The Reluctant Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “I heard we had some partial prints, too?”

  “Yes, from both inside the car and the gun.”

  “Wasn’t the gun wiped clean?” Fenway asked.

  “The outside was, but we got partials from whoever cleaned the gun last. And both sets of partials match the fingerprints in Stotsky’s file. Not sure how well it would stand up in court.”

  “Well, I don’t know if it will ever come to that. We had a witness identify Stotsky, and Stotsky fled. He might be in the wind. That’s why we’re at the airport.”

  “I understand that the suspect is a rather large man? His CHP file says six foot, five inches tall,” Dr. Yasuda said.

  “Yes. Everything seems to be falling into place.”

  Dr. Yasuda perked up. “Oh, speaking of falling into place, I have something on Dylan Richards.”

  Fenway felt her shoulders sag. “Ugh.”

  “Oh, you’ll have to forgive my morbid sense of humor. It comes out at the worst times.” The doctor stifled a laugh. “So, Richards. You’ll remember I told you that someone, like Sheriff McVie, could have physically staged the scene with enough adrenaline? Well, someone with Robert Stotsky’s physical size would be more easily able to do it, even without a surge of adrenaline.”

  “Do we have any evidence that can directly link Stotsky to Dylan’s murder?”

  “Not as of yet, but we’re working on it.” She lowered her voice. “And, I must say, I’m relieved that Sheriff McVie isn’t the main suspect anymore.”

  Oh no, Fenway thought. Sheriff McVie. He’s been waiting at the station for me. Probably for a while now.

  “I rather like him,” Yasuda continued. “One of the few law enforcement officers I’ve met who actually respects the M.E.’s office.”

  Fenway swallowed hard and nodded.

  Mark pulled into the transportation lot at the station. Fenway said goodbye to Dr. Yasuda and hung up the phone. She collected her purse, put her shoes back on, and went inside with Mark.

  Sheriff McVie was talking with Celeste Salvador, the officer who had interviewed Fenway after Lana attacked her, in the station. It looked like she was updating him on the case.

  Fenway walked up to him just as Celeste finished.

  “Hey, McVie.” She tried a tentative smile.

  McVie was all business. “Hi, Fenway. Looks like Stotsky didn’t have a car here—he was getting a ride with your dad. We’re tracking down the driver now to see if he saw anything or drove him anywhere.”

  “The driver is probably en route between the airport and Dad’s house.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I heard what happened over the radio.”

  Fenway looked down at her shoes. “I’m sorry.”

  McVie pulled her aside and lowered his voice. “Listen, when we were arguing earlier? I wasn’t going to say anything like what you were thinking. I was going to say the daughter of the most powerful man in the county. But I thought that would offend you. I never thought you were afraid I’d say something, well, a lot more offensive.”

  She half-smiled. “I’ve made some really shitty assumptions about what you were thinking today, and some stuff you were going to say.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, I’m sorry,” she said genuinely. “It’s been an insane couple of days.”

  McVie paused. “I told Amy I knew about her and Dylan. She, uh, she brought up a ton of emotional stuff. It’s not just the cheating. She’s really unhappy.”

  “Yeah. Dez and I, we interviewed her earlier. We had to tell her that Dylan was dead.” She looked down again. “She was devastated. I’m sorry that you’re going through this. I know how much divorce sucks.”

  McVie raised his head. “Oh, Fenway, we’re not getting a divorce.”

  She looked back up at him. “What?”

  “Not yet, anyway. We decided to work on our relationship. We’re setting up marriage counseling. We’ve got a ton of work to do, but Amy and I aren’t giving up—it’s hard enough on Megan as it is.”

  “Oh.”

  Fenway wasn’t sure what she was feeling. Part of her knew that spending the night with him was a mistake, but part of her still wanted him to leave his wife. She could rationalize it—Amy had been cheating on Craig with a much younger man (younger than Fenway, even). The affair had gone on for a while, too, and it probably would have gone on for much longer if Harrison Walker hadn’t gotten killed. But, no matter how she rationalized it, and even though she thought it was a bad idea, she still wanted McVie to want her. She still wanted more nights with him.

