“Why do you think so?”
Fenway shrugged. “I was talking to him just now, and I mentioned that there were missing Ferris Energy files, and he suggested that maybe there was another ‘file in the drawer’ that didn’t have anything to do with Ferris Energy.”
“Mmm,” Dez mumbled. “But let me guess, Miss Marple, you never mentioned the missing file drawer. You never mentioned other missing files at all.”
“Bingo.”
“Well, Fenway, you just outfoxed the most powerful man in the county in your first twenty-four hours on the job.”
“I don’t know about that.” She drummed her fingers on the table. “He might be playing a long game and I don’t see it yet. He’s a smart guy, and that slip-up was kind of a rookie mistake. I might be playing right into his hands.”
Chapter Twelve
After Dez went back to her desk, Fenway started researching the files. She started by searching the web for stories on the industrial accident. She found an article from the Los Angeles Times, dated December 14 of last year.
Toxic fumes kill 2 oil refinery workers
ESTANCIA—Two Ferris Energy refinery workers were killed Tuesday when toxic fumes were released into an underground holding area. The incident occurred about 6:45 p.m. at the end of the employees’ shifts. The two refinery employees were in a holding area when the fumes were released. Neither employee had on a protective suit, and both were found unresponsive by other employees at 7:05 p.m. They were transported to Estancia Regional Medical Center, where they were pronounced dead.
According to witnesses, alarms sounded, and automatic containment procedures were activated. EMS workers were delayed in responding to the victims because the area had to be cleared of the toxic fumes.
The fumes are no longer considered a risk for workers in the Estancia refinery. Air quality outside of the refinery during and after the incident did not register any toxicity. The names of the deceased are being withheld until their families can be notified.
Fenway finished reading the article just as the sound of the door opening made her look up. A sandy-haired blond man, who looked to be in his early-to-mid-twenties, walked through the door. He wore board shorts, a stonewashed blue T-shirt, and a shell necklace. He had a worried look on his tanned face.
“Can I help you?”
“Y-y-yeah,” he stammered. “I’d like to talk to the coroner.”
“That’s me.” Fenway offered a friendly smile.
“Okay, um, so I tried to talk to the sheriff, but he wasn’t available.” His words were all falling out quickly. “I mean, I know I didn’t tell the truth the first time, but I didn’t realize what was going on. I need to talk to someone.”
“Hang on, slow down. First—what’s your name?”
“Sorry, sorry.” He took a deep breath. “I’m Parker Richards.”
“Okay, Parker. You’re Dylan’s brother, right?”
He nodded.
“What did you want to talk to the sheriff about?”
“Well, listen, he called me earlier this morning. It was really early.”
“Right.” She nodded. “It must have been about five o’clock.”
“Yeah, and Dylan’s wife called me, like, really early, too, before the sheriff did. And she was all, ‘Tell me where Dylan was on Sunday night,’ and I told her that Dylan and I were playing pool at the new place downtown. And then the sheriff called me up, maybe five minutes later, and he was all, ‘Tell me where you were on Sunday night,’ and I was like, ‘I was with Dylan playing pool at the new place downtown,’ and it freaked me out a little, because it was really early, and I was still half-asleep, and I thought maybe the two of them were, like, next to each other, so I had to keep my story straight.” He stopped and shook his head. “I don’t know, man, I don’t know what Dylan was thinking. And the next thing I know Dylan is arrested, and I hear it’s for killing someone.”
“He was arrested for killing the coroner.”
A look of confusion on his face. “I thought you were the coroner.”
“I just got appointed to replace him.”
“Did you move here from Boston?”
“What?”
Parker pointed to Fenway’s hat. She had almost forgotten it was on.
“No, but did you have something you needed to tell me, sir?”
