The Warehouse Coroner, page 24
“Mathis’s death really threw my suspect pool for a loop.”
“At least Mathis is no longer a suspect,” Mark said.
“I still feel like I’m missing something.”
“Evidence,” Mark replied.
Fenway nodded. “Yeah. Tyra being the killer is a good story, makes a lot of sense, but with nothing to back up that story...”
Mark scratched his chin. “Didn’t you say that Tyra knew about Seth’s illegal activity?”
“Hope Dunkelman said that, yeah. So did her husband. But Tyra has an alibi, remember?”
Another bolt of inspiration hit Fenway. “We can get around Tyra’s alibi by naming Hope Dunkelman as an unindicted co-conspirator. I think she may have lied about Tyra’s whereabouts.”
“So get Dunkelman to walk back the alibi,” Mark said. “You’d be surprised who’ll crack when their freedom is on the line.” Mark rubbed his chin. “Maybe you can figure out how to disprove the alibi. Threaten Hope with prosecution unless she turns.”
Fenway put her hand on her hips. “One thing I can do is subpoena their phone records. Maybe Tyra and Hope were smart enough to leave their phones at Tyra’s house while they went out and committed murder, but maybe they weren’t. And if their phones were on, I can figure that out.” She paused. “Only problem—only one person dragged the body. At least that’s what the evidence suggests.”
A smile touched the corner of Mark’s mouth. “Maybe Hope drove to Cahill Storage and waited for Tyra, thinking they’d hash something out. Tyra killed Seth, wrapped his body up, dragged it into Unit 176, and then walked out to Hope’s car, disheveled, maybe some blood on her. Hope cleaned her up and calmed her down before they go back to the Pope-Dunkelman residence.”
“That is a good story, Mark. Maybe you should start writing the plays Randy stars in.”
“We’d be a hell of a team.” Mark put up an index finger in front of his chest. “But if you find that the phones never left Tyra’s house, there’s no way Hope will change her story.”
“Maybe we can find Hope’s vehicle on camera,” Fenway said. “Running a red light or driving past an ATM.”
“There’s still a lot of police work to do.”
Fenway grinned at Mark. “You’ll miss this, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Mark said. “I’ll be thinking of you and Dez—and maybe Celeste—every day when I wake up at ten o’clock and have a mimosa.”
Fenway grinned, then raised her phone and tapped the screen. “Maybe I can get someone to get a judge to sign the phone paperwork tonight.”
One of the deputies drove Fenway back from the Hutash Bridge, and she entered her office, grabbed the key from her desk where Sarah had left it, and finally walked in the door of her apartment at 9:27 p.m.
The door swung all the way open. The apartment was warm despite the air conditioning.
“No boxes,” Fenway said dumbly.
McVie looked up from the kitchen counter. “Oh, good,” he said.
Fenway felt a rush of affection toward McVie. “You’ve been busy.”
“Made it in only four trips. Done in a couple of hours. Landlord did the walkthrough, and I’m getting all my security deposit back.” He came around the counter and started to wrap his arms around Fenway.
“Hold on, hold on,” Fenway said, ducking under his arms. “I’ve got murder scene all over me. Let me take a quick shower and put some sweats on.”
“Well, hurry up about it.”
Fenway dropped her purse on the kitchen table. “Thanks, Craig.”
“For what?”
“Coming over tonight. I’m glad you’re here.”
McVie grinned.
She turned and began to walk down the hall—then the scent hit her nostrils: baked apples and sweet onions. “Did you cook?”
“Ha,” McVie said. “We couldn’t cancel the reservation, so I got our food to go. And it’s keeping warm in the oven.”
“Pheasant Normandy?”
“For you,” McVie said. “I got a ribeye.”
“What a surprise.”
“I would have gotten the scallops, like you recommended last time, but I worried they’d dry out in the oven.” He grabbed a dishtowel from the counter. “Hurry up and take your shower. When I hear the water go off, I’ll start plating.”
