Dez closed the door of the Impala. “I could have just stayed here, you know.”
“I didn’t know then what I know now.” Fenway took a step down the sidewalk.
“Aren’t you going the wrong way?”
“The shipping entrance is around the side.”
“That’s great, Fenway, but aren’t they closed on Sunday?”
Fenway blinked, then stopped in her tracks. “That means we’ll need to talk to Sandra Christchurch directly.”
They walked to the front door of the hotel and crossed the lobby. Fenway reached out and pushed the button for the elevator.
Dez elbowed Fenway lightly in the ribs. “You think Christchurch is sick of talking to you yet?”
“I don’t know.” Fenway reached out and pushed the lit button again, and the elevator bank responded with a ding. “It seems like she’d—”
The doors opened, and Sandra Christchurch stood in the elevator.
“Excuse me, please, Miss Stevenson,” she said coldly. “Unless you are here to escort me to the meeting with your father’s lawyers, would you be so kind as to—”
“We need to speak with you, Ms. Christchurch.” Fenway took a step back but didn’t get out of the way.
“I’m afraid I’m on my way to an important meeting.”
“And I’m afraid we need to have a conversation before you go anywhere.”
Christchurch stepped out of the elevator. “Am I under arrest?”
Fenway sneaked a glance at Dez, who gave a slight shake of her head.
“I hope that won’t be necessary,” Fenway said, turning back to the Neons’ owner. “But we’ve uncovered evidence, and we need an explanation.”
“Evidence? What evidence?”
“Perhaps we can go somewhere to talk.”
Christchurch sighed and looked at her watch. “Fine. I can give you fifteen minutes. Let’s retire to the hotel restaurant. You can buy me a drink.”
The server set down two iced teas and a glass of red wine on the square table between Dez, Fenway, and Sandra Christchurch in the empty hotel restaurant. Dez glared across the table at Christchurch, who pretended not to notice.
“On Wednesday afternoon,” Fenway said, “you received two packages from XTL Events.”
Christchurch frowned, reaching for the glass of wine. “I what?”
“Two long, narrow packages.”
“In Las Vegas?”
“No—at the Broadmere.”
Christchurch took a sip of wine. “I was in Las Vegas on Wednesday. I didn’t arrive in Estancia until Thursday evening.”
“Are you telling me that you never received those two packages?”
“Of course not. I—” Christchurch stopped talking, then sat back in her seat.
“What is it?”
“I can tell you with certainty that I didn’t receive those packages.” Christchurch took her phone out of her purse, then tapped the screen several times. “Wednesday, you said?”
“Yes.”
“I’m usually notified when my company ships items to me. If you permit me a moment to go through my email…” She trailed off.
“Certainly.” Fenway studied Christchurch’s face as the Neons’ owner searched her email. A slightly crooked vertical crease formed between her eyebrows, but no other signs of her emotions registered on her face. The woman must be tough to negotiate with.
After a minute ticked by, Christchurch’s eyes relaxed, and she looked up. “5:21 p.m.”
“What about 5:21 p.m.?”
“That’s when the packages were picked up from the hotel’s receiving department. Paul Levinson’s signature is on the form.” She turned the screen so Fenway could see.
Out of the corner of her eye, Fenway saw Dez shoot her a meaningful look—though she didn’t get the meaning. “Can you tell us what was in the shipment?”
Christchurch took the phone back and tapped on the screen again. “Two banner rods.” The vertical line between her eyes deepened, then cleared. “Oh, Coach Levinson asked me to order these.”
“Why put your name on the mailing label?”
Christchurch smiled. “When you ship to the owner of the company, orders don’t get lost.”
Fenway scratched her chin. The Neons owner had answers—and it seemed like the possible murder weapons may never have been in her possession. Still, there were unanswered questions.
“When I came to your hotel room door yesterday morning,” Fenway said, “you were sleeping. You said you’d had two late nights in a row.” She reached for her iced tea and pulled it in front of her, though she didn’t pick it up. “We’ve talked about Thursday night. Can you tell me what you were doing Friday evening?”
Christchurch sighed. “I was on the phone with agents.”
