Annabel tilted her head. “You?”
“Me,” Fenway replied.
Annabel hesitated. “You’re the coroner?”
Fenway nodded. “Come on.” She started walking toward the concrete walkway.
After a moment, Annabel began to follow, running to catch up with her. The overcast sky darkened. The breeze turned stronger, with a hint of menace. Fenway smelled the sharp, fresh aroma of ozone.
Annabel stopped. “You were at Maxime’s last night.”
“Yes.”
“You talked to me in the ladies’ room.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were a fan.”
“I am a fan. Your fans can have real jobs, you know.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Fenway felt a pang of guilt—Shedd knew something wasn’t right.
“What did you say your name was?” Shedd asked.
“Sorry, I don’t think I ever mentioned it.” Fenway held out her hand. “Fenway Stevenson.”
Annabel took her hand and shook it. “Fenway?”
“My dad is a big Red Sox fan.”
Annabel looked into Fenway’s face. The corners of her mouth turned down slightly.
Fenway returned Annabel’s stare, though she tried a friendly—if neutral—look. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Deputy Huke frown, then cross his arms.
Could Huke help with Annabel? Despite Fenway’s dislike of his interruption, he had been valuable to keep Lorraine Sunday talking.
No. She didn’t want him tagging along this time.
She caught Huke’s eye and motioned with her head toward the other players. Huke nodded, took out his notebook, and strode onto the field.
Fenway turned back to Annabel and cleared her throat. “Coach Portello is letting me use the office to conduct my interviews,” Fenway said. “We can go in there where it’s quiet.”
Annabel frowned. “I’m warmed up, and I don’t want to sit for ten minutes.” She turned back to the field. “Let’s walk around the edge of the field so I can keep my blood flowing. I want to stay loose.”
Fenway shook her head. “I don’t want the other players hearing us.”
Annabel pointed to an adjacent field. “How about that one? It’s a hundred yards away from anyone else.”
“It looks like it’s about to rain.”
“You afraid of a little water?”
“I suppose not.” Fenway stole another glance at Huke, who had pulled one of the players to the side. She gave him a slight nod and turned back to Annabel.
They crossed the first field, Annabel picking up the pace, but Fenway kept up with her. Her feet were getting cold, but the change of scenery might do her good. Besides, Fenway was always sharper when she moved—pacing around the room, running the trail to the butterfly waystation, or taking a walk to clear her head.
When they got halfway across the second field, Annabel turned her head to look at Fenway. “Okay, Coroner, no one can hear us now.”
“Let’s get this out of the way first—have you seen a diamond tennis bracelet, either last night or today?”
Annabel frowned. “The only person I know with a diamond tennis bracelet is Sandra Christchurch—” She turned to look at Fenway. “It wasn’t stolen, was it?”
“It’s been reported missing. All right, back to Coach Levinson.” Fenway wanted to ask about the report, but Huke’s words rang in her ears. “Tell me where you were last night, all the way up through eight o’clock this morning.”
“You already know I was at Maxime’s for dinner.” Annabel began a mock run, lifting her knees high.
“But you didn’t leave with your dinner companion,” Fenway said.
“That was Maggie Erskine, by the way.”
Fenway felt like she should be mimicking Annabel’s workout, but in her pantsuit, it would look silly. “This is Maggie’s first year as the number one keeper, isn’t it?”
Annabel nodded.
“I saw the two of you at dinner. It looked like you were fighting.”
Annabel paused, stopping her mock run, and walked a few steps, thinking. “She’s a big fan of Coach Flash. Played under him at Shellmont. I don’t—” Then she lapsed into silence, stared at the ground, and slowed her walk.
“What is it?”
“He doesn’t—didn’t—always have her best interests at heart,” Annabel said carefully. “Maggie didn’t want to hear anything negative about Coach Flash, so she left. She told me she was getting an Uber. I assume she went back to the hotel, although I don’t know for sure.”
