Fenway stared at the email she had opened on her phone, her eyes unfocused. She was missing something. She leaned back in the rear seat of the rideshare. She’d gotten the message at six a.m. that Dr. Yasuda was performing the autopsy on Maggie—at eight. Fenway had rushed through her shower and hurried downstairs before she remembered her car was being held as evidence in Maggie’s death.
Fortunately, the Uber had arrived in five minutes, but the trip was costing her over a hundred fifty dollars.
Her phone rang in her hand. McVie.
She hesitated, then clicked Answer.
“Hey, Craig. It’s a little early for you to be calling.”
“I thought you were coming over last night. Everything okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Fenway closed her eyes. “I meant to come over after I went to the hotel with Dez last night. But afterward, Dez dropped me off at my apartment, and, I don’t know. I didn’t feel like going anywhere.”
A pause on the other end. Then McVie cleared his throat, his voice brittle with forced enthusiasm. “I understand. You went through a lot yesterday, and I had a lot of work to catch up on last night anyway.”
She gritted her teeth. “It doesn’t have anything to do with you, Craig.”
“I said I understood.”
Fenway tilted her head forward and looked out the window. They were at the fork in the highway, and the driver turned towards San Miguelito. “I guess maybe I should have called.”
McVie cleared his throat. “Do you want to go to breakfast? Jack and Jill’s?”
“I’m on my way to Maggie’s autopsy.”
“Oh—that was fast. Usually it takes a day or two to schedule.”
“Dr. Yasuda scheduled it herself. It’s a high-profile death.”
“Hang on—the autopsy in San Miguelito? You don’t have your car. Do you want me to drive you?”
Fenway bit her lip. “I thought you had a lot of work to do.”
“I do.”
“So, you don’t really have time to drive me to San Miguelito.”
“No,” McVie said, a sharp edge in his voice. “But if you’re in a jam—”
“I’m in an Uber,” Fenway said.
“An Uber? It’ll cost a fortune.”
“One fifty. I’ll expense it.”
Another moment of uncomfortable silence followed.
“Did I do something to upset you?” McVie asked.
“No,” Fenway said quickly, then turned and stared out the window. She had made this drive in her Accord at least a dozen times, but she’d never gotten to really pay attention to the scenery. If Maggie hadn’t stolen her car, she’d be making this drive and ignoring the landscape.
Of course, if Maggie hadn’t taken the Accord, she might still be alive. The ironwood trees and sagebrush on the side of the road whooshed by and started to blur in Fenway’s vision.
“Fenway? Are you still there?”
“The woman I was supposed to keep safe was killed yesterday,” Fenway whispered. “I’m processing it. Everything that happened yesterday, and you think I’m in a bad mood because of you?”
“No, of course not,” McVie said quickly. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“I have to go.” Though it would be at least another twenty minutes in the car. Fenway exhaled, long and slow. She thought back: Akeel, only a couple of months. A high school boyfriend had lasted six weeks. Another boyfriend in college had lasted six months, but it was long distance, and they didn’t talk to each other more than once a week for the last two months. She and Craig had been together for a while, but with all the false starts and stops, she wasn’t sure exactly how long it had been. This was the longest romantic entanglement she’d ever had. “I need to get in the right headspace for the autopsy, Craig.”
“Okay,” McVie said softly. “Maybe you can give me a call if you need a ride home.”
“Sure.”
“I, uh, I hope the autopsy gives you some answers.”
Fenway opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
“I guess I’ll talk to you later.”
Silence. Fenway lifted the phone off her face. McVie had hung up.
The brown plastic chairs in the medical examiner’s office waiting room cut off the circulation to Fenway’s legs, and she had to shift her weight every few minutes. She took her phone out of her purse and glanced at the time: 8:23. It wasn’t like Dr. Yasuda to keep people waiting.
Fenway stood up and shook each leg to get the blood flowing. She noticed with irritation that her bone-colored flats and her gray pantsuit clashed. She frowned—after spending yesterday in the sand and on a muddy trail, maybe she should have worn her hiking boots. Who knew what the day would hold?
The door on the left side of the lobby opened, and a familiar face popped out, a mass of black curls surrounding a serious expression.
“Melissa?”
“Good, I’m glad you’re here.” Melissa opened the door wider. “Dr. Yasuda is stuck consulting on another case right now. But I have some things to go over with you. Can you follow me back to the lab?”
Fenway followed Melissa down a corridor, making a hard right turn. Fifty feet later, they were at the laboratory door, and Melissa pulled the key card down from her lanyard. A beep and a click and Melissa pulled the door open.
“I got the photo you sent me of the footprint,” Melissa said. She walked to her workstation, Fenway following, and woke up her computer. A photo of the shoe print filled the screen.
