The Incumbent Coroner Page 4

  “Found an empty bottle of buprenodone by her bed,” Fenway said.

  “What are those, sleeping pills?”

  “Not exactly, although it’s an off-label use—”

  “Dammit, did she overdose on sleeping pills or not?”

  “Just tell the ER it’s buprenodone,” Fenway said. “They’ll know what to do.”

  “Buprenodone, got it.” Dez clicked off.

  Fenway, dazed, sat down on the bed.

  She knew the last couple of months had been hard on Rachel. Fenway couldn’t help but think of herself as one of Rachel’s closest friends, especially since Jordan and some of her other friends had all but abandoned her.

  But the self-doubt crept in—and started to overwhelm her. How did she not see this? How did all the signs of this elude her? And why did Rachel open up to Dez and not her?

  Fenway couldn’t believe Rachel would choose to kill herself, though. She had just gotten promoted to work in the public information office, as close to a dream job as Estancia offered. Rachel had sketched out her five-year plan to Fenway over dinner at Zorro’s on Thursday night before Fenway left for Seattle. Fenway didn’t like the plan—Rachel intended to move to D.C. around year three—but it showed that Rachel thought about long-term goals.

  And instead of sadness or depression about her father, Rachel felt only anger. She had only visited him once, after his arraignment, after they had denied bail because he was a flight risk, and she had screamed at him, she had sworn at him, and the officers working at the jail had escorted her out.

  Nothing Rachel had done in the last two months were the actions of a woman about to kill herself. Not that there was any way to be sure.

  Fenway decided to find Rachel’s health care card. At the very least, the insurance companies could be notified sooner rather than later, hopefully saving Rachel a mountain of paperwork.

  If she survived.

  Fenway closed her eyes briefly, then stood up and walked downstairs to look for Rachel’s purse. She found it on the coffee table, a receipt from Dos Milagros sticking partway out of the top.

  Fenway supposed that if Rachel wanted a last meal, it would be from her favorite taquería—but, still, something about that seemed off. She went to the kitchen trash and opened the lid. The telltale foil and plastic salsa containers were on top.

  Fenway sighed and turned around. And saw the note on the kitchen table.

  To whoever finds this:

  If you know me at all, you know my life has completely fallen apart the last two months. I wake up every day and I don’t want to spend it without Dylan by my side.

  When I close my eyes at night, all I can think about is shooting my father. The sound of the gun in my hand haunts me.

  I can’t sleep. I can’t stay awake.

  I don’t want to face another day without Dylan.

  We’ll be together soon enough.

  Tell Ana that I love her and hope she finds the strength to go on without me and Dad.

  Fenway picked up her phone again and dialed a number.

  “Kavish Jayakody.”

  “Kav, it’s Fenway. I hate to tell you this, but there’s another crime scene. It’s Rachel Richards. Someone tried to kill her.”

  • • •

  Fenway called dispatch as well, and Officer Donald Huke arrived within ten minutes.

  “Ma’am?” he said to Fenway. “I’m going to have to ask you to wait outside until the crime scene technician gets here.”

  “Officer Huke,” Fenway said, “I know we’ve had discussions about you calling me ma’am.”

  “Yes, ma’am—Miss Stevenson.”

  She shook her head and left the apartment. Huke followed her and stood guard at the door.

  Kav had told Fenway it would take him over an hour to get to Rachel’s apartment, as he had to help the paramedics get the mayor’s body into the ambulance for transport, then needed to bag up the sheets and comforter, as well as properly store all the other evidence. Fenway didn’t relish spending quality time with Officer Huke. But Fenway felt out of sorts. Twelve hours ago, she had been expecting quite a different way to spend her evening. She thought of her Accord in the Sea-Tac long-term lot, costing Dominguez County taxpayers twenty-seven dollars a day. She thought of her suitcase in the trunk of Dez’s Impala, with her cosmetics bag and that sexy white tank top. And she thought of Akeel’s gorgeous stomach, and the way his body trembled when she climbed on top of him.

