchurch.”
Christchurch pressed her lips together and exhaled through her nose. “Yes, yes, that’s right. You’re the county coroner. Shouldn’t the sheriff be asking these questions? Don’t you just do autopsies?”
“I’m at the hotel because the coroner’s office investigates all deaths in the county that are”—Fenway counted each word off on her fingers—“unnatural, unexpected, unexplained, or unattended. I have two detective sergeants on my team, but I often lead investigations.”
“So the theft of my bracelet isn’t your first priority.”
Fenway shifted in her chair. “We have the fingerprint team here. I’ll ask to have them fingerprint the safe. See if there are any matches in our database.”
“And then?”
“Someone from our robbery division will come in.” Fenway paused. “When was the last time you saw the bracelet?”
“Just after I arrived last night.”
Fenway nodded. “You put it in the safe…”
“Roughly eight o’clock.”
“Anyone in or out of your room?”
“A brief meeting with the coaches. That was in the sitting room area of the suite, but they were gone by eight thirty.”
“And did you check the safe after that?”
“Certainly not. None of the coaches would steal from me.”
Fenway cocked her head. “None of them? You were about to fire Coach Levinson, and from what I understand, that will put the others’ jobs in jeopardy.”
“We didn’t discuss anything pertaining to their employment.”
“You informed the team ninety minutes before the press conference—yet you didn’t think to bring it up in the coaches’ meeting the night before.”
Christchurch narrowed her eyes. “That’s correct, Coroner. How I run my team is my business.”
Fenway flipped a page in her notebook—there was something Christchurch wasn’t telling her, but it would do no good to press her. Not now, anyway. “If you don’t believe any of the coaches took the bracelet, do you have any idea who would steal from you?”
Christchurch pressed her lips together. “Perhaps a hotel staff member. I left my room to attend the press conference.”
“And what time did you leave your hotel room?”
Christchurch tapped her chin. “I didn’t look at the clock before I left. It must have been around five thirty, or perhaps five forty-five.”
“For an eight o’clock press conference?”
“As sudden as this decision was, I wanted to make sure to communicate with the players and the staff before the press conference. I wanted as few people as possible to find out during, or God forbid, after the press conference. So I sent an email and a direct message to all the staff and players to meet me in the small conference room at six thirty.”
“Short notice.”
“Coach Levinson’s behavior didn’t leave me with much choice.”
Fenway opened her mouth, but then decided to take a different tack. “Was your impromptu conference well attended?”
Christchurch tapped her chin. “Perhaps half the players and staff came. Not ideal, but certainly more than I would have expected at six thirty. I’m sure many of them were asleep or in the shower.”
“Who was there?”
“Lorraine Sunday, but not Rocky Portello. Darcy Nishimura and Aissa Oumar, but not Annabel Shedd or Maggie Erskine. I’m sorry, I wasn’t taking attendance.”
“Was that the first time you left your hotel room after you came back from dinner?”
“I had so many calls, I certainly didn’t have any opportunity to go down until the morning.” Christchurch smiled. “Are we still discussing the theft?”
“Yes.” Fenway turned back a few pages in her notebook. “I wonder why you don’t think any of the coaches took your bracelet. Your head coach would be fired twelve hours later. You don’t think he suspected anything?”
“No.”
Fenway closed her notebook and set it down on the table. “I don’t understand how you—"
Christchurch raised a finger in front of her face. “I do not take the decision of firing one of the most successful coaches in the league lightly. There had been talk, a few players making statements, but I discovered additional allegations.”
“When?”
“Within the last few—” Christchurch stopped, blinked, then continued. “Within the last week.”
“A week? These are serious allegations—how did you not fire him then?” Fenway’s throat burned. Just like her professor had a history of complaints—but the people in charge did nothing.
“With our litigious society, I must exercise caution.”
You’ll exercise caution about your head coach suing you, but not about your head coach sexually assaulting your players. Fenway wrote “Exercising caution” in her notebook, the pen ripping the paper slightly on the last n.
