The Accused Coroner, page 5
“It’ll be fine. It’s been hours. The police have probably gone to harass someone else.”
“What kind of car should I be looking for?”
Lyric sighed. “A Beetle.”
“Like, the classic?”
“No. It’s about eight years old. I don’t think that counts as classic.”
“Color?”
“Mint green.”
“Nice.”
“I thought it was the greatest color in the world for about two months. Now I can’t stand it.”
Fenway smiled. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Pull to the curb and I’ll get in.”
“Anyone tell you you’re paranoid?”
“You think all the cops who were running red lights, speeding around corners to interrupt a funeral to find me—you think they’re all gone? That I can walk into the parking lot of that church and no one’s stopping me?”
Lyric paused. “I guess it’s not something I’d bet my freedom on.”
“Nope.”
“Okay. It’s another block or two that way.” Lyric pointed down Slauson past the park. “I’ll be five or ten minutes tops.”
Lyric walked away.
Fenway fished two dollar bills out of her pocket and bought a lemonade from the hot dog place. Taking a seat, she glanced around the intersection. Slauson and La Brea—gas stations on all four corners. The six-lane thoroughfare of Slauson Avenue was busy in the mid-afternoon.
She sipped the lemonade—it was the first time she’d had a moment to breathe since she left the church courtyard. Piper had saved her hide. And everyone who was working on her side back in Estancia, too—her dad and Charlotte, almost certainly, and McVie, and probably others—though she wasn’t sure if her co-workers would be loyal to the police or to her.
What were her options?
The only thing she wanted to do was catch Barry Klein’s killer—and find out who set her up.
Catherine Klein made the most sense. While there were many people who found Barry Klein irritating, she couldn’t think of anyone else who would both want Barry dead and Fenway framed.
But something about Catherine Klein killing her husband didn’t feel quite right. Yes, Catherine slept around. But if Piper’s rumors were right and they had an open marriage, cheating wouldn’t be a motive for Barry’s murder.
So why might Catherine want Barry Klein dead?
As Piper had mentioned, it was possible that one of those dalliances had turned into love; that Catherine Klein wanted a divorce, and that Barry might not have agreed to let her out of an unfulfilling marriage due to his political ambitions. Knowing Barry, his thirst for power wouldn’t have stopped at mayor.
Maybe there were other possibilities.
Fenway had read an article about a woman whose husband convinced her to open up their marriage, but she felt pressured into it and hated it. Maybe Catherine had felt murder was the only way out. Or maybe it had nothing to do with their love life. Maybe Barry had a lot of money that Catherine wanted all to herself. Maybe he had betrayed her another way by missing one too many anniversaries or disrespecting her once too often.
Might Dr. Richard Ivanovich have done it?
It was a stretch. Yes, the life he had in Estancia was gone, and Fenway did think that Estancia was a better spot than Pomona, but to blame Klein for his life going upside down enough to kill him—and blame it on Fenway?
She supposed she’d heard of crazier things.
The loud sound of sucking air brought her back to the present—her lemonade was empty. She continued to sit at the plastic table in front of the hot dog place waiting for the mint green Beetle. Fenway dug her phone out of the pocket of her sweats. She hadn’t noticed what time she’d sat down, but surely it had been more than ten minutes. What could have happened?
Maybe Lyric had second thoughts about helping her. Maybe she simply abandoned Fenway. Maybe she was talking to the police.
Fenway stood and walked to the alley between the hot dog place and the gas station. She was in shadow here, and the path led down a side street. Fenway peered down the road—it looked like a residential neighborhood. Was that better for avoiding the police or worse?
She watched each car going by and almost jumped out of her skin when a police cruiser passed. But it didn’t slow down.
She glanced at her phone again. Ten minutes had passed since she finished her lemonade. It had been too long now. Wasn’t Lyric coming?
Fenway had no way to get ahold of her either.
