“Listen, I don’t know what I could have done,” Catherine Klein was saying. “I was there for a couple of days, sure, but we were having fun.”
“By fun, you mean doing cocaine and having sex all day?” Dez said.
The man put up his hand. “You don’t have to answer that.”
Catherine Klein shrugged. “There’s no law against infidelity in this state,” she said, “and Jer was the one with the cocaine, not me. I don’t touch the stuff.”
The lawyer rolled his eyes.
“So let’s go over what happened Thursday night,” Donnelly said. “You’d already been there a couple of days.”
“Right. And Thursday was no different. We watched a movie on TV. We ordered in.”
“The Belvedere Terrace has room service?” Dez asked.
“There are a few restaurants Jer knows. They deliver to him all the time.”
Rich people, Fenway thought.
“What movie did you watch?” Dez asked.
“The weird spy movie that came out last year. The British one that won all the awards.”
“What was it about?”
“Uh, British spies, I guess,” Catherine Klein said, blushing.
“So you didn’t watch a movie. What were you doing?”
“Asked and answered,” the lawyer said, but Catherine was already talking.
“I mean, the movie was on,” Catherine said. “Jer and I just weren’t paying attention to it.”
Fenway shook her head.
“I gotcha,” Dez said. “A little extra-movicular activity. So you’ll need to walk me through this. What time did the two of you finish up?”
“What?”
“You don’t have to—” the lawyer began.
“I don’t know,” Catherine interrupted.
“I mean, did he last the whole movie? Because if so, damn, girl, you are one lucky woman.”
“I didn’t see the clock. I fell asleep.”
“Maybe a repeat performance?”
Catherine sighed. “I mean, he was a good lover. That’s why I was there.”
“Did you conclude your activities before or after the movie finished?”
“Before, I guess. And when I woke up in the morning, Jer was gone.”
“He didn’t tell you where he was going?”
“He had trouble sleeping a lot of the time. I mean, he might still have been high, too. One of the reasons we picked the Belvedere Terrace is because we liked going down to the beach at night.”
“It’s on the beach?” asked Dez. “I didn’t think it was close.”
“There’s a footpath. You have to go through a grove of trees, maybe, I don’t know, a five-minute walk, maybe ten. But it’s pretty. It’s a little tough to keep your footing in the dark, especially if it’s wet, but it’s a nice little beach. Very secluded. Hardly anyone goes there. You can have some, uh, private moments.”
“Sounds delightful,” Dez said.
“Well, it was. We went down there the day before. It was nice.”
“Of course it was.”
“Sergeant,” the lawyer said, “if you want my client to continue cooperating—”
“My apologies, counselor.” Dez’s voice dripped with insincerity.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” said Catherine. “I waited for a while for Jer to come back. I thought he might have gone to get some more drugs or some coffee or something. I left the room around six-thirty and I walked around the property.”
“Maybe he drove off?”
“He didn’t have his car. His wife had dropped him off at the airport and he took a cab to the hotel.” She hesitated.
“What?”
“I took the footpath down to the beach, thinking Jer might be there, and I saw a police van. I didn’t want to answer any questions about the drugs in the room or anything like that. So I went back, and I packed up and left.”
“You just abandoned Jeremy?”
Catherine set her jaw. “If he had seen the cops before I did, he would have left me there, too.”
“Lovely,” Donnelly said. “Anyone else visit you?”
“That morning?”
“At all. During your whole stay.”
“No. It was just him and me.”
Dez leaned back in her seat. “So when did you find out about the murder?”
“What?”
“When did you hear that Jeremy Kapp had been killed? Later that day or something? I mean, you’re married to a guy who’s running for mayor. He must have said something to you. Or his campaign manager must have pointed it out. He mentioned his murder in his campaign speech yesterday, trying to get a dig in at the sheriff. You were standing right next to him.”
Fenway was impressed Dez had managed to uncover that tidbit.
Catherine Klein looked down at the table.
“Well? When did you find out Jeremy Kapp was murdered?”
“Later that day,” Catherine said.
“And what? You didn’t think it was important enough to come forward?” Donnelly asked.
“My husband’s running for mayor,” Catherine Klein said.
“What does that have to do with anything?” questioned Donnelly.
“I don’t want it to get out.”
“That your husband is running for mayor?” cracked Dez.
“Stop being stupid,” Catherine snapped. “I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want anyone to know I was cheating on my husband. Especially when he was running for mayor.”
Fenway thought of how her first date with the newly single McVie had been postponed for three months while the two of them dealt with the campaign, neither one of them wanting the complications of a relationship to muddy the waters of the election. And Catherine Klein—who was married to the candidate—shacked up with her also-married lover in a hotel a few miles away from City Hall.
But she had to marvel at how Dez burrowed under Catherine Klein’s skin. The candidate’s wife was clearly on the defensive and was saying things in anger she shouldn’t.
“You’re badgering my—” started the lawyer.
Dez interrupted. “Even though you knew we were looking for the woman he had shared the hotel room with.”
“Imagine that,” Catherine said, anger bubbling under the surface of her voice. “I chose my marriage and my children over an open police investigation where I wouldn’t have been able to provide any useful information anyway.”
