A hand on Fenway’s shoulder. McVie’s deep voice burrowed through her subconscious. “Fenway, wake up.”
“Mmph.”
“Maggie’s gone.”
Fenway sat bolt upright. Her eyes were gummy with sleep, and she blinked hard, willing her eyes to water. “What?”
“Maggie’s not here. She left.”
“What do you mean, she left? What time is it?”
“It’s about six thirty. I went to the bathroom a few minutes ago, then I walked out into the living room and noticed the sofa and the end table weren’t next to the door anymore. Then I went into Maggie’s room, and she was gone.”
“Where did she go?”
“Well, I don’t know, Fenway. I just found out, and I came in and woke you up.”
“Right, right, sorry.” Fenway rubbed her temples, kicking off the sheets.
“She was upset last night, wasn’t she?”
“Yesterday would have been hard for anyone.” Fenway got out of bed and dug through the overnight bag, finding clean underwear and a bra, but no other clothes. “Especially when she found out the Neons released her. She was really upset.” Fenway paused. “I didn’t even tell her about the diamond tennis bracelet.”
McVie nodded. “I was thinking about that. I know you haven’t told me much about her movements yesterday, but from what I could piece together, there’s no way she’d have stolen the bracelet. Did she even have an opportunity to go into her hotel room yesterday?”
Fenway nodded. “When Dez walked her out of the hotel, they stopped in her room so she could change.”
“Isn’t it just as likely that someone planted the diamond tennis bracelet in her room?”
“Someone like who?”
“Like the hotel staff, for one. They take it from Christchurch’s room, they realize it’s a big deal and they won’t be able to pawn it, so they do the next best thing: hide it in the murder suspect’s room.”
Fenway shrugged. “It’s a possibility.”
McVie furrowed his brow. “You’re not thinking about the tennis bracelet.”
“No. I’m trying to keep Maggie safe.”
“So let’s figure out where she would have gone.”
Fenway stood. “Did you bring my work clothes?”
“I even hung them in the closet,” McVie said. “Left side, all the way over.”
Fenway slide the closet door open. “Maggie may have gone back to the Broadmere to try to get her things.” Fenway reached up to take the cream blouse from the rack. Woof. Deodorant first. Definitely deodorant first. She didn’t have time to shower.
“Would she have contacted anyone on the team to try to get them to change their minds?”
“It’s possible,” Fenway said, hurrying into the bathroom, grabbing the deodorant from her case on her way to the toilet. “Dez let her go yesterday without pressing charges. But I thought she believed me when I told her we thought she was innocent.”
McVie pulled on his jeans. “She may have in the moment, but sometimes when you replay the day over in your head, you start to think of things differently.”
Fenway flushed, then stood and put on her deodorant. “You mean she believed me when she went to bed, but not when she was lying there, staring at the ceiling.”
“Right. It’s hard to accept you’re no longer the prime suspect after the police interrogate you all day.” Fenway stopped for a moment. “Or maybe she heard me talk about the tennis bracelet. I tried to keep my voice down.”
“The walls are thin.” McVie put on a T-shirt, tight on his muscular arms. “Maybe she went to talk to someone on the team to get their take on the situation—figure out what she needed to do.”
“Good idea. She might risk contacting someone if she thought she could get back on the team.” Fenway buttoned up her blouse, then walked out to the living room. “I guess we start with the Broadmere. It’s the most obvious place she would go, right?” She grabbed her purse, opened it, and immediately cursed.
“What is it?” McVie hurried out of the bedroom.
“I left my purse out here like an idiot,” Fenway said, rummaging through her bag. “My keys—I think she took my keys.”
“How do you—”
“My purse is too light. With all the keys to the offices at work, I’ve got, I don’t know, a zillion keys.” Fenway dumped her purse upside down on the coffee table: makeup case, wallet, receipts, sunglasses, a folded piece of paper. But no keys.
McVie knelt down, and Fenway heard a jingle.
“They were on the floor?”
McVie stood, holding a keychain with over a dozen keys, and Fenway’s face fell.
“My Honda key is missing.”
McVie unfolded a piece of paper that had fallen out of her purse. He opened it, glanced at it, and then showed it to Fenway.
Sorry—I took your car to try to get my job back
Find me at the Broadmere and I’ll give you back your key and money for gas
“Dammit, Maggie, you idiot.” Fenway tossed the paper on the table.
