The elevator bell dinged for the ninth floor. Fenway stepped out into the hallway and took a quick step to the side as the two officers carrying the body bag on the gurney moved past her onto the elevator. Behind the gurney, Melissa strode forward.
Fenway caught her eye. “You’ll let me know when Dr. Yasuda’s ready to do the autopsy?”
“We have an opening—we can do it this afternoon. Dr. Yasuda wants to get Levinson in and out before the media knows what’s happening.”
“Smart.” Fenway pointed to the open door of Levinson’s hotel room. “Is Dez still in there?”
Melissa nodded.
Fenway stepped over the threshold of the hotel room.
With the body gone, Fenway noticed the short-pile wall-to-wall carpet looked plush but had very little give. Between the kitchen table and the wall next to the door was a large brown asymmetrical bloodstain, about eighteen inches at its longest.
Dez crouched on the floor in the middle of the seating area, staring at the bloodstain with a frown on her face.
“Everything okay?” Fenway put a pair of bright blue polyethylene booties over her flats.
Dez wrinkled her nose. “We don’t have a lot to go on. This is a weird situation.”
“Oh, come on, Dez. Who wants a boring, straightforward case where it’s obvious it was the butler with the candlestick in the library?”
Dez sighed.
“I know, I know, I watch too many cop shows.” Fenway took a pair of blue nitrile gloves from her purse and snapped them on. “I just spoke with Sandra Christchurch about both the bracelet theft and Levinson’s death. She didn’t see or hear anything, but anyone on the floor could have visited Levinson’s room during the window of the murder. And we’re missing two bath towels.” Fenway gestured to the bathroom. “Melissa and I suspect they were used to clean up, then taken by the killer.”
Dez stood, her back cracking. “And right now, Maggie’s the prime suspect. She was here when Paul Levinson was killed, her clothes were in the shower, and there’s no evidence to prove anyone else was here.”
Fenway stepped to the hall closet door and opened it. A black sportscoat, two Las Vegas Neons windbreakers, and a woman’s short olive-green jacket—the same one Maggie wore the night before. “Annabel got off on the ninth floor after midnight, and she had plenty of time to commit the murder, go down the stairs to throw away the bath towels, and come back inside. But then, you could say that about anyone else on this floor, too.”
“It’s a great story for the defense to establish reasonable doubt, but it sure doesn’t help us.” Dez shook her head. “We have evidence of a spray of blood. Is there any blood on Annabel’s clothes when we see her re-enter the hotel? She wore the same clothes in the elevator both times we saw her—no blood spatter. Is it possible Annabel committed this murder? Yes. Would we be able to convict with what we have now? Absolutely not.”
“We can’t convict Maggie with what we have now, either,” Fenway pointed out.
“I’m trying to put together the facts of the case.” Dez stood and sighed. “It would be much more helpful if Maggie could remember what happened.”
“If it was Maggie, how did she get rid of the towels? Did she take them out into the hallway? She wouldn’t have been wearing anything—all her clothes were in the shower, soaking wet.” Fenway crossed her arms.
“Maybe she took a hotel robe and went out into the hall.” Dez’s eyes sparked. “Or maybe Annabel came to the door—after Maggie had killed the coach. Maybe they were in on it together, so Shedd took the towels and dumped them. It could explain why Shedd took the stairs—maybe the towels are in a trash can in the parking garage.”
“I’ll check,” Fenway said. “But wouldn’t Annabel have worked with Maggie to put her in a better situation than waking up in the murder victim’s bed?”
“She—” Dez thought for a moment. “Probably. Maybe there’s something we didn’t take into account.”
“But your comment about Annabel coming to the door is a valid one. It means we have to consider other scenarios. Maybe Annabel was the one who killed him.”
Dez gave Fenway a curt nod. “It’s time for us to go to the station and continue our interview of Maggie.”
Fenway stepped toward the door. “Besides Rocky Portello and Sandra Christchurch, who else was on this floor?”
Dez flipped open her notebook. “Lorraine Sunday, the other assistant coach. I heard she works with the goalkeepers. The general manager is back in Vegas. And as for other hotel guests, it’s the off-season. The team has three floors all to themselves.”
They walked out of the room into the hallway, and Fenway’s phone buzzed in her purse. It was a text from Sarah.
