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

“Damn it, Fenway, this is exactly what I was talking about with this being a bad idea!”

“This is what you were talking about?” She leaned into his space, her tone acerbic. “That you shouldn’t fuck me because you knew you’d have to come up with an alibi for killing a suspect?”

McVie glared at Fenway.

She looked down at McVie’s shoes, taking a calming breath. “Sorry. I’m really sorry. That was out of line.”

“Damn right that was out of line.” He took a couple of steps back. “I need to take a walk to clear my head. Please don’t follow me.” He turned and walked quickly away.

Fenway was standing in the plaza, the fog quickly burning away, the sun dappling her face. It didn’t seem like such a beautiful day anymore. She stood there for a few minutes, wondering if she should follow him anyway. She shook her head, not quite believing it was already almost as crazy of a morning as yesterday.

She walked back through the plaza and across the street to her office building. The side of the building had been boarded up, over the truck-sized hole, and it looked like they had also put up rebar and galvanized steel chain-link fencing to discourage further intrusion.

Fenway went back into the office. She picked up her now-lukewarm latte from where she had left it. “Dez, I’m going to go to San Miguelito for Dylan Richards’ autopsy. But there are a few things I need done.”

“All right.” Dez picked up her notebook. “And did you hear about the other gun?”

Fenway stopped. “What other gun?”

“We got an anonymous tip last night; a call from a burner phone. Asked us if we had looked in the Richards’ backyard.”

“But Dylan and Rachel are in a townhouse. Do they even have a backyard?”

“It’s tiny, but yes. They’ve got a few plants and a vegetable garden back there. And, lo and behold, we found a Smith & Wesson 4006 buried under the zucchini.”

“What kind of ammo does that gun take?”

“Ten millimeter.”

“Registered to Richards?”

Dez shook her head. “Numbers have been filed off. We sent the gun to the San Miguelito lab along with the body.”

“Okay.” Fenway nodded.

“Something else was found, too. Underneath one of the outdoor chair cushions.”

“What?”

“A parking stub from an LAX long-term lot.”

“What?”

“That’s right. A parking stub. From the lot where we found Walker’s car. It was time-stamped late Sunday night—about three hours after the murder.”

Fenway paused. “Doesn’t that seem awfully…I don’t know, convenient to you?”

“Yep,” Dez said. “Awfully convenient.”

“Did Mark tell you he found the laptop in Walker’s car?”

“Yeah. He told me it was wedged in a spot under the passenger seat. He actually wasn’t the one to find it—the crime scene team found it when they were searching it for skin and hair from the supposed killer. They removed the seat, and there it was. We think Walker might have used that spot for a laptop hiding place a lot.”

“It feels like we’re getting a lot of breaks.”

“Except for the prime suspect being murdered,” Dez pointed out. “That wasn’t too much of a break, especially for McVie.”

Fenway looked down again. “It must be especially rough on Rachel.”

Dez sighed. “I don’t think anybody’s told her yet. I guess I can be the one to tell her, but man, I sure don’t want to.”

“Did anyone tell her that her husband was having an affair with a married woman?”

“As if her husband committing suicide isn’t bad enough? I should have a bottle full of Xanax ready when I break all of this to her.”

They were silent for a minute. Fenway wanted to say something comforting, but she couldn’t think of anything. She finally changed the subject.

“Hey, who all knows about Dylan and McVie’s wife?”

“There’s you and me. And Megan and Amy McVie. I don’t know if Dylan told any of his friends.”

“If he was hiding it from his brother, seems logical to think he didn’t tell anyone at all.”

“Yeah.”

“And the sheriff knows, too,” Fenway added.

Dez looked surprised. “You told him?”

“He already knew.”

“He knew before he made the arrest?” she asked, then shook her head. “Ooh, that’s not right.”

“I know, it’s a conflict of interest, right?”

“Well,” Dez reasoned, “what’s he supposed to do? Not arrest a suspect just because he’s sleeping with his wife?”