  “Did you tell her about me?”

  He paused. “No. No, I didn’t tell her about us. She thinks I slept in the office last night. I didn’t really see any need to tell her otherwise.”

  “So, you and I are done?”

  He shifted his weight from foot to foot, slightly uncomfortable. “Well, I certainly liked the fact that you and I seemed to work really well together. Professionally. Before, you know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t know. I’d kind of like to forget that either of us did what we did last night.” He looked in Fenway’s eyes. “I’d like us to be the kind of sheriff and coroner that can work together effectively. Bounce ideas off each other. Call each other on our bullshit. We were doing that well. For a couple of days, anyway.”

  Fenway nodded solemnly. “And even if we can’t, you only have to put up with me for a few more months.”

  “You never know. Life is full of surprises.”

  “Okay,” she answered, not really knowing what else to say.

  They were silent for a while.

  McVie put his hand on her arm. “Listen, why don’t you go have dinner with Rachel? Get some take-out or something. I’ll call you if we have any updates on Stotsky’s whereabouts. If not, you’ve had a long day. Go home and get some sleep.”

  Fenway nodded. McVie squeezed her arm gently and then patted her in a friendly kind of way, as if he were encouraging her during a basketball game. Fenway did, however, catch his eyes going down her legs, and looking at her strappy high heels that were back on her feet. He was trying to be subtle about it, but Fenway noticed that his gaze lingered.

  She thought about chasing McVie through the plaza. Tottering on the gravelly road to Dylan’s pickup. Running down the hallways of the church. Keeping up with Mark to get in the squad car. And, finally, McVie’s gaze lingering on her sexy shoes.

  Yeah, Fenway thought, totally not worth it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Fenway walked back to the coroner’s office. Dez was in there, on the phone, talking in a low, hushed voice. She sounded angry. Fenway went to Rachel’s desk and plucked a business card from its holder; her mobile number was on it. Dez hung up, almost slamming the receiver back on its cradle.

  “You’d think I was telling the lieutenant himself that he was wanted for murder!”

  “What’s that about, Dez?”

  “The CHP. They acted like I was blaming them for Stotsky. I had to talk to three different people before they agreed to set up a road check on either side of Estancia on the freeway.”

  “The blue wall?”

  Dez shook her head and pointed a finger at Fenway. “Ordinarily, Fenway, I’d tell you—again!—that you watch too many cop shows, but man! It sure seemed like we were getting the runaround there.”

  “Well, a CHP-issued gun was used by a former CHP officer to kill someone,” Fenway pointed out. “It can’t look good for them.”

  “Letting him get away with it would look worse. I had to threaten to call a reporter to ask them why their former officers are above the law.”

  “You’ve got a reporter who would do that?”

  Dez gave her a look. “You’d be surprised by what I’ve got, girl.”

  “I’m sure I would. But it’s been a good hour since he walked out the door here. Isn’t it a little late?”

  “Yes, it is, but you never know. He didn’t have a car here, so he might have had to spend
some time getting transportation.”

  “Okay.” Fenway drummed her fingers on the desk. “Dez, where do you think Stotsky is right now? Do you think he’s still in town?”

  Dez paused. “I don’t know, Fenway. If I were Stotsky, I’d get out of town as fast as I could. But then again, as soon as I had heard of any kind of break in the case, I would have taken off. Grabbed as much cash as I could, liquidated everything, gone to Mexico, or Panama, or Morocco.”

  “But?”

  Dez thought for a moment. “Well, obviously Stotsky stuck around because he cares about his daughters. He might think, what good is it to protect Rachel if I’m never going to see her or her sister again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When Bradley recognized him, I think for sure he would have tried to get out of town. But without a car, and with us getting to the airports, train stations, and bus stations so quick, he might not have been able to yet.”

  Fenway nodded. “True.”

