The Incumbent Coroner Read online

  “It’s not that common.”

  “Okay,” McVie said. “You can ask him the medication stuff, but be careful how much you say. I don’t want to burn anything on his mother’s murder by going fishing with the Rachel thing.”

  “I understand.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Me? I’m at Rachel’s apartment with the CSI team. Kav is here. So is Melissa.”

  “Melissa who?”

  “Melissa, uh, from the San Miguelito M.E.’s office. I don’t think I caught her last name.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you a call back in a few minutes.”

  Fenway went downstairs.

  Melissa examined a plastic half-full Gatorade bottle. “I think this bottle contained the buprenodone.”

  “Gatorade?”

  “Yeah. The sugar and salts would have masked the flavor.”

  “So you’re saying it’s attempted murder.”

  “I sure think it’s looking that way.”

  Fenway paused. “I’m sorry, Melissa,” she said, “but I don’t think I caught your last name.”

  “De la Garza,” Melissa said.

  Fenway nodded.

  “Okay. When we get this back to the lab, I’ll see if we can push a rush on this analysis.”

  “Thank you.”

  Suddenly, the room closed in on Fenway. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She opened her eyes and the walls were back to normal. But she had to fight back tears.

  “You okay, Fenway?”

  She nodded. “I, um, I’m going to walk home. You don’t need me for anything else here?”

  Melissa shook her head.

  Fenway picked up her purse and took a couple of steps toward the door. Her breath caught, her eyes started to water. She pulled the door open. It seemed much heavier. She made it outside and began to take some deep breaths, but a sob caught in her throat. She took the concrete path toward the sidewalk so she could go home and clear her head.

  The tears were streaming down her face now; part of her wished it was day instead of night, so she could wear sunglasses to at least partially obscure her tears from passing strangers, but part of her needed this out in the open so she could cleanse herself of everything. The death of Alice Jenkins—the one member of the board of county supervisors who treated her like a real person. Finding Rachel’s near-lifeless body—a victim of attempted murder. She didn’t want to include her aborted romantic interlude with Akeel in her list of things that had gone wrong; she felt cheap and selfish for even thinking about it after the mayor’s murder. Alice Jenkins’ body likely lay on a metal table in the M.E.’s office by now; Rachel, who had shot her own father to save Fenway’s life, lay unconscious in the hospital.

  She gritted her teeth, clenched and unclenched her fists. The rushing air from the passing cars cooled the hot night air. She welcomed it and hated it at the same time.

  A jogger turned the corner and came toward her, lithe and fast in neon green shorts and a white short-sleeve athletic shirt. She had a cap pulled over her face, looking down at the ground. She raised her head and saw Fenway, face streaked with tears, and immediately looked back down and kept going past her, down Broadway.

  Fenway concentrated on walking, getting her arms going back and forth, putting one foot in front of the other, and soon she calmed down. She approached the freeway overpass, and the roar of the cars below drowned out the last catches of her sobs.

  She pulled out her phone and called Dez. It rang once and went to voicemail.

  After the overpass, she caught a green light across Channel Islands Boulevard and walked through a well-lit park to get to Estancia Canyon Road. The traffic noise from the freeway died down, and only a couple of bicyclists on the other side of the four-lane road saved the street from being deserted. The fog that often crept over Estancia during summer twilight had held off until now. In the artificial light of the streetlamps, over the empty field, she saw the mist start to thicken.

  It was dark inside the Coffee Bean—the shop had closed a couple of hours before—but the lighted sign above the store had a pale, haloed glow around it. Fenway walked quickly toward the coffee shop, switching the purse to her other shoulder.

  A call came in on her phone. She glanced down at the screen; it was McVie. She cleared her throat twice before she clicked Answer.

  “Hey, McVie.”

  “Hi, Fenway.” McVie paused. “Are you okay? You sound, I don’t know…”

  “Like I’ve been crying.” She pushed a sob back down her throat and covered it with a cough. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah.” McVie hesitated. “You know they said Rachel’s going to make it, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I just got off the phone with Dez. They’re keeping an eye on Rachel for signs of liver failure. She’s still unconscious. But she’s stable.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  There was silence for a moment.

