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IT TOOK A COUPLE OF hours on the phone explaining it and going over the financial evidence, but Fenway was able to convince Gretchen Donnelly to call Piper for the update. Fenway also had to shoo Piper out, because she kept asking questions about the attack.
It was past three now, and Fenway stared at the phone. She didn’t want to call Millicent Tate—it would be a long call.
But the radio message she had heard earlier had the potential to open up all kinds of trouble for Fenway. Ivanovich’s accusation that she had brought race into the campaign got under her skin, and she needed Millicent to give her a sanity check so she didn’t explode with anger and frustration.
She picked up the phone and dialed.
“Fenway?” Millicent’s voice said. “Did I see the number in my phone right? This is you? Actually calling me?”
“Yeah,” Fenway said. “I’ve been in the hospital.”
“I know. I saw it on the news. It would have been nice to get a call. I’ve had to make a lot of excuses to cancel your campaign events.”
“The police were trying to keep my location secure,” Fenway fibbed. “I couldn’t call until I was released.”
Millicent exhaled loudly, and perhaps somewhat passive-aggressively. “You’re okay now?”
“Yes. My scans came back normal this morning.”
“All right. I can still get you into a couple of events today.”
And I’m so relieved you’re okay, Fenway thought.
“You’re in the office?”
“I am,” Fenway said. “And my cell phone is out of commission right now.”
“Did it break in the explosion?”
“No,” Fenway said. “I don’t know if you heard, but someone is trying to kill me. I took the SIM card out and turned my phone off.”
“You think someone is tracking you through your phone? That’s crazy!”
“I don’t know,” Fenway said, “but I sure as hell am not going to bet my life on it.”
“We can get you another phone. A burner, as the cop shows say. We’ll run it over to your apartment.”
“I won’t be there.”
“You’re not staying at your place? It’s going to look like you’re scared of this guy who’s after you.”
“Yeah, well, it’ll have to look like that,” Fenway said. “The guy’s spray-painted my car, so he knows where I live, and he blew up the car I was borrowing, so I know he wants me dead. And he doesn’t care about collateral damage, obviously.”
Why didn’t he blow up my Honda instead of spray-painting it? Fenway tried to shake the thought out of her head, but it stuck there. If the guy—or whoever it was—wanted her dead, blowing up the Accord made sense. Spray-painting it didn’t. He obviously knew where she lived, knew the car she drove, and saw the minivan she got into.
Millicent paused—possibly a longer pause than Fenway had ever experienced in a conversation with her—and then spoke carefully. “A few hours ago, Ivanovich held a press conference.”
“I listened to part of it on the radio.”
“What part?”
“The race card part,” Fenway said. “I’m pretty pissed off about it.”
“I can believe it. Ordinarily, I’d say it was an immensely stupid move. It’s offensive to a huge number of people.”
“But?”
Millicent clicked her tongue for a moment. “It’s a dog whistle. And I’m frankly not sure it won’t work. We’re talking strategy and possible responses to it right now.”
“Can we ignore it?”
Millicent paused. “It depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether or not reporters are going to ask you about it. And regardless, we’re going to have to have a response—I think it’s pretty likely.”
Fenway sighed. She had felt the same way as Millicent; she wanted to take the high road and stay out of the fray, but Ivanovich was taking the low road and running her over.
“So,” Millicent continued, “how likely do you think it is that he took a picture of your car when it had the, uh, racial slur on it?”
“I was out there for fifteen minutes, at least. Anyone could have driven by and seen it. And it sounds like someone is following me—someone who doesn’t want me around. Maybe it’s Ivanovich. Maybe it’s Barry Klein. Maybe it’s someone else. But if someone is following me, they’re probably taking pictures, and giving them to Ivanovich. There’s probably a picture of me with the spray-painted car, waiting for Rory.” Her voice broke on the teen’s name.
Millicent was quiet for a moment. “I liked that kid,” she said. “Whoever did this...” But she trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
“I’m going to have a police detail for the foreseeable future,” Fenway said.
