“We sent her home,” Dez answered. “On top of everything she’s been through this week, she just found out her dad is a murderer.”
“We’ve got to get someone to stay with her. I’d be a complete mess if I were her.”
“Her sister is still staying with her.”
“She didn’t do a good job keeping her out of trouble last time.”
Dez shrugged.
The door to the observation room opened wider and Mark stepped out.
“Did Rachel give her statement before you guys sent her home?” Fenway asked.
“No,” Mark replied. “She was pretty distraught about everything.”
“Then I guess today is Doug Walker’s lucky day. No one gave a witness statement, and the peace officer in question is too busy with a murder investigation to hold him.”
Dez crossed her arms. “We could probably hold him for twenty-four hours. Bet he’s never been in jail overnight before.”
“The guy’s just lost his brother, and now everyone knows his brother’s a rapist.” Fenway put her hands on her hips. “Maybe he’s been through enough.”
“Good thing you’re not running in November, or you’d get pegged as soft on crime,” Mark smirked.
“Ha ha. All right—so where are we on catching Stotsky? Was that officer able to catch him?”
Dez shook her head. “The officer didn’t see him. He got away.”
Fenway shook her head. “Maybe put an APB on his car? Airports, train stations, get someone at his house?”
“Already done.” Mark nodded. “I’ll go see if they’ve made any progress.” Mark took off toward dispatch.
Dez pulled Fenway aside. “Maybe you should call McVie. Tell him he’s off the hook. He’s good at coordinating this kind of stuff. He’s been involved in manhunts before.”
Fenway nodded. Dez went out the front doors back toward the coroner’s building.
Fenway took her purse off the chair and took her cell phone out. She went through Recent Calls until she found McVie’s number.
It rang once, twice, three times, four times. The voicemail came on. She hung up.
Fenway texted him.
Stotsky killed Walker and Dylan
He’s on the run
Need u to help find him
She saw the three dots flashing for a second, indicating that he was writing a response. And then they disappeared.
Fenway thought about some of the things she had told the sheriff earlier. In hindsight, she didn’t think she liked some of the things she had said. In fact, she wasn’t very proud of the way she had acted, either.
But Fenway realized that some of those things—asking McVie to step down from the investigation—was simply the best thing for the county. It was a hard thing to do, and it certainly didn’t help her relationship with the sheriff, professionally or romantically, but the situation could have been handled with a little more empathy on her side. She looked back at how she had jumped down McVie’s throat when he mentioned anything that she felt even a little threatened by. But did that mean she deserved the cold shoulder from McVie? No.
Well, maybe.
She sent another text.
Please
It took a minute, but the three little dots appeared again. Then:
Station in 30 minutes
Fenway had been holding her breath, and she let out a huge exhale. The sheriff would be back in half an hour and would be coordinating the manhunt for Rob Stotsky.
She went into the dispatch room. Mark was still there.
“Hi, Sergeant. Did a uniform take Rachel home?”
He blinked at her. “Yes, I think so.”
“Did the uniform stay with her? Stotsky was asking her several times to talk and she refused. If he thinks this is his last chance to talk with her, he may try to contact her.”
One of the dispatchers raised her hand. “On it.”
“And we’ve already notified the local airports.” Mark put his hands on his hips. “But Stotsky has resources, right? He has access to a couple of private planes.”
“Ferris Energy planes?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, where are those planes? Local airstrip?”
“They’ve got a Challenger 350 housed at the Estancia Airport,” another dispatcher said. “I think they have a turboprop, too.”
Fenway shook her head. “I remember when Dad bought that stupid jet,” she said. “Can you check and see if they’ve filed a flight plan?”
“Sure. I can check the computer.”
Fenway paused. “If they were trying to get Stotsky across the Mexican border, they wouldn’t file a flight plan, would they?”
The dispatcher hesitated. “Well, if they were crossing an international border, technically, they’d have to.”
“They’d have to? What if they didn’t?”
He paused. “Um, it’s a fine of about a thousand dollars.”
Mark laughed. “That will sure put the fear of God into them.”
Fenway nodded. “We need people at the airports, bus stations, train stations.”
“The rideshare apps, too,” said Mark. “I think we’re setting up a watch on his credit card transactions and ATM withdrawals.”
“There’s always the taxis,” Fenway suggested. “He could give a cab driver a thousand bucks to go to Tijuana. Or just a regular person with a regular car who needs the cash.”
“Well, let’s at least not make it easy for him,” Mark said. “If he gets by us, let’s make sure he doesn’t do it by boarding a Greyhound bus, or a United flight. If he’s in the wind, so be it, but let’s make sure it’s not because we overlooked anything.”
The dispatchers got on their phones and computers. Soon, they were giving his information to all the local airports, including the small airfields. His information—and he had a lot of it—was readily available in his old CHP file.
“There were a couple of partials in Walker’s car,” Mark said. “We would have found him out eventually. Maybe not today, but eventually.”
Fenway nodded. “Okay. Have we posted someone at Stotsky’s house?”
“On their way. He lives up in the hills above Camino Pablo. It’ll take our officer another ten minutes to get there, at least. But even if Stotsky got in a car as soon as he left the station, I think the officer would still beat him there.”