“Like FBI agents?”
A chuckle escaped Christchurch’s lips. “No—sports agents. People who represent head coaching candidates. I have a fiduciary duty to the shareholders of the Las Vegas Neons. We are starting the season within two months, and I don’t have a head coach.” She took another sip of wine. “I cannot have a vacancy in the head coaching position after training camp starts for longer than a week. At the very least, I need to appoint an interim coach.”
“And where were you this morning?” Fenway asked. “Let’s say between three o’clock and seven.”
“You want to know where I was?” Christchurch set down her glass. “You—you mean to tell me that Maggie was murdered, too?”
“Can you please answer the question?” Dez said.
“Hold on.” Christchurch held her hands up, palms out. “Yesterday, I thought Coach Levinson died by suicide. Then I heard it was a murder investigation—and you had Miss Erskine at the sheriff’s office for the whole day. The last thing I heard was that her body was found in a ravine below a cliff. And several members of the Neons received a suicide note from Maggie.” She raised her eyebrows. “You’re telling me—what, that someone pushed her off the cliff?”
Fenway shook her head. “That’s not what hap—”
“Your whereabouts between three and seven this morning, Ms. Christchurch,” Dez said.
“In my hotel room,” Christchurch said, then turned to Fenway. “Where you found me yesterday morning.”
“You were on the phone most of the night before that?”
Sandra’s eyes flitted between Fenway and Dez. “It’s important to me that I do this as quickly and smoothly as possible. I want to announce our new head coach here at our training facility. It won’t do for me to hold the press conference at my corporate office. It doesn’t send the right message.”
“So you’re holding a press conference to announce our murder victim’s replacement?” Fenway asked.
Christchurch flinched. “I certainly wouldn’t phrase it like that. We are announcing the next head coach of the Las Vegas Neons to carry us through the current season.”
Fenway blinked a few times, rapidly. Then: “Did Coach Levinson’s replacement know they were next in line?”
Christchurch frowned. “I’ve never discussed a succession plan before.”
“Inside or outside the organization?”
Christchurch paused, then leaned back in her chair. “The name of our new coach is not yet to be released to the public.”
“Might I remind you,” Fenway said, “this is a murder investigation?”
“What does that have to do with naming a head coach?”
“Because whoever gets the coaching job now has a motive—or an additional motive—to get Coach Levinson out of the way.”
Christchurch scoffed. “And with our starting goalkeeper dead? It’s not exactly an ideal position our new coach finds herself in.”
Fenway paused. “Herself?”
Christchurch closed her eyes, then opened them slowly. “All right. This cannot get out. We’re still finalizing the contract with Lorraine Sunday.”
Dez shifted her weight in her chair. “We’re under no obligation to keep that information private.”
Sandra Christchurch narrowed her eyes. “What is it you want, Detective Roubideaux?”
“You’ve provided precious little information to us,” Dez said.
“I cannot contribute what I do not know.”
Christchurch glared at Dez, and the sergeant returned her steely gaze.
Fenway tilted her head. Maybe there was a way past Christchurch’s barriers. She took a deep breath, placing her hands at the edge of the table for support. “I find it odd, Ms. Christchurch, that as soon as you announce that someone is leaving the team, that person winds up dead.”
Christchurch flinched.
“Do you find that odd, too?”
“I must say,” Christchurch said carefully, “that I did notice the correlation.”
“Do you have an explanation for it?”
Christchurch leaned back in her seat. “I don’t have a clue. If you’re looking to pin the crime on me, I’m afraid you’ll need to look elsewhere. I have no reason to get rid of anyone after I fire them from the team or release them from their contract.”
From their contract…
Fenway narrowed her eyes. “All AFF contracts have a gag order, do they not?”
“A privacy clause,” Christchurch said icily.
“Coaches and players can’t speak to the media—or they face fines that would pretty much bankrupt them.”
Christchurch blinked. “‘Bankrupt’ is a strong word.”
“In fact,” Fenway said, leaning forward, “players and coaches can’t even speak to the authorities without a subpoena.”
“That’s correct.”