Parker’s face became grim. “Well listen, I don’t know what went bad, but he wasn’t at the pool hall with me Sunday night. I mean, neither of us were at the pool hall. He told me to tell Rachel that, if she called me. Because he was seeing another girl on Sunday night, but it was all hush-hush. He didn’t want anyone to know about this other girl, or anything—usually he tells me everything about the girls he sees. But he didn’t tell me hardly nothing about this girl. I was thinking that maybe he’s really into her, but he thought I’d make fun of him—like maybe there’s something wrong with her, like maybe she’s a midget or whatnot,” he rambled.
“Sure.” Fenway coughed and shook her head. “So, he told you he was seeing another girl, and told you to tell Rachel you were playing pool together?”
“Right.”
“You told Rachel that you two were playing pool, and then the sheriff called you right afterward, so you also told the sheriff you were playing pool.”
“Right.” He looked very seriously into Fenway’s eyes and put his palms face down on the desk. “But only to keep my stories straight. I would never lie to the police.”
“Only if you had to keep your story straight.”
“Right.”
“Okay, Parker. Any idea who the mystery girl is?”
“Not really. But he gets himself kinda dressed up for her. I don’t know, I’m kinda starting to think she’s sophisticated. He seems pretty into her. Like, he gets all weird about it if I ask too many questions about her.”
“But you don’t know who she is?”
“No.”
Fenway sighed. “I don’t know how helpful that’s going to be, Parker. He’s in a lot of trouble, and unless we can find this woman, and she vouches for his whereabouts, I’m not sure that’s going to change.”
A look of depression crossed Parker’s face. Then Fenway saw him get visibly struck by inspiration. “Oh! I got it! Didn’t they catch the Boston Strangler, or something, because of parking tickets?”
“Yeah. Son of Sam.”
The look on Parker’s face told Fenway he had never heard of Son of Sam. “Uh, right—anyway,” he continued, “Dylan goes to spend the night with this side chick a few weeks ago, and he comes back in the morning all crazy mad because he got a parking ticket.”
Fenway crossed her arms.
“Well, I mean, you can check that, right?” Parker was almost pleading. “Like, you can check his license plate, and find the parking tickets he’s gotten, and the addresses near there? And then maybe find her, and ask if she can say he was with her?”
Fenway blinked at him. “Yes, I think we can do that.” She looked over at Dez, who was looking at her computer monitor, but clearly paying much more attention to their conversation. She saw Dez nod slightly.
Parker smiled, a relieved smile. “That’s awesome. That’s really awesome. Can you call me to let me know if you find her?”
“Um, well, probably not. But, if she vouches for his whereabouts, and it holds up, we’ll probably release him, so you’ll know soon enough.”
“Sure!” He seemed somewhat excited by this prospect.
An awkward goodbye later, he was out the door.
Dez turned to Fenway. “Well, that was something.”
“It certainly was,” she nodded. “Can I do what I just said I could do? Check the parking tickets on his truck?”
“Sure. I don’t know that they’ve set you up in the system yet, but I can get to it.” She logged in, and Fenway gave her the license plate number—it had etched itself into her brain from seeing it on tape earlier and repeating it to the sheriff.
“All right. Here it is.”
Dez pointed to the screen. “April the eighth. He got a street sweeper parking ticket, 6:05 AM. Catalina Street and Harbor Park Court.” She got very silent and a thoughtful look crossed her face.
“What is it?”
“Sheriff McVie lives on Harbor Park Court.”
“Oh.”
“And McVie has a teenage daughter.”
“Right.”
“Well, McVie was at a training in L.A. in early April. I think he was gone on the seventh and eighth. And he had picked up a patrol shift for Callahan on Sunday before the call came in about Walker’s body.”
“So, the sheriff was away from the house both the day that Dylan got a street sweeper ticket, and the night of Walker’s murder.”
“And Dylan was really secretive about who he was seeing.”
“Ugh.” Fenway suddenly got a bad taste in her mouth. “McVie’s teenage daughter? Is every man in Estancia this disgusting?”
Dez raised an eyebrow. “Not just in Estancia.”