“At least we know where she is.”
Fenway scooped up the contents of her purse and dumped everything back in. “Can you drive?”
They rushed out of the hotel room.
From the passenger seat of McVie’s Highlander, Fenway took out her phone and dialed. McVie started the engine and raced out of the parking lot.
Three rings. Then the phone picked up, and Dez sleepily exhaled on the other end. “Hello?”
“Maggie’s missing.”
“Maggie’s—what? Fenway?”
Fenway held on as they turned a corner sharply to get onto the highway back to Estancia. “We stayed in a hotel in P.Q. last night, but when McVie got up a few minutes ago, Maggie was gone.”
“Gone? Does she realize her life—”
“The Neons released Maggie yesterday—she saw the news online. Soccer is her life, Dez. She left a note—she went to talk to someone on the team to get her job back.”
“Wait—you said McVie got up a few minutes ago? What’s he doing there?”
“Maggie’s life was in danger. Craig thought he could help.”
Dez exhaled loudly. “He’s not sheriff anymore. He can’t get involved with a police investigation just because he’s worried his girlfriend is in danger.”
“I was trying to keep Maggie out of harm’s way until you could set up a safe house. McVie was helping protect her.”
“And how is that working out?” Dez snapped.
Fenway was quiet for a moment, then ran her tongue over her teeth and sat up straight in her seat. “Anyway, Maggie’s note also says she’ll meet me at the Broadmere Hotel to give me my keys. We’re headed there now. If you have the safe house set up, we should take her there.”
“The safe house will be my next call,” Dez said. “Maggie went directly to the Broadmere?”
“I assume she did. It doesn’t say if she stopped somewhere else. Oh, and I don’t think she knows about the tennis bracelet.”
“You mean she doesn’t know the team fired her because of the theft?”
“I don’t even think she knows the bracelet is missing.” Fenway hesitated. “Unless you mentioned it in your interrogation.”
“No.” Dez paused. “She still had her phone on her?”
“I had her turn it off last night. I didn’t want anyone tracking us. But I didn’t take the phone away from her.”
“Okay. We can check the rideshare companies, see who picked up anyone from the hotel in P.Q.”
“Uh—well, she took my Honda.”
A note of disbelief in Dez’s voice. “She took—”
“Maggie left in the middle of the night. Or early in the morning.”
Dez harrumphed. “Like she’d win anyone over waking them up at four in the morning.”
“They’re all early risers, Dez. Everyone I interviewed was up at five or five thirty.”
“Another reason I’m not a professional athlete,” Dez said. “Okay—she’s in a stolen vehicle. That will make it easier to find her since we can associate her with a crime in progress. It’ll make it easier to hold her, too, since there’s something we can charge her with.”
“I don’t want her to get in trouble. I know she’s twenty-two, but in a lot of ways, she’s just a scared kid.”
“We’ll figure stuff out after she’s in custody.” A rustling noise on Dez’s end. “What’s your Honda’s license plate number?”
McVie pulled into the driveway of the Broadmere, and Fenway opened the passenger door of the Highlander before McVie had even come to a complete stop. She jumped out and rushed into the hotel lobby, holding her badge up.
The receptionist looked up from his computer monitor. “Oh—officer, is everything okay?”
“Did you see this woman come in here during the last few hours?” Fenway held up her phone, a photo of Maggie from the Neons’ website on the screen. “She’s with the soccer team.”
“Ah, yes.”
Fenway let out a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. Did she go up to her room?”
“No, no—I mean, I’ve seen her, but she hasn’t been in here this morning.”
“Are you sure? She would have been driving a silver Honda Accord sedan.”
“I’ve been working since midnight. I had a meal break at four, so you might ask Patti.”
“Patti?”
“She covered the front desk while I was on break, but she finished her shift at six. You’d have to call her at home.”
Fenway ran a hand over her face. “The security footage,” Fenway said. “You’ve got a camera in the lobby, right?”
“Sure. You said a silver Honda? It might be on the parking garage camera.”
“Think I can take a look?”
“I’ll see if our security team is available.”
While the receptionist picked up the phone and dialed, McVie rushed in. “Any luck?”
“Not so far.” She motioned with her head to the front desk attendant. “He’s checking with the security team.”
“I had a quick look in the front parking lot and on the street.” McVie ran a hand through his hair. “Your Honda isn’t there.”
