The Digital Coroner, page 16
“And you’re saying it’ll be an uphill battle to get her out of jail?” Fenway asked.
“Assuming she doesn’t accept a plea bargain—and assuming another suspect doesn’t emerge—I expect this to go to trial.” Ubosi got to his feet. “I’ve won with less. But I’ve also lost with more.”
The side street where Fenway had parked the moving truck was a dead end, and navigating a three-point turn—which rapidly became a nine-point turn—in the narrow street with only the side mirrors to guide her was a harrowing experience. Fenway’s back stuck to the seat through her shirt from the nervous sweat, not just from the heat. She almost bashed the truck into a pole, but at least there were no overhanging branches ready and willing to rip the roof of the truck off.
She finally got back on the interstate, heading back to the hotel, and contemplated her next move. Ubosi had seemed reticent to take Fenway’s help at first. But after she revealed the information Ubosi didn’t have—Trask’s mistress and the pair of two-million-dollar life insurance policies—Ubosi had almost given his tacit approval for her to keep investigating.
The air conditioning had trouble keeping up with the oppressive heat of the late afternoon, and Fenway briefly worried if the heat would damage any of McVie’s stuff in the back of the truck—or if the nine-point turn she just navigated had broken anything.
She took the Ruby Dunes exit, and the clock on the dashboard read 5:48. She’d spent most of the day looking for other suspects, and she’d spent a surprisingly long time in the coffee house with O.K. Ubosi.
Despite the information she’d uncovered, Fenway felt like she was spinning her wheels: Piper was still at the police station, or in a holding cell, or maybe she’d been processed by now. But no arraignment until Monday, probably. Poor Piper—what a terrible way to spend the weekend.
She turned into the oversize vehicles lot at the Cartwheel Hotel & Casino. It was close enough to dinner. Maybe another meal at the Mexican place. They didn’t have lengua tacos like Dos Milagros, but the enchiladas looked good.
Next to the concrete barrier was a small Kia Rio.
And standing next to the Kia Rio was Craig McVie.
Chapter Thirteen
Fenway’s heart fluttered when she saw McVie—and immediately she was horrified she was so sweaty and gross. Of course, McVie was standing in the direct sun, in a black fitted shirt, tight on his biceps and across his chest, and khaki pants. He looked like a corporate shill at a tech convention. There was even a small logo on his polo shirt.
Then it hit her. This was his work uniform—or as close to a uniform as he had. That logo read Payback Systems.
He had been at work earlier in the day; this had been his first week on the job. And here it was—not even six o’clock yet, and he was here, in this parking lot, only about five hours since she had last talked to him. An hour flight from Denver to Las Vegas, and another hour to drive from the airport to Ruby Dunes. Maybe a little longer in that tiny subcompact. McVie would have barely been able to squeeze into it.
Oh no. He’d really gone to some great lengths to get here.
Fenway slowed the truck to a stop, put the truck in Park, then engaged the parking brake. She surreptitiously smelled her left armpit—not great, but she was expecting far worse. She took a deep breath. Would he be upset? Would he blame her for staying in town when her father’s lawyer was willing to fight for Piper? She exhaled, opened the door, and climbed out of the truck cab. McVie had already walked to the truck.
“Hey, Craig—”
And he enveloped her in a hug.
“Oh.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” McVie said into her ear, and gently kissed her just below the temple. He squeezed her a little harder, picking her up so that her sneakers left the ground by an inch or two.
“But Piper—” Fenway began, and then the stress in her shoulders loosened and she relaxed into McVie’s embrace. He smelled like hard work and travel, but underneath the hundreds of miles of airplane and rental car, there was his unmistakable scent. Fenway buried her face in his neck and felt like crying—relief, fear, sadness, anxiety. If she could just stop time and be here, be present in this moment for more than the few seconds they had.
McVie set Fenway down. “Sorry,” he said.
“It’s okay,” Fenway said, smoothing down her T-shirt. “I needed that, too.”
They stood, Fenway holding McVie’s hand, his other arm wrapped around her back. “I left messages with a couple of my friends who work for Vegas P.D., but no one has contacts in Ruby Dunes. Is there anything I can do to help Piper? Maybe I can go talk to the sheriff?”
“I don’t know,” Fenway said. “Her lawyer is on it. That’s where I was—meeting her lawyer at a coffee shop. I told him everything I found.”
McVie raised an eyebrow. “You’re investigating the murder?”
“As if you expected anything different.” Fenway elbowed McVie playfully in the ribs. “Lots of circumstantial evidence against Piper. The murder weapon is her knife. There’s a recording of her shouting at the victim in his museum from yesterday evening. And she doesn’t have a good alibi.”
“Aren’t you her alibi?”
“She left the hotel room while I was in the shower, and after I fell asleep, I can’t swear she didn’t leave, either. I mean—she left in the morning when I was still asleep, and I didn’t notice.”
“But you know she didn’t kill him.”
“Only because I know her. You were right on the phone earlier—if I were the sheriff, there’s no way I wouldn’t have arrested her, given the evidence at hand.” She dropped his hand. “But—I didn’t ask you to come help me.”