But it was okay. She’d go to the Skyway Ladera Inn and see if she had enough to stay the night. If not, she’d call Piper’s burner phone back. There had to be some sort of plan.
Some sort of plan.
It was all well and good for Fenway to think about catching Catherine Klein or Richard Ivanovich, or discover another suspect, but how exactly was she supposed to do that?
She didn’t have any of the sheriff department’s resources at her disposal. She had a small wad of cash—though with her father and Piper, hopefully that wouldn’t be an issue for much longer—but without her car and with the police searching for her, she wouldn’t be able to investigate the murder of Barry Klein the way she’d investigated others.
In fact, if she showed her face back in Estancia, she’d need to hide. People didn’t know her in Los Angeles. She could walk down the street here—the baldness was a big plus for a disguise—and no one would bat an eye. But in Estancia, those who didn’t know her when she was the daughter of the richest man in town would certainly know her as coroner. She didn’t get stopped in grocery stores, but she’d met plenty of people who knew who she was.
So how could she solve the case without getting caught?
Maybe Piper could hide her. Or McVie. Or Rachel or Dez or maybe even Sarah. But how could she clear her name with only an internet connection and a burner phone?
No. Returning to Estancia would be a stupid move. Without resources, without any clues, without a firm suspect, without any semblance of a plan? Idiotic.
How could she expect to get clues if she couldn’t go back to Estancia, though?
That was a dumb question. The internet would work as well in Los Angeles as if she were locked up in Piper’s spare bedroom in Estancia. She wouldn’t be able to interview people—but even if she were in Estancia, she couldn’t talk to anyone anyway. It would be too risky.
She closed her eyes. She was lucky to have friends like Piper. And McVie. They believed her. Fenway wondered if her mother had had these kinds of friends—this type of support system—when things had turned upside down for her. She’d ended up running—upending her life and running away. Not once, but twice.
Maybe her mother had a good support system but couldn’t find any other way around the problem. It wasn’t hard to see why—with both the police and possibly drug dealers after her, it was no wonder she’d gotten a new identity and run away.
A new identity. It would be good to get some sort of identification that didn’t say Fenway Stevenson. She wondered if she could get a new ID without Lyric. Even one of the cheap driver’s licenses kids would use to get past the bouncer at a club, or if she was lucky, something higher quality.
She opened her eyes and rested her chin in her palm. The police were still following her in Los Angeles. If she only needed a phone and an internet connection, maybe she could get further away. Seattle, maybe—she still had friends there. Or maybe somewhere she had no history, where the police wouldn’t have any reason to look for her. Would Las Vegas or Phoenix be far enough away?
Then a thought struck.
Mexico.
She could go down to Ensenada or maybe further inland, where it was cheap to live. Disappear like her mother did. She’d still have access to a phone, to the internet. Her father could send her enough money to make do until she solved Barry Klein’s murder.
For a moment, the excitement of open-ended possibilities danced in her head. She’d only been in Estancia for nine months anyway, and disappearing to a tiny town in the Mexican grasslands would be the stuff legends were made of. Sit down, sonny, and I’ll tell you the story of Fenway Stevenson, the greatest coroner Dominguez County has ever seen. Solved eight murders the nine months she was here, then committed one herself—our no-good mayor. The city knew it was addition by subtraction—Fenway sacrificed herself so the rest of us could be free. The statue in front of City Hall? That was dedicated a few years after her disappearance, and to this day, every January thirteenth, we burn Barry Klein in effigy.
Suddenly the thought revolted her. Didn’t Fenway owe it to herself to put up a fight? Didn’t she owe it to her friends? Her constituents, even? She’d accomplished more than any other coroner had in the county. She’d put half a dozen murderers away—not to mention the whole crime organization she’d cut off at the head.
She looked at the clock on her phone. It had been thirty minutes since she noticed she’d been sitting for a long time, so probably forty or forty-five.
Crap. No Lyric.
