A loud honk sounded to her left as Fenway sped across the intersection. She slid across three lanes, tires squealing, and onto the southbound Ocean Highway on-ramp.
She accelerated onto the freeway as her phone buzzed. Another call was coming in, but she ignored it.
Fenway exhaled and glanced at Maggie. Even in this low light, Fenway saw Maggie’s face, ghostly white. “You’re okay, Maggie, right?”
“Right.” Maggie’s voice squeaked.
“The Corolla isn’t behind us anymore.”
“Bring Maggie back to the sheriff’s office,” Dez said. “We’ll set up protective custody for her.”
“Whoever it was tried to run her over in front of the sheriff’s office,” Fenway said. “I’m not bringing her back there. Get protective custody set up for her first.”
“Fenway, you need to bring her—”
“I’m keeping our—our prime suspect alive, okay?”
“Have it your way.” Dez sighed. “I won’t be able to set up a safe house for the next few hours anyway—probably not till tomorrow morning. Fine. Where are you going?”
“Uh—I’ll tell you, Dez, but keep this under your hat. If anyone asks, you don’t know where she is.”
“Fine, I’ll play along. I don’t know where she is. So where exactly do I not know about?”
Fenway drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. Her apartment was not an option.
Her father’s mansion? He had the security—but it was isolated, and it was easy to discover Nathaniel Ferris was Fenway’s father. So maybe her father’s house wouldn’t be a great idea.
It was unlikely anyone on the Las Vegas Neons knew she was dating McVie, though. Maybe Annabel had seen Fenway and McVie together in Maxime’s, but she didn’t know who McVie was. Perhaps after some digging, she could put two and two together, but the chances were low.
She hoped.
“I’m taking Maggie to Craig’s.”
“No, no, no,” Dez said. “You take her to a hotel or something. A hotel far away from the Broadmere.”
“No one on the team knows Craig and I are dating. Maggie will be safe at Craig’s apartment.”
“Are you kidding? Everyone in town knows. His apartment could be the next place they look.”
“We’re talking about a member of the team, or the staff, maybe.”
“Or a professional hitman with a multi-millionaire backer. Who might even be McVie’s client.”
Fenway was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, you’re right, Dez. A hotel room. We’ll get something out of town.” Fenway drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “I’ll figure something out. I’ll pay cash so it can’t get traced. Maybe a motel over in P.Q. Maybe Cactus Lake. I know they take cash. And no one would look for us up there.”
Dez was quiet for a moment. “You be careful.”
“I will.”
Fenway ended the call and looked over at Maggie. “You okay?”
Maggie’s hand was gripping the handle next to her head, above the passenger door, and her knuckles were white. “No. You don’t think the police can protect me.”
Fenway was silent.
“What? We’re spending the night at a crappy hotel?”
“I can’t think of anywhere else where we can pay in cash and not be—” Fenway stopped mid-thought and turned a few scenarios over in her mind.
She held down the phone button on the center console. Two beeps.
“Call Piper.”
Piper picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Fenway! You looking for a dinner companion now that McVie is meeting his daughter?”
“Maybe another time. I need your help.”
“I’ve already left the office.”
“I hope it will only take you a few minutes. And I think you can do this from your phone.” Fenway hesitated. “I wouldn’t ask you this ordinarily, but this is an emergency.”
“Ha,” Piper said. “You absolutely would ask me ordinarily.”
“Maybe. But this is still important. Remember when you sent me the credit card when I was in L.A. a couple months ago?”
“Ah, your fugitive days. Those were fun, weren’t they?”
“I have someone else in the car with me, Piper.”
Piper tittered. “Sorry.”
“Did you cancel those cards?”
“Uh—no, I guess I didn’t. Why? Did your dad get a bill he wasn’t expecting? Did someone skim the numbers?”
“No—I need some, uh, some way to disguise a payment. Can’t be under my name.”
“Oh. Sure, you should be able to use it.”
“Thanks.”
“Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
She thought about telling Piper, then heard Dez’s angry voice in her head. “I’d love to tell you, but it’s an ongoing investigation. Can’t give you the details.”
“Oh. It must be serious. Is this about the dead soccer coach?”
From the passenger seat, a muffled sob from Maggie.
“Like I said, I can’t discuss it.”
“Okay, fine. And as much as I’m annoyed that you won’t give me the details, you know you can call if you need something.” She paused. “Stay safe.”
Piper hung up.
Fenway glanced over at Maggie. “Turn your phone off.”
“I can keep it on silent if it bothers you.”
“No. All the way off. I don’t want anyone to be able to track you.”
