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FENWAY PUSHED CALLAHAN to the side and knelt down next to Dr. Tassajera. She held up his hand and felt for a pulse. Nothing.
One of doctor’s golf clubs lay by his left arm, its head bathed in blood and a bit of white matter that Fenway assumed was brain tissue.
“Dammit,” she said under her breath.
“What happened?” Callahan said. He turned to Fenway; his eyes were wide open, the confusion even more pronounced on his face.
“We left for five minutes and I assume his client killed him while we were gone,” Fenway said. She felt the anger creep into her voice.
“What—how—”
“Secure the room, Callahan. Make sure whoever did this isn’t still here.”
Fenway got up and backed against the wall while Callahan checked under the desk and in the small coat closet.
“Clear,” he said.
Fenway shook her head and walked back to the body. “Can you call this in, Callahan?” she said. “And tell them I’m already on the scene.”
Callahan nodded and got on the radio while stepping into the waiting room. Fenway thought she heard him say “CSI” and hoped they’d be able to find some evidence. She heard the radio click off and Callahan poked his head in the office again.
“Okay, we’ve got a lot more to work with than most murder scenes,” Fenway said. “First of all, at least we have a seven-minute window when the attack happened.” Then she knelt close to the dead doctor’s head. “Blunt force trauma,” she said, pointing to the golf club. “This would have done it.” She paused. “You got a camera on you, Callahan?”
“Just my camera phone,” he said, pulling it out of his pocket, unlocking it, and holding it out.
Fenway took it and pulled up the camera app. “That’ll do.” It took a second to focus, but once it did, she started snapping away.
Callahan talked with them in the outer office while Fenway took more pictures and examined the body. They stepped outside to secure the scene.
“Any cars leave the parking lot?” she said.
One of the other officers shook his head. “We didn’t see anything. We were waiting on the other side of the building.”
“Crap,” Fenway said. “Maybe we can get security footage from building management or something.”
“I’m not sure they have cameras at this office complex,” Callahan said. “If Dr. Tassajera here was adamant about client privacy, he’d have picked a building without cameras, right?”
“That makes sense, but who knows?” Fenway mused. “Anything is possible. Maybe the building people installed them after the fact and he didn’t want to move his practice. Worth checking, at any rate.”
“Maybe.”
Fenway stood up and scanned the room. She walked over to the desk. She pointed at a power cable and a monitor cable that weren’t plugged into anything.
“Where’s the laptop?”
Callahan shook his head. “I don’t know. Do you remember seeing it in here earlier?”
“No,” Fenway said. “But most people bring their laptops with them to work, right?”
Callahan nodded. “They do—but not always on the weekend. If he was seeing a couple of clients today—you and your dad, and the guy who killed him—he might not have bothered. Maybe he thought he’d take the laptop in on Monday and type up all his notes on the sessions later.”
Fenway nodded thoughtfully. “That’s a good point,” she mused. “Even though I don’t go anywhere without my laptop. Not usually, anyway.”
Callahan looked around the room. “Anything else missing?”
Fenway pointed to the table next to the chair. “The succulent in here is gone.”
“That was a hidden microphone too, right?”
“Yes,” she said. “At least, I assume so. It looked exactly like the other one. Same ceramic pot and everything.”
Callahan looked around, lost. “We were gone for seven minutes.”
“Sometimes it doesn’t even take that long.”
Callahan sighed. “The sheriff is going to be so mad at me.”
Fenway looked Callahan in the face. “No, he won’t. You were following protocol, you were following case law and my guidance. We had no way of knowing there was any danger.”
“I still don’t like it,” he said. “This happened on my watch. And it shouldn’t have.”
“You can’t think like that,” Fenway said. “And blaming yourself won’t help us find the killer.”
“Do you think this is connected to you?” Callahan said. “Do you think the other patient waited for you? That if you had shown up here by yourself you would have been the one attacked?”
“I don’t know,” Fenway said. “It’d be an awfully big coincidence otherwise. But if so, why weren’t they lying in wait for me?”
“Maybe it’s not you.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “The attacks on me don’t make a lot of sense. Can you think of any reason why someone besides me would be the target?”