  “Did you find out where Fletcher Jenkins lives now?” Fenway asked.

  “Oh, right. Yes, that’s why I called. He’s still in Dominguez County. He’s got a place in Vista Del Rincón.”

  “That little town wedged between that big granite rock face and Ocean Highway?”

  “Yeah. He got married about ten years ago. Actually seems to have turned his life around. He’s an auditor now at a big accounting firm. His wife teaches at Las Desporadas Middle School. Two little girls, eighteen months and five years old.”

  “So that would really suck if he fell off the wagon. There are grandkids involved. Alice Jenkins would have definitely tried to get Fletcher out of that motel if he had been back to his old ways there.”

  “That would be one possible explanation to explain her presence.”

  “It’s unlikely she rented a hooker.”

  “Unlikely, but not impossible.”

  “Come on, McVie.”

  “You haven’t worked in law enforcement for as long as I have, Fenway. You see some stuff over the years.”

  She was quiet.

  McVie filled the gap in the conversation. “I’m just getting off the freeway onto Broadway now. I’ll be picking you up in just a few minutes. Then we can head down to Vista Del Rincón.”

  “Oh—I started walking home. I, uh, I couldn’t be at Rachel’s anymore.”

  McVie hesitated for a moment. “Yeah,” he finally said, slowly, his voice soft and empathetic.

  “You can get me now, though. The walk did me good. I’ve calmed down.”

  “You can skip it tonight, Fenway. I don’t want to put you through any—”

  “I want to come with you to question him, Sheriff,” she interrupted. “I want to ask him about the buprenodone. I want to see the look on his face.”

  “Fenway,” McVie said softly, “I know you’re upset. You don’t have to come.”

  “No, no,” Fenway said, “don’t mistake that for an emotional reaction. I want you to tell him we found his fingerprints on that suicide note. If he’s the one who did it, it’ll put him off guard. Even if he wore gloves, he’ll say to himself, Did I keep the gloves on the whole time? And we’ll see it in his face. We might not get a confession—but we’ll know where to start looking.”

  Fenway could almost hear the gears turning in McVie’s head.

  “Okay,” he said carefully. “You’re right. And you know about the buprenodone. You at home?”

  “About five minutes away. Do you want to pick me up in front of the Coffee Bean?”

  “Sure. See you soon.”

  Fenway clicked End Call and took another deep breath.

  Chapter Five

  Fenway suddenly realized how unprofessional she must look; she was wearing her tennis shoes and the scarlet polo dress she had put on in the hotel in Oregon that morning, the same outfit she wore when she arrived at Akeel’s house that afternoon. She pulled her compact out of her purse and tried to clean up her tear-stained face. Desp
ite not having a sink, and only having a few minutes, she hid the signs of her tears.

  McVie pulled up, and she opened the door. “Thanks for getting me.”

  “No problem at all,” he said. She saw him look in her eyes—not stare up and down her body the way Akeel had—and wondered if he had a hard time getting her out of his mind too.

  It took them about twenty minutes in the cruiser to get to Vista Del Rincón, south of Estancia. Fenway looked to her right—even in the muted foggy darkness, she could see the Pacific Ocean less than fifty feet away from the edge of the highway. As Fenway leaned forward to look out the windshield to her left, she saw the granite wall extend up at a near ninety-degree angle from the ground, jutting into the misty night sky.

  Vista Del Rincón comprised little more than a collection of forty modest houses, a general store, and a gas station. As the cruiser slid into the turn lane, McVie had to wait for a while for an opening in oncoming traffic.

  “I can’t imagine living here,” said Fenway.

  “You really should come here in the daytime,” McVie said. “Get an ice cream cone at the general store and sit on the patio there. The ocean in front of you, the granite wall behind you. The freeway seems inconsequential.”

  “Until you have to go into town.”

