Fenway’s vision blurred as she slowly climbed out of the ravine. Grabbing onto a tree root sticking out of the side of the hill, Fenway pulled herself up over a bush and onto the trail. She got to her feet and stood for a moment, her hands on her knees, wiping her eyes and trying to catch her breath.
She looked up—the trees were standing solidly. Maggie had likely gone into the ravine from this part of the trail, not from the road above.
Fenway scanned the edge of the trail where a lip of bushes and dirt separated it from the ravine.
Aha. Broken brambles and the tamped-down underbrush gave her a good idea of where Maggie had last been standing, probably next to her killer. She pulled her phone out and tapped the camera app.
The single drops of rain falling every few seconds had turned into a light drizzle. The sky was growing darker with the approaching rain clouds. Fenway stayed to the side of the trail, searching the ground for any telltale signs of the killer.
There.
A good ten feet back from where Maggie had gone into the ravine: half a shoe print in the mud on the trail. It looked to be from the toe and the ball of the foot. Fenway snapped a picture—she was sure the coming rain would wash the print away before CSI could get here.
She stared at her screen, then enlarged the photo.
Wavy lines coursed horizontally on the sole from side to side, spaced further apart on the outside and closer together near the instep. A circle with two ridges around the outside was located at the ball of the foot, interrupting the waves. The print showed a sole deeply grooved toward the edge of the instep but lighter near the middle of the foot. This wasn’t a new pair of shoes.
Faintly, she heard sirens growing closer. Now that Fenway had found the body, Dez had probably called an ambulance. She walked down the trail another twenty feet before she heard a voice behind her.
“Fenway!”
She turned around. Dez had drawn herself to her full height on a switchback below her, about fifty yards away. Dez cupped her hands around her mouth. “Where’s Maggie?”
Fenway pointed down the ravine to where Maggie’s body lay.
Dez motioned her closer with her arm. “Is she alive?”
Fenway pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Cause of death? Time?”
“I—I haven’t examined the body.”
“Well, get down there—you’re the coroner.” Dez hurried up the trail toward Fenway. “Find something for us to go on.”
Fenway stared down into the ravine and took a deep breath. She hurried over to where the broken branches ended and began to climb down into the ravine again. She heard rustling and looked above her; Dez was following her down.
Fenway climbed over the underbrush and around a cypress tree to get to Maggie’s fallen body. She pulled her phone out again and took pictures from several angles, making sure to be clear what Maggie’s final resting position was—her arms, her legs. Fenway scooted around on the side of the hill to her feet, then bent down and looked at the soles of Maggie’s shoes. Her white athletic shoes had a sunburst pattern on the bottom. Not a match for the footprint in the muddy trail above her.
Gently, Fenway reached out her hand and lifted Maggie’s leg, then scurried around her side and lifted her arm. It was beginning to stiffen; Maggie had been dead for several hours. Fenway glanced at her phone screen.
“Based on rigor mortis,” Fenway said, “I would put time of death sometime this morning. Probably between 5:00 and 8:00 a.m.”
“Quite a window.”
Fenway shrugged. “I don’t have my kit with me. When CSI gets here, they can do liver temp and some other readings that might narrow it down more.” She crab-walked cautiously toward Maggie’s head, which had turned awkwardly to the side, and looked as carefully as she could at the back of the skull without touching it. The greenery of the underbrush was stained brownish red with blood.
Could she move the body to see the wound without Maggie sliding down further into the ravine?
Gingerly, she held Maggie’s neck with her left hand, then placed her right hand on the crown of the head and lifted slightly. Matted hair obscured much of Maggie’s scalp, but it was clear an object had hit the back of her head with sufficient force to crack her skull.
In the field, with only her gloved hands and the muddy ravine to deal with, Fenway couldn’t be sure if the weapon had been a golf club like the one used to kill coach Levinson, a rock, or perhaps a thick walking stick. She supposed it was possible Maggie had hit her head on a rock on the way down, but given there was little damage to the rest of her body, Fenway suspected foul play.
“Anything?” Dez called.
“The back of her skull is smashed in. I can’t get much more detailed out here.”
“Does she have anything on her?” Dez asked. “A purse nearby, or a phone?”
