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AS WAS THE CUSTOM AFTER the pancake breakfast, all the candidates and their staffs went to Monday morning mass. The service was thankfully drama-free—no one burst in with warrants for anybody’s arrest, no one accused anyone of sleeping with anybody, no one set off a car bomb, nobody was spit on, and no one bashed anyone over the head with a blunt object. Fenway sighed. It was a pretty low bar, but one the events of the last few days hadn’t managed to clear.
She turned her phone back on when she exited the church, stepping out into the cold air of the early November day. At this time of year, the Santa Ana winds would often come from the south, warming Estancia up enough for shorts and tee shirts, but today the wind blew from the northwest, off the ocean, making Millicent shiver in her light windbreaker.
“Everything went smoothly,” Millicent said. “You crossed your arms when they offered the sacrament, which was good—respectful, but you look practiced doing it. Didn’t look like you’d never been to church before.”
“I’ve been to church before,” Fenway said irritably.
“You know what I mean. Now, I was able to reschedule the senior center thing for one o’clock. You can stay in those clothes—they’ll like the church outfit, I’m sure.”
“Okay. You have a speech prepared?”
Millicent handed Fenway two sheets of paper. The speech was in large type, difficult to miss, peppered with phrases like “fight for justice” and “no matter who the criminal is, or how well they’re connected.” Fenway fought for a moment over the singular/plural disagreement, letting her lit major background wash over her, but knew it would sound better than switching it to “he or she” so she let it go.
“Thanks,” Fenway said.
Her phone buzzed. She had missed three calls.
The first voicemail was from Dr. Michi Yasuda, the San Miguelito medical examiner. “Good morning, Miss Stevenson. I wanted to let you know we didn’t get a hit on the fingerprints on either of those envelopes, or the papers inside. Whoever it is, he or she is not in the system.”
Fenway felt a rush of affection for Yasuda when she heard the he or she.
Dr. Yasuda took a breath and continued. “We also have some results from the autopsy of Jeremy Kapp. He had a significant amount of cocaine in his system. From the analysis of his nasal tissues, it looks like it was snorted.”
“At least he went out on a high,” Fenway murmured.
Yasuda paused on the voicemail. “On a personal note, Miss Stevenson, I’d like to wish you luck in your election. I’ve enjoyed working with you so far and I’d like it to continue.”
She clicked off.
The next message was from her father. “Fenway, I don’t know what you did or how you did it, but they’re releasing Charlotte this afternoon. They’re dismissing the charges. You’re a miracle worker, honey. You’re probably going crazy with all your campaign events today, but let me know if you have time for lunch or even coffee today with your old man.”
He, too, clicked off.
Fenway elbowed Millicent. “Charlotte’s getting released this afternoon.”
Millicent nodded. “Good. Excellent news.”
And the third voicemail was from an unknown number. “I’m disappointed you haven’t used the evidence I’ve given to you,” a voice whispered, crackling and distorted, probably with a voice-changing box. “There’s nothing innocent about Charlotte Ferris, I can tell you for sure, and she needs to be locked up.”
“Huh,” Fenway said.
“What?” Millicent asked.
“Listen.” Fenway put the phone up to Millicent’s ear. Millicent’s expression didn’t change. “What do you think?”
Millicent shrugged. “Doesn’t seem professional.”
“I know.”
“And who talks like that? It sounds like someone who’s watched too many cop shows.”
Fenway thought for a second. “Millicent, I’m sorry, but I need to call Dez. I’ve been meaning to talk to her since last night.”
Millicent looked at her watch. “Well, make it quick. We’ve only got a half hour, and you’ve disappointed those seniors enough for one election cycle.”
• • •
“HEY, DEZ.”
“Hey yourself, rookie,” Dez said. “Thanks for waking me up last night with your text.”
Fenway cringed. “Sorry. I thought you’d turn your phone off or set it to do not disturb.”
Dez chuckled. “It’s fine. Useful information. I’m sure your stepmother is happy about it. You said we’re looking in the wrong place for Kapp’s killer?”
Fenway took a deep breath. “After the car bomb, and Dr. Tassajera, and the money laundering, I thought everything was linked. We even thought the same person who spray-painted my car also set off the car bomb.”