You didn’t sign the forms before you left
“Ah, crap.”
“What?” Dez asked.
“I have to sign a bunch of forms that sre due today.”
“It’s only a few blocks to the office. We’re going back there anyway.”
Fenway stopped in front of the elevator, staring blankly at the buttons.
“What is it?” Dez asked.
“So we saw Annabel come up to the ninth floor, not take the elevator down, then walk in the front door of the hotel.”
“Right.”
“Hmm.” Fenway texted Sarah back.
Can you bring the forms to the Broadmere? I’ll meet you here and sign them
Fenway put her phone in her purse. “So it’s possible the killer used the stairwell to avoid the cameras and get rid of evidence. Like those towels.”
“Or get away, full stop,” Dez said, scratching the back of her neck.
“So we need to examine the stairwell.”
“I already had Deputy Salvador walk down all nine flights of stairs. She didn’t find any blood anywhere. No trash cans, either—not in the stairwell. Two trash cans on the first floor of the parking garage.”
“Did they examine the doors?”
“They took fingerprints.”
“What about blood transfer? Luminol?”
Dez crinkled her nose. “I’m not sure—we can check. And there are no cameras in the stairwell—but there are cameras in the parking garage. If anyone left by the stairs, they could’ve been recorded.”
“Good thinking,” Fenway said. “Can you go to the security office and ask Ezekiel to show you the parking garage video?” Fenway reached out to push the button for the elevator.
“What are you going to do?”
Fenway scratched her temple. “I want to know how that stairwell—well, works, for lack of a better term. How long it takes to go between floors. How noisy it is, maybe. Even how the doors open and close. Something’s bothering me about the stairwell, and I think I need to see it with my own eyes to figure out what it is.”
“Don’t you have forms to sign?”
“Like you said, Dez, we’re only a few blocks away from the office. I asked Sarah to meet me here.”
The elevator dinged, and Dez got in. “Have fun,” she said, an amused smile playing on her lips as the doors slid shut.
Fenway turned and walked down the hallway toward the exit stairs. She took out another pair of blue nitrile gloves, even though CSI had already dusted the handles and the rails of the stairs for prints.
The sign on the beige door said Exit Stair in red block lettering. Fenway checked both sides of the door, looking for a different sign saying Emergency Exit Only, Alarm Will Sound. Nothing. She turned the handle and pushed open the door.
It opened with a solid click. Fenway turned the handle and examined the latch. Angled at the end, it slipped easily in and out of the mortise plate with each turn of the handle. It was a solid mechanism. She felt for anything out of place around the latch, but it was clean: no lubricant, no glue or adhesives, nothing.
She opened the door a little further and looked up. There, in the center of the top of the door jamb, was a metal plate.
She reached up and felt the top of the door. In the exact same spot that would align with the plate was a long indentation and what felt like a glass ball, its diameter nearly the thickness of the door.
Fenway pulled the door almost completely shut and heard a faint clicking noise. She pushed the door open again, not turning the handle.
So it was possible to fool the door sensor into thinking the door was latched closed.
Fenway stepped into the stairwell and let the door shut just until she heard the click—but before the latch engaged. It looked closed—unless you examined the door closely. And she pulled the door open easily.
She examined the latch again. Nothing—there was no tape, no sign of anything being tampered with. She held the door open and felt the hinges. Nothing there, either. She ran her gloved hand around the door jamb, then the edges of the door itself—still nothing. As she stood up, the door slipped out of her hand and slammed shut.
Great.
She reached for the handle, but it wouldn’t turn.
She walked down to the eighth floor, her shoes clanking on the metal of the stairs. The door at the landing of level eight said No Entry. And sure enough, like the ninth floor, this handle also refused to turn when Fenway tried it.
Ezekiel had been correct: the stairwell was designed to be entered from any floor but only exited through the ground floor.
After descending another seven flights of steps, Fenway pushed open the exit door and found herself in the small parking garage. The first floor only had room for perhaps thirty cars. The vehicle ramps leading to the second floor were steep.
A buzz from her purse: Sarah.
OK I’m here where r u
Fenway texted back.
Parking garage
About five feet from the door, a gray trash can sat next to a concrete pillar. A heavy black plastic bag rested inside the can; it was less than a quarter full. No towels, nor any bag or box big enough for a bath towel. No help there.