Fenway checked the pockets of Maggie’s track pants. There was a jiggling lump of metal in her left jacket pocket. Fenway reached inside, and her finger went into a metal loop.
“Find something?” Dez asked.
“My car key,” Fenway responded. “No phone.”
“Maybe her stuff is in the car,” Dez called.
Fenway nodded, then turned back to the body. If Maggie had thought she was meeting someone to talk about getting back on the team, maybe an early morning run or hike was part of the killer’s suggestion. Maggie might have left her belongings in the car while she went to talk or work out with her teammate or her coach.
The drizzle came down a little harder as Fenway and Dez swept as much of the ravine area as they could around the body, and others began to show up. Fenway lost track of time. First, two paramedics came on scene, then Melissa de la Garza from San Miguelito CSI.
Fenway was far away from Melissa, and by the time she climbed out of the ravine to the trail, her leg muscles were burning from going up and down the hill.
She looked out over the ocean, getting wetter by the minute. Then she carefully made her way down the trail the way she had come, and ten minutes later, she was back on the beach, the wet sand squishing in her shoes.
“You’re not doing anybody any good sitting here moping,” Dez said.
Fenway startled as the steady patter of the rain hitting the top of her head ceased, replaced by the sound of raindrops hitting plastic. She opened her eyes. Dez held an umbrella over her with one hand and with the other, handed her a large paper cup with a plastic lid. Fenway reached up and took it; it was hot, and it felt good in her frigid hand.
“I’m not moping,” Fenway said. “Where’d you get coffee?”
Dez motioned with her head to the road above them. “Your boyfriend.” She tilted her head. “You sure look like you’re moping.”
“I need to figure out what was going through the killer’s head. I need to figure out who Maggie would have trusted enough to meet on the side of a highway at six in the morning.”
Dez put her hands on her hips.
“I told her that keeping her safe was my number one priority, and here she is, dead in a ravine overlooking Cypress Point Beach.”
“Because she didn’t stay in the hotel room with you.”
“Yeah, well, the least I can do is catch Maggie’s killer.”
Dez turned back to look at the ocean. “From the first day you were here, I’ve been trying to get you not only to play to your strengths, but also to rely on other people on your team. They have strengths, too—ones you don’t.”
Fenway pressed her lips together. “Maybe if I’d been paying closer attention, Maggie wouldn’t be dead.” She felt teardrops, hot and wet on each cheek.
Great. She was crying in front of Dez.
She hoped the raindrops on her face were hiding her tears, but she turned her face anyway. Fenway adjusted her seat on the bottom stair, dug her heels into the sand, then crossed her arms on her knees and buried her face in the sleeves of her wet jacket.
“You’ll have enough time to feel sorry for yourself later,” Dez said softly. “If you’re going to find Maggie’s killer, you need to think. Analyze. Observe.”
A huge wave crashed on the shore, the roar a crescendo. “Whoever the killer is,” Fenway said, catching her breath, “Maggie would have known them and trusted them. And they must have been an influential person to get her potentially back on the team.”
“Maggie’s killer or Levinson’s?”
In the distance, three lights on the water, spaced far apart, began to flash. “They’re the same person. I’m sure of it.” Fenway sighed. “I used to love this beach.”
“Stay in this job long enough, and it’ll ruin everything,” Dez said.
Fenway was silent. She stood, then paced slowly back and forth, feeling her shoes sink into the wet sand. “I don’t really know what to think right now, Dez. I know we need justice for Maggie.” Fenway bowed her head, her chin almost touching between her collarbones. “I thought if I could get her to the hotel in Paso Querido, she’d be safe. I thought she was safe.”
Fenway heard Dez’s shoes squish on the sand, then felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I know you did.”
Fenway looked back to the water. The three lights were glowing out of sync, giving a hazy, dreamlike quality to the fading light of the late afternoon.
Dez shifted her weight from foot to foot. “By the way, they’re taking your car for evidence.”
“I figured.” Fenway turned around, squinting at Highway 326 above them. “Is McVie still here?”
Dez nodded. “He said he’d forward us some emails about his investigation—he thought we might be able to find something to point us in the right direction. But I don’t know how much help they’ll be in finding Levinson’s killer.”
Fenway ran her fingers through her short, wet hair, a stream of water cascading onto her shoulders and down her back. She shuddered. “If we find Maggie’s killer, we’ll find Levinson’s killer.”