  McVie shrugged. “It’s not for everyone, I guess. I wanted a house here when Amy and I first got married. She wouldn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Everything going okay?”

  “With Amy?”

  “Yeah, I know you’re working on things.”

  McVie breathed out. “I guess it’s to be expected that when we work on things, it has to be work. It’s just really hard work. Maybe I’m not used to, uh, processing that kind of anger.”

  Fenway tried not to react at all.

  “Okay,” McVie said, turning onto a narrow street with dirt paths for sidewalks. “Look for house number 64. I think it’s on the right.”

  They wound their way around the next gentle curve.

  “That’s it. The green house on the right,” said Fenway.

  It was a small mint-colored house with 64 on the mailbox—the old, traditional kind, with a red metal flag that actually looked like a flag.

  “Okay.” McVie eased up on the gas pedal and coasted to a stop next to the dirt path, just past the driveway. In front of the one-car garage sat an old Jeep Grand Wagoneer and a tiny Toyota hatchback. The front porchlight shone weakly, its yellowed bulb straining against the encroaching darkness.

  “Should we both get out?”

  “I think so,” McVie said. “They look like they’re home.”

  As she went to open her door, Fenway noticed her hands were shaking slightly; maybe not so bad that McVie would notice. But she knew McVie could tell she was keyed up.

  She pulled herself out of the passenger seat, with McVie already halfway up the driveway. She wanted to give herself a minute to shake out the cobwebs, take a few deep breaths. She didn’t want to look unprepared, or let Fletcher Jenkins rattle her. Then she had a thought.

  “Sheriff!” she hissed.

  He turned around and looked at her.

  She hurried over close enough so he could hear. “Is this a next-of-kin notification?”

  “Of course it is. What did you think?”

  “I thought we were going to interrogate him.”

  “No. I mean, we’ll ask him a few questions. You were planning to let me take the lead, right?”

  She blinked. She had been so on edge she hadn’t thought about it. “Of course.”

  “I’m going to try to steer the conversation around to the sleeping pills. Once I do, you’ll be ready with follow-up questions. This is how we did it for that meth overdose in Paso Querido two weeks ago, right?”

  “But that wasn’t a murder.”

  “We didn’t know that then.” McVie paused. “I’m sorry, Fenway. I don’t know why I just assumed this would all be second nature to you. First Mayor Jenkins, now Rachel—I’d be lying if I said this didn’t bother me. I’m thinking about how to talk to this guy, but I guess I’m too stuck in my own head.”

  “Do we need to regroup? Maybe we should go back to the car.”

  Just then, the front door opened.

  “Hi there,” said a tall black man who stood in the doorway. “You from the sheriff’s office? Can I help you?”

  McVie moved out of the shadows into the light.

  “Oh, hey, Craig!” the man said. “It’s been a long time.”

  “Fletch,” McVie said.

  The man moved to the porch and the door closed behind him. He had short black hair and a short, neatly kept beard which showed just a touch of gray at the chin. He wore a rumpled light blue oxford dress shirt, untucked and very wrinkled at the waist and below. He had on a pair of dark tan khakis and his feet were bare.

  “Jeez, I haven’t seen you since the five-year,” Fletch said.

  “You missed the last couple,” McVie said.

  “I’m sure that being the sheriff, you heard what happened,” Fletch said. “Stuck in rehab for the ten-year, and I didn’t really feel like showing my face at the twenty.”

  McVie nodded.

  Fenway cleared her throat and looked at McVie.

  “Fletch, I’d like you to meet the county coroner, Fenway Stevenson.”

  Fenway took ten awkward steps over to the porch. Fletch stepped forward to the edge of the porch, minding his bare feet, and shook her hand.

  When they made contact, she felt how clammy her palm was. Fletch smiled anyway, but Fenway’s return smile must not have been very convincing.

  “Everything okay, Craig? Why the visit with the coroner?”

  McVie walked forward slowly toward the porch. “Yeah, this isn’t a social call, Fletch. Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  “We can go into the living room. The girls are asleep.”

