The Incumbent Coroner Read online

McVie kept up his relaxed posture. “You’re not breaking any confidentiality rules showing it to us.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I am,” she finally said. She got her keys off the desk and backed her wheelchair out from behind her desk. She was missing both her lower legs. She wheeled over to Rachel’s office door, and unlocked it.

  “There you go,” she said, pushing it open. “Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks, Natalie,” McVie said. “I don’t want to interrupt you any more than I already have.”

  “It’s no trouble, Sheriff,” Natalie said firmly, wheeling back to her desk. “If I could catch whoever did this to Rachel myself, you know I’d do it.”

  Fenway looked at Natalie’s muscular arms and envisioned her pummeling the criminal with her fists.

  McVie pushed the door open further, and Fenway walked through ahead of him. On Rachel’s desk lay a guest book and pen set. The book was leather-bound, attached to a matching base, and a gold pen stuck out of a holder on the right side. Open to Friday, July 14, the entries had a few names that Fenway didn’t recognize, but represented local businesses that Fenway did recognize. She flipped back to Thursday. More names, including a reporter named James Monroe—like the doctrine, Fenway thought—from the Estancia Courier.

  “Another reporter from the Courier came here on Thursday,” Fenway called to Natalie. “Do you know what they talked about?”

  “No,” Natalie called back. “Rachel had her door closed.”

  “Does she usually close her door during meetings?”

  “Not usually.”

  Fenway kept looking. She flipped back a page, but nothing caught her eye on Wednesday. She flipped back again to Tuesday. She saw Alice Jenkins’ neat, flowing cursive writing, with nothing under the representing column. And below that another name.

  Fletcher Jenkins.

  “Are you kidding me?” Fenway said. McVie, who had been taking a look around the office—Rachel’s desk items, picking up her stapler and turning it over in his hands—came over to see. Fenway pointed her finger underneath it.

  “Oh,” McVie said.

  “Why do you suppose he didn’t mention this during his interview?” Fenway asked.

  McVie shook his head. “I honestly don’t have any idea.”

  “And why do you suppose Rachel didn’t mention this when Dez and I talked with her earlier today?” Fenway took her phone out and took a picture of the sign-in log with all the names listed.

  McVie shook his head. He stared at the sign-in book with a furrowed brow.

  “I mean, we asked her directly if she discussed anything with the mayor in the last couple of weeks, and she flatly denied it.”

  “She denied it?”

  “Yes—well, no. She responded with some minor stuff. But she wasn’t forthcoming.”

  “I guess we can go back to the hospital and ask her,” said McVie. “Did anyone else here come in that day?”

  “There were a few people here,” Fenway said, scanning the sheet. “But the mayor and Fletcher came in at 2 PM and Rachel didn’t see anyone else for the rest of the day.”

  “Let’s bag that and get it fingerprinted,” McVie said. “I know there are going to be hundreds of prints on it, but let’s see if there are any surprises.”

  Fenway pulled out an evidence bag from her purse and slipped the sign-in book into it. “That’s my last bag,” she muttered to McVie. “I’m going to have to stock up tomorrow.”

  Fenway walked around behind the desk. She moved the mouse on Rachel’s computer and the monitor went on, asking for the username and password.

  “We might have to get onto this computer in the next couple of days,” Fenway said. McVie nodded. Fenway looked at the monitor; Rachel had put several sticky notes around the edge of the computer. One said Parks PR date – 8/11. Another said Lunch Tina Tues 11:30. Another said Jenkins – SRB.

  “Look at this,” Fenway said to McVie. He leaned over the desk.

  “Hmm, SRB,” he repeated. “You have any idea what that means?”

  “No.”

  “Natalie?” McVie called.

  She wheeled over to the threshold of Rachel’s office door. “What is it?”

  “There’s a note here on Rachel’s monitor that says Jenkins—SRB. You know what SRB means?”

  Natalie frowned and shook her head. “No. SRB—I mean, we have a million acronyms in county government, but I’m not familiar with that one. Maybe the State Recording Board. That’s a PR thing that Rachel got invited to last month.”