After crossing the sand and climbing the wood-and-stone staircase, Fenway reached Highway 326 and looked down the road. McVie’s Highlander was parked about a hundred yards in front of Fenway’s Accord. The Honda was now surrounded by police tape and three police cruisers. Fenway walked around her car, trying not to make eye contact with the officers inside, who were searching the glove compartment and the area beneath the seats. She wondered vaguely if the car still smelled like lengua tacos.
Fenway stared ahead through the thickening rain and saw McVie’s silhouette in the driver side of the Highlander. She walked to the passenger side window and rapped lightly on the glass.
The door locks clicked open, and Fenway opened the door. A fluffy beach towel was draped over the seat and another on the seat back.
“Hey,” McVie said.
“Hey yourself,” Fenway said, an exhausted smile touching the corners of her mouth. “What’s all this?”
“After Dez told me you found Maggie’s body, I figured you’d be out here awhile.” He looked up at the rain an awkward angle. “And the skies hadn’t opened up when I dropped you off at the sheriff’s office earlier. So I went home and picked up a few things.”
“A few things?”
“I made a run to Java Jim’s, for one,” McVie said, smiling. “I figured you all could use some hot drinks. Got some for the other officers too.”
“And towels so I wouldn’t mess up your car.” She sat down heavily in the passenger seat the towel at her back falling and landing on top of her shoulders. She reached behind her and began to towel off her wet hair.
“Towels so you can dry off. I even put the seat heaters on, so they’re nice and warm.” He pointed with his thumb into the rear seat. “I’ve got some sweats for you in the back if you want to change.”
“You think of everything, don’t you?” Fenway’s shoes squished. For a moment, she wasn’t sure whether leaving her shoes on or taking them off would cause more of a mess. She leaned back in the seat—against the warm, fluffy towels—and tried not to think about it.
“Are you okay?”
Fenway closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing. She noticed her breaths coming short and fast and took a deep breath in through her nose, releasing it out through her mouth. One more: in, out. “I—” She put her hands over her face and felt hot tears on her palms where they were touching her cheeks. “I failed her.”
Then McVie’s arms were around her, pulling her into an awkward embrace. “I’m sorry.” McVie ran his fingers gently over the back of Fenway’s head, the way he used to run his fingers through her hair when it was longer. “You’ll figure this out.”
After a few moments, Fenway pulled out of McVie’s hug and wiped her face with the towel. McVie wordlessly started the engine and pulled the Highlander out onto 326. They followed the winding road back to Ocean Highway and entered the freeway going south toward downtown.
McVie cleared his throat. “Do you need to pick anything up from home?”
Fenway looked at McVie out of the corner of her eye. “I think I need to go back to the coroner’s office.”
McVie shook his head. “It’s past five o’clock, Fenway. I don’t think you’ve eaten since that breakfast sandwich. And you’ve been running after Maggie since early this morning.”
“But the first forty-eight hours—”
“You won’t do anybody any good with how worn out you are right now.” McVie changed lanes and passed the Broadway exit.
“Where are we going?”
“If you don’t need to pick up anything at your apartment, I’m taking you to my place.”
“What about Megan?”
“I talked to Amy after I got to the beach—she told me Megan spent the day with her friends. I think she skipped her tutoring session today, too.” McVie ran a hand over his face. “I get that she’s seventeen and doesn’t really want to be a part of our messed-up family anymore—anyway, it’s not important. The point is, she’s not coming.”
“Oh.” Fenway touched her finger to the cold passenger window, tracing the path of a raindrop inching from the front to the back of the window with the wind. “So you basically waited all day for me.”
“I ran a few errands,” McVie said, waving his hand dismissively. “I had a report to write. I got my laptop from my office, and I paid some bills.”
Fenway kept staring out the passenger window as they exited at San Vicente Boulevard. “You don’t think your client has anything to do with the death of Paul Levinson, do you?”
McVie rubbed his chin. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“Montague’s wife was the last person seen with the white Toyota Corolla.”
McVie frowned. “Montague hasn’t communicated with me at all since Coach Levinson’s body was discovered Friday morning.”
“She must have seen the news articles by now. It’s her wife’s team, after all. Don’t you think it’s a little odd that she hasn’t said anything?”
