In the driveway of the Broadmere Hotel, Fenway took her phone out of her purse and called Sarah Summerfield. Although it was a Sunday, she hoped Sarah would pick up. On the third ring, Sarah answered.
“Let me guess. You need me to get some information for you from IT.”
“I hate to bother you on the weekend, Sarah—”
“—but I’m the only one from the office who can actually communicate with Patrick without pissing him off.” She laughed. “Not that I mind the time and a half.”
“Do you think you can have him run down financial information from the players and coaches over the last week?”
“I’ll call Patrick and see what I can do.”
“See if you can find anything suspicious about Lorraine Sunday’s transactions. A note with her name signed to it—maybe one with romantic intentions—was slipped under Maggie’s door on Thursday night or Friday. See if she ordered flowers, gift baskets, anything like that.”
Sarah was quiet for a moment. “I heard about Maggie’s death. I can’t believe it—she was so young. I thought she’d be the national team’s goalie for the next fifteen years.” She clicked her tongue. “How are you holding up? I heard you’re the one who found her body.”
“I’m okay.” Fenway cleared her throat. “I’m here at the Broadmere Hotel. I need to find that white Corolla you and I saw in the parking garage on Friday.”
“What do the financials have to do with the Corolla—oh, of course. Gas stations, that kind of thing. I can ask Patrick to run the players’ credit card charges over the last few days. Should I focus on anyone in particular?”
“Annabel is—well, let’s just say we need to perform due diligence on her.” Fenway rubbed her forehead. “I know she had the Corolla on Thursday night, and she didn’t turn in the key. See if she’s had any suspicious expenses over the last few days. Check out the other assistant coach, too. Rocky—wait, no—Roger Portello.” Fenway paused, staring out to Broadway.
“That’s a lot of information for Patrick to uncover,” Sarah said. “I don’t know how much of this we can get done today.”
Fenway paused but decided not to press it. When Fenway needed information, Sarah almost always came through. “Maybe Patrick can start with the financials for Annabel.”
The sound of a pen scratching on paper could be heard over the line. “Got it. We might have to bug a judge on the weekend too—”
“Dez is on her way to the office.”
“You want me to meet her there?”
“If you don’t mind.”
Sarah hesitated. “I suppose I can come in for an hour or so.”
“Thanks, Sarah, you’re a lifesaver. Dez is already starting a couple of warrants, so work with her on adding these.”
Instead of going into the hotel, Fenway turned left and walked into the parking garage. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light of the garage, and she heard the tapping of her flats on the asphalt as she strode toward the breezeway.
A minute later, she found herself on San Ysidro Street. It had only been two days ago when she had first seen this neighborhood. Now on Sunday afternoon, the block was alive. A few children were playing in their yards, and several cars were parked in front of one house, as well as jammed in the driveway, and the sound of upbeat music carried across the street to where Fenway stood. She looked up and down the street but saw no white Corolla.
Fenway gritted her teeth and blew air out. It had been a hunch, but Fenway had been sure she was right.
Wait.
About fifty yards to her left, on the other side of the street, a small sedan was parked with a new beige car cover over it—it still had creases in the fabric. Fenway began walking toward the covered sedan. It was the right shape for a Corolla, but with the cover on, she couldn’t be sure.
She reached the car and knelt behind the rear bumper. Lifting a corner of the cover, she saw the white paint of the bumper and the bottom of the trunk hatch.
Pulling up the cover a bit more, she saw the Nevada license plate. She didn’t have to pull out her notebook to recognize it was the team’s Corolla.
She didn’t know where the Corolla had been parked on Friday night, but Fenway strongly suspected that on Saturday morning, someone drove it to meet Maggie at the Cypress Point Beach trail off Highway 326.
And they had killed her.
She closed her eyes and imagined the scenario. Why would the Corolla driver leave the car parked behind the hotel?
The obvious answer was the killer was staying at the Broadmere. Or—perhaps they wanted to throw suspicion on someone staying there. Annabel had made a good suspect so far.
Fenway squeezed her eyes shut. No. If the killer had wanted to set up someone at the Broadmere, the Corolla would have been left in plain sight, not under a car cover. She opened her eyes and felt the cover’s material between her fingers; it was a thin plastic, backed by what felt like polyester fleece, and it didn’t fit snugly—it wasn’t built for the exact make or model of the Corolla. When she first got her Accord, she’d looked at a few of these types of car covers online, but they seemed cheap.
Fenway took out her phone and called Dez.
“Roubideaux.”
“Dez, it’s Fenway. I’ve found the Corolla.”
“What?”
“It’s parked behind the Broadmere on San Ysidro Street.”
“How did our people miss it?”
“It’s under a car cover. Creases still in it—brand new.” Fenway paused. “We need to get a fingerprint unit over here.”