  The phone rang. It was Dez. She walked about thirty feet away to have at least a little privacy.

  “Thought you’d want to know that they’ve got Rachel stabilized,” Dez said. “She’s gonna pull through. Oh—sorry. Gotta get back in there.”

  “Thanks, Dez,” Fenway said, exhaling fully. The tension started to come off her shoulders as Dez hung up.

  She walked back to the door.

  “Rachel’s going to make it,” she said, and surprised herself by having to fight back tears.

  “That’s great news,” Officer Huke said, the relief visible on his face. It was the first time Fenway had seen him display an emotion.

  She took a deep breath. “Don,” she said, “is this how you pictured spending your Saturday night?”

  Officer Huke winced.

  “You don’t like ‘Don’? I’m sorry. What do you prefer?”

  “My parents named me Donald, and that’s what I go by,” Officer Huke said. “Though, I think at a crime scene, it’s best for peace officers to be as professional as possible.”

  “You’d like me to call you Officer Huke.”

  “If that’s not too much trouble, Miss Stevenson.”

  Fenway sighed.

  A breeze had started, cool air coming from the ocean.

  “Were you on duty tonight?”

  “Yes.” Officer Huke didn’t move his head when he answered Fenway. “If you don’t mind my asking, Miss Stevenson, what were you doing here?”

  “I got called in from vacation, and Rachel was looking after my place. You know about the murder up at the Cactus Lake Motel.”

  And for the second time in two minutes, Fenway saw Officer Huke express feeling. “I heard. What a horrible thing. Did you know the mayor takes all the officers and detectives out to lunch on their first day on the job?”

  Fenway smiled. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “I really can’t understand who would do that to her.” Huke shook his head.

  “Did you know her very well?”

  “Not really. But I attended most of the Board of Supervisors meetings. She had a real knack for diplomacy. Talked Dr. Klein off the ledge more than a few times.”

  “You went to the supervisors’ meetings? Were you assigned security or something?”

  Officer Huke looked at Fenway and furrowed his brow. “No. I’m involved in the community. Why wouldn’t I go?”

  Fenway looked in Officer Huke’s eyes, searching for the joke.

  He cleared his throat. “Do you know what she was doing at that motel, Miss Stevenson?”

  Fenway shook her head. “The room should have been vacant. Someone named Matisse rented the room tonight. The housekeeping staff found her.”

  “Did you say Matisse?”

  “Yep,” Fenway said. “Like the painter. Only not Henri. I can’t remember the first name. Something ordinary. Michael or Robert or something like that.”

  “William?”

  Fenway’s head snapped back around. “Yes. William. How did you know that?”

  “William Matisse died fifteen years ago,” Officer Huke said. “When he turned, I don’t remember, nineteen or twenty, he got caught in a drug bust with a few other people—including Alice Jenkins’ son. It was a big scandal, although she wasn’t the mayor at the time.”

  “What happened to William Matisse?”

  “Another inmate killed him in prison, only about a month into his sentence, I think. A prison fight, or stabbed
in the shower, I can’t remember. Didn’t have the connections that Jenkins’ son did, though. What was that guy’s name? The son was older, like twenty-five.” Huke tapped his temple. “It’s right there. Some unusual name. Not super crazy, but one you don’t hear very often.”

  Fenway looked it up on her smartphone. “Fletcher?”

  “Yes, that’s it. Fletcher.”

  “So who would have used the name William Matisse to rent that room?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It must have been someone who knew William Matisse, don’t you think?”

  “I guess. Someone who was on a bender and used to do drugs with him, maybe. As sort of a dedication.”

  “Someone like Fletcher Jenkins, maybe?”

  “Maybe. I know they sent Fletcher to rehab instead of jail. I heard he got straightened out, though.”

  “How do you know all this? Weren’t you a fetus when this all happened?”

  “I was ten. We did a big class project on current events.”

  They were silent for a moment.

  “Does Fletcher still live in town?” Fenway asked.

  “Yeah, I think I heard he stuck around after getting out of rehab.”