“Don’t be silly, Fenway. Of course I’m going to help you and Piper.”
“I thought you couldn’t leave before five.”
“When we got off the phone, I looked at last-minute flights to Vegas. The only available seat was on a flight leaving in an hour and a half—all the evening flights were booked.” He, too, dropped his arms to his sides. “Then I talked to my boss. I didn’t think he’d say yes, but I told him I started a week early as a favor to the company, and he finally said it was okay to take part of the afternoon off.”
Fenway nodded. So what next? Did McVie rent that Kia Rio, or did he take a FlashRide? Was he hoping Fenway would leave Piper in Vegas and drive the truck the rest of the way? She tried to wrap her head around the logistics, then gave up. “So—what do you want to do now? Take the truck and get on the road?”
McVie cocked his head. “Um…well, I guess I could—”
“Just thought you might not want to drive ten hours straight through tomorrow.”
His face fell. “Oh. Right, well, yeah. That makes sense. I guess I could hit a cheap motel in a few hours. I just thought maybe I could do something to help Piper. And spend a little time with you.”
Fenway quickly reached for his hand. “I’m sorry. Jumping to conclusions. Just—I didn’t expect you to come. At least, not this early. I thought maybe you’d wait to see what happened with Piper.” She ran her thumb over the back of his hand. “And the evidence is all circumstantial, but it’s strong. I’ve got to dig a little more.”
McVie gently squeezed Fenway’s hand. “Since you’re working on this murder investigation in an unofficial capacity, we could work together, at least for the rest of the day. I could be just as unofficial as you.”
Fenway raised her eyes to meet McVie’s. “Just like old times.”
McVie smiled. “If it’s okay with you, I’ll stay tonight. I’m supposed to have brunch with Megan tomorrow, but I think I can move it to Sunday.”
Fenway stepped forward and put her arms around McVie again, and he hugged her back. “I am really glad you’re here.”
A vibration on Fenway’s left hip. “Is that a cellphone in your pocket?”
“I’m just happy to see you,” McVie said, keeping his left arm around Fenway while pulling the phone out. He raised his eyebrows, then turned the screen toward Fenway. Sarah Summerhill. He tapped the screen.
“Hi, Sarah. What can I do for you?”
A pause.
“I just arrived in Ruby Dunes about fifteen minutes ago. And yes, she’s right here.” He took the phone away from his ear and tapped the speakerphone icon.
“Hey, Sarah,” Fenway said.
“I’ve called you a few times. You didn’t answer.”
“Oh. I guess I left my phone in the truck.”
“Wanted to let you know—the apartment that Aurora Horn is renting in Walker City?”
“Right.”
“I went onto the SinCityRentals website. An apartment in her building is available for rent. I called the building manager and confirmed that it’s the same apartment she rented.”
“That’s not too crazy. We thought she was moving in with Trask—they are officially married, even if they haven’t told their families.”
“The building manager asked if I wanted to make an appointment to see the place tonight. I said I was calling for my boss, and that you could be there by seven-thirty.”
Fenway furrowed her brow. “Why would I need to visit Aurora Horn’s apartment?”
“You think she should be a suspect, don’t you? And if she’s staying in Trask’s house—well, if they’re married, maybe it’s her house now—maybe she’s left something in her apartment that could throw more suspicion on to her.”
“Oh—she hasn’t moved out yet?”
“Nope. The manager said he okayed it with her. If you find something, Piper could at least get released on bail.”
“It’s kind of a long shot.”
“Do you have shorter shots?”
“I was hoping to talk to Trask’s business partners. The museum is open for another half hour.”
“Then I’ll call back and see if the building manager can stay until eight.”
McVie’s eyes twinkled. “We can go together. Say we’re looking at our first place.”
Fenway frowned. “I don’t know. It’s a long time to be on the road.”
McVie shrugged. “If I’m taking the moving truck on Saturday, I have to add you as a driver on this Kia anyway. And I couldn’t do it at the car rental at the airport without you being there. Isn’t Walker City only about ten minutes from the airport?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, then,” McVie said, “since we have to add you to the rental, we might as well stop in Walker City on our way.”
Fenway pressed her lips together, then nodded. “Okay. But the museum comes first.”
Fenway held the door open to NN0V8, and McVie looked at her out of the corner of his eye.
“I was here with Piper yesterday,” Fenway said. “They might recognize me. And maybe not talk to me.”
“You’re the one with the badge.”
“Don’t you have a private investigator’s license?”
McVie folded his arms. “You know a badge gets more people to talk.”
“But if they recognize me from yesterday—”
“Fine. I won’t argue with the door wide open.” McVie walked in, then pulled his wallet out, his private investigator license in his hand. He walked up to the ticket agent; fortunately, the woman, in an aquamarine silk blouse, cat’s-eye glasses, with her hair pulled into a severe bun, hadn’t been there the day before.
“Are you ready to innovate?” she asked.
“Excuse me?” McVie asked.
Fenway elbowed McVie gently. “She wants to know how many tickets we want.”
The woman gave McVie a small smile. “That’s right.”