Despite the cold weather, Fenway felt herself break into a sweat under her blazer. “How did the two of you get to the restaurant?”
“I drove. The team has a car. Usually for errands, but sometimes the coaches let the players check the car out.”
“What kind of car is it?”
“It’s a white Toyota. A Corolla, I think.”
Fenway nodded—the car in the parking garage. Sarah had been right.
“Coach Sunday has one of the keys,” Annabel continued. “I checked out the car from her.”
Fenway nodded. Interesting—Sunday hadn’t mentioned it in her interview.
“So you left the restaurant, and Maggie was already gone?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Fenway inwardly grimaced—she was leading Annabel with what Fenway already knew. Better to let Annabel tell her own story, especially since she was a suspect.
Annabel nodded. “I drove back to the hotel. I thought maybe I could catch Maggie at the bar. She’d had a lot to drink, but I didn’t think that would stop her from having more.”
“What time did you get back to the hotel?”
“Uh—I don’t know. I didn’t look at the time. I didn’t see Maggie in the bar.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“A few of the other players. Coach Flash was there, too.”
“Did you stay and talk to them? Maybe have a drink? Wait for Maggie?”
“I went straight up to my room. First practice was today, after all. I wanted to get some sleep.”
“Did you stay up?”
Annabel was quiet.
“You may not know this, Annabel, but there are cameras in the hotel.”
“All right,” Annabel said. “I texted Maggie to make sure she’d gotten back to the hotel safely. But she didn’t respond. So I went to her room.”
“She’s on the same floor as you?”
“Right.”
“Don’t most of the players have roommates?”
Annabel tilted her head. “How do you know that?”
“I wasn’t lying—I follow the game a little. I know the AFF is on a budget. Most players room together.”
“I pay for my own hotel room,” Annabel said.
“Who is Maggie’s roommate?”
Annabel was quiet for a moment. Finally: “She doesn’t have one.”
Fenway tilted her head. “Why not?”
“I’m afraid I can’t tell you any more.”
“Suddenly you’re not cooperating?”
“There’s—there’s an agreement preventing me from discussing the matter.”
Fenway thought a moment and fell behind Annabel’s rapid walking clip. The gag order in all the AFF player contracts. “I see.”
Annabel wiped her forehead with the back of her hand and sneaked a look at Fenway’s face. “You do?”
“Yes.” Fenway broke into a slight jog to keep up with Annabel. “Did Maggie answer her door?”
“No.”
“What time was this?”
“Around midnight.”
“What did you do afterward?” Fenway asked.
“I—uh—well, I went to look for her.” Annabel grunted. “I guess the cameras recorded me on the ninth floor.”
“Yes.”
“Can you blame me?” Annabel said. “I was angry. I didn’t want—” She paused. “Sorry. I can’t talk about why I was on the ninth floor.”
Fenway wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead—then she remembered following Annabel in Maxime’s.
“Let’s go back to the restaurant.”
Annabel glanced at Fenway. “Okay.”
“I went into the restroom, and you were talking to someone on the phone.”
Annabel didn’t say anything.
“Can you tell me who you were talking to?”
“Uh—I’m not sure I remember.”
“I’ll tell you what I remember,” Fenway said. “‘I swear, if you don’t do something about Maggie and that monster, I will.’”
Annabel grimaced. “Oh. Yeah. I guess that does sound bad.”
“Were you referring to Coach Levinson?”
“I’m prohibited from talking about it.”
“What?”
“I mentioned a signed agreement. I believe if I answer that question, it might put me in violation of that document. I’ll have to consult with my lawyer before I answer your question.”
“We can get a subpoena.”
“Good. That’s one of the ways I can talk to you about it without being in violation.”
“Can you at least tell me who you were talking to?”
“Again, I’m prohibited from telling you.”
Fenway sighed. “All right, then. When you got out of the elevator on the ninth floor late Thursday night, who did you go see?”