“It might be in the parking garage.”
“She said she’d meet you here, right? But that doesn’t mean she’s here yet. Maybe she was meeting someone at a coffee shop. Or an all-night place like Jack and Jill’s.” He paused. “I assume she left our hotel to talk to somebody about getting back on the team.”
“Okay,” Fenway said. “Let’s think about who Maggie would talk to.”
“If housekeeping found Sandra Christchurch’s tennis bracelet in Maggie’s room,” McVie said, “I assume Christchurch herself made the decision to fire Maggie.”
“Not necessarily. Either one of the assistant coaches could have done it.”
McVie nodded. “Sure—‘we can’t have a thief on our team.’ Takes a potentially unpopular decision off Christchurch’s shoulders, too.”
“So she probably talked to Sunday, or Portello, or Christchurch.”
“Or a player she trusted. You know, to try to get a good strategy together.”
“Like Annabel Shedd. She’s the most powerful player on the team—Annabel runs to Christchurch, saying, ‘I’m not playing for you unless Maggie is reinstated’?”
“Yeah,” McVie mused, “that could be effective.”
“Or...” Fenway stared at the floor for a moment.
“What is it?”
“I’m worried.”
“About what?”
“Shedd had the key to the white Corolla on Thursday night.”
“Are you suggesting that Annabel Shedd tried to run Maggie over?”
“I don’t know. We need to figure out who had the key last.” Or even if Annabel gave Sunday the key back.
Maybe Lorraine Sunday had the key to the Corolla.
The receptionist hung up and turned to Fenway. “The security office says they can cue up the footage in about ten minutes.”
“Thank you,” Fenway said. “Would you please ring Annabel Shedd’s room?”
“This early on a Saturday?” the man said. “I’m sorry—it’s against our hotel policy. No calls before eight o’clock on Saturday.”
“Did you see my badge?” Fenway asked. “I know I said ‘please,’ but it wasn’t a request. And I don’t need a warrant for a phone call.”
The man frowned, then gave Fenway a curt nod. “Shall I ask her to come to the lobby?”
“I can speak with her over the phone.”
“Of course.” The man gave Fenway a tight smile. He dialed, waited a few moments, then hung up. “No answer.”
Fenway glanced at McVie, whose jaw tightened.
“How about the owner?” Fenway said.
“You think a rookie goalkeeper would call the owner of the Neons to convince her to keep her on the team? Besides, if Annabel isn’t in her room—”
“She could be in the bathroom. Or going for a morning jog. Even though she’s not here, it doesn’t mean she’s meeting with Maggie.”
“Fine,” McVie said. “Call the owner.”
Fenway turned to the receptionist. “Sandra Christchurch, please.”
The man typed into the screen, then frowned and looked up at Fenway. “Ms. Christchurch has a do not disturb request on her room.”
“A what?”
“She called the front desk last night. They made a note of it—not to be disturbed until ten thirty.”
“Call her anyway.”
The man hesitated.
“Please call her anyway.”
“Calling a guest when they have a do not disturb on their line is against corporate policy. I’ll get written up.”
“Even with the police right here?”
“I’m afraid I don’t make the rules. If you had a warrant or subpoena—”
“Never mind.” Fenway took the phone out of her purse. “I’ll call her myself.”
“It’ll go straight to voicemail.”
“I hope she didn’t fly her private plane to Mexico,” Fenway murmured.
“Like a dine-and-dash, but with the hotel?”
“She’s rich, right?” Fenway whispered, taking a few steps away from the desk as McVie followed. “Why would she care about leaving a hotel without checking out, especially if she’s the one who beat her coach over the head?”
McVie blinked. “You—you think she killed Coach Levinson?”
“I think she’s a viable suspect. She doesn’t have a good alibi. The coach would have opened his door for her. And she assembled the press conference so fast, it looked like she didn’t know he was dead, even though he’d been dead for hours.”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. She might have wanted to sleep in. I know she’s rich, but I assume she’s been busy the last couple of days with everything going on with the team.”
Fenway tapped her chin. “I wonder…”
“What?”
“A little bird told me that Sandra Christchurch might sell the Neons.”
“A little—” Then McVie raised his eyebrows knowingly. “Ah. Your father.”
