“I don’t know. I was kind of hoping you could help me brainstorm something.”
“Like what? Pretend to be an fbi agent and insist that he tell me all about the evidence?”
“Uh—no, I don’t think so.”
“Why? Don’t you think I can pull it off?”
“No, because impersonating a federal agent is a felony.”
Rachel laughed. “As cool as that would be, I guess I don’t want to go to jail.” She paused for a moment. “Maybe I could come up to him in a bar in a slinky black dress? Fawn all over him? Slip him a mickey?” Rachel giggled and affected a breathy voice in a higher register. “Oh, Mister Big Strong Detective Man, I just need to know one eensy weensy bit of evidence you have.”
“Ugh,” Fenway said, disgusted with herself. “Sorry, Rachel. This is a bad idea. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s ridiculous. Not to mention more than a little skeevy.”
“Hang on, hang on. I mean, yes, it is a little skeevy, but—uh, it kind of sounds fun.”
“No, Rachel. I feel like I’d be pimping you out.” She remembered using the same word in the conversation with her father in jail, and she felt a little ill.
Rachel laughed. “I haven’t had the chance to use my feminine wiles for evil in a long time.”
Fenway paused. “You’re telling me you’re seriously considering this?”
“Um, I guess I am. I mean, I fooled everyone with the whole atf thing a few months ago. Even though it was serious, that was a lot of fun.”
“I know what you mean,” Fenway admitted.
“Exhilarating, right?”
“Well, yeah.”
They were both silent for a minute.
“So,” Rachel said, “where do you need me to be?”
Fenway hesitated. The sick feeling in her stomach abated slightly. “His name is Deshawn Ridley, and he’s staying in the Phillips-Holsen Grand Hotel downtown.”
“Wow, nice hotel for a public servant.”
“I know. It’s off season, I guess. Anyway, I think you should go down to the hotel bar tonight, probably around seven thirty, or eight. My guess is that he’ll be hanging out there—he said it was a ‘nice bar,’ and I get the impression he’s lonely.”
“Lonely? Why? Is he single?”
“Divorced.”
“Ah. So how do you want me to play it? That’s a nice hotel, so I could get dressed up. How about that red dress I wore when we went dancing last month? I look good in that.”
“No, that’s overdoing it. Something first date-worthy. Not a slinky red dress.”
Rachel laughed. “Okay, fine. I’ll wear something tasteful. You have a picture of Detective Ridley?”
“I found one on his Facebook profile. I’ll text it to you.”
“How old is he?”
“If I had to guess, maybe thirty-five.”
“Yeesh. That’s, like, ten years older than I am.”
“I know.” Fenway paused, the creepy feeling sliding over her again. “You know what? This is a bad idea. I feel gross just talking about—”
Rachel scoffed. “I can do this, Fenway.”
Fenway’s stomach turned over, and she tasted bile in her mouth. “No. Ick. Forget it. I’ll think of something else.”
Rachel laughed. “Fine. No impersonating an FBI agent, no flirting. Spoil my fun.” Rachel paused for a moment. “Is there a specific type of evidence you think Detective Ridley has?”
“I think they’ve probably found a payment from my father to the guy who said he was the hit man, but the guy worked security for my father, and then he quit. I can’t imagine that any d.a. worth his salt would go to trial with just the word of a former employee who supposedly kills people for a living. They must have something else, right?”
“I guess so.”
“I mean, my father told me that he sent the guy up to Seattle to drive my car home. My father just has the ridiculous kind of money to pay him more than the Accord is worth to do that.”
Rachel paused. “But… even if it’s not strong enough to stand up in court, why else would your dad pay the guy—what, thirty thousand dollars or something?”
“Fifty k.”
“Yeah—so if not for a hit, then what?”