“You think he’d be prepared enough for this to have a go bag? Money, fake passport, all the stuff you see in CIA movies?”
Mark shook his head. “The CHP isn’t the CIA. I mean, maybe he was smart enough to know that he might not get away with it, so he might have had something set up, I guess, but I think most people overestimate their own ability to fool the police.”
“And there’s an officer with Rachel?”
“Yes,” the first dispatcher said from behind the sergeant. “I got ahold of him. He just got to her apartment. He’s outside her door now.”
“Okay.” Fenway took a deep breath.
For a few minutes, there was only the sound of the dispatchers on the phone with Amtrak, then the Estancia Municipal Airfield, then Vandevoort Regional Airfield, then the bus station in Estancia, then the one in San Miguelito, then Uber, then Lyft, then some company Fenway had never heard of before (“they’re a new SoCal startup,” the second dispatcher assured her).
“Dammit,” Fenway muttered. “His office. He might have a stash of cash, or a go bag at his office.”
Mark looked skeptical. “Stotsky probably wouldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t be able to get in and out in a hurry there.”
“He might not have to. Security might not let us into the building. They all report up to him, don’t they? They’d at least delay us as long as possible. We’d probably need warrants, court orders, subpoenas, whatever.”
“But Stotsky wouldn’t be able to leave.”
“He might already have been there and gone,” Fenway said. “If that’s where he went, Stotsky could still escape and be in Tijuana before the
bars close.”
“We’ll get a couple of deputies there,” the first dispatcher said to Fenway, and called out on the radio.
“And I got a flight plan,” the second dispatcher said. “It’s the Challenger. It’s at Estancia, headed to Burbank. Leaves in twenty minutes.”
“Let’s go.” Mark grabbed his sportscoat from the back of the chair, and he was out the door.
“Can I come?” Fenway called after him.
“Hurry.”
She kicked off her high heels and picked them up along with her purse, and rushed after Mark. Dispatch was on the radio immediately asking all available units to respond.
She followed Mark out to the squad car area. The sun had set, and the sky was rapidly darkening.
He slid into the front seat of a cruiser. He had already started the car by the time Fenway got in the passenger seat.
“I probably shouldn’t have let you come.” Mark turned hard, tires squealing, siren wailing as he exited the lot.
“So why did you let me?”
“Because I like you. And you haven’t said anything about me being gay.”
Fenway paused. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
“Exactly.” Mark accelerated through a green light. “You don’t have a firearm, do you?”
“No.”
“Know how to shoot one?”
“Not really,” she admitted.
“You should probably learn.”
She snorted a laugh. “Yeah, well, I was waiting until my second week for that.”
“You’re funny. Especially when you’re scared out of your mind.”
She hung on as they took a corner at seventy, joining another cruiser with its lights and siren also going full blast. They caught a little bit of air going on the ramp to the freeway, which Fenway thought was thrilling. Mark was a good driver, and when she thought the car might start careening out of control, he was very calm, and the tires kept their grip. They passed through traffic without any close calls.
She saw the exit for the airport and braced herself as they crossed three lanes of traffic to get off the freeway. Mark and the other cruiser ran the red light past a few stopped cars, and they headed down the airport road.
Mark pointed out the window. “The private aircraft are housed on the other side of the airport.”
“I haven’t been here since I was a kid. I don’t even remember it.”
They passed freight, and the United entrance, and turned into General Aviation. There was a chain-link fence, which the security team had left open for them, and beyond that, the tarmac.
“There should be a bullhorn in the trunk,” Mark shouted over the roar of a plane overhead. “When we stop, get out of the car and get down. I’ll open the trunk. You stay down and get to the rear of the car. The bullhorn will be in a red and white box in a nook on the right side of the trunk. Get it, and come around the left side, where I’ll be waiting. Remember, stay down the whole time.”
A white and blue Bombardier Challenger 350 was parked at an unusual angle, with an airport security SUV blocking its path. Two security officers were crouched down behind the vehicle.
The sergeant screeched the cruiser to a stop. “Now!”
Fenway threw open the door and awkwardly rolled out of the car. She left her shoes and purse inside. Even though night had fallen, the tarmac was still warm on her feet. She crawled around to the back.
She raised the trunk lid with one hand and put her head up to look for the red and white box. It was on the right side, just like Mark had told her. It took her a few tries to get the box open, but she finally undid the catches and took the electronic bullhorn out. She shuttled around the left side, crouching again, and gave him the bullhorn.
“Get back. This side is more exposed. Go behind the trunk and stay down.”
Fenway followed his instructions. She had just gone around the left rear fender when he switched the bullhorn on.
Mark’s voice boomed across the asphalt of the tarmac. “This is Sergeant Mark Trevino with the Dominguez County Sheriff. Anyone on board the aircraft, come out with your hands on top of your head.” She glanced around. Both officers from the other patrol car were kneeling behind the side of the cruiser with guns trained on the airplane, steadying their aim with both hands.
She stole a glance forward and Mark had his gun drawn too, and was also in a crouch behind the car, one hand holding his firearm, and one hand holding the bullhorn.
