The Accused Coroner, page 27
“Fenway, come on. You’ll find out soon enough. Get in the trunk.”
Fenway, arms raised, still holding the bag, walked slowly over to the cruiser, facing Huke the whole time.
His face betrayed nothing, but his eyes kept darting to the road. She’d thought they’d been—well, not friends exactly, but certainly on good enough terms for him to feel a little bad about arresting her.
Except he wasn’t arresting her.
“Donald,” she said, “what the hell is going on?”
“I don’t have time to go into it. Get in the trunk. Another cruiser is about two minutes behind me. They get here and it’s all over.”
Fenway shot Huke a quizzical look but got in the trunk. He strode over to her.
“Your phone,” he said.
Shit.
Fenway dug the burner phone out of the bag. Huke dropped it on the ground and smashed it with the heel of his shoe.
Oh no.
Her only link to Piper. And Sarah.
And McVie.
Huke closed the trunk.
Darkness.
Another engine, coming closer. Muffled sounds as Huke’s voice, amiable, chatty, could be heard through the layers of seats and metal.
Fenway blinked. There was very little light, and her eyes were having a hard time adjusting.
Then a lurch and the grinding of the tires on the asphalt.
He turned right, then slowed—Fenway assumed he was at the stop sign—and went straight. The road curved, and soon Fenway wasn’t sure where she was.
Huke obviously wasn’t arresting her and taking her into the station. But locking her in the trunk was bizarre. Was he so angry at her for the mayor’s death that he was willing to be judge, jury, and executioner?
Nothing about this was in character for Donald Huke. He was a rule follower to a fault; he was so by-the-book he made McVie look like an anarchist.
Even though it was dark, she closed her eyes. She heard the engine and the rumble of the tires on the pavement. Her pulse was racing, and she took deep breaths until the pounding in her veins subsided.
Okay. She had no idea what he would do. But she had the grocery bag with her, and he hadn’t tied her up.
At some point, he’d have to park the car and open the trunk.
He might lower his guard for a moment as the trunk was opening. And she could attack.
Although the mud-caked flats she was wearing were no help, a properly placed kick into Donald Huke’s solar plexus or neck might do enough damage to allow her to get away.
Or maybe springing out of the trunk at maximum velocity, her fingers into his eyes.
The trunk was large, but even so, it wasn’t tall enough for Fenway to crouch. She couldn’t figure out how to get herself into a position to push up and out with her legs.
Oh. There was the Wagneritz in the red grocery bag.
She felt next to her head. Nothing. She groped in the dark, and her hand brushed against the bag. She pulled it close and reached her hand inside. She flinched when she touched something cold and wet—the bottle of water. The plastic baggie rustled, and she had to move the envelopes, but her hand found the gun.
She was angry with herself for not checking if the gun was loaded before she put it in the bag, but she’d been under duress. And if there were bullets in it—well, maybe she could get away. She’d never used a Wagneritz before; the guns she’d trained on were Glocks and Sigs—she hoped the mechanics were similar enough for her to figure out in the dark.
She felt along the upper grip until her thumb found the release button—thank God that was the same—and the magazine released with a click.
Her heart sank. The magazine was light. She ran her finger over the end and found only the smooth plastic of the magazine follower. No bullets.
She sniffed. Well, Huke didn’t know that, did he? And if he thought Fenway would shoot and kill the town’s mayor, maybe he’d think she’d shoot him, too.
But… Huke also had a gun.
And his gun probably had bullets in it.
If he did think that Fenway would shoot him, he’d have no problem pulling the trigger to defend himself. Even if the Wagneritz wasn’t loaded.
Oh, who was she kidding? She couldn’t shoot Donald Huke. And he probably knew that.
Reluctantly, Fenway put the Wagneritz back in the grocery bag. She wondered if a kick would work. She didn’t have mace or pepper spray in her purse. She couldn’t even use this time for research or anything else that might be useful.