And then it came to Fenway. The notation in the ledger: “Grayheath—sea.” Sea didn’t refer to the ocean, or a body of water. sea was the airport code for Seattle-Tacoma International Airport. The ledger kept track of Grayheath’s movements in Seattle. She shook her head and snapped to the present. “I’m sorry, Rachel, what did you say?”
“I said that if the fifty thousand isn’t for a hit, then what did your dad pay him for?”
“That’s just it. I don’t think it’s his bank account.”
“You don’t think it’s—what?”
“I don’t think the payment came from his real account. I think someone opened a bank account in his name and paid Peter Grayheath fifty thousand dollars.”
“Really?” Rachel paused. “Who would do that?”
Fenway hesitated. Another challenge with the idea that Ferris got framed was that very few people had fifty thousand dollars lying around. “There are a lot of people in this town who want my father gone.” A name finally came to her. “Barry Klein, for one.”
Rachel’s tone was skeptical. “I don’t know about that—he just won the mayorship. He should be happy—and he was so consumed with the election, he wouldn’t have had time to frame your dad for a murder for hire. Besides, he doesn’t have fifty thousand dollars for something like this.”
“Don’t be so sure.” Fenway bit her lip and thought. “Klein’s been obsessed with my father ever since I got here. He thought I was working to collude with my father for—I don’t know, something. And he’s got a campaign war chest, right?”
“I mean, I know Klein is an arrogant ass—”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
“But,” Rachel continued, “the timing isn’t right. It just doesn’t make sense why he’d do it now—or during the election—and not after.”
“Professor Delacroix was killed in late July,” Fenway pointed out. “That was right before Klein announced that he was running for mayor.”
“Uh… Fenway, wasn’t Klein in jail the night before he announced? Didn’t you put him there?”
Fenway smiled wryly. “Yeah, we tried to keep that under wraps, but I guess word got out.”
“Not only did word get out, but I’m the public information officer, Fenway. After Klein announced he was running, I had to field about twenty calls about Klein spending the night in jail.” She grunted. “And it’s not like you were any help.”
“You remember I was in the middle of a murder and a kidnapping investigation,” Fenway said. “It’s not like I was well-equipped to deal with a pr nightmare of Klein’s own making.”
“Okay,” Rachel said. “Well, I can’t think of another way to wheedle that information out of him, but call if you think of anything. I’ve got to finish some work.”
“Thanks, Rachel.”
Rachel hung up, and Fenway sat at her desk, thinking.
If she was right, and if Nathaniel Ferris hadn’t opened that bank account, that meant someone was trying to frame him. Why would anyone do that?
Barry Klein? He certainly hated her father, but Rachel was right: Klein was getting everything he wanted, without having to get Ferris out of the way.
What about his wife, Catherine Klein? She wasn’t in jail the night before Delacroix was killed, but she didn’t have a motive.
It was also possible—unlikely, but possible—that Nathaniel Ferris didn’t know of the illicit oil going through the Ferris Energy port. He was the most powerful man in the county, but for how much longer? Every month Fenway had been coroner, Ferris’s power ebbed a little.
Perhaps, Fenway thought, someone at Ferris Energy thought they’d make a better ceo than Ferris. Someone who needed him out of the way.
Perhaps it was someone who had the ear
of the board of directors. Ferris had been complaining the board had it in for him, and perhaps someone had the board in their corner. Fenway went to the Ferris Energy website and looked at their Board of Directors.
Yes, Ferris was still the chairman, but Cynthia Schimmelhorn was obviously an aggressive second. She clicked on leadership team and saw Bryce R. Heissner as the chief operating officer. He was likely the next ceo-in-waiting. She wondered if Heissner had Schimmelhorn in his corner, or if it was one of the other c-level employees or vice presidents.
Another thought flitted across Fenway’s mind: it might have been a competitor.