“Right,” Dez said. “But we don’t now. Terrance Ivanovich is still adamant he didn’t make the car bomb, and so far, the warrant we served didn’t turn up anything. No bombmaking materials, I mean. Plenty of hate speech, some Nazi memorabilia. A couple of ounces of weed, but that’s not even illegal anymore. We’re still holding him, sure, but there isn’t anything we’ve found to connect him to your stepmother.”
“So we can’t assume any of these crimes were committed by the same person,” said Fenway.
Dez clicked her tongue. “But Piper has uncovered the payments to all of those people from Global Advantage Executive Consulting—well, not Rory, but Rory’s father. I can’t believe that’s not somehow related.”
“It might be related, Dez, but we shouldn’t assume it’s the same murderer.”
“Why not?”
“The other murders are professional. Plastic explosives. Narrow windows of opportunity to get away.” Fenway cleared her throat. “But Kapp’s murder—and the way Charlotte was framed—really amateurish.”
Dez thought for a minute.
“I got hung up on the big, complex crimes,” Fenway said. “I just realized that it doesn’t all fit together.”
“So—you’re thinking a personal motive?”
“Right. Especially since Zoso stopped by Rachel’s this morning.”
“What did he have to say?”
“He shot a hole in Cricket Kapp’s alibi. He only stayed that night for ten minutes, not two hours. He was away from the house at eleven thirty-six.”
“That’s an awfully specific time.”
“He said he remembered it exactly when he turned on the car.”
“That’s plenty of time to get to the hotel and commit the murder,” Dez mused.
“And that shoots a hole in the kids’ alibis, too.”
“Are you sure?” Dez asked. “There’s a lot of money at stake here. Millions of dollars. People have killed for a lot less.”
“No question—Kapp was involved with some seriously complicated crimes,” said Fenway, “but I don’t think that’s why he was killed.”
“You’re thinking someone in the family.”
“Or maybe Catherine the Great.”
Dez hesitated. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said carefully. “We’ve got Mrs. Klein down here on a material witness warrant, not on suspicion of murder.”
“But she was there.”
“Which is why she’s a material witness.”
“Did you get a statement from her yet?”
“She lawyered up as soon as I took her outside. She’s cooling her heels in the interview room while we wait for her expensive lawyer to get here.”
“For a material witness warrant?”
“Yep.”
“Wow. She’s got something to hide, obviously.”
“Of course she’s got something to hide. She was having an affair, she’s a politician’s wife—of course she doesn’t want to talk about it. It’ll be entered into the public record. Doesn’t mean she committed murder.”
“Maybe she’ll help you if you promise to keep her out of the public record.”
“Maybe. We’ll see.”
“If Catherine Klein killed Jeremy Kapp, it would explain a lot of things.”
“It would?”
“Yeah. Well—I mean, it would fit some of the evidence we have. For instance, the financial payments don’t get dispersed until after Jeremy Kapp gets killed. And there’s no activity between Kapp and the consulting account in the two or three days before he gets killed, either.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. He might have gotten a big cash payout. Someone might have stolen a suitcase full of cash from that hotel room.”
Fenway thought for a moment. “Even if that were the case, wouldn’t it make sense for Catherine Klein to be the one to steal it? She might have needed money to get the campaign out of debt—or maybe to get herself out of debt. And maybe when the money went missing, it started a war inside the organization. People thought other people stole Kapp’s money. Someone thought Domingo Velásquez stole it. Somebody else thought Jacob Tassajera stole it.” Fenway’s brain started working more quickly than she could keep up with it. “It didn’t have to be money, either. Maybe it was drugs. Dr. Yasuda called me, and said Kapp had a lot of cocaine in his system. Maybe Kapp owed too much money to his dealer and things got out of hand.”
“Sounds to me like you’re trying to get the facts to fit your theory.”
“Uh,” Fenway said, “maybe I am throwing darts.”
“And none of your theories account for why your stepmother was framed.”
Fenway paused. “No. I guess they don’t.”
“Don’t get me wrong, rookie, your enthusiasm can be contagious. But without a theory that fits all the evidence, we’re not going to be making any arrests. We’re letting your stepmother go this afternoon.”
“I heard. Those fake emails were enough?”
“It was the video footage, actually. Piper looked at all the footage that your father had from the security cameras. She can’t find any evidence of tampering. Not even a little. I was with her when she was going over it. She said that the type of high-definition cameras your father owns creates footage that’s hard to fake. There are watermarks, and the time code is on each frame, linked to a centralized clock. If your father wanted to fake something, he’d use a different system.”
