The Upstaged Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “So he came to see his accountant after he heard about his son’s death,” McVie muttered.

  Fenway heard Mr. Le clearing his throat behind them and hit pause. They turned around; Mr. Le held two steaming mugs, one in each hand.

  “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt,” he said, “but I have your coffee.”

  Fenway stood. “Thanks so much,” she said, smiling. She took the two mugs and gave one of them to McVie.

  “Let me know if you need anything else,” he said.

  “We may need some of these videos for evidence,” McVie said.

  “I’d be happy to make copies for you,” he said.

  “Thanks,” McVie said. Mr. Le turned and left the room.

  “I guess we should get our own hard drive and copy the files over instead of confiscating all this equipment,” Fenway said.

  “We’ll do the least intrusive thing that still meets chain-of-custody requirements.”

  Fenway nodded and turned to the screen.

  They watched as Rose opened the door and met Domingo Velasquez in the driveway. They couldn’t hear, but the man collapsed into Rose’s arms. He looked like he was sobbing.

  “He just found out about Rory,” Fenway said, her throat tightening.

  “They look like more than coworkers to you?” McVie took a sip of his coffee.

  “I don’t know what they look like,” Fenway said. “The two of them are close, for sure.”

  “Why not go home to your wife? Why go to Rose?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll tell you. It’s because they’re sleeping together. He might even think he’s in love with her.”

  “Maybe it’s because he thinks someone’s after him, and he can’t go home.”

  McVie shook his head. “He might think someone’s after him, but that’s not why he’s at Rose’s house. He’s there because he needs emotional support and he wants to see her, not his wife.”

  Fenway set her jaw and kept watching the screen.

  After a few minutes, Domingo Velásquez stopped crying. Rose Morgan started kissing the side of his face, then on the lips, briefly, and then she said something to him and they went inside the house.

  A few minutes later, the garage door opened. Rose backed out of the garage, parked the Mazda on the street, then went over to the Chrysler, opened it, started it up, and pulled the car into her garage. The garage door closed a few moments later.

  “Think it’s still there?” Fenway asked.

  “I think we’ve got another six days of footage that can tell us that,” McVie said.

  “This is enough for a warrant?”

  “So far, all this proves is that Rose comforts her boss and hides his car. Looks like they’re having an affair, which isn’t illegal. That wouldn’t even get us a warrant to look at her financials.”

  “But it does tell us where Domingo Velásquez went.”

  “Yes.”

  “We should take this as evidence,” Fenway said.

  The doorbell rang.

  McVie stiffened. “I hope that’s not Rose.”

  “How would she know we’re over here?”

  “We left my car parked in front of her house. Plus, she might have seen us out her front window.”

  They heard the door open, then a man’s voice spoke. Fenway thought it sounded familiar.

  “Everything okay?” McVie called.

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Mr. Le?”

  “Just a package,” Mr. Le called, haltingly. “Something my wife ordered.”

  Liver cancer. She voted for you every time you ran, though.

  “Shit,” Fenway said. She clicked off the old footage and brought up the current camera view. Parked behind McVie’s Highlander was a black Lincoln.

  Fenway heard a thump from the living room.

  McVie rose up and unholstered his gun, shifting around to the entry of the office. He raised his Sig Sauer with both hands.

  “I see you, McVie!” The voice of Peter Grayheath clearly rang down the hallway. “Put the gun down!”

  “Drop your weapon!” McVie said sharply.

  “You know I’ll kill the old man, McVie. You know I’ll do it.”

  Fenway grabbed the bat and shifted to the other side of the room, her back flat against the wall, next to the door frame, across from McVie. She looked at him, trying to get on the same page.

  “You’ll give me all the camera footage, McVie, or the old man’s brains are going all over the hallway.” Grayheath’s voice was closer now.

  McVie hesitated and then put his arms up.

  “Slide the gun over to me.”

  McVie had the gun in his right hand, and he clicked something with his thumb. The magazine of bullets fell to the floor. Then he threw his gun into the hallway. Fenway hoped it was out of Grayheath’s reach.

