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

I think I’d rather get arrested for murder than deal with her father.”

“Especially if her father is the sheriff.”

“Especially,” Dez nodded.

“Should I go interview her? Think I can get to her house before school starts?”

Dez looked at the clock on the wall. “School started half an hour ago.”

“Well then, do we pull her out of class?”

“Let me get this straight.” Dez pulled back up to her desk and held up her index finger. “You want to go to the sheriff’s daughter’s high school.” Dez’s second finger went up. “You want to pull her out of class.” Her ring finger joined the other two. “And ask her about having sex with a twenty-seven-year-old murder suspect?” She put her hand down. “And all on the basis of a parking ticket given across the street from the cul-de-sac she lives on?”

“And the sheriff’s schedule. Yes.”

Dez smirked. “And what are you going to tell the sheriff and his wife after the school calls them?”

Fenway paused. “The administration would call the McVies?”

“Of course they would. They call the parents any time we question a student on campus.”

“Forget that then. We’ll have to figure something else out.”

Dez nodded.

“Look, how about this?” said Fenway. “We canvass the neighborhood with Dylan’s photo. ‘Did you see this man in the neighborhood Sunday evening?’ The sheriff might have been out of town, but I bet there was a nosy neighbor who’s all pissed off about this big truck parked in front of his house all night. Then, if someone saw him enter the sheriff’s house—”

“Then what?”

“Then we’d have a plausible reason to convince the administration not to contact the McVies, right?”

“I’m telling you, Fenway, that’s non-negotiable.”

Fenway leaned back in her chair. “Look, we need to follow this line of thinking, don’t we? Don’t we need to find out if this has the potential to blow up in the sheriff’s face? I mean, there’s probably enough evidence to hold Dylan, but I think it looks like he made the arrest too early. And if Dylan is having sex with his underage daughter—”

“That’s a pretty big if.”

“But if he is, that could look like McVie was trying to get revenge.”

“Why not just arrest Dylan for statutory rape?” Dez asked.

“Age of consent is sixteen. Isn’t his daughter sixteen?”

“You’re not in Seattle anymore, Fenway. Age of consent is eighteen in California.”

Fenway furrowed her brow. “Even better. For the sheriff, I mean. That convinces me that McVie didn’t have any idea about it. Statutory rape is plenty bad. ‘Sex offender’ on your record for the rest of your life—you get wrecked in prison, right?”

Dez shook her head. “You’ve seen too many cop shows.”

“Then educate me. If you’re guilty of statutory rape, you go on the sex offender list forever, right?”

“Right.”

“And that means it’s hard to get a job, hard to find an apartment, hard to live anywhere...”

“Yeah.”

“And other prisoners don’t look too kindly on pedophiles, right? Like, don’t they get beat up in prison? And don’t all kinds of nasty stuff happen to them in the showers?”

“Okay, you made your point, Fenway.” The look on Dez’s face was like she had smelled a rotten egg.

Fenway got up. “All right. So let’s go.”

“Let’s go? Go where?”

“Let’s go get a photo of Dylan and go canvass Harbor Park Court. You’ll have to drive, I don’t have a car yet.”

Dez shook her head. “I sure hope you get more jaded in a hurry. I can hardly stand this enthusiasm.”

“I have a feeling if I tell the sheriff that the guy he arrested is sleeping with his teenaged daughter, that’ll leave me feeling pretty jaded by the end of the conversation.”

After getting a photo of Dylan Richards from the Records Department, and filling up two cups of coffee, Fenway and Dez headed out. They arrived at Harbor Park Court around eight forty-five.

“That’s McVie’s house.” Dez pointed to the third house on the right of the cul-de-sac.

“The one with the Jeep in the driveway?”

“Yeah. I think McVie got that Jeep for Megan for her sixteenth birthday. She must have gotten a ride this morning.”

Fenway looked at the other houses. “Where do you want to start?”

“Let’s start on the left side—they’ll have a better view of the house, and maybe they saw Richards.”

Fenway opened the car door.

“Leave your ballcap,” Dez said.

“I didn’t have time to do my hair this morning.”

“I feel you, girl, but bad hair is better for canvassing than wearing a baseball cap. Kind of unprofessional for peace officers.”

She took the cap off and tried to fix her hair with her hands to be somewhat presentable. She decided to leave it after she at least had gotten the hat-head look to go away.

There was no one home at the first two houses. At the third house, a large white guy, approximately six-foot-eight and about three hundred pounds, with a long, well-kept beard, answered the door. Dez showed her badge and then the photo, asking if the man had seen him around Sunday night.

“Sunday night?” The large man stroked his long beard thoughtfully. “I work at a restaurant, and I was working Sunday night till about 11. But I’ve seen that guy before. He’s in the neighborhood all the time. Always parks his big black pickup over in front of the Martins’ house. I see him go to the McVies’ house though. Doesn’t always use the front door, either. I was thinking of calling the cops, but I saw someone inside open the front door and let him in a couple of times. I figured he was a gardener or a pool guy.”

“How often is he around?” Dez asked, pen poised to take notes.

The man shrugged. “It kind of varies. Sometimes I notice him two or three times a week, sometimes I don’t see him or his truck for a couple of weeks.”

“You ever talk to the McVies about it?”

“Nope. None of my business.” He put his hands out in front of himself, palms facing up. “Know why? Because the couple who used to live in the Martins’ house had a bunch of parties, like every other weekend, with cars lined up for blocks. I asked them about it once, and they invited me and my wife, and it turned out to be a key party.”

“A key party? For real? This ain’t 1975,” said Dez.

“Tell that to them. Apparently, they thought everyone in the neighborhood knew. I guess they thought I was angling for an invite. Or maybe they thought my wife was hot. I don’t know. Anyway, now I keep my mouth shut.”

“All right.” Dez closed her notebook. “Thanks for your time.”

“One more thing,” Fenway interjected. “Did you see the truck in front of the Martins’ place when you got home on Sunday night?”

The man thought about it a moment. “I can’t say that I’m absolutely sure, but I think so.”

Fenway looked at Dez, then back to him. “Thanks again. Have a good rest of your day.”

They knocked on more doors. People were home at two other houses. Both of them had seen the truck several times before. One of them didn’t recognize Dylan; one of them said she was “pretty sure” that Dylan was the driver of the truck, but didn’t know which house he visited, although she did say she remembered the truck parked there on Sunday night.

“That’s enough for me to think we need to talk to Megan,” Dez conceded as they walked back to the car. “Maybe we can catch her after school.”

Fenway looked over her shoulder back at the Jeep in the McVie’s driveway. “Hey, Dez,” she said, “you sure that’s the daughter’s car?”

“Sure, I’m sure. She’s stopped by the office in that car before.”

Fenway cocked her head to the side. “McVie’s been in the office since early this morning—he couldn’t have given her a ride. I think she might be skipping school.”

Dez stopped walking and narrowed her eyes at the Jeep.

“I’m going to check,” Fenway said, turning and walking quickly to the McVie residence. Dez turned with her and jogged to catch up.

They got to the front porch at the same time.

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” Dez said.

Fenway rang the bell. Dez shifted her weight from foot to foot.

“Did you hear something from inside?” Fenway asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

Fenway rang the bell again.

She looked at Dez. “I think she’s home.”

“Maybe.”

Fenway counted to twenty under her breath and knocked loudly on the front door.