The door from the hotel opened, and Sarah Summerfield walked into the garage. She was almost Fenway’s height, with soft blonde curls cascading to her shoulders. Wearing a blue dress with small white flowers and a light blue sweater, Sarah held a thick manila folder under her arm.
Fenway pointed to the folder. “The forms I was supposed to sign this morning?”
Sarah nodded and pulled a pen out of her purse.
The parking lot was about a third full; most of the overnight guests were probably out and about. Fenway made a beeline for a white Corolla across from the stairwell. Sarah followed, setting the folder on the trunk and handing Fenway the pen.
“Las Vegas Neons, huh?” Sarah said, as Fenway signed the first form.
“Right. You remember the press release you gave me this morning where the head coach was fired.”
“Not your case—I was talking about this car.” Sarah gestured to the Corolla. “It’s got a parking sticker and a license plate frame that both say Las Vegas Neons.”
“Oh. This must belong to one of the assistant coaches or the players.”
“Probably.” Sarah turned the page. “You’ve got to initial at the top, too.”
“Right, sorry.” Fenway scrawled her initials, then moved to the next form.
Sarah looked more closely at the Corolla. “Do the Neons have a team car?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“If they do, this is probably it.”
“Why do you say that?”
“There’s nothing personal in it but Neons stickers. And it’s all very corporate, very professional.” She tapped the top of the next form, and Fenway initialed. “Looks like it’s taken care of in, well, a certain way. Like a rental car.”
Fenway nodded. “I know what you mean.” She raised her head and pointed with her chin. “Now that is a personal car.”
A red Italian sports car was parked across two spots in the corner, almost invisible in the shadows despite the design of the vehicle.
“Looks fast even standing still,” Sarah said.
The low-slung rocket had a candy-apple-red exterior. Its Nevada plates read FLASHEEE.
Fenway twirled the pen in her hand. “Our victim’s car.”
Sarah squinted. “Wait—is that the head coach? Flash? The press release said he got fired this morning, right?”
“Right.” Fenway pointed Sarah’s pen at the Italian sports car. “I guess he lived large. I didn’t realize women’s soccer paid well enough for a coach to afford a car that, uh, flashy.”
“The money sure isn’t going to the players,” Sarah said, flipping another page. “Three places to sign on this one.”
“Hang on.” Fenway pulled out her phone.
“I know you don’t like to do the paperwork, Fenway—”
“I’m texting Melissa de la Garza that Coach Levinson’s car is in the parking garage. Maybe they know already, but it doesn’t hurt to double-check.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Fenway hit Send, then put her phone back in her purse.
Sarah pushed the form in front of Fenway, and she signed it. “Four more, then we’re done.”
“You’re like my mother telling me to eat my vegetables.”
“I’d make a choo-choo noise if I thought it would get you to sign these before leaving the office. You missed an initial at the top.”
“Right.” Fenway made an F, then a big swoosh for the S.
Sarah clicked her tongue in approval. “See? With the right attitude, this can be delightful.” She flipped the page. “What are you doing in the parking garage, anyway?”
“Officially, I guess I’m looking for some evidence I think was thrown away. But really, I’m trying to figure out what’s bugging me. Something doesn’t fit, and I can’t figure out what it is.”
“You missed a signature line on this one.” Sarah tapped the page.
Fenway signed.
“That was the last one.” Sarah gathered the papers together and stacked them back in the folder. “See you back at the office?”
“Maybe soon.” Fenway looked around the garage. “I see a camera at the entrance. Do you see any more?”
“One at the exit.” Sarah looked around the parking garage, then turned and pointed to a breezeway, encased in shadow, in the back wall of the garage. “I bet you could walk from the exit that you came out of all the way to that breezeway and the cameras wouldn’t pick you up.”
Fenway looked at her out of the corner of her eye. “How are you able to see all this?”
Sarah smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I had to,” she said simply. “I didn’t always—you know, I had to be careful with who could see me.”
Fenway nodded, kicking herself mentally. “Sure—yeah, I think I get it.” Her phone buzzed, and she took it out of her purse. The message was from Dez.