“It’s nice for you to be able to choose your marriage when it’s convenient for you to avoid questioning,” Dez said, “and not choose it when it comes to getting laid in a hotel room surrounded by a mountain of cocaine.”
“One more remark like that and this interview is over,” the lawyer said, glaring at Dez.
Catherine Klein shook her head and crossed her arms.
Donnelly pulled a folder out of the leather business satchel at her feet, and placed it in the middle of the table. “So, ‘Catherine the Great,’ do you happen to recognize these?” She pulled the emails out of the folder and put them in front of Catherine.
Catherine only gave the email printed on top a cursory glance at first, but then something caught her eye, and she did a double take. She then read the first email carefully, then went through each of the emails with narrowed eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Catherine finally said, after she had read the last email. “Where did you get these? And why are these addressed to Charlotte Ferris?”
“So you’re saying you do recognize these emails,” Dez said.
“I recognize the—uh—the ones from Jer,” Catherine admitted. “But he sent those to me, not to Charlotte.” She frowned. “Where did you get these?”
Dez shrugged. “These were anonymously sent to the police,” she said. “Either Jer was sending the same love poems in email to both you and Charl—”
“Jer wasn’t seeing Charlotte,” Catherine said angrily. “He knew how I felt about her. He wouldn’t have dared.”
“Or what?” Dez asked.
Catherine screwed up her mouth in anger. “If I had found out Jer was sleeping with Charlotte, I would have killed Charlotte, not Jer,” she seethed. “I can’t stand that bitch. And I can’t stand the rich pig she married, either.”
Catherine’s reaction shocked Fenway. Catherine talked as if she had history with Charlotte. They looked about the same age. Maybe they went to high school together, or college. Maybe, Fenway thought with a start, they had once fought over the same man.
Please don’t let that man be my father, Fenway thought.
“You get why this looks bad for you, right?” Dez stood up and leaned on the table. “You don’t come forward when you find out the man you shacked up with for three days in a cheap hotel was murdered. We find emails between your lover and a woman who it seems you don’t like. It’s not hard to find motive there. And by your own admission, you don’t have an alibi for Thursday night. For all we know, you and Jer took a walk down to the beach, nothing but the night sky, the wind gently blowing in off the ocean, and the gun you stole from your frenemy Charlotte. So maybe you’re the one who blew a hole through his forehead.”
Catherine snarled.
“What is it, Catherine?” Dez taunted, leaning closer to her. “You want to say anything to me?”
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Are you charging my client with anything, Sergeant?”
Donnelly looked at the lawyer. “Catherine is a material witness. The sergeant is asking her if she knows anything about what happened, and she’s so far been unhelpful.”
“That’s a ‘no,’ then.”
“We don’t have the evidence to arrest Catherine for murder, if that’s what you’re asking.” Donnelly turned to address Catherine. “But there’s a lot more you’ve done that’s iffy. Withholding evidence is a misdemeanor, and that’s only a fine, but I could lock you up for the night and hold a press conference about your potential role in the murder. That wouldn’t look so good on your husband’s résumé, would it? It wouldn’t look good to the voters, either, especially the day before the election. Be a sure way to put Mayor McVie into office.”
“You’re crossing the line,” the lawyer said sharply.
“No, I’m not,” Donnelly said. “I don’t have any conflict of interest. I don’t have skin in the election game between McVie and your husband. You’ve done something illegal, Mrs. Klein, and the only question is whether I’m going to look the other way or not.”
“We’ll turn it into political suicide for McVie too,” Catherine said.
Donnelly shrugged. “You say that as if I care,” she said. “Hell, maybe they’ll make a Netflix miniseries out of it if things get juicy.”
“What actress do you think will play me?” Dez said. “I’m thinking Halle Berry. Maybe it’ll get her an Emmy.”
Catherine closed her eyes. Fenway could see the wheels turning in her head.
“Look,” she said, calmly and evenly, without any malice in her voice, “I’ve been sleeping with Jer for about three months. He’s great. He makes excuses to his wife about out-of-town conferences. I say I’m going down to see my sorority sisters in Orange County. We stay a few days at the Belvedere. We barely leave the room. I like the arrangement. Barry doesn’t have any idea—he’s already so obsessed with winning this stupid mayoral race anyway—and my mom loves spoiling the grandkids. I have absolutely no reason to want Jer dead. I swear to you, I was in bed from the time Jer turned the spy movie on, until I got up around six or so. I don’t have anyone to give me an alibi, but I don’t have any reason for doing this.” She sighed. “Look, I guess you want me to apologize for not coming forward, but I can’t imagine what would happen, how angry Barry would be if this got out. So I guess I’m saying I’m sorry, but you’ve got to understand why I kept my mouth shut.”
Dez looked at the lawyer, who gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She sighed. “And you didn’t see anything strange on Thursday night. No one strange walking by the windows. No one doing anything out of the ordinary in the hotel parking lot.”
Catherine shook her head.
“Okay,” Donnelly said. “I appreciate your candor. You’re free to go.”
