The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗

might have a file that points us to the motive. Or even an email or a note that identifies who Walker was meeting Sunday night.”

McVie nodded. “I’ll call his wife tonight. He might have taken it home.”

They reached the cruiser and got in.

Fenway put on her seat belt and closed the door. “What’s the protocol here? Do we need to get a search warrant for his house?”

“No need. His wife was out of town—she’s not a suspect. If she hands it over, it’ll be quick and easy.” McVie was quiet for a minute as he started the cruiser and backed out of the space. “We haven’t found his car, though. I’m wondering if we’re going to see it go up in smoke soon.”

“Burning a car draws too much attention,” Fenway said.

McVie looked at Fenway incredulously.

“It’s true. I asked about it in my evidence class. Attracts law enforcement, and the VINs usually survive.” She bit her lip. “I’d check the long-term lots at LAX and the other L.A. airports. I guess we should check the regional airports, too, just to be sure, but cars get noticed in their tiny long-term lots.”

“How about the Bay Area? SFO?” McVie turned onto the freeway.

She shook her head. “Too far. The killer could have driven a couple of hours to LAX, left the car, and taken a Greyhound or Amtrak or even one of the airport shuttles back here in time to get a couple of hours of sleep and show up for work the next day. SFO is a four-and-a-half-hour drive, maybe longer, and there’s no easy way to get back. The train takes at least six or seven hours. Same with the bus. With LAX, you’re gone for five or six hours in the middle of the night when everyone is asleep. No one even knows you’re gone. With SFO, you’re gone for eighteen hours.”

“Okay.” McVie nodded. “Maybe I’ll have someone call the airport lots.”

“Hey mister,” she said, a touch of playfulness in her voice, “I thought I was supposed to be responsible for the forensic evidence.”

“Wow, and I thought I was a stickler for the rules.” McVie laughed. “But calling LAX to find a car isn’t being responsible for forensic evidence. You can let me help on this as long as I don’t touch forensic evidence or talk to witnesses.”

Fenway sat back. Right. She had help. Both the ER and clinic were always short-staffed, and she’d gotten used to dealing with everything by herself. But this was a different work environment.

She turned her head to look at McVie’s face. Something about his attitude, how he was so comfortable in his own skin, how being around him made Fenway like herself more, made a smile so much easier. She cleared her throat. He was still technically a suspect in Fenway’s mind—although he hadn’t acted at all guilty at the crime scene. “All right, Sheriff. The laptop and the car.”

McVie turned into Fenway’s complex, and she got out.

“See you tomorrow,” McVie said, leaning over the passenger seat. “Glad you had a good first day.”

She wandered around her apartment a little, wondering if she should call her father first about their very tentative dinner plans from that morning. She wasn’t hungry enough yet, but she didn’t want to wait around all night.

She picked up the phone and dialed.

“Nathaniel Ferris.”

She put on a bad Brooklyn accent. “Yeah, Mister Ferris, I’s got a lady on the line, says her name is Wrigley or Camden or something. Wait, wait, it’s coming to me—a Miss Chavez Ravine.”

“Very funny, Fenway.”

“Hi, Dad,” she said, dropping the accent. “Calling to see if we should coordinate outfits again.”

“I hope you weren’t this sarcastic in your interview with the supervisors.”

“I only terrorized Barry Klein, and I understand he deserved it.”

He hesitated before speaking. “Careful, Fenway. He’s unpredictable.”

“I handled myself okay.”

“So you got the job?”

“I was at the crime scene by nine.”

“Wow—that’s really fast.”

“Oh, come on, Dad, you didn’t grease the wheels?”

He chuckled. “Fenway, I may have talked to one or two people, but that’s hardly greasing the wheels.”

“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to.”

“So you actually did work today, too? Not just sign an offer?”

“Yep. I started gathering evidence in Walker’s office this afternoon, and I basically have to do it all myself because everyone else has a conflict of interest. They’ve all got open files or investigations they’re working on with him.”

“You started the Walker investigation?”

“Yes, I did, Dad. It’s pretty important I look like I’m making headway.”

“It would be especially important if you were going to run for coroner in November.”

“I meant important if this town is going to maintain trust in the sheriff’s office. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” She paused. “Hey—you knew Harrison Walker pretty well. Did he have any enemies you can think of?”

He laughed. “The most hated man in Estancia?”

“What? Barry Klein didn’t take that award?”

“Runner-up every year.” Ferris snapped his fingers. “That’s it! Barry Klein killed Walker because he was sick of losing the Biggest Jerk award.”

She pushed out a breath. “Closer to a motive than I came today.”

“You didn’t make any progress?”

She clicked her tongue against her teeth. Had she already said too much? Ferris was powerful, but this felt like one of those father-daughter conversations they’d never had. How was school? How was volleyball practice? What was the most interesting thing you learned today? “It’s, uh, early in the process. I won’t even get the keys to his files until tomorrow morning, so everything is still preliminary.”

“It’s still faster than anyone expected.”

“It’s weird, though,” she continued. “Aren’t the first forty-eight hours of a homicide investigation the most important? Sheriff McVie seemed more concerned with the appearance of conflicts of interest than he did about starting the investigation.”

“I’m sure Craig is doing everything he can with limited resources.” Ferris coughed. “Enough shop talk. Now that you’re in town, I’d love to take my daughter out to dinner. Are you busy tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Uh—didn’t you tell me we’d go out for dinner tonight?”

“Did I? I’m sorry—I’ve had the wrong day in my head all day. I meant Thursday.”

Fenway sighed. Maybe it was a sign from the universe to go grocery shopping. “You and Charlotte aren’t doing anything tomorrow night?”

“Charlotte and I are going to a movie premiere in Hollywood this weekend,” he said. “Thursday night is for dinner with my daughter.”

“Tomorrow it is.”

“Maxime’s at eight o’clock?”

“That sounds fancy enough I won’t even pretend I can afford going Dutch.”

“It’s my treat. I’ll pick you up about seven forty-five.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up.

She stared at her phone. Had she given him too much information about the investigation? No. There was nothing to tell. She didn’t know anything yet.

But she could just see her mother crossing her arms and shaking her head disapprovingly. Maybe Fenway had trusted her father too much.

“I’m just being nice,” Fenway murmured. “It’s not like I have anyone else left.”

She grabbed the manila folder Dez had given her, sat on the sofa, and started to read about securing crime scenes.