“You’ll start ‘plating,’” Fenway said, a smile crossing her lips. “Look at you, fancy.”
“And we can figure out when you can take some vacation. I’d like you to come visit. And I’ll fly back here, too.”
“Really?”
“We should shoot for once a month,” McVie said. “Maybe we won’t have a lot of vacation time, but with long weekends here and there, we can make it work.”
Fenway grinned. “Don’t say stuff like that when I still have guck all over me.”
“I could join you,” McVie suggested.
“Then our food will definitely dry out.”
“Maybe it would be worth it.”
Fenway turned with a smile and went in the bathroom to turn the shower on.
Part 3
Thursday
Chapter Nineteen
Six o’clock came early. Fenway swung her feet onto the floor, turned the alarm off. McVie rolled over, facing away from Fenway, and exhaled, a muted snore escaping his lips.
She padded out to the kitchen and looked out the front window.
The sky shimmered with pink and lavender, almost like a sunset. A perfect morning to take a cup of coffee out on the tiny porch—if only there weren’t so much to do before the storm arrived.
Fenway took a quick shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went into her bedroom, gently shaking McVie awake.
“You need to shower?”
“I’m moving a few pieces of furniture today. I’ll shower when I’m done.” He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You have time for Jack & Jill’s?”
“Not really, but it’s still early. I guess if we hurry.” Fenway looked at McVie. “You worried about the storm later?”
“Alonso is weakening by the hour,” McVie said. “But I left my flashlights and my camping stove out of the boxes. And I picked up a few gallons of water yesterday to be on the safe side. We might lose power for a few hours, but I doubt it’ll be any worse than that.”
“Will the storm be bad enough for you to postpone leaving tomorrow?”
McVie smiled sadly. “I can always hope.” He stretched his arms over his head. “I’ll get dressed. We can take two cars.”
Twenty minutes later, they were out the door. McVie looked up at the sky.
“Yeah, the storm is coming today,” he murmured. “I can tell by the sky.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You never heard, ‘red skies at night, sailor’s delight; red skies at morning, sailors take warning’?”
Fenway blinked. “Maybe. Not really a lot of boat owners in the neighborhood where I grew up.”
McVie followed Fenway’s Accord out of the apartment complex’s parking lot. Fenway stifled a yawn as she turned onto Estancia Canyon Road and tapped her phone to play her funk playlist. That would get her blood moving.
A little over five minutes later, they parked next to each other in the Jack and Jill’s parking lot. They got out of their cars. The light breeze off the ocean felt refreshing.
“Were you listening to the radio?”
“Uh, no. My funk playlist.”
“Yeah, well, the weather report said Alonso will make landfall further north than they thought.”
“Closer to us or further away?”
“Closer.” McVie frowned. “How are you on batteries?”
“I’ll get some today.”
“Pick them up at the grocery store before work. I’m afraid people will start buying them out of stock.” He shook his head as they walked toward the entrance. “This is a shitty time for me to be packing and moving.”
Fenway agreed, though perhaps for different reasons.
She checked the clock above the counter when they walked in. Not quite seven.
The ruthlessly efficient server brought their eggs and toast within a few minutes, and McVie paid the bill by twenty after.
After McVie signed the receipt, they walked out of the restaurant to find the wind had picked up. They kissed goodbye in the stiff breeze, standing between their two cars, Fenway tasting the smoky flavor of bacon on McVie’s lips. Fenway wrapped her arms around McVie and gave him a squeeze, holding it for an extra couple of seconds. He squeezed back.
As Fenway drove to the office, the muted purples and dusky rose colors, more suited to a sunset, glowed in the sky. Eerie.
Fenway opened the door to the coroner’s suite a few minutes past seven thirty.
“Oh, good,” Sarah said, standing behind the counter. “I knew you had a late night. I thought you wouldn’t get in for another few hours.”
Fenway blinked. “What happened? Was there a third murder?”
“The way Sheriff Donnelly is talking, you’d think so.”