“The therapist was seeing your dad, too, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah...”
“Your dad’s a pretty powerful guy. And he doesn’t always play by the rules. Maybe the microphone was intended to catch him saying something he thought was protected.”
“Great,” Fenway said. “Another theory to stroke his ego.”
Callahan looked sideways at her.
“If you’re surprised, Callahan, you’re the only one in the whole office who didn’t know I don’t get along with him.”
“Yeah, but you fake it, right? I mean, you must want to be in the will.”
Fenway laughed, a barking guffaw that made an uncomfortable grimace emerge on Callahan’s face.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry. That was—uh, like, the worst thing to say.”
“No, it’s okay,” Fenway said. “Brian. It’s really okay. It’s refreshing to hear what people think.”
“Sorry.”
Fenway shrugged. She looked at the top of the desk and noticed a light film of dust around the edges.
“Callahan, take a look at this.”
“What?”
Fenway pointed. “Notice there’s a fine layer of dust here?”
“Yes.”
She took another picture with Callahan’s phone. “But not here. There’s no dust—look, it’s in a large rectangular area right in front of the chair.”
“Our killer took the laptop and the desk blotter.”
“I think the doctor had a calendar on it the last time I was in here. Probably with the name of whoever had the ten o’clock appointment.”
Callahan rubbed his face. “You know, Fenway, you’re probably going to have to stay to give your statement. I am too, of course—we both found the body—but you’re going to miss your senior center thing.”
Fenway shook her head. “I wish there were a way to do this job without running for office.”
Callahan nodded. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. Ivanovich has to talk about his son getting arrested. I’m not sure he can spin that.”
“Hah,” Fenway snorted. “I think if he played his cards right, he could turn this into a positive for himself. Throw a few dog-whistle words to the white supremacists, suddenly they have a reason to come out and vote, and if he makes it about race, people will start doubting me.”
“You are such a pessimist.”
She handed the phone back to Callahan. “You don’t have to look far to find examples.”
“He’s going to have to explain what his son did eventually. He hasn’t given a statement yet, which means he’s probably panicking and he’s not sure what to do.”
“I guess. Millicent is still going to have a fit.”
“Can’t be helped, though.” He put the phone in his pocket. “I’ll email the pictures to you the first chance I get.”
“To everyone in the office.” Fenway thought for a moment. “And Dr. Yasuda’s office too, if you don’t mind.”
“No problem.”
There was a commotion outside, and Fenway heard yelling. Two of the voices were the policemen who had gone back outside to secure the scene. The other was Nathaniel Ferris.
“Ugh,” Fenway said. “My father’s here.”
She went out through the waiting room and opened the front door. “Hi, Dad,” she said, stepping out onto the walkway.
Her father looked a little rumpled, as if he hadn’t slept, and his brow furrowed. “Fenway—what’s going on? Didn’t we have an appointment at eleven?”
“Yes, we did,” she answered. “But the crime scene tape should give you a clue that it’s not going to happen today.”
Ferris screwed up his face. “You can’t use anything I said to Dr. Tassajera against Charlotte. There’s such a thing as doctor-patient confidentiality—I don’t care if you were in the session too, we both have to—”
“Dad!” Fenway interrupted. “We don’t use crime scene tape for interviews. You know better than that.”
Ferris took a step back and blinked rapidly. “I—uh, no, Fenway, of course you’re right.” He looked out at the parking lot and his eyes widened when he took in all the police cars, as if noticing them for the first time. “How did—um,” Ferris stammered, then cleared his throat. “Is everyone okay?”
Fenway shook her head.
“Oh.” His face fell and all the color drained out of it.
“Are you okay?” Fenway asked.
“I don’t know,” he said in a low voice. “First, the police arrested Charlotte, and I’m already going out of my mind. Then I go to talk to Domingo Velásquez. But I get to his house and his wife tells me he left on Friday right after work and didn’t come back. And now, my therapist’s office—” He took two more steps back and stared at the office door.
“Wait, Dad—did you say Domingo Velásquez is missing?”
“I don’t know if I’d say missing,” he said.
