“That’s good news about the laptop. Did you find anything on it?”
“Not yet. IT is going to be looking at it starting tomorrow.”
“Is Piper taking the lead on this?”
“You got it.”
“Migs knows her pretty well, from what I hear. Says she’s good.”
McVie nodded. “We’ve also got an investigator going through Bradley’s financials. He was making regular three-thousand-dollar deposits in cash every month since July. Three weeks ago, the cash deposit changed to six thousand, and there was another six-thousand-dollar deposit on Monday. We’re trying to see where the money is coming from. I went to the Watermeiers’ house earlier tonight—Bradley’s parents swear the payments weren’t from them. They’ve got a guest house on their property, but Bradley isn’t there.”
“Any luck on the RAT software? Did Piper figure out where it was coming from?”
“No.” McVie shook his head. “But not for lack of trying. If we can find Bradley, though, we might be able to find who paid him.”
“I’ve got some information, too.”
“Great. I could use good news.”
“So, it turns out that the files that were stolen might have been taken by Dylan after all. Or at least, he might have had a motive for taking them. The internal investigation at Ferris Energy uncovered that Lana was having an affair with a guy who drove a black pickup.”
“Dylan does go for the older women,” he replied, his voice flat.
“Yeah.” Making McVie think about his wife’s affair with Dylan probably wasn’t the good news he was hoping for, she thought. Fenway plowed past it. “Anyway—Walker wasn’t releasing the files for some reason. It might be that the files have Dylan identified as Lana’s boyfriend, and that’s why he didn’t want the files given to the insurance investigators.”
McVie rubbed his chin. “I don’t know how much sense that makes.”
“Well, it might not make any sense. In fact, the other guy who died also drove a black pickup. But don’t you think we can check Dylan and Lana’s phone records for the last year or so? If they were having an affair, don’t you think there’d be a record of phone calls, either to each other, or some unknown burner phone if they thought they were playing it smart?”
“Sure.” McVie nodded. “Sure, we can do that. We might be able to check those phone calls between Dylan and Lana as early as tomorrow. And at least it’s a reason to justify keeping Dylan locked up for one more night.”
Fenway thought her idea that McVie was above pettiness might in fact be misplaced.
“Plus,” McVie said, “I think copies of those stolen files might also be on Walker’s laptop.”
“Really? Don’t those get backed up to a shared server or something?”
“Please don’t start on our antiquated data retention policies. That will just depress me more.”
“More?”
McVie leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “I talked to Amy tonight when I got home. Told her that I knew about her and Dylan. She accused me of locking him up just to spite him.” He heaved a sigh. “Megan came in and screamed that she hated both of us. It wasn’t pretty. I grabbed a suitcase with a few changes of clothes. Gotta figure out where I’m going to stay tonight.”
“Oh. Oh, Sheriff, I’m so sorry.” Fenway sat down on the concrete next to him with her back against the wall. “That really sucks. Can I do anything?”
“Well, honestly? I could use a drink.”
“I think I’ve got a couple of beers left. Would that work?”
“Sure.”
He stood up first, and then he helped her up, the biceps in his arms flexing as he pulled her to her feet. She saw his eyes linger on her thighs as her dress rode up her legs slightly.
Oh, Fenway thought, he might be kind of into me too.
Her dress was still riding up, showing a good part of her thighs, and she pulled it down, but not as much as she could have.
She unlocked the door and let them inside. McVie went to the sofa and sat down. She got two beers out of the fridge and walked over to join him. She was aware that he was making an effort not to look at her body, but he was only partially succeeding. And, purposefully or not—she wasn’t sure herself—when she gave him his beer, she touched his hand. “Here you go, Craig.” Not Sheriff, and not McVie.