“That’s less than ideal. It’ll make the last few days of the campaign rough. You won’t be able to do as much, will you?”
“I don’t think it’s negotiable with the department. And besides, I think this is a real threat.”
“But you could come to a campaign event now, right?”
“The police detail isn’t ready,” Fenway said. “They’ll be here soon—at least I think so—but I can’t leave the office right now without them.”
“Well, you can’t disappear,” Millicent mused. “Ivanovich has the last word right now. You can’t let the voters think he’s right.”
“What should I do?”
“Let me think for a minute.” Millicent sighed, and after a moment, she spoke. “You’ve been in the hospital, which is coming out in the press. Give me a couple hours—it’s not ideal, but keep laying low. You were the victim of an attempted murder. Let me see how this is playing.”
“How?”
“A poll, I think,” Millicent said. “We need to know where we stand. Maybe we can talk to some reporters to take the temperature of the electorate. But we’re going to stick around here until we come up with a decent strategy.” Millicent laughed. “You know, I thought the George Nidever dinner was going to a boring evening. Now with all of this going on, Sunday’s dinner should be fun.”
• • •
ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, when the early November twilight was shooting purple and pink across the sky, Fenway walked out with three officers she didn’t know. She rode in the passenger seat of one of the two cruisers to her apartment, driven by the tallest of the three, a lanky black man whose nametag said Young.
“We’re heading to your apartment to get the things you need for the next few days,” Officer Young said.
“I don’t know what I’m going to pack,” Fenway said, mostly to herself, but to have something to say to Officer Young on the drive. “My campaign manager says I pretty much have to go to the George Nidever dinner. You heard of it before?”
“Yeah,” Officer Young said. His voice was boyish, and his manner was easygoing, although his posture was alert. “That’s the dinner the Sunday night before all the local elections, right?”
“Right.”
“That’s been going on for years, hasn’t it? George Nidever—he was one of those guys who traded with the Chumash, right?”
“Well, traded with is a generous phrase. Stole from might be more accurate.”
“It’s a county tradition, anyway. Goes back a long time.”
“Stealing from the Chumash?”
“No—the Nidever Dinner. They host it at the university, right?”
“Right. Since I’ve been off the campaign trail the last day or two, I’m going to need to make a pretty big appearance there.”
Officer Young shook his head. “I don’t think so. My orders are pretty strict. You need to lay low until the police figure out who’s after you.”
“I’ve already been laying about as low as I can, Officer Young. I can’t miss this dinner.”
“It’s dangerous, Fenway,” he said.
She looked sideways at him; she hadn’t said he could use the more familiar first name with her. “Other politicians get threatened all the time.”
“But not all politicians go through what you went through yesterday.”
The slight ringing in her right ear and the rip in the shoulder of her dress served to remind her that it hadn’t been a normal couple of days. She rolled down the window and looked out, the wind blowing in her face, making her curls swirl in the chilly night air. She didn’t want to think about Rory.
Officer Young looked over at Fenway and pressed his lips together. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t want to see you hurt.”
“I appreciate it,” Fenway said, a little brusquely, turning back toward the officer. “I guess we’ll figure this out.”
“Sure,” he said. “I get it.” He cleared his throat. “So, the two officers are going to enter your apartment first. Make sure it’s clear.”
Fenway closed her eyes and remembered six months previously—getting attacked before she had even entered her apartment. Having to fight for her life.
“Right,” Fenway said. “I’m glad you’re going to do that.”
They turned off Estancia Canyon at the Coffee Bean, drove another block, and turned into the driveway of the apartment complex. A florist van was parked in her parking spot.
“What’s the florist doing here?” she mused, with a sense of déjà vu.
She glanced up at her apartment, on the second story, through the darkness. “Look.” Fenway pointed to the second floor. “The hallway lights are out in front of my apartment.” She strained to peer through the shadows.
Fenway thought she saw movement in the second-floor hallway.
“Shit!” she barked.
Officer Young jumped in his seat. “What is it?”