“Donnelly? What’s her—”
Oh no. Fenway hadn’t talked to Donnelly about moving Celeste’s overtime to the coroner office’s budget. She’d gotten waylaid by Hope Dunkelman.
“Celeste put in for overtime,” Sarah said.
“We had a murder last night. Everyone got overtime. There must have been six deputies of Gretchen’s there.”
“Donnelly said you overstepped your bounds.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Oh—come on. Is this about Gretchen asking Brian to do a drive-by on the cabin, then me taking Celeste?”
Sarah nodded. “Ah, there’s the context I needed. Now some of her comments make more sense. She said you should keep in mind that Celeste doesn’t work for you.”
“Ugh.” Fenway pursed her lips. “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, and I’ve got a ton of stuff to deal with. And Gretchen wants to get all territorial.”
Fenway put her elbows on the counter. “Did we get any judges to sign off on the warrant for the phone location info?”
“It’s not eight o’clock yet. Plus, with the storm due to arrive this afternoon, a few of the judges cleared their dockets.”
“Then maybe they’ll have more time to sign warrants.”
“As soon as I get a signature, I’ll let you know.” Sarah clicked her mouse. “One thing that did come in—the three rideshare companies you asked me to look into? No pickups or drop-offs at Cahill Warehouse Storage. The last ride took place over a month ago.”
“Hmph.”
“Based on yesterday’s events, I requested everything near Hutash Bridge, too. I hope they’ll get back to me this morning.”
“Taxi companies?”
“The two local companies are checking their logs, looking for people who paid in cash. No luck yet.”
“Thanks.” Fenway turned, then stopped. “Oh—Sarah, how bad do you think this storm will be?”
“First tropical storm to hit California in years. And the last one hit south of L.A.” Sarah shrugged. “They say it’s got a fifty-fifty chance of making landfall in Dominguez County. And the ocean here is cold enough that Alonso is losing speed. I think we might just get a whole lot of rain.”
“In June—here, in Estancia.”
“Crazy, I know. We’re usually lucky to get half an inch the whole month.”
“If you hear things are about to get bad, go home. Or go somewhere safe.”
“Will do.”
Fenway unlocked the door to her private office, walked in, and put her purse on her desk. She signed into her laptop and turned to the window. The blinds were closed, and she reached out to turn the stick to open them. The parking lot stared back at her; not a great view, and the eerie pinks and lavenders still shone in the sky, casting an uneasy pallor over her office.
She turned back to the computer and typed in her password. The browser window appeared, with the paused footage from Tuesday afternoon on six different virtual screens, from the back corner of the building to the front gate with the two electric scooters parked on the sidewalk.
Fenway narrowed her eyes.
Two electric scooters.
Weren’t there three?
She sat at the desk, grabbed the mouse, and brought up a new window. She had to type in the URL and log in to the security footage website again. Then she clicked on the link for Monday night from 9:00 PM to midnight, when Seth Cahill arrived—just before he turned off the cameras.
All six screens came online. The timestamp: 21:00:00.
The left bottom screen showed the front of the facility with the gate closed. Streetlamps were on, the camera setting at low light.
She counted the Tailwhip scooters. One, two, three.
The cameras had been off for nine hours.
Someone had driven Seth Cahill’s Corvette from the storage facility to Miranda Duchy’s cabin—and left it there. That person had to get back somehow. No bus routes went out there, but if FlashRide and the other rideshare companies didn’t have any record of anything—
Hang on.
The indentation in the passenger seat near the headrest. The scratches on the plastic above the footwell.
An electric scooter could have done that.
Fenway opened another browser window and brought up an online map of Estancia.
Four miles from Hutash Bridge to Cahill Warehouse Storage. Those scooters topped out at fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but if the killer had murdered Seth Cahill, put the scooter in the passenger seat, driven to Miranda Duchy’s cabin with the Corvette, then taken the scooter back to the storage facility so they could pick up their car, that would explain a lot. And it might have only taken a half hour to ride back. Perhaps a little harrowing on the downhill mountain roads, but doable.