If she had to get a room for the night, she might as well start comparison shopping. There must be some hotels around here, or public buses where she could go further away for two or three dollars.
She had just stepped out of the shadows toward the sidewalk when a mint green Volkswagen Beetle pulled to the curb.
Fenway sprinted to the car, holding her plastic pharmacy bag, and opened the passenger door. Lyric was shaking. Her dress was torn at the elbow, and a lump was darkening on her forehead.
“Are you okay?”
“Thank God you’re still here,” Lyric said as Fenway got in. “You were right. The church parking lot was crawling with cops. One of them pulled a gun on me when I got within twenty feet of my car.”
“They pulled a gun on you?”
“Yes. They knocked me down and handcuffed me. Said I was walking toward a silver Accord.”
A chill went down Fenway’s spine. “That’s my car.”
“Yeah, I figured. They said I matched the description of a criminal in the area.” She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel, looking in her rearview mirror. “And then one of the cops bent down and said I wouldn’t get away with it.”
“He said what?”
“He obviously thought I was you.”
Fenway nodded. “How’d you get out of it?”
“The pastor and his wife came out of the church. He yelled at the police to stop what they were doing, that I wasn’t the person they were looking for. One of the cops really wanted to arrest me. No, not just arrest. He was looking to do some damage.”
“Did they believe him?”
“They dumped my purse out onto the ground and found my driver’s license. The cops argued—a couple of them still didn’t believe who I was. Finally, the woman who was recording everything showed them the article about the mayor’s murder with your picture. Then they finally believed me.”
Fenway gritted her teeth. She couldn’t think of anything to say.
“They were pissed off that I wasn’t you, too. The one who said I wouldn’t get away with it screamed at me about approaching the Accord and didn’t let up until I opened my car door. They stared at me while I gathered everything up that they’d dumped out, put it back in my purse. The pastor’s wife started to help me and then one of them grilled her.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah. But then there was one cop, he looked to be older than the rest—and they were no rookies—told him to lay off. He apologized to me for the ‘misunderstanding.’ I didn’t say anything, finished gathering my stuff and drove off.”
“And you came back to get me? You didn’t protect yourself and go home?”
Lyric shook her head. “After what happened? Absolutely not. I can’t abandon you—there’s something rotten about how the cops are treating this.”
“It’s not par for the course? They think I killed the mayor of my city. That’s got to be close to killing a cop, right? Isn’t that why they’re treating me like I’m so dangerous?”
“I don’t think so.” Lyric pushed down the visor and stared at her forehead in the mirror. “The mayor is a politician. The police don’t view him the same way they view other cops. No—something feels wrong. I don’t know if the dead mayor had something on these cops or if he had something on you. I had a few doubts about you being set up before, but now I’m sure of it. And whoever’s behind it is trying to get the cops to do their dirty work for them.”
They came to a red light, and Lyric turned to Fenway. Her mascara had run, and the dark spot on her forehead was beginning to turn green.
“They would have killed you, Fenway.”
Chapter Four
Fenway sank into silence as they drove. They would have killed her.
Fenway took a deep breath—Lyric’s car smelled faintly of fast-food fries—and reviewed the suspects.
She kept coming back to Catherine Klein. Fenway had investigated the deaths of two of Catherine’s lovers so far, and the two women weren’t exactly on friendly terms. Fenway was doing her job, though, going where the evidence led.
Maybe Catherine didn’t see it that way.
Had she said something to Catherine that could have been taken the wrong way? Maybe some inquiry Fenway had made that had gone beyond investigation into invasion of personal space? A hundred questions flew through her mind.
They turned left, and Fenway raised her head. This was Western Avenue. They were heading toward the USC campus. Maybe toward Lyric’s house or apartment. Somewhere Fenway could change, get her bearings. And the two of them could regroup and figure out a plan.
“We heading to your place?”
Lyric looked at Fenway out of the corner of her eye. “We need to stop somewhere first, remember?”