“I think someone is in front of my door.”
“What?” Officer Young braked to a stop.
Fenway heard the sound of breaking glass. “Did you hear that?”
Officer Young nodded.
“That sounded like it came from my apartment!”
Officer Young opened the door of the cruiser. “Stay here, Fenway!” he shouted at her, and sprinted out of his car.
As she watched him run toward the stairs, she grabbed the radio and pushed the button on the transmitter. “Be advised, possible four-five-nine in progress at 6448 Kenneth Avenue, apartment two-one-four. Repeat, possible four-five-nine in progress. Officer on scene. Request backup.”
The other cruiser turned in behind Fenway and screeched to a stop. Two officers got out; one followed Officer Young up the stairs; the other went to the other side of the building and around the corner.
Fenway looked up. The hallway in front of her apartment was dark, and while she thought she could see movement, it was hard to tell what was going on.
She looked in front of the cruiser at the florist van. Then it clicked.
The same florist van that had blocked her space when her Accord was vandalized.
Oh no, Fenway thought, I’m a sitting duck here. A police cruiser, in the middle of the brightly lit driveway. If someone wanted her dead, they’d simply have to shoot through the windshield—or the open window.
She opened the door and rolled out. She ducked low and got around the back of the cruiser.
She peeked above the trunk, and saw a man at the bottom of the far stairs.
He had a black ski mask pulled over his face, a black jacket, and dark blue jeans with black running shoes. And he was making good use of the running shoes—sprinting at full speed out toward the driveway right toward where Fenway was crouched.
Fenway didn’t think—she launched herself at him as he sprinted by her and caught him from the front around the torso. He was knocked to the side as Fenway twisted her body, as she landed on top of him on the asphalt of the parking lot.
He ended up halfway on his left side, his hand stretched awkwardly in front of him to attempt to break his fall. But it absorbed most of his weight, and Fenway heard a sickening crunch and a scream of pain. She was glad for the ringing in her right ear so she didn’t have to hear as much of it.
“You bitch!” he wailed, then screamed in pain, holding his left hand, the fingers jutting at a nauseating angle.
Officer Young, panting, ran up to them. “Fenway! Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Fenway said through gritted teeth. Her side ached from where she had been thrown against the car earlier. “This guy broke his hand trying to get away.”
Officer Young turned the man over and handcuffed him. “What’s your name?” he said.
“Fuck you!” the man screamed. “Get your dirty hands off me!”
“Think this is the guy who spray-painted my car?” Fenway asked the officer.
“I know he’s the guy who just threw a brick through your front window,” Officer Young said. He patted down the man, who was still screaming and trying to flail although he was prone. He pulled out a wallet from the man’s back pocket.
“Put that back!” the man screeched.
Officer Young pulled out a driver’s license. “Well, well,” he said. He held out the driver’s license for Fenway to see.
Terrance Victor Ivanovich.
The photo was of a man of about twenty-five, with the same complexion and jawline of the ear, nose, and throat doctor running for coroner.
“Ivanovich,” Fenway said. “You’re Richard Ivanovich’s son.”
“You can’t take my wallet,” Terrance Ivanovich spat.
“Terrance Ivanovich, you are under arrest for vandalism, destruction of property, and resisting arrest,” Officer Young said. “And you better hope you don’t get connected to the car bomb, or you’ll be charged with murder, too.”
“Car bomb?” Terrance shrieked. “I didn’t do nothin’ with a car bomb. You’re trying to set me up!”
Officer Young looked at Fenway and narrowed his eyes.
“Sure, you might have put a brick through my window, but you expect us to believe you’re not the one who blew up the car I was driving?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Terrance said, and his voice changed. “You’re serious? Someone tried to blow up your car?”
“Killed a seventeen-year-old boy instead,” Fenway said. “And the police are definitely champing at the bit to find the killer.”
“It’s not me!” Terrance exclaimed. “I did the spray paint. And the brick, sure, but I’m not a murderer.”
“Did your father put you up to it?” Officer Young asked.
