The Warehouse Coroner, page 29
“What about him?”
“That’s the motive. We thought Tyra’s motive might be revenge for Scott’s death. Maybe that’s Hope’s motive, too.”
“You mean,” Dez said carefully, slowing down to forty miles an hour as the rain continued to batter the windshield, “We thought Tyra might have killed Seth because she held him responsible for Scott’s overdose. Now you’re saying Hope killed him—for the same reason? Does that make sense?”
“It’s possible,” Fenway said. “Hope and Tyra were best friends. The two of them were ostracized in high school after Tyra got pregnant and Hope stood by her. Maybe Tyra fell apart when she learned Scott had died, and Hope got overprotective.”
“As a motive for murder?” Dez frowned. “That’s a stretch.”
Fenway jumped in her seat.
“What?”
“I thought of something.”
“Thank God. I thought you saw something in the road.”
“Sorry,” Fenway mumbled, pulling out her phone. She opened the file on the cellphone location. She scrolled back a few weeks.
“This is interesting,” Fenway muttered.
“What?”
“Hope visited Cahill Warehouse Storage a few times a week.”
“Not surprising, if she and Tyra were such good friends.”
“But here—” Fenway tapped the screen. “For the last six weeks. Every Thursday at eight thirty in the morning.”
“Maybe she and Tyra went to breakfast.”
“Tyra doesn’t work on Thursdays. So even if they did go to breakfast together, Hope wouldn’t have gone to the storage facility.”
Dez raised her eyebrows. “So maybe it was an affair with Seth.”
Fenway knotted her eyebrows. “I suppose that’s a possibility. But maybe…” Ugh. The cacophony of rain on the Impala was almost deafening—it was hard to concentrate. She tapped the phone screen again and went back to her email. She scrolled—there it was. Seth Cahill’s bank records. She tapped the email and opened the file.
“Yeah,” she murmured.
“Did you find something?”
“You heard Cahill’s cash deposits were about five thousand more than what was listed in the ledger?”
Dez nodded. “Yeah, I was there when Sarah told you.”
“Right. I think I found the discrepancy.”
“Yeah?”
“Every Thursday for six weeks, Hope goes to Cahill Warehouse Storage at eight thirty. On Thursday afternoon—for the last six weeks—Seth Cahill makes a cash deposit of a thousand dollars at the ATM on St. Bonaventure. Well, a couple of times it was nine hundred. Once it was four hundred.” Fenway looked up. “That’s the missing five thousand dollars.”
“Blackmail,” Dez said.
“It’s not evidence, but blackmail is one reason Hope might have given five grand to Seth.”
“And that’s motive.” Dez exited the freeway, the wind pushing the Impala nearly out of the lane. “Do you want to wait for Sarah to get the name of the person who rented the scooter?”
“I’m impatient,” Fenway said. “But yes, we should wait.”
A flash in the sky illuminated the world so brightly that Fenway blinked. Almost immediately, a boom shook the car.
“The storm is almost on top of us,” Dez said.
“Craig says the storm isn’t as bad as it could be.”
“It’s not a hurricane, but it’s pretty bad.”
Dez navigated around a scooter left in the middle of the street and turned into the office parking garage. Immediately the raindrops slamming against the car ceased. “I don’t think Hope realizes she’s a suspect.”
Fenway swallowed and her ears popped—she could hear herself think again. “She will as soon as Miranda gets released.”
Dez was silent.
“I’m right, aren’t I? Miranda will get released, and Hope will realize we’re onto her.”
“She might not find out for a while.”
“No,” Fenway said, “she might not. But if she does, the storm will provide good cover for her to get away. She could be in Mexico by the time Tropical Storm Alonso lets up.”
Dez grunted.
“Sorry. Our safety is more important.”
“Two conditions,” Dez said. “We’re heading to the office and you’re checking the credit card info. If it matches Hope Dunkelman, then onto condition number two.”
“Which is?”
“Check the weather.” Dez pulled into a parking space. “If the experts have downgraded it to a tropical depression, we’ll go visit Hope Dunkelman. But if it’s still a tropical storm, we’re going home.”
