The Reluctant Coroner, Paul Austin Ardoin [comprehension books TXT] 📗
- Author: Paul Austin Ardoin
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“It’s a cop gun.” Dez thought a moment. “Maybe the sheriff’s office bought a couple at auction. Or he’s got a buddy in the CHP.”
“Dr. Yasuda is seeing who has those—and who has reported them missing. We should have that information soon enough. So, possible motive, definite opportunity, possible weapon.”
“And a definite motive to get Dylan Richards away from his wife. McVie has access to the same phone records we do. If he had seen any of Amy’s records, he would have known she was cheating.”
Fenway nodded. “He knew. He knew, he just didn’t think anyone else did.”
“Well, there you go. And he might have stolen Dylan’s truck, smashed it into the building and stolen the files. He would have known where all the cameras were to minimize detection.”
“Do you think McVie is on the hook for Dylan’s murder, too?”
Dez looked squarely at her. “You can probably answer this one better than me. What time did he leave your apartment? It was definitely after eleven thirty.”
She blushed. “I don’t know. I was exhausted after everything that happened yesterday. We fell asleep after the first time and, uh, we woke up again.”
Dez made a face. “For the love of God, Fenway, I don’t need to know the details.”
“I don’t know what time it was when he and I finally fell asleep for good. I woke up at six, and he was already gone.”
“So, he could have left at any time?”
“I guess so.”
“And he’s got all the keys to the jail cell, and no one would think anything of him being there anyway. He’d know how to get in without anyone noticing. And the sheriff has every reason in the world to be in the jail anyway.”
Fenway nodded. “But why kill Richards? McVie pretty much had him on a silver platter for the murder. I mean, I’ve seen cases where murder defendants have gotten convicted with a lot less than what they have on Dylan.”
“Because, Fenway,” Dez stressed, “we found his alibi. We found out Dylan was with McVie’s wife during the murder—a fact no one would believe coming from Dylan, since he had already lied to the police.”
“McVie’s wife would corroborate, wouldn’t she?”
“You haven’t met her yet. She’s kind of a piece of work. I don’t know. I’m not sure she’s the type of person who would come forward.”
“I don’t know either,” Fenway said. “If she had any kind of feelings for this guy—and their affair went on for months, right?—wouldn’t she feel obligated?”
“Or maybe McVie was infuriated with his wife’s younger, better looking lover, and he decided he had to go. People make decisions like that, too.”
There was a knock at the door. Migs stuck his head in. “Hey, it’s past noon. I’m going to take Piper to lunch.”
Fenway smirked at Migs.
“To thank her for all the work she’s done for us,” Migs stammered. His ears turned red.
“Have a good time.” The door closed behind him. “Okay, Dez,” Fenway said. “How do we go about proving that?”
“First, like you talked about earlier, we need to get Amy to admit Dylan was with her on Sunday night.”
“Okay,” Fenway said. “So, if Dylan was with Amy that night, he definitely wasn’t the killer, and someone is trying to frame him.”
“Right.”
“And you think McVie is the most likely suspect?”
“Well,” Dez paused. “I can’t think of who else would want to frame Dylan.”
“I can’t either,” Fenway admitted. “I guess I could see McVie planting the gun, but how would he plant the LAX long-term parking stub?”
Dez didn’t answer.
“And what about the RAT software? If McVie sent those emails, then McVie also had Bradley install the spyware on Rachel’s PC. Why would McVie want to spy on Rachel?”
“Maybe he wanted to spy on Walker, and that’s the closest he could get.”
“I don’t know.” Fenway shook her head. “I mean, I think a lot of it fits for sure, but a few things don’t make sense.”
“Maybe we haven’t uncovered enough information yet.” Dez grabbed her purse. “Let’s go to step one and talk to Amy.”
They grabbed sandwiches at the deli down the street. Dez insisted on taking Fenway’s new car, so Fenway insisted they eat at the deli before they headed out. As much as she wanted to get to the bottom of this case, she didn’t want Dez’s turkey avocado club to get smeared on her new seats.
