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FENWAY ITCHED TO GET out of the hospital, and the interminable waiting—for the doctor, for the first batch of questions, for the brain scan, for the second nurse with the blood draw, for the second doctor who tested her reflexes and looked at her bruises, especially her recently healed left hand—was excruciating. The doctors did a lot of grunting and tut-tutting.
She reluctantly agreed to overnight observation—the hospital lab was backed up, and brain scan results wouldn’t be back until the early morning—and got situated in her shared room. She didn’t realize how exhausted she was until she lay down, and even with the beeping of the machinery and the nurses coming in and out, she fell asleep quickly.
The nurses woke her up several times during the night. Each time, Fenway felt like she had just fallen asleep.
When morning finally arrived, Fenway’s joints and muscles complained; she’d known, picking herself up after the explosion, that she was going to feel it later, and she did.
The first nurse who came in told her that the results from the brain scan were back, and after a half-hour wait that felt much longer, the doctor came in to discuss them. As expected—although Fenway had a moment of panic before the doctor read the results—everything came back normal.
“No concussion, no sign of any brain trauma,” the doctor said, a little too jovially. “So we can get you out of here as soon as the paperwork clears. Should only take an hour or two.”
After the doctor left and the nurses checked on her for what Fenway hoped was the last time, she dressed, taking care not to make the rip in the shoulder of her dress worse. She didn’t dare put her SIM card back in or turn on her phone, so she sat on the hospital bed. She turned on the television—nothing worth watching on Saturday morning, so Fenway stared dead-eyed at the screen, thinking about who might be behind the bombing and coming up blank. Fenway started to wonder how crazy Millicent would be without a candidate for all the scheduled campaign events.
The door opened, and Fenway started to get up, but it wasn’t a nurse with her release paperwork. Instead, Officer Sandoval entered, followed by Sheriff McVie, who was holding a cardboard tray with three Java Jim’s coffee cups.
“Hey, Fenway,” McVie said. Concern had set deeply in the lines of his face, and he looked like he hadn’t slept well. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m sore,” she said. “Feeling it today. But no concussion, so I can get out of here.”
“That’s great news.” Sandoval sat on the chair next to the bed. “The getting-out-of-here part, not the pain part.”
“I hope one of those coffees is for me,” Fenway said, eyeing the cups.
“Sure is.” McVie held out one of the cups. “Large latte.”
“You remembered,” Fenway said.
Fenway took the latte from McVie and sipped. Java Jim’s tasted a hundred times better than the hospital coffee. It felt good going down and it calmed her a little.
“I can’t stay long,” said McVie. “I’m meeting with the FBI in about twenty minutes.”
“The FBI?” asked Fenway.
“They’ve mentioned the T-word.”
“T-word? Oh—terrorism.”
“Right.”
“And Officer Sandoval has some additional questions,” McVie said awkwardly. “And I heard that she, uh, wasn’t showing up with coffee, so, uh, I decided to tag along.” He eyed the room; there was nowhere else to sit but on the bed itself. McVie remained standing.
Fenway felt self-conscious of the way she looked, in torn day-old clothes and no makeup, but she was touched that McVie obviously couldn’t hide his concern for her. “I’m glad you came.”
A long pause between them made Fenway feel anxious, and after taking a long drink of his coffee, McVie begged out of the room, repeating the information about the FBI meeting, and closing the door behind him.
“Do you want to talk about what happened?” Sandoval asked, after taking a drink of her own coffee.
“I guess.”
There was silence between them for a minute.
“So, uh, Fenway,” Sandoval began, nervously. “You said out there you thought you were the target.”
Fenway nodded, started to speak, then hesitated.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know if it’s going to sound paranoid. Or crazy.”
“I know you’re not paranoid or crazy,” Sandoval said. “So try me.”
“Yesterday morning, about mid-morning, I went home to change. When I came back out to my car, some asshole had spray-painted nigger on it.”