Housekeeping confirmed 4 bath towels were in Levinson’s room yesterday afternoon
Both the daily inventory and the housekeeping sheet confirm
So, two towels were definitely missing. Fenway looked toward the breezeway. “Do you have a minute?”
“I really should get these forms back to the office.”
Fenway grimaced. “I could use your help. I keep getting distracted. I should have noticed the white Corolla—all those Neons stickers.”
Sarah hesitated. “What do you need?”
“We think the killer might have used two hotel towels to clean up.”
“Then thrown them away somewhere other than the hotel?”
“That’s right. And I could use your insight.”
Sarah pressed her lips together. “If it were me,” she said, “I’d avoid the cameras and go through to the back street.”
Fenway looked at the entrance of the parking garage, then followed the concrete walkway with her eyes all the way to the breezeway out the rear. “Okay—come on.”
As they entered the breezeway, the wind whipped through the narrow space, blowing Fenway’s blazer open and forcing her to pull it tight around her body.
The walkway emptied out onto a side street with a mix of residential houses and apartment buildings.
“Where are we?” Fenway said.
“San Ysidro Street.” Sarah pointed to the left, where a small market stood, diagonally opposite an AutoQuest parts store. “That’s Fourth Street.”
“Lots of apartment buildings,” Fenway said. “Lots of dumpsters behind those buildings.”
“Was your suspect in a hurry? Did they know the area?”
“Probably in a hurry, yes. And I doubt they were familiar with the area.” Fenway took a few steps forward onto San Ysidro Street. “I bet the towels are in one of these—”
Sarah stopped. “Fenway, what are you doing?”
“I’m—” Fenway bit her lip. “This could be the key piece of physical evidence we need.”
Sarah shook her head. “You have people for this. You can’t spend the next few hours digging through the trash behind apartment buildings.”
Fenway pointed. “What about the mini-mart? Or the auto parts store? At least—”
“I’ll call Sheriff Donnelly when we get back to the office. She can have four or five deputies searching the area.” Sarah folded her arms. “Isn’t Dez interviewing your main suspect right now?”
Fenway paused, then nodded.
The sun tried and failed to break through the clouds. They walked back down San Ysidro Street, then entered the Broadmere Hotel’s parking garage through the narrow breezeway.
“I’m sorry,” Fenway said. “My brain’s going a thousand directions today.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sarah said. As she walked toward the breezeway, the clicking of her high heels echoed through the parking garage. “If the killer came down the hotel stairway with a trash bag full of bloody towels, you assume they left on foot and tried to conceal the evidence.”
“That seems the likeliest scenario.”
“And you assumed the killer would pick a trash can or a dumpster, far enough away from the hotel to make it difficult to track down, but still within walking distance.”
“Right.”
“How do you know the towels aren’t still at the hotel?”
Fenway stopped. “Because we had CSI go through the hotel trash already. And if housekeeping had found the bloody towels in one of the hotel rooms, we’d have heard about it.”
“But,” Sarah said, “what if the towels are hidden someplace besides the trash?”
“Ah,” Fenway said. “The coaches, the owner, the general manager, the staff—they all have cars.”
“And suitcases.”
“But we can’t search their cars or hotel rooms without a warrant.” Fenway rubbed her chin. “Someone could have taken the plastic laundry bag from the room, stuffed the towels inside, and hid the bag at the bottom of their suitcase until they could get rid of it.”
“So look at the players.”
“Not just the players; staff, too—of both the team and the hotel.”
Sarah furrowed her brow. “Do you think someone on the hotel staff is in on it?”
“I think I haven’t considered the possibility until now. Maybe one of the coach’s victims works at the hotel.”
“Or a relative.” Sarah winced. “I’m getting some more work tonight, aren’t I?”
“Never a dull moment in this job.” Fenway scratched her chin in thought. “When you get back to the office, can you cross-reference all the hotel employees with Levinson?”
“How far back?”
“I guess his whole career. Grudges like this can last a long time.” And if it’s a staff member, it would explain how the killer had been able to avoid the cameras. Fenway sucked in a breath through her teeth.
“You know,” Sarah said carefully, “if the Neons’ ownership discovered Paul Levinson sexually assaulted one or two players on the team, it’s more than likely he was doing it with a lot more players than that.”
