The Warehouse Coroner, page 26
“How did your prints end up on it, then?”
A smile came over Banning’s face. “I say by sorcery.”
Fenway rolled her eyes. “Mr. Banning—”
“Yes, love?”
“You don’t understand. That Nyllie brick was discovered near a dead body. With seventeen other Nyllie bricks, by the way.”
Banning shifted in his chair—losing track of that many morpheranyl bricks might have rattled him. He frowned. “A dead body? Whose dead body?”
“Mathis Jericho.”
Banning’s eyes widened, but only briefly—then his face returned to leering impassivity. “Is that name supposed to mean something to us?”
“We’re aware that you, Seth Cahill, and Mathis Jericho would meet. Maybe once a month, every six weeks. There’d be an exchange of money and a storage locker at Cahill Warehouse Storage would magically become unavailable.” Fenway suspected this scenario was true—and if she could read the look on Banning’s face correctly, it was.
“There’s no crime in meeting your mates,” Banning said.
“If you’re storing drugs, there is,” Alvidrez said.
“Are we under arrest?” Banning said.
“For drunk and disorderly, yes,” Alvidrez responded. “And with your fingerprint on the Nyllie brick, and given where we found it, I bet we can find a prosecutor who can make a case for possession with intent to distribute. And that’ll keep you locked up until we figure out whether we want to charge you with murder.”
“I didn’t hurt no one,” Banning said.
“I’ve got a corpse in the morgue with two rotational fractures to the fingers of his left hand that suggests differently,” Fenway said. “Twisting your fingers until they break? That would hurt.”
Banning looked down at the table, not meeting Fenway’s eyes. “Weren’t us.”
A lie. Fenway blinked. What had Dr. Yasuda said? His fingers had been broken three to four months before. Was that timeline important? She couldn’t know for sure.
“It was two fingers the first time he said no,” Fenway said. “What was his punishment this time, when you found out he’d lost the storage facility outright? And what was Mathis Jericho’s punishment for asking to take over for Seth?”
“It were nae—” Banning said, then clamped his mouth shut and crossed his arms.
“It wasn’t like that?” Fenway said. “You’d allow someone to simply walk away?”
Banning raised his head and looked from Alvidrez to Fenway, this time without the leer, then shook his head incredulously. “Haddaway and loss yasel—you’re nae wanting us. Thinking we’ll turn, is that it?”
Fenway leaned forward and stared Banning in the eye. “I’m the coroner. I only care about solving murders. If you killed Seth Cahill, I don’t care if you’re the biggest lieutenant in the Venn cartel—I want to put you away for murder. But if it wasn’t you, I want you to tell me what you know.”
“This Jericho fellow,” Banning said, leaning in toward Fenway, his eyes open and pleading. “Nine-millimeter, yeah? Two in the heart, one between the eyes, like?”
Fenway rubbed her forehead. Banning wasn’t trying to hide the truth this time. He was describing a Venn cartel’s murder-for-hire. Banning didn’t have the facts of how Jericho died. He might be responsible for dozens of overdose deaths in Southern California from morpheranyl, but he wasn’t responsible for Mathis Jericho’s death.
Fenway shot a quick glance at Alvidrez. The captain winced—if Banning had talked about who’d be responsible for contract killings, maybe that could solve other murders up and down the California coast. She paused. Would this be the break that Alvidrez needed for other cases? And was there an opportunity for Banning to talk about who might have committed other murders?
Fenway tried to keep her disappointment from showing. This might be good for Alvidrez, but Banning’s possible identification of a hit man had no bearing on the murders of Seth Cahill or Mathis Jericho. Unfortunately for Fenway, Banning had started opening up to her. She’d have to follow this through.
“Two in the heart and one between the eyes,” Fenway replied. She was deliberately misleading him, but in some cases, maybe the end justified the means.