“Oh,” Sandoval said, her eyes widening.
Fenway nodded.
“Did you report it to the police?”
Fenway scoffed. “No. Why bother?”
“Why bother? Because it’s vandalism against a peace officer. And a hate crime.”
Fenway shrugged. “Listen, I know technically I’m a peace officer, but I certainly don’t do what you do.”
“We still have your back. And you have ours.”
“Sure,” Fenway said. “But it’s not like I’m out on the streets, patrolling, or knocking doors down or anything.” She remembered seeing Dez swinging the battering ram, knocking the door down in the warehouse district two months before.
“So you didn’t call the police.”
“Honestly, I thought it was someone from Klein’s campaign, or Ivanovich’s office, trying to throw me off my game.”
“But still.”
“If I had reported it, I’m sure they would have found a way to make it about them. I’m bringing race into it, I’m accusing their campaign of thinking a black woman can’t be coroner, and then I give a voice to everyone who doesn’t think a black woman can be coroner. It’s a lose-lose situation for me.”
Celeste startled slightly. “Wait—you said your car was spray-painted yesterday morning? But I saw it before they towed it to the evidence yard. It’s immaculate.”
“Yeah. I called my campaign manager, and one of the volunteers—Rory, the kid who was killed—” and Fenway felt her voice start to break, but pushed the feelings aside “—had a father who owns an auto body shop. Rory had my car back to me by five o’clock.”
“But it wasn’t your car that blew up.” Sandoval pulled out her notebook.
“But I borrowed Rory’s dad’s minivan that morning. Rory drove the minivan to my apartment and switched cars with me. He drove my car to his dad’s auto shop, and I drove the minivan to a campaign luncheon, and then to the parking garage.”
“Did anyone see you drive it?”
“I don’t know. I was only in my apartment for twenty minutes, tops. Whoever spray-painted my car could have still been there. Might have wanted to see my reaction, or admire their handiwork.” Fenway thought for a moment. “Maybe someone at the teachers’ luncheon, but I got there late. I don’t remember anyone seeing me. And it was still going on when I left.”
Sandoval nodded, scribbling in her notebook. “McVie ordered a protective detail for you.”
“What? I don’t want—” Fenway stopped. “No—I do want protection. It’s possible—maybe even likely—they saw me get in Rory’s minivan. I got to work a little after one o’clock, and I didn’t go back to the minivan. I would have gotten in it to drive it home, but Rory was there with my Accord. We swapped keys, and then Rory went to get the minivan.”
“Did you see Rory get in the car?”
Fenway shook her head. “So I guess I don’t know if Rory was killed.”
Sandoval sighed. “I’m afraid he was. It was his body we pulled out of the car. Dental records matched.” She paused for a moment. “I asked you because I thought you might know if it happened when he unlocked the door, or when he started the car, or what.”
Fenway frowned sadly. “No. I didn’t see it.”
“Is there a possibility someone blew the minivan up with a remote? Maybe you weren’t the target.”
Fenway pursed her lips. “That would be a big coincidence.”
Sandoval nodded. “But it’s a possibility.”
“I suppose.” Fenway tapped her fingers on the bed. “But the most likely scenario by far is that I’m the target, don’t you think? They might have seen me survive. They might be at my apartment right now.”
Sandoval nodded. “I’m sure that’s why McVie ordered the protective detail. You were even checked into the hospital under an alias.”
“An alias?”
“Yes.”
“No wonder Millicent didn’t visit.”
“Millicent?”
“My campaign manager. Millicent Tate. Three days before the election and here I sit, out of commission in the hospital. She’d tell me to get out there in front of the cameras, assassination attempts be damned.”
“We had an officer outside your door all night. She couldn’t have visited even if she had known where you were.”
“Oh.”
Sandoval leaned forward in her chair. “We don’t want you to go back to your apartment. You can go in once the officers have cleared it, and pick up a few things, but we don’t want you staying there.”
