Fenway and Deputy Huke stood at the side of the smooth, glassy lawn that stretched over the soccer field at Nidever University.
“This might be the most beautiful soccer field I’ve ever seen,” Fenway said softly.
“Fescues Delta Tall blend,” Huke said.
Fenway turned and blinked. “What?”
“The grass type. It’s a hybrid tall fescue blend, probably with less than twenty percent Kentucky bluegrass.”
“You can tell that from here?”
“The field gets a lot of wear and tear, but it doesn’t have the dark shininess of a full—” Huke caught himself, then cleared his throat. “I worked at a garden center in high school. Got pretty good at recognizing plants.”
Fenway turned back to the lush, verdant lawn. “It’s a far cry from the muddy soccer fields we had at Western Washington.” Certainly better than the weedy dirt patches she’d played soccer on as a preteen in Seattle.
Huke pointed across the field to two dozen women in black-and-gold uniforms. “I take it those are the players?”
“Right.”
“What are half of them doing with those gold tank tops over their shirts?”
“Those are pinnies, so I bet they’re prepping for a scrimmage.”
The uniforms had no numbers on the back, but a stylized logotype was emblazoned on the front of every uniform.
“What does it say on the front of their shirts?”
“Desert Treasure. It’s their sponsor.”
“And those are the assistant coaches, right?” Huke motioned to the sideline. Rocky Portello wore a black baseball cap, a bright yellow T-shirt, and gray sweatpants. Lorraine Sunday was dressed in a black-and-gold tracksuit, her braids piled on top of her head.
The coaches still had their backs to them as Fenway and Huke walked onto the field. The pitch was damp from the sodden March morning under overcast skies. Fenway’s black flats squished on the grass. Not ideal field conditions for the first practice of the new season, but Fenway admired Christchurch’s decision to get her team away to a quiet town for training camp.
“Do you have a moment, Coach Portello?” Fenway intended for her voice to sound strong and commanding, but the wind and the chilly air took the power out of her words.
“‘Rocky,’ Coroner. As you can see, I’m busy now.”
Fenway took a small step forward. “This is my colleague, Deputy Donald Huke.”
“You and I spoke already.”
“We may have allowed the team to leave the hotel, but I have additional questions.”
Coach Portello looked out of the side of his eye at Fenway. “I spent the last forty-five minutes trying to get the ladies to concentrate on practice and not think about Coach Flash.” Portello put his hands on his hips. “I’d prefer to do this later.”
Fenway’s feet sank slightly into the wet turf. “I understand where you’re coming from, Coach. Unfortunately, I have a murder investigation to conduct. My superiors wouldn’t like it if I prioritized a team soccer practice over solving a murder.”
Portello turned his head until he was staring Fenway directly in the face. He hadn’t seemed so when he was sitting in his hotel room, but Portello was a tall man, about six feet, and while Fenway’s five-foot-ten-inch frame could be imposing, she still found herself looking up at the assistant coach.
“And my bosses,” Portello said, “expect us to win the championship this year, whether or not our head coach has met an untimely demise. I understand you have a job to do, but so do I.” Portello dropped his hands to his side and handed his whistle to the coach next to him. “And while I get that my goals aren’t important to you, I hope you respect them.” He turned and began to walk away.
Huke stepped in front of Portello, blocking his path. “The county coroner is being polite, Mr. Portello. I understand that you found the body this morning. Often, witnesses such as yourself are brought to the sheriff’s office—treated as hostile, if need be, to ascertain the identity of the killer for the safety of the community.” He held up his badge. “We’ll be much more accommodating if you can find the flexibility to allow us to continue our investigation in a timely manner.”
Portello drew himself up to full height but still had to lift his chin to make eye contact with Huke. “We don’t have to come back to Estancia next year, you know. Gives your tourism industry a nice shot in the arm in March.”
“Our tourism board probably doesn’t think high-profile murders are good for business.” Huke held up an index finger in front of Portello’s face. “I have a proposal for you, Coach Portello. The coroner requires your players to answer a few questions each. You can make them available one by one so that your practice can continue with minimal interruption, or”—Huke patted the radio on his belt—“I can call the other deputies to come in and stop practice. They’ll take you all down to the sheriff’s office for questioning.”
“No way, no how. You can’t do that.”