“Maurice’s old print shop. But I thought after the thing with the police you’d have a change of plan.”
“Why would you think that?”
Fenway cleared her throat. “When I was looking into where my mom had lived before, I came across a police report that Maurice’s brother had been arrested for making fake IDs.”
Lyric stared straight ahead. “I don’t know why I’m so surprised that you’ve done your homework.”
“Not well enough to come across your name—but then, I was looking at the 1980s and ’90s. And you weren’t exactly around then.”
“Right.” Lyric paused. “No one’s ever talked about it, but some of the family think that Maurice’s brother made a fake ID for Samara and she went on the run. If that happened, I don’t even think he told Uncle Maurice or Aunt Nell.”
“So—the print shop is already in the police files.”
“They had no proof. The cops came back twice to raid the shop and never found a thing. Then after Maurice passed away, my cousin André bought this building. Cheaper to buy than to lease—the property owner’s wife was practically giving it away in the divorce.”
“But they’re searching for me. Don’t you think they’ll look in the print shop that was used for fake IDs that one of my relatives owns?”
Lyric shrugged. “That was thirty years ago. How many of those cops are even still around? Who’ll remember that? And the print shop is no more. It’s got a new name, a new location—even a new owner and tax identification number. Even if somebody does remember this, it’ll take a while to track down.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself.”
Lyric squinted at Fenway. “You said you were, what, a county coroner?”
“Right.”
“And you said you’re being set up.”
“Right.”
“If you’re that worried, we can forget about seeing if André can help you out.”
Fenway hesitated. “No. I need an ID.”
“Then let’s see what we can do.”
Ten minutes later, Fenway and Lyric were walking around the rear of a lawn mower repair shop. A red brick building stood fifty yards from the corner, abutting the back of the shop. A blue steel door was set into the brick on the right and a roll-up warehouse door, closed, was twenty feet to the left. A faded sign reading Western Regional Printers hung above the blue steel door. Lyric strode purposefully across the cracked asphalt, keys in hand, and unlocked the blue door. It swung open, and Lyric stepped inside. Fenway followed.
The fluorescent bulbs hummed and cast a bluish tint on the small outer office. Two particle-board desks sat in the open office area, one on either side of the room, both covered in paperwork. Behind the left-hand desk, a large bulletin board held dozens of legal notices next to several papers with Work Order printed at the top. The right-hand desk was clear of anything personal; only a computer and several stacks of paper were on it. The path between the desks led to a hallway, steeped in shadow, and to the left of the bulletin board, the warehouse area was visible through the open double doors.
“Is anyone here?” Fenway whispered. The noise of the street was muffled, almost eerie, in the brick building.
“Probably,” Lyric said, walking quickly through the small office and into the shadowy hallway. “André’s around here somewhere. I saw his Thunderbird parked in front of the auto shop. I think he and Luke are downstairs.”
“Downstairs?”
Lyric walked back out into the front office. “Okay—I’m about to show you some things, Fenway. You’re a coroner, which puts you about an inch away from being a cop. You’ll see some things here that you may not like. Some things you may want to report. But you won’t do that. Not if you want my help.”
Fenway was quiet.
“If you get out of this—if you find out who’s trying to set you up and you get your life back to normal, I don’t want some cop to come knocking on the front door asking to see the basement. Promise me that won’t happen.”
I won’t promise that if they’re doing some sort of torture chamber or child trafficking ring, Fenway thought. But no—she’d said she needed an ID, so it was most probably equipment for fake IDs. Maybe some contraband or a counterfeiting operation going along with it. “Okay,” Fenway said. “I promise.”
Several pallets, shrink-wrapped and sporting the Bendtastic logo, stood in the middle of the warehouse floor. Only one pallet, the one nearest the back wall, was unwrapped. Shorter than the other stacks, the top box on one of the sides was about four feet off the ground.