Fenway tapped her weather app, then clicked on the Severe Weather Alert.
Severe Weather Alert for ESTANCIA, CA THU 18 JUNE 05:07 PM
Tropical Storm Alonso Advisory Number 12
Sustained winds at 45 MPH, with higher gusts
Landfall 5 mi NW of Estancia
“Not downgraded yet, but close,” Fenway said, turning the phone so Dez could see. “It was fifty miles per hour when we were at Miranda Duchy’s cabin.”
Dez turned off the engine. “Fine. Let’s go in.”
The wind whipped through the parking garage, stinging Fenway’s eyes. They walked down the ramp, the rain blowing sideways into the covered areas. Fenway and Dez looked at each other at the bottom of the ramp, and Fenway gritted her teeth, then ran through the plaza between the parking garage and the office building. Fenway pulled the door open and the wind nearly tore it out of her hand. Dez grabbed the edge of the door, and they struggled to pull it shut. Finally, they got the door closed, and as it clicked shut, the pressure popped Fenway’s ears again.
“We’re crazy,” Fenway said. She should be in her apartment, cuddled up with McVie. Maybe with the storm, he could postpone leaving for a day or two. She blinked. She needed to catch a killer first.
Dez nodded. “I’m amazed the power is still on.”
Fenway nodded and squished her way down the hallway toward the coroner’s suite. “Let’s hope I can still get that credit card info.”
“I’ll get paper towels from the restroom,” Dez volunteered.
A few moments later, Fenway woke up the laptop in her office. Sarah had sent the notification that ADA Pondicherry had submitted the paperwork to release Miranda Duchy. Given the order of non-essential personnel going home, it wasn’t clear if Duchy’s paperwork would get expedited, or if they’d wait until the storm passed and everyone was called back.
Fenway closed the email, then opened her web browser and clicked the financial app on the county intranet. She opened the spreadsheet she’d gotten from Tailwhip earlier. She copied the credit card number, then went to her financial app and pasted it, then clicked Search.
Mid-Coast Bank
Cards issued: 2
Account owner
Hope Jessica Dunkelman
Fenway looked up as Dez walked in, still dripping, with a large stack of paper towels. “These are terrible, but they’re better than nothing.”
“Got a hit on the card used for the Tailwhip scooter,” Fenway said. “Account owner: Hope Dunkelman.”
“So now we wait for the storm to be downgraded.” Dez sighed. “I could really go for Java Jim’s.”
“The coffee machine didn’t close for the storm.” Fenway grinned. “It even has decaf, so you can keep your wife happy.”
Dez mimed a retch.
Fenway’s phone dinged; it was a weather alert.
Severe Weather Alert for ESTANCIA, CA THU 18 JUNE 05:16 PM
Tropical Storm Alonso advisory number 13
Sustained winds at 37 MPH
Alonso has been downgraded to tropical depression
The deepest water will occur along the immediate coast in areas of onshore winds
Surge-related flooding depends on the relative timing of the surge and the tidal cycle and can vary greatly over short distances
“There’s your second condition met,” Fenway said to Dez. “So if we want to catch Hope Dunkelman—”
“Yeah.” Dez mopped the back of her neck with a paper towel; half of it stuck to her skin. “Maybe we can get something better over at the sheriff’s office.”
Fenway blinked. “The sheriff’s office? Shouldn’t we take—"
“We’re checking out a cruiser,” Dez interrupted. “Ain’t no way I’m getting a soggy murderer into the back seat of my Impala.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The puddles were getting deeper on the freeway and especially on the offramp onto Tres Arboles Road. When Dez steered the cruiser through the right turn, past the five-foot tall brick mini-towers, and into the Prospero Park neighborhood, the street dipped. The cruiser muscled its way through four or five inches of standing water, hydroplaning for a moment, then getting back under control. Fenway exhaled in relief.
Although the sun wouldn’t set for three hours, the sky was dark, like twilight before it became completely dark. Dez’s headlights were on, but the light bounced off the heavy rain, minimizing visibility.
