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

said.

“What is that? A Ford?”

“Yeah, looks like an F-350 to me.” The truck turned away from the building for a second. “Duallies.”

She pointed to bars covering the back of the pickup. “What are those?” The bars were also blocking most of the license plate. Fenway could make out two of the numbers and she could tell they were California plates.

“Bull bars, looks like.”

She didn’t ask for details. “Those look weird.”

“They usually go on the front. They must have jerry-rigged it to go on the back.”

“Why would they do that?”

The pickup quickly accelerated in reverse, into the bushes between the parking lot and the building. The rear of the truck disappeared out of the frame, as did most of the rest of the truck. When the truck hit the building, they could see the dust come up into the frame.

Quincy squinted. “So they could back into the building without the airbags going off.”

“Okay. Let’s see who this guy is.”

But they could only see part of the door. It obviously opened and shut, but they couldn’t see who got out—or even if anyone did.

“Could you see the driver at all?”

“The driver? No. I couldn’t even see if he got out.”

Fenway nodded. “And it isn’t necessarily a man.”

Quincy rubbed his eyes. “Let’s see if we can see him when he comes back.”

About forty-five seconds later, the door opened and closed again, and the truck surged forward quickly. Quincy paused it, trying to make something out from the shadowy figure in the driver’s seat, but the reflections off the window, the low light, and the low quality of the camera made it impossible. There wasn’t anything in the video that provided a clue as to the identity of the driver.

The truck got out of the planter and back onto the asphalt of the parking lot. Then it peeled out, as Quincy came into the frame, gun drawn. The bull bars were hanging off the back of the truck awkwardly, and the bumper and gate were smashed.

“I’m surprised it could still be driven,” Fenway said.

“Yeah. The truck pretty much went through the outside wall below the window, though. Really hit half-wall and half-window. The outside wall is weaker at the window there, and the glass and a two-foot high wall is a lot easier to go through than a reinforced eight-foot wall. And those bull bars helped.”

“I guess. Still seems pretty lucky.”

The camera saw Quincy briefly assess the damage, then run out of the frame.

“Did you fire your gun?” she asked.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not supposed to fire,” Quincy said. “This is property damage and theft, not a murder, or an assault, or anything. You’ve been watching too many cop shows.”

“I bet those bull bars fell off before they got very far.”

“They might have. I watched the truck go down First Street and then make a right on Broadway. Toward the freeway.”

“They could be halfway to Mexico by now,” she said. “Anything else on the cameras?”

“I don’t know yet, but from where the truck came from, we should get the pickup truck coming into the lot with Camera 6. If we’re lucky, we could get the front plate.”

“If they were that stupid.”

“I’ve seen stupider. And this was pretty brazen. A smash-and-grab really close to the sheriff’s office, in the middle of a murder investigation? That’s crazy. I guess they got some important files.”

“I don’t know how important they were. I didn’t have a chance to see them. I was going to look at them tomorrow.”

“I guess you won’t find out now.” Quincy drummed his fingers on the table. “Not unless we can stop the truck before it gets to where it’s going.”

“Let’s at least try,” she said. “See if you can get the license plate from Camera 6.”

Quincy clicked a couple of buttons, and sure enough, the truck’s license plate was visible. Fenway called the sheriff.

“McVie,” he answered, curtly.

“Sheriff, we have a plate number. Dually black Ford F-350.” She gave him the plate.

“Okay. I’ll put out an APB.”

She hung up and turned back to Quincy.

“I don’t think anything else is going to come up, at least not for the smash-and-grab,” Quincy said. “I’ll let you know if I see anyone who might have been casing the place, somebody who might have been seeing if that wall was as vulnerable as it was, anything like that.”

“Yeah, that’s weird. Oddly specific, right? That particular office, that particular drawer?” She tapped her chin in thought.

“Do you think the driver of the truck might be the person who murdered Mr. Walker Sunday night?”

“It’s the logical place to start,” Fenway said, “but plenty of people were in Walker’s file cabinet. Someone might have seen this as an opportunity to expunge their record, or make sure they weren’t—” She stopped.

“What is it?”

She hesitated. “What have you heard about Harrison Walker?”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you heard any rumors about him at work?”

Quincy folded his arms. “I’ve heard he’s a creep. Saying stuff to the women who work here, making them uncomfortable. If you ask me, he’s a lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, too.”

“You? You’ve only been in town a couple of days.”

“I know, right? So, it must be pretty bad if I’ve heard it already. But here’s the thing: stuff like sexual harassment usually doesn’t stop at sexual harassment. Usually, those assholes feel entitled to money, favors, equipment, that sort of thing.” She shuffled her feet.

“Okay. So, what do you think Walker did?”

“Maybe nothing.” She leaned on the wall. “But probably something. Skimming off the top. Extortion. Taking a bribe. Something. And maybe it has to do with why someone drove a truck through the building and stole a drawerful of files, or maybe it has to do with why he was killed, or maybe both.”

There was a knock. Quincy opened the door.

It was the sheriff. “Plate came back. Pickup belongs to Dylan Richards.”

“All right,” Fenway said. “I wasn’t really expecting a hit on the plate so soon. Reported stolen?”

“Nope.” McVie hesitated.

“What is it?”

“You know Rachel?”

“In the coroner’s office? Yeah, of course.”

“Dylan’s her husband.”

“Oh.” She covered her mouth with her hand.

“Yeah. Fenway, this isn’t good. It’s not good for Dylan, and it’s not good for Rachel either.”

“No, it’s not. And we can’t tell if the driver is a man or woman. It could have been Rachel.”

“I know Rachel in the coroner’s office,” Quincy said. “It’s not her. She’s definitely too short to be the driver. And too petite. And she doesn’t carry herself like that.”

“But it could be Dylan?” Fenway asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t think I know Dylan.”

“Do you want to come with me to the Richards’ apartment?” McVie asked.

She hesitated. “Yes, I do, but yesterday you and I weren’t supposed to have any contact with each other. Are you sure you want me coming with you?”

“I think a pickup truck smashing through the side of the coroner’s office has changed the rules,” McVie said. “It’s given the case urgency. We can’t wait anymore. It’s all hands on deck.”

Quincy promised to keep them informed if anyone was seen on video casing the building. McVie and Fenway walked out toward his car.

“Truck had bull bars on the back to make it easier to smash through the wall,” she said. “Quincy thinks they jerry-rigged the bull bars to the back so when they smashed through the wall, the airbags wouldn’t go off. When we saw the bull bars in the video afterward, they looked like they were about to fall off the truck. We should see if anyone can find bull bars on the side of the road between here and the freeway, or on the freeway. One or two good turns might be all it needed.”

“If it’s Dylan’s truck, this might be a pretty fast investigation.”

“It might be. Still, no stone unturned, right?”

McVie laughed a little uneasily. “I guess.”

They got to the car and he unlocked the door. “Hey, before we get in, I want to say sorry. I snapped at you for telling your dad. I’m tired, and I’m frustrated.”

“No, you were right,” Fenway conceded. “I’ve got to keep that closer to the vest.”

They got in McVie’s car and drove to the townhouse complex where Fenway had driven Rachel two nights before.

“I’ve got to tell you something,” Fenway said, turning in her seat to look at McVie.

“What?”

“Dylan may have a motive for killing Walker. I don’t really want to tell you, because Rachel told me this in confidence.” She hesitated.

“Out with it, Fenway.”

“Rachel was sexually assaulted by Walker on Friday night. And she recorded it on her computer.”