“She’s free to go?” the lawyer asked, surprise in his voice.
Catherine looked up, almost disbelieving, at their faces.
“I can still file the papers for withholding evidence,” Dez said. “And even if you’re married to the mayor, you’re not above the law.”
“Thank you,” the lawyer said.
Both Catherine and the lawyer stood up. Catherine picked up her purse, and the lawyer held the door open for her. He followed her out.
Dez stood up and stretched.
“We’re nowhere closer to finding out who did this,” Donnelly said.
“But we know someone was trying to frame Charlotte.”
“I tend to agree with you, but are we sure?”
Dez looked at Donnelly. “The fake emails and the doctored photographs. Someone obviously gained access to Jeremy Kapp’s account and took the content from his emails and tried to make it look like it was an email conversation with Charlotte Ferris instead of Catherine the Great.”
Donnelly tapped her fingers on the table. “I have to admit that’s looking more and more likely.” She chuckled. “Especially with the security camera footage.”
“Right. She’s got an alibi too.”
The deputy sheriff sighed, thinking for a moment. “You’re right. Charlotte is no longer a viable suspect. Which means Coroner Stevenson no longer has a conflict of interest.”
“And neither does McVie,” Dez said.
Donnelly paused and thought for a moment. “Right,” she conceded. “If his, uh, benefector’s wife isn’t a suspect anymore, he’s good to go too.” She smiled and took a deep breath; Fenway saw her shoulders and neck relax. “And that means I can go back to P.Q.”
“And we’ll get Fenway back on the case?” Dez asked.
Fenway decided not to push her luck anymore. She opened the door quietly, slipped out, and walked out of the sheriff’s building over to her own office.
FENWAY HAD BEEN IN her office about fifteen minutes when Dez came in, followed by Donnelly.
“Ah, Fenway,” Dez said. “I was hoping you’d come back here. We were going over some final checklists to hand the case back to you.”
“Good thing I came back before you left, then,” Fenway said, a wide smile on her face.
“Do you always look so happy when the case is this tough?” Donnelly asked, barely suppressing a grin. “Fine, you can work on it now—I don’t see any conflict of interest with any of the suspects anymore.” She looked sideways at Fenway. “Of course, it’s still possible that the Kapp murder is tied pretty closely to the murders of Rory Velásquez and Jacob Tassajera. If I were running this department, I wouldn’t let you touch those either, because of your relationship to the victims.” She cleared her throat. “But it’s ultimately McVie’s call. Or maybe it’s your call. I just know it’s not my call.” She walked over and shook Fenway’s hand. “At least for another couple of months.”
“Thank you for your assistance on this, Sheriff.”
“I’m still a deputy sheriff until January first,” Donnelly said. “Assuming I win, that is.”
And she was out the door.
“Okay, rookie,” Dez said. “Now that you’re officially reinstated, let’s go interview the grieving widow.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
THEY RODE IN SILENCE to the Kapp house. It was twenty minutes out to Paso Querido, and off the main highway, a few miles up Querido Valley Drive, then the road crested the summit and wound down into the canyon. The Kapp house was in the “Birdland” development, surrounded by scrub brush and ironwood trees. As soon as they crossed the border into Birdland, it was lush and green, something rarely seen in this part of California after the recent years of drought. Most properties in the county kept their grounds full of plants needing little water, as well
as sturdy trees, cleared back from the main buildings to provide no fuel during fire season.
But the Birdland properties were different, with vibrant shades of green. As they turned onto Whippoorwill Terrace, long grasses like verdant waterfalls cascaded down steps made of naturally occurring brown and gray stones. Dez’s Impala rounded a turn and the Kapp house came into view.
The large plot of land—perhaps an acre and a half—was beautifully designed, as one might expect to find at the residence of a landscape architect. The house itself, however, was far less like Nathaniel Ferris’s house than Fenway had pictured. While her father’s mansion was an exercise in overstatement and opulence, the Kapp residence was less ostentatious and significantly smaller than Fenway expected.
It was still a large house—if she had to estimate, perhaps four thousand square feet. Looking to her left, there was a four-car detached garage with a covered breezeway connecting to the main house. The long driveway meandered around a large oak tree, and Dez left the Impala on the driveway, under its shade.
The front door opened, and the young, handsome face of Donovan Kapp peered out. The acne on his forehead had cleared. “Coroner?” he asked, a little taken aback.
“Hey, Donovan,” Fenway said. “Can we come in?”
“Uh, sure, I guess so.” He stepped back from the door and it opened wide. Fenway stepped into the entryway, followed by Dez.
“I guess you can sit down in there.” Donovan motioned to the great room. The large space was separated into two areas: one with a sofa and a love seat, and behind the sofa, three glass-topped display cases; the other area had two leather recliners facing a large flat-screen television mounted on the wall.
Donovan put his hands in his pockets, and then seemed to remember his manners. “Oh, you want anything to drink? Water or something?”
“You have any coffee?” asked Fenway. She walked around the display cases. The first housed several dozen old-looking coins, all in matching settings. The second, the largest of the three, had a fencing epée and two antique revolvers.
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