Fenway’s mind was racing. She was running on adrenaline and still buzzing a little bit from the wine at dinner. Well, she thought, it has been two years since I’ve been with anyone. Her mind presented the facts: she had just invited a married man in for a drink at almost eleven o’clock on a work night, right after his cheating wife had kicked him out; she just realized that he was attracted to her; she had a couple of drinks already in her system; and, by her estimate, Craig was at least fifteen years older than she was. To top it all off, he was the closest thing she had to a supervisor.
But Fenway realized she didn’t really care. Tonight, she might get to feel his body, his muscular arms, and she might get to look in those kind, sorrowful eyes. And tomorrow, Fenway thought, he’ll go to couples’ counseling with his wife, and he’ll think, ‘yeah, you screwed a twentysomething guy, and I found out, but I screwed a twentysomething girl, and you’ll never find out.’ Part of her liked the idea of that.
She didn’t like the idea of straining their working relationship, however, but they were only going to work together until election day, and then she would get a regular nursing job, wouldn’t she? It might not even be in Estancia. Life is short. At least that’s what she told herself.
“So, what’s going to happen to Lana?” Fenway sat down right next to Craig on the couch and put her hand on his knee. “Doesn’t it depend on if I want to press charges?”
He cleared his throat. “No. It’s pretty cut-and-dried. We have the evidence of Lana’s gun, a bullet fired in the office, and witness testimony. I’m not sure we’d be able to prove intent for attempted murder, so we’ll probably charge her with assault with a deadly weapon.”
Fenway’s brows knitted. “Out in six months? A misdemeanor?”
“Nope.” He shook his head, taking a swig of beer. “One, she assaulted a peace officer, and two, she used a firearm. That’s a felony, and it’s a four-year minimum.”
“I’m not a peace officer.” Fenway scooted back, turning herself sideways until her back was against the arm of the sofa, and folded her legs in front of her. Her calves were touching his leg. She pulled the hem of her dress down a little, but not enough to stop him from looking.
He smiled. “Coroners might not be peace officers in Washington state, but in California they are.”
“So, you’re saying I should send my direct deposit forms to someone else besides Lana?” Fenway smiled, one of her flirty, disarming smiles.
“Well, I’m glad you can laugh about it.”
The conversation changed to music, then his experiences in the sheriff’s academy. Fenway moved forward and sat a little too close to him. Halfway through one of his academy stories, she stretched her bare leg out over his lap. She could feel him tense a little.
“Okay, Fenway.” He set the empty beer down on the coffee table after a few more minutes. “The investigation is going to be going into overdrive tomorrow, so I better head out to a motel.”
She reached out and took his hand. “You don’t have to go, Craig.”
He paused, looking at her hand holding his. He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t squeeze her hand either. Fenway could feel the seconds ticking away and she could hear her heart beating in her ears.
“Fenway,” he said, “you are smart and beautiful, and you’re also funny and feisty, and I really like the way your mind works. If I were twenty years younger—and single—and if we didn’t work together, I’d definitely take you up on your, um, offer.” He paused for a beat. “But this is such a bad idea for so many reasons.”
“We’ll only be working together until November,” she said, trying to sound casual. “And you mi
ght be married, but, you know, turnabout is fair play.”
He flinched a little.
“Sorry,” she said, putting her other hand on his shoulder. “I just meant that you don’t need to feel guilty about anything that happens between us tonight.”
“I think if I stayed over, you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
He swallowed. “Tell you what. Let’s put this conversation on pause. When we’re done with this investigation, when I figure out a little better where Amy and I stand, and if you still look at me the way you’ve been looking at me tonight—and not the way you look at me during the day—then we’ll see.”
Fenway squeezed his hand gently. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make this weird.”
“You don’t need to feel sorry. Part of me—a big part of me—feels pretty great that you’re hitting on me. But I just can’t right now.”
“I understand.”
She sat there a minute, leg still draped on his lap, feeling his resolve crumble. Willing it to.
He shifted in his spot. “We don’t have to make this weird, Fenway,” he said lightly. “Want me to pick you up tomorrow morning?”