“We’re going to have to talk with her.”
“No wonder Dylan lied to McVie about where he was Sunday night.” Dez pushed herself back from her desk. “If I was screwing an underage girl, I think I’d rather get arrested for murder than deal with her father.”
“Especially if her father is the sheriff.”
“Especially,” Dez nodded.
“Should I go interview her? Think I can get to her house before school starts?”
Dez looked at the clock on the wall. “School started half an hour ago.”
“Well then, do we pull her out of class?”
“Let me get this straight.” Dez pulled back up to her desk and held up her index finger. “You want to go to the sheriff’s daughter’s high school.” Dez’s second finger went up. “You want to pull her out of class.” Her ring finger joined the other two. “And ask her about having sex with a twenty-seven-year-old murder suspect?” She put her hand down. “And all on the basis of a parking ticket given across the street from the cul-de-sac she lives on?”
“And the sheriff’s schedule. Yes.”
Dez smirked. “And what are you going to tell the sheriff and his wife after the school calls them?”
Fenway paused. “The administration would call the McVies?”
“Of course they would. They call the parents any time we question a student on campus.”
“Well forget that then. We’ll have to figure something else out.”
Dez nodded.
“Look, how about this?” said Fenway. “We canvass the neighborhood with Dylan’s photo. ‘Did you see this man in the neighborhood Sunday evening?’ The sheriff might have been out of town, but I bet there was a nosy neighbor who’s all pissed off about this big truck parked in front of his house all night. Then, if someone saw him enter the sheriff’s house—”
“Then what?”
“Well, we’d have a plausible reason to convince the administration not to contact the McVies, right?”
“I’m telling you, Fenway, that’s non-negotiable.”
Fenway leaned back in her chair. “Look, we need to follow this line of thinking, don’t we? Don’t we need to find out if this has the potential to blow up in the sheriff’s face? I mean, there’s probably enough evidence to hold Dylan, but I think it looks like he made the arrest too early. And if Dylan is having sex with his underage daughter—”
“That’s a pretty big if.”
“But if he is, that could look like McVie was trying to get revenge.”
“Why not just arrest Dylan for statutory rape?” Dez asked.
“Age of consent is sixteen. Isn’t his daughter sixteen?”
“You’re not in Seattle anymore, Fenway. Age of consent is eighteen in California.”
Fenway furrowed her brow. “Well then, that’s good. For the sheriff, I mean. That convinces me that McVie didn’t have any idea about it. Statutory rape is plenty bad. ‘Sex offender’ on your record for the rest of your life—you get wrecked in prison, right?”
Dez shook her head. “You’ve seen too many cop shows.”
“Well, then educate me. If you’re guilty of statutory rape, you go on the sex offender list forever, right?”
“Right.”
“And that means it’s hard to get a job, hard to find an apartment, hard to live anywhere...”
“Yeah.”
“And other prisoners don’t look too kindly on pedophiles, right? Like, don’t they get beat up in prison? And don’t all kinds of nasty stuff happen to them in the showers?”
“Okay, you made your point, Fenway.” The look on Dez’s face was like she had smelled a rotten egg.
Fenway got up. “All right. So let’s go.”
“Let’s go? Go where?”
“Let’s go get a photo of Dylan and go canvass Harbor Park Court. You’ll have to drive, I don’t have a car yet.”
Dez shook her head. “I sure hope you get more jaded in a hurry. I can hardly stand this enthusiasm.”
“I have a feeling if I tell the sheriff that the guy he just arrested is sleeping with his teenaged daughter, that’ll leave me feeling pretty jaded by the end of the conversation.”
After getting a photo of Dylan Richards from the Records Department, and filling up two cups of coffee, Fenway and Dez headed out. They arrived at Harbor Park Court around 8:45.
“That’s McVie’s house.” Dez pointed to the third house on the right of the cul-de-sac.
“The one with the Jeep in the driveway?”
