The Warehouse Coroner, page 25
A smile crept over Azurra’s face. “That’s a lovely story, Coroner. But I think you believe we have the wrong person in custody.”
Fenway couldn’t suppress her grin. “I’d love to be proven wrong.”
Azurra cackled. “Now I know you’re lying.” He pulled the warrant paperwork toward him and looked over the pages for a moment, then signed it and handed it back to Fenway. “Happy fishing.”
Fenway gripped the warrant paperwork folder tightly as she exited the City Hall building to go back to the Coroner’s Office—then she stopped. Yes, Fenway had the investigation in full swing, but neither Miranda Duchy nor Tyra Cahill would talk without a lawyer. She could be doing other things, but since she was already by City Hall…
She turned around, went back in the door, walked down the hallway to the administrative area, and opened the door of Suite 130, Human Resources. HR had consolidated into this section of the City Hall building right after the new year, and the woman who had replaced Lana Cassidy—after the infamous shooting incident—was nice enough, if a little scattered.
A dark-haired woman with an olive complexion, schoolmarm spectacles and a thin, white cardigan over her shoulders looked up from her computer. “Oh, hello, Miss Stevenson! How can I help you?”
“Hi, Ms. Farzan,” Fenway said. She took a breath and began. “I meant to call you this morning. I wondered what the holdup was with Mark Trevino’s backfill.”
“Of course.” Debbie gave Fenway a disapproving look over the top of her glasses. “When were you planning to start looking at the candidates?”
Fenway blinked. “Looking at the candidates? What do you mean? I’ve gotten three applications and I’ve made my decision. I asked for a status update.”
“And I sent you the status update yesterday and asked—” Debbie cocked her head. “I don’t believe I have anything in the system. Hold on just a moment.” She turned to her computer and began clicking the mouse. “In fact, I emailed two weeks ago to see if you didn’t want the position filled.”
“I do—I most definitely do.” Fenway bit her lip. “I don’t understand where the disconnect is. I’ve been adding the interview notes into the system. I hoped we’d be ready to make an offer.”
“An offer? I don’t even have the first steps of the backfill complete.”
Fenway furrowed her brow as Debbie tapped on the keyboard again.
“Now, Sergeant Trevino helped you out by filling in the first two forms that you need to get this process started.”
Fenway’s shoulders relaxed. “I’ll miss Mark.” Then her brows knitted. “Wait—Mark filled out the forms online? What forms?”
Debbie pointed at her computer screen. “The backfill paperwork. Here—you’re listed as the supervisor. We’ve had the job posted on the website and on the job board for—let’s see, six weeks now. Minimum is thirty calendar days, so we’re all good there.” Debbie grinned at Fenway. “I wish all my outgoing employees made it this easy.”
“I’m glad Mark was so helpful.” She lifted her chin hopefully. “So, where are my interview notes?”
It was Debbie’s turn to look confused. “You haven’t even logged into the system.”
“No, that’s not true—I submitted the job req a few weeks ago. I’ve done three interviews. Have you not received any of my notes?”
“They’re certainly not in here.” Debbie cocked her head. “I am equally surprised. You haven’t received any of the emails stating that you need to move the hiring process forward?”
“None.” Fenway felt her heart rate speed up. She thought there was a bureaucratic hiccup—not that she was this far behind. “I don’t understand what I did wrong. I know I made some mistakes when I hired Sarah, but I thought I’d done a better job—”
“Sarah?”
“Sarah Summerfield. My assistant.”
“Hold on—you used the system that you used to hire Sarah Summerfield?”
“Sure.”
Debbie closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again. “You can’t use the same system for hiring administrative and support staff that you use for hiring law enforcement officers.”
Fenway blinked. Oh no.
“Log into the law enforcement officer hiring system,” Debbie said, “and go to the section of the job boards that says, ‘Hiring Manager Access.’ Then enter your username and password—”
“Just my regular system name?”