She went to the Petrogrande website, and sure enough, Dor Trejo—Rose Morgan’s former boss at Petrogrande—was now the chief financial officer. He would know whether Petrogrande was in financial shape to buy a weakened Ferris Energy. Maybe the story about Rose Morgan being a corporate spy was all subterfuge. Maybe instead of Morgan stealing Petrogrande intellectual property, as Trejo had strongly implied, she was inflicting damage on Ferris Energy’s reputation to leave them wide open for a buyout.
She called McVie. He picked up on the second ring.
“Fenway, hey. Just about ready to call it a night?”
“Not quite, Craig. I found out that only two people had access to that scholarship fund—Jessica Marquez and Dr. Pruitt.”
McVie let out a low whistle. “Someone just shot to the top of our suspect list. Didn’t he tell us that he didn’t have access?”
“I’ve got one more thing to do over at Nidever, too.”
“What is it?”
“I think I know where The Guild’s secret payment ledger is.”
“You think the ledger is somewhere besides on the stolen laptop?”
“I do.”
“Where is it?”
“On a usb drive, hidden in plain sight. I think it’s in a hairbrush.”
“Did you say it was in a hairbrush?”
“Yes, it’s one of those secret ‘distraction safes.’ That place that sold the potted plant microphones has them in stock.”
“A hairbrush safe?”
“I saw it in a photo from the crime scene. It looks just like the one on the website. At least from the angles we can see.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen a hairbrush safe before. You need a ride?”
“I, uh, borrowed one of my father’s cars.”
“Oh—nice. The Mercedes?”
“No, the Porsche. The 911 Carrera s.”
“That’s an expensive car.” He paused for a moment. “Would you like some company? Maybe we can head to dinner after you find that hairbrush—and after we search Dr. Pruitt’s office.”
“You’re not just using me to ride in an expensive Porsche, are you?”
“No. I’m using you for other things.” His voice lowered a couple of registers.
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Oh, gee, you sure know how to make a girl feel special, Craig.”
“Glad to be of service.”
“Great.” Fenway paused. “I’m in the parking lot over on Fifth.”
“Way over there?”
“Yes, way over there. I’m not leaving my father’s hundred-thousand-dollar car on the street.”
“Okay. What do you think—ten minutes?”
“Make it fifteen. Judge Baker is still here, and I bet I can get him to sign a search warrant for Pruitt’s office with what we have.”
They hung up, and Fenway looked one final time at the photo of Detective Deshawn Ridley, and thought about his divorce, and then she had a flash of inspiration.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Piper—” Fenway said, bursting into the office.
A sheriff’s deputy Fenway didn’t recognize was standing guard over Piper’s computer as she forlornly put her personal items into a bankers’ box.
“Oh no,” Fenway said.
Piper raised her head. “Yeah. It’s time. I copied everything I researched onto the file server.”
Fenway walked over to Piper’s desk and hugged her. Piper awkwardly hugged her back, a girls who code mug in one hand and a stuffed Kirby in the other.
“It’s not goodbye,” Piper said. “You’re taking me to lunch tomorrow, remember?”
“Yeah. I’m so sorry, Piper.”
“It’s my own damn fault. Mostly.”
“Can I help you pack?”
“No. This is all of it. What did you need?”
“Oh—I’ve got a couple of passwords to try.”
“It’s past five, Miss Patten,” the deputy said.
Piper picked up her box. “Let me know how it goes.” She turned and walked out of the office, the deputy following behind her.
The tears welled up in Fenway’s eyes and she fought them back. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t let anyone see this get to her.
She turned on her heel and walked to the pc.
Everyone uses personal information for passwords, except for the nerdiest of the cybersecurity geeks. Even hard-to-break passwords usually have personal elements to them.
But Jessica had no personal life to speak of.
Almost.
At the login prompt, Fenway typed:
XavierGo
Her finger hovered over the Enter key. When she left her office, she’d thought for sure that was it, but as she typed it, doubt crept in. It was close—but it wasn’t right. Not personal enough. She deleted what she had typed and stared at the screen.
Oh, yes. That was better. That had to be it.
