Dez was the only one in the coroner’s office when Fenway walked in and set the box on the counter. The sergeant stared at her computer screen with her jaw clenched.
Dez glanced up. “How did the autopsy go? Did you find anything that helps the investigation?”
“It wasn’t a golf club that killed Maggie,” Fenway said. “The rounded edge of the wound was too circular—it was a stick with something spherical on the end.”
Dez furrowed her brow. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. A walking stick?”
“I’ve never seen a walking stick with a ball on the end.”
“Me neither.” Fenway pointed toward the door of the office. “Can you review the evidence I brought back from San Miguelito?”
Dez stood and walked over to the counter. “What do you have there?”
“Coach Levinson’s personal effects.” Fenway pushed the box over to Dez.
“This has all been logged?”
“Yes. I want your opinion on the keychain.”
Dez lifted out Levinson’s keys with one hand and squinted. “What’s this?” She pointed to the small key ring.
“It’s one of those temporary cheap wire key rings you see at dealerships, right?”
“But there’s no key on it.”
Fenway nodded. “And the wire looks like it’s been pulled.”
“You’re thinking there was a key on here that someone grabbed and yanked off.”
“Right.”
“Any fingerprints?”
“Nothing usable.”
Dez turned over the tag in her hand. “Make, model, license plate. But it’s blank.” She looked up at Fenway. “You think this wire key ring held the key to the white Corolla.”
Fenway pointed at Dez and touched her nose with her other hand. “Even though Annabel had the other key, both the assistant coaches said Levinson had the second key. And I think the killer took it.”
“And tried to run over Maggie in front of the police station.”
Fenway nodded.
Dez closed her eyes and put her hands on her temples. “There could be other explanations.”
“That’s what Melissa said, too. Key could be in his office instead.” Fenway shook her head. “But I don’t think so. The team’s only been in Estancia a few days, and Annabel was the first person to borrow the Toyota. It makes sense that it hadn’t come off his keychain yet.”
“Maybe he didn’t want the responsibility of the Corolla.”
“If that were the case, he never would have put it on his keychain. He would have been looking for another coach to take care of the key. And he wouldn’t have yanked it off the wire. He would have handed the whole key ring over to the other person.”
“Maybe that’s true—maybe he never put it on his keychain.” Dez put the keychain back in the box. “Did you look in the coaches’ office for the Corolla key?”
“Not yet.” Fenway rubbed her chin. “We can get a warrant. I don’t want to ask anyone if I can look in Coach Levinson’s desk—they’re all suspects.”
Dez nodded. “I can get the paperwork started.”
“If my gut is right and the killer did take Levinson’s key, there’s a good chance they don’t know we’re looking for it. We’ve focused all our attention on Annabel, and anyone who was on the field earlier today—or in the hotel—knows we think Annabel is the only one with a key.”
“Don’t you think they’ll have tossed the key by now?”
Fenway leaned back against the conference table. “Maybe. But you’d be surprised at how many people don’t want to throw away something with so much perceived value, like a car key. Besides, they might need to use it again. If we can find the Corolla key, we might find our killer.”
Dez walked around the counter. “I’ve got something to show you, too.”
“Yeah?”
“We got lucky with the canvass we did of Paseo Fuentes Park.”
“Oh,” Fenway said, her eyes growing wide. “That means—”
“They hadn’t picked up the trash yet.” Dez tilted her head. “But I’m not sure you’ll like what we found.”
The logo of the Broadmere Hotel was printed in a deep navy blue on the white plastic laundry bag, so shiny it was almost silver.
Dez held the bag up. “I thought you’d want to see this.”
“A laundry bag from the Broadmere.”
Dez took out a white hotel towel, more than three-quarters of it pink, and still wet, consistent with the towel being used to clean up the blood, then washed in the shower. Dez removed the second towel from the bag, and it was even bloodier than the first. Fenway was glad there was a plastic sheet covering the table.
“So I was right—the two missing towels were thrown away. I wasn’t looking far away enough.” Fenway glanced up at Dez. “Samples sent to the lab?”
“Already done. I’d wager that’s Paul Levinson’s blood.”
“Good.”
“But that’s not all.” Dez reached her gloved hand into the bag and pulled out a gray-and-aquamarine striped sweatshirt. The sweatshirt was spotted with blood as well. Dez grabbed the shoulders of the sweatshirt and unfolded it. Desert Treasure in embossed gold letters snaked across the chest of the sweatshirt. Fenway blinked. “That’s the name of Mathilda Montague’s casino empire—or, you know, legitimate business interest.”
“We’ve talked with several players on the team,” Dez said. “Annabel is the only player who owns a sweatshirt like this.”