“I did all the spray paint and the brick on my own. But I didn’t have anything to do with no car bomb. That’s messed up. I wanted you to drop out so my dad wouldn’t be so pissed off about losing by sixty points to a n—”
“Careful,” Officer Young said, applying more pressure to Terrance’s arms.
“Ow! Ow! Stop it! I just meant I didn’t want to kill you.”
“That was pretty stupid,” Fenway said. She nudged Officer Young. “Miranda?”
“Right,” Officer Young said under his breath. “Terrance Ivanovich, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you...”
Fenway stood up. She had thought the spray-painting vandal and the bomb-builder were one and the same. But with Terrance Ivanovich’s surprising and unprompted confession, and with the fact that Terrance had spray-painted and not blown up her Accord, Fenway had to admit she now harbored serious doubt they had caught the person who tried to kill her.
So she probably wouldn’t be sleeping in her own apartment tonight. Maybe even not until after the election.
• • •
ANOTHER POLICE CRUISER came to take Terrance Ivanovich away, as Officer Young and the others had to stay on scene, supposedly to secure Fenway’s safety.
Fenway called the building manager, who grumpily agreed to get two maintenance workers to board over the window. And even though it was well after five o’clock, the workers appeared with boards and tools about fifteen minutes after the call. Fenway suspected if she were anyone else, the manager wouldn’t have called the maintenance crew until the next day—or even Monday morning. But the daughter of the apartment complex’s owner was a little different. As much as Fenway didn’t feel comfortable with the special treatment, she wasn’t going to argue about it, either.
She started to walk out of the complex to go get a latte. Fenway was tired and needed the caffeine to deal with the situation; she figured she’d have to give Officer Young—or one of the other officers—a statement. She still had to pack, she still had to get over to Rachel’s house, and she didn’t see an end in sight.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Officer Young said.
“Uh—to get some coffee?”
“You’re not going anywhere without an escort. Do you know how much trouble I’d get in if anything happened to you on my watch?”
“But they caught the guy,” Fenway said.
“You don’t know it’s the same guy. You don’t know if he has an accomplice or a whole host of accomplices. Did you see the guy’s tattoo?”
“Tattoo?”
“Yeah, the 88 on his forearm.”
Fenway paused. “No, I guess I didn’t.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure the tattoo is impressive on his online dating profile,” Officer Young said, “and I’ll bet he’s involved with Dominguez White Storm.”
“Involved with what?”
“The local white supremacists,” he said. “You haven’t heard of them?”
Fenway paused. “How in the world could Dr. Ivanovich even think of running for public office when his son is a member of a white supremacist group?”
Officer Young shrugged. “Takes all kinds. I mean, he’s buddies with Dr. Klein, and obviously that’s okay with him.”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay? Isn’t he white?”
Officer Young narrows his eyes, a skeptical look on his face. “Yeah, but not the right kind of white—not for people like the White Storm.”
Suddenly it hit her, and she felt ignorant for not seeing it before. “Oh. Jewish.”
Officer Young put his finger to the tip of his nose. “All right,” he said. “You want coffee, let’s go get some coffee.”
The two of them started down the driveway toward the sidewalk.
“You’ve had a rough couple of days, haven’t you?” Officer Young said.
Fenway nodded. She looked at her feet, putting one in front of the other, and watched the shadows of their figures from the streetlights elongate and shrink as she and Officer Young walked down the street. She looked up to the sky; for once, the fog hadn’t started to roll in yet, and she could see the stars above her. The night was moonless and dark. She couldn’t see the Milky Way—the city lights were too strong—but looking up at Orion’s Belt, at Polaris, at Cassiopeia, she felt a wave of peace wash over her for the first time all day.
Had it been yesterday when Jeremy Kapp was found with a bullet in his forehead?
Had it been yesterday when she found cocaine in his hotel room?
Had it been yesterday when Charlotte’s gun washed up on the beach?
Charlotte.