  “With his connections, though,” Dez continued, “I’m almost sure he would have been able to find some way out of town. A sympathetic friend, or one of his direct reports at Ferris Energy hiding him in the trunk and driving to Tijuana. Getting a disguise, or a fake ID, and getting a train ticket.” She stood up from her chair and started to pace, lost in thought. “Ferris Energy has another plane, too. We’re not sure where that one is. It might be on its way to Mexicali with Stotsky onboard.”

  “Are we talking to any of Stotsky’s friends or colleagues?”

  Dez looked up. “Come on, Fenway, how many resources do you think we have? We’ve got a good twenty people in motion on this right now, not including those ass-draggers at the CHP. We can’t get any more coverage on it without leaving the sheriff’s office empty.”

  Fenway sighed. “Well, I bet he’s gone. I bet we missed him. He’d have just needed to take a car on any road out of the county, besides the freeway. Even with the freeway—he had a good twenty minutes to get out.”

  Dez folded her arms. “Man, I know we couldn’t have really done anything about that, but I hate it when they get away.”

  “We can contact L.A. county, San Miguelito, maybe even Monterey, right?”

  “We can. But the more time that passes, the larger the radius we have to search, the more places he can be, the higher the chance of him getting away. If we had grabbed him at the station, we’d have him. Once I let him out the door, the chances of him getting away got much higher.”

  Fenway looked at Dez. “Don’t tell me you blame yourself for Stotsky getting away.”

  Dez waved her hand at Fenway, as if shooing a fly.

  Fenway stared at the ceiling. “Okay, I spoke with McVie. He suggested that I get a couple hours away from the station. I think I may get some takeout and go have dinner with Rachel tonight. He thought it would be good for her to have someone to talk with.”

  “Yeah, someone who’s not her sister,” Dez agreed. “I just talked to Rachel before I called the CHP. Her sister had all kinds of questions about their dad—the fact that he’s the main suspect probably complicates things, and she just kept asking Rachel over and over, you know, picking at the scab. Rachel finally had to send her home.” Dez paused. “Rachel likes Italian. Zorro’s over on Broadway. She likes the penne arrabiata.”

  “Thanks.” Fenway went in the conference room and closed the door. She dialed Rachel’s mobile number. It rang three times before she picked up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Rachel, it’s Fenway. Hey, listen, I know I told you to take some time off, but I thought maybe I could get some takeout for us tonight, and we could hang out.”

  “Don’t you have to work? Isn’t my dad still on the run?” she asked.

  “Well, we haven’t found him yet. I just talked to a few people here. We think he’s out of Dominguez County by now.”

  “My dad’s pretty smart. If anyone could get out of the county, he could.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I think, too,” Fenway agreed with a sigh.

  Rachel was silent for a second. “So, you mentioned something about takeout?”

  “If you’re up for it.”

  “Actually, that sounds great. I’ve got to tell you, I really need to get out of the house. The cop outside my door is nice and all, but it made my sister nervous, and she was asking all kinds of questions about my dad. I had to send her home.”

  “You want to go to a sit-down place somewhere?”

  “Well, maybe I can pick up dinner and come over to your place? I don’t want to be by myself right now, but I also don’t want to be around a ton of people.”

  Fenway shrugged on her end of the line. “Um, sure. I mean, I just moved in, so the apartment’s not really in the best shape for entertaining, but what the hell.”

  “I think I’ll be fine. Hey, is the officer going to follow me over?”

  “I don’t think so. We thought your dad might come to see you,” she explained. “We thought he’d go to your apartment.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to try to find me. I made it pretty clear I didn’t want to talk to him.”

  “Okay. And I agree, I think it would be good for you to get out of your place if you’re going a little stir-crazy.”

  “Awesome!” Rachel said, and Fenway could hear the smile in her voice. “Okay, so there’s this awesome Italian place called Zorro’s.”

  “I’ve heard that’s a good place.” Fenway made a mental note that Dez pays attention to everything.

  “It’s a little ways down on Broadway, but they have the best penne arrabiata.”