That might not be true. Maybe the laptop had some battery life left. She didn’t have a charger—and even if she did, she might be not able to use it in the trunk anyway. Supposing she could turn on the laptop, could she get past the login screen?
The point was moot: she couldn’t get the laptop out of the bag anyway. She could touch the machine, but it was buried at the bottom, and she’d have to empty everything else out first. She’d probably need at least five minutes to get the laptop out of the bag without spreading everything over the whole trunk.
OK, so the laptop wasn’t a good idea. And the gun wasn’t a good idea.
Could she get enough leverage to kick out hard?
She scooted until her shoulders and head were jammed against the back of the trunk. Her legs were bent at the knee, and she propped herself up on her elbows.
It was uncomfortable, but it was the best position she’d get. And with her long legs, she probably could connect with Huke—either his gut or his family jewels.
She’d have to be vigilant—if he had a gun in his hand, she’d want to focus on that. She could be accurate and kick it out. She’d have to be. Her life depended on it.
After a while—Fenway couldn’t tell if it was ten minutes or half an hour—the cruiser slowed. She reminded herself that it would probably be dark outside by now. Her stomach grumbled in protest—when was the last time she’d eaten? Oh—the water and the granola bar. Those were still in the bag.
Hmm—she could splash water in Huke’s face. He wouldn’t be expecting that. It might buy her a split second—and that might be all she’d need to aim with her kick. She pulled the grocery bag over again and felt inside. The granola bar had gone down to the bottom, but she grabbed it, opened the wrapper, and took a bite.
The cruiser turned left and bounced slightly—into a parking lot, perhaps? Was it back at the sheriff’s office?
No, that couldn’t be right. If Huke were taking her to the sheriff’s office, she’d be in the back seat in handcuffs, not in the trunk.
She was being taken somewhere to be killed, she was sure of it, and this was where it would happen. Maybe Darren Ellsworth had bribed Huke, or somehow convinced him that the mayor would never get justice if Huke didn’t take things into his own hands.
The cruiser hadn’t seemed to go uphill, so a spot in the mountains was unlikely. Maybe Coast Harbor State Park. It was off-season, so there would be very few campers. It would be a good place to kill someone and get rid of a body.
The cruiser came to a full stop and shuddered as Huke turned off the engine. She heard the door open, then shut a moment later. Footsteps from the driver’s side door around to the back of the car. She positioned herself and pushed against the back of the trunk with her shoulders, unscrewing the lid of the bottle of water. It wasn’t acid or even soda, but all she needed was a quarter of a second.
The sound of the key in the lock.
The trunk opened almost leisurely. An artificial light—from a motel walkway, perhaps—silhouetted Huke’s form. He dipped his head, his eyes level with the trunk lid.
Fenway pounced.
She sloshed the water out, and it hit his face—a perfect shot. Huke straightened, hands flying to his eyes to protect them.
Gun in his holster.
She kicked high and far with her right foot, her body uncoiling from the trunk, catching Officer Huke in the chin. He staggered backward.
Fenway landed on her feet, turned and grabbed the grocery bag, and sprinted toward the front of the car.
A parking lot.
Nearly empty. Ironwoods. Scrub pines. The driveway went uphill to the left.
Thirty feet, Fenway thought. If I can just make it to the road.
No plan after that. Huge still had the cruiser. He could come after her. And she had no phone.
The sign at the top of the parking lot.
The Belvedere Terrace Resort.
She knew this place. Not well, but well enough to know there was a footpath another thirty feet up the road—hidden pretty well too. If she could get there and then duck down, maybe hide herself in the brush, she could wait for the cruiser to pass and then take the path down to the ocean. It was across from the refinery—her father’s refinery.
She redoubled her efforts to sprint, her shoes still squishy on the asphalt, and made it to the road. It was like tasting fresh air.
Wham.
Fenway was on the ground, on her stomach, on the shoulder of the road. She wanted to scream but knew she shouldn’t attract attention.
She struggled to get up, the weight of the other body still on top of her. The body that had tackled her was of medium height, lithe, a female form. Not Donald Huke.