  Fenway and Huke stood in silence for a few minutes.

  “When do you suppose the CSI tech will get here?” said Huke.

  “I don’t know. He had to make sure the evidence was all bagged up properly.” Fenway looked at the time on her phone. “Ugh. It’s already ten. This is going to be one of those long nights, and I’ve gotta be at the autopsy early tomorrow.” She sighed.

  “Miss Stevenson?”

  “Yes, Officer Huke?”

  “Is Rachel going to be okay?”

  “Sure. Dez called and said she’d pull through.”

  “No—I mean, after this. Organ damage, or even, you know, suicidal thoughts?”

  Fenway looked at the ground. “I don’t know. She overdosed on some pills. I don’t know if she took enough to do permanent damage.”

  “But you don’t think she tried to commit suicide.”

  “Absolutely not,” Fenway said firmly. “First of all, the note’s not in her handwriting. She doesn’t make her g’s like that. Plus the note got her sister’s name wrong—it’s Anne, with two n’s, not Ana with one. Someone staged this.”

  “What kind of pills were they? Sleeping pills?”

  “Buprenodone,” Fenway said. “Anti-anxiety medication, mostly. Sometimes it’s prescribed as a sleeping pill.”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Sometimes it’s prescribed to combat addiction, too,” she said softly to herself. Fenway remembered it as an older medication, but one that had been popular with rehab doctors ten or fifteen years earlier.

  Just about when Fletcher Jenkins served a stint in rehab.

  Another awkward silence came between Fenway and Huke, and Fenway could barely tolerate it until Kav pulled up in the CSI van. A young woman was in the passenger seat.

  “Thanks for coming, Kav,” Fenway said as he got out of the van.

  “Hey, did you hear they stabilized Rachel?” Kav said.

  Fenway nodded. “Yeah, Dez called me.”

  “Have you met our crime scene tech, Melissa?” Kav motioned to his passenger. Melissa got out. She wore a sparkly sleeveless top, a short black skirt, and stiletto heels; her dark hair cascaded in curls down to her shoulders. She smiled sheepishly at Fenway. Fenway couldn’t place her at first. Then it hit her.

  “She’s a crime scene tech, huh? I thought she was your prom date, Kav.”

  Melissa blushed. “Okay, I guess I deserved that.”

  Kav looked puzzled.

  Fenway explained, “Just before you started, Kav, I went out to a site in the middle of the woods in a black dress and high heels.”

  “What were you doing in the middle of the woods in a black dress and heels?”

  “I had to go to a memorial service that afternoon. And Melissa had a little fun at my expense.” Fenway smirked. “Little did I know she just played the long game until she could outdo me with the fancy outfit.”

  “Very funny, ha ha,” said Melissa, putting her hands on her hips.

  “Melissa has brought the finest designer blue nitrile gloves with her to the red carpet this evening,” said Kav, playing along. “These are the same gloves worn by the glamorous starlet Roxanne McFarland on Memphis Medical.”

  “You can stop now,” Melissa said, trying to appear annoyed, though a smile played at her lips. She handed the box of blue nitrile gloves to Fenway and took a pair for herself. “Some people go out dancing on Saturday nights.”

  “I’m sure we all had plans more fun than analyzing a crime scene,” Fenway said. “I’m sure you’ve all had to cancel plans for work before.” She glanced over at Melissa. “And if you have to wear uncomfortable heels, collecting evidence in an apartment sure beats walking through a dry riverbed in the middle of the forest. I think the judges would still score me higher on degree of difficulty alone.”

  Officer Huke stepped aside from the front of the door.

  “Hey, Donny,” Melissa said. “Missed you at the club tonight.”

  “Duty calls,” said Huke.

  “Maybe we can catch a drink later.”

  “We’ll be here pretty late.”

  “Maybe the drink can be at my place,” she said in a low voice as she passed him. He smiled and his ears got a little red.

  Once they were inside, Fenway cocked an eyebrow at Melissa.

  “What?” Melissa said, shrugging. “Donny’s a lot of fun.”