“Did this get you anywhere?” Fenway asked.
Melissa clicked the mouse and zoomed out. “It’s not clear from the photo how far away from the ground the phone was when you took the picture.”
Fenway held her hand in front of her, about waist height, and mimed taking a picture of the floor. “That’s where I took it.”
“Even a couple of inches each way would alter the results.” Melissa clicked onto a window showing a large set of numbers in a complex spreadsheet. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a measuring tape. “Keep your hand in front of you, right there, and hold that end.”
Fenway held the end of the tape measure, and Melissa knelt in front of her and pulled it taut.
“Were you were holding the phone right there?”
“Uh—more or less.”
“Put it exactly where you think you held it.”
Fenway furrowed her brow. “The ground sloped a little to the right. So I don’t know exactly how far from the ground I was.”
“Put your hand as close as possible to where you were holding the phone.”
Fenway hesitated, then lifted her hand about an inch.
“There? Are you sure?”
“It’s my best guess.”
Melissa squinted as she looked at the tape measure, then grunted and stood up. “Thirty-one and a half inches,” She leaned over her desk, typing the number into the spreadsheet. Melissa hit the enter key with a flourish, then she put her index finger on the screen. “According to these calculations, the shoe size is somewhere between an eight and a ten.”
Fenway winced. “What degree of certainty?”
“It depends on how certain you are about how high you were holding the phone when you took the picture. But within this range, I’d say eighty, eighty-five percent.”
“I might have had my hand lower.”
“Okay.” Melissa typed again. “Let’s say you had your hand an inch lower. Now we’re looking at a seven and a half to nine and a half.”
“We’re going the wrong way.” Fenway loudly exhaled through her mouth, teeth together, making a whooshing sound. “It’s close, but not close enough. There goes our prime suspect.”
“Prime suspect?”
“The woman who had access to the car—”
“Wait, wait.” Melissa held her hand up. “That’s a men’s shoe size eight to ten.”
“Oh, so I add—what? A size and a half for women, right?”
“Nine and a half to eleven and a half. But remember, there were a lot of variables with your photo.”
Fenway rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of both hands. She could feel a headache coming on. “What type of variables are we talking about? Different shoe manufacturers size their products differently. Don’t you get half or even a full size difference in certain brands?”
“True, but I was referring to variables in the soil.” Melissa crossed her arms. “I don’t think you appreciate how unusual it is to get a clear tread print in soil to begin with. The soil was moist but not muddy. And you got to it before the rain blurred much of the sole. You were lucky.”
“I’ll make sure to buy a lottery ticket.”
Melissa gave Fenway a wry smile. “But the quality of the photo itself—and the fact it’s a photo—will make further identification difficult.”
“It was about to rain.”
“No—sorry, you did the right thing, no question. But to run it against the national database, we usually need a higher resolution image, or ideally a plaster impression.”
“Wait—database? There’s a government database on shoe prints?”
“It’s not governmental, it’s commercially maintained—two guys up in Montana. They call it SoleBrothers.” She clicked a window, and the SoleBrothers website popped up, a progress bar almost two-thirds complete. “Never underestimate the power of a bad pun when selling to state and local officials.”
“So what are the odds of finding the shoe?”
Melissa shrugged. “Hard to say. When I was trained on the system, we used plaster impressions. Those have better accuracy than photos.”
Fenway pointed to the screen. “How much longer will this take?”
“I didn’t start running it until after I came in. So maybe another ten minutes.”
The computer beeped, and the screen changed.
“Or maybe sooner,” Melissa said.
The photo Fenway had taken of the shoe print took up the left-hand side of the screen, and a photo of another shoe sole appeared in the middle of the screen. Text flowed down the right-hand side.
“Today is your lucky day. Maybe you should buy a lottery ticket.” Melissa clicked on the screen and the whole shoe appeared on the screen in profile. “This is a Bronson Eagle GTX4.”
“Bronson?” Fenway asked. “I’ve never even heard of them.”
“Small manufacturer in New England.” Melissa tapped the screen with her index finger. “And this Eagle GTX4 had a limited run. It was only manufactured for about three months, and that was two years ago.”
“Was something wrong with the engineering?”
“I don’t know the details, but I seem to remember the design wasn’t popular.” Melissa smiled. “Before I started dating Donnie, I went out with this guy who was kind of a sneakerhead. I remember him making fun of this shoe. He wouldn’t shut up about it.”
“So we’re looking for somebody from New England?”
“Not necessarily.” Melissa pulled her chair out from her desk and sat down. “If it wasn’t popular, it may have been sent to other regions on clearance. Shoes like that wind up at one of those designer-names-for-less places.”
“Is this a men’s or a women’s shoe?”
“I think it was marketed as a men’s shoe, but plenty of women wear men’s sneakers. Especially if they have larger feet.”