Fenway drove the twenty minutes to Paso Querido, and in the small downtown, they pulled into the parking lot of a Harkness Inn & Suites with a Vacancy sign lit. “Not the Broadmere,” Fenway said, “but it’s better than the places that take cash.”
“A lot better,” Maggie said.
They got out of the car. Live rock music was pouring out of a bar across the street. The singer was loud and slightly off-key, but the music was pounding and sounded fun.
“I don’t have anything with me,” Maggie said. “I don’t have a change of clothes. I don’t have a toothbrush. I don’t have anything.”
“Maybe we can get some of the stuff from the hotel.”
Fenway opened the trunk and dug in the pocket of the ugly sweatpants. She’d remembered correctly—a driver’s license and a credit card, both with the name Molly Lundgren. The driver’s license had a picture of a bald Fenway. She ran her hand over her short hair—she still looked like the picture.
Maggie followed Fenway in the front door and pulled the Red Sox hat down over her eyes. She bit her thumbnail and walked in short, stuttering steps.
Fenway got them a two-bedroom suite, then pulled Maggie into the gift shop and charged a T-shirt, a toothbrush, and some toiletries to the room.
They took the elevator to the third floor and walked to the end of the corridor, where Fenway pulled the key card out and opened the door to their suite. Fenway turned on the lights.
A different color scheme than the Broadmere, and less elegant furniture, but still functional. Sofa, television, coffee table. The doors to both bedrooms were open, queen beds in both rooms.
“Which room do you want?” Maggie asked, clutching the plastic bag of toiletries, the T-shirt draped over her arm.
“Whichever. They look the same.”
Maggie walked into the room on the left, dropped her bag and shirt on the bed, then walked out, pacing around the suite.
“You’re safe here, Maggie.”
“How long do you think I have to hide out?”
“As long as it takes to make sure no one’s trying to kill you.”
“Sorry—that was rude. I mean, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. But I need the practice time. Bonding with the team, running drills, getting comfortable in goal. I had a pretty good workout regimen in the off-season. But I haven’t even played a formal scrimmage for months.” She plopped herself on the sofa, her brow furrowed.
“Keeping you safe is my number one priority.” Fenway sat at the opposite end of the couch from Maggie, who immediately stood and walked into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.
Fenway gritted her teeth, pulled her phone out of her purse, and texted McVie.
Can you talk?
Her phone rang. It was McVie.
“Hi, Craig.”
“Hey. Megan only stayed long enough to grab some of her things. I thought you and I could have an evening out. Or maybe an evening in.”
“Things got complicated at work.”
McVie was silent.
Fenway took a breath. “When I walked out of the office tonight, I saw a police action right in front of the sheriff’s office. Swirling red-and-blue lights, a cruiser parked up on the sidewalk, the works.”
McVie sucked in air through his teeth. “What happened?”
“After we interviewed Maggie, we let her go. While she was waiting for a ride, someone tried to run her over—right in front of the sheriff’s office.”
“Is she okay?”
“She jumped out of the way in time.”
“You think the driver is the same person who killed Paul Levinson?”
Fenway shrugged. “Maybe. Probably.”
“Why isn’t Maggie in protective custody?” McVie’s voice rose in pitch, if not volume.
“Dez said they’d probably need till the morning to set it up.”
“Why the hell are you responsible for her?”
“She was hiding next to my car when I got to the parking garage. She’s in the bathroom now.”
“At your apartment? They could find out where you are—”
“At a hotel.”
McVie paused. “I can’t believe they let her go. I thought for sure they’d have enough to hold her.”
Fenway pursed her lips. “How do you know that?”
“I still have one or two contacts in the sheriff’s department.”
“They probably do have enough to hold her. But Dez doesn’t believe Maggie did it. And neither do I.”
“Why not?”
“A lot of reasons. She was falling down drunk, for one thing—I don’t think she could have lifted a golf club above her head without falling over. And she thought Levinson was crucial to her success. Plus—we’re missing some physical evidence that would likely be in the room if she’d murdered him.”
“I see,” McVie said. Then, a touch of restraint in his voice: “Why did you put yourself in harm’s way for someone involved in a murder investigation?”
“I couldn’t leave her there when I knew somebody was trying to kill her. And when we drove out of the parking structure, the same kind of car that tried to run her over was following me.”
McVie gasped. “What kind of car?”
“It was a white Corolla. But I lost them.”
“But if they recognized your car, they could be driving all around Estancia, looking for your Accord.”
“We drove out of town.”
“Out of town? Where?”
“I—I’m not sure I should tell anyone.”
“I know that tone in your voice. You got Piper involved.”
“So what if I did?”
“It means things are serious.” McVie cleared his throat. “I think I should come stay with you.”
“I can take care of myself, Craig.”