“What do you think is worth more money, Craig? A team with a head coach who’s a sexual predator and who might have lawsuits coming down the line, or a team with a dead head coach?”
“You think that will make any difference to the lawsuits?”
Fenway nodded. “If Levinson isn’t around to affirm or deny those claims? Absolutely. I’d think it would be a much weaker case.”
“You don’t think there’s enough evidence to hold Maggie Erskine,” McVie said. “There’s even less for Sandra Christchurch.”
“You’re right. But I think Christchurch lied to me about where she was the night Levinson was killed.” Fenway stepped back to the front desk and spoke to the clerk. “I need you to call another two rooms.”
“Of course.”
“Lorraine Sunday and Rocky Portello.”
“Oh,” the clerk said, “I saw them leave a few minutes before you arrived.”
“I thought you said you didn’t see anyone.”
“I said I didn’t see anyone come in; you didn’t ask me if I saw anyone leave. The coaches came down in the elevators and went out through there.” He pointed at the hallway leading to the parking garage.
A light bulb went off in Fenway’s head. Of course. Even though it was Saturday, it was the second day of training camp. The coaches would be setting up for the players’ arrival. And for that matter, Annabel was probably getting breakfast or in the shower.
“They’ve got training camp this morning,” Fenway said. “We’ll have to head over to Nidever University.”
“Didn’t you want to see the security footage first?” McVie asked.
“Yes, I do.”
“I don’t think security is ready for you yet,” the receptionist offered.
Fenway furrowed her brow but wanted to play it cool. “Let’s go up and see if Maggie is in her room.” She looked at the receptionist. “Does Maggie Erskine still have a room here?”
The man clicked a few keys on the computer and nodded. “Room 612. Do you want me to call first?”
“I don’t think so.” She began to turn away, then stopped. “Thank you for your assistance.”
“My pleasure.”
Fenway and McVie walked to the elevator and Fenway pushed the button. The elevator dinged, the doors opened, and they got in.
McVie pushed 6, and the doors closed. “Do you think Maggie’s here?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Why go up then?”
“I’ve been wrong before.” Fenway paused. “Plus, most of the players are on the sixth floor. We might be able to get some information. Maybe Maggie talked to one of them.”
“It’s a long shot.”
“We’ll also go up to the ninth and see if Sandra Christchurch is in.”
“Oh—of course. That’s probably why the clerk gave you a dirty look when we went to the elevators—he knew you’d do that.”
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened onto the sixth floor.
Fenway and McVie stepped out into the hallway. Turning right, they followed the narrow hallway to Room 612.
“You want to do the honors?” Fenway asked.
“I’m only here for my good looks.”
Fenway knocked. “Maggie? It’s Coroner Stevenson.”
Silence.
She glanced at McVie, who shrugged. She knocked again.
Across the hall, a door opened, and a tall Asian woman with short black hair stuck her head out. “Hey—you’re looking for Maggie?”
“Yes,” Fenway said. “Have you seen her?”
“You must not have seen the news last night. Maggie’s not on the team anymore.”
“I thought she might have come back to pack.”
“Well, if she did, I haven’t seen her,” the woman said.
“You’re—” Fenway squeezed her eyes shut, the name out of her reach. “Darlene?”
“Darcy—Darcy Nishimura. We spoke yesterday at Nidever.”
“Right, right. Thanks for letting us know.”
Darcy nodded. She shut the hotel room door, and Fenway and McVie were left alone in the hallway again.
Fenway turned and knocked again, louder this time. “Maggie?”
“If she hasn’t answered by now,” McVie said, “she’s either not there or not answering.”
Fenway took her phone out of her purse, tapped the screen a few times, and found the phone number for the Broadmere Hotel.
The receptionist picked up on the second ring. “Broadmere Hotel, front desk. How may I direct your call?”
“Good morning. It’s the coroner.”
“I’m sorry?”
“The law enforcement person who just went up the elevator to Maggie Erskine’s room.”
“Of course. Sixth floor, correct?”
“Yes. We knocked, but there’s no response. Is it possible to get someone up here with a master key and let us into Maggie Erskine’s room?”
McVie looked up and shook his head.
“Uh—” the receptionist said.
“Hold on.” Fenway placed the call on hold and turned to McVie. “What?”
“Even if the hotel comes up with a key, you can’t go in.”
“Ordinarily, I know I need a warrant,” Fenway said, “but these are exigent circumstances.”