“I was conducting my own investigation,” Christchurch continued, “and I was made aware of evidence which convinced me the allegations against Coach Levinson were true and remediation needed to occur.”
Hold on—Christchurch had hesitated when asked about the time frame. Fenway shifted in her seat. “Evidence you uncovered between the coaches’ meeting and the press conference?”
Christchurch shook her head. “I’m not at liberty to say.”
“You just alluded to that information a few minutes ago,” Fenway said. “You said that it might have directly affected Coach Levinson’s—his death.”
“Revealing protected information, even in the course of a police investigation, may be illegal for me to do without a subpoena.”
Fenway rubbed her chin and decided to change the subject. “Why don’t you take me through what happened yesterday evening?”
“What would you like to know?”
“Let’s start with what time you entered your hotel room.”
Christchurch nodded. “I’d eaten dinner by the time I got to the hotel, so I would say I arrived about eight o’clock. I didn’t check the exact time.”
“You drove?”
“I hired a car to bring me to the hotel from the airport. Cypress Car Service.”
Fenway wrote the name in her notebook.
“I checked into the hotel, went up to my room, put my bracelet in the safe, and set up my laptop,” Christchurch continued.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Fenway said, “but is this the kind of safe where you pick your own combination?”
“Of course.”
“Did you pick something that many people might guess? Your birthday, for example?”
“I don’t use my—” Christchurch snapped her mouth shut. “I see. Perhaps it was too easy to guess.”
“Is there a particular group of people who might be familiar with the code? If they know a date you might have used?”
Christchurch exhaled slowly through her nose, pursing her lips as she did so. “Now that I think about it, the number would be easy for any member of the public to guess.”
Fenway nodded. “You may want to change—”
Christchurch waved her hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. I’ll make sure to do so. Carry on with your questions.”
“You say you got your laptop next.”
“Yes. I signed into my email and discovered I’d received a communication from my investigator discussing his findings.”
“What were those findings?”
Christchurch smiled. “I’m not comfortable discussing anything further before I talk to my attorney.”
Fenway nodded. “Then what did you do?”
“The coaches arrived for their meeting—Coach Levinson, Coach Portello, and Coach Sunday. We discussed final roster moves before the start of training, and they left about fifteen minutes later.”
“Did anyone leave the meeting?”
“Before it ended? No, of course not.”
“I mean leave the room, even for a moment or two.”
Christchurch frowned. “Perhaps to use the restroom.”
“All three coaches left your suite at the same time?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then what did you do?”
“I immediately called my lawyer to discuss my options and the legal repercussions thereof.” Christchurch chose her words carefully, and Fenway scribbled her notes: Contacted lawyer – discussed options.
“About what time was that?” Fenway asked.
Christchurch took her phone off the table and began scrolling. “I called at 8:34 p.m. The call lasted for twenty-seven minutes and thirty-one seconds.” She held out the screen toward Fenway. “As the call was with my lawyer, I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell you what we discussed or provide any further details of the call.”
Fenway screwed up her mouth. She’d had to talk to people who were well versed in the legal system before. But Christchurch seemed to have an extra dollop of paranoia on top of it.
There could be a valid reason for her reticence—especially when a coach whom she had hired was accused of sexual misconduct and then had been found dead. Fenway tapped her pen on the table. “You ended the call with your lawyer at about nine o’clock. What did you do next?”
Sandra scrolled again. “Approximately five minutes later, I contacted a person in the Las Vegas Neons’ public relations department. She and I were on the phone for”—she tapped her phone and glanced at the screen—“one hour and forty-three minutes.” She smiled at Fenway.
“And what did—”
“I realize, of course, our conversation is not protected by attorney-client privilege. However, it was of a confidential nature essential to the successful operations of the Las Vegas Neons. As such, I do not wish to volunteer the contents of our conversation without a warrant or a subpoena.”