Fenway chortled. “Imagine that. My father, honest about something for once.”
“All right. Catherine Klein’s lawyer is supposedly getting here in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I’ve got a ton of paperwork to fill out. Then maybe I’ll go interview the Kapp family again. See if anything is out of place.”
“Oh—and speaking of framing Charlotte—I just got a voice mail from the person who sent me those envelopes with the faked evidence.”
“The emails between Kapp and Charlotte, and those pictures?”
“Yes. Unknown number. I can forward the voicemails to you if you want.”
“Anything useful on there?”
“I’ll be sorry if I don’t use that evidence against Charlotte, stuff like that.”
“Forward them to Piper. She’ll be able to run some analysis on it.”
“No problem,” Fenway said. “One more thing, Dez.”
“Sure.”
“Am I going to get reinstated to this case since Charlotte is no longer a suspect?”
“I’ll talk to Donnelly. If Charlotte’s involvement was the only conflict of interest, there’s no reason to keep you out of it. And I guess McVie’s conflict of interest disappears too.” Dez laughed. “But obviously people think you’re still on the case and continue to send you evidence anyway.”
“Uh—if I get reinstated, can I come to interview Cricket with you?”
“If your chaperone lets you leave.” Dez cackled.
“Thanks.”
Fenway heard a loud honking and looked across the parking lot at a BMW with an irritated Millicent behind the steering wheel.
• • •
THE SENIOR CENTER EVENT went off without a hitch. Fenway didn’t flub her lines once during the speech, and the seniors laughed in all the appropriate places. Her apology—“I would have been here yesterday, but I was called away to be a coroner instead of a candidate”—was met with knowing smiles instead of frowns.
She felt herself build momentum during the speech, and she ended on such a high note, the applause she received was more than she was expecting. Millicent pulled her aside.
“That was aces,” Millicent said. “Every person in here is going to vote for you instead of Ivanovich—it doesn’t matter if they were going to vote for Ivanovich before. I chatted with a few of them and they all saw his wife spit on you. They thought it was disgusting and disrespectful.”
“Great. I’m getting the pity party vote?”
“I’ll take the votes any way I can get ’em,” said Millicent. “And I said the police confirmed Charlotte’s alibi and she’d be released. One of them shook her head and said, ‘If Fenway were in charge of the case, she’d still be in jail.’”
“Huh,” Fenway said.
“Remember,” Millicent said, leading Fenway by the arm out to her BMW, “it doesn’t matter what the truth is today. It only matters what the perception of truth is. If that translates into a vote, so be it.”
“Scorched earth,” Fenway said under her breath. Millicent didn’t hear it, or if she did, she didn’t say anything.
“We still have the softball tournament this morning?”
“Yes. It’s next.”
“Am I still throwing out the first pitch?”
“Yes.”
“Everyone think I’ll be safe enough?”
“Uh—sure.”
“You didn’t tell the police I was doing this?”
“You’ll be fine. You practiced?”
“Yeah, a little last week. I was okay.”
“You played softball in high school, though, right?”
“Look at me, Millicent.”
“Oh. Basketball. You get a scholarship?”
“Hah. I was tall. I just wasn’t any good.”
The trip to the softball fields was uneventful, and the first pitch went smoothly as well. Fenway threw high and outside, but not enough to embarrass herself. She said a few things about loving Estancia, growing up here, law and justice, comparing the rules of evidence to the rules of softball, then encouraging everyone—“of voting age, of course”—to get out and vote.
“Two for two,” Millicent said as she ushered Fenway back into the car. “Far more eloquent than our practice sessions. If I had known you were this good at campaigning, I would have gotten you out in front of everyone much earlier.”
Fenway looked at her out of the corner of her eye.
“I know, I know,” Millicent said. “You’re in this because you want to be coroner, not because you want to campaign.”
“Speaking of campaigning—how’s McVie’s campaign going?”
Millicent sucked in a breath through her teeth. “I honestly don’t know. He’s a good campaigner, but it’s almost like he doesn’t have the stomach for all the stuff Barry Klein does. And your dad’s money is great, but it only goes so far.”
“What does your gut tell you?”
“It’s going to be close.” She sighed. “And I can tell McVie’s heart’s not in it, which is frustrating for Gene. He’s a great campaign manager, but even Gene is having a hard time putting his best foot forward for someone who’s not sure he wants to be mayor.”