Dez drove carefully, following the streets as they zigzagged next to Prospero Park. Turning onto Rodrigo Avenue, lined with oak trees, Dez narrowly missed a Tailwhip scooter lying partway in the street. The cruiser’s tires didn’t hold for a moment, and the car slid before Dez regained control. Fenway looked over at Dez from the passenger seat.
“Oh, give it a rest, Fenway. Don’t be such a fuddy-duddy.”
“Those newfangled scooters are simply a blight on our fair city,” Fenway said in her best snooty voice.
They pulled up to the curb next to the ranch-style craftsman house on Rodrigo Avenue. The manzanitas and snapdragons were battered from the wind, and some of the pea gravel had been blown over the driveway.
“That drive wasn’t terrible,” Fenway said.
“You weren’t the one behind the wheel,” Dez muttered. “Let’s hurry this up.”
“It’s Thursday, almost six,” Fenway said. “With the storm, Hope should be home, right?”
Dez thrust her chin at a beige sedan and an SUV in the driveway; Fenway recognized the SUV that George Pope had driven through the rear entrance of the storage facility. “That’s their vehicle, right?”
“Right.”
“Estancia’s shut down,” Dez said. “Everyone was sent home. I bet Hope Dunkelman is at home. We should be at home.”
“The sooner we arrest Hope, the sooner we can finish this up.”
Dez narrowed her eyes: yes, they could go home now. But Dez, like Fenway, hated to let the bad guys get away.
Fenway took a deep breath, opened the door, and rushed out of the cruiser, slamming the car door shut and scampering up the driveway to the front porch. She was soaked again.
Dez, right behind her, was also drenched.
“See?” Fenway said. “Piece of cake.”
“If you have gills.” Dez stomped, her shoes squishing water out. “Your can-do attitude is pissing me off.”
“Happy to be of service.” Fenway reached out and rang the doorbell.
A moment later, the door opened. George Pope stood there in sweat shorts and a blue-and-yellow T-shirt reading Estancia High 20th Reunion.
“Coroner?” His eyes narrowed in confusion. “It’s—it’s…”
“Good evening, Mr. Pope. You remember my colleague, Sergeant Roubideaux? From Tuesday—she interviewed your wife at the storage facility.”
“Of course.” Then his eyes widened, and he stepped back, opening the door wider. “Sorry—where are my manners? Get in out of the storm.”
“Thank you.” Fenway stepped inside into the foyer, full of fiddle-leaf figs and ferns, and Dez followed. “You don’t happen to have a couple of towels, do you? I hate to drip on your floor.”
“I’ll be right back.” Pope turned toward the living room. “Hope? The coroner’s here.”
“What?” came Hope’s voice faintly from the back of the house.
“Bring a couple towels!”
Fenway and Dez stood in awkward silence for a moment, only the sound of water dripping off their faces and clothes onto the tile floor next to two of the century plants.
Pope’s eyes darted toward the tile, then back up. He smiled. “Don’t worry. That’ll clean up, no problem.”
Hope Dunkelman appeared, four hot pink beach towels in one hand and a dark green electric lantern in the other. “Oh—Coroner. And Sergeant—uh, is it ‘Roosevelt’?”
“Roubideaux,” Dez said, holding her hand out. Dunkelman handed her a towel, and Dez patted her face off. Fenway took a second towel and wiped the bottom of her blazer, the worst offender on her person in terms of dripping water onto the floor.
“I found it,” Dunkelman said to her husband, holding up the lantern. “In the front of the garage, underneath some boxes. You must have put it there after we went camping.”
Pope pressed his lips together.
“Sorry,” Dunkelman said to Fenway and Dez, setting the lantern on an empty plant stand on Fenway’s left. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe, while we still have power?”
“I found a fantastic tea blend—” Pope began.
“Oh, honey,” Dunkelman interrupted, with a stern yet affectionate glance. “No one likes that farmer’s market tea but you.”
“I don’t need anything,” Fenway said. She cleared her throat and looked at Dunkelman’s face: open, helpful. She narrowed her eyes. “Did you hear Miranda Duchy was released?”
“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Dunkelman replied. “I never thought she was capable of murder.”