“But once you fired Coach Levinson, and once Maggie was let go, they were free to disclose anything about the inner workings of this team to the press or the police, isn’t that right?”
Christchurch shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Uh—I suppose so, although I don’t have the contract language memorized.”
“Annabel put in a formal complaint—and it was about Coach Levinson.”
“I’m aware.”
Fenway nodded. “I’m frankly surprised you’ve put up with it.”
“We’ve been investigating for a while,” Christchurch said. “We finally uncovered a troubling pattern of behavior at other organizations.”
“Including Shellmont University,” Fenway said, trying to keep her voice as even as possible. “When Maggie was a seventeen-year-old freshman. And yet Levinson continued to work for your organization. You were going to keep him here until the end of the season.” Fenway picked up her iced tea, but her hand was shaking, so she set the glass down again.
“Players wished to speak off the record,” Christchurch said. “Their stories were remarkably similar: Coach Levinson would take certain players under his wing, then provide—well, special treatment. Sometimes it was private training sessions. Sometimes it was verbal abuse in front of other team members. Sometimes it was—well, closed-door meetings with only the player and the coach. Sometimes those meetings were held at the coach’s residence, often while his wife was in New York.”
“Why not fire him immediately?”
“After speaking with our lawyers, we were prepared to buy out his contract at the end of the season. As I said, no one was willing to go on the record.” Christchurch steepled her fingers and leaned forward. “Need I remind you, the team got to the finals last year. When a coach has a track record of success, it doesn’t provide the owner much cover.”
“But you left something out when I interviewed you on Friday,” Fenway said. “Somebody changed your mind. Someone moved up your timeline to fire Coach Levinson—all the way to Friday morning.”
Christchurch gave a curt nod. “You’ve spoken to Annabel.”
“Yes.” Fenway cocked her head. “Why didn’t you tell me when I asked you before?”
“I suppose I didn’t want to put Annabel in a situation where she’d have to violate the privacy clause in her contract.”
Fenway raised her eyebrows.
Christchurch sighed. “And I didn’t want to give you the idea that I had anything to do with his death. If I had told you that Annabel woke me up and took me down the hall to Coach Levinson’s room, you might have accused me of something.”
“What happened when Annabel took you to Levinson’s room?”
“I clearly heard him and Maggie—together, as it were.”
“And that’s when you decided to fire him.”
Christchurch took another sip of wine, then set it down on the table. Her voice was calm, but a vein in her neck stood out. “I had personally made him aware of the allegations against him. I told him he’d been captured on video, and we were considering our options. I told him that he had to cease all one-on-one meetings with players.” She pursed her lips. “And yet he still has relations with Maggie in his hotel room—down the hall from me? No, no. That cannot stand.”
“You felt personally offended,” Dez said.
“Yes, of course,” Christchurch said, then hesitated and spoke again quickly. “That Coach Levinson held player safety in such callous disregard.”
“And after Annabel left?”
“I went back to my room. And—and I talked to my lawyers. And first thing the next morning, I sent a communication to the team, talked to some of them at six thirty, then fired him at the press conference.”
“Annabel came to you because her agreement—in fact, all the employment agreements in the AFF—says she can’t talk about it to anyone but you and league personnel.”
“That’s correct.”
“The same goes for Levinson. He couldn’t publicly defend himself against these accusations, or he’d have been fined, too.”
“I suppose.”
“But after Levinson was fired, he could talk about it, couldn’t he? He could have gone to the press. Told his side of the story.”
“I don’t—” Christchurch leaned forward and rubbed her temples. “That never came into our thought process about his employment with the team.”
“But he could have talked, yes?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” Christchurch shook her head. “Are you trying to pin a motive on me? Coach Levinson died before I held the press conference. So why would I kill him, then fire him?”
“You knew what he did to players would come out in the news, didn’t you?”
Christchurch was silent.
“But you firing him? Now you look like the good guy. And because he’s dead in a pool of his own blood nine stories up, you don’t have to worry about him dragging this out, filing a lawsuit, alleging defamation—that would screw up your deal to sell the team, wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but a murder investigation isn’t helping much, either.” Christchurch crossed her arms.