Fenway smiled. The verbal contortions were almost ridiculous, but the woman knew her rights. Fenway thought she knew the answer to her next question, but she asked it anyway. “When you ended the conversation with your PR department, had you decided to fire Coach Levinson?”
Sandra Christchurch smiled, showing no teeth. “Terminating Coach Levinson’s employment was one of several possibilities I contemplated.”
Fenway tried not to roll her eyes. “Did your PR department begin to set up the press conference immediately after you ended your call?”
Christchurch chuckled. “Very clever, Miss Stevenson. The press conference was set up after my call with them. I’m sure their records will show that.”
Getting any information out of her was painful. Fenway took a slow, deep breath. “To the best of your knowledge, did Coach Levinson know about the investigation you were conducting?”
Sandra Christchurch shook her head. “If he found out about it, it wasn’t because of me.”
“I understand, but that doesn’t answer my question. Did he know about your investigation?”
Christchurch paused, turning the gold band on her ring finger around a few times. “I don’t know for certain he was aware of the investigation. I tried to run it as quietly as I could. But I have heard from other owners how difficult it is to keep the topic of these kinds of investigations under wraps.”
“So you wouldn’t be surprised if he knew?”
“On the contrary. I’d be quite surprised. But I allow for a slim chance it may have gotten out.”
Fenway cocked her head. “Earlier, you said Coach Levinson had died by suicide—which would lead me to believe he knew not only about the investigation, but about your findings as well. If he didn’t know about the investigation, what motive would he have for suicide?”
Christchurch furrowed her brow. “Just because I came to that conclusion, Miss Stevenson, does not mean I believe he had discovered the investigation was ongoing.”
“What other—”
“His wife might have discovered his extracurricular activities, for one thing,” Christchurch said. “Or perhaps a third party knew about his affairs and attempted blackmail he could ill afford.”
Fenway straightened up on the chair. She couldn’t catch the Neons owner in a lie or with contradictory statements. Christchurch chose her words—even her body language—with precision.
Just the facts, then.
“Oh,” Fenway said, holding up her index finger, “I didn’t ask you what time you went to bed last night.”
Sandra Christchurch leaned forward. “You already know I didn’t hear or see anything unusual when I was in my room. Why is it important what time I went to bed?”
“It’s a simple enough question, Ms. Christchurch.”
Christchurch folded her arms.
“You said you didn’t hear or see anything unusual, and you and he were on the same floor. As coroner, I’m responsible for signing off on the time of death. It’s more likely you didn’t hear anything if you were asleep.”
Christchurch was silent.
“Ms. Christchurch, I must establish what went on in Coach Levinson’s room and who was where on the night he died.”
Sandra Christchurch placed her elbows on the table. “If I’m understanding you correctly, Miss Stevenson, from your phrasing, it appears you do not believe Coach Levinson died by his own hand.”
Fenway smiled. “I asked you what time you went to bed.”
Christchurch set her mouth in a line. “Unfortunately, Miss Stevenson, I didn’t pay attention to the time. It may have been eleven p.m.; it may have been three a.m. I needed to relax after having stressful conversations with both my lawyer and our public relations department. I did some breathing exercises. I listened to some music. I eventually fell asleep, but I did not look at the clock. I only know when my alarm went off at five fifteen, I began getting ready for the day. And I began preparing myself for the press conference. I’m sure you have records of me at the press conference where over a dozen people can attest to my whereabouts.”
Fenway scribbled in her notebook, then tapped her pen on the paper. Christchurch wasn’t telling her everything—and not just the information she’d said she wouldn’t give unless subpoenaed. But being evasive about her ritual before bed meant something happened.
“Before you went to bed,” Fenway said, “did you hear any suspicious noises?”
“You mean like a gunshot or people arguing? No.”
Fenway narrowed her eyes. “But you did hear something.”
“Nothing I haven’t heard in hotel rooms all around the world. Televisions from the next room. Footsteps in the hall.”
“Footsteps?” Fenway’s ears perked up—maybe Christchurch had heard Annabel and could tell her which way she went when she originally got out of the elevator.