“Exigent circumstances are when you think the person in the room is dead—not if you don’t know where they are.”
“But Maggie is in danger.”
“Says you,” McVie said. “In fact, everything you’ve done since you left the office yesterday is predicated on your unsubstantiated statement that Maggie is in danger.”
“But she is!”
“I believe you. I talked to Maggie. But look at it from the D.A.’s perspective.”
“What does the D.A. have to do with this?”
“Let’s suppose you burst in there and find a bloody golf club with Maggie’s fingerprints all over it.”
“But that’s not—”
“Evidence that Maggie did it, whatever it is. Or evidence someone else did.”
“So? When there’s a missing person, if you have reasonable suspicion the missing person is in danger, you’re allowed to enter private property.”
McVie rubbed the back of his neck. “Think about what Maggie’s defense lawyer might say.”
Fenway thought for a moment, then grimaced. “That I made everything up. That I only said Maggie was missing so I could enter her hotel room without a warrant.” She looked at McVie. “But you could back up my story.”
“We’re romantically involved. A good defense lawyer could get reasonable doubt in a jury’s mind in an instant.”
“Right. Maggie could say I asked her to—I don’t know—hide in my Accord to keep herself safe, while instead I’m at the Broadmere planting evidence in her hotel room.” Fenway sighed. “And I won’t be able to use anything I find in court—and the rest of the investigation will be tainted, even if I’m not on the active investigation.”
“And then you’ll be back at square one.”
Fenway took the call off hold. “You still there?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I’m sorry—I won’t need the room key after all.” She apologized for the inconvenience and ended the call, then turned to McVie. “Ready to go?”
McVie stared at the carpeted floor in front of Maggie’s hotel room, then pointed at the bottom of the door. “Do you see that?”
Fenway squinted. A corner of cream-colored paper sticking out a quarter inch.
“You should see what that is.”
“We can’t get the staff to let us into the room, but we can take that paper?”
“The plain view doctrine.”
“I’m not sure—”
“Take a picture of it first.”
Fenway opened the camera app on her phone and snapped a picture of the paper, then bent down, pulling a pair of blue nitrile gloves out of her purse.
“What is it?” McVie asked.
Fenway snapped on her gloves, then carefully pulled on the corner of the paper. It was thicker than regular paper—cardstock. And it was stuck on the bottom of the door—maybe by something sticky, or maybe the corner of the card got wedged between the door and the seal.
Little by little, more of the card became visible.
A painting was printed on the cream cardstock: flowers in a vase in warm colors. In calligraphy below: Thinking of You.
“A greeting card,” McVie said, disappointment in his voice.
Fenway patiently wiggled the card back and forth, little by little, until the small greeting card was completely out.
She turned the card over.
Maggie—
I know how happy this makes you
Lorraine
Fenway furrowed her brow. “Lorraine? As in Lorraine Sunday?” She held it out for McVie to read.
“What do you think this refers to?”
Fenway shrugged. “Maybe it’s a ‘Congratulations, you’re our starting goalie’ card.” She dug in her purse with her free hand for an evidence bag, then found one and put the card inside. “Or maybe…”
“What?”
“You had a good point about Maggie not having enough time to hide a tennis bracelet—much less steal it in the first place. Maybe Lorraine stole it and put it in Maggie’s room. Christchurch did say the coaches were in her suite last night for a meeting—Lorraine could have taken it then.”
“You’re saying Lorraine had a key to Maggie’s room, too?”
“I guess that doesn’t make sense.” Then Fenway shook her head. “Of course. Lorraine Sunday doesn’t have a key, but she wants to give the tennis bracelet to Maggie.” Fenway got down on her hands and knees, turning her head toward the door and laying it on the carpet. “There’s just enough space under this door to maybe slip in a thin piece of jewelry like a tennis bracelet.” She pushed herself to her feet. “The housekeeping staff found it on the floor. Suppose the bracelet went farther into the room, but the card got stuck?”
“Another potential scenario.” McVie looked up and down the hall. “Okay, we look suspicious. We should go.”
They walked to the elevator. Fenway’s phone rang in her purse. She pulled it out and tapped the screen. “Hi, Sarah.”
“Oh, good, you’re okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I—” Fenway grimaced. “Right. I didn’t come into the office.”
“Usually you leave me a message.”