ItsGoTime
And Fenway was in.
McVie had never been in Fenway’s passenger seat when she had so much vehicular power under her command. She downshifted and shot past a minivan as they took the George Nidever Expressway toward the university.
“You okay?” Fenway looked over at McVie from the corner of her eye. He had his right arm braced against the door.
“Fine,” McVie said.
“Performs a little better than your Highlander, right?”
“Yeah, just a little,” McVie said. “You’ve got—”
“I see it,” Fenway said, slaloming around a chair lying on its side on the road, half in the fast lane and half on the shoulder. “Probably some student that didn’t tie the chair down in the back of their pickup.”
“Right.”
Fenway could feel the road beneath her hands, through the steering wheel. The engine alternated between purring and roaring, like a beautiful Bengal tiger at a zoo who wanted you to scratch its ears one minute, and claw your heart out the next. It was delightful.
“Okay—so tell me why you don’t think it’s Dr. Pruitt,” McVie said.
“Because he doesn’t have her laptop.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Jessica had installed the Windows Device Tracker.” She grinned. “ I got in.”
“And you know where the laptop is?”
“It was last used on Wednesday morning at an address on Chumash Falls Way.”
“Chumash Falls—that sounds familiar.”
“It should. We were there just a few hours ago.”
“Professor Cygnus?”
“Yep.” Fenway turned off Nidever Expressway onto the campus.
“So,” he said, “to be clear—”
“To pay for his wife’s cancer treatment, I think Cygnus stole half a million dollars from the scholarship fund—the same fund that Jessica was hired to oversee the money laundering for.”
“And Jessica found out Cygnus stole it.”
“Yes.” Fenway began to list points on her fingers. “She confronted him, and he killed her and stole her laptop to destroy the files.”
“But his wife says he wasn’t home!”
“I have a theory about that, too. I think he went home—but never went into his house. I think he used his workshop or the garage, opened up the laptop, and trashed the file. Then he either hid it, or destroyed it. But when he opened it—”
“The device tracker gave him away.” M
cVie paused. “So, you think it was Cygnus and not Pruitt who embezzled the money?”
Fenway nodded. “I think the professor figured out Jessica’s password the same way I did. Cygnus taking the money makes more sense. It explains the medical bill being paid off, for one thing. Piper never found anything in Pruitt’s accounts to suggest a big windfall.”
There were no parking spaces next to the theater. “Oh, that’s right, it’s opening night,” Fenway said. “It’ll be a madhouse in there.” She reversed out of the lot and continued down the university lane.
“So why do we need the hairbrush?”
“If I’m right and it has Jessica’s ledgers in there, we should be able to track a lot more than just the deposits and withdrawals from the scholarship fund. We’ll be able to get full account numbers, names and businesses associated with the money laundering—hopefully everything we need to take down the whole operation.” The Porsche came to a stop sign but she wasn’t sure which way to go. “Okay, Craig, you’ve come here a lot the last couple days. Where should I park?”
“Park in the open visitor spots by the administration building.”
Fenway saw the left arrow labeled administration and turned. “What did you have Pruitt do with the microphone?”
“Nothing,” McVie said. “I thought we might use it to our advantage. Maybe throw whoever’s listening off the scent.”
“Feed them false information, you mean, and then try to catch them in the act.”
McVie grinned. “Because I’m sneaky like that.”
“What sort of false information do you plan to give them?”
McVie shook his head. “First, we’ll serve this search warrant on his office, even though you think Cygnus is the killer.”
“What do you think that will do?”
“It might convince Pruitt to talk if he thinks he’s compromised,” McVie said.
Fenway pulled into a visitor space and killed the engine. “Okay. You think Pruitt’s still here?”
“Maybe not in his office.” McVie looked at his watch. “It’s past five now. The admin offices are probably all closed.”
The two of them walked to the double doors in front, and sure enough, they were locked.
The Upstaged Coroner Page 28