Melissa de la Garza.
Fenway grunted. “You’re not taking me. I’m innocent—”
“We’re on your side!” Melissa hissed. “Didn’t Donny tell you? We know you’re innocent!”
Fenway stopped struggling. “What did you say?”
“We know you’re innocent! Why do you think we smuggled you here in the trunk?”
“I—I thought Donald was…” Fenway trailed off.
“You thought Donny was what?”
“Uh… going to kill me.”
“Didn’t he tell you—”
“He scared the shit out of me and told me to get in the trunk. He broke my phone!”
Melissa shook her head and pushed herself off Fenway, then sat up. “Okay, let’s be quiet and get to the room. I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”
“He could have told me when he was outside the trunk,” Fenway said. “How was I supposed to know?”
“You—you weren’t,” Melissa admitted. “Donny, he gets in his own head sometimes.”
Fenway pushed herself up to her knees. The shoulder of her suit had torn slightly from Melissa’s tackle, but she was otherwise unscathed.
They walked down the slight hill to the parking lot, then followed a path to one of the bungalows in the back.
“Wow, you went all out.”
“This was cheap,” Melissa said. “Off-season. I think there might be a couple other check-ins, and they’re in the hotel proper. Haven’t seen a soul since I got here.”
Melissa used her card key to unlock the door to Bungalow 7. The last time Fenway had been here, the doors worked with a regular key. It was good to see the place get an upgrade.
Inside, the lights were low. Donald Huke sat on the bed, a washcloth over his bottom lip.
“Let me see,” Melissa said.
Huke lifted the white washcloth; it was already bloody. His lip was swollen. “Is it bad?”
“Looks like she got you pretty good.” Melissa put the washcloth back over his mouth. “You better be careful. You know the last guy she gave a fat lip to? He wound up dead.”
“Too soon, Melissa,” Fenway muttered.
“Oh, hush, you know I’m funny,” Melissa said. “Okay, so I guess you didn’t tell Fenway what we’re doing.”
“I did,” Donald said through the mouthful of washcloth. “I told her we knew she was a fugitive and to get in the trunk to stay out of sight of the other police cars.”
“Did you tell her you were helping her?”
Huke was silent.
“It’s your own damn fault,” Melissa said. “You never give anyone enough context. This is why your mother didn’t realize we were dating for two months.”
“I thought it was obvious,” Huke, muffled, said miserably. “And I never took out my gun.”
Fenway turned to Huke. “How did you know I was in the gas station bathroom, anyway?”
“I was responding to a break-in at the Klein house,” Donald said. “I saw you in the rearview mirror as I went around a bend. I had to make sure they didn’t need me at the Kleins’ house before I came back.”
Oof. The Kleins’ house. McVie. “Is Craig okay?”
Huke nodded. “He wasn’t arrested. Deputy Callahan asked him to come in and make a statement. He didn’t like it, but he knows he needs to stay on the police’s good side for his business.” A smile touched the corner of Huke’s mouth. “Plus, I think he was trying to buy time for a certain someone.”
Relief washed over Fenway. “And what are you doing at the Belvedere Terrace?”
Melissa turned to Fenway. “Donny and I are hiding out here because I think someone’s trying to kill me.”
Fenway took a step back. “Kill you?”
“Yes. And I think it’s all tied into the death of Barry Klein.”
“You know they found his wife dead, too. This afternoon.”
Huke nodded, facing Melissa. “We had an all-county meeting about it. I was planning to tell you as soon as I had a chance.”
“So,” Fenway said, “why do you think someone’s trying to kill you?”
“Let me back up,” Melissa said. “Barry Klein called me on Monday afternoon from his car. He wanted me to run some prints right away—he said he’d come to the lab by five o’clock. Then it was six. Finally, at six thirty, he gets there. I’m staying late for this asshole, right? He tosses the baggie with the casings and tells me to run the prints right away.”
“And did you?”