Fenway stood and strode to Sarah’s desk. She looked up.
“I need to get usage records from Tailwhip.”
“The electric scooter company?” Sarah asked.
“Yep. And if we need those phone warrants signed, who’s available?”
“Judge Azurra. He’s thinking about canceling most of his docket for the day because of the storm. If you want him to sign anything, do it in the next hour.” Sarah pressed her lips together. “He’s a stickler for privacy rights, but we’ve got all the T’s crossed and I’s dotted, but I’ll double check the phone record warrants before I give them to you. We don’t have much of a choice of judges today, anyway.”
Fenway looked skeptical.
Sarah shook her head. “I promise, after I check everything, he’ll sign them.”
“I know. Sometimes your competence is scary.” Fenway grinned. “Okay, I’ll call Tailwhip while you finish up the warrants. Then, when I’m out tracking down Azurra, why don’t you look through the Estancia High yearbook? See if Tyra Cahill had other classmates connected to this case.”
“That sounds an awful lot like busy work.”
“It might not lead to anything, but Hope said Tyra lost a lot of friends when she got pregnant. And she said Tyra didn’t blame Seth for her birth son’s death. But maybe we’ll find something that makes the puzzle pieces click into place.”
“Maybe,” Sarah said. “You owe me Dos Milagros for this.”
Fenway chuckled. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
She went back into her office and closed the door, then found the Tailwhip customer service number online. After navigating their system and waiting on hold for ten minutes, she got a manager on the phone.
“Tailwhip, this is Vivian.”
“This is Coroner Fenway Stevenson with the Dominguez County Coroner’s Office. I need some scooter rental records.”
“Certainly,” Vivian said. “Now, I’ll need to verify your identity. That usually takes one to three business days.”
“One to three days? Is there a faster way?”
“Well, if you download our app…”
Fenway rolled her eyes.
After downloading the app, entering her credit card information—because of course Fenway’s records request required that she sign up to the Tailwhip service—Sarah dropped the phone record warrants on Fenway’s desk. It took ten minutes for Fenway to walk the warrants over to Judge Roland Azurra’s office.
“This is the Seth Cahill case?” he asked.
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“We don’t have someone in custody for that already? Gretchen told me they made an arrest last night.”
“That’s true, Your Honor.”
Azurra raised an eyebrow.
“Due diligence, Your Honor.”
“Due diligence?”
Fenway took a breath. How much should she say? What the hell—she’d put it all out there. “There’s another theory of the case.”
Azurra grunted. “Is there?”
“Yes.” Fenway leaned forward in her chair. “Our victim was paid to store drugs—specifically, morpheranyl—at his storage facility. The ex-wife of the victim gave up a baby for adoption at sixteen and recently reconnected with him as an adult.” Fenway paused. “The adult son died from a morpheranyl overdose about seven months ago.”
“And the conflicting theory of the case is that the victim’s ex-wife blamed him for her son’s death?”
“That’s correct—or, at least, that’s what we think the defense might try to say. And if we haven’t explored this possibility, that could create reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind.”
“Gretchen is confident she got the right person.”
“The existing evidence suggests we did get the right person, Your Honor,” Fenway said. “It’s hard to argue you’re innocent when both the victim’s missing car and the murder weapon are found on your property. But isn’t it worth discovering if our case has a hole in it?”
Azurra tilted his head. “If you think the ex-wife is a legitimate suspect, I see how her phone records are relevant. But”—he glanced at the warrant paperwork—“Hope Dunkelman?”
“Ms. Dunkelman is Tyra Cahill’s alibi, and this will either confirm the alibi or cast doubt on it. Ms. Cahill had the means, and if she blamed her ex for the death of her son, she’s got a motive. Plus, she was angry at Miranda Duchy for the affair with Seth. I don’t want Duchy’s expensive defense attorney to plant this theory in the jurors’ minds and for us not to have an answer.”
“At least Mathis is no longer a suspect,” Mark said.