  McVie nodded. “Thanks, Natalie—oh, one more thing. How long did Rachel meet the mayor and her son?”

  “Not for very long. I think they were just talking about meeting notes.”

  “Meeting notes?”

  “Yes,” Natalie said.

  “With Fletcher in the room?”

  Natalie shrugged. “I just deal with the calendar, Sheriff.”

  McVie smiled. “Sure. What time did they leave?”

  Natalie shook her head. “I don’t remember exactly, but it wasn’t long. Half-hour tops.”

  “What time did Rachel go home?”

  “That evening? Five-fifteen, maybe five-thirty.”

  “You were still here at five-thirty?”

  “That’s right. I normally stay till Rachel leaves, even if she tells me to go home.”

  Fenway looked at McVie. “I don’t know what’s going on, Sheriff,” she said, “but I think it’s time we talk to Fletcher Jenkins again.”

  “Do we want to talk to Rachel first? See what they talked about in their meeting? Ask what SRB means?”

  “That’s a much better idea,” Fenway said. “Natalie, do you have the number of the hospital?”

  “Way ahead of you,” Natalie said, wheeling back to her desk and picking up the phone.

  “What do you think it was about? Do you think the meeting might have been on the mayor’s calendar?”

  “I honestly don’t have any idea,” McVie said. “I don’t get how Fletcher could be visiting the county public information officer with his mother one day, and then two days later be on a bender at the Cactus Lake Motel and stab her four times.”

  “Maybe something happened in that meeting that sent him over the edge,” Fenway suggested. “Maybe he got mad at something. Maybe he felt ganged up on.”

  McVie shrugged. “It’s possible. That just doesn’t sound like the Fletch I know.”

  Natalie hung up the phone. “Rachel’s asleep. She’s still quite weak.”

  Fenway said, “Do we wait to find out about the meeting from Rachel, or do we ask Fletcher ourselves?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t want to spook him. It sure seems like he’s ready to run.”

  “If he’s a flight risk, all the more reason to go now,” Fenway said. “You should at least send some uniforms over there to pick him up.”

  “The uniforms would really spook him,” McVie said. “Maybe if I went over. Maybe in plain clothes. Maybe not in my cruiser. Maybe in my regular car. Maybe he’d talk to me.”

  “That might work.”

  “You want to come?”

  “What for?”

  “You were good with his wife,” he said.

  “You need to bring me because you have woman trouble?” Fenway said.

  McVie looked a little sheepish, but sadness flashed in his eyes.

  Fenway thought a moment. “All right, Sheriff. You want to go right now? All I have going on today is dinner with my father, my horrible stepmother, and my father’s handpicked candidate for coroner.”

  McVie paused. “That guy from the pharma company?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’s his name? Michael something?”

  “Everett Michaels.”

  “Ah, yes.”

  “We had breakfast at Mimosa’s this morning.”

  “Good ol’ Mimosa’s. I’d expect nothing less from
your father. What did he want?”

  “He wanted me to endorse Michaels for coroner.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him no. Nicely. But no.”

  “Why not? You don’t want Klein to be coroner, do you?”

  “No, but it’s not like I trust Everett Michaels, either.”

  “Oh,” McVie said. “Is that why your dad wanted you to go to breakfast with them? So Everett Michaels could win you over?”

  “I guess.”

  “But he didn’t win you over.”

  “I don’t know. He sure turned on the charm.” Fenway remembered his classically handsome features, and how intoxicating his cologne was. “And he’s smart. And he knows a lot about medications and the pharmaceutical process.”

  “Is he good-looking?”

  Fenway looked at McVie. He seemed a little bit on edge, as if he just realized Everett Michaels might make a play for Fenway’s affections.

  “Yes,” Fenway said carefully. “He’s quite handsome.”

  Fenway saw McVie tense up, but he visibly made an effort to stay calm. “Is there a ‘but’ in there?”