“I actually got a car. It’s that silver Accord parked down there.”
He smiled and put his hand on her calf. “Oh. Nice. Good, you needed a car.”
Fenway pulled herself closer to him. “Last chance,” she whispered in his ear. She pressed her body against his. She felt him take a really deep breath, and as he exhaled, the rest of his defenses left his body.
He turned his head and Fenway kissed him. It was slow at first, until he kissed her back. His mouth tasted like beer, and she knew hers did too, but it was a good kiss.
“This is a bad idea,” he murmured.
“I want to do it anyway.” She bit his ear softly, and she pulled him on top of her.
A nagging voice in Fenway’s head kept repeating the sheriff’s words, that it was a bad idea, but after being awakened at three o’clock that morning, seeing a truck-sized hole in the wall of her office, getting shot at, viewing the trajectory of a bullet into a dead rapist, and having an awkward dinner with her father—after all of that, Fenway thought that spending the night with a man who liked that she was smart and feisty was probably not the worst way to end the day.
Chapter Seventeen
When Fenway woke, it was still dark, and McVie was no longer next to her. She checked the clock—it was a quarter to six. She pulled back the curtain beside her bed and saw the fog blanketing the apartment complex, making ghostly halos around the orange lights between the buildings.
She walked through the small apartment in seconds, and there was no McVie to be found, but there was a note that read F—Thanks for last night. See you at the office. Service for Walker at 5 PM.—Craig
Fenway wasn’t sure she liked that he left early, but she thought it was a good sign that they stayed on a first-name basis. Or a first-initial basis. She thought briefly about what her mother would say, and she knew that a relationship with a married man (even if he had been wronged) would have disappointed her mother greatly. But, strangely, Fenway wasn’t feeling bad about it. She figured that she’d be able to act professionally around him, as if it hadn’t happened. She told herself that she knew what she was getting into.
She looked at McVie’s note again and decided that she would attend Walker’s memorial service that evening. She pulled a black dress out of the closet; it was sleeveless, a little short and a lot low-cut—more appropriate for a club, or dancing, than a professional environment. For a second, Fenway pictured herself walking into the sheriff’s office with that dress on and seeing Craig’s jaw drop. She found the heels that she had bought originally to go with the dress. They were the highest heels she owned, strappy and sexy.
Fenway hung the dress back on the rod; it certainly wasn’t appropriate for a memorial service, and she knew it. She selected a more modest dress in the closet, with a higher neck, the hem ending just below the knee, and cap sleeves. She thought it would look good with the gray cardigan that was near the top of her sweater stack. Both pieces were only a little wrinkled, but she hung them up in the bathroom while she showered to freshen them up a bit. She paired the dress and cardigan combo with some black flats that were a little scuffed, finished getting ready, and ate a bowl of cereal. She noticed a bowl washed in the kitchen sink, figuring McVie had probably had a bowl of cereal too, before he left.
She picked up her car keys—to her new Honda—but before she went out the door, she changed into the strappy high heels.
The new car was nice. It was much nicer than her old Nissan that she had driven in Seattle; much nicer than anything she would have gotten for herself. The leather seats were not as buttery as her father’s S500, but they were comfortable, and the heated seats took the chill off the foggy morning. The engine roared to life on the first turn of the key, and the odometer read 000036, a number that had never been so low on a car Fenway owned. It wasn’t flashy, it wouldn’t draw attention, but it was nice, and it was hers.
She drove to the office and parked in the structure. The fog was already starting to thin, and Fenway thought it would be another beautiful day. She left the gray cardigan in the car and went to Java Jim’s to get herself a latte. She also ordered a large drip coffee for Dez, whom she expected to already be at the office. It was just before 7:30 when she walked into the building, and, sure enough, Dez was already there, behind her desk.