“No, no, the law enforcement hiring system credentials.” Debbie tilted her head. “You should have received the training from Human Resources when you joined.”
Fenway shrugged. “I jumped right into an investigation when I started.” Plus, the former HR manager tried to kill me.
“Well,” Debbie said, “if you can dig out that email with all your credentials, you’ll have to log in. Then you go in and score all the candidates.” She frowned. “If you never signed up for the law enforcement hiring system, that might explain why you haven’t received any of the email updates.”
“Can you check to see if I’m in the system?”
“It will take me a minute,” Debbie said, staring at the monitor and tapping the keyboard.
“I’ve got time,” Fenway said, though it wasn’t true. The investigation wouldn’t wait. But then, she didn’t want to lose out on hiring Celeste Salvador just because she didn’t have the right credentials in the hiring system.
“Yes, here it is—oh, dear.”
“What?”
“Your name was changed in the system, but the email address is wrong. It should be fstevenson, but instead it’s hwalker. Who is that?”
“He was the coroner before me.”
“But you should be getting his email. It automatically forwards to you for a year.”
Fenway smiled. “I’ve been here fourteen months.”
Debbie clicked on the keyboard, read the screen, then frowned. “I’m so sorry, Miss Stevenson. It looks like you’ve entered notes for three candidates in the administrative hiring system, not the law enforcement hiring system.”
“Can you move them over to the law enforcement system?”
Debbie stifled a sigh. “The fields are slightly different, but I’ll make sure they’re moved over. I feel terrible. Someone should have trained you properly.”
“Well, I’m glad we caught it,” Fenway said calmly, though her heart pounded in her ears. “It’s just three candidates. Hopefully, we can get this back on track.”
“Oh,” Debbie said, primly putting her hands in her lap, “you are required to score all the candidates, not just the ones you interviewed.”
“All the candidates?” Then Fenway closed her eyes. Of course. The job had been posted for six weeks. There must be candidates who applied to the law enforcement hiring system—the correct hiring system. Fenway sighed. “Okay, how many are there?”
“Well, as of this morning…” Debbie turned to the computer, clicked a few times, then pointed at the screen. “Thirty-one.”
“Thirty-one?”
“That’s correct.”
“But—but I’ve identified who I want to hire.”
Debbie winced in sympathy, meeting Fenway’s eyes. “I’ve only been in this role six months, but we must follow the rules. Often, they have to do with the union or with laws written for public employees. I’m afraid we can’t change the rules due to our miscommunication.”
Fenway exhaled and put her hands over her face. “Thirty-one.”
“Plus the candidates you’ve already interviewed.” Debbie pressed her lips together. “The form for candidate evaluation is pretty straightforward, but I must warn you, it’s a bit time-consuming.”
“Just what I need when I’m reviewing the applications of three dozen people.”
Debbie’s eyes turned toward the monitor again. “Well—let’s see what we can do.” She tapped the keyboard. “I can run a few algorithms and if the applicant doesn’t meet the minimum requirements, we can disqualify them without the full evaluation.”
Fenway hesitated. She remembered when the clinic closed in Seattle, how desperate she was for work, and how she hadn’t gotten anyone to respond to her job applications. Was it algorithms like the ones Debbie suggested that kicked her out before she appeared as more than a series of ones and zeros to the hiring organizations?
Debbie was the only one in the office, but she looked around conspiratorially, then lowered her voice. “Can I ask—who did you want to hire?”
“Oh—Deputy Salvador. One of the top scores on the detective exam, and I’ve been in the field with her. She’s great. Fast learner, quick thinker, everything I want in a detective.”
“Ah yes—here she is. Applied online.” Debbie paused. “But—there’s an issue with her application.”
“I know, I know, she’s not at the level of a sergeant yet. But I expect her to get there in another year or two.” Fenway smiled at Debbie. “She’s an exemplary employee, too. Surely that counts for something.”
Debbie paused and looked at the floor.