  “Now back up,” Grayheath said, and Fenway heard his voice right on the other side of the wall that she had her back against.

  McVie took two steps back.

  “Farther into the room,” Grayheath said. He started through the doorway, his right elbow appearing first. “Don’t be a hero, Sheriff.”

  Fenway held her breath. The Louisville Slugger, covered in signatures, was heavy in her hand. She looked at the names; most of them were scrawls that she couldn’t make out, although she did see Kirk Gibson’s autograph. She wanted to smash Gibson’s name through Grayheath’s elbow, but didn’t know if he had the gun against Mr. Le’s temple, and didn’t want to risk the gun discharging.

  McVie took another step back.

  “Three more steps,” Grayheath said, and he raised his right hand, the one holding the gun, to motion McVie into the room.

  Fenway swung hard, pulling with her left arm, bringing the bat over her right shoulder, and putting her body weight behind the blow.

  The bat connected with the cap of Grayheath’s right shoulder, and Fenway heard a sickening pop and a crunch.

  Grayheath screamed and dropped the gun. McVie leapt in front of Grayheath and grabbed the gun off the floor.

  Fenway stepped forward; Mr. Le had scrambled away from the scrum and sat on the hallway carpet, a few feet away. He looked up.

  “You hit him with my World Series bat,” he said.

  “I hope I didn’t damage it,” Fenway said, her left shoulder starting to throb. “It was the only thing—”

  “Bless you, Tommy Lasorda,” Mr. Le said, casting his eyes skyward. “You just saved my life.”

  McVie called for an ambulance, and Fenway examined the damage to Grayheath’s shoulder. She found at least three bone fractures, including the clavicle. He also had a dislocated shoulder and couldn’t feel the tips of his fingers. Mr. Le was effusive in his praise for the sheriff and Fenway—and he enthusiastically recreated the scene for the deputy who came to take his statement. He expressed dismay that the bat would be taken into evidence.

  “They’ve got to make sure that the story happened like we said it did,” Fenway said, soothing him. “You’ll have the bat back in no time. A day or two, tops.” Although she remembered her Accord, still gathering dust in evidence.

  They also had to take the hard drives in, which left Mr. Le worried about the ability of his system to record the area in front of his street. McVie talked him down from that.

  “So,” Fenway said, “what should we do about Rose?”

  “We’ll take her in for questioning,” McVie replied. “After the police action here at this house—I’m betting she saw Peter Grayheath come over—she’s definitely a flight risk.”

  “Didn’t she send Grayheath over? Can we arrest her for, uh, I don’t know, conspiracy to commit burglary?”

  McVie rubbed his chin. “We’ll see what ada Kim says. If Miss Morgan doesn’t come with us, we’ll regroup. Let’s see what she has to say for herself.”

  McVie and Fenway walked up to the door and rang the bell.

  After a moment, the door opened. It was Rose.

 
; “I’ve got nothing to say to you without a lawyer,” she said.

  “You can do it down at the station,” McVie said. “Officer Callahan can give you a ride.”

  “I respectfully decline,” Rose said.

  “I would encourage you to help us out on this,” McVie said.

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “I’d rather not put you under arrest,” said McVie. “I’ve got two weeks of video footage, however, that makes it pretty clear you participated in a conspiracy to commit murder.”

  “What video footage?”

  “Please, Miss Morgan. I’d rather not arrest you. I’m interested in what you know and what information you can provide.”

  “You’re interested in putting a target on my back, is what you’re interested in,” spat Rose.

  “We need information,” McVie said. “That’s all.”

  Rose considered for a moment. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Excellent, I’m glad to hear that. Why don’t you come with us? We’ll give you a ride to the station.”

  Fenway stepped up and said softly in McVie’s ear, “Can I talk to you for a second?”

  McVie nodded and took a few steps away from the door.

  “Are you going to take a look in the garage?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have a warrant.”

  “Not the house. The garage. We have probable cause that the Chrysler 300 belonging to Domingo Velásquez is in there.”