“He made it pretty clear he’d stay there until I did. He was practically breathing down my neck while I was taking the prints. Then I entered it into the database, and my search results came back with a red flag.”
“A red flag?”
“Yeah. The system said it was an unauthorized search.”
“That’s unusual, isn’t it?”
“I’ve seen it a few times before. Maybe once out of every hundred print sets I run. Usually that happens when the fingerprint belongs to an undercover cop or a confidential informant.”
Fenway shifted nervously and thought of her mother. “A confidential informant?”
“Yeah. It’s meant so that someone’s identity isn’t given away during a search. But it can be other stuff too. Maybe it’s someone who’s already agreed to a plea bargain and an expunged record.”
Fenway thought of Darren Ellsworth. “What about if the fingerprints belong to a police detective?”
“There’d have to be another reason that it would get red-flagged. Not just because it’s a cop.”
“Maybe working an undercover case with a CI?”
“Yes, that would do it too.”
“So the red flag made you think something was up?”
“Not at first. It’s usually not that big of a deal. There was a number to call—down in L.A.”
A chill ran down Fenway’s spine. “The Thirty-Third Precinct?”
Melissa nodded. “I spoke to one of the detectives there—I didn’t pay attention to the name he gave me. I told him who I was, I told him who the requestor was—”
“You mentioned Barry Klein’s name?”
“Yeah. Klein was standing right behind me—he wanted me to tell them that he was the mayor, that he’d uncovered evidence of a cold case murder. But they kept saying we weren’t authorized. Well, Klein was having none of it. After I hung up, he had a tantrum in the office. Told me he was sick of everyone in the state protecting Nathaniel Ferris.”
“Wait—he thought that the red flag happened because the prints were of my dad?”
“Right. His theory was that Ferris controlled almost everything in the state—the attorney general’s office, too. I told him I’d never seen a scenario like that. Besides, your dad was on trial for the murder of that professor.”
Fenway chuckled. “That’s exactly what you would say if you were part of the deep conspiracy.”
Melissa shook her head. “You know that’s almost verbatim what he said.”
Fenway sat on the desk chair next to the television. “When did you think your life was in danger?”
“I spent the night with Donny on Monday, then when I went home to get my stuff on Tuesday morning, my apartment had been broken into. They didn’t take anything—at least, not that I saw—but there was a note on my bathroom mirror that said You’re Next.”
Huke stood up and put his arms around Melissa.
“I called the police, and they said they’d send someone. I mean, I’m moving out at the end of the month anyway, but I needed the door fixed. I called the property management company, and they said they’d have it fixed pretty soon. But then the police didn’t show up for two hours, and I called again. They told me that Barry Klein had been murdered—and that you were the lead suspect. That’s when I thought the threat might have something to do with those shell casings. I haven’t been to work since. I sent an email to Dr. Yasuda and told her I was sick and not to expect me in the rest of the week. Now I’m basically off the grid until I figure out who’s trying to kill me.”
“Darren Ellsworth,” Fenway murmured.
“Who?”
“A private investigator in Estancia,” Fenway replied. “He used to be a police detective in the LAPD. But he threatened my—uh, he threatened the parents of a CI when her boyfriend was shot to death. He got demoted for that, and then he left the force. I suspect he’s the one who killed the boyfriend, and now he’s doing everything he can to make sure it’s covered up.”
“You think he’s the one who killed Klein?”
Fenway nodded.
“Why is he setting you up?” Huke asked, the washcloth still over his face.
Biting her lip, Fenway hesitated.
“What is it? Does he have something against you?”
“I think it’s because the CI was… was my mom.”
Melissa flinched, then blinked rapidly.
“Oh,” Huke said weakly.
“I didn’t even discover my mother’s real identity until last week. I didn’t know anything about it, and I barely had any inkling why my mom left her family and changed her name—never mind thinking that Darren Ellsworth was involved. But who knows what he was thinking? He might have thought I was close to revealing the truth. So if I were in jail, I wouldn’t be able to pursue this anymore.”