“I don’t really know the ethics of this. I’m a newbie.”

Dez scoffed. “Oh, please. Try that ‘newbie’ crap on someone else.”

Fenway smiled. “One more thing, Dez. So—it’s possible the missing files pointed to an affair between Lana Cassidy and Dylan Richards.”

“What?” Dez said skeptically. “You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“No. My father took me to dinner last night and I grilled him about the files.”

“Girl, didn’t you say he might be setting you up?”

“Yeah, he might be, but I don’t think so. I played the I’m your only daughter and I was shot at because I didn’t know what was in those files card. He seemed genuinely concerned for me, and plus, he had about three bourbons in the first half hour. Even if he had wanted to put one over on me, I’m not sure he could have.”

Dez still looked skeptical, but nodded slowly. “All right. So, what do you want me to do? Phone records? Maybe see if I can get text messages, emails, that sort of thing?”

“Absolutely. I was going to ask for phone records, but if you can get that other stuff too, that would be awesome.”

“Will do, boss. Who’s giving you a ride up to San Miguelito?”

“I got a car last night. I’ll be okay getting there on my own.”

“Aw, that’s sweet, our little coroner got her own car and is all grown up.” She laughed. “Okay then. Get good intel. I’ll text you if anything comes up.”

Fenway didn’t feel the need to tell Dez her father had, in fact, gotten her the car. “Thanks, Dez.”

Fenway went out to her new Accord and drove to San Miguelito. She used the navigation system to get there, and she was really glad she had it—she had slept through the trip with McVie, so she didn’t notice a poorly marked split in the highway about halfway to San Miguelito. The navigation system beeped to go left at the split, thankfully; there wasn’t even a signpost for the San Miguelito turnoff.

Fenway had never owned a new car before, and neither had her mother all the time they were in Seattle. They got a great deal on an old Corolla her mother drove for years. Fenway learned to drive on it. When Fenway bought the used Nissan Sentra after college graduation, she remembered how disappointed she had felt that she couldn’t afford anything nicer.

Her phone rang, breaking her from her memories.

“This is Fenway.”

“Hey Fenway, it’s Miguel Castaneda.”

“Hey Migs. Everything okay?”

“I called to tell you they arrested Bradley Watermeier.”

“Oh good. Hopefully he can tell us something. Where did they find him? Was he at his parents’ cabin? Maybe a girlfriend’s house?”

“He was at a craps table in Vegas. He was up ten thousand dollars when they made the arrest.”

“Ooh, tough luck, Bradley.”

Migs laughed.

“Is he coming back to be interviewed?”

“Yes, they’re bringing him back, but the state trooper I talked to estimated the drive to be about six hours. They put him on the road already, though. He should be here by about two o’clock.”

“Okay. I hope I’ll be back by then, but I don’t know how long this is going to take. I hope Dr. Yasuda will do the autopsy soon, but I guess it depends on how backed up it is—”

Migs interrupted her. “Oh, I have an update on that, too. The sheriff called Dr. Yasuda. She promised him first priority, and she’s going to put a rush on the ballistics for the gun.”

“Oh, good! Thanks, Migs.”

“You’re welcome.”

There was silence for a moment, then Fenway said, “Hey—any word on the RAT malware, or Walker’s laptop yet?”

“No progress on either front. Piper’s going to set aside the RAT stuff for now and focus on the laptop. Unfortunately, we’re down half of the IT staff who can work on projects like this. Piper is pretty busy.”

“I think Walker’s laptop is the right priority. Piper’s the one who set up my laptop? She seems good.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty awesome,” Migs said, a little moonily. “Okay, I have to get going. Officer Huke and I are going over the rest of the files from Walker’s office.”

“Who?”

“Officer Huke. Donald Huke. The one who has the keys to Walker’s office—he was going to meet you at eight o’clock yesterday morning, but you flaked on him.”

It dawned on her. “Oh, the really uptight one.”

“Um, Fenway, you’re on speakerphone.”