“Really?” Dez asked. “I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
Hope smiled with a trace of bitterness. “Don’t get me wrong—I don’t like her. She cheated with my best friend’s husband. But she’d never do the grunt work herself. If she wanted him dead, she’d hire someone. Or something less bloody. Poison, maybe.”
Fenway tilted her head. Not what she expected. Hope didn’t appear nervous or jittery at all. Fenway toweled the rest of her blazer off and thought for a moment. She’d need a different tactic.
Pope cleared his throat and took the two remaining dry towels from Dunkelman. “Did you have other information for us, Coroner?”
“Yes,” Fenway said. She glanced at Dez’s face: uncertainty there, too. “We try to cover our bases during investigations like this. We don’t want to focus on a single suspect so heavily that we lose sight of alternate explanations.”
Dunkelman nodded. “That’s why you let Miranda go, right?”
“Correct.” Fenway felt like she was treading water—not water, exactly, but thick, sticky syrup. Was coming to their house a mistake? She’d expected Hope to be nervous, cagey. Now Fenway needed to buy a little time to think. She pressed the towel against her trousers. The towel came away sopping wet, but her trousers still stuck to her legs. Probably a lost cause. “In the course of our investigation,” she said, “we tracked phone location information and credit card payments.”
Dunkelman frowned. “You’re allowed to do that?”
“We’ve got a court order.” Fenway tried to fold the towel—and nearly knocked the lantern over. She grabbed it just in time before it fell. “That was close.” She set it back on the plant stand. The lantern looked new, but was missing one screw near the bottom. No wonder it was unstable. “Most telecoms and banks cooperate with law enforcement requests. And we have warrants when they don’t.”
“I see.”
Pope stepped forward. “Fresh towel?” He held out his hands: one holding the two dry towels, one empty.
“Thank you.” Fenway put the wet towel in Pope’s empty hand and took a dry one. “As I was saying—”
“How about you, Sergeant?” Pope asked, stepping in front of Fenway. Dez nodded, taking the last dry towel, swapping her wet one.
“The phone location information was kind of revealing,” Fenway said.
“I’ll put these in the laundry,” Pope whispered, pointing to the back of the house.
Fenway nodded, trying to keep her focus on Hope Dunkelman. “And the location information doesn’t appear to back up your alibi, Ms. Dunkelman.”
Dunkelman blinked; a curtain of confusion crossed her face. “I don’t understand.”
“It shows that instead of going to Tyra Cahill’s house, you left here and went straight to Cahill Warehouse Storage.”
Dunkelman folded her arms. “I did no such thing.”
“I’m afraid you only have Tyra Cahill’s word to back you up. The telecom records don’t lie.”
“You must be looking at the wrong number, then. Because both my phone and I were at Tyra’s.”
Fenway’s ears popped again—stupid storm. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
“We can also show that you spent about forty-five minutes at the storage facility, then drove to Miranda Duchy’s cabin near Hutash Bridge. You drove Seth’s Corvette there to hide it, and we think the evidence we have will be enough to convince a jury.”
Dunkelman scowled. “Again, I did no such thing.”
“One more thing,” Dez said. “We also believe you murdered Mathis Jericho.”
“Who?” Dunkelman’s voice came out in a croak.
“Mathis,” Fenway said. “The maintenance and landscaping employee at the storage place.”
Dunkelman’s eyes widened. “Why would I want to kill him?”
“Perhaps he saw you driving the Corvette after you killed Seth.” Fenway pressed her lips together for a moment. “Where is your phone, Ms. Dunkelman?”
“I’ll get it. It’s in my purse. I’ll prove to you I wasn’t anywhere near the storage facility.”
Dez followed a step behind Dunkelman as she stepped into the kitchen, grabbed her purse off the counter, and rummaged through it. She pulled it out, as if triumphant.
“Okay,” Fenway said, pulling her own phone out of her purse, waking it up and tapping on the screen to load the telecom file. It took a moment. She set her purse down on the top of the divider between the foyer and living room. “We have your credit card payment for a Tailwhip electric scooter,” Fenway continued, “activated at Miranda Duchy’s cabin, and ridden back to the storage facility.”