They reached the edge of the second field, right at a chalk boundary, and Annabel stopped walking so abruptly that Fenway got several feet ahead of her before turning around.
“What is it?”
“This is all regarding the same issue I can’t discuss.”
“You can’t even tell me who you went to see?”
“I don’t think I can, no.”
Fenway was taken aback. She could get a subpoena, but it could take days—or even weeks. She decided to change to another subject. “I take it by now you’ve heard Coach Levinson was fired.”
“Sandra Christchurch sent an email to the team before the press conference,” Annabel said.
“To the best of your knowledge, did any of your conversation last night affect Coach Levinson’s employment status with the team?”
Annabel considered for a moment, then said in an even tone, “I apologize, Coroner. I can’t answer.”
“Because of the agreement.” Fenway exhaled, trying to disguise her annoyance. “I’m conducting a murder inquiry—and I know about the complaints you made to the AFF Board of Governors.”
Annabel shrugged. “That was all over the news ten years ago.”
“I mean the one you made last year. And I know you were just told the case had no merit.”
Annabel looked stricken.
“You can’t conceal information from the police. The gag order is unenforceable.”
“I’d like nothing better than to talk about this with you, Coroner. I’d even help you get the subpoena if I could. But I can’t.”
“You can’t?”
“We don’t have a collective bargaining agreement, so we have no power. I won’t talk without a subpoena.”
Fenway looked back at the soccer field; she and Annabel had walked far away, with no one within earshot. “I’m going out on a limb here,” Fenway said. “I’m willing to stipulate that you talked to—whoever you talked to on the ninth floor about…” Fenway’s mind raced. “About the music they play at practices.”
Annabel furrowed her brow. “What?”
“Surely your contract doesn’t cover the team’s music playlist, does it?”
“No, of course not.”
“Hypothetically, let’s suppose you’d wanted to discuss the music they play at practices.”
“You mean—last night when I went to the ninth floor?” Annabel’s brow furrowed.
“Absolutely correct. You’re concerned about the team’s motivation. You’re afraid the current music selection is—is detrimental to the success of the team, especially since the coach always wants to use Maggie Erskine’s playlist, even though he yells at her for having horrible taste in music. That’s why you went to the ninth floor after midnight. You can talk about music playlists without violating your agreement, right?”
“Because Coach Flash is always playing Maggie’s—” Annabel’s forehead relaxed. “Oh. I get it now.” A slight smile played on Annabel’s face, and she stepped over the chalk boundary and resumed walking.
“When you went to the ninth floor, whose door did you knock on to discuss the music playlist?”
“I went to Coach Flash’s room first. I knocked on the door.”
“Was there an answer?”
“No. But…”
Fenway could see the gears turning in Annabel’s head.
“Maggie has—she has, uh, a favorite band. And I could hear the band’s music through the door.”
“And you were concerned Coach Levinson was—was having undue influence over the kind of music Maggie wanted at practices.”
Annabel squinted. “Are we still talking about the same thing?”
“So after you heard Maggie’s music,” Fenway said, “what did you do?”
“Oh.” Again, the wheels turned in Annabel’s head. “I—uh—I went to see Sandra Christchurch.”
Fenway stopped in her tracks. “You went to see the owner of the Las Vegas Neons?”
“I did,” Annabel said. “I’d called her earlier, too.”
“From the restaurant?”
“Correct,” Annabel said. “I—uh, was complaining about the music playlist Coach Levinson and Maggie were making together. The, uh, monsters of rock.”
“So you went to see Christchurch at half past midnight?” Fenway asked. Sandra Christchurch had lied to her—
Then she replayed the conversation in the hotel restaurant in her mind. Sandra Christchurch had simply stopped offering information at one point. I might have gone to bed at eleven, or it might have been three.
She never mentioned Annabel banging on her door at about a quarter past midnight. A lie of omission, certainly. But not an out-and-out falsehood.