“Does this SoleBrothers site track where the shoes were sold?”
Melissa shook her head.
Fenway leaned on the desk and ran her hands through her hair. “We might be able to get a warrant to search everyone on the team for a pair of Bronson Eagle GTX4s with a muddy sole,” Fenway said. “But if the killer’s smart, they would have dumped the shoes by now.”
“Why wouldn’t you get a warrant?”
“I’ve pissed off enough people on the team,” Fenway said. “The Las Vegas Neons will find a different place to hold training camp next year if I keep this up. Then the whole city will be mad at me.”
Fenway had forgotten how fast Dr. Yasuda walked down a flight of stairs. After climbing in and out of the ravine the day before, Fenway’s quadriceps and calf muscles were screaming by the time she got to the bottom of the stairs and pushed open the morgue door behind the medical examiner. Fenway put on a gown, gloves, a cap, a mask, and goggles, and joined Dr. Yasuda next to an aluminum table, a body lying under a sheet.
“I scheduled this as soon as I could,” Dr. Yasuda said gently.
Fenway shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Dr. Yasuda folded the sheet down, revealing Maggie’s head. The young goalkeeper had been wound tight in life, but now her eyes were closed, her body still, peaceful.
Dr. Yasuda folded the sheet at Maggie’s chin. “Before we make any incisions,” Dr. Yasuda said, “we should look at the head wound.”
Fenway stared at Maggie’s face and murmured her assent.
“Can you assist me with turning the body into a prone position?”
Maggie’s body was lithe and wiry. She seemed surprisingly light as she and Yasuda maneuvered her onto her stomach.
Using scissors to cut the longer strands of hair, then shaving around the wound with clippers, Dr. Yasuda cleared a small area of Maggie’s scalp.
“Blunt object, base of the skull,” Fenway said. “Probably fatal.”
“Yes, I would say so.” Dr. Yasuda shined a light over the wound. It was about an inch and a half in diameter, one end rounded, one end flatter.
“This looks almost like the mark left by the head of a golf club,” Fenway said.
Dr. Yasuda frowned and grunted. “Do you see how round this area is?” Yasuda pointed to the rounded edge. “Golf club heads are rounded, yes, but they aren’t perfectly round—the heads almost always have their rounded sides in asymmetrical shapes. I believe this was a stick of some kind with a round end.”
“What kind of stick has a round end?” A walking stick? A scepter prop from a movie with warlocks and elves? “Maybe a rock? Could she have jumped and hit her head on a rock?”
Dr. Yasuda shook her head. “Unlikely. The rocks in the area aren’t smooth, and there would be more complex injuries around the wound. No—this was homicide.”
Fenway crinkled her forehead. “If someone was trying to make it look like suicide, they did a bad job.”
“I agree—but I believe that’s what happened. There are other lacerations and wounds consistent with a fall from, say, fifteen or twenty feet. But the head wound would have been shallower from that height.”
“The murder weapon,” Fenway said. “Was it a wooden walking stick? Or a hiking pole made of metal?” Fenway tilted her head and squinted. “I suppose it’s too thick to be a metal hiking pole. At least not the ones I’ve seen.”
“From the angle of the blow,” Yasuda said, “the assailant was right-handed.”
“Same as Coach Levinson’s killer,” Fenway murmured.
“The tip of the weapon was spherical,” Yasuda said.
They worked in near-silence, Yasuda collecting tissue from the wound itself to pick up any clues that might have been left behind by the weapon. They turned her over into a supine position.
Dr. Yasuda led the autopsy with Fenway assisting, but there were no further clues to be gleaned from Maggie’s body. Nothing was in her mouth, and aside from the dirt and mud on her head, face, and hands, nothing was found suggesting where Maggie was prior to the hillside.
“She was sexually active,” Yasuda said. “But I see no sign of sexual trauma.”
“Was she pregnant?”
“I ran a blood test last night,” Dr. Yasuda said. “She was not pregnant, and it doesn’t appear she has ever been pregnant.”
“So the body isn’t telling us anything.”
“It tells us where not to look. Her stomach was empty, so she likely did not stop for coffee or breakfast between the time she woke up and the time she arrived at the hiking trail near the beach.”
Dr. Yasuda and Fenway worked together to stitch Maggie back up. “If the body has any clues besides the head wound, I don’t see them.” Yasuda clicked her tongue. “Of course, it will take a few days to get the tox screen back, but there appear to be no signs of drug abuse.”
They finished, and Fenway removed her protective equipment and washed up. She was surprised to discover two hours had passed. She had performed a few autopsies on her own, but never on a murder victim. She was glad Dr. Yasuda had taken the lead.