  Fenway smiled into the receiver. “That sounds great. I’m still at work, so I can pick it up on my way home.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. It’s on the way to your house, and plus I know the owners, and I haven’t seen them in a while. They usually give me some free stuff when I go—garlic bread, tiramisu, something like that.”

  “You okay to be in a crowd like that? It is Friday night.”

  “It’ll be a quick in-and-out. I’ll be fine,” Rachel assured her. “What do you want? They’ve got a good veggie lasagna, and their pastas are great.”

  “I’ll get the penne arrabiata, too.”

  “Excellent! You’ll love it. I’ll call it in, and I’ll go pick it up in about half an hour. I should be at your house by about seven forty-five.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you then.”

  This would be Fenway’s first dinner with another person in her new place; beers with McVie didn’t count. She had the plates and silverware unpacked, and she still had two beers left. For one of the first times since moving to Estancia, Fenway actually felt like she might belong. She had a similar feeling when she was having lunch with Sheriff McVie for the first time, and she had it at the office when she was working with Dez. And, despite their unusual initial meeting, Fenway felt like she and Rachel might be forging a friendship, even if Rachel was a few years younger than Fenway.

  Fenway left the conference room. “Okay, Dez, I’m heading out for a couple of hours for dinner with Rachel. McVie said he’d keep me up to date on what’s happening. You let me know too, okay?”

  “Sure. I’ve got some stuff I want to follow up with on Stotsky’s financials anyway. I got wind that he might have an offshore account.”

  “Okay. If that’s the case, I think he really will want to leave the country.”

  “He’s probably halfway there already.” Dez heaved a sigh. “Say hi to Rachel for me. Hope she’s doing okay.”

  “I’ll do that. I can’t believe it’s been the longest workday of my life and I’ve done it all in these stupid heels.” Fenway kicked out her foot, inspecting the heels in question.

  “Yeah,” Dez said. “That’ll teach you to try to look sexy for a married man.”

  “Gosh, thanks, Dez.” Fenway rolled her eyes.

  “Soak in some Epsom salts, girl. It’s magic.”

  Fenway walked out of the office and out the doors. The sun had dipped b
ehind the horizon, and the sky was stippled with pinks and purples. It had been a long ten hours since Fenway got to work—not as long as either McVie or Dez, but still grueling and emotionally draining—but the beautiful sky, the brisk sea air, and the promise of a great Italian meal almost made up for it all.

  She nearly walked past her car in the parking lot, not recognizing it right away in the pale yellow light, but she stopped after she passed the car, shook her head, and turned around.

  Fenway saw a large man walking up from the front of the garage, silhouetted by the harsh entrance light behind him. She felt a chill run up her back—was it Stotsky?

  Fenway took her keys out of her purse and arranged her house key to jut from between the second and third fingers of her closed fist. The man was getting closer.

  She heard a car start up behind her and spun around. A Ford pickup turned its headlights on.

  The stranger was the parking lot attendant. He smiled at Fenway and nodded, walking past her to the stairwell on the second floor.

  Fenway exhaled. The pickup truck passed her.

  But it was enough to rattle her. She took her phone out of her purse and put the flashlight on. She shined it in the back seat. Nothing. She shined it in the front seat. Still nothing. She took her remote out and popped the trunk. The lid slowly raised, but the trunk was empty. She crouched down a few feet from the car and shined her light underneath the car. There was nothing but concrete.

  Fenway stood up. She walked around to the back of the car, closed the trunk, and unlocked the door.

  She got in, and checked the back seat one more time: still nothing. She started up the car and drove out of the garage.

  Fenway turned the radio on and some old Michael Jackson was playing. She made the short trip back to her apartment complex and looked at her watch. She still had about fifteen minutes before Rachel was supposed to be there. It would give her a chance to get out of the black dress and the sexy, but increasingly uncomfortable, high heels, and put on some sweats and her sheepskin slippers.

  She got out of the car and realized how tired she was. The single flight of stairs up to the second floor seemed to be a Herculean task. She finally got to the landing, walked to her door, and looked down to put the key in the deadbolt.