“Do you know him?”
“Yes—remember? His company does the body work on our fleet?”
“Oh—that’s right.”
“I went there yesterday to tell him how sorry I was about Rory.”
“You went to see him?” Fenway was shocked that her father had thought about someone other than himself. She hoped the surprise hadn’t registered on her face.
“I had to get out of the house. Charlotte’s still in jail, you know. Rattling around that big house without her—I don’t know. I had to do something.”
“And what happened?”
“Nothing happened. He wasn’t home. His wife said he didn’t come home on Friday. And she didn’t know where he was.”
“The day his minivan exploded. The day his son was killed.”
Ferris nodded. “I guess so.”
It seemed strange that Rory’s father would leave and not come back after his son’s death. Fenway had seen the different ways people dealt with grief, but Fenway suspected his disappearance might be something other than grief.
“Did you pull up just now?”
“Of course I did.”
“Roderick drive you?”
“No, he gets Sundays off, remember? I drove myself.”
“So you weren’t the person Dr. Tassajera had in his office five minutes ago, right?”
“No, of course not. I came right from home. I didn’t even know he was seeing someone before us.”
“I have to ask. And you don’t know who had the appointment before us?”
“No idea,” Ferris said. “I didn’t even know he had an appointment before us. I show up and do what he says.”
“You never heard Dr. Tassajera mention anyone he wasn’t getting along with, did you? Any patients who were violent? Any spouses of his clients who were angry with him?”
“You were with me every time I saw him, Fenway. I sure don’t remember anything like that.” He paused. “Someone hurt the doctor?”
Fenway nodded.
“And he—he’s not going to be okay?”
“No,” Fenway said softly.
Ferris closed his eyes and nodded. “All right. Uh—you need to ask me any more questions?”
“No—not for right now, anyway.” Fenway paused. “Sorry about Charlotte.”
“Me too.”
“Take care of yourself, okay? Have you eaten today?”
Ferris shook his head. “I figured I’d eat after our session.”
“Maybe you should go get something now.”
“Yes, that’s a good idea,” Ferris said absently. “I hope you get whoever did this.” He turned and trudged through the parking lot toward the black Mercedes S500 parked in the last row.
Callahan appeared by her side. “Okay, I think we’ve got everything secured in the office. It should be good until CSI gets here.”
“Did you hear who they were sending?”
“Both Kav and Melissa. It’s not often a murder is this fresh.”
“I know.” And even though the murder had taken place far too close to Fenway for comfort, especially since there was a possibility she was the target, she felt excitement. This murder was not only fresh, but the killer didn’t have a lot of time. No time to clean up, no time to wipe prints off anything, no time to make sure stray hairs were picked up or no skin was left under fingernails. “I hope I’m not jinxing it, by saying this, Brian, but there have to be clues here.”
Callahan nodded. “I’m blaming you for jinxing it if CSI doesn’t find anything.”
Fenway crossed her arms. “I guess I can deal with that.”
Another sheriff’s office cruiser pulled into the lot. Fenway saw Dez behind the wheel, a determined look on her face. And next to her in the passenger seat wearing sunglasses, and his mouth turned down in a look of concern, Sheriff McVie.
“Oh no,” Fenway groaned. “Are they going to tell me I can’t work this case either?”
Callahan looked sideways at her. “He was your therapist, right? Isn’t that, like, the definition of a conflict of—”
“Okay, Brian, fine, when you put it like that, sure.” Fenway sighed. “I’ve got way too many conflicts of interests the last couple of days. It’s putting a cramp in my style.”
Dez walked up to her. “Hey, rookie,” she said.
“Hey, Dez.”
“How you holding up?”
“Fine.”
Dez caught Fenway’s eye with a look that said they both knew better. “Hm. You stayed at Rachel’s last night?”
“Yep.”
“McVie was telling me he put police protection on you.” Dez said it like a question.
“Yes. They sent Officer Young for the night shift. Callahan this morning.”
“You’re still alive, I see. They’re not completely incompetent.” Dez smirked.
“Nope,” Fenway gave Dez a tired smile. “Is McVie staying in the car?”
