The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗
- Author: Paul Austin Ardoin
- Performer: -
Book online «The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗». Author Paul Austin Ardoin
McVie’s eyes widened. “She recorded it? Like with a camera?”
“Yeah. He asked her to work late when no one else was in the office, and she got a really weird vibe, and HR wouldn’t do anything. So she set up a webcam, he made his move, and she recorded it all. She made copies of the video, and she told me she put one in her kitchen junk drawer, because she was afraid HR would confiscate the video and side with Walker.”
McVie breathed out. “Ugh.”
“Yeah.”
“Seriously. What a piece of shit.” He pulled into a driveway next to a sign that said Scarlet Oak Townhomes. “Okay, Dylan and Rachel live in number 19.”
Fenway didn’t tell McVie she drove Rachel home two nights before. “I don’t see any Ford pickups.”
McVie parked and turned off the car. “It might be parked on the street, but in my experience, people who commit a crime with their cars usually don’t drive back home. They usually stash the car somewhere. If that’s the case, Dylan’s probably not even here. But you never know, some criminals really are that stupid. What did you say before? No stone unturned?”
“Fine, fine.” She walked with McVie to the door of number 19 and looked at her watch. It was four in the morning.
McVie pounded on the door. “Dylan Richards?”
“McVie! You’ll wake everyone up,” Fenway hissed.
“If he’s not home, this’ll be quick. And if he is home, I’ll quiet down as soon as he answers the door.” He pounded again. She looked up as a light in the upstairs window went on.
After about fifteen seconds, they heard footfalls on the stairs, then the door opened. Rachel peered out. Her hair was messy, and she was in her pajamas.
“Sheriff? Fenway? What are you doing here?”
“Is Dylan here, Rachel?” McVie said.
Rachel blinked, confused. “Yeah, he’s coming in a second. What’s going on?”
“Rachel, I think you and Dylan need to come down to the station.”
“What? Why?”
“Where’s Dylan’s truck?” McVie asked.
“What do you mean? It’s right there—” she trailed off as she looked in the parking lot. “Well—Dylan parked it right there last night when we got home.”
“Dylan’s truck smashed through the wall of Walker’s office early this morning,” Fenway explained. “And they took some stuff.”
A dark cloud passed over Rachel’s face. “Oh God, did you tell him?” Rachel nodded to the sheriff.
Fenway was silent, and she looked down at the doormat.
Rachel put her hands over her face. “God, I’m so stupid.”
“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Fenway started, “but we’re investigating the death of your boss, and you said I was going to find out anyway, right? And now Walker’s files are gone, and it looks like your husband might be involved, and I know he might have a motive.”
Rachel looked confused. “Walker’s files are gone? What files?”
“Can you just get Dylan and come down to the station, please?” McVie shot Fenway a look that said, would you keep your mouth shut?
Rachel drew in her breath sharply. “I swear, the truck was here in the parking lot when we got home last night. And I swear we haven’t left.” She bit her lip. “I’ll go get Dylan. Can we get dressed first?”
“Of course,” Fenway said.
McVie looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “But please make it quick.”
Rachel nodded, turned around and went upstairs, leaving the door about halfway open.
They were both back downstairs in a couple of minutes. Dylan was only a few inches taller than Rachel—maybe five-six or five-seven, but he looked muscular in a wiry way. He had light brown hair, fairly moplike on top. “What do you mean, where’s my truck?” Dylan asked as they came down the stairs.
“I don’t know, Dylan.” Rachel threw up her hands. “It’s not where we left it last night.”
“We should probably go to the station, sort it out there,” said McVie.
Rachel looked at Fenway’s face, trying to read her.
Dylan came out onto the front step. “Listen, Sheriff, I left my truck here last night. Right in that space, number 19, next to that silver Toyota.”
“What kind of truck is it?” Fenway asked.
“It’s a black Ford F-350.”
“Duallies?”
“You know it,” he smirked. Fenway couldn’t believe it—four in the morning with the police at his door and he’s being flirtatious and cool.
“Got bull bars on the back?” McVie asked.
Dylan’s eyebrows pulled in. “Bull bars on the back of the truck? What idiot would put bull bars on the back of a pickup?”
“So that’s a ‘no’?”
“Yeah, that’s a ‘no.’”
“You didn’t have bull bars on the front either?”
“Sure, on the front. That’s where they go.”
“Honey,” Rachel said softly, “I think you better ask to file a police report on your truck. I think it was stolen and I think someone used it last night to do something illegal.”
Dylan pulled Rachel to the side and they talked in low voices. Fenway couldn’t hear what they were saying. They walked back after a minute, and Dylan looked at the sheriff. “Sheriff, I think my truck was stolen. I’d like to file a report.”
McVie shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Those forms are at the station. And as you don’t have a car, I guess you’ll have to ride with us.”
“I have my car,” Rachel said. “I can drive us.”
“Yeah,” Dylan replied, “I think I’d rather ride with Rachel. I can meet you there.”
McVie looked at Dylan and Rachel. “Okay, no problem. But please go directly there. We definitely need to speak with you. If you weren’t driving your truck, you’re still a material witness.”
Dylan squinted. “Am I under arrest?”
“No,” Rachel answered. “But a material witness means they can compel you to provide evidence.”
He turned to Rachel and spoke in a low voice. “And what does that mean?”
“It means we better go to the station.”
“Where are you parked?” McVie asked.
“A little ways up the street past that driveway.” Rachel pointed down the road a bit.
McVie watched Rachel and Dylan walk to her BMW before motioning Fenway to get in his car. “I drove her home in that car the other day,” Fenway said to McVie after she got in the cruiser. “It’s really nice. Wonder how she affords it on an admin’s salary.”
“Her dad bought it.” McVie started the car and reversed out of the space. “Listen, Fenway, I know you were trying to help, but you can’t be giving that kind of information out to suspects.” McVie pulled out into the street behind the BMW.
“But Rachel is—” She stopped herself from saying “my friend.” She reminded herself that she had met Rachel only two days before. She supposed she felt like that because Rachel had already opened up to her so much.
“I know Rachel is an employee of the coroner’s office, but Walker’s sexual assault gives her a motive—and it gives Dylan a motive, too.”
“I can’t see her doing this.”
“Oh, come on, Fenway, you’ve known her for all of two days. One of my buddies from high school stabbed his landlord five years ago. I never would have pegged him for it either, so you can’t tell after two days what Rachel’s capable of.”
She looked out the window.
“Listen,” McVie said, “when we get to the station, I’m going to sit them both in our interview room, then I’m going to take Dylan out to fill out the stolen vehicle form, and I want you to keep Rachel talking.”
“What are we going to talk about? Do you want me to ask her questions about the case?”
“Yes.” McVie nodded. “And ask her about those recordings, and who else knows those recordings were made, and where she was Sunday night—stuff like that.”
“She owns a gun,” Fenway blurted out.
“Really?”
“Yes, a .22. She said her dad gave it her for self-defense, but she’s never used it.”
“A .22 for self-defense?” McVie shook his head. “Her dad buys her a new BMW, but can’t get her a decent gun.”
“So what type of gun killed Walker? Wasn’t a .22, was it?”
“No, when I was there, the CSI team said it looked to be a bigger caliber. Maybe a nine-millimeter. I mean, we won’t know for sure until we get the results from the autopsy, but it was definitely bigger than a .22.”
The sheriff’s office was behind City Hall. They pulled
Comments (0)