Fenway wondered if her father’s team of high-priced lawyers had been able to get Charlotte arraigned and out on bail in time for her to be home that evening. If anyone could do it, Nathaniel Ferris could. She wondered if he would be able to wheel and deal as much with Dez and Gretchen Donnelly as he could with McVie.
They reached The Coffee Bean. It was empty of customers, and the clock on the wall read five minutes to eight—just before closing time.
“Is there still time to get a latte?”
The barista behind the counter registered distress on her face but it immediately changed to a smile. “Sure, no problem,” she said brightly. “Just a regular latte?”
“Yep.”
“Name?”
I’m literally the only one in here. “Joanne.” She turned to Officer Young. “You want anything, Officer? My treat.”
“Thanks, Fen—uh, Joanne. Large coffee. Black.”
Fenway paid.
They stepped away from the counter and she put her wallet back in her purse. Then she dug around for her phone to call her father before she realized it was in her desk drawer at work with the SIM card removed. She sighed.
“What’s wrong?” Officer Young said, taking the black coffee from the barista, who moved in front of the espresso machine.
“I forgot I, uh, took the SIM card out of my phone.”
“You took the SIM card out?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Because I wasn’t sure if the people who were trying to kill me were tracking me through my phone.”
Officer Young looked at Fenway with concern.
“I know,” Fenway said quickly. “Paranoid.”
“Someone’s trying to kill you, Fenway. That’s not paranoid. It’s not like you’re wearing a tinfoil hat and saying aliens are talking to you through your fillings or anything.”
“Well, no.”
Officer Young paused and lowered his voice, although the barista was busy foaming milk and the steamer drowned out every noise in the coffee shop. “So you’re staying with Rachel Richards tonight, is that correct?”
Fenway nodded.
He paused. “It’s a real shame what happened to her husband.”
“Yeah.” She watched the barista work the espresso machine. “You work the night shift a lot? Were you working that night?”
“Um,” Officer Young stammered. “Yes.”
“Oh. Did you see what happened?”
“I heard about it,” he said. “I wasn’t assigned to the jail that night.” He cleared his throat. “Does Ms. Richards know we’re going to be at her place all night?”
Fenway shrugged. “She’s expecting me to show up for sure, but I’m not sure she knows an officer will be with me. I told her earlier today I couldn’t stay at my place. So I assume she’s heard by now I have a police detail. If she doesn’t know the police will be stationed outside her door, she probably won’t be surprised to find out.”
“She’s pretty smart.”
“You don’t get to be the youngest public information officer in the state for nothing.”
Officer Young smiled. “No. I don’t suppose you do.” He furrowed his brow. “Listen, the sheriff was supposed to talk to you about this. Beatherd and Sanchez will be outside, but I’m supposed to be inside. I’m not supposed to let you out of my sight.”
Fenway paused. “Is that what the sheriff said?”
“Well—not in those words. I mean, I’m not coming into the bathroom with you or anything.”
“Or the bedroom,” Fenway said, a little more sharply than she intended to.
“Or the bedroom, right,” Officer Young said. “I’m going to be stationed in the living room. But I’ll be making rounds upstairs too, making sure no one is trying to break in.”
Fenway folded her arms as she watched the barista pour the steamed milk into her cup. “I don’t know if that’s going to be okay with Rachel.”
“I understand.” Officer Young sipped his coffee. “If it’s a problem, we can always put you up in a hotel.”
Fenway scoffed. “I’m not going to one of the sheriff office’s preferred hotels. I’ve seen them. They make the Belvedere Terrace look like the Ritz-Carlton.”
“The what?”
“The Belvedere Terrace Hotel. It’s kind of like a resort, only rundown. It’s on the north side of town near the refinery.”
“Oh, yeah, I remember. It was nice a few years ago.”
“I was there yesterday. It’s not nice now.”
The barista put a lid on the cup and made eye contact with Fenway.
Fenway took a couple of steps toward the counter. The barista turned the cup so Joann, spelled without the “e,” was turned toward her.
“Thanks,” Fenway said, taking the cup off the counter.