In fact, they’d gotten sidetracked on whether Coach Levinson knew he was getting fired—and then Fenway had asked what time Christchurch had gone to bed. Rookie mistake—Fenway hadn’t paid close enough attention.
With effort, Fenway brought her attention back to Annabel.
“Sandra certainly wasn’t expecting me to show up.” Annabel chuckled lightly. “It took me a few minutes of knocking on her door pretty loudly before she answered.”
“I see. And what was her reaction to her star player showing up in the middle of the night?” Fenway quickly added, “To talk about the music playlists.”
“She was upset I had awakened her, of course. But I told her it was too important. Maggie was in Coach Flash’s room”—she glanced at Fenway—“listening to his music. I told her it couldn’t wait. I pretty much barged in.”
“What did you do once you were inside?”
“I told her I knew she had seen the reports about Coach Levinson and the way he, um, forces his musical tastes on players. I accused her of protecting the team and the league over her players. I told her about what Levinson did. Not just with me. Not just with Maggie. I was graphic. I showed her videos I had on my phone. I showed her medical bills.”
Fenway nodded. The floodgates had opened.
Annabel laughed. “I halfway expected her to call security, to be honest. I pretty much dragged her down the hall.”
“She left her room?” Sandra Christchurch hadn’t mentioned that.
“We stood in front of Coach Flash’s door for about thirty seconds. And we listened to Maggie—uh, her playlist, I mean, come from the door.”
“What did Ms. Christchurch do?”
“She didn’t do anything. To be honest, I couldn’t read her. If I owned a team and I heard the head coach fucking”—Annabel caught herself—“listening to music playlists with our starting goalkeeper—who’s less than half his age, mind you—I’d be pissed.” Annabel picked up the pace, and Fenway felt a bead of sweat trickle down her temple. “We went back to Sandra’s room, and I went off. I was pissed off. I yelled at her. I think I even told her that her dead husband would be disappointed in her.”
“How did she take that?”
“She was quiet. I think the crack about her husband was over the line. But I didn’t let up. I played my last card. I told her I’d resign from the team, and I’d go to the press. I said I didn’t care if I got sued by the team or the league. I told her I’m not keeping my mouth shut anymore.”
Annabel’s pace was even quicker now; Fenway had to almost run to keep up.
“The winning goal in the World Cup last year?” Annabel continued. “It bought me my freedom. I know I only have one or two years left. My face is on cereal boxes right now. Nobody wanted to listen to me ten years ago—well, you better believe they’re gonna listen to me now.” Annabel’s voice was calm and assured, even though anger coursed through it.
Fenway could feel her pulse pounding and it wasn’t completely because of the fast pace of their walk. “You hit her in the wallet.”
Annabel breathed in deeply as the first sprinkles of rain started. “She told me she would take care of it, and she’d already started the conversations with her lawyers—she’d been on the phone with them earlier, she said.”
“And that was enough for you?”
“Sandra showed me the press release her PR team had put together. It said the Neons and Coach Flash agreed to part ways at the end of the season.”
“So bringing Maggie and Coach Levinson to her attention—that got her to move the timeline up?”
“I don’t know for a fact. You know what they say—correlation doesn’t prove causation. But she said she’d take care of it.”
“Then what?”
“I went back to my room.”
“Uh—no, you didn’t.”
“I most certainly did. Are you calling me a liar?”
“The camera doesn’t show you getting back into the elevator.”
“Oh—well, lots of adrenaline. I decided to take the stairs. But I didn’t realize the doors from the stairwell lock from the outside. I couldn’t get back to my floor—I had to go down to the ground floor, come back around, then take the elevator back to my room.”
That story matched the video evidence, but Fenway wasn’t fully convinced. “Did you, at any point, enter Coach Levinson’s room?”
“No.”
“Did you get visual confirmation of Maggie being in Coach Levinson’s room?”
“Uh—no.”