“Are you saying that her prior performance holds no weight?”
“On the contrary. It’s one of the few things that could affect her score compared to more experienced candidates.”
Something about Debbie’s word choice: affect her score. Not improve her score. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Debbie?”
Debbie looked up at Fenway with wide eyes. “Deputy Salvador was just written up. Insubordination.”
Chapter Twenty
“Insubordination?” Fenway asked from the open doorway of Sheriff Gretchen Donnelly’s office. Fenway’s voice was calm—the rage simmered under the surface, but she could hear the pot lid clinking.
The sheriff looked up from the paperwork on her desk and narrowed her eyes. “Shut the door.”
Fenway closed the door, resisting the urge to slam it. She wanted the walls of the building to shake.
“I told Celeste no overtime.” Donnelly stood and walked to her bookshelf, taking a binder out. “Not two days after we have that conversation, she’s staying late at the storage facility. And then she puts in another four hours last night when she drove you to Hutash Bridge. Where I come from, disobeying a direct order is insubordination.”
“I asked her to do that. I was planning to tell you I’d allocate her overtime to my budget. But I got pulled away by a suspect interview.”
“Yes, well, you didn’t allocate Sandoval’s overtime to your budget. And don’t get me started on the red tape if we attempt to change the cost center number after the fact.”
“Changing the cost center requires just two forms—and that’s on me, not Celeste. Besides, the overtime is justified. We found another murder victim!”
Donnelly set the binder on her desk, but remained standing. “Why don’t you explain that to the Board of County Supervisors when I’m hauled in there for going three million dollars over budget?”
Fenway hesitated—three million dollars for a county as relatively small as Dominguez County was hefty. She put a hand on the back of the guest chair in front of Donnelly’s desk. “The voters put you here for a reason, Gretchen.”
“The reason is, McVie handpicked me.” Donnelly leaned forward. “And I’m not stupid. I’m not Craig McVie. He would go a couple million over budget and smile his easy smile and go in there, and charm Alice Jenkins and let Barry Klein get just enough of his complaints out there so he felt he was being heard.” Donnelly raised out of her chair and pointed at Fenway with two fingers, half-standing. “Well, guess what? Alice and Barry aren’t around anymore, and the new people they have in place are former accountants. They want murders solved between eight and five.” She glared at Fenway. “Tell me, why don’t you have to deal with the politics I do?”
Fenway blinked.
Oh no. Could it be…
Donnelly scoffed. “You may not have the same last name as your father, but the specter of Nathaniel Ferris is still strong in this county.” She shook her head. “You don’t realize all the interference he runs for you, do you? He’s happy to suggest cuts for the sheriff’s office, but the coroner’s budget isn’t touched.”
“Then I’ll take one of your problems off your hands,” Fenway said. “Celeste scored high on the detective exam. And if you’re worried about all the overtime she’s pulling, then rescind the write-up so I can hire her. Make her overtime my problem, not yours.”
“Just like all the murders in this county. Your problems, not mine.”
A sharp tone in Donnelly’s voice put Fenway on edge. She chose her words carefully. “It’s literally my job description. I’m the coroner. My job is to investigate all deaths outside of a home or hospital.”
“And my job is to write up my employees when they disobey direct orders.”
“What—” Fenway almost said, what’s your problem? But that would have been extremely unhelpful. “I’m sorry this is a bad situation,” she said instead. “I want Celeste to work for me. You have a problem with her overtime. It’s a win-win.”
Donnelly’s gaze softened, and she sat back down in her chair. “Solution-oriented as always, Coroner.”
Fenway wasn’t sure if that was sarcastic or not, but she let it slide.
Donnelly steepled her fingers and looked at Fenway over the top of her hands. “What do I get out of it?”
Fenway blinked. “What do you get out of it? I just told you, it’s a win-win. You get rid of an employee who was giving you budget issues.”
Donnelly folded her arms. “I need something more than that.”