“Good point.” Fenway picked up her iced tea; she took a long drink, then set the glass down. “Now, your second firing—Maggie Erskine.”
Christchurch slumped her shoulders. “There’s a morality clause in the contracts. She was accused of killing the head coach—we couldn’t let her onto the field. And my tennis bracelet was found in her room. We might have stuck with her if the murder allegations fell by the wayside, but not when she steals from the owner.”
“But then you realized she could talk to the police and the press, too.”
“I never—” Sandra Christchurch leaned her elbows on the table and looked down.
The seconds ticked by.
“If you have further questions, I’ll need to have my lawyer present.”
Fenway’s heart sank—but she had gotten Christchurch to reveal more than she expected. “I understand.” She stood from the chair, Dez getting up too. “One more thing. When are you making the announcement about your new coach?”
“Tomorrow morning, nine o’clock, at the Nidever University soccer fields. We want the team to hear it firsthand.”
“You don’t think placing the media so close to the team will be a distraction?”
“A distraction for a single day, Miss Stevenson. The media will run out of steam after a few hours.” Her eyes twinkled. “If you think it will be any more than that, I’m afraid you’ve seriously overestimated the interest in women’s soccer in this country.”
Christchurch continued to sit, sipping her wine, while Dez and Fenway left the restaurant.
As she walked back to Dez’s car, Fenway glanced through the window at Christchurch. “We rattled her.”
“You think?”
“She said she could give us fifteen minutes. We were talking for at least that long. And now she’s just sitting there, trying to calm down before her business meeting.”
Fenway’s phone rang in her purse. She pulled it out and looked at the screen. It was McVie. She felt a pang of annoyance—at herself or at him?—because of the way they had talked that morning.
“Hi, Craig.”
“Hey, listen, I just wanted to let you know that Amy said she had something important to tell me. I’m heading over there now.”
Fenway was silent for a moment, then spoke. “Megan had something important to tell you, too. Maybe Amy wants to talk about her.” She hesitated. “Why do you have to go over to her place?”
“I don’t.”
“Why go, then?”
“I didn’t see Megan very long on Saturday. I thought we could talk. See if maybe she wants to spend part of spring break with me. Maybe go camping or something.”
“Isn’t she seventeen?”
“Okay, fine, maybe she wouldn’t want to go camping with her dad, but it’s important to offer, even if she doesn’t take me up on it.” He sighed. “Look, she’s not doing great since the divorce. I want her to know I’d still like to spend time with her.”
Fenway’s stomach dropped. Why was her first reaction always one of mistrust?
“Anyway, I didn’t want you trying to reach me tonight, not knowing I was at Amy’s house. You’ve been kind of…” He trailed off.
Fenway bit her lip and waited.
“This case seems to bring a lot of stuff up for you.” His words were halting, his tone careful.
Fenway nearly scoffed. Of course it did. Anyone who knew about Fenway and her Russian Lit professor would know—
Fenway stopped.
She still hadn’t told McVie about her Russian Lit professor.
She had told Dez. She’d even had the uncomfortable conversation about it with her father. But she’d never told McVie.
He’d figured it out, though. She remembered how empty she felt a few months ago when she found out he knew, and Fenway hadn’t been the one to tell him.
And she still hadn’t told him. Not directly.
He had said—before they were officially dating—that if she ever needed to talk, he was there for her.
But he’d never mentioned it again.
And neither had she.
In fact, she still acted like she had to keep it from him. Like her Russian Lit professor was a dirty secret. Like their relationship wouldn’t survive if she told him.
Fenway shook her head. She was being ridiculous. She was ridiculous.
She’d been dating McVie for less than six months, and it was already one of the longest romantic relationships she’d ever had. She was serious about McVie—more serious than she’d ever been about a guy before.
And if she wanted to trust him, she’d have to tell him—even if he’d already figured it out.
Fenway opened the door to the coroner’s suite and walked in. Sarah looked up from her computer. She wore an oversized T-shirt, and her hair was back in a ponytail—Fenway had never seen her so casual.
“Hey, Fenway.” She tilted her head. “You okay?”
“It’s the case.” And telling McVie. Fenway forced a smile. “How are you and Patrick coming along with uncovering the financial information?”