Amy McVie worked at Coast Harbor Real Estate in Paso Querido, and Dez and Fenway arrived there just before one. The office was large, with overstuffed chairs in the waiting area, and what looked like hardwood floors. Dez showed her badge to the receptionist, and after a brief call, they were sent back. Amy was in her corner office, on the phone, pacing around her desk, but she waved them in.
She was about five foot four, dressed in a stylish business suit. Amy had a lithe, fit build, and her blonde hair cascaded in waves to her shoulders. As she walked, Fenway noticed the muscular, but still feminine, definition of her calves, as she paced in heels about as high as Fenway’s, but more professional, without straps. Her skin was tanned, and she carried herself like someone who was comfortable being in charge. She had a small nose, but large green eyes, high cheekbones, and a determined expression.
Fenway looked at the shelves around the office: there were several pictures of Megan, a wedding photo with Craig, and two photos of Amy in a San Diego State soccer jersey; in one she was holding a trophy.
Amy hung up and turned to them. “I’ve got a house to show tomorrow at nine, and the staging company isn’t happy.” She motioned them to the chairs in front of her desk. “But whatever questions you have, I’m sure I can make a little time for you. Lord knows how many referrals you’ve given me, Dez.”
“There’ve been a few for sure.” Dez motioned to Fenway. “This is Fenway Stevenson, the new coroner. Fenway Stevenson, Amy McVie.”
“Nathaniel’s daughter, right?” Amy said. “Craig was really doing the hard sell to get you to replace Harrison.” She smiled politely.
Dez closed the door behind her, then she and Fenway sat down in front of Amy’s desk.
“So.” Dez hesitated. “We have a few questions for you, Ms. McVie.”
“Dez, please call me Amy.”
“I’m not sure you’ll be saying that after you hear our questions.”
Amy looked up. “Did Craig say something to you? Whatever problems Craig and I are having, it’s really none of your—”
Dez put her hand up. “I’m sorry, Amy. Let me ask the questions and then we can be on our way. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t important.” She cleared her throat. “We have a witness who puts Dylan Richards at your house on Sunday night, between eight o’clock and midnight. Can you tell us if Dylan was, in fact, there that night?”
Amy’s eyebrows knitted. “Look, Craig is mad at me, I get that. Arresting Dylan for killing the coroner when he is clearly innocent—if I can be frank—it’s a really shitty thing to do.” She looked at Dez. “And you can tell him I said so. And basically forcing me to admit to adultery to save Dylan, just so it will be on the court records—that’s really low.”
Dez shook her head. “We don’t really care about any of that. Dylan is our prime suspect, and I really don’t think we should be wasting our time and energy if we can clear his name.” She looked at Fenway. “No matter what Sheriff McVie thinks.”
Fenway gave a slight nod.
Amy sniffed in disapproval. “I’m going to have to think about whether or not I’ll admit to this in court, but yes. Dylan was at my house from about eight o’clock until well after midnight on Sunday. Craig called to say there was a body found in the woods, and he’d be home very late. I think Dylan left around two thirty.” She smiled. “He wanted to go home a little earlier, because he had to work Monday morning, but I might have convinced him otherwise.”
Fenway looked at Dez; she was trying not to make a face.
“Thanks, Amy.” Dez got up from the chair. “That’s all we needed.” Fenway got up with her.
“So, you’ll let Dylan go?” Amy asked.
Dez closed her eyes.
“Oh, Amy.” Dez dropped her arms to her sides. “You haven’t heard.”
Amy stopped and swallowed. “Heard? Heard what?” Her voice was demanding, but had a hint of worry in it.
“Dylan was found in his cell this morning.”
“‘Found in his cell’? What does that mean?” Amy’s voice wavered.
“I’m so sorry, Amy. He’s dead.”
Amy’s face fell. She leaned forward, elbows on the desk, and covered her face with her hands.
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