“Someone is trying to kill Maggie, Fenway. Don’t be an idiot. You just learned how to shoot a gun last year. Did you at least bring a gun with you?”
“Well—no.”
“Let’s say the person who ran Maggie over followed you to your hotel. Or figures out you’re there. Let’s further assume they’ll find out what room you’re staying in.”
“Not very likely. I covered my tracks.”
“Even though you don’t know how they could find you doesn’t mean they can’t.”
“I think you’re being paranoid.”
“Let me ask you this: would Piper be able to find you?”
“Of course. She helped me figure out how to cover my tracks.”
“But if she hadn’t helped you—let’s make it, hypothetically, someone as talented as Piper. Could that person find you?”
Fenway was quiet.
“I’m coming over,” McVie said. “Where are you staying?”
A knock at the door—three quick raps, then two slow ones. Fenway opened the door with the latch on.
“Hey, beautiful,” McVie said.
“Don’t get any ideas about tonight.” Fenway closed the door, unfastened the latch, then opened it again. “I only invited you over here because you make me feel better about keeping Maggie safe.”
McVie came in and dropped Fenway’s overnight bag on the sofa. “I’d feel better if you moved your Accord around to the back of the hotel.”
“I already checked—the back lot is full.”
“Then park on the street.”
Fenway sighed. “I don’t think the Accord will give me away. If the killer passes by this hotel, they’ll already know where I am.”
“Good point.” McVie glanced around the room. “Where’s Maggie?”
“Her bedroom. I think she’s trying to get some rest.”
“Was she okay with me coming over?”
“Not really, but I insisted. I don’t think she wants to be judged by the P.I. who thinks she’s having an affair.”
“I don’t—” McVie stopped and shook his head. “No, it doesn’t matter. As long as she stays safe.”
“I think we’re in a pretty good spot. No one knows we’re here.”
“But the elevators aren’t very secure. I came up here without a room key. It makes me a little nervous.”
“No one will be looking for Molly Lundgren.”
“Oh—you kept your fake ID.”
“Only by dumb luck. It was in the pocket of those ugly sweatpants.” Fenway elbowed McVie. “And you’re always bugging me to clean my car, but I’m really glad I didn’t.”
“Oh, I’ll never hear the end of that one.” McVie paused. “Did you get a good look at the Corolla?”
“I saw it this morning in the parking garage. And didn’t you see Annabel drive it last night?”
McVie nodded. “It was dark, though. Have you told Dez about the Corolla?”
“Yes. She knows the Corolla was in the parking garage this morning, and she knows I thought it was the same car following us.”
McVie cocked his head. “Who else knows Maggie’s here?”
“No one. You, me, and Maggie—that’s it.” Fenway paused. “I should probably call Dez and tell her, too.”
McVie dropped his arms to his sides and began pacing around the room. “Okay. If you’re sure no one followed you here, we can—” Then he stopped and raised his head.
Fenway turned to look: Maggie was standing in the open doorway to her bedroom.
“Hi, Maggie. Everything okay?”
Maggie shrugged.
Fenway motioned to her. “Maggie, this is Craig McVie.”
“You were in the restaurant last night.”
McVie nodded.
“I heard you were a private investigator, too.”
“He used to be the county sheriff,” Fenway offered.
“I heard your client thinks I slept with her husband.”
McVie furrowed his brow. “Husband?” Then he caught himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be talking about my clients. It’s unprofessional.”
He shot a look at Fenway.
Fenway walked to the sofa and unzipped her overnight bag. McVie’s toiletry bag was on top. “I had to tell her something.”
“You had to tell—”
“I was in the Uber with Maggie, Craig. She wanted to know why I wound up in the hotel having a drink with her last night. I figured the truth was as good as anything.”
“I see,” McVie said, crossing his arms.
“Look. I know it wasn’t—”
“It’s fine,” McVie said. “The priority right now is keeping Maggie safe.” He looked around the room. “We can push some of the furniture against the door, maybe wedge it against the wall so we’re sure the door can’t open.”
Fenway smiled. “I thought you’d sleep out here so you could be sure no one could break in.” She turned to Maggie. “This is kind of a new situation for me. Craig was sheriff for a long time. I’d feel better if he stayed.”
Maggie stared at the floor, her eyes unfocused. “Yeah, fine.”
McVie and Fenway pushed the sofa up against the door, then Maggie wedged the end table between the back of the sofa and a half-wall near the door. McVie pulled on the sofa from several angles, and it wouldn’t move.
“I think this is good enough for tonight,” McVie said. “We’ll figure out what we’re dealing with tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow—it’s Saturday. Will you have to work?” Fenway asked.
“Let’s talk about it later.”