Sarah leaned forward in her chair, a little closer to the screen. “Judge Harada limited the scope of the warrant to financial transactions from the last week. We don’t get access to any of their checking or savings accounts, but purchases from credit and debit cards are okay.”
“What about ATM transactions?”
“Purchases only.”
“How about the warrant for the coaches’ office at Nidever?”
Sarah shook her head. “Private university property. Harada said the standards weren’t met.” She glanced behind Fenway. “Isn’t Dez with you?”
“She stopped at Java Jim’s. We had to refuel our caffeine tanks.”
“What?” Sarah turned to Fenway, her eyes twinkling. “You didn’t get me anything?”
“It’s after four p.m. I thought you couldn’t drink coffee—”
Sarah turned back to her screen. “I’m messing with you. Should I send Dez in when she gets here?”
“Yes.” Fenway turned back to Sarah. “Whose financial information are you looking at now?”
“Annabel Shedd.”
“Can you do me a favor and look at Lorraine Sunday first?”
“Why?”
“Because Dez and I talked to Sandra Christchurch. It seems Sunday will be the new head coach of the Neons.”
“Oh. So you think that gives her a motive to kill Coach Levinson?”
“People have killed for less.”
“Hang on—do you think she killed Maggie too? She was supposed to be the next big thing. Hard to have success without a decent goalie.”
“The pieces haven’t all fit together yet. Maybe Maggie wasn’t nearly as good as everyone said. Lorraine Sunday is a World Cup-winning goalkeeper. She might have seen something—or not seen something—everyone else missed.” She scratched her temple. “Or maybe she thought Maggie could identify her as the killer and risked starting over with a new goalkeeper over getting caught as Levinson’s killer.”
Sarah turned back to her keyboard. “I’ll look at Coach Sunday’s credit cards. I’ll let you know if I find something.”
Fenway went into her office, closing the door behind her, and took her laptop out of its case. She plugged it into the dock and woke the machine up, logging into the system and reviewing the first few pieces of evidence in the case.
Photographs of the hotel room where Coach Levinson was found. Fenway brought up the inventory list from the hotel room. Melissa was right: there’d been no keys found. So where did Levinson’s Corolla key go?
The door to Fenway’s office opened, and Dez came in, setting a large Java Jim’s paper cup in front of Fenway. “Large latte.”
“I thought for sure we’d have eliminated some suspects by now.” Fenway reached for the coffee cup.
“You’re not wrong.”
“But no one has a solid alibi.” Fenway took a sip of her coffee. “And while everyone had a motive to get rid of Coach Levinson, no one had anything against Maggie.”
“Sandra Christchurch did.”
Fenway paused, tapping her chin. “That’s true. And Maggie would have trusted her enough to meet her at the beach.”
Dez sat down in a guest chair on the other side of Fenway’s desk. “I was standing in line at Java Jim’s, and I started thinking about what you said about the owner’s timing—firing people who wind up dead.”
“I only did that to get her to start talking. She might have been angry at Maggie for stealing the bracelet, but she doesn’t have a motive for Levinson. Not really. The murder inquiry has done more damage to the price of the team than an investigation into Paul Levinson sexually coercing players. And Christchurch would have known that.”
“Only I wonder,” Dez said quickly, “if there wasn’t something to that.”
Fenway took another drink from her latte, then set it down on the desk. “Like the gag order in the contracts?”
Dez nodded. “Once Maggie was let go, she could have talked about how Paul Levinson spent years grooming her—I mean, she was still a minor at Shellmont.”
“If we were building a murder case against Paul Levinson for killing Maggie, I might agree with you. But last time I checked, Paul Levinson was murdered first.”
“You don’t think Maggie could point the finger at other people in the organization? For making sure Levinson had access to Maggie, to make sure that Maggie was convinced not to file complaints? If Maggie had evidence that someone in the Neons’ organization enabled Levinson to keep coercing her, that could lead to serious consequences.”
“Maybe Maggie’s finger was about to point at the person who just got promoted to head coach,” Fenway said. “We need to be at the press conference tomorrow.”