“Are you sure? I thought Desert Treasure was the sponsor of the team.”
“Yes, but this is a different sweatshirt than the corporate gear the team members of the Neons have. Lorraine Sunday even sent me the electronic order form for the team gear, Fenway, and the Desert Treasure gear is a different design. This is exclusive—it was a limited edition—and it’s Annabel’s sweatshirt, no question about it. She even has a matching gym bag.”
Fenway frowned. Annabel’s sweatshirt. She closed her eyes and thought back. The interview while walking around the field. Annabel stomping angrily through the locker room to get the Corolla key—
“The Corolla key,” Fenway said.
Dez cocked her head. “What does that have to do with the sweatshirt?”
“When Annabel gave me the Corolla key, she dug through her gym bag and said it was under her sweatshirt. But her sweatshirt was missing.”
Dez wrinkled her nose. “She offered that information to you?”
“Yes.” Fenway took the sweatshirt and laid it flat, looking at the bloodstains. “The question is, was it missing because she’d forgotten she’d cleaned up the murder scene and thrown it away? Or was it missing because someone had taken it and was trying to frame her?” Fenway pointed at the stains. “The sweatshirt isn’t as bloody as the towels.”
Dez leaned over the table, studying the sweatshirt. “Here’s one possible scenario. Annabel wore a sweatshirt when she killed Levinson, getting some spatter on it, and perhaps more when she tried to clean up with the towels. Maybe she carried the bloody towels and the blood transferred to the sweatshirt.”
Fenway pinched the bridge of her nose and thought a moment. “That also fits with our old theory that Maggie killed him and Annabel cleaned up after her.”
“True.”
“But why point out to me that the sweatshirt is missing?”
Dez put the towels and sweatshirt back into the bag. “Let’s say Annabel comes to the realization that she tossed a bloody sweatshirt that could be traced back to her. So she lets slip in front of the coroner that the sweatshirt is missing. Now you’re thinking she was framed—her plan worked.” Dez folded the sweatshirt. “Consider the source of your information.”
Fenway pulled off her blue nitrile gloves and threw them in the hazardous waste bin. “The blood on Annabel’s sweatshirt does make it look like we need to bump her to the top of our suspect list. But let’s keep an eye out for things that don’t fit. You’re right—I am thinking that someone’s trying to frame her.”
“The evidence points to Annabel.” Dez cracked her knuckles. “She was on the ninth floor the night Levinson was killed and didn’t come back down the elevator. She had the key to the Corolla, no matter if there was a second key. Means, motive, and opportunity for both Coach Levinson and Maggie.”
“Weak physical evidence and a weak motive to kill Maggie,” Fenway said.
“Self-preservation can be very compelling,” Dez said. “Even if she killed Levinson to protect Maggie, she might have killed Maggie to protect herself.”
Fenway bit her lip and stared at the floor, thinking. “It’s possible.” She raised her head, looked at Dez, and tapped her chin.
“What?”
“I think we need to check the security footage from Thursday night again.”
“I’m sorry,” the hotel clerk said, “but Mr. Washington has asked for you to get a warrant for any further review of the security footage.”
“He what?” Dez asked, drawing herself up to full height. “He’s been cooperative up till now.”
Fenway motioned with her head, and she and Dez took a few steps back from the desk. “Sarah did some digging,” she said softly, “and Ezekiel’s daughter went to college at Shellmont University when Levinson was the head coach. I mentioned it to him when I came here yesterday—and I guess it rubbed him the wrong way.”
“So we need to add him to the list of suspects?”
“I’m not sure. His daughter wasn’t on the soccer team.”
Dez pursed her lips. “Did you confirm that, or did he just tell you?”
“I haven’t confirmed it yet.”
“So now,” Dez said, her voice rising slightly, “he’s prevented us from watching the security video.”
“I’ll go above his head.” Stepping toward the desk, Fenway cleared her throat. “May I speak with the security supervisor? Or maybe the manager of the hotel?”
“It’s Sunday. Neither are available.”
“This is important. It’s regarding the security footage.”
The clerk blinked a few times. “I suppose I can try to make a phone call.”
“Please.” Fenway stepped back and lowered her voice. “I wish we could see that video. I’m almost positive Annabel didn’t have the sweatshirt on when she got off the elevator on the ninth floor.”
“I don’t remember.” Dez exhaled through her nose. “If she had it on when she exited the elevator but didn’t have it on when she came back in through the front entrance, I’d arrest her tonight.”
Fenway nodded. “And if we can search the coaches’ office and find the key, it’ll mean that no one had a Corolla key but Annabel.”
“I apologize,” the clerk said, hanging up, “but I’m afraid our manager isn’t answering.”