“Yes, of course.”
“But—your suite is the last room at the end of the hall,” Fenway said. “There’s nothing between your door and the stairwell. When did you—”
“I didn’t make any notice of the time.”
Fenway looked into Christchurch’s eyes, and the Neons’ owner stared back at her. Fenway needed to know about what happened in the ninth-floor hallway when Annabel got off the elevator. But no, Christchurch wouldn’t talk.
She closed her notebook and stood. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Christchurch. I’ll let you get back to your business discussion with my father.” She took a step away from the table, gave a small bow with her head, and plastered what she hoped was a friendly half-smile on her face.
Christchurch gave her a curt nod.
Fenway walked to the bar, where her father was eating the last half of a deviled egg. The empty plate in front of him sat forlornly next to a Bloody Mary glass with only an inch of liquid in the bottom.
“So much for the crudités,” Fenway said.
“Indeed.” Nathaniel Ferris got down carefully from the stool and laced his right arm around Fenway’s left elbow. Have you finished your interview?”
“Yes, you can go back to your business discussion.” Fenway leaned closer to him and lowered her voice. “This woman owns one of the best, most successful teams in the AFF.”
Ferris harrumphed. “I know. I do my homework.”
“Be careful with how much of your plans you reveal.”
His eyes twinkled. “You assume I have plans. Maybe this is just an exploratory meeting.”
Fenway gave her father a skeptical look.
“Okay, fine. It’s more than an exploratory meeting.”
“Just to say, Dad—if you become an owner of a team in the league, you’ll have to contend with people just like her.” Fenway glanced over at Christchurch, who was busy scrolling on her phone. “She’s savvy, she’s smart, and she knows what she’s doing.”
“You forget—because you weren’t around—but I didn’t know the oil industry when I started Ferris Energy, either. I’m a quick study.” Ferris brushed his hands off over his plate. “And besides, if I become an owner, it may be precisely because I won’t have to contend with Sandra Christchurch.”
Fenway furrowed her brow. “Why wouldn’t you have to—” Then her eyes widened. “The rumors are true? Christchurch wants to sell the team?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Why would she want to sell? She’s running one of the most successful franchises in the league. They’re the favorites to win the Pickering Trophy this year.”
“She bought low and she’s selling high.”
“I figured you’d take one of the underperforming teams and move them out to California. Or get awarded an expansion team.”
Ferris shrugged. “What good is a private jet if I don’t use it? Las Vegas is only four hundred miles away. Besides, Charlotte and I have friends there.”
“It’s a high-profile team, Dad. No one would be upset if you moved a struggling team like Firecrackers FC out to a city like San Jose where people might actually come to their games.” Fenway paused.
“New team identities are expensive.”
“The Neons are probably the most expensive team in the AFF. Certainly the highest profile. Don’t be one of those owners who embarrass yourself and embarrass the league. If you think this is just for fun and not a serious business venture, the other owners will eat you up and spit you out.”
“I’m fully aware I’m playing with live ammo, Fenway.”
Fenway paused. Maybe that was why Christchurch was being cagey: the conversations with her lawyers might have been about the team sale.
A head coach under investigation for sexual assault would lower the value of the team, for sure. And if Christchurch had decided to confront Coach Levinson, maybe things had gotten out of hand. It would certainly explain her vague answers about time.
Fenway forced her attention back to her father.
“I appreciate the help you gave Charlotte running the company while I was in the hospital,” Ferris continued, “but it doesn’t mean I’ve lost my sense of business.” Ferris cocked his head. “You got scared off by a fifteen-minute interview with Sandra Christchurch?”
“If by ‘scared off’ you mean ‘fed a healthy dose of pragmatism,’ then yes, I did.” Fenway patted her father’s arm. “Now I’ll accompany you back to the table.”
“Thank you.”
Fenway elbowed Ferris lightly in the ribs. “And I’ll call Charlotte and make sure she buys a jewel-encrusted spy cane and brings it to you before this meeting is over.”