“I still feel like I’m missing something.”
“Evidence,” Mark replied.
Fenway nodded. “Yeah. Tyra being the killer is a good story, makes a lot of sense, but with nothing to back up that story...”
Mark scratched his chin. “Didn’t you say that Tyra knew about Seth’s illegal activity?”
“Hope Dunkelman said that, yeah. So did her husband. But Tyra has an alibi, remember?”
Another bolt of inspiration hit Fenway. “We can get around Tyra’s alibi by naming Hope Dunkelman as an unindicted co-conspirator. I think she may have lied about Tyra’s whereabouts.”
“So get Dunkelman to walk back the alibi,” Mark said. “You’d be surprised who’ll crack when their freedom is on the line.” Mark rubbed his chin. “Maybe you can figure out how to disprove the alibi. Threaten Hope with prosecution unless she turns.”
Fenway put her hand on her hips. “One thing I can do is subpoena their phone records. Maybe Tyra and Hope were smart enough to leave their phones at Tyra’s house while they went out and committed murder, but maybe they weren’t. And if their phones were on, I can figure that out.” She paused. “Only problem—only one person dragged the body. At least that’s what the evidence suggests.”
A smile touched the corner of Mark’s mouth. “Maybe Hope drove to Cahill Storage and waited for Tyra, thinking they’d hash something out. Tyra killed Seth, wrapped his body up, dragged it into Unit 176, and then walked out to Hope’s car, disheveled, maybe some blood on her. Hope cleaned her up and calmed her down before they go back to the Pope-Dunkelman residence.”
“That is a good story, Mark. Maybe you should start writing the plays Randy stars in.”
“We’d be a hell of a team.” Mark put up an index finger in front of his chest. “But if you find that the phones never left Tyra’s house, there’s no way Hope will change her story.”
“Maybe we can find Hope’s vehicle on camera,” Fenway said. “Running a red light or driving past an ATM.”
“There’s still a lot of police work to do.”
Fenway grinned at Mark. “You’ll miss this, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Mark said. “I’ll be thinking of you and Dez—and maybe Celeste—every day when I wake up at ten o’clock and have a mimosa.”
Fenway grinned, then raised her phone and tapped the screen. “Maybe I can get someone to get a judge to sign the phone paperwork tonight.”
One of the deputies drove Fenway back from the Hutash Bridge, and she entered her office, grabbed the key from her desk where Sarah had left it, and finally walked in the door of her apartment at 9:27 p.m.
The door swung all the way open. The apartment was warm despite the air conditioning.
“No boxes,” Fenway said dumbly.
McVie looked up from the kitchen counter. “Oh, good,” he said.
Fenway felt a rush of affection toward McVie. “You’ve been busy.”
“Made it in only four trips. Done in a couple of hours. Landlord did the walkthrough, and I’m getting all my security deposit back.” He came around the counter and started to wrap his arms around Fenway.
“Hold on, hold on,” Fenway said, ducking under his arms. “I’ve got murder scene all over me. Let me take a quick shower and put some sweats on.”
“Well, hurry up about it.”
Fenway dropped her purse on the kitchen table. “Thanks, Craig.”
“For what?”
“Coming over tonight. I’m glad you’re here.”
McVie grinned.
She turned and began to walk down the hall—then the scent hit her nostrils: baked apples and sweet onions. “Did you cook?”
“Ha,” McVie said. “We couldn’t cancel the reservation, so I got our food to go. And it’s keeping warm in the oven.”
“Pheasant Normandy?”
“For you,” McVie said. “I got a ribeye.”
“What a surprise.”
“I would have gotten the scallops, like you recommended last time, but I worried they’d dry out in the oven.” He grabbed a dishtowel from the counter. “Hurry up and take your shower. When I hear the water go off, I’ll start plating.”
“You’ll start ‘plating,’” Fenway said, a smile crossing her lips. “Look at you, fancy.”