“Thanks for your assistance.” Fenway motioned to Dez, and they walked through the front doors, stopping just outside the entrance.
“That’s it?”
“We can go down the warrant road, but that’ll take at least until tomorrow morning.”
“We should go to the security office anyway,” Dez said. “Ezekiel could be deleting footage right now.”
Fenway ran a hand over her hair. “No reason to go there now—he could have deleted footage at any point during the investigation. A judge would never sign off on an injunction without more to go on.”
Dez’s mouth curved down. “I’m looking at Mr. Washington as a suspect now. Ezekiel had means and opportunity for Levinson’s murder—and if we find out that Levinson did something to his daughter at college, he has motive, too.”
“He’s one of the few people who knows exactly how the doors of the stairwell work.” Fenway paced back and forth, a few steps in each direction. “He might have been able to turn off the door sensors to let himself onto different floors.”
“More likely that security has a key to open the stairwell doors from the outside.”
“And he’d have had access to everyone’s hotel room with a master key, wouldn’t he?” Fenway stopped pacing. “Stolen Christchurch’s tennis bracelet, put it in Maggie’s room, taken Annabel’s sweatshirt from her hotel room—”
“That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Dez looked at Fenway. “You seem to think it’s no big deal to break into Christchurch’s room safe.”
“When I interviewed her, I asked her what she used for the combination. She admitted it was something that the public could easily find out. If I had to guess, I’d bet it was her husband’s birthday or their anniversary. Especially as she was using the safe to store a meaningful gift he gave her before he died.”
“That’s publicly available information?”
“Warren Christchurch has a Wikipedia page with his birthday. And a simple web search uncovers the date they married.”
“So Ezekiel could have done it.” Dez looked over Fenway’s shoulder through the hotel’s front windows. “He’s got a possible motive for Levinson’s murder. And he probably knows how to get into the ninth floor from the stairwell.”
“But why kill Maggie?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Fenway closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, thinking for a moment. “A lot of cars come with a valet key in addition to the two regular keys, right?”
“Some of them do.”
“I asked Ezekiel if the team gave him a valet key to the Corolla. He said they didn’t—but what if he was lying?”
“That would give Ezekiel access to the Corolla, too.” Dez held up her index finger. “Means and opportunity to try to run Maggie over in front of the sheriff’s office.” She raised a second finger. “And he could’ve met her at Cypress Point Beach, too.”
Fenway grimaced.
“No?”
“Maggie had to trust the person she met on the side of the highway. Maggie trusted Annabel. I’m not sure she even knew who Ezekiel was.”
Dez thought for a moment. “Maggie and Ezekiel’s daughter went to Shellmont at the same time. Maybe they were friends.”
Fenway frowned. “I was friends with people in college. I wouldn’t have trusted any of their fathers to meet me on the side of the highway at five in the morning.”
“Then who? Who would Maggie trust enough to meet?”
Fenway put her hands on her hips and stared at the ground. Nothing fit together well enough. “Annabel. The coaches. The owner. Maybe another player—Darcy?”
“But none of them are on the security footage leaving the hotel. Or coming back.”
“They left by the stairwell. And figured out a way back in.” Fenway sucked in air through her teeth. “Or—maybe Ezekiel doctored the security footage. He could have been paid off even if he didn’t kill Levinson.”
“Now we’re just throwing random ideas out.” Dez walked toward her red Impala, parked on the street in front of the hotel. “Come on—we’ll never find more evidence if we stand here yammering all day.”
Fenway followed Dez to the car. “You know, we haven’t talked much about the owner yet.”
“Sandra Christchurch?”
“She was on the same floor as Levinson. My father says she’s interested in selling the team—but with a coach who sexually coerces his players, that might lower the team’s price significantly.”
“More than the murder of the head coach and starting goalkeeper?” Dez took out her key fob and unlocked the car as she walked around to the driver’s door. “And are you suggesting she stole her own jewelry and planted it in Maggie’s room?”
Fenway was silent as she opened the passenger side door and sat. The card signed by “Lorraine,” the shoe print, the missing Corolla key—she felt like she just needed one piece to fall into place and everything would click together.
“Congratulations,” Dez said, “you’ve widened the list of suspects and made things more complicated.” She clicked her tongue.
“We need more evidence,” Fenway said.
“We need to find that Corolla,” Dez said.
“The APB hasn’t turned up anything?”
“Nope.”
Fenway was quiet for a moment, then it dawned on her. “Everyone on the suspect list is either involved with the team or with the Broadmere.”
“Right.”
“That means the white Corolla is probably still here at the hotel.” Fenway opened the car door. “I’ll meet you back at the office.”