“Maybe. But she’s the CEO of a big organization.” McVie tapped the steering wheel. “Honestly, I expected to be chewed out two or three times by now. Every time my cell phone rings, I think it’s Mathilda Montague calling me to ask how I let something like this happen.”
“Something like what?”
“Mathilda wanted to keep her spying on Annabel hush-hush. Now with the deaths of both Annabel’s coach and the woman Mathilda suspected—”
“She can’t blame you for that, surely. Like you had anything to do with—”
McVie smiled sadly. “It’s sweet that you think my clients are rational.”
“But she hasn’t said anything to you yet? Not since Coach Levinson was killed?”
“Her assistant has called a few times to ask for status updates, and I’ve gotten electronic payments for the work I’ve done so far.”
“So that’s good, right?”
He shrugged. “Maybe I’m reading too much into Montague’s radio silence.”
They pulled into McVie’s apartment complex. He guided the Highlander into his parking space.
Fenway exhaled slowly.
“So,” McVie said, “who’s left as a suspect now?”
Fenway bit her lip. “Annabel had the car last. She had motive for wanting Levinson dead—he’d raped her ten years before and gotten away with it.”
“But why kill Maggie?”
Fenway shook her head. “My only hypothesis is that Maggie witnessed the murder and had to be eliminated.”
“Then why wasn’t Maggie killed along with Coach Levinson?”
Fenway crinkled her nose. “I didn’t say it was a good hypothesis.”
“Maybe you haven’t uncovered the real motive yet.” McVie drummed his fingers on the armrest. “You know, just because we didn’t see evidence of an affair between Annabel and Maggie doesn’t mean there was nothing between them. They could have been very good at hiding it.”
Fenway shook her head. “Okay, for the sake of argument, let’s assume that Annabel and Maggie were having an affair. Let’s even assume that Annabel wanted to leave Mathilda Montague and be with Maggie.”
“That would give her a really good motive for killing Levinson.”
Fenway crossed her arms. “But not for trying to run Maggie over.”
McVie shrugged. “Here’s a hypothetical scenario. Annabel wanted to leave Mathilda, but Maggie rejected her because she was too scared to come out from under Levinson’s thumb. Maybe that’s what they were arguing about in the restaurant. Then Annabel kills Levinson, thinking Maggie will finally be with her. But Maggie rejects her again.”
“So Annabel tries to run her over?”
McVie paused, thinking. “If Annabel was the one with the Corolla key, why wouldn’t you think Annabel was the Corolla driver who tried to kill Maggie?”
Fenway traced the edge of the window with her finger. “Granted, Annabel was the last person who checked the Corolla out. And she had the key.”
“Were there other keys?”
Fenway nodded. “A second key—Coach Levinson had it.”
“Did he have it with him the night he died?”
“I don’t know. In fact, I don’t know where it is.”
“If it’s missing, whoever killed Levinson could have used his key to steal the Corolla.”
Fenway dropped her hands to her lap. “Yeah, yeah, Craig. I see what you’re saying. It’s not likely, but it’s possible.”
“And Annabel would have been one of the few people Maggie would have trusted to try to get her back on the Neons.”
“I guess we need to establish where Annabel was this morning.” Fenway took her phone out of her purse. “I’ll call Dez. Can you drop me off?”
An hour later, Fenway and Dez stood at the entrance to Annabel’s hotel room. Two officers were behind them.
“You don’t think we can take Annabel in for questioning by ourselves?” Fenway whispered.
Dez put her hands on her hips. “You’ve spun a hypothetical tale of Annabel bashing Coach Levinson’s head in with a golf club, then trying to run over Maggie with the white Corolla, stalking you in the same car, then hitting Maggie over the head and throwing her body into a ravine. Did I miss anything?”
“I guess not.”
“Great. So I’m not taking any chances.”
Fenway reached out and knocked on the hotel room door.
Annabel opened the door a moment later. Her hair glistened, wet from the shower, and she wore pajama bottoms and a ratty white T-shirt a couple of sizes too big for her. “Coroner—hi. What can I do for you?”
“We have some additional questions for you,” Fenway said. “Can you come with us?”
“Is this about Maggie? Did you find her?”
“Have you seen the news this evening?” Dez asked gently.