“Come out with your hands on top of your head,” he repeated.
A few seconds later, the door to the plane swung down. The pilot, hands on top of his head, came out. Next was a blonde woman in a crisp skirt and a tank blouse, maybe thirty-five years old.
“Ugh,” Fenway mumbled. “Charlotte.”
Next—and last—was Nathaniel Ferris.
They all stood on the runway with their hands on top of their heads. Even from this distance, Fenway could tell that her father was very unhappy. Charlotte didn’t look pleased either.
“Everyone out of the airplane!” Mark’s voice rang through the bullhorn.
Ferris yelled a response. Fenway couldn’t hear it over the engines.
Mark looked at the other officers and did a few movements with his hand. They ran toward the aircraft and went up the stairs. About three minutes later they returned. “All clear,” Mark’s radio crackled.
He started walking up to Ferris. Fenway followed, barefoot.
“Robert Stotsky isn’t on this plane?” Mark shouted.
“No.” Ferris was angry and defiant. “What the hell, Fenway? You knew where we were going. We didn’t make any secret about it.”
Then it struck her. That’s why he had dinner with her last night—which to Fenway seemed like an eternity ago—instead of over the weekend. “Burbank. You and Charlotte are going to the movie premiere this weekend in Hollywood.”
Ferris took his hands off his head, pursed his lips, and nodded.
Fenway turned to the officers who had searched the plane. “Guys, this plane has an access door to the luggage area inside, near the bathroom. Did you see if anyone was hiding in there?”
Her father’s face scrunched up in anger.
They looked at each other. “No, ma’am. We’ll go check that out right now.”
“Did you really think I’d fly Stotsky somewhere?” Ferris shook his head in disappointment.
“You told me you wanted him to make it out of the country before we caught him.”
“Rooting for someone to escape the law isn’t a crime, but being an accessory after the fact is.” He set his jaw. “You may not like some of the decisions I make, Fenway, but you know where the line is with me.”
“Most of the time.”
He laughed, a harsh, sarcastic laugh. “Yes. Most of the time.”
Fenway looked at Charlotte and nodded in greeting. “Hi, Charlotte.”
Charlotte still had her hands on her head. “I know we don’t see each other very often, Fenway, but next time, you can just stop by the house for dinner. You don’t have to pull us out of our plane with the whole sheriff’s department just because you miss your daddy and me.”
Fenway tilted her head and smiled sardonically at Charlotte. She hated that Charlotte was only seven years older than she was, and she hated that Charlotte had replaced her mother, and she hated Charlotte’s smart-ass comments.
Mark’s radio crackled again. “Clear.”
He holstered his weapon. “Sorry, folks. You’re free to go.”
Charlotte took her hands off her head. “Finally.”
Nathaniel Ferris looked at Fenway. “If you weren’t my daughter, I’d have my lawyers on you like you wouldn’t believe.” He shook his head. “I’m starting to really regret recommending you.” He turned back toward the plane.
The airport security people got back in their cars and drove away. Fenway started walking back to the police cruiser with Mark, the other two headed back to their cars as well.
“Sorry,” Mark said. “That’s rough, the stuff your dad said.”
“I don’t know. My dad can be kind of hard on me sometimes, but I’d probably be just as pissed off as he was if the situation were reversed.” She stopped and looked back at the plane, which was again starting to taxi around. “And you know, even if I had remembered that they were going to the movie premiere, I’d have still stopped that plane and checked it for Stotsky.”
“How’d you know about that luggage compartment?”
“My dad bought a ten-million-dollar jet, but didn’t pay my mom a cent in alimony or child support. I got a little obsessed with that plane for a while.”
Mark nodded.
“Do you think my father suggested that I fill in as coroner because he thought I was too naïve, or too incompetent to see when he was doing shady stuff?”
Mark smiled. “I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about your father. I hear stuff, sure, but I don’t really give a damn about most of it.”
“Well, that’s probably for the best. Maybe I should do more of that.”
They got to the cruiser. Mark put away the bullhorn while Fenway got in the passenger seat. She watched the small jet start to gain speed. It started to rise off the ground, then it was airborne. Its lights flickered in a regular pattern, and it was quickly out of her field of vision.
Her phone rang. She dug it out of her purse.
“Fenway Stevenson,” she answered.
“Hi, Fenway, this is Dr. Yasuda.”
“Dr. Yasuda, hi.” She put her finger in her other ear as Mark got in the car and started it up.
“Listen, I got the message that you had a credible suspect just before I left for the evening. A former CHP officer named Robert Stotsky. Is that correct?”
Mark turned the car around and headed back to the station.
“That’s right. I thought we might have caught him just now, but he wasn’t on the plane that we stopped.”
“Well, I just thought you’d want to know that we were able to lift the serial number off that gun. It’s a match to the one issued to Robert Stotsky when he was with the California Highway Patrol.”
“And he never handed it in?”
“No report on what happened to it.” She could hear Dr. Yasuda clicking on her computer. “There are about twenty guns that are similarly listed as whereabouts unknown, although most of those officers are still with the CHP.”
The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Page 29