The barista smiled broadly. “Have a good night, folks.” Her attitude belied the Get the hell out so I can close up and go home that was right behind it.
Fenway took a sip. The latte wasn’t strong, and the milk hadn’t heated up enough. Serves me right for ordering it just before closing time, she thought, as Officer Young opened the door for her.
She took a good look at the officer for the first time. His jaw was strong, and she noticed he had good posture, but also had an ease about him that suggested he was comfortable with himself. She wondered how old he was—he could have been a mature twenty-four or a young-looking thirty-five. But Fenway thought he was likely pretty close to her age. She also noticed no rings adorning his fingers. She walked past him out into the parking lot, and he followed. They started walking back to the apartment.
“So—Joanne?” Officer Young asked.
“What?” Fenway said, taken aback a bit.
“The name you gave to the barista,” he said.
“Oh. That’s my mom’s name.”
“Why do you use your mom’s name?”
“Ah,” Fenway said. “Spoken like someone with an easy first name.”
“What are you talking about?” Officer Young said. “Fenway’s easy. Easy to spell, easy to write.”
Fenway shook her head. “It’s unusual. Everyone thinks they’ve heard it wrong. I either end up with something weird like Arwen or Phyllis, or I have to go into a big long story about how my father is the world’s biggest Red Sox fan.”
“Ah.”
“So, Officer, what’s your regular, easy-to-spell first name?”
He smiled. “Todd.”
“Todd,” she said. “Todd Young. Nice. Short, to the point.”
He shrugged. “Thanks, I guess. I like Fenway, too. The name, I mean. And I’m not even a Red Sox fan.”
Fenway didn’t say anything.
They arrived back at the apartment complex and Fenway saw the building manager walk down the steps from the second-floor hallway and stride purposefully toward Fenway and Officer Young. He held a manila envelope in his hand and met them halfway across the parking lot.
“Miss Stevenson?”
“Hi,” Fenway said. She didn’t remember the building manager’s name and was a little embarrassed.
“This was under the doormat,” he said.
Fenway looked at Officer Young. “Was this there when you caught Terrance Ivanovich?”
Officer Young looked puzzled. “Well, I guess I can’t say for sure. He had broken all the light bulbs in front of your apartment, so it was dark. And we were a little more concerned about the brick through your window than looking underneath your doormat.”
“Think it was left by the same guy who threw the brick?” the building manager said.
“I’m not sure.” Fenway took the envelope from him. The name Fenway Stevenson was neatly printed in thick black marker, centered on a single line in the middle of the envelope. “I don’t think so. It’s certainly neat writing. Can you see Terrance Ivanovich printing this neatly?”
“No.” Officer Young said.
“I guess it’s possible, though.”
“Don’t open it.”
Fenway looked at him.
“Someone’s trying to kill you,” he said. “Don’t tell me you take apart your phone but you’re going to open an envelope without taking any precautions. It could be anthrax or something.”
“Let’s go under one of the lights,” suggested Fenway. “We can’t see anything out here in the middle of the parking lot.”
“The workers are almost through, Miss Stevenson,” the building manager said. “You should be able to come through in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.” Again Fenway wished she remembered his name.
Fenway and Officer Young walked over to the side of the parking lot, where a bright fluorescent, so blue it made Fenway’s eyes hurt, shone down on the walkway.
Fenway turned the envelope over. “It’s not sealed,” she pointed out. The metal clasp was the only thing keeping it closed. “So probably no anthrax.”
Officer Young took it from her and made a brief show of examining it. Fenway wondered if he was amping up his machismo to impress her. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “I guess it’s okay to open. But let me do it.”
She looked at him sideways.
“Seriously,” he said, and pinched the clasp and opened the envelope. He looked inside. “Looks like it’s papers,” he said.
Fenway held her hand out. He reluctantly handed over the envelope, and she shook the papers out into her hand.
“These aren’t just any papers,” she said, looking through them. “These are love letters between our murder victim and Charlotte.”