  “If you say so. I thought he always colored inside the lines.”

  “Mmm,” Melissa murmured, turning her head to get one last look at Officer Huke. “He can color inside my lines any time.”

  Fenway rolled her eyes.

  Melissa went straight for the letter on the kitchen table. “Did anyone touch this?”

  “I don’t think so,” Fenway said. “I picked up the pill bottle off the floor upstairs to check if there were any pills left. I didn’t think at the time that it could have been foul play.”

  “But you didn’t touch the note.”

  “No, I didn’t touch the note. But I’ve been over here six or seven times since May. My fingerprints will probably be on a bunch of stuff in the kitchen and family room.”

  Melissa set her mouth in a tight line and went to work.

  Kav and Fenway went upstairs to search the bedroom. They did a grid search of the floor and the bedspread, and searched the dresser, the closet, and the nightstands.

  “Here’s her .22,” Fenway said, remembering Rachel using it to save her life.

  “We’ll get Melissa up here for fingerprints, but I’m not seeing anything,” Kav said, disappointed. “I’ll still bag up a few things just in case, but I’m not seeing any other pills. Not even a water glass.”

  “How did she take all the pills if she didn’t have a water glass?”

  “You said yourself that someone staged this, Fenway. They must have dissolved those pills in her drink or in her food, and moved her in here.”

  Fenway was lost in thought for a moment. “You know,” she said. “Officer Huke just told me that Mayor Jenkins’ son went to rehab after a drug bust fifteen years ago. If he fell off the wagon, that might explain why she went to that motel. Maybe she tried to find him there.”

  “I guess that might make sense.”

  “The name on that room reservation—William Matisse?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Same guy who got arrested with Fletcher Jenkins fifteen years ago. At least that’s what Huke says.”

  “Hmm,” Kav said, narrowing his eyes.

  “And the pills in that bottle? They can be used for sleeping pills, but some doctors recommend them for drug and alcohol addiction. They used to prescribe them a lot, especially around the time Fletcher went to rehab. And since we’re talking about a stag
ed suicide—well, maybe we should talk to the mayor’s son.”

  Kav paused. “You think this is connected to the mayor’s murder?”

  Fenway thought for a moment. “I don’t know, Kav. It’s a pretty tenuous connection. But it’s still worth asking Fletcher. I can see what the sheriff thinks.”

  Kav went downstairs. Fenway pulled her phone out. McVie answered on the third ring.

  “McVie.”

  “Hi, Sheriff. It’s Fenway.”

  “Hi, Fenway. Can this wait? I’m trying to get out of here to salvage some sort of date night with Amy.”

  “I’m sorry, Sheriff, but did you hear what happened to Rachel?”

  “What?” McVie said sharply. “What happened to her?”

  “I came to pick up my key and she was unconscious and nonresponsive,” Fenway said. “Dez took her to the hospital. I found an empty bottle of sleeping pills on the floor.”

  “Oh my God,” McVie said. “Which hospital?”

  “St. Vincent’s.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Wait!” Fenway said before he could hang up. “I think we may want to talk to Mayor Jenkins’ son Fletcher.”

  “Fletcher?”

  Fenway explained everything breathlessly: the name on the motel reservation; the buprenodone pills that could be used to treat addiction; the stint in rehab as a possible reason for the mayor being in that hotel. She finished, almost panting with adrenaline.

  “We need to talk with Fletcher right away, don’t you think?”

  “What’s the medication called again?”

  “Buprenodone.”

  “And it’s a sleeping pill?”

  “It’s actually an anti-anxiety—”

  “Never mind, Fenway.” He clicked his tongue. “I don’t know if I agree with you on the medication connection, but we should at least talk to Fletcher about his mother’s murder. Let me see where his last known address is. If he’s still in town, we’ll talk to him together.” He paused. “How common is buprenodone?”

  “It used to be really common to treat addiction. Today, not so much. But a lot of doctors don’t want to change a medication that’s working for their patients. Especially when it comes to addiction.”

  “What about for anxiety or sleeping?”