“You think this is necessary?”
“You think someone blowing up the car you were supposed to drive isn’t serious?”
Fenway was quiet.
“If you get out of the hospital today, do you have anyone to stay with tonight?”
Fenway thought.
Her father and Charlotte? Dez might have interviewed them about Jeremy Kapp’s murder. She couldn’t ask him. Besides, she and her father were still on the outs.
She thought about McVie. If things had gone according to plan, they’d have gone on their first date a couple of months ago, and she’d leave the hospital and go over to his new apartment, and he’d take her in his strong arms, kiss the side of her face, stroke her hair, and tell her nothing would hurt her as long as she was in his apartment, in his arms, in his bed.
But politics had undone their dating before it had even started. And there was no way she could stay with him.
She could call Rachel, though.
As soon as she thought of Rachel’s name, she felt a sense of relief. Rachel would need to know a lot of what went on anyway. She was sure Rachel was on the site of the explosion—as the county’s public information officer, she’d have to be involved on the front lines. But Fenway was sure Rachel would say yes to having her stay over. There was even a guest room.
“Yes, I think so,” she said.
“Your dad lives close, right? And he’s got private security if he doesn’t want the sheriff’s department around.”
Fenway laughed. “No, I can’t call him. I mean, they have plenty of bedrooms, but they have their own problems right now.” Fenway thought of telling Officer Sandoval about Charlotte’s gun, but couldn’t bring herself to do it. Perhaps Sandoval already knew.
“Okay, well, whoever you decide to stay with, we’ll take you in a patrol car and check out your apartment before you go in to get your things.”
Fenway sighed. “Millicent will freak out.”
Sandoval smiled. “Man, am I glad I’m not running for anything.”
“You could have thrown your hat in for sheriff since McVie’s running for mayor.”
“No, thank you,” Sandoval said. “Gretchen Donnelly will be great as our next sheriff. She’s been in charge of the field office in P.Q. for years now. I’m glad she’s running. I’m not cut out for it. I’ll let you crazy people deal with the political stuff.” She cleared her throat. “Okay, now, I’m not comfortable asking this, but can you tell me exactly what happened, and in what order?”
“Starting when?”
“When you decided to go out to the parking garage, I think.”
“Right,” Fenway said, and took a deep breath. She told Sandoval the whole story: the phone call she got from Rory; the exchange of keys; telling Rory she would tell Millicent Tate he did a good job; turning toward her car and unlocking the door; having the world explode around her.
When Fenway was done, Sandoval thanked her and nodded.
“You have any other questions?”
“Not right now.”
“Will I have to tell anyone else? The sheriff? Maybe Donnelly? Do they want to know anything?”
Sandoval shook her head. “Not right now, anyway. We’ve heard from a lot of witnesses. Of course, if the FBI decides to get involved, everything could change.”
“So I can leave? I mean, as soon as the hospital releases me?”
Sandoval smiled. “Sure.”
They made a little small talk before Sandoval said goodbye and left.
Fenway sighed and stared out the window. She hated to bother Rachel, but knew she’d need to make this call. She looked at her watch. It was almost eleven. Fenway sat and picked up the hospital room’s landline phone. She called Rachel’s mobile number from memory.
Rachel picked up on the third ring. “Rachel Richards.”
“Hi Rachel, it’s Fenway.”
“Fenway! Are you okay? I heard you were hurt in the explosion!”
“No, I’m fine. My ears were ringing. My new dress got torn. I’m sore.” She paused. “Are you at work?”
“Yes. I had to stay downtown until late. I thought I’d have to pull an all-nighter. All the media outlets wanted statements every twenty seconds. Some TV reporter came all the way down from San Francisco.”
“Impressive, Miss Richards. You’ll have your White House press secretary job in no time.”
Rachel laughed. “Fortunately, I was able to get out of there about two-thirty, but I was back here at nine. Lovely way to spend a Saturday.”