“No—wait, what happened?”
“Like I said,” Dez said, this time more firmly, “we need you to come with us.”
“Oh—yes, absolutely. Let me throw some clothes on, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
Dez stepped past Fenway until she was inside the threshold. “Just grab your shoes, Ms. Shedd. With any luck, we’ll have you back here within the hour, and you can continue with your evening.”
“I’ll be fast. Two minutes, tops.” Annabel looked from Fenway to Dez, then frowned. “Shit, you’re not kidding.”
“I thought for sure you would prioritize helping us figure out what happened to Maggie,” Dez said.
“Of course—I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure Maggie is safe.”
“While we have you here, Ms. Shedd, would you mind if we took a look around your hotel room?”
“I can’t change out of my pajamas, yet you want to take a look—” Annabel cocked her head to the side, realization dawning on her face. “Coroner Stevenson already knows about the key to the white Corolla.” She blocked Fenway and Dez from stepping too far into the hotel room, setting her body between the edge of the door and the wall. “You know, I don’t think I will come down to the station with you. I’ll give my lawyer a call first.”
“You can call your lawyer from the car and ask them to meet us there.” Dez smiled a half-smile that Fenway thought looked smarmy, not easygoing. “It’ll be much faster anyway.”
The cords in Annabel’s neck tightened. “Am I under arrest?”
A slight hesitation in Dez’s voice. “No, we just need to ask you some questions.”
“The coroner has already asked me quite a few questions over the last couple of days.” Annabel’s shoulders tightened. “Let me ask you a question first: do you know where Maggie is?”
Fenway glanced briefly at Dez, then quickly turned her attention back to Annabel. But it was enough of a tell.
Annabel’s face crumpled, the creases of her umber complexion deepening, and her breath hitched. But then her face turned inscrutable. “If anything has happened to Maggie, and if you’re asking me to come down to the station, I definitely won’t be there until my lawyer joins us.” Annabel took another step forward. “Now, unless you’re arresting me, please get out of my room. I have quite a bit of work to do tonight.” She walked toward them, herding them out the door. Dez grunted, but turned and stepped over the threshold into the hallway, Fenway following.
“What size shoe do you wear?” Fenway asked.
“What?”
“Your shoe size,” Fenway repeated. “What is it?”
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”
“Humor me.”
Annabel looked down at her long feet, encased in white cotton athletic socks. “Take a guess, Coroner.”
The door shut gently but firmly.
Dez shook her head. “She scored the winning goal in the World Cup. You think her shoe size won’t be on a fan site somewhere?” She took her phone out and began tapping on the screen as they walked down the hall.
Fenway pushed the button for the elevator.
Dez held up her phone for Fenway to see, then turned it back to read it. “Here it is. ‘The 5-foot-11 Annabel Shedd thrives on the stress of high expectations. In high school, she was self-conscious about her large feet, but she now views her size 11s as one of her greatest advantages. It’s hard to argue, as those size 11s have kicked in 34 goals in international play.’ Why did you want to know?”
“I took pictures of a shoe print at the scene where we found Maggie’s body.”
“Did you show the print to CSI when you were out on the trail?”
The elevator dinged, and the doors opened. “The rain washed it away before CSI could get an imprint,” Fenway said, stepping in and pushing the button for the ground floor. “I’ll send the photo to Melissa—I should have sent it as soon as I took it.”
“Did you put anything in the photo to measure it against?” Dez asked. “Otherwise, they’ll have a lot of trouble determining the size.”
Fenway swore at herself in her head as the elevator doors closed behind them. She should have put something—a pencil, her hand, anything—next to the shoe print when she photographed it.
The elevator began to descend. “It’ll be better than nothing,” Fenway said. “You can see the sole pretty clearly—and the wear pattern. If it’s smaller than an eleven, we can rule Annabel out as a suspect.”
Dez turned to face Fenway, narrowing her eyes. “You saw the shoe print. You’ve been doing this for a while. What do you think?”
“It could be the same size Annabel wears.”
A ding, and the doors opened. Dez walked out of the elevator. “It’s late, and I’ve had a hell of a day.” She glanced at Fenway over her shoulder. “I know you have, too. Send the photo to Melissa and get some sleep. We can get a fresh start tomorrow.”