“And we can figure out when you can take some vacation. I’d like you to come visit. And I’ll fly back here, too.”
“Really?”
“We should shoot for once a month,” McVie said. “Maybe we won’t have a lot of vacation time, but with long weekends here and there, we can make it work.”
Fenway grinned. “Don’t say stuff like that when I still have guck all over me.”
“I could join you,” McVie suggested.
“Then our food will definitely dry out.”
“Maybe it would be worth it.”
Fenway turned with a smile and went in the bathroom to turn the shower on.
Part 3
Thursday
Chapter Nineteen
Six o’clock came early. Fenway swung her feet onto the floor, turned the alarm off. McVie rolled over, facing away from Fenway, and exhaled, a muted snore escaping his lips.
She padded out to the kitchen and looked out the front window.
The sky shimmered with pink and lavender, almost like a sunset. A perfect morning to take a cup of coffee out on the tiny porch—if only there weren’t so much to do before the storm arrived.
Fenway took a quick shower, wrapped herself in a towel, and went into her bedroom, gently shaking McVie awake.
“You need to shower?”
“I’m moving a few pieces of furniture today. I’ll shower when I’m done.” He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “You have time for Jack & Jill’s?”
“Not really, but it’s still early. I guess if we hurry.” Fenway looked at McVie. “You worried about the storm later?”
“Alonso is weakening by the hour,” McVie said. “But I left my flashlights and my camping stove out of the boxes. And I picked up a few gallons of water yesterday to be on the safe side. We might lose power for a few hours, but I doubt it’ll be any worse than that.”
“Will the storm be bad enough for you to postpone leaving tomorrow?”
McVie smiled sadly. “I can always hope.” He stretched his arms over his head. “I’ll get dressed. We can take two cars.”
Twenty minutes later, they were out the door. McVie looked up at the sky.
“Yeah, the storm is coming today,” he murmured. “I can tell by the sky.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“You never heard, ‘red skies at night, sailor’s delight; red skies at morning, sailors take warning’?”
Fenway blinked. “Maybe. Not really a lot of boat owners in the neighborhood where I grew up.”
McVie followed Fenway’s Accord out of the apartment complex’s parking lot. Fenway stifled a yawn as she turned onto Estancia Canyon Road and tapped her phone to play her funk playlist. That would get her blood moving.
A little over five minutes later, they parked next to each other in the Jack and Jill’s parking lot. They got out of their cars. The light breeze off the ocean felt refreshing.
“Were you listening to the radio?”
“Uh, no. My funk playlist.”
“Yeah, well, the weather report said Alonso will make landfall further north than they thought.”
“Closer to us or further away?”
“Closer.” McVie frowned. “How are you on batteries?”
“I’ll get some today.”
“Pick them up at the grocery store before work. I’m afraid people will start buying them out of stock.” He shook his head as they walked toward the entrance. “This is a shitty time for me to be packing and moving.”
Fenway agreed, though perhaps for different reasons.
She checked the clock above the counter when they walked in. Not quite seven.
The ruthlessly efficient server brought their eggs and toast within a few minutes, and McVie paid the bill by twenty after.
After McVie signed the receipt, they walked out of the restaurant to find the wind had picked up. They kissed goodbye in the stiff breeze, standing between their two cars, Fenway tasting the smoky flavor of bacon on McVie’s lips. Fenway wrapped her arms around McVie and gave him a squeeze, holding it for an extra couple of seconds. He squeezed back.
As Fenway drove to the office, the muted purples and dusky rose colors, more suited to a sunset, glowed in the sky. Eerie.
Fenway opened the door to the coroner’s suite a few minutes past seven thirty.
“Oh, good,” Sarah said, standing behind the counter. “I knew you had a late night. I thought you wouldn’t get in for another few hours.”
Fenway blinked. “What happened? Was there a third murder?”
“The way Sheriff Donnelly is talking, you’d think so.”
“Donnelly? What’s her—”
Oh no. Fenway hadn’t talked to Donnelly about moving Celeste’s overtime to the coroner office’s budget. She’d gotten waylaid by Hope Dunkelman.