Dez shrugged. “I don’t know. He insisted on coming.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “Now he says he needs a minute.”
“He needs a minute?”
Dez gave Fenway a look halfway between incredulity and disapproval. “Look, I don’t think it’s a good idea for the two of you to do whatever it is you’re doing—”
“We’re not doing anything, Dez. We haven’t for a long time.”
“Well, whatever it is you’re not doing, it’s affecting McVie. He, uh, he had a hard time yesterday. After the explosion.”
Fenway was a little shocked, but cleared her throat and looked stern. “We haven’t even been on a single date yet.”
“And his divorce isn’t final either,” Dez said. “But you two aren’t exactly on a pre-first-date basis.”
Fenway looked at Dez’s face, nonplussed. “I know you and McVie didn’t drive all the way out here just so you could tell me you don’t approve of who I’m dating.”
“I thought you said you hadn’t gone—”
“Dez!” Fenway said sharply.
Dez cackled. “Fine, fine, fine. I won’t bring it up again.” Then her face grew serious. “There’s one thing I wanted to talk with you about,” Dez said, in a low voice only Fenway could hear. She turned her back to the police cruiser, and positioned her body between the car and Fenway. Fenway could no longer see McVie. “Officer Young.”
“Young? What about him?”
Dez crossed her arms. “Rachel doesn’t trust him. She called me last night.”
“Doesn’t trust him? That’s—” Fenway was going to say ridiculous. But she remembered how Rachel insisted Fenway stay in her room, and how she put the chair under the doorknob.
“That’s what?”
“Maybe that makes sense. But I don’t know why she doesn’t trust him.”
Dez shrugged. “I don’t know either. I like the kid. He and Quincy are pretty tight. I can’t see it, but, hey, we all know that Rachel can be three steps ahead of the rest of us.”
“Right. Did Rachel say anything?”
“I didn’t have time to talk to her about it,” Dez said. “He’s assigned to you again tonight. I assumed if he had intended to do something, he would have done it last night.”
Fenway paused. She remembered waking up from her nightmare. Was Officer Young already in the room? Was he trying to hurt her? It was an odd turn of events. Rachel probably saw something that didn’t sit right with her. And Rachel had also made a mention of the gun in her bedroom. Had Rachel mentioned it specifically so that Young would hear it? And had she insisted on keeping Fenway in her room so she could keep her safe? “Did you tell McVie?”
“No,” Dez said. “He’s been on edge with the election, and then the car bomb right downtown. I’m not sure I should worry him about one of our officers when it’s just a hunch.”
But he still thinks there’s a mole in the department, Fenway thought. Dez might not be aware of that. Maybe Fenway would talk to McVie about it.
The sound of a car door opening made Dez turn around. McVie got out and walked toward them.
“Hi, Fenway,” he said. “Are you okay?”
Fenway shrugged.
“First the car you were driving, and now your therapist,” said McVie. “This seems personal.”
“I don’t know, Craig,” Fenway said. “I was just in the next room. If they wanted to hurt me, wouldn’t they have tried something?”
McVie drew his mouth into a tight line.
Fenway looked to her left. Callahan had walked down to the sidewalk and was taking down the license plate numbers of all the cars parked on the street. “Now, you see that, McVie?” she said quietly. “I think Callahan might have the makings of a detective. He’s getting all the license plate numbers from the cars on the street and in the parking lot. If the killer had come out and if he had to walk past us to get to their car, he might have ducked around the back, gone to the street, and gotten a taxi or an Uber or something.”
“Or walked home,” Dez said.
“Right. Leaving his car here.”
“It’s a long shot,” McVie said, shrugging.
“I don’t know how much of a long shot it is,” said Fenway. “The most likely place was the parking lot, for sure, but I bet we could see maybe a quarter of the cars here. And the killer wouldn’t have known how far around the corner we were. He might not have wanted to chance it, no matter where his car was in the parking lot.” She paused. “Someone might want to suggest he study for the detective exam. He’d probably have to work with computers less if he made detective.”
Dez looked down at her feet and shuffled them. She looked at McVie. He cleared his throat.
“You’re here to kick me off this case,” Fenway said.