“All players and coaches were potential witnesses to a crime,” Fenway said. “We only have one interview room, and we’re interrogating Maggie Erskine right now. Everyone would have to wait.” She cleared her throat. “I expect I can get all of you interviewed and processed in eighteen to twenty-four hours. I’m sure your players would love to spend the night in the police waiting room.”
Portello folded his arms and looked down at the ground. “Fine. You can use the coaches’ office in the athletics building. But I can’t have any of my players off the pitch for more than fifteen minutes.”
Fenway motioned to Lorraine Sunday, standing twenty feet away on the sideline. “Coach Sunday was on the ninth floor last night, and I have yet to speak with her.”
Portello nodded. “Lorraine, you’re up. Go show the coroner where the coaches’ office is. You get to be the first one she interviews.” Portello looked over at Fenway. “I’ll get the players started on a couple of drills, then I can go next so I can get this out of the way.”
“All right, Rocky,” Sunday said.
Huke leaned toward Fenway. “Would you like me to join you or stay here and watch the field to make sure no one leaves?”
“Come with us,” Fenway said.
“No more than fifteen minutes,” Portello said. “I mean it.”
Fenway and Huke followed Lorraine Sunday off the field, then Sunday turned to follow a concrete walkway into a set of buildings about two hundred yards farther. Huke caught Fenway’s eye and slowed down until Lorraine was a few yards ahead.
“You mentioned we could question twice as many people with me here,” Huke whispered. “Shouldn’t you question Coach Sunday by yourself?”
“Listen to the questions I ask Coach Sunday, the type of information I’m looking to get, then I’ll turn you loose on the players.”
Huke nodded, then hesitated.
“Something else, Deputy?”
“I don’t understand Coach Portello’s reaction,” Huke whispered. “He’s acting like the first day of practice is more important than solving the murder of someone he considered a mentor. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“People process grief in different ways,” Fenway whispered back. “Maybe I’ll push him a little more after Coach Sunday’s interview.”
Lorraine Sunday was stoic as she walked. She stood a few inches shorter than Fenway, and her large brown eyes darted around the quad. Though Sunday wore no makeup, Fenway was shocked at how the assistant coach looked even younger in person than she had on the elevator camera.
“How long have you been with the team?” Fenway asked. She glanced over her shoulder; Huke walked about ten feet behind them.
Sunday never broke her stride. “This is my second year.”
“You’re the goalkeepers’ coach, right?”
“I coach more than the goalies, but yes. Perhaps that’s why Coach Portello had me interview with you first. Maggie didn’t show up today. I can work with the backups, but Maggie not being here means a lighter load for me.”
Fenway debated if she should tell Coach Sunday that Maggie was at the sheriff’s office, then decided to keep her mouth shut. The assistant coach might already know Maggie had been brought in for questioning—though she was far away, maybe she heard Fenway say as much to Coach Portello—but if she didn’t, she might be more forthcoming.
“Maggie has a lot of raw talent,” Sunday continued, “and some good instincts. But for us to have any chance at the Pickering Trophy this year, she’s got a lot of growing up to do.”
“I see.”
They came to a door in the side of an administration building and Lorraine opened it. Inside, the automatic lights switched on, buzzing. Fluorescent tubes sputtered on across the drop ceiling. In the cold, artificial light, the hallway looked sterile, like an operating theater.
Lorraine Sunday entered first, Fenway following on her heels, and Huke came in and closed the door behind them. Sunday stopped at the third office door on their left, a birch door with Athletic Department Suite C stenciled on its frosted glass window. Taking a silver key out of the pocket of her tracksuit, she turned the key in the lock.
The door swung in silently. In the middle of the room stood a worktable with a laptop and a stool with a back. The walls were a light tan, covered with pennants and posters of Coach Levinson’s glory days at his previous clubs. Three desks: one on the left, one in the center behind the worktable, and one on the right. Directly behind the center desk hung a five-foot-wide banner with metal finial-tipped dowels at the top and bottom, reading Las Vegas Neons—AFF Western Conference Champions.
Huke, bowing his head, stepped to the side and leaned against the wall next to the door.
“Coach Levinson brought the banner all the way from Vegas?” Fenway asked. “I thought Ms. Christchurch wouldn’t want it taken from the Neons’ headquarters.”