“I hope McVie wins,” Fenway said.
“Well, of course. Barry Klein is a royal jackass. He’ll be lording his mayoral power over everybody the first chance he gets.” She laughed. “So I take it something happened with his wife, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Want to tell me what it is?”
“Yeah, I definitely want to tell you. It’s juicy.” Fenway paused. “But I’m not sure I should.”
“Something to help your boyfriend out?” Millicent opened the car and they both got in.
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Sure he isn’t. Will it help him or not?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Doesn’t help that McVie’s getting divorced. Lots of people think he’s got a little something on the side.” She looked at Fenway. “It’s not you, is it?”
“With any luck, it will be, after the election,” Fenway said. “We haven’t dated yet.”
“But you’ve done stuff.”
Fenway smiled. “Sort of.” She cleared her throat. “Not for a while. Not since I announced my candidacy.”
“Ah.” Millicent nodded knowingly and turned the car on. “So you two actually listened to me when I told you not to date?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, how about that? There’s a first time for everything.”
“You have candidates who don’t listen to you?”
Millicent laughed dirisively. “Of course. Especially the men. They can’t keep it in their pants. And the women aren’t much better. What they hear is I can’t find out about their trysts. And if they’re careful enough to keep it from me, they’re careful enough to keep it from the press and from their opponents.”
“Really?”
“Not always. Most of the time, though.”
They went to another event, this one an Elks meeting. She gave another speech, perhaps five minutes long, and left to a smattering of applause.
“Next,” Millicent said.
“I didn’t exactly wow them.”
“Can’t win ’em all.”
As they got in Millicent’s BMW, Fenway’s phone rang.
“Fenway Stevenson.”
“Hey, Fenway. It’s Melissa.”
“Melissa, hi. You have something for me?”
“Yeah. The succulent plant in Dr. Tassajera’s waiting room?”
“Right.”
“So first, yes, there was a miniature recording device in it. It recorded on solid-state equipment and transmitted over Bluetooth. So someone needed to download it, but it would have only taken a few minutes.”
“Someone like a fake therapy client. Sitting in the office with a smartphone, right?”
“Yes. We got an ID number from the app it synched with. We’re trying to get the registration from the company that makes the app, but they’re not exactly being forthcoming. Looks like we’ll need a subpoena, which probably won’t come till tomorrow.”
“What about the ceramic pot?”
“A lot of blurred fingerprints, for sure. I think we got a useable partial. Not sure if anything will match our database.”
“Did you find out anything about who manufactures it? There can’t be a whole lot of them around, can there?”
“Only one manufacturer. Desert High Tech.”
“What about their records?”
“Called them this morning. It’s one of these irritating companies that wants you to interact with a chatbot instead of a real person. I left a message. I’ll call first thing tomorrow if I don’t hear anything tonight.”
“Thanks, Melissa. Anything else?”
“Nothing right now. Still working on a bunch of evidence.”
They said their goodbyes and hung up.
“All right,” Fenway said to Millicent. “Sorry. What’s next on the schedule?”
“I tried to get a dinner thing happening tonight,” Millicent said, “but Monday night on short notice is tough. I didn’t think you should show up randomly at someone’s house.”
“Guess who’s coming to dinner,” Fenway said drily.
“Not like that,” Millicent said. “I mean you tend not to hide who you are. And there are a bunch of people who’d love to vote for you, but you might not, uh, get along with them.”
“Everybody loves me,” deadpanned Fenway.
“Especially on stage and from a distance,” said Millicent.
“You know how to make a girl feel special.”
“I know how to make a girl get elected,” Millicent pointed out. “The day I care about your feelings is the day I lose my edge.”
“So maybe I can do some coroner work this evening?” Fenway asked.
“Or you could go home and chill out,” Millicent said. “Now that the police have determined you’re not under threat and you don’t have to spend every waking moment with a uniformed officer, don’t you want to go home and maybe kick your shoes off and turn on the TV?”
Fenway felt the itch to interview Cricket Kapp. “I guess. There’s just this one interview—”
“Oh, for crying out loud, Fenway,” Millicent Tate sighed. “Fine. Where do you want me to drop you off?”
“Well,” Fenway said, her mind churning, “the sheriff’s office would probably be best.”