“I bet.”
“Where are you now?”
“St. Vincent’s.”
“You’re in the hospital? Are you sure you’re okay?”
“They wanted to keep me for observation. But my scans all came back fine. I’m bruised and I’ve got a bump on my head, but otherwise unscathed. Considering how bad it could have been, I got off easy.”
“Oh, I’m so glad.” Rachel paused. “Listen, I don’t mean to rush you, but I’m on deadline for a press release. Did you need something?”
“Um... I need someplace to stay.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Did something happen at your apartment?”
“Early yesterday, yes. And the sheriff thinks there’s a good enough chance it’s related to the explosion, so I’ll need to find somewhere else to stay besides my apartment.”
“And you chose my tiny little two-bedroom over your dad’s monster mansion?”
“I did,” Fenway said. “And it’s not so tiny.”
“It’s no problem,” Rachel said, “but I’m not going to be home for a while. And I haven’t gotten the place ready for guests.”
“I can bring my own sheets,” Fenway said.
Rachel laughed. “No, no one’s been in the guest bed since the last time it was changed. I mean there are dishes in the sink, my crap is all over the bathroom counter—”
“Come on, Rachel, you know I don’t care about that stuff.”
“Well, it’s a good thing, because I’m not cleaning it up before you get there. You still have the spare key?”
“I do, as a matter of fact.”
“Great. Maybe I’ll see you before midnight.”
They said their goodbyes, Rachel telling Fenway about a new show she had recording on the DVR, and they hung up.
Fenway closed her eyes and thought for a minute. Although she was staying with Rachel, she knew she should call her father. She opened her eyes, took a deep breath, and dialed his mobile number.
The voice on the other end was gruff. “Ferris.”
“Hi Dad, it’s Fenway.”
“Fenway! I’ve been trying to get you all night! Where have you been?”
“It’s a long story, Dad.”
“Well, I wish I could have gotten ahold of you. They took Charlotte away in handcuffs last night.”
“They arrested her?”
“Yes. Second-degree murder. How come you’re not investigating this case like you should be?”
“First of all, there’s a conflict of interest, Dad,” Fenway said. “As soon as Charlotte emerged as a suspect, I got kicked off the case.”
“I don’t care if you were kicked off the case or not,” Ferris said. “You know Charlotte didn’t do this.”
“Dad, I’m the one who found the earring.” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Fenway bit her lip.
“The earring?”
“Ugh, I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“You found one of Charlotte’s earrings at the murder scene?” His voice took on an annoying note of desperation.
“I shouldn’t be discussing the case, Dad.”
Ferris didn’t say anything in response, and Fenway didn’t want to elaborate. Finally, after about thirty seconds, she said, “Dad, are you still there?”
“You listen to me,” Ferris said, and his voice was low, even, but threatening—a tone Fenway hadn’t heard before. “Charlotte didn’t do this. I didn’t have anything to do with this. And I didn’t put you in the coroner position so you could fiddle while Rome burns.”
Fenway started to seethe. How dare he talk to me this way, she thought. But, in spite of her anger, she got a chill up her spine too. She knew she had proved herself, true, but she also knew it was her father who had put her in the job—and he was the one to suggest it to Sheriff McVie in the first place.
But her father, for all his intelligence and all of his ruthlessness, didn’t seem to understand how the most basic police procedures worked.
“Dad, didn’t you hear me? I’m off the case. I was put off the case because there’s a conflict of interest because I’m your daughter.”
“That’s bullshit, Fenway. You’ve never liked Charlotte, and you don’t want to have to find evidence of her innocence.”
“Dammit, Dad, I know you’re upset about Charlotte getting arrested, but there’s nothing I can do.”
His voice was still low. “We’ll see what the sheriff has to say about that.”
Fenway scoffed. “Good luck, Dad. McVie’s been pulled off the case too.”
“McVie’s been pulled off the case?”