Fenway felt her stomach contract into a tight ball. “Honestly, Sarah—” Then she stopped.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” She tried to clear her mind. Levinson had been above the law for so long. The system had failed Maggie—and who knows how many others? All the preconceived notions she had of justice, of being one of the “good guys,” of serving and protecting the community were clouding with doubt.
As Fenway entered the pristine, elegant lobby, she noticed the quiet. The police had left. One would never guess that a celebrity coach—or close to a celebrity, anyway—had been wheeled out of the hotel in a body bag.
Sarah was right: by focusing on the people who’d been on the ninth floor, and assuming they’d gone on foot somewhere to get rid of the towels, Fenway had been thinking too narrowly. The towels could be blocks or even miles away.
Twenty minutes had passed since Dez had gone to look at the parking video—plenty of time to note any suspicious cars going in or out when reviewing the security footage. That meant Dez had probably gone back to the station to interrogate Maggie. Fenway took her phone out and tapped the text message app.
Following a couple of leads
Still at the hotel
If you haven’t already, start without me
She sent the text to Dez, then walked past the front desk and into the security office.
Ezekiel looked up. “Oh, Miss Stevenson, you’re back. Anything else I can pull up for you?”
“Dez—Sergeant Roubideaux was just here, right?”
“Correct. We reviewed the camera footage from the parking garage. Not much foot traffic or cars coming out of the hotel, but quite a few cars—and people—going in. Mostly between six and seven in the morning. Ms. Christchurch had called the press conference by then.”
“When did you get in today?”
“My shift started at six.” He gave a sly chuckle. “I had to make sure none of those media types got out of hand.”
Fenway grinned. “Yeah, I can see you keeping them in line.” She scratched her temple. “I understand the cameras in the parking garage don’t have great coverage.”
“No, they don’t, that’s true.”
“Who else knows that the cameras have blind spots in the garage?”
“Besides me?” Ezekiel thought for a moment. “Everyone who monitors the cameras. There’s a staff of six of us who rotate our shifts.”
“I’ll need the names of those staff.”
Ezekiel frowned. “Now, listen here, Miss Stevenson, the security staff is above reproach. We’re vetted before we’re hired. I don’t like you insinuating—”
Fenway put up her hands, her mind racing. “I’m not accusing the security staff of anything.”
“It sure sounds like you are.”
“Let’s say we arrest the killer, all right? Now the defense is going to look for alternate theories of the case, anyone else they can point to so the jury finds reasonable doubt. How’s it going to look if I haven’t done due diligence on your staff? You think the killer will stay locked up if we get surprised in the middle of the trial?”
Ezekiel narrowed his eyes, but after a moment, he nodded. “My apologies. That makes sense.” He got to his feet and reached for a clipboard above the monitors. “Our schedule is posted here. You can make a copy of it.”
“I appreciate that.” Fenway took out her phone and took a picture of the schedule. “Any other staff besides the security team know about the blind spots?”
“We had a security briefing earlier this week with the soccer team’s staff. We outlined our liability, the extent of what security services we could provide, the works. Coach Levinson wanted to check on players who broke curfew, and we pointed out the limitations of our surveillance.”
“Were you here?”
“I gave most of the briefing.” Ezekiel chuckled. “Coach Levinson got mad because they could only check on when the players came into the hotel, not when they went to their rooms. You ask me, if you run too tight of a ship, your crew can mutiny.”
“Has anyone on the staff met Coach Levinson before?”
Ezekiel guffawed. “I’d have remembered someone that arrogant. No, I’d never met him before, and I don’t know of any staff who did.” He sat back down and rubbed his chin. “But we’re in the hospitality industry. Putting up with difficult people is part of the job.”
“Oh—I need to check on a car. A white Toyota Corolla.”
“I knew that would give me a headache.” Ezekiel sighed. “It’s a car the players can check out.”
“Check out—like a library book?”
“That’s right. They give us a copy of the sign-out sheet, but the coaches are the ones with the keys.” Ezekiel put his hands up in mock surrender. “I don’t want the responsibility of keeping track of the car if you’re not giving me the authority to hand the key out, you know what I mean?”
“Can I see the sign-out sheet?”
“I think one of the coaches has it—or it’s around somewhere. You need it right now?”
