About fifty reporters, several television cameras, and a smattering of fans crowded around the temporary stage and lectern at the edge of the soccer field. The morning light was still filtering through the mist, and Fenway shivered in her thin coat, standing about thirty feet away from the stage.
“They’re not here yet,” McVie said, pulling a wool cap over his ears.
Fenway tried not to berate herself too much. She had asked McVie to pick her up and drive her to the press conference with the excuse that her car was still being held for evidence, and she’d intended to tell him, really tell him, about what happened to her in the Russian Lit professor’s office. But he seemed strangely subdued and pensive, and Fenway remembered he’d talked to his ex the night before. She hadn’t wanted to pile on with her problems—well, not exactly her problems, but if McVie was processing something Amy had told him, maybe her unburdening could wait.
Fenway ran a hand over her hair. “I’m sure the owner wants to make a grand entrance.” Her phone buzzed, and she pulled it out of her purse.
Had to make a stop in San Miguelito
I will be at Nidever but I will be 15-20 min late
“Who’s that?” McVie asked.
“Dez. She’s running late. Had to run to San Miguelito.”
McVie’s eyebrows raised. “Think she and Dr. Yasuda are back together?”
“I do, yes.”
“Good.” McVie’s eyes softened. “I’m rooting for them.”
“Because Dez will be in a better mood?”
“That’s not the only reason I’m rooting for them.”
Fenway felt a rush of affection for McVie. She looked around, but there were too many reporters and cameras to get close to him and have him wrap his warm arms around her. She felt weird as it was, standing next to him and arriving with him. Everyone by now—at least, everyone at City Hall and at the local newspaper and television stations—knew Fenway and McVie were an item.
“Why did you want to attend the press conference?”
“Because,” Fenway said, “all the main suspects are here in one place.” She felt like a Texas Hold ’Em poker player, behind in the hand, but with many cards that could show up and give her the win. The report from Maggie’s cell phone—whom did she call that morning? The shoe print—she needed to see just one person with the unique shoe. Or a hit on a purchase that would give her a clue which way to go.
Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Sarah.
Payment information
Credit card purchase at Marks-the-Spot for hinge-mounted wedge door stops, stationery and sports drinks
Paid for with Vegas Neons company credit card
Fenway waited, but no follow-up came. She texted back.
Whose name on the credit card?
Another moment, then Sarah’s text came back.
No name listed on transaction – Store will send signature imprint in 2-3 business days
Fenway grimaced. That would be no help. Sarah sent another text; this one was a link to the same wedge-shaped hinge-mounted door stoppers she’d shown Fenway online. Fenway read the product description and clicked on a video—the stopper allowed the door to be invisibly propped open at any angle.
And the company credit card—that narrowed things down. Fenway assumed the owner—and maybe the coaches—had access to the Neons’ card.
A rustling of jackets and a murmuring among the crowd. Fenway turned as Sandra Christchurch in a cream-colored peacoat, her short hair perfectly coiffed, emerged from the mist and strode up to the field.
She was followed by Lorraine Sunday, dressed in a Las Vegas Neons tracksuit. The two women walked onto the field and took their places on the stage: Christchurch behind the lectern, Sunday to her right.
“Where’s the other guy?” McVie asked.
“They’re announcing Lorraine Sunday as the new head coach. Rocky wouldn’t be onstage for that.”
“So—”
“Rocky Portello didn’t get promoted.” Fenway turned back to the stage and walked in place to keep her blood flowing, the gears in her head turning. “Before Coach Flash was fired, he thought he’d get the head coach job when Levinson left—I spoke to him a couple of days ago, and he told me a succession plan was already in place, though Christchurch denies it. And he said he thought his job would be in jeopardy after the news story broke, but I don’t believe him. I think he expected to be promoted.”
“There he is.” McVie lifted his chin slightly in the direction of the front row, to the left of the stage. Rocky Portello, dressed in gray sweats with a Las Vegas Neons cap, stood, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Portello watched Lorraine Sunday, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched.
Fenway craned her neck to look at his shoes, but too many people were in the way.
“Fenway!”
She jumped slightly—it was her father, dressed in a black suit and a white dress shirt, a blue-and-gold scarf around his neck, leaning on his cane which sank slightly into the wet turf. “This weather reminds me of getting up early and overseeing construction at Ferris Energy.”
“Mr. Ferris,” McVie said, reaching over and shaking Nathaniel Ferris’s hand.
“Craig—it’s been a while. How are you?”
“Good.”
“We’ll have to get you and your girlfriend over to the house for dinner. That is, if she’s not too busy dealing with her work.”