“Celeste put in for overtime,” Sarah said.
“We had a murder last night. Everyone got overtime. There must have been six deputies of Gretchen’s there.”
“Donnelly said you overstepped your bounds.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Oh—come on. Is this about Gretchen asking Brian to do a drive-by on the cabin, then me taking Celeste?”
Sarah nodded. “Ah, there’s the context I needed. Now some of her comments make more sense. She said you should keep in mind that Celeste doesn’t work for you.”
“Ugh.” Fenway pursed her lips. “I’m in the middle of a murder investigation, and I’ve got a ton of stuff to deal with. And Gretchen wants to get all territorial.”
Fenway put her elbows on the counter. “Did we get any judges to sign off on the warrant for the phone location info?”
“It’s not eight o’clock yet. Plus, with the storm due to arrive this afternoon, a few of the judges cleared their dockets.”
“Then maybe they’ll have more time to sign warrants.”
“As soon as I get a signature, I’ll let you know.” Sarah clicked her mouse. “One thing that did come in—the three rideshare companies you asked me to look into? No pickups or drop-offs at Cahill Warehouse Storage. The last ride took place over a month ago.”
“Hmph.”
“Based on yesterday’s events, I requested everything near Hutash Bridge, too. I hope they’ll get back to me this morning.”
“Taxi companies?”
“The two local companies are checking their logs, looking for people who paid in cash. No luck yet.”
“Thanks.” Fenway turned, then stopped. “Oh—Sarah, how bad do you think this storm will be?”
“First tropical storm to hit California in years. And the last one hit south of L.A.” Sarah shrugged. “They say it’s got a fifty-fifty chance of making landfall in Dominguez County. And the ocean here is cold enough that Alonso is losing speed. I think we might just get a whole lot of rain.”
“In June—here, in Estancia.”
“Crazy, I know. We’re usually lucky to get half an inch the whole month.”
“If you hear things are about to get bad, go home. Or go somewhere safe.”
“Will do.”
Fenway unlocked the door to her private office, walked in, and put her purse on her desk. She signed into her laptop and turned to the window. The blinds were closed, and she reached out to turn the stick to open them. The parking lot stared back at her; not a great view, and the eerie pinks and lavenders still shone in the sky, casting an uneasy pallor over her office.
She turned back to the computer and typed in her password. The browser window appeared, with the paused footage from Tuesday afternoon on six different virtual screens, from the back corner of the building to the front gate with the two electric scooters parked on the sidewalk.
Fenway narrowed her eyes.
Two electric scooters.
Weren’t there three?
She sat at the desk, grabbed the mouse, and brought up a new window. She had to type in the URL and log in to the security footage website again. Then she clicked on the link for Monday night from 9:00 PM to midnight, when Seth Cahill arrived—just before he turned off the cameras.
All six screens came online. The timestamp: 21:00:00.
The left bottom screen showed the front of the facility with the gate closed. Streetlamps were on, the camera setting at low light.
She counted the Tailwhip scooters. One, two, three.
The cameras had been off for nine hours.
Someone had driven Seth Cahill’s Corvette from the storage facility to Miranda Duchy’s cabin—and left it there. That person had to get back somehow. No bus routes went out there, but if FlashRide and the other rideshare companies didn’t have any record of anything—
Hang on.
The indentation in the passenger seat near the headrest. The scratches on the plastic above the footwell.
An electric scooter could have done that.
Fenway opened another browser window and brought up an online map of Estancia.
Four miles from Hutash Bridge to Cahill Warehouse Storage. Those scooters topped out at fifteen or twenty miles per hour, but if the killer had murdered Seth Cahill, put the scooter in the passenger seat, driven to Miranda Duchy’s cabin with the Corvette, then taken the scooter back to the storage facility so they could pick up their car, that would explain a lot. And it might have only taken a half hour to ride back. Perhaps a little harrowing on the downhill mountain roads, but doable.