“Sure,” Dez said, “but fingerprints aren’t time stamps. We already know Annabel drove the car on Thursday, so if we find her fingerprints on the car, it won’t help make a case against her.” She paused. “Why didn’t the killer get rid of the Corolla? Do you think they wiped it clean?”
“Maybe,” Fenway said, “but I think they weren’t planning on killing Maggie until yesterday morning. Maybe until Maggie called them. They hadn’t yet planned how to cover their tracks.” She stood, her knees cracking as she got up. “I think the more likely explanation is they didn’t have time to get rid of the car.”
“So they bought a car cover?”
“It would have done the trick if I hadn’t been so nosy.” Fenway smiled and rotated her neck. She saw the open door of the convenience store on the corner. “I’ll go into the mini-mart next door to see if anyone inside saw who left the car here.”
Dez typed for a few seconds. “Deputy Salvador will be there shortly—a couple of minutes.”
Stuffing her notebook back in her purse, Fenway strode into the corner market. The door chimed as she walked across the threshold, and the man behind the counter turned his head to look at her.
Fenway pulled her badge out. “I’m with the coroner’s office. How long has that car been out there covered with the sheet?”
“The car parked on the street?” The man stroked his wispy beard in thought. “It was here when I showed up for my shift this morning about ten thirty,” he said. “I don’t remember any covered car being around the shop yesterday, though.”
“Did you see anyone hanging around the car?”
The man shook his head.
Fenway thanked the man and headed out the door.
She walked back to the Corolla and stared at the car for a moment, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk next to the passenger side. A sheriff’s cruiser turned onto the street. Deputy Celeste Salvador rolled down her window.
“This the car in question?” Salvador motioned at the covered Corolla.
“Yep. Can you stick around until the fingerprint team shows up?”
“Sure.” Salvador eyed Fenway thoughtfully. “You in a hurry?”
“No. Yes. Kind of. I want to canvass the neighborhood to find anyone who saw who left the car here.”
Celeste turned her gaze to the busy front yards of the houses down San Ysidro, then back to the Corolla.
“The car cover looks new.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“Instead of talking to the neighbors, maybe the AutoQuest shop across Fourth Street would be a better idea.”
Fenway stared across the street.
“Killer needs to get rid of the car but doesn’t have time,” Celeste Salvador continued. “Parks it behind the hotel on a residential street, but it’s still out in the open. Looks up from their parking spot and sees an auto parts store. Thinks maybe they can get a car cover.”
“Yeah,” Fenway said. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
“And it’s a generic car cover too, not one made for that model of car.” Salvador pointed to the bulge at the front of the driver’s door. “See the bump over the side mirrors? It doesn’t fit right. This is meant for late-model compact sedans, not specifically for a two-year-old Corolla.”
Fenway nodded at Salvador, then walked past the convenience store, waited for a car to pass on the thoroughfare, and hurried across the street to the AutoQuest shop. In the parking lot, a burgundy Ford Mustang with one gray fender sat with its hood open, a man in a plaid shirt leaning over the engine.
Fenway walked across the parking lot and entered the front door, an electronic chime signaling her entry. The floor was a gold-and-cream linoleum tile, and a long counter ran down the right-hand side of the shop. Three point-of-sale stations sat behind flat black monitors perched on the high counter. The clicking of her flats on the linoleum seemed to echo loudly through the store, drowning out the low-volume classic rock on the speakers.
The store had about a dozen rows. Fenway walked down the main aisle until she saw a sign reading Car Covers.
The car covers were three-quarters of the way down the aisle. A generic beige cover, exactly like the one draped over the white Corolla, sat on the bottom shelf. The price label beneath it read $199.99. After seeing how cheap-looking it looked on the car itself, Fenway expected the cover to be about half that much.
But beggars can’t be choosers. The killer couldn’t get rid of the Corolla and needed to stash it. The car cover was a necessary expense.
While it was possible the killer had two hundred dollars in cash, it wasn’t likely. Fenway might be able to get a credit card receipt.
Fenway went back to the counter. Just as it had been when she walked in, no employees were behind the counter. She tapped the desk bell; the clear ding sounded high and strong throughout the store.
A woman in blue coveralls appeared, with a red paisley kerchief keeping her long black hair out of her face. “Hey, hon. Can I help you with something?”
“Were you working here yesterday morning?”
The woman narrowed her eyes. “Who’s asking?”
Fenway pulled her badge out of her purse and showed it to the woman. “I’m with the coroner’s office. I’m looking for someone who bought one of those beige car covers for a midsize sedan. They probably bought it yesterday. Might have walked in, or maybe drove up in a white Toyota Corolla.”
The woman shook her head. “I was off yesterday. Jeff or Hassan, they were both here yesterday. One of them could tell you.”