Coach Sunday shrugged as she walked to the desk on the right. “The official banner is still back at home. Coach Flash had this one made to hang up behind his desk. The idea was to walk in and see where we were last year and how much work still needs to be done.”
“Were you close with Coach Levinson?”
Lorraine tilted her head and motioned to a chair in front of a desk with a laptop and a UCLA Bruins bobblehead.
Fenway sat.
“Would you like to sit, too?” Sunday said to Huke.
Huke held up a hand, palm out. “I’m fine standing.”
Sunday focused her attention on Fenway. “How well do you know the history of women’s soccer?”
“Maybe a little better than most, but that’s probably not saying much. I know enough where I recognize Annabel Shedd.”
“But not enough where you recognize me.” Sunday sat behind the desk, steepling her fingers.
“You’re Lorraine Sunday,” Fenway said quickly. “You were the goalie for the World Cup team a while ago—ten, maybe twelve years ago?”
Lorraine cocked her head, and a crooked smile crossed her face. “Two games in goal. I was the backup.”
“You shut out the Czech Republic.” Fenway took a notebook and a pen out of her purse, then flipped to a blank page. “Why did you choose to join the Neons?”
“I spent a few years working with a few of the European clubs, but I wanted to build my AFF résumé. And to be honest, I got a little tired of the rain in northern England.”
“Northern England?”
“I was at Liverpool WFC a couple of years ago.” Lorraine interlaced her hands behind her head and stared at the ceiling. “And the Neons were offering me more money than the Anfielders. Christchurch seems to know what she’s doing. But I’ll tell you, getting dropped in the middle of the desert is a shock when you’re used to gloomy Liverpool winters.”
“I can imagine,” Fenway said. “So you knew Coach Levinson before?”
“No, I’d never met him—I think I got the job offer based on my reputation.”
“Risky move, then.”
“Coach Flash has—uh, had such a knack for winning championships, and we seemed to be positioned to make a real run for it. Almost got it last year, too.”
“But now you’ve got a rookie keeper.”
“She was a rookie last year. Gabby showed her the ropes—now it’s time for her to step up.” Sunday put her arms down, resting on the top of the desk, then stared for a moment at the bobblehead.
“Did you know Levinson was going to get fired?”
“Sandra Christchurch sent the team a notification early this morning. About half the players slept through the announcement, but I was there. Everyone went back upstairs and made sure the rest of the team knew he’d been let go.”
Fenway tilted her head. “How did you find out he died?”
“I saw the paramedics on the floor this morning. Then the police tape. Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”
“Did you know about the allegations before today?”
She pursed her lips. “I’ve met men like Coach Flash before. Let’s just say—I wasn’t surprised he got fired.”
“When did you find out about the allegations?”
Huke cleared his throat, and Fenway shot him a look. He pressed his lips together and bobbed his head, motioning for Fenway to come closer.
“Excuse me for a moment.” Fenway got up and walked to Huke, about ten feet away from the desk. “What?”
Huke leaned in toward Fenway and whispered. “I apologize if I’m overstepping, but you’re not asking questions relevant to the case.”
“I’m not—what?”
“Shouldn’t you be asking where she was during the murder, what she heard or saw?”
“I’m—I’m establishing whether she’d have any reason to want Levinson dead.”
Huke took a small step back. “Okay. Like I said, I apologize if I’m overstepping.”
Fenway walked back to the desk, Sunday looking at her expectantly. “Sorry about that—just some—some procedural minutiae.” But she swallowed dryly. “I’m asking about the allegations because I need to get an idea of why Coach Levinson might have been killed.”
Lorraine sat up straight. “Killed? What do you mean?”
Fenway tightened the muscles in her neck. “I thought you knew this was a murder investigation.”
“Murder.” Lorraine murmured it, letting her mouth slowly form the word. “No, I thought—I mean, especially after he was let go, and with the accusations—I thought for sure he’d—” Lorraine took a breath and cast her eyes to the floor. “Well, I guess you know what I thought.”
Fenway leaned forward slightly in her chair, hoping it applied the right amount of pressure without scaring Coach Sunday off. “Can you tell me where you were last night?”
Sunday leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “I ate dinner at the hotel restaurant.”
“By yourself?”
“Yes. Then we had a coaches’ meeting with the owner.”
“Where?”