Banning’s mouth turned into a snarl. “That’s not right,” he said. “You send a message, you do it for accountability, yeah? Mathis were just a kid. He weren’t hurting no one.” He bowed his head. “Had no clue they knew who Mathis were.”
“Sounds like you have a pretty good idea who was responsible?”
Banning turned his tongue over in his mouth a couple of times, leaning back and staring at the ceiling. Finally, he slapped his hands on the metal table. “If Mathis was supposed to be a message, then we’re a dead man anyroad.”
“We can get you protection,” Alvidrez said.
“In prison? Not bloody likely.”
“Maybe not in prison,” Alvidrez said. “I can ask the D.A. to set you up with a new life.”
Banning folded his hands and stared at them for a long time. Finally, he lifted his face to Fenway. “What do we have to do?”
“Let’s hear what information you have,” Fenway said.
“And what if you don’t like what we have to say?”
Fenway shrugged. “You think if you don’t say anything to us, you’ll be safe if you go back into general pop?”
Banning chuckled softly. “You’re a right straight talker. Pretty, too. Shame we’re opposite sides of the law.”
Fenway was silent for a moment. There was nothing she could say; it was all up to him. A minute went by, each second feeling like an hour.
“There were a bloke out of the San Fernando Valley,” Banning began, speaking directly to Fenway.
Fenway looked at Alvidrez. He was rapt with attention. Fenway needed to get back to the murder investigation—but the way Banning was speaking so emotionally, directly to her, she didn’t think she’d get out of there for a while.
An hour later, after Alvidrez had called the D.A. and set up the first steps of witness protection, Fenway stepped out of the interview room. She took a deep breath—handing Banning off to Captain Alvidrez was no simple task. But Banning had no information on either murder.
She looked at her phone. A message from Dez.
Patrick Appleby wants to see you
Fenway put the phone back in her purse and walked past the guard and the security station, and out of the jail.
The morning was still warm, but instead of the eerie pink and lavender, now dark gray clouds covered half the sky.
Some of her friends who had gone to college in the South were fond of a joke: if you don’t like the weather in Houston, wait fifteen minutes. But California wasn’t like that. With the morning so sunny and clear, rarely would the sky change so dramatically. With the sky this gray, the weather would often become chilly, even in summer. But the air was still warm—and humid. Fenway wished she’d brought an umbrella this morning as she stepped into the crosswalk toward her workplace. Hopefully, Alonso wouldn’t make landfall in Dominguez County. Still, heavy rain was certain.
The IT department was in the same building as the coroner’s office, down the corridor. She considered stopping for a coffee at Java Jim’s—but with an hour spent discussing the Venn cartel’s hit man from San Fernando Valley, Fenway couldn’t justify getting her caffeine fix.
She opened the door into the IT office. Jordan Daniels, the IT director, was coming out of his office about ten feet behind Patrick Appleby’s cubicle. He nodded at Fenway in greeting. “Hi, Coroner.”
“Hi, Jordan. Here to see Patrick.”
Patrick’s back was to Fenway, headphones clamped on his ears. She’d learned to get in his line of sight first, instead of tapping him on the shoulder. She walked around the side of his cubicle, trying to make herself as visible as possible. He looked up, nodded, and removed his headphones.
“Good morning, Coroner Stevenson.”
“Hi, Patrick. I heard you wanted to see me.”
“I have completed my review of the doorbell camera footage from Ms. Duchy’s home. The footage started at 9:02 PM on Monday and continued through the time you and Sergeant Roubideaux removed the boxes from the front lawn on Wednesday.” He clicked on his screen. “The camera only records when it detects movement, resulting in seven hours and thirty-three minutes of footage to review.”
“You got it done fast.”
“There was little of note. Often, it was simply a car driving by. The mail delivery on Tuesday. A package delivery that Ms. Duchy signed for on Wednesday morning. People walking their dogs in front of the house.”
“Anyone walking to the side of the garage?”
“Only you and Sergeant Roubideaux.”