Fenway thought for a moment. “At any point, did you take anything from Coach Levinson’s room?”
“I told you, I didn’t go to his room.”
“But someone could have opened the door and handed something to you.”
“Handed something to me? Like what?”
“A trash bag, perhaps.”
“No. Nothing.”
“Were you happy when you saw the press release this morning?”
Annabel’s nostrils flared. “You think I like reliving what that asshole did to me? Every time I talk to somebody about it, I have nightmares for a week.” She shook her head. “No, I was not happy about reliving it. But I’m doing this so the next generation of AFF soccer players doesn’t have nightmares.”
The drizzle turned into rain, though it was still light. Fenway was glad she didn’t have her longer curls—they would have exploded into frizz.
“It’s the same everywhere,” Annabel murmured.
“What?”
“Sorry, I was thinking out loud. Will it ever really change? People in positions of power—doesn’t matter if they’re coaches or religious leaders or whatever. Even if they get fired, they always go to the next town or the next team or the next school. If Levinson hadn’t died, I bet next season he’d be coaching a women’s team in Europe or at some big-name university, and he’d never stop.”
Fenway was quiet for a moment. Only the sounds of their feet squishing on the grass could be heard over the breeze rushing in their ears and the gentle drops of rain on the ground.
“I didn’t kill him,” Annabel said.
Fenway shrugged. “You’re very angry with Coach Levinson.”
“Of course I am,” Annabel said. “He needed to pay for what he did. I’m definitely not upset he’s dead. As much courage as it’s taken me to come forward, though, I don’t think I’d have the guts to murder someone.”
Fenway and Huke spent the next two hours interviewing the other players, and everyone else wanted to go to the coaches’ office to get out of the rain.
Everyone asked where Maggie was—several of the players said they were expecting to win the Pickering Trophy with her in goal this year—but no one had seen anything. No one had heard anything. None of the players went anywhere near the ninth floor between the hours of midnight and six o’clock.
As Fenway and Huke walked to her Accord, she called Sarah.
“Hey, Fenway.”
“Can you do some research? It might take some time tomorrow, too.”
“Overtime on a weekend when all my friends are out of town? Sure.”
“The stairwell’s been bothering me. The doors should lock so no one can exit on any floor except the ground floor.”
“Right—lots of hotels are like that.”
“I need to find how to prevent the door from latching, but where a sensor mounted on the top of the door would still register it being closed.”
“A strong adhesive tape over the latch might do it. Duct tape, electrician’s tape, maybe.”
“I asked security about that—the latch is strong enough to stretch tape like that. And besides, I didn’t see any adhesive.”
“Huh.” Sarah exhaled. “I’ll work on it.”
“Thanks.”
Fenway ended the call.
Huke piped up. “There are hinge-mounted door stops now. They’re pretty exact. I can send you a link.”
“How do you know about it?”
He shrugged. “I’ve done some work around Melissa’s apartment. Saw ’em at the hardware store.”
Fenway unlocked the doors and sat down heavily in her seat. Starting the engine as Huke got in, she pulled her phone out of her purse and texted Dez.
Are you still interviewing Maggie?
She waited a moment but got no response. The interrogation might still be going on.
Fenway and Huke drove back downtown in uncomfortable silence. The fifteen-minute drive felt like hours. She pulled into the parking garage next to City Hall, and Huke opened the door before she killed the engine.
“Thanks for helping out,” Fenway offered. Not an apology, but something civil.
“Any time, Coroner.”
Her phone rang—it was McVie. She tapped the answer button on her steering wheel.
“Hey, Craig.”
“Hi, Fenway. Sorry about earlier.”
Huke looked at her expectantly. She motioned for him to go, and he left the car, shutting the door behind him.
“No, don’t worry about it,” Fenway said.
“Will you be working late?”
“Probably. Are you having that talk with Megan tonight?”
“That’s the plan.” Then silence for a few moments before McVie spoke again. “Are we okay?”