“It was nice to work with you again, Miss Stevenson,” Dr. Yasuda said. “It’s a shame I only see you in unfortunate circumstances.”
“Melissa said the same thing.” Fenway shifted her weight uncomfortably. “Sometimes you ask me to give a message to Dez—”
Dr. Yasuda glanced up at Fenway and gave her a small smile. “That won’t be necessary. I’ll see her this afternoon.”
A smile spread across Fenway’s face. “Good for you.”
They said their goodbyes, and Fenway walked out of the morgue, then took the steps up to the ground floor. She started to turn left to go down the hall to the lobby but stopped in her tracks. She made a right turn instead and knocked on the door of the lab.
A moment later, Melissa opened the door. “Oh, Fenway. Did you forget something?”
“You did the autopsy for Coach Levinson here, didn’t you?”
“Dr. Yasuda did.”
“You might still have his personal effects. I wondered if I could see them.”
Melissa raised her eyebrows. “Ah. I believe we logged them yesterday. I know we have the package scheduled to go to the Dominguez County Sheriff’s Office, but the courier hasn’t made the run yet. You want to take them back?”
“I don’t have a car,” Fenway said. “I took an Uber here. But I need to check his belongings. It could be important to the case.”
“Gotcha. Come with me.” Melissa walked out of the lab, Fenway following, and turned down the hallway, away from the basement entrance. A series of flat metallic blue doors went by on the left. At the fourth blue door, Melissa stopped, took a large ring of keys from her purse, and opened the door.
“This is where the M.E. keeps all the evidence? No one would ever find it.”
“That’s the idea. Some people who lose loved ones get a little crazy and try to steal their things. Makes it easier if they can’t find where we keep them.”
Fenway stepped into the room behind Melissa. Floor-to-ceiling metal gates surrounded the five-foot square entry area on three sides.
“All right, let me get Coach Levinson’s box.” She nodded at a clipboard hanging by a chain on the gate. “Go ahead and sign this out.”
Melissa returned a moment later with a white cardboard box. A string of numbers and letters was written on the side.
Fenway opened the lid. Very little was inside: his clothes, a keychain, and a fitness tracker. “No wallet?”
“He had the keys in the pocket of his sweats. His wallet was on the table in the hotel room, and the exercise tracker was on his left wrist.” Melissa gestured to the box. “I catalogued that room myself. I can tell you he didn’t have anything else on his person.”
“No wedding ring?”
“In a pocket of his carry-on.”
Fenway picked up the keychain and stared at it. A key fob with a logo for the fancy Italian sports car, a large metal key with a ProLoc logo that perhaps went to Levinson’s house back in Las Vegas, and several smaller keys, perhaps to the Nidever University facility. Finally, a thin wire key ring was on the keychain, but without a key. It was laced through a small punch hole in a laminated card. The card, about an inch and a half wide by four inches long, was white, with dark blue pre-printed lines labeled make, model, and license number. None of the lines were filled in.
“Did anybody notice this keychain has a second keychain on it?” Fenway squinted. The wire of the smaller keychain was bent, as if somebody had pulled on it with a lot of force.
“That’s your detectives’ job. We logged it into evidence here, but it probably won’t be reviewed until it gets back to Estancia.”
“Did this keychain get printed?”
“Partials. Nothing usable, though most of the partials are consistent with the victim.”
“Hmm.” Fenway stared at the keys. “Why would there be a second keychain with no key on it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he took the key off and gave it to his wife before he left Las Vegas.”
“I’m not sure.” Fenway held up the keychain, letting the card dangle. “These cards are often used by rental places or dealerships.”
“Maybe he bought a new car?”
Fenway shook her head. “The assistant coaches say he had a key to a white Toyota Corolla that belonged to the team. I think it was on here.”
“The car that almost ran Maggie over the night before last?”
“Yes.” Fenway gave Melissa a sideways glance. “How do you know about that?”
“The APB. Everyone at the sheriff’s office knows the story behind it.” Melissa pursed her lips. “I don’t know, Fenway. If the car belonged to the team, he probably kept the key in his office. There are other explanations—not necessarily the Corolla key.”
Fenway raised her eyes from the keychain to Melissa. “Did you log a Corolla key into evidence when you examined the hotel room?”
Melissa shook her head.
“Annabel had access to the Corolla,” Fenway said, “and we’ve been treating her as a suspect. If Levinson had the Corolla key, she’d be our prime suspect. But now it’s missing—and so I think whoever killed Coach Levinson stole the other key and used the Corolla not only to try to run over Maggie two days ago, but also to meet her at the beach where they killed her.”
“If that’s the case,” Melissa said, her eyes lighting up, “then I should probably get you back to the sheriff’s office in Estancia as soon as possible—with the evidence box.”
Fenway grinned. “That’ll sure beat waiting for an Uber.”