Fenway scrunched up her nose. “Then that really doesn’t look good for Miranda Duchy. Hard for anyone to argue beyond a reasonable doubt that she wasn’t the one who put the hammer in her own shed.”
“Possibly, but I did note there are no cameras in the back of the house. It’s possible someone who knew about the doorbell camera came over the back fence. We could potentially access the doorbell cameras for the houses behind Ms. Duchy.”
“I suppose we’ll have to do that. Due diligence, right?”
“Correct. However, the assistant district attorney believes there is now sufficient evidence to arrest Ms. Duchy.”
Fenway raised her eyebrows. “He’s usually pretty cautious.”
“If you would like, I could download the form to apply for the doorbell camera warrant and email it to you. Judge Azurra canceled his docket for the day except for a single arraignment at two o’clock.”
“Oh—thanks, Patrick. That’s very kind. I appreciate it.”
He hesitated. “I feel compelled to point out a door from the side of the garage next to the shed.”
“Right. Our theory is that Ms. Duchy used that door to take the hammer from the car in her garage to the shed.”
“The camera does not cover everything, as I said,” Patrick said. “The technology is not flawless. Someone may have been able to trick the camera not to activate.”
“How would they do that?”
“Movements so slow that the camera would not pick it up. Or keeping out of the camera range until reaching the corner of the house, then staying close against the wall and ducking under the camera doorbell.”
“Aren’t those cameras wide-angle? Designed with that kind of deception in mind?”
“True,” Patrick said. “It’s unlikely that someone would have been able to sneak along the front of the house without the camera picking up at least some of their movements.” He tapped his chin. “If the camera were covered and tricked into not activating, perhaps at night—”
“Two people working together?” Fenway said.
“If two people were working together, the first person makes sure the camera is focused on them, and it’s easier for the second person to sneak by the camera.”
“Right.” Fenway nodded. “Thank you for being thorough.”
“I’ll send you the links to the footage in case you want to review it yourself.”
Yes, that’s just what she needed for the last two days McVie was in town: reviewing seven hours of doorbell camera footage. Oh, and screening over two dozen applicants for Sergeant Trevino’s position.
“You’re quite certain,” she said, “no one was hanging out around the edges of the screen? Waiting to avoid the camera?”
Patrick thought a moment. “The camera shows that the only people who went around the side of the house from the front yard were you and Sergeant Roubideaux.” He ran his tongue along his teeth, debating with himself. “It is possible that the defense will see this and suggest that one of you planted the bloody hammer in Ms. Duchy’s shed.”
“How? Neither of us is carrying a bloody framing hammer.”
“You are both carrying boxes. You could be hiding the hammer behind a box.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I make no judgement other than to say the defense might suggest it. Reasonable doubt.”
Fenway hadn’t considered this possibility, but of course she should have. Half of her was insulted, the other half relieved that Patrick had told her before the defense suggested it at trial.
“Then it’s of prime importance we look at the footage from the doorbell cameras behind Duchy’s house.”
“Remember, Judge Azurra,” Patrick repeated.
“Thank you, Patrick.”
Patrick turned back to his computer screen and put his headphones on.
Fenway turned and walked out of the IT office. The beige carpet of the corridor stretched in front of her, the next steps toward a light she still couldn’t see at the end of this tunnel.
Chapter Twenty-One
Sarah looked up from her computer as Fenway walked in. “Anything?”
“Nothing,” Fenway said, shaking her head. “Came up empty on the doorbell camera footage. We got one of the drug guys on the boat in custody on a drunk and disorderly. He turned on a hit man who works for the Venn cartel.”
Sarah’s eyes went wide. “Does he have a death wish?”
“He thought Mathis Jericho had been killed by—oh, look, it doesn’t matter. I mean, it does matter. Alvidrez is salivating over it. But Banning had nothing to do with our murders. And I don’t think he has any information on who did.”
Sarah nodded. “Miranda Duchy is getting arraigned right after lunch. Two o’clock.”