“Her hotel suite. Flash, me, and Rocky.”
“Did you see her with a diamond tennis bracelet?”
Sunday blinked. “A bracelet? Uh—I don’t think I noticed.”
Fenway thrust her jaw forward. “You compliment her on the bracelet a lot?”
“I—I told her it was beautiful when she was showing it off.” Sunday frowned. “That must have been sometime last year, maybe at the end-of-season coaches’ dinner. But I wouldn’t say a lot.”
“Have you seen the bracelet in the last twenty-four hours?”
Sunday shifted in her seat. “No—why?”
“During the meeting, did anyone leave to go into another part of the suite?”
Sunday shrugged. “We all got some water from the fridge. I think Rocky had to use the bathroom.”
“Was he gone for a long time?”
“It didn’t seem like it took too long.”
“What did you do after the meeting?”
“Karaoke,” Sunday said.
“I’m sorry?”
“Oh—not with the owner and the coaches. I went by myself. There’s a bar a couple of blocks down on Fourth. I do a decent Whitney Houston.”
“Did you sing?”
“Just a couple songs. Then I came back to the hotel—”
“What time was that?”
“About half past eleven, I think. I read some scouting reports and went to sleep around midnight.”
Fenway ran her tongue along her teeth. “Anything awaken you during the night?”
“No.”
“You stayed in your room between, say, midnight and six a.m.?”
The goalkeeping coach leaned forward slightly. “Slept straight through until my alarm woke me up at five.”
“Nothing at all? No half-awake noises? No footsteps in the hall?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
Fenway scribbled in the notebook, then stole a glance at Deputy Huke. His face was impassive.
“Okay—your alarm went off at five. Did you get up then?”
“Yes. Threw my workout clothes on, grabbed a bottle of water, and I was out the door. I’d guess ten minutes, tops. Then I went to the gym.”
“Anyone see you?”
“Sure. Darcy Nishimura was on one of the ellipticals, and Aissa Oumar was using the free weights. I got on a stationary bike and did about twenty minutes of cardio. Aissa and I went down to the hotel restaurant to grab a quick breakfast.”
Fenway scribbled in her notebook.
“That’s when we saw the notification from Sandra Christchurch. We were already down there, so we went to the small conference room—there were only about twelve of us—and that’s when Sandra told us Coach Flash had been let go.”
“Did she tell you why?”
“Yes. Didn’t exactly sugarcoat it, but she also avoided a lot of details. A lot of ‘you’ll hear some disturbing details in the next few days, which I can’t legally discuss.’ Stuff like that. I went back to my room to change, and then about, I don’t know, eight o’clock or so, I got a knock on my door. One of the sheriff’s deputies, telling me Coach Flash was found dead in his room. She talked to me for a few minutes, asked me where I was going. I said straight to Nidever to set up for the afternoon practice—but given the situation, I figured it’d be cancelled.”
Fenway furrowed her brow. “But—practice wasn’t cancelled.”
“Rocky called. According to the AFF rulebook, we must have our first practice on the league’s first day of training camp. He’d pulled up the rulebook online, and there aren’t any stipulations for cancellation except for dangerous weather or threats to staff or players.”
“Threats? One of your staff was murdered. That doesn’t count?”
“First off, as I said, I thought he died by suicide. Secondly, the rule book doesn’t mention death of a player or coach or other staff member as a reason not to hold practice on the first day of training camp. We sure weren’t taking responsibility for the team getting fined.” Lorraine sighed. “Rocky and I met in the lobby, and he drove us to Nidever.”
“Do you think you could send me the relevant section of the rulebook?”
“Rocky’s the one who told me. He’d be able to find it.” Lorraine leaned forward. “As it turns out, it was probably the right call. Some of these players, they didn’t even know the coach. We signed them in the off-season or traded for them. The players who did know him—they said they wanted the distraction. We told them if anyone didn’t feel like practicing, they could stay at the hotel.”
“Did anyone take you up on it?”
“Only Maggie, from the looks of it.”
So Sunday hadn’t heard Fenway say that Maggie was being interrogated. “We talked about why Coach Levinson was fired,” Fenway said. “Do you know anyone who was particularly, uh, affected by his behavior? Anyone who’d have reason to want him dead?”
Coach Sunday paused, then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I don’t know how much more I should say.”