“Are either of them here?”
“Sorry, hon. They don’t work Sundays.”
Fenway thought for a moment. “Your point-of-sale system—can you go back to yesterday and see if you sold any of those?”
The woman frowned and shifted her weight. “Uh—I guess so. I’m kind of busy. It might take a minute.”
Fenway resisted the urge to look dramatically around the empty store, reminding herself the woman might have been in the middle of inventory or stocking. Instead, she clasped her hands in front of her. “I’d really appreciate it.”
The woman sighed but stepped to the computer and tapped on the keyboard, murmuring to herself. Fenway willed herself to take a few steps back from the counter and wait, although she wanted to pace around the store and perhaps hover around the woman’s workstation.
“Looks like it was a cash transaction,” the woman finally said.
“Cash? Isn’t that a two-hundred-dollar car cover?”
“Two fourteen forty-nine after tax,” the woman replied.
Fenway scratched her head with both hands. Of course, it made sense. Whoever had killed Maggie would have tried to cover their tracks. If the killer had enough sense to purchase a car cover for the Corolla, they would have had enough sense to avoid a financial trail.
She put her arms back at her sides. “Where’s the nearest ATM?”
The woman pointed to the back of the store.
Fenway nodded. “Great—do you have camera footage?”
She shook her head. “The ATM doesn’t have a camera—it’s one of those third-party systems.”
“You have cameras in the shop?”
The woman shook her head. “My boss keeps talking about putting them in, but he hasn’t done it yet.”
Fenway frowned. “Maybe you can get Jeff or Hassan on the phone?”
The woman hesitated. “We aren’t allowed to contact employees on their scheduled days off.”
“This isn’t about picking up a shift. This is a murder investigation.”
The woman put her hands on the workstation and took a deep breath. “Company policy. Sorry.”
Fenway took a step forward. “I—”
The woman’s eyes widened slightly, but she tightened her jaw.
Fenway stopped and stepped back from the counter. “All right. Thank you.”
She turned to face the door—and the plaque next to the door caught her eye.
Employee of the Month
January: Jeffrey Matheson
February: Hassan Anwar
March: Hassan Anwar
Fenway strode out through the front, back toward Deputy Salvador, who was still waiting with the Corolla. Pulling out her phone as she crossed the street, Fenway called Sarah.
“Hi, Fenway,” Sarah said. “I don’t have any new information for you yet, but I’m working on it.”
“I hate to do this to you, Sarah, but I have a couple more items to add to your to-do list.”
Sarah caught herself mid-sigh. “Yeah, all right. Go ahead.”
“I have a couple of employees from the AutoQuest who we need information from. Our killer might have made a cash purchase this morning, and I need them to describe the customer. If their memories are good enough, maybe even come to the station to look at a photo array.”
“Got it,” Sarah said, the sound of her pen audibly scratching on a notepad. “Do you have the names of the employees?”
“The first one is Jeffrey Matheson.” Fenway spelled the last name. “The second one is Hassan Anwar—Hassan with two S’s.”
“Which AutoQuest?”
“The one on Fourth Street at the corner of San Ysidro.”
“Got it. Oh—I gave all that information to Patrick. He came into the office a few minutes ago to work on it.”
Fenway breathed out in relief. “Fantastic.”
“But I had another idea.”
Fenway blinked.
“I noticed that Sandra Christchurch announced that Levinson got fired, then he was found dead an hour later. Then the team let Maggie go—which I think was the owner’s call—then she ended up murdered.”
“Okay.” Fenway remembered that Christchurch was tired and disheveled on Saturday morning—and had complained about a late night.
“So,” Sarah continued, “I started to dig into Christchurch’s investments and companies. A lot of stuff is hidden, but there’s a fair number of public records out there, too.”
“Did you find something?”
“Well—kind of. The first company she owned was XTL Events. They managed corporate trade shows. This was right at the same time more tech companies were going to Vegas for conferences. She made a small fortune off that and invested her way into bigger fortunes.”
“She still owns the event management business, right?”
“That’s correct. And I was digging around on their website and found—well, here, let me text you.”
Fenway’s phone dinged. She took the phone away from her face, put it on speaker, and looked at the picture Sarah had just sent.
The photo was of a silver-colored rod with a round ball at the end.
“What is this? Some kind of walking stick?”
“Look at the caption.”
Fenway double-tapped the picture.
XTL Stainless Steel Banner Rod, 60 inch
“I sent this picture to Dr. Yasuda,” Sarah said. “Based on the width of the ball finial, she believes this fits the criteria for the weapon that killed Maggie.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Fenway said.
“Except,” Sarah said, “the Broadmere Hotel received two packages addressed to Sandra Christchurch on Wednesday—I have the dimensions listed in the shipment receipt. Long, thin boxes from XTL Events.”