  Fenway shrugged. “I don’t think he’s really that interested in figuring out how people died.”

  McVie nodded. “I guess that’s pretty important for a coroner.”

  Fenway paused. “You know, I assume that’s pretty important for a coroner. It’s pretty important for me.”

  McVie hesitated, then spoke quickly. “That’s one of the reasons I like you so much. I mean, I like working with you so much. You’re actually interested in this stuff.”

  “Of course I am,” Fenway said.

  “Did you tell your dad that it’s important that the next coroner cares about the job?”

  Fenway laughed. “No, that wouldn’t have mattered to him. I just made him think it behooved him not to have me endorse Mr. Michaels. And I made him think he came up with the idea to wait.”

  “Hmm,” said McVie, and Fenway saw a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, “that’s probably for the best.”

  “It probably is,” Fenway said.

  “Tell me again why you aren’t running?” McVie asked.

  “Got my nursing boards in three weeks. Can’t take my eye off the ball now.”

  “Okay,” McVie said, although he looked like he didn’t quite believe her. “Let me go back to the office; I’ll change there, get that sign-in book couriered over to Michi, and then we can head down to Vista Del Rincón.”

  “And lunch,” Fenway reminded him.

  “And lunch.”

  “And not at a crappy fast food place. Real lunch. Like Dos Milagros.”

  “Is that your favorite taquería over on Third?”

  Fenway grinned. “Maybe.”

  And with that grin, Fenway realized she hadn’t really smiled since getting back into town. Granted, there wasn’t much to smile about. But being with McVie—especially after the rocky first week, and after Stotsky’s arrest—satisfied something in her soul. It gave her both comfort and excitement, a sense of both ease and engagement. If only she could figure out how to stop thinking about him like this.

  They walked back to the sheriff’s office, Fenway keenly aware of how much distance came between them, how their fingers accidentally brushed together when they both reached to open the door; she noticed her own breathing and she tried to judge it: was she breathing too hard, too shallow? He looked at her as they walked through the door of the office, and he smiled at her, a little awkwardly. She thought she saw some of the same longing in his eyes that she felt toward him. She supposed she could be imagining it, just seeing what she wanted to see.

  While McVie went to the locker room to change, she waited in his office, trying not to look at the photographs of him with Amy, looking happy and in love.

  Chapter Nine

  McVie didn’t want to eat in the car while they were driving, so they wolfed down their tacos at Dos Milagros. Fenway ordered the special, which she loved, but it had a lot of raw onions on it. She surreptitiously sneaked a piece of gum on her way to the car. Fenway knew she was being ridiculous, but couldn’t help herself; nothing would happen in the car requiring Fenway to have fresh breath.

  They arrived at the sheriff’s personal car, an unassuming Toyota Highlander with a beige interior. Fenway thought about making fun of him for such an out-of-character car, but she remembered she had been driving an old Nissan with a rusted floor less than three months before.

  They arrived forty-five minutes later at Fletcher Jenkins’ house in Vista Del Rincón. They pulled into the driveway; both the Jeep and the Toyota were parked in front of the garage.

  Fletcher warily stepped out of his door onto his front porch. He looked exhausted. He wore the same clothes he had had on the night before during the interrogation.

  “What do you want now?” he said.

  “I just want to talk,” McVie said. “I’m not here as the sheriff. I’m just here as a guy. A friend.”

  Fletcher chuckled mirthlessly. “You and I weren’t friends back in high school, and we sure aren’t friends now, Sheriff,” he said. “But sure. Let’s talk. Let’s talk like we’re old pals from back in the day.”

  McVie came up to the porch and sat down. Fenway stood in the driveway, watching the house. She thought that Tracey would have come out by now, if only to yell at them, or simply to see what had happened. But Fenway saw no movement at the front door, nor through any of the windows that she could see. She must have had the second car, maybe to go into Estancia to discuss funeral arrangements for her mother-in-law, although that didn’t seem quite right. Maybe the girls had gone to a birthday party, or a soccer game.