“I think so.” Fenway drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “Were you able to talk to your client about what you found yesterday?”
“I didn’t find anything yesterday.”
“Exactly—you said Mathilda Montague would expect a smoking gun about Annabel and Maggie sleeping together, and we didn’t get it. Instead, we found a reasonable explanation about why the two of them have spent so much time together.”
McVie hesitated a moment. “Ah. I did tell her about dinner last night and that I was unable to uncover anything suspicious.”
“How did she react?”
“She told me to keep digging.”
“Oh—so you’re still on the case?”
“It’s good money.”
“Is that a ‘yes’?”
“She wants me at it for another week. Mathilda showed me Annabel’s cell phone bills. A bunch of calls to Maggie’s number. Not a ‘teammate’ number of calls, either.”
“Oh, I see. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire.”
“Do you have a better explanation for all those calls?” McVie asked. “Because I sure don’t.”
“I do, in fact.”
“Oh.” A ticking sound on the other end of the phone—McVie was probably tapping his pencil against the desk. “Is it anything you can tell me about?”
“Uh—I don’t think so.” Fenway rubbed her forehead, then it came to her. “I bet Piper could find some things out.”
“About what? Is someone having an affair?”
“No, no, not an affair. Not exactly. Have you seen the news article about Levinson?”
The sound of McVie typing on his keyboard. “Okay, hold on, I’m reading the press release—oh no. Sexual misconduct.” He exhaled loudly. “With either Annabel or Maggie?”
Fenway said nothing.
“Right, right, you can neither confirm nor deny allegations relating to an open murder investigation. I get it. Still, thanks for pointing me in the right direction.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fenway killed the engine. “I’ve gotta go, Craig. Maybe I’ll call you tonight.”
Fenway stuck her head in the coroner’s office suite for a moment, but Sarah told her Dez was still in the sheriff’s office, questioning Maggie.
“Deputy Huke told me about these over-the-hinge door stoppers that might fit the bill,” Fenway said.
“Great minds think alike.” Sarah clicked on a window on her computer, and a hardware site appeared.
Onscreen, Fenway saw a beige triangular wedge with a notch running the length of the acute angle.
“This is a hinge pin door stop.” Sarah mimed reaching up and sliding something vertically down. “They slide into the hinges at the top and prevent the door from opening too wide and slamming into the wall behind.” She pointed at the screen. “These wedge types slide over the hinge too, but they allow stopping in both directions.” She dropped her hand to her lap. “Someone could set this to close the door almost all the way—enough to let the sensors touch without allowing the latch to close.”
“And it would be easy to take on and off?”
“As long as they could reach the top hinge, less than five seconds.”
Fenway rubbed her chin. “I wonder.” She brought her hand down and rapped softly on the counter. “Can you send me the link to that door stopper?”
“Email or text?”
“Both. Thanks, Sarah.”
She walked across the street. The sky was dark and the rain, though not heavy, cast a dull light over the city street. Fenway pulled her thin blazer around herself and hurried through the amphitheater in front of the city building and in through the front door of the sheriff’s office. As she strode past the front desk, she saw the doors to both the interrogation room and the observation room were closed.
Fenway knocked lightly on the observation room door.
Dez’s voice, quiet: “Come in.”
Fenway opened the door and walked inside, closing it gently behind her. “Didn’t expect you to still be interrogating Maggie.”
Dez stared at Maggie through the one-way mirror.
Maggie sat alone at the aluminum table in the middle of the interrogation room. Slumped in her chair, head tilting to the side, she looked miserable. Her mouth turned down at the corners, and her eyes were puffy and swollen. Her brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail.
“Does she remember anything else from last night?” Fenway asked softly.
Dez turned her head back to Fenway. “She did remember something else.”
“What was it? Anything about the murder?”
“No, no. She remembered getting into an Uber with you in front of Maxime’s.”