“Dad,” Fenway hissed, “what are you doing here?”
“Really? I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out.”
“You’re buying the team?”
“I’m not—” Ferris sighed. “Sandra and I are having preliminary talks. We had a fruitful meeting yesterday. Being here at the press conference in person is part of the due diligence.”
Fenway paused. “Are you okay being out here?”
“Relax. I’m going back to the walkway in a moment.” He glanced around furtively, then lowered his voice. “The doctor changed my medication right after my meeting with you on Friday. My balance is much better today.”
“Oh.” Fenway pulled the strap of her purse up higher on her shoulder. “I’m glad to hear it.”
He held up his cane. It was a shiny piano black with a jewel-encrusted top.
“I can’t believe it,” Fenway said. “You went with the British spy cane idea.”
“The handle isn’t a hidden dagger or anything, but I love it. Your stepmother has excellent taste.” His eyes twinkled. “I’ll leave you to it. Here on official business, I suppose.”
“I am.”
Nathaniel Ferris stepped away from Fenway and McVie. The crowd quieted as Sandra Christchurch stepped to the podium and tapped the microphone.
A slight hum of feedback came on but dropped almost immediately. The field was quiet. Christchurch took a step away from the microphone, and a man in a jacket with the Nidever logo jumped onto the stage and began talking with Christchurch.
The mist settled thickly over the pitch, and Fenway felt the dampness weigh on her skin. McVie took a small step to the side, toward Fenway, and their elbows touched. Fenway glanced up at Portello; the assistant coach was still glaring at the stage.
The seconds ticked by, each one dragging, as the man turned and swapped out the microphone on the podium. A click and a low hum, and Fenway flashed in her mind to the ride in the Uber with Maggie, then another flash of her hiding next to Fenway’s car, then again of finding Maggie’s dead body in the ravine next to the beach. She shuddered as Christchurch stepped back to the microphone.
“Thank you.” Sandra Christchurch’s voice was firm, perhaps a little louder than she’d intended. A small murmur ran through the audience, and Christchurch looked out over the small group of people gathered in front of the lectern.
“I’d like to thank everyone for showing up on short notice and in the chilly weather,” Christchurch said. “We’re certainly not used to this in Las Vegas.”
Scattered nervous chuckles through the crowd.
“This week has been the most challenging in Las Vegas Neons history,” Christchurch continued. “Today, we come together as a team, come together as a family, and we must heal. The road ahead, particularly the balance of training camp, will be difficult. Now, more than ever, we need the support of the fans, our adopted community here in Estancia, and each other. In that light, I am honored to announce the promotion of Lorraine Sunday to the position of head coach of the Las Vegas Neons, effective immediately.”
The applause was mostly polite and reserved, but from the back, a chorus of cheers. Fenway craned her neck: the players on the team, and in front, Annabel Shedd, clapping enthusiastically.
“Do you think Lorraine Sunday knew Christchurch would promote her?” Fenway whispered to McVie as the new head coach stepped up to the lectern.
“What do you mean?”
“I think Rocky Portello believed he’d be next in line for the head coaching job when Levinson retired,” Fenway answered. “But suddenly he gets passed over for the other assistant coach. Do you think Sunday knew?”
“Are you looking for a motive for Coach Sunday?”
Before Fenway could answer, Sunday began to speak, a sober reflection on recent events.
McVie bent down and spoke in a low voice next to Fenway’s ear. “Sunday’s got a World Cup resume, doesn’t she? Doesn’t that beat being an assistant coach in the European leagues?”
Fenway tapped her chin. “Sunday knew Levinson sexually coerced his players constantly.” She pinched her lower lip in thought, staring at the ground in front of her. “Sunday knew it would be hard to get Levinson out, and Portello was still the heir apparent. But what if she figured out a way to bring Levinson’s relationship with Maggie out in the open?”
McVie nodded. “I suppose Sunday might convince Sandra Christchurch that Portello was too close to Levinson to be trusted.” He shoved his hands deeper into his pockets. “But why murder? Christchurch was ready to fire Levinson for cause.”
“Maybe Sunday didn’t know,” Fenway mused.
“You’ll have to pick a motive,” McVie said. “Either you think she killed Levinson to get promoted into his position, or you think she went to his hotel room to confront him about his coercion of Maggie and things got out of control.”
“It could be both.”
“Confronting Levinson—taking the law into her own hands—that I could see. But the head coaching position? There are openings all the time in the league,” McVie said. “A top assistant for a successful club like the Neons? They’d have to be considered for any open head coaching position, right?”