  “Your wife home?”

  “Yes, but I think she’s getting ready for bed. It’s past ten, isn’t it?”

  McVie nodded. Fletch walked back to the door and pushed it open, then stood aside. Fenway went in first, followed by McVie, then Fletch, who closed the door behind him.

  A small patch of tile served as an entry, and a built-in bookshelf separated the hallway from the living room. A white toy box sat in the corner. A blue fabric couch and loveseat dominated the small room, surrounded by a few scattered toys.

  “Sorry,” Fletch said, bending down and picking up the toys in front of the sofa. “We tell the girls to put their toys away before bed, but, you know how it is.”

  “Yeah,” said McVie.

  “You have kids?”

  “Just one. Megan’s sixteen now.”

  “Man, time flies,” Fletch said, shaking his head and turning toward the toy box. “Tomorrow I’m dropping them off at preschool, and I’m going to blink and they’ll both be driving.”

  McVie cleared his throat. “Listen, Fletch, I’m really sorry to be the one to tell you this.”

  Fletch turned around and straightened up quickly. “Tell me what?”

  “Your mother was found tonight. She’s dead, Fletch.”

  Fletch blinked and a toy dropped out of his hand and fell to the floor with a loud thud.

  “Dead?”

  “I’m sorry, Fletch, I really am. We’re all devastated.”

  “I just—” Fletch started. “I just left her a message an hour ago. We were all going to go out to dinner next week.” Fenway could see his easy demeanor collapse around him; his shoulders and eyes sunk down and in, his head drooped as if he had gotten punched in the stomach.

  A woman appeared at the end of the hallway. “Fletch?” she said. She was white, about five-foot-six, in a green tank top and grey sweatpants, her brown hair in a ponytail. “I heard a noise.” She saw the sheriff, in his uniform, and Fenway, standing awkwardly behind the sofa.

  “Mom’s dead,” Fletch said softly
. He reached out with his left arm to the sofa, and finding the arm, awkwardly smashed himself into the cushion.

  Fletch’s wife rushed around the bookshelf and pushed her way past Fenway to her husband. She wrapped him up in her arms and rocked him gently and almost imperceptibly. He stayed silent, eyes wide open, staring at nothing.

  “I’m really sorry for your loss,” Fenway said.

  They could hear the clock ticking on the mantel, an old tabletop-style clock with mahogany sloped sides that looked like it had been passed down.

  “Listen,” McVie said. “I’m going to have to ask you a few questions. You’re not going to like them, and you might not like me very much after I ask them, but I’ve got to ask them anyway, or I wouldn’t be doing my job.”

  Fletch pulled himself up with one hand, although he still had one hand on his wife’s arm. “What are you talking about?”

  “We found your mother at the Cactus Lake Motel.”

  Fletch’s eyes darkened.

  “I don’t know what your mother was doing there, Fletch. Did she happen to say anything to you about it?”

  Fletch ran his head over his face from his forehead to his chin. He muttered under his breath—Fenway thought she caught a string of swearing—and slowly stood up.

  “No,” he finally said. “No, I don’t know why she went there. And if you’re asking me this, it means you think she was murdered.”

  McVie nodded.

  “And I’ll save you the trouble of asking me for an alibi,” Fletch said. “What’s the time period I need to account for?”

  “Looks like late last night and early this morning,” McVie said. “Between eleven and three.”

  “Asleep in bed, here, until five-thirty,” he said. “Isla woke up then. I got her and we made breakfast. I remember starting the coffeemaker at six o’clock on the dot.”

  “Anyone vouch for you?”

  “Tracey can.”

  “He’s telling the truth,” Tracey said. “I didn’t look at the clock when he got up, but Isla usually gets out of bed between five and six. Olivia sleeps until eight or nine on Saturday. I slept until about seven.”

  McVie nodded. “How about earlier this afternoon?”

  “Today? I drove the girls to get new shoes up in town,” Fletch said. “We went to Drake’s. Uh—I think I have the receipt. We got there around two-thirty or three.”