  “Of course we do, but we’d need his wife to file the missing persons report first.”

  “He’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation,” Fenway said. “I think as peace officers we have a right to figure out where he’s gone. I don’t think any judge would believe we’d need a warrant to look in the garage after the video footage we saw.”

  McVie nodded. “Yeah. A little creative for my tastes, but okay.”

  He radioed for Callahan, who crossed the street.

  “Miss Morgan,” McVie said, stepping onto her front porch, “we have reason to believe that Domingo Velásquez’s missing car is in your garage.”

  Tight-lipped, Rose didn’t say anything.

  “After viewing video footage of the street from last Friday, we know his Chrysler is in there.” He tapped his foot. “So, will you open the garage, or will we have to break the door down?”

  “You need a warrant.”

  “We have probable cause, Miss Morgan, but if you insist on a warrant, I don’t have any problem sticking around here for a couple of hours. I know a judge who’d love to sign off on this.”

  Rose shook her head. “Cops are all the same.” She scoffed. “Fine. If you’ll go in there anyway, Dom’s car is parked in there.”

  “We’d like to see it for ourselves.”

  Rose looked at the ground, tapping her foot. Then she looked up. “Fine. Open my car, push the first button on the left on the ceiling right next to the rearview mirror.”

  “Where are your keys?”

  Rose opened her purse, pulled her keychain out, and pushed a button on the car remote. The Mazda emitted a quiet clicking noise.

  “Thank you. Fenway, do you want to do the honors?”

  Fenway walked around to the driver’s door, opened it, and pushed the button. The garage door grunted and squeaked as it rose.

  The Chrysler 300.

  “Pop the trunk,” McVie called to Fenway.

  “What?”

  “Pop the trunk. Let’s make sure that Miss Morgan isn’t hiding both Velasquez’s car and his body.”

  Fenway looked inside the Chrysler for a moment and found the trunk release. She walked around, a bit gingerly, to the back, and held her breath as she peered inside.

  A Samsonite weekender and nothing else. Fenway exhaled with relief.

  “No body,” she called. “A small suitcase, though. It might belong to Velásquez.”

  “Enter it into evidence at the station,” McVie said. “Maybe we’ll get lucky with a fingerprint.”

  “So,” McVie said, turning to Rose Morgan, “we know where his car is. Now we need to know where he is, and, for that matter, where the missing ledgers are.”

  “Not to mention your work pc,” said Fenway.

  Rose’s eyes went from the Chrysler to McVie’s face. She pursed her lips and folded her arms. “I’m exercising my right to remain silent. You can talk to my lawyer.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  After a deputy drove off with Rose in the back seat, McVie and Fenway got into the Highlander.

  “And here I thought you said this would be a slow morning,” Fenway said.

  “Yeah, I lied.” McVie looked at Fenway. “Thanks for what you did back there with Mr. Le and the baseball bat. That was quick thinking.”

  Fenway shrugged. “Oh, please. I had to be a quick thinker after a few years in the er. I know you’re good under pressure, too.”

  McVie started the car. “You’re good at a lot of things, Fenway, but you’re shitty at taking compliments.”

  “It’s one of the things that makes me me,” Fenway said, leaning her seat back. Her left shoulder was hurting her; she had been babying her whole arm ever since she had broken her left hand three months before, and now her shoulder was complaining. “Are we going to the station to see if we can get Rose to open up? Or to the hospital to question Grayheath?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think he’ll exactly be forthcoming with anything to either of us.”

  “That’s right,” Fenway said. “I forget how fragile male egos are when they get beat by a girl.”

  “In this case, literally.” McVie thought for a moment. “Maybe we should check in with Dez.”

  Fenway nodded and pulled her phone out. “That’s a good idea. She knows about the ledgers—besides Piper, she’s the only one in the office who does. I’ll put her on speaker.”

  Dez answered on the first ring. “Fenway Stevenson, as I live and breathe. Finally living up to your name and doing some good with a baseball bat.”