“I can come back later. All right, Ezekiel, thanks for your help.” Fenway turned toward the door, then stopped. “Hang on—just one more thing. I figured out that the stairwell doors don’t have to be completely latched for the sensors to register the doors as being closed. Anyone ever try to trick those stairwell doors into thinking they’re locked?”
Ezekiel scrunched his nose in thought. “People have tried. Duct tape over the latches, that kind of thing. But those latches are strong enough to stretch the tape after a few minutes—so the latches engage anyway.” He grinned. “Mostly high school kids staying with their parents and sneaking out. We’ve had a couple of incidents in the last year, but nothing to be concerned about.”
As Fenway got into her Honda, the sun disappeared behind a sheet of gray again. It was time for her to go to Maggie’s interrogation.
She put the car in reverse but kept her foot on the brake.
How much value would she provide sitting in the observation room of the sheriff’s office while Dez questioned Maggie? Much of the evidence suggested that Maggie had committed the murder—or at least should be a strong suspect. But Fenway didn’t believe it.
Maggie had been drunk. She was under Levinson’s thumb. Fenway believed Maggie had been passed out during the murder. As far as Fenway was concerned, Sandra Christchurch, Annabel Shedd, and even Ezekiel Washington had just as much means and opportunity—just as much knowledge, too—to commit the murder and get out through the stairwell.
So why go to the sheriff’s office at all?
A knock on her window. Fenway jumped in her seat.
Deputy Donald Huke. Fenway rolled down her window.
“Deputy Huke, nice to see you.”
“Likewise, Coroner.”
“You here to see Melissa?”
Huke frowned. “I was part of the team that secured the evidence in the hotel room. Sheriff Donnelly assigned me to your case today.”
“Oh, of course. What can I do for you?”
“I wondered if you could give me a lift back to the station.”
“Actually…” Fenway found herself talking before her brain could stop her. “Maybe you can help me with something first.”
“Sure—the sheriff said to give you whatever assistance you need.”
“Great.” Fenway tapped her chin. “A lot of people had reason to hurt Coach Levinson.”
Huke nodded. “He was in a position of power. I’m sure he made some enemies.”
“You heard that he was fired this morning?”
“I heard about the press conference, yes.”
“It’s possible that Christchurch only knows about a small fraction of Levinson’s victims.”
Huke pressed his lips together in a line. “That aligns with the statistical analyses of sexual harassment and assault I’ve seen in professional environments, yes.”
“I’ve asked Sarah to see if any of the hotel staff have connections with Levinson. I was debating whether to stay and interview more of the staff.”
Huke’s face pinched. “Statistically speaking, Coroner, wouldn’t talking to the players be a more fruitful use of your time and resources?”
“I suppose it would.”
“The training camp bus left for Nidever University about a half hour ago,” Huke said, “but you can go to their camp and interview them there, can’t you?”
“Well, I—” Fenway pursed her lips; even after her conversation with Sarah, was she still too hung up on the physical evidence? “Yes. Of course I can. They might not like it, but since when did a suspect ever like getting questioned?”
“All right. If you’re not going back, I’ll just walk to the sheriff’s office.”
Dez might be interrogating the primary person of interest, but Huke was right: the players needed to be questioned. Coach Sunday, too. And there was only one of her. “You ever sat in on an interrogation, Donald?”
Huke tilted his head.
“Deputy Huke, I mean.”
“I’ve taken classes in suspect questioning, and I’ve interviewed witnesses—but I’ve never been asked to sit in on an official interrogation. Would you like me to accompany you to Nidever University?”
Fenway debated internally. She’d rubbed Huke the wrong way since the day they met. But with more than twenty players to interview, he would prove useful.
“We could interview twice as many players. Plus, I seem to be a little scattered because of—” Fenway paused. Because I see my Russian Lit professor all over this case. “Because of all the different suspects and motives.”
“Certainly. Anything I can do to assist.”
“Excellent.” Fenway unlocked her doors. “Get in.”
Huke hurried to the passenger side and got in.
“Ready?”
“Not quite.” Huke reached down the side of the passenger seat and fastidiously adjusted the position of the back, then carefully put on his safety belt. “All right. Ready.”
She looked at the clock: it was almost one p.m., but she wasn’t hungry at all. Ugh—this case was getting to her.