“We are,” McVie said. “Since he was your therapist.”
Dez pulled a small notebook out of her pocket. “You also happen to be a material witness to his murder. So it’s even more of a sticky situation.”
Fenway nodded.
Dez smirked. “It’s kind of sick and twisted that you want to get out of your campaign events so bad you’re hoping a murder will come along so you’ll have an excuse.”
Fenway smiled sadly. “Yeah, I guess it is. I don’t think I’m cut out for politics.”
Dez nodded. “You’re awful at the politics.”
“All right,” Fenway conceded, sighing. “Callahan took pictures on his phone of what we found. I had gloves on. I felt for the pulse.”
Dez nodded. “Yeah, Callahan emailed them to me and Donnelly.”
“I’ve seen them too,” McVie said.
Fenway nodded. “Anything jump out at you?”
“From the angle of the wound, I think the killer is right-handed,” Dez said. “But that doesn’t tell us much. Did you see anything under his fingernails?”
Fenway shook her head. “But I didn’t look closely.”
“Okay,” McVie said. “What else did you notice?”
“I think the doctor’s laptop was stolen,” Fenway said. “I assume it was to hide whoever had the ten o’clock appointment.”
“That makes sense.”
“I also think a desk blotter was stolen. Last time I was here, he had one of those big desk calendars on his blotter. That could have been why they took it.”
“A laptop I could see,” Dez said. “If they had to leave in a hurry, or if they decided to get a cab or an Uber, a blotter would be kind of unwieldy, don’t you think?”
“Yes. So maybe they didn’t take a cab. Maybe they drove off.”
“Yeah.”
“What else do you need to ask me?”
Dez looked at McVie. “I’m going to have to ask her some questions about her therapist.”
“Fine by me,” McVie said.
“No, I mean, I can’t have you listening to this conversation. You should go back into the car or go out of earshot or something.”
“Oh.” McVie cleared his throat. “Fenway, you’re doing okay?”
“Yeah.”
McVie nodded. He looked awkward for a moment, but straightened up, turned, and went back to the car.
Dez tapped her pen on the notebook. “How long had you been seeing Dr. Tassajera?”
“This would have been our third session.”
“He was the one doing family therapy for you and your father?”
“Yes.”
“You had an appointment this morning? On a Sunday?”
“Yes, at eleven.” And Fenway told Dez about the bug detectors, the succulents in the ceramic pot hiding the microphones.
“You have the hidden microphone?” Dez said.
“Sure. It’s bagged up.” She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to Dez. “I was planning to give it to Kav or Melissa when they got here.”
Dez nodded. “Okay, Fenway, I think we have everything we need.”
“Also—” Fenway lowered her voice again. “I’m starting to think whoever blew up the minivan and whoever killed Dr. Tassajera aren’t trying to kill me.”
“Who else would they have targeted with the minivan?”
Fenway shook her head. “My father said Domingo Velásquez left town. He was the owner of that minivan. Maybe whoever put the bomb in there meant to kill him, not me.”
Dez put her hands on her hips. “Why would they kill him?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, Dez. But, hypothetically speaking, someone who’s investigating this might look at someone besides me as the potential target, right?”
Dez pursed her lips. “I’m not sure Donnelly’s going to like this.”
“She likes where the evidence takes you, though, right?”
“It was taking us to Charlotte. Donnelly wants to close this and move on.”
Fenway paused. “How has it been working with her?”
“Fine,” Dez said evenly. “She’s intelligent. She makes good connections. She’s asking all the right questions. And because she’s been running the P.Q. office, she doesn’t have preconceived notions of Barry Klein or—well, to be blunt, your father.”
Fenway crossed her arms. “I sense a but coming.”
Dez screwed up her mouth. “The gun belonging to Charlotte and the emails between them—she’s hung up on them. She wants to give the D.A. an ironclad case with Charlotte.”
Fenway nodded. “My father is very upset about Charlotte spending the night in jail.”
Dez shrugged. “She’s probably going to spend more than one night in jail. She owns the gun that killed him. And she’s a flight risk—with your father’s money and access to a private plane, bail’s out of the question.”