Fenway looked sideways at McVie. “Lorraine Sunday is a Black woman. I’m not sure she’d get a fair shake.”
“What are you talking about?” McVie tilted his head. “This is a women’s league. Sandra Christchurch—”
“Is one of the few female owners in the league,” Fenway finished. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Craig, but it’s not a level playing field.”
“Sunday’s won a World Cup.”
“And has a decade of coaching experience at the professional level,” Fenway said, “and she’s never gotten so much as an interview for a head coaching position.”
McVie shook his head. “If she did it, she didn’t plan it. The murder weapon was one of Levinson’s golf clubs. Crime of opportunity. Maybe she’d intended to confront him about his behavior, but knowing she could be head coach factored into her decision.”
“I don’t know,” Fenway said. “I just found out someone purchased special hinge-fitted door stoppers. You can adjust them to make it look like a door is all the way closed when it isn’t. Those probably facilitated the murder. Wouldn’t that mean it had to have been premeditated?”
McVie paused. “Did we miss something?”
Considering McVie didn’t have all the evidence at his fingertips, it was kind of him to throw in the “we”—when Fenway really knew that she had missed something. She was sure the murder hadn’t been fully planned. “We can ask her after we arrest her.” But her voice sounded hollow.
McVie grinned. “Okay, so now Sunday’s head coach—she got everything she wanted. What doesn’t fit?”
Fenway rubbed her chin in thought. “Maggie’s murder fits. Coach Sunday gave her Corolla key to Annabel, making us think she didn’t have a key. But she takes Levinson’s key when she kills him. Second, she was the goalkeeping coach—Maggie would have trusted her enough to meet with her Saturday morning. Here’s a theory: Lorraine Sunday bought those door stoppers so Coach Levinson and Maggie could be alone without detection.”
“Didn’t need the door stoppers for Thursday night. She went up in the elevator.”
“But she would have needed to get back into her room without being detected. I theorize that Lorraine put the hinge stopper on the sixth-floor stairwell door—the floor Maggie was on.”
McVie looked at the gray sky for a moment, then briefly nodded.
“So let’s say that Lorraine Sunday ran interference for Levinson both now and last year. But when Maggie got released by the team, Sunday realized that Maggie could talk to the media about how Sunday enabled Levinson to sexually assault her, day after day, month after month. Sunday might find herself not only fired as head coach but blacklisted by the league.”
“So how do you explain the tennis bracelet? And the card?”
Fenway blinked. “Sunday had the opportunity to take the bracelet. She was at the coaches’ meeting in Christchurch’s room.”
“But shoving the card under the door?”
Fenway snapped her fingers. “She did that before Maggie got arrested. She was hoping to keep Maggie on her side, or maybe bribe her to keep her mouth shut. Then everything went sideways when Maggie was kept at the station all day.”
McVie looked skeptical. “Giving Maggie the owner’s beloved tennis bracelet? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It might have made sense to Sunday at the time. Besides, she doesn’t have an alibi. Not for either of the times when the murders were committed.”
McVie was quiet for a moment. Lorraine Sunday was speaking, but her tone was somber, and Fenway wasn’t paying attention.
“You really think,” McVie finally said, “Lorraine Sunday killed Levinson to have a shot at becoming head coach?”
Fenway pressed her lips together. “And then killed Maggie to keep her from going to the press with stories about how the whole organization covered up the sexual coercion.”
Sunday’s speech grew stronger and more forceful, then applause burst forth from the crowd. Fenway startled and began clapping along with them.
McVie leaned forward. “It’s an interesting story, Fenway, but you don’t have any proof.”
Fenway blinked—and suddenly she was back on the Western Washington campus walking as fast as she could away from her Russian Lit professor’s office, and everything running through her head screamed but you don’t have any proof. Her professor had been a powerful man in the department—on all of campus, in fact—and she was a community college transfer in her first semester.
She blinked again, and she was back on the Nidever campus, watching Lorraine Sunday speak.
Fenway looked up at McVie. “And that’s why I’m here. Dez and I can talk to the team. We’re uncovering more financial records every hour.” The owner and assistant coaches, specifically—they might have all had access to the corporate card. Then she might have her proof.
“Right,” McVie said as the crowd began to thin. He looked around. “I should get to the office—I’ve got some billing to take care of.”
Fenway grinned. “What good is having a rich client if they don’t pay you?”
“Exactly.” He smiled, but his eyes were tired, almost sad. “So you’ll wait here for Dez?”
Fenway nodded. “I’ve got to follow the team into the athletic offices. I need to ask about Sunday’s alibi, at the very least.”
McVie leaned forward and gave Fenway a quick peck on the lips.