  “I’m not going to lie, Fletch,” McVie said. “There’s a lot of evidence that points to you, not only for your mother’s death, but for the attempted murder of one of our own.”

  Fletcher’s eyes seemed to sink deeper.

  “You didn’t tell me that you and your mom went to go see Rachel Richards earlier this week,” McVie said. “We asked if you knew her, and you said you didn’t.”

  Fenway switched her gum to the other side of her mouth.

  “No,” Fletcher said. “You asked Tracey if we knew her. Tracey doesn’t know her. She told you the truth. And I looked for those pills. I planned to tell you when I came out, but we started talking about other stuff and I forgot.”

  “We had a really long drive to San Miguelito,” Fenway said. “You didn’t think to mention it then?”

  “No,” Fletcher said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I started to tell you that I had some information that me and my mom found out. But you wouldn’t listen. You just read me my rights and assumed I had done it.”

  McVie nodded. “Okay. Maybe I’m wrong. In fact, Fletch, I’d love nothing in the world more than being one hundred percent wrong about this.” He took a step closer. “But I’ll tell you, it looks bad. Your fingerprints were found on the pill bottle next to Ms. Richards. Someone left a phony suicide note on her kitchen table. And you didn’t tell us about the meeting.”

  “I guess that looks pretty bad,” Fletcher admitted.

  McVie nodded.

  “So if you have something to tell us about the information you and your mom found, now’s the time.”

  Fletch looked down at the ground.

  “Does it have anything to do with why you and your mom went to see Rachel Richards—and spent all afternoon with her?”

  Fletcher thought for a moment. He looked back at the front door. He scratched his head, then his beard, then he ran his hand over his face and exhaled.

  “I did it,” he said. “I’m the one.”

  Fenway’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

  “What exactly did you do, Fletch?” McVie asked. “Are you confessing to the murder of your mother? Or the attempted murder of Rachel Richards?”

  “It was me,” Fletch said.

  McVie set hi
s mouth in a line; Fenway could see he wasn’t pleased. “Both?” he said.

  Fletch didn’t say anything else.

  “Fletcher Jenkins, you have the right to remain silent,” McVie started, and Fenway tuned him out as he finished the Miranda warning and Fletcher agreed to it. McVie got on his phone right afterward, talking to the sheriff’s office, dispatching a unit to the small, unassuming mint green house in Vista Del Rincón.

  “Ten minutes,” McVie said.

  Fenway nodded.

  He put his phone back in his pocket and turned back to Fletcher. “So when you say you did it, that it was you, what did you mean?”

  Fletcher looked out past his front yard. Fenway followed his gaze. From the porch, she could see the ocean on the other side of the freeway. “This beautiful sea,” he murmured. “I’m going to miss it.”

  “You going to answer my question, Fletch?”

  Fletcher shook his head. He hadn’t moved. “No, after you read me my rights, I thought about it, and it makes sense to remain silent.”

  “Sure,” McVie said.

  There was silence for a few more minutes.

  Fletcher shuffled his feet. “Craig, you mind if I sit?”

  “I don’t mind,” McVie said. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”

  “You do what you have to do,” Fletcher said. “I understand.”

  “Mr. Jenkins,” Fenway said, “should you tell Tracey what’s happening? Do you want to say goodbye to your girls?”

  He shook his head. “I knew why you were here,” he said sadly. “I said my goodbyes right when you pulled up.”

  “We’ve got time.”

  Fletcher looked up at Fenway but couldn’t look her in the eye. “Tracey just wants the girls to be safe,” he said. “I put them in danger. That’s all there is to it.”

  Fenway nodded. Her gum had lost its flavor long ago. Something didn’t sit right with her, but she couldn’t identify it. Fletch had put them in an awkward position, sounding like he confessed to one of the two crimes, but without his confirmation, it would be challenging to arrest him for the correct crime.

  She stepped to the front door. “Since we have to wait for the cruiser, do you mind if I use the bathroom?”

  “Sure,” Fletcher said, miserably.