“The ballistics matched?”
Dez nodded. “We got the results from San Miguelito this morning. Charlotte’s gun shot the bullet that killed Jeremy Kapp.”
“Have you looked at the security footage? My father said it’ll show Charlotte coming home on Friday and never leaving.”
“We have the footage,” Dez said. “Our techs are going over it right now. The problem is—at least according to Donnelly—it’s your father’s security footage. She thinks it might have been tampered with. And Charlotte is denying she and Jeremy Kapp were having an affair,” Dez said. “Even when confronted with the emails this morning.”
“You got those email printouts from Officer Young?”
“Of course we did.”
“You believe the emails are real?”
“Piper’s looking into it.”
“Good. If those emails were faked, she’ll find out.”
“I’ll tell you something else,” Dez said thoughtfully. “Charlotte didn’t know anything about the name Potemkin. Now, I know sometimes people are good actors and everything, but your stepmother is definitely not a good actor. I don’t think she has any idea who Potemkin is. She said she had heard of Catherine the Great—she said she was the queen who had sex with a horse.”
Fenway nodded. “That would be all Charlotte would think about Catherine the Great. She probably doesn’t even know she’s Russian.”
“I have my doubts about Charlotte’s involvement in this,” Dez said, “and ordinarily, I’d look at the husband too, but the way your father reacted when I arrested Charlotte—well, I don’t think he knew anything about it. And he was so upset about Charlotte getting taken away, and I think it was genuine.”
“Yeah,” Fenway said, “I guess despite everything I hate about Charlotte, my father is pretty hung up on her.”
“I might even use the ‘L’ word,” said Dez drily.
“Lesbian?” Fenway asked, smirking.
Dez shook her head and rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing I like you, or I’d kick your ass,” she said.
“So—you won’t be closing the case any time soon?”
“Nope, we’re not there yet,” Dez said. “The D.A. doesn’t think we have enough to go to trial and win. Not with Charlotte’s ability to pay for expensive lawyers.”
“The D.A. is probably right.”
“Agreed. So we’re looking into lots of things. Finances, especially. If they were having an affair, there’s gotta be some secret credit card Charlotte used for hotels or gifts or sex toys.”
Fenway closed her eyes. “Come on, Dez, I did not need that visual.”
Dez cackled, then her face became serious. “Okay, Fenway, I’ve done my official duty and told you to stop working this case.”
“I haven’t been working on Charlotte’s case.”
“I mean Dr. Tassajera’s death,” Dez said.
“Really? I don’t think you explicitly said anything.”
“You got my intent, I’m sure of it.” Dez lowered her voice. “Now, if I were you, and I were the type to take everything literally, I might think the literal words I’ve said would still allow me to go back to the office and get Piper to look into some financial records. I might start with the dead doctor.”
Then a thoughtful look crossed Dez’s face.
“What is it?”
Dez squinted at nothing in particular. “So—we’ve been working with the theory that the person who blew up the minivan was trying to kill you, right?”
“So far, yes.”
“Suppose you’re right and the father was the target instead.”
“Domingo Velásquez.”
“Right. And look: Jeremy Kapp was your father’s contractor.”
“Domingo Velásquez was my father’s car fleet mechanic.”
Dez nodded. “And Jacob Tassajera was your father’s shrink. The three of them are connected through your father. Maybe someone tried to kill all three of them, and Velásquez is the only one who got away.”
“That’s an interesting theory.” Fenway thought for a moment. “Maybe I should look into the auto shop’s financial records too.”
Dez nodded. “We’ve already seen that Jeremy Kapp did some shady things with money and that shell company. If either of the others did too, that could establish a pattern.”
“I should be able to get to Dr. Tassajera’s financials—he’s dead. But good luck finding a judge who’d sign off on a warrant for the auto shop.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Fenway smiled. “Thanks, Dez.”
“Now go talk to McVie. He’s worried about you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Fenway walked over to the passenger side of the cruiser, and McVie lowered his window.
“Hey, Craig.”
“Hey, Fenway.”
“Everything okay?”