  McVie chuckled. “Hey Dez. I swear, you gossip worse than Megan’s friends.”

  “Good day, Sheriff. You better make sure Fenway doesn’t leave the county to sign a major league contract. Heard she can hit some real nasty stuff.”

  “You got that right.” McVie paused for a moment. “Listen, Dez, we need a favor.”

  “A favor?”

  “Well, a professional favor. You’re working the Jessica Marquez murder, we were looking into the Central Auto Body stuff. But we need to get a statement from Peter Grayheath before the medical staff puts him under.”

  “And you’re thinking he won’t talk to the woman who played whack-a-mole with his head?”

  “It was his shoulder,” Fenway cut in.

  “Whatever,” Dez said. “Sure, Sheriff, I’d be glad to. You know how charming I can be.”

  “I do,” McVie replied, “so I must be pretty desperate.”

  Dez hooted. “That was weak, Sheriff. I threw a nice, easy fastball right over the plate, and you just fouled it off. Have Fenway give you some pointers.”

  Fenway smiled. “You heard from Mark?”

  “Interviewing the property owner at Tassajera’s office, and then heading to San Miguelito to interview the ex. He should be back in a couple of hours.”

  McVie nodded. “He can try interviewing Rose when he gets back. It won’t hurt to have her sit and stew for two hours. We’ve got to wait for her lawyer anyway.”

  “How about you and Fenway?”

  “I thought we might head to Nidever. We didn’t talk to the students Wednesday night after rehearsal.”

  Fenway nodded. “I got the professor to say he went home at ten thirty and was in bed by eleven thirty, but he wouldn’t look at the office. I’d like another crack at him.”

  “That’s okay with me,” Dez said. “Fenway’s better interviewing the students than I am, anyway.” She exhaled loudly. “Okay—I better get over to the hospital before they dope Grayheath up
with the good stuff.”

  “Thanks, Dez,” Fenway said.

  “See ya, boss.” Dez clicked off.

  Wow. Boss. Not rookie.

  “It’s eleven thirty now,” McVie said. “I could use lunch, and then we can go find the students before they have to show up to prep for opening night. Someone there must have known Jessica Marquez well enough to hear her secrets. Also, we need to see if any of the students—or the staff, for that matter—has seen Rose Morgan around.”

  “Amanda said there was a younger woman hanging around Jessica Marquez. We can ask her if that was Rose.”

  McVie ran one hand through his hair. “If Morgan and Marquez were working together on something with Central Auto Body, maybe they’ve been doing something with The Guild, too.” McVie sighed. “Plus, that’ll give us some time to try to get the warrant for Rose’s house and financial records. It’d be nice if we found something else besides the Chrysler.”

  Fenway nodded. “Don’t you think we need to find out what was in that duffel bag?”

  “Yep. I asked for warrants to be drawn up for Peter Grayheath’s home and car.”

  Fenway straightened up as McVie took the George Nidever Expressway exit. “I thought we were stopping for lunch.”

  “We’ll stop for lunch.”

  “Before we go to the university.”

  “The university has some great places in the student center.”

  “I thought we were getting real lunch.”

  “There are places to eat other than Dos Milagros, you know.”

  “I know. Like the Argentine steak house.”

  “I liked Ernesto’s. Let’s go there again.”

  Fenway rolled her eyes. “I assume you want to eat lunch at Ernesto’s as an excuse to talk to Xavier Go.”

  “Sometimes people can be a lot more forthcoming if you catch them away from their comfort zones,” McVie said. “I’ve also found that when people just want you to leave so they can do their jobs—like, perhaps, keep their head above water during a lunch rush—it’s amazing how they can forget to lie.”

  “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

  McVie smiled.

  They parked in a visitor space in the student center parking lot and went inside. A wall of noise washed over them. A few minutes before noon, crowds of amped-up students flooded the center. Fenway looked at the line in front of Ernesto’s; it was already ten people long, and she could see the cashier behind the counter, taking orders as quickly as he could—but it wasn’t Xavier.