“Let me guess—Judge Azurra?”
“Good guess.”
“I’ll need to get more warrants drawn up for the doorbell cameras from the two or three houses behind Duchy’s home. Patrick suggested getting Azurra to sign off.”
“Assuming they have doorbell cameras.”
“It’s a well-off neighborhood. Whoever doesn’t have doorbell cameras usually has more elaborate security systems in place.”
Sarah tilted her head. “Why would Patrick suggest Judge Azurra? The phone records? Yeah, Azurra signed off on those, but doorbell cameras are a different set of privacy concerns. I don’t think you have a prayer of getting him to sign those.”
Fenway cocked her head. “I thought Patrick was trying to help—” She stopped, then tapped her fingers on the counter in front of Sarah, her mind spinning.
“He’s more detail-oriented than that,” Sarah said. “Why—”
“I think Patrick doesn’t believe that Miranda Duchy is guilty,” Fenway said in a soft voice. “And he thought if Azurra sees that I’m still investigating other possibilities, then the judge would be more inclined to be lenient during the arraignment.”
“Does he know you got Azurra to sign off on the phone records?”
“No.”
“Why wouldn’t Patrick say anything to you?” Sarah mused.
“Maybe because he doesn’t have proof that Miranda didn’t do it.”
Sarah motioned with her head toward the door of the coroner’s suite. “Go back and ask him.”
Fenway paused.
“He won’t bite you, Fenway.”
“Yeah, okay.” Fenway pushed away from the counter as if it were the wall of a pool, then went out the door, back to IT. She opened the door, nodded to Jordan, then stood in Patrick’s line of sight until he removed his headphones again.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“You don’t believe that Miranda Duchy killed Seth Cahill.”
Patrick frowned, placing his headphones delicately on a headphone stand next to his monitor. “It does not matter what I believe. Only what can be proven in a court of law.”
“Sure,” Fenway said, “but you could help me get to the truth.”
Patrick folded his arms. “There is nothing in that footage that will prove Miranda Duchy’s innocence.”
“Yet you sent me to the judge who’s arraigning her this afternoon.”
Patrick shrugged. “He’s available to sign your warrant.”
“Maybe you missed something on the recording.”
Patrick shook his head. “I missed nothing. I studied the background thoroughly. Nothing would suggest anyone hid the hammer in her shed.”
Fenway tapped her foot and thought for a moment. “All the evidence points to Miranda Duchy. Is there anything you can do to help me out?”
Patrick sighed. “I have been thinking about this all morning. The only thing I could think of was getting the judge to realize that you are not convinced of Ms. Duchy’s guilt.”
Fenway nodded. “Already done, by the way. I asked him to sign off on warrants for another suspect’s phone records.” She tapped her fingers on the corner of Patrick’s cubicle. “But thanks. And please tell me if you do think of anything.”
Fenway walked back to the coroner’s suite. In the hallway, she could hear the wind pick up outside, and the first taps of rain against the front windows. This would be a great day to snuggle up on the couch with McVie with a cup of hot chocolate—
No, wait, the air was hot—too hot for coziness and cocoa. No good being outside. And the weather would get worse.
Her phone rang in her purse: McVie.
“Hey, stranger.”
“This moving stuff is a pain in the ass,” McVie said. “Literally. I ran my shin into the corner of my end table while I was stacking boxes. I’ll have a big bruise.”
“Pain in the leg, you mean.”
“You’re not taking my injury seriously.” McVie chuckled.
Fenway grinned. “Poor baby. Is that client finally leaving you alone today?”
“Fortunately, with this storm coming, his wife is staying home. But I still had to promise I’d get Piper to dig into his wife’s financials. See if she’s got any secret bank accounts or credit cards that are going to a P.O. box, anything like that.”
“I don’t know how you stand all the excitement of private eye work after the boring murders we had to solve.”
“What can I say? I’m an adrenaline junkie.” The sound of a door closing. “Want to grab some lunch?”