McVie smiled. “Everything’s fine with me. I thought you, uh, might need someone to talk to.” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, have been through a lot the last few days.”
“I’m doing okay. Work is obviously keeping me busy.” She smiled and hoped it was convincing.
McVie craned his neck around Fenway; all the officers were around Tassajera’s office, paying no attention to the two of them.
He turned back to her and lowered his voice. “I wish—I wish I could put my arms around you.”
Fenway closed her eyes. “Yeah, I wish that too.” She put her hand on the door, where the window had rolled all the way down, and McVie put his hand on top of hers.
“I hate this campaign.”
“I hate it too.”
“Gene was worried about how it would look, me being down here with you.”
Fenway opened her eyes. “How it would look?”
“Gene knows I’m, uh, getting a divorce, and he knows that you and I are, uh, you know.”
A frown touched the corners of Fenway’s mouth.
“Obviously, it hasn’t become a topic of conversation on the campaign trail,” McVie said quickly, “but in case it does, Gene thinks the more I know about what’s, uh, going on with you, the better. That way I don’t come across as dim-witted.”
“Dim-witted?” Fenway pulled her hand back.
“Look, I could be asked if you and I are seeing each other, or if we had an affair before the separation. I kind of expected that. But I didn’t expect to be asked if I knew you were seeing a therapist, and if it had anything to do with our affair.”
Fenway didn’t expect that either, and although she and Millicent had discussed the therapist situation, she didn’t think McVie should know. She didn’t want McVie to know. “I don’t—” she began. What else had Gene uncovered about Fenway—and told McVie? Did he know about Professor Solomon Delacroix? She took a deep breath. “We didn’t have an affair.”
“Whatever it is we’ve done so far,” McVie said. “You know that won’t come across that well.”
“If it comes out.”
“Anyway,” McVie said lamely, “that’s how I know about your therapist. So when I heard this come in, I was, I don’t know, a little worried.”
“I’m fine,” Fenway said, too quickly. She felt a little anger—and a little humiliation—at not being able to tell McVie this on her own terms.
McVie gave Fenway a long look. “Listen,” he said, “if you need to talk, I’m here. This isn’t a date thing, or a Wednesday thing.”
“I’m fine,” Fenway said again. She looked over at Dez and nodded, and Dez began walking over.
“Okay,” McVie said. “Take care of yourself.”
Fenway nodded as Dez handed the keys to McVie through the window. “I’m staying,” Dez said. “I’ll catch a ride back with the uniforms. You can head back to the station.”
“Thanks, Dez,” said McVie.
Dez turned to Fenway. “We all good?”
“Peachy,” Fenway said.
“All right. I’m going to check out the crime scene. See you later, rookie.”
McVie stepped out of the passenger door with the keys. “If you need to talk, you know how to reach me.”
Then Fenway heard the voice of Officer Brian Callahan behind her. “There you are! I wondered where you’d gone.”
She turned. “Sorry, sorry.”
Callahan nodded at McVie. “Sheriff.”
“Everything under control here, Callahan?”
“We had a one-eighty-seven, Sheriff. The coroner and I found the body.”
McVie nodded. “I heard the call come through.” He cleared his throat. “All right. I’m heading back to the office. Sorry to saddle you with paperwork, Callahan, but I’ll need the report on this before you go home.”
“Understood.”
McVie got in the car. “Thanks for taking care of this. And make sure Dez has a ride back to the station.”
He backed out of the space, and drove out of the parking lot. Fenway watched the cruiser until it disappeared around the corner, and she stood alone with Callahan in the parking lot.
She wanted to tell him all her theories and crazy ideas. His mind worked similarly to hers, she suspected: running over the pieces of the puzzle that didn’t fit until another solution presented itself. She thought he might make some connection—besides her father—that she couldn’t see.
But she didn’t trust Callahan with her crazy ideas. He was a rule-follower, after all, and he might place more value on Fenway staying away from the case due to her conflict of interest than he would catching the person who was behind it all.
“Are you sticking around?” Callahan said.
Fenway turned and started walking toward Callahan’s cruiser. “Nope. Let’s follow McVie back to the office. Let’s see if there are any judges around on a Sunday.”