“Yes. You’re paying for his campaign, so he can’t investigate your wife. It’s a conflict of interest, just like mine.”
Ferris was silent on the other end of the line. Fenway didn’t speak either.
“Fenway,” Ferris said, his voice dramatically changing, now sounding hurt and confused, “the police came and took her away. They accused her of having an affair with Jeremy Kapp. I knew Jeremy—he worked for me for years. His family was over for dinner the other night. An affair!”
Fenway didn’t say anything.
“Is it true? That they were having an affair?”
“We’ve got a witness who says our victim was having an affair with a lot of his clients’ wives,” Fenway said carefully, “and yes, he specifically named Charlotte as one of them.”
Ferris was quiet for a moment, then the pain in his voice deepened. “I know I did a lot of stuff your mother didn’t like,” he said. “I don’t know if she told you.”
“No,” Fenway said. “Mom never said a bad word about you.”
“That’s probably a lot more than I deserve,” Ferris said. “But with Charlotte, it was different. I cut back on my hours. I know I worked late a lot of nights, but I took vacations with her. Romantic vacations, not work trips where she tagged along and went shopping while I worked all day. I never used to take vacations before—not real vacations, anyway. I tried with her. I haven’t slept with anyone else since we got married. I didn’t do any of the bad things I used to do when I was married to your mother. Because I didn’t want to come home and find Charlotte gone with all of her stuff. I thought I learned my lesson.”
Fenway shook her head. The amount of work he thought he needed to do to keep their marriage happy was incredibly low—if he was holding up his fidelity as a point he was proud of, it showed how out of touch he was.
Or perhaps Charlotte had equally low expectations. Ferris had been almost twice her age when they had gotten married, after all. And it wasn’t a stretch, now that he was pushing sixty, to think he couldn’t hold the interest of his much-younger wife, or she would find someone with whom to stray.
“I don’t know what to tell you, Dad. The guy was a dog, sure, but it looks to me like most of the women knew what they were getting into.”
Ferris was silent. All Fenway heard was the ringing in her right ear.
“All right—I’ve got to get going, Dad.”
“I’m sorry, Fenway.”
She sighed. “Anyway, I called to tell you I’m not going to be home for a few days, and I don’t have my phone on me.”
“You’re what?”
“I’m not going to be at home.”
“You’re picking this time, of all times, to go on vacation? What, going up to Seattle to get more of your mother’s stuff?”
“No, I’m not going on vacation, Dad. Someone’s trying to kill me. I’m getting police protection and I’m not staying at my house.”
“Wait—someone’s trying to kill you?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t—I just—”
“Sorry, Dad. It’s a lot to spring on you after you’ve been through this thing with Charlotte. But it’s true. Someone spray-painted my Accord yesterday morning—”
“Spray-painted your car?”
“They sprayed the, uh, n-word on it, Dad.”
“They what?”
“And then they blew up the car I was borrowing.”
Fenway heard her father gasp. “They blew up your car?”
“Yes. It’s all over the news. You haven’t seen anything?”
“I’ve been trying to figure out how to get your—how to get Charlotte out of jail. I’ve been trying to reach my lawyers. You’d think that for the price I pay them, they’d return my calls on a Saturday. Where are you now?”
“I just got out of the hospital.”
“You were in the hospital and you didn’t tell me?”
“They had me there for observation. They thought I might have a concussion.”
Ferris paused. “But you’re okay?”
“Yes, Dad, I’m okay.”
“Oh.” There was silence for a few seconds. “Was anyone else hurt?”
Fenway took a deep breath. “Yes. The kid who lent me his father’s minivan was killed. His dad took the graffiti off my car.”
“What—not the guy who owns Central Auto Body?”
Fenway clicked her tongue. “Yeah. The owner’s kid. Nice boy. I was—” Fenway stopped, a hitch in her throat preventing her from going on.