Fenway paused, then nodded. “I can’t make up for the shortfall, but once she’s reporting to my department, I’ll transfer all of Celeste’s overtime into my budget. At least for this quarter—I don’t think we can go back further than that.”
“Something more,” Donnelly repeated.
Fenway blinked. “Like what?”
Donnelly put her hands down on her armrests. “You’ve shown that you’re a savvy, intelligent woman. I’m sure you’ll figure something out—and I’ll bet you figure it out soon.”
Fenway pursed her lips. What did that mean?
Hold on—no.
Was Donnelly asking for a bribe?
Where in the world did Donnelly get the idea that Fenway could afford a bribe? Oh, of course. Fenway’s father was rich.
A bubble of rage grew again in the pit of her stomach, but she tamped it down. She always thought she could trust Gretchen Donnelly, but no more. Should she reach into her purse and start recording this conversation on her phone?
Hang on—was Donnelly recording her, trying to catch her offering a bribe? While her nemesis, Dr. Barry Klein, was no longer mayor, Fenway knew she still had enemies. But California was a two-party recording state. Donnelly couldn’t use any of the recording unless Fenway agreed to it—not without a warrant.
Fenway nodded, her head spinning, doing everything she could to keep her face neutral. “All right, I’ll give it some thought. Thanks for your time.”
Fenway opened the door, using every ounce of self-control not to scream.
She turned down the corridor and was heading toward the front doors of the sheriff’s office when a voice called out. “Coroner!”
She turned at the low, somewhat familiar voice. There, hurrying down the row of cubicles, was Captain Steve Alvidrez.
“Glad I caught you, Coroner.”
“Everything all right?”
“Better than all right.” His face broke into a grin. “The eighteen wrapped bags discovered at the cabin belonging to Miranda Duchy?”
Fenway tilted her head. “Has that already gone through the lab? It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours.”
“I know a guy.” Alvidrez winked. “You were right, Coroner. It’s morpheranyl. Matches another batch of Nyllie that the Riverside County Sheriff seized two weeks ago. That narrows down where we search for the packaging and distribution center.”
“That’s good news.”
“There’s better news. You should talk to a certain someone in the drunk tank.”
Fenway tilted her head. “The drunk tank? Did Tyra Cahill get blind drunk and cause a disturbance?”
Alvidrez shook his head. “What would I care about the victim’s ex-wife? No—this is someone who could take down the Nyllie dealers in SoCal.”
Fenway furrowed her brow.
“Calvin Banning.”
Fenway walked over to the jail, Captain Alvidrez following a step behind her. The windy morning was getting humid and hot, and she broke out in a light sweat underneath her blazer. She and Alvidrez showed their identification to the guard, signed in, then they waited in an interview room on the right side of the hallway past the metal detectors, with a metal table and three uncomfortable plastic chairs.
The door opened, and a guard walked in with a tall, thin man in front of him. The man had pale skin, but his face was ashen, his eyes were bloodshot, and he walked with a little uncertainty.
“Calvin Banning?” Fenway said.
Banning shifted his eyes to Alvidrez, a look of mild disgust on his face, then his gaze turned to Fenway. Although she was sitting down dressed in a blazer and trousers, Banning’s eyes raked over her, and she felt like she had to take a shower.
“Have you dropped from heaven, love?” Some kind of British accent, maybe from the northeast. Geordie, perhaps. Not quite Scottish. She’d seen a patient from Newcastle in the clinic in Seattle, almost an identical Geordie accent. Like her former patient, Banning was a long way from home.
Alvidrez bristled. “That’s enough, Mr. Banning. Our coroner is investigating the death of the guy who’s been storing the Nyllie for you.”
“Not our Nyllie, mate.”
“The bad news for you, Mr. Banning, is that a thumbprint belonging to you was found on one of the Nyllie bricks.”
“Had nothing to do with it, did we.” The end was a question spoken like a statement—and used the Newcastle way of referring to himself in the plural.