“Can I see you tonight?” Fenway asked.
“Give me a call later.”
Fenway walked into the mist, toward the university office buildings.
Her mind whirled. Lorraine Sunday hadn’t been on her original list of suspects, but everything fit. With Paul Levinson out of the way, Sandra Christchurch on her side, and Maggie silenced, the head coaching position was hers.
Fenway shook her head. She was focused on Lorraine, but she still needed to keep an open mind.
She opened the door to the building where the coaches’ offices were. She could hear Lorraine Sunday’s strong, clear voice, enthusiastic but urgent—a focus on the prize, overcoming adversity. She opened the door next to the coaches’ office and peered inside.
It was a conference room, and more than twenty people—mostly players—sat around a large table, with Sunday standing at the head. A few players turned to look at her.
“Excuse me a moment,” Sunday said, walking over. “Good morning, Coroner. Can I help you?”
“Sorry—sorry,” Fenway stammered. “I’ll come back when you’re done.”
Lorraine motioned for her to come inside. “Actually, Coroner, this was a pretty short meeting—but I thought we could have a moment of silence for Maggie before we end. Would you like to join us?”
“Uh—sure.” How could she say no? She stepped into the conference room, the door shutting loudly behind her. She looked around: Annabel Shedd, Lorraine Sunday, Rocky Portello, Darcy Nishimura, other players she had interviewed, sitting around a maple-topped conference table, all wearing their Neons’ black-and-gold tracksuits.
Except Coach Portello—she realized she’d never seen him wear the Neons’ tracksuit. He was in a Neons T-shirt and cap, as usual. Hmm—maybe the tracksuits were only for the women. No, that didn’t make sense.
“Maggie was arguably the most fearless goalkeeper to play the game,” Lorraine said to the room. “Her competitive spirit inspired everyone who played with her. Soccer has lost one of its greats, and we never even got a chance to know how great she could be.” Sunday paused, swallowed hard, cleared her throat, and continued. “Let’s take a moment to remember Maggie—and to dedicate this season to her.”
Murmurs of assent quickly gave way to quiet, and Fenway set her purse on the chair next to her and bowed her head slightly.
The quiet of the room was almost eerie, and Fenway didn’t dare call attention to herself in any way. The disconnected evidence whirled in her head—the car cover, the shoe print, the banner rods, the door stoppers...
And suddenly, the moment of silence was over. Sunday dismissed the players. “I’ll see you on the field in twenty minutes.”
“Actually, I’ve got some follow-up questions,” Fenway said.
Sunday pursed her lips. “Make it half an hour,” she shouted above the din of the players. Then, to Fenway, “Give me five minutes.”
“I really can’t—”
“Five minutes,” Sunday said. “I’ll meet you in the hallway.” She turned to Coach Portello. “Rocky, can I see you for a moment?”
Fenway stood in the river of players for a moment before walking out with them. The hallway was noisy, a cacophony of overlapping conversations. Fenway grabbed the door handle of the coaches’ office and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
She took a deep breath and looked around. Not much had changed in the office from when she’d interviewed Lorraine Sunday—but something was different.
Coach Sunday’s desk was on the right side of the room, Coach Portello’s on the left, Levinson’s in the middle.
She could rummage through Levinson’s desk right now without the warrant the judge had declined. Five minutes—no one would know. If she found the key, she’d be sure Annabel was the better suspect—if not, she’d keep her focus on Sunday, maybe Christchurch, maybe even Ezekiel Washington. It wasn’t ethical, and she’d never be able to use it in court, but it could help catch the killer.
She stepped in front of Coach Levinson’s desk, debating with herself.
Then she blinked. Something was missing.
She looked all around the desk, but nothing seemed out of place. She raised her gaze to the wall behind his desk.
The banner. Las Vegas Neons—AFF Western Conference Champions. It was gone.
The banner rods. Metal finial-tipped dowels. XTL Stainless Steel Banner Rod. Sixty inches.
And Sarah’s words rang in her mind: Based on the width of the ball finial, Dr. Yasuda believes this fits the criteria for the weapon that killed Maggie Erskine.
She stood and walked behind Levinson’s desk. Had it fallen? No—it wasn’t on the floor. She walked around the worktable. It was possible, of course, that Lorraine Sunday simply didn’t think it was a good motivational tool like Levinson had.
Then she caught something out of the corner of her eye.
There, behind Coach Portello’s desk.
She walked, almost trancelike, to his desk. A small hutch stood behind it, and in the space between the wall and the hutch was the banner.
Its banner rods—the stainless steel ones with the finials—were gone.