“It’s been a crazy morning.”
“Then I’ll make this quick—I’ve got the results for the Broadmere staff.”
“The results…” Fenway blinked, trying to remember.
“Yesterday,” Sarah said, her voice touched with exasperation, “you asked me to see if any of the hotel staff were connected to Paul Levinson.”
“Right—was that only yesterday?” Fenway took a few steps down the hall of the sixth floor and lowered her voice so McVie couldn’t hear her easily.
“It was,” Sarah said. “I found a Broadmere employee whose daughter went to Shellmont University. She was a senior the first year Paul Levinson coached the women’s soccer team.”
“Was she on the team?”
“I’m still digging into that.”
“You have a name?”
“The student was Zuri Washington.”
Fenway’s mouth fell open. “Ezekiel.”
“Yes, that’s the father. You’ve met him?”
“He’s been my main contact at the security operations center at the hotel.” And he knew the ins and outs of the place. He’d know how to disable the doors in the stairwell to get in and out. He’d know where to stash bloody towels where the CSI team couldn’t find them.
Fenway thanked Sarah, ended the call, and walked back to McVie, who reached out and pushed the button for the elevator. It immediately dinged, and the elevator slid open.
“So,” Fenway said, pressing 9, “before we conclude that Maggie didn’t come back to the hotel, we should check the security footage.”
McVie elbowed Fenway gently as the doors closed. “You’re still using ‘we.’”
Fenway nodded, then looked straight ahead. The brushed silvery surface of the elevator door reflected the colors of their faces and hair and clothes, but no definition to their features.
“Can you pull Maggie’s phone records?” McVie asked. “Those might at least tell us who she spoke with.”
The elevator stopped and Fenway got out, McVie a step behind her. “It’ll take some time—and depending on the phone company, we might need to wait until Monday.” Fenway stopped in front of Sandra Christchurch’s hotel suite door and turned to McVie. “Hold on. Your client thinks her wife is having an affair.”
McVie rocked onto the balls of his feet, then lowered himself back to his heels. “That’s right.”
“What would she do if she found out you were trying to protect Maggie?”
“It’s not like I’m billing her for this time.” He paused. “Not unless it becomes relevant to the affair.”
“Why are you doing this? Mathilda Montague could fire you—or worse, she could go after your P.I. license.”
“Don’t worry about it,” McVie said softly.
Fenway scratched her head. “You’re sticking your neck out on this one, Craig.”
McVie motioned toward the door. Fenway rapped just below the eyepiece, then took a step back.
They waited a moment, the hallway eerie in its silence.
McVie glanced at Fenway, who took a step forward and knocked again, more forcefully this time. “Ms. Christchurch? It’s Coroner Stevenson. I have a few follow-up questions for you.”
“You do?” McVie asked quietly.
“‘Have you seen or spoken to Maggie Erskine?’ will be the first thing out of my mouth.”
But no one opened the door.
“Do you hear anything inside?” McVie asked after a moment.
“No. But it’s hard to tell.”
Fenway rubbed her chin. “Do you suppose that Maggie somehow managed to talk herself back onto the team? That maybe she’s over at Nidever with the coaches?”
Suddenly, the door was pulled open so fast it hit the wall behind it.
“What?” the woman in the room croaked. Fenway blinked a few times—the woman was Sandra Christchurch, but her shoulders were slumped under a long floral robe, her white-blonde hair disheveled, and her gray eyes tired. “I told the front desk I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“I don’t work for the hotel.” Fenway gave her a tight smile. “Have you seen or heard from Maggie Erskine today?”
“I assume the staff made arrangements for her to return to Las Vegas. Or perhaps home,” Christchurch said.
“Is that a yes or no?”
Christchurch smiled darkly. “No, I haven’t seen her, Miss Stevenson.”
“The Las Vegas Neons have a white Toyota Corolla they use—”
“A what?”
“A white Toyota Corolla. Have you used the Corolla in the last two days? Last night, say, around five or six o’clock?”
Christchurch put her right hand on her hip, her left hand holding the door open. “Coroner, I don’t drive anywhere I don’t have to. Now—if there’s nothing else, let me get back to bed. I’ve had two late evenings in a row, and I need to be alert for a meeting later this morning.”
“My apologies,” Fenway muttered, and Christchurch let go of the door, the automatic mechanism slamming it shut.