“Yeah. I think McVie got that Jeep for Megan for her sixteenth birthday. She must have gotten a ride this morning.”
Fenway looked at the other houses. “Where do you want to start?”
“Let’s start on the left side—they’ll have a better view of the house, and maybe they saw Richards.”
Fenway opened the car door.
“Leave your ballcap,” Dez said.
“I didn’t have time to do my hair this morning.”
“I feel you, girl, but bad hair is better for canvassing than wearing a baseball cap. Kind of unprofessional for peace officers.”
She took the cap off, and tried to fix her hair with her hands to be somewhat presentable. She decided to leave it after she at least had gotten the hat-head look to go away.
There was no one home at the first two houses. At the third house, a large white guy, approximately six-foot-eight and about three hundred pounds, with a long, well-kept beard, answered the door. Dez showed her badge and then the photo, asking if the man had seen him around Sunday night.
“Sunday night?” The large man stroked his long beard thoughtfully. “Well, I work at a restaurant, and I was working Sunday night till about 11. But I’ve seen that guy before. He’s in the neighborhood all the time. Always parks his big black pickup over in front of the Martins’ house. I see him go to the McVies’ house though. Doesn’t always use the front door, either. I was thinking of calling the cops, but I saw someone inside open the front door and let him in a couple of times. I figured he was a gardener or a pool guy.”
“How often is he around?” Dez asked, pen poised to take notes.
The man shrugged. “It kind of varies. Sometimes I notice him two or three times a week, sometimes I don’t see him or his truck for a couple of weeks.”
“You ever talk to the McVies about it?”
“Nope. None of my business.” He put his hands out in front of himself, palms facing up. “Know why? Because the couple who used to live in the Martins’ house had a bunch of parties, like every other weekend, with cars lined up for blocks. I asked them about it once, and they invited me and my wife, and it turned out to be a key party.”
“A key party? For real? This ain’t 1975,” said Dez.
“Tell that to them. Apparently, they thought everyone in the neighborhood knew. I guess they thought I was angling for an invite. Or maybe they thought my wife was hot. I don’t know. Anyway, now I keep my mouth shut.”
“All right.” Dez closed
her notebook. “Thanks for your time.”
“One more thing,” Fenway interjected. “Did you see the truck in front of the Martins’ place when you got home on Sunday night?”
The man thought about it a moment. “I can’t say that I’m absolutely sure, but I think so.”
Fenway looked at Dez, then back to him. “Thanks again. Have a good rest of your day.”
They knocked on more doors. There were people home at two other houses. Both of them had seen the truck several times before. One of them didn’t recognize Dylan; one of them said she was “pretty sure” that Dylan was the driver of the truck, but didn’t know which house he visited, although she did say she remembered the truck parked there on Sunday night.
“Well, that’s enough for me to think we need to talk to Megan,” Dez conceded as they walked back to the car. “Maybe we can catch her after school.”
Fenway looked over her shoulder back at the Jeep in the McVie’s driveway. “Hey, Dez,” she said, “you sure that’s the daughter’s car?”
“Sure, I’m sure. She’s stopped by the office in that car before.”
Fenway cocked her head to the side. “McVie’s been in the office since early this morning—he couldn’t have given her a ride. I think she might be skipping school.”
Dez stopped.
“I’m going to check,” Fenway said, turning and walking quickly to the McVie residence. Dez turned with her and jogged to catch up.
They got to the front porch at the same time.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Dez said.
Fenway rang the bell. Dez shifted her weight from foot to foot.
“Did you hear something from inside?” Fenway asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Fenway rang the bell again.
She looked at Dez. “I think she’s home.”
“Maybe.”
Fenway counted to twenty under her breath and knocked loudly on the front door.
Moments later, a teenaged girl opened the door. She was a pretty blonde with alabaster skin, and a smattering of freckles, like her father. She wore light blue cotton shorts that were quite short, with a navy tank top with her bra straps showing a little.
The Reluctant Coroner Page 14