“Hey, Dez. Isn’t it a beautiful—” Fenway stopped when she saw the grim look on Dez’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Dez raised her head. “Fenway, Dylan Richards was found dead in his cell this morning.”
Fenway set the cups down, slowly, on the counter and felt a knot of sympathy in her stomach—not for Dylan, but for Rachel. “What happened?”
“It looks like he hung himself with a nylon cord.”
“Oh no. Who found him?”
“Sheriff McVie.” Dez looked at Fenway pointedly. Fenway felt the sergeant’s eyes boring through her. She knows, Fenway thought, she knows the sheriff stayed with me last night, and she doesn’t want to believe it. Fenway didn’t know how Dez knew—was she that transparent?
She broke her eyes from Dez’s stare. “Has the body left yet? Are they sending it to Dr. Yasuda?”
“I’m not sure. CSI is probably still on the scene.”
“Why didn’t they call me?” Fenway said. “I’m supposed to be in charge of the physical evidence.”
“I’m not sure why the sheriff didn’t call you. Although he was busy trying to resuscitate the victim, and then assisting the crime scene unit; he might not have thought of it.”
“Why didn’t you call me?” Fenway snapped at Dez.
Dez looked up, displeased. “Now, honey, you know you don’t want to take that tone with me.”
Fenway looked down at the floor. “Sorry,” she mumbled. She passed the cup to Dez. “Here, I brought you some good coffee.”
“Thanks, honey.” She stood up and took the cup from Fenway as if nothing had happened.
“Do you think I should I go over to the jail?”
“Probably not a bad idea. You are the coroner. Though you’re dressed a little fancy to get in front of the inmates.” She glanced down. “Especially in those shoes.”
“Walker’s funeral is this afternoon. My flats were all scuffed up.”
Dez screwed up the corner of her mouth, suppressing a smile that made Fenway nervous.
The county jail was behind the sheriff’s office. Fenway went back to her car and got her cardigan. No sense in poking the bears, she thought. She walked as quickly as she could across the street and to the entrance of the jail. She had to go through the metal detector, sign in, and then wait at the entrance for the guard. As she saw the guard approach, she saw McVie walking behind him.
The guard buzzed him out. “You coming in?” he asked her.
She looked between the guard and the she
riff. “I don’t know—one second. Sheriff?” She stepped toward him. “Anything for me to see in the cell?”
He shook his head. “Techs are just cleaning up now. Body’s on the way to San Miguelito.”
“Is Dr. Yasuda doing the autopsy?”
He nodded.
“Thanks,” she said to the guard, “but it looks like I don’t need to go in after all.”
The guard tipped his hat and closed the gate.
McVie looked shaken. Fenway touched his hand. “You okay?”
“Not even close.” He pulled his hand away and ran it through his hair. “That kid shouldn’t have died. And a nylon cord! How the hell did he get that in there?”
“He was hanging from the ceiling?”
“From the top bunk. I’ve read about prisoners hanging themselves from the top bunk before. It’s never happened in this jail before, though.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“And not only am I upset that Dylan killed himself, I’m pissed off that he did it on my watch and I didn’t stop it.” He shook his head, as if trying to rid himself of what he had just seen. “But, if I’m being completely honest, I’m having a little pity party for myself too, because I’m screwed about twenty ways from Sunday.”
Fenway held the door open for him and they stepped outside.
“Let’s not go back to the office for a minute. Let’s take a walk.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Fenway regretted the suggestion; her shoes were not made for comfortable walks. “Maybe to the plaza. Find a place to sit and talk this out.”
McVie was so beside himself with anger he was just walking and seething aloud. “It’s going to come out that Dylan was having sex with my wife, and it’s going to come back and bite me in the ass.” He fumed. “Arresting him on circumstantial evidence, having him fill out a car theft form and then arresting him anyway. Looks bad. If that comes out, people are going to question if it was really a suicide—they’re going to think I had something to do with it.”
The Reluctant Coroner Page 20