Maggie looked from Fenway’s face to McVie’s, then put her hand over her mouth. “Your client will be pissed if she finds out you helped the woman who’s supposed to be sleeping with her husband.”
“You let me worry about my client.” McVie tried to give Maggie a reassuring grin, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“She can still fire you,” Fenway said under her breath.
“I’m not leaving, Fenway. Your safety—Maggie’s safety—is more important.”
They were quiet for a moment. Then Maggie leaned against the wall. “This doesn’t seem real.”
“I’m sorry,” Fenway said.
Maggie swallowed hard. “I feel like I should call the team. Let them know where I am. So they don’t worry.”
Fenway pulled her laptop out of its case. “I can send the team an email. Say we have you in protective custody. That way, they don’t think you’re still the prime suspect.” She opened the laptop on the coffee table and sat on the sofa.
Maggie walked over and plopped down resignedly on the couch next to her.
A Wi-Fi connection for the hotel appeared on the screen, and Fenway clicked OK. The Neons’ website appeared.
And the news feed had changed.
Neons release goalkeeper Erskine
Fenway sucked in air through her teeth and looked at Maggie, who stared at the screen, eyes wide.
“They cut me?”
“Oh, Maggie, I’m so sorry.”
“They can’t cut me! I’m the starting goalie!” Maggie stood. “I didn’t even do anything!”
“Maybe this is all a misunderstanding.”
Maggie glared at Fenway. “The one person who believed in me, and as soon as he’s not around, they drop me. I thought you told me my teammates believed in me.”
“They do—they do, I know they do. They must have thought you were guilty of—”
“I’ll tell you what I was guilty of.” Maggie paced around the room, arms folded and head down. “I was having sex with the head coach, that’s what I was guilty of.”
“But you didn’t—”
Maggie shook her head. “Coach Flash kept telling me I wanted it. Saying I wouldn’t have come back to play for him so many times if I didn’t want it.” She scoffed. “Like I had a choice after they drafted me.”
Fenway closed her laptop. “We can get this all straightened out tomorrow.”
Maggie sat down on the sofa again and put her head in her hands. “What am I supposed to do? This isn’t right.”
“You can’t do anything tonight.” Fenway set her computer on the coffee table. “Maybe we can fix this. If the team—one of the coaches, or the general manager, or even the owner—thinks you were involved in Coach Levinson’s death, it might be why they released you. Maybe we can get Sergeant Roubideaux to call and set them straight. She interrogated you all day, and we let you go. It’s not what we do if we think someone’s guilty.”
Maggie’s shoulders started to tremble. “Think of how it looks, though,” she whispered. “He was dead in the hotel room, and I was passed out naked in his bed. The murder weapon and all my clothes were in the shower. I’m so stupid. Of course it looks like I killed him. And they can’t have me around.”
A light bulb went off in Fenway’s head. “All your clothes were in the shower.”
“That’s what your sergeant told me. I didn’t put them there—at least, I don’t think I did.”
“Right,” Fenway said. “The idea was you killed him with the golf club, washed off the murder weapon and all your bloody clothes in the shower, and then you were so tired—or maybe so drunk—you passed out in the bed.”
A dark cloud passed over Maggie’s face. “I was definitely drunk.”
“But if you had done all that, would you have taken the time to dry off and clean up?”
“I don’t know. Drunk me does some crazy shit.”
“But you didn’t get into bed soaking wet, did you?”
Maggie paused. “Uh, I guess not.”
“Not even a little wet, right? Even if you had dried off and gotten rid of the towels, there would have been some evidence you’d been in the shower—if you sleep with wet hair, it gets messed up.”
“I guess.”
“So I don’t think you were in the shower. I think you were passed out drunk and you slept right through everything.” And what Fenway didn’t say: if the killer threw Maggie’s clothes in the shower, it looked like they were trying to pin the murder on her.
“So wait a minute,” Maggie said. “Do you believe I didn’t kill Coach Flash?”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“This day has been so crazy,” Maggie muttered. “I don’t even know if I should pinch myself to try to wake up.” She rubbed her eyes. “Maybe I need a good night’s sleep.” She walked toward the bedroom. “Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and this will all be a big misunderstanding. Or a dream.”
Maggie shut the bedroom door behind her.
Fenway took out her phone and called Dez.
Dez answered on the second ring. “Everything okay?”
“No.” Fenway sat forward, lowering her voice. “The Neons just released Maggie.”
Dez sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
“Why? We didn’t arrest her for Levinson’s murder. We haven’t even named her as a suspect.”
“The hotel’s housekeeping staff alerted the team this afternoon.”
Fenway blinked. “Housekeeping? What do they have to do—”
“They found Sandra Christchurch’s diamond tennis bracelet on the floor in Maggie’s room.”