Fenway stood and strode to Sarah’s desk. She looked up.
“I need to get usage records from Tailwhip.”
“The electric scooter company?” Sarah asked.
“Yep. And if we need those phone warrants signed, who’s available?”
“Judge Azurra. He’s thinking about canceling most of his docket for the day because of the storm. If you want him to sign anything, do it in the next hour.” Sarah pressed her lips together. “He’s a stickler for privacy rights, but we’ve got all the T’s crossed and I’s dotted, but I’ll double check the phone record warrants before I give them to you. We don’t have much of a choice of judges today, anyway.”
Fenway looked skeptical.
Sarah shook her head. “I promise, after I check everything, he’ll sign them.”
“I know. Sometimes your competence is scary.” Fenway grinned. “Okay, I’ll call Tailwhip while you finish up the warrants. Then, when I’m out tracking down Azurra, why don’t you look through the Estancia High yearbook? See if Tyra Cahill had other classmates connected to this case.”
“That sounds an awful lot like busy work.”
“It might not lead to anything, but Hope said Tyra lost a lot of friends when she got pregnant. And she said Tyra didn’t blame Seth for her birth son’s death. But maybe we’ll find something that makes the puzzle pieces click into place.”
“Maybe,” Sarah said. “You owe me Dos Milagros for this.”
Fenway chuckled. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”
She went back into her office and closed the door, then found the Tailwhip customer service number online. After navigating their system and waiting on hold for ten minutes, she got a manager on the phone.
“Tailwhip, this is Vivian.”
“This is Coroner Fenway Stevenson with the Dominguez County Coroner’s Office. I need some scooter rental records.”
“Certainly,” Vivian said. “Now, I’ll need to verify your identity. That usually takes one to three business days.”
“One to three days? Is there a faster way?”
“Well, if you download our app…”
Fenway rolled her eyes.
After downloading the app, entering her credit card information—because of course Fenway’s records request required that she sign up to the Tailwhip service—Sarah dropped the phone record warrants on Fenway’s desk. It took ten minutes for Fenway to walk the warrants over to Judge Roland Azurra’s office.
“This is the Seth Cahill case?” he asked.
“That’s correct, Your Honor.”
“We don’t have someone in custody for that already? Gretchen told me they made an arrest last night.”
“That’s true, Your Honor.”
Azurra raised an eyebrow.
“Due diligence, Your Honor.”
“Due diligence?”
Fenway took a breath. How much should she say? What the hell—she’d put it all out there. “There’s another theory of the case.”
Azurra grunted. “Is there?”
“Yes.” Fenway leaned forward in her chair. “Our victim was paid to store drugs—specifically, morpheranyl—at his storage facility. The ex-wife of the victim gave up a baby for adoption at sixteen and recently reconnected with him as an adult.” Fenway paused. “The adult son died from a morpheranyl overdose about seven months ago.”
“And the conflicting theory of the case is that the victim’s ex-wife blamed him for her son’s death?”
“That’s correct—or, at least, that’s what we think the defense might try to say. And if we haven’t explored this possibility, that could create reasonable doubt in the jury’s mind.”
“Gretchen is confident she got the right person.”
“The existing evidence suggests we did get the right person, Your Honor,” Fenway said. “It’s hard to argue you’re innocent when both the victim’s missing car and the murder weapon are found on your property. But isn’t it worth discovering if our case has a hole in it?”
Azurra tilted his head. “If you think the ex-wife is a legitimate suspect, I see how her phone records are relevant. But”—he glanced at the warrant paperwork—“Hope Dunkelman?”
“Ms. Dunkelman is Tyra Cahill’s alibi, and this will either confirm the alibi or cast doubt on it. Ms. Cahill had the means, and if she blamed her ex for the death of her son, she’s got a motive. Plus, she was angry at Miranda Duchy for the affair with Seth. I don’t want Duchy’s expensive defense attorney to plant this theory in the jurors’ minds and for us not to have an answer.”