“Oh, no,” Ferris said, his voice dropping even lower. “I’ve known Domingo for years. We get our car fleet repaired there if they’ve been in an accident.” He paused. “Which kid was it?”
“Rory.”
“Oh no. He was a nice kid. Smart.”
“Maybe you want to call Domingo up and pay your respects,” Fenway said. “Come to think of it, I should too.”
They were both silent for a moment, thinking about Domingo Velásquez and his fallen son.
“Listen,” Ferris said, “I know you and I aren’t getting along right now, and maybe I didn’t come across the right way. But you’re intelligent. And I notice you’re pretty tenacious at getting the truth.”
Fenway shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks.”
“So even if you’re off this case officially,” Ferris continued, “you can still nose around the edges, right? Follow up on a lead or two no one else is looking at? Maybe the D.A. is so convinced Charlotte is guilty, they’re not looking for things anymore.”
“Even if I find something, Dad, I’m not going to be able to bring it forward.”
Ferris sighed, exasperated. “I’m not as smart as you are, Fenway, but even I know there are ways around it. I know you can give it to someone else on your team, or give them an anonymous tip. It’s not brain surgery.” He paused. “And even if it were brain surgery, you could get it done.”
“Oh, you’ve resorted to flattery.”
“Well—yes. I guess I have. Look, Charlotte was here with me on Thursday night. That’s when the murder happened, right? We had dinner in, and then we watched a movie, and we went to bed a little after midnight. There’s no way she could have left in time.”
“Don’t you have cameras all around? Can’t you give them the footage showing Charlotte arriving, and then, like, what ten hours of footage of her not leaving?”
“The sheriff’s office has the footage now,” Ferris said.
“If the video footage exonerates Charlotte, they’ll let her go, Dad.”
“I don’t know,” Ferris said. “My name doesn’t mean what it used to. There are some people in the department who are out to get me.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Come on, Dad. Do you know how paranoid that sounds?”
“You say that now, Fenway, but you should take a look at some of the things that are happening. They’ve put me on notice.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Dad. All right—I’m going to be heading out.”
“Where are you staying?”
Fenway paused. “You know, Dad, I don’t trust this line. I’ll let you know later.”
“Oh—who sounds paranoid now?”
Fenway snapped. “I was almost blown up yesterday afternoon, Dad. A teenager lost his life over it. I’m not being paranoid, I’m being careful. If you have one of your cars blown up when you’re about to get in it, then I’ll gladly support your paranoia. Until then, shut the hell up.”
Ferris was quiet.
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Daddy Dearest, I’ve got some important details to attend to.” And she hung up before he had a chance to say goodbye.
She watched television for another hour and a half, not paying attention to it, letting her mind wander, going over the evidence she had found, and trying to remember details of the parking garage. Had she seen anything out of the corner of her eye? Were there any cars parked on the street with a driver who was simply waiting?
Fenway started to get a headache and cursed under her breath. She didn’t want the hospital to keep her another day. Her stomach rumbled. She needed lunch, but not here.
Finally, at about twelve-thirty, the nurse came in with her release paperwork, and she was wheeled out of the hospital a few minutes before one o’clock. There was a cruiser at the curb. Officer Sandoval was in the driver’s seat. She saw Fenway and got out.
“You’ve been released?” Sandoval asked.
“Yeah. I guess I don’t have a car.”
“You need a police detail anyway,” Sandoval said. “We’re getting one put together. You’ll have a few officers assigned to you in about an hour.” Sandoval looked closely at Fenway’s face. “You okay?”
Fenway closed her eyes. “Do you get along with your father?”
The officer shrugged. “Most of the time, I guess.”
“You ever want to pound his face in?”
Sandoval put her hand on Fenway’s shoulder. “The police detail isn’t going to be ready to take you for another hour or so. Why don’t we go get some coffee or something?”
“Let’s go for the ‘or something,’” Fenway said. “Something like tequila.”