Fenway eyed her suspiciously. Only thirty minutes before closing time, and yet they were willing to take two full-price tickets. She glanced around the museum; there was no sign that one of the co-founders had just been murdered.
“I’m—” McVie began, but Fenway elbowed him gently in the ribs. He looked at her, then she pulled out her badge and flashed it at the ticket taker. “Were you here yesterday?”
The woman pursed her lips. “No—look, I told the deputy earlier—”
“My apologies,” Fenway said. “We need to talk to the co-owners, anyway. Mr. Schup and Mr. Shellwater. Are they here today?”
“Doctor Schup,” the woman said. “And of course they are. You people told them they had to stay in town.”
“Not everyone heeds our advice in our investigations when a crime has been committed,” Fenway said. “Let’s speak to Mr. Shellwater first.”
“Of course. Let me get him for you.” She rose from her chair behind the counter and turned toward a hallway behind her.
“Is there somewhere we can speak privately with Mr. Shellwater?” McVie said.
The woman looked at McVie over the top of her glasses. “This is a museum, not a conference facility.”
“Surely you have a meeting room or a private office. Even a utility closet would work.”
The woman nodded, still not addressing the issue, and disappeared down the corridor.
Fenway glanced at McVie. “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
They took a step back from the ticket counter. McVie swiveled his head to the left, taking in the doors painted black.
“I went on the website before coming here,” he said. “Seems like a lot of tech-speak about blockchain and NFTs.”
“Yep.”
“Also seems like something Piper would have been excited about,” he said.
“She was. I believe her complaints were about the execution. Seemed like a rip-off to her. Not really art.”
A smile touched McVie’s lips. “That sounds like her.”
“And she was also ticked off that the museum was messy. Broken-down cardboard boxes. Packing foam. I even tripped over a black curtain that was on the floor in the middle of the spotlight room exhibit. It’ll be a miracle if they don’t lose a million-dollar slip-and-fall lawsuit.”
“I can contact my friend at OSHA. See if he knows anyone in the Las Vegas unit.”
“Sure,” Fenway replied. “Couldn’t hurt. Might make Piper feel better—though she might lose her investment.”
“Her—her investment? She invested in this place?”
“With the bonus check you gave her.”
McVie shook his head. “And here I thought she was smarter than me.” He walked toward the counter, leaned forward, then craned his neck.
“See the woman coming back?” Fenway whispered.
McVie shook his head, then motioned Fenway to follow him.
“What are you—”
He put his finger to his lips, stepped around the counter, and walked quietly down the corridor.
Fenway’s jaw dropped open. McVie was usually such a Boy Scout—now he was creeping uninvited down a hallway?
The museum building wasn’t very large, and the corridor was narrow. A metal door on the left with a placard next to the door: Electrical. Fenway wondered if they ran the programming for the NFTs and the electronics in a server room onsite or in the cloud.
They walked past the door and stopped just before the corridor opened into a bank of offices. Voices further on: the ticket-taker in addition to a lower-register voice Fenway recognized as Brock Shellwater. On the right, another door, this to a smoked glass-encased office. The surreal natural light of the desert shone through the smoked glass; there must be a window in the office. And the placard: Vaughn Trask.
McVie turned back toward Fenway and motioned with his head. He reached out and turned the door handle. A soft click and the door swung open.
They went inside and closed the door behind them.
Vaughn Trask’s office. A desk in front of the large window. A monitor sat on the desktop with its back facing the door. An executive leather chair behind the desk, and three chairs around a small round table, with an orange-and-red rug underneath it, the same motifs as in Trask’s home. Against the near wall, a low bookcase, full of hardback books—business books, from a quick glance.
And it was hot. At least ten degrees warmer than the rest of the air-conditioned office. And she could still hear the voices of the other office workers down the hall; the office wasn’t built to be soundproof.
She stepped forward to the desk and opened the center drawer. A keyfob—an Alfa Romeo logo on it. That must be the sports car she’d seen in the museum lot that hadn’t moved.
A noisy computer fan. Fenway walked behind the desk—and there was the culprit, in both heat and noise: a Qasper PC tower. Top of the line, with its telltale metallic green finish. Fenway had seen the ads on online videos, and she had to admit the metallic green looked cool—it sure made the computer stand out. Piper said the metallic green just added cost to the machine, providing no tangible benefit; odd that she had such a soft spot for artistic sensibilities until it came to the tools she had to use.
The Qasper PC looked nearly brand new. Humming and whirring. Fenway raised her head: a monitor and keyboard on top of the desk—and a spot where a laptop would have been located. But the top-shelf PC had cables coming from the back in a tangle that looked like they might connect to the monitor and keyboard. Fenway reached out for the mouse to see if she could wake up the monitor, then hesitated. Fingerprints. But if the sheriff’s office had already taken the laptop, they would have already assessed the office. Would have been the first thing she’d done if she were leading the investigation.
Fenway took out her phone and texted Sarah.
Can you find out if the Correos County sheriff has taken Trask’s laptop from his office at the NN0V8 museum?
Fenway hit the arrow and a low-pitched electronic ping signified the sending of the text. McVie glanced up.
