The Upstaged Coroner

by Paul Austin Ardoin

  “Yep.” McVie set his jaw. “Before I came to breakfast, I stopped into the it department and Piper filled me in on the rest of the oil tanker story.”

  “Oh, right. I was going to tell you, I swear.”

  “Well, we got—” McVie looked at Fenway and smirked “—distracted with other things.” He cleared his throat. “That Dutch company—do you remember when Homeland Security threatened them with sanctions a few years ago?”

  Fenway thought about it but shook her head. “That might have overlapped with the winter I pulled graveyard shift in the er. I don’t remember much from those months. I saw so little sun, people started thinking I was white. Banks started sending me loan applications.”

  McVie rolled his eyes. “Anyway, Homeland Security threatened Petrogrande because they kept doing business with oil fields in La Mitad that were owned by the government.”

  Fenway nodded. “Right, that kind of rings a bell. Human rights abuses. I knew La Mitad was on the sanctioned countries list.”

  “This happened right after La Mitad was sanctioned. Petrogrande made excuses that they signed a contract before the sanctions, and Van der Meer kept saying that they weren’t responsible for what an independently operating subsidiary did.”

  “They’re not even an American company, so how can Homeland Security threaten that?”

  * * *

  “They can shut down their u.s. operations, and that’s just what they said they’d do. Van der Meer called their bluff—but they weren’t bluffing. They rolled out the National Guard. vdm Fuel stations stayed closed all over the Northeast before Van der Meer caved.”

  “Oh, right, I remember that. I didn’t realize that was about Petrogrande. Rose used to work for them.”

  “Yes. In something called ‘midstream accounting’ for two years, and then got promoted to—uh, what does that say?”

  “‘Asset and fund accounting project manager.’”

  “You ever heard of a job title like that?”

  Fenway shrugged. “I bet I haven’t heard of fifty percent of the job titles in the oil industry.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of that.”

  “I don’t suppose the consulting company is in here,” Fenway said, turning the page.

  “No,” McVie said, “we’re not that lucky.”

  The server came by, setting a full mug of coffee in front of Fenway. “Morning, Sheriff. Morning, Coroner. Refill, Sheriff?”

  “Please,” McVie said, pushing his nearly empty cup over.

  “You ready to order?”

  “The Jill’s Favorite, no sour cream, English muffin,” Fenway said, eyes still on the page.

  The server nodded at McVie. “Anything for you this morning?”

  “Just the coffee, thanks.”

  She turned and walked away.

  Fenway frowned. “There’s a gap of six months between when Rose left Petrogrande and when she started at Central Auto Body.”

  “She rented her house about two weeks before she got that job, too.”

  Fenway looked back at the cover page. “On Sunrise Terrace, no less. That’s a nice neighborhood. Overpriced. I’m surprised she can afford it on an accountant’s salary at an auto body shop.”

  “Maybe she has roommates.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Or maybe Domingo Velásquez pays Big Four rates. If he’s involved in the whole money laundering thing, he can probably afford to.”

  “Maybe.” Fenway turned to the middle of the report. “When did she move?”

  “It’s kind of fuzzy. She left her job at Petrogrande in March and then came on with the auto shop in October. Between those two dates, she obviously left Houston and came to California, but the report isn’t complete.”

  Fenway pulled her phone out and put her finger under the Petrogrande section. “Maybe her last supervisor can tell us what happened.” She started to tap the numbers into her phone. “Dor Trejo. Been with Petrogrande for—oh wow, it was twenty years last week.”

  “I don’t know, Fenway. A lot of these big companies get their hr departments involved and they can only confirm when people have started and departed. Especially if the employee left on bad terms.”

  “I’m sure I’ll get his voice mail.”

  The phone rang and a voice immediately answered. “Bobby! Don’t tell me the shipment was delayed. You told me there’d be no more—”

  “Mr. Trejo?” Fenway interrupted.

  There was a pause. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m not Bobby. I just have a quick question for you.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the line; Fenway was sure Dor Trejo thought she was a salesperson. “Sorry, I saw the Seattle area code and thought you were one of my suppliers.”

  “No sir, but I promise I won’t take up much of your time. My name’s Joanne Stevens, from the accounting department here at Northwest Gas and Electric, and we’ve been impressed with a woman named Rose Morgan, who’s applied for an accounting position. I understand she reported to you at Petrogrande?”

  Another pause. “She did. I can direct you to our human resources department where they can confirm her start and end dates.”

  “Oh, I see.” Fenway clicked her tongue, her mind working fast. “She said you’d probably have some sort of policy like that where you wouldn’t be able to recommend her. I understand that—my last company was all about the rules, too. You couldn’t even leave work to go to a dentist appointment without getting a note from the doctor. It’s too bad that good, responsible employees like Rose Morgan can’t even get something as simple as a recommendation from their former supervisors. Well, I won’t take up any more of your time—”

  “Wait,” Trejo cut in, “she told you that I would recommend her?”

  Fenway felt the tug on her fishing lure and tried to let the line out just a bit more. “It’s not a problem if you’re not allowed to recommend her, sir. She told us this would happen. I’ll just assume—”

  “I wouldn’t assume anything if I were you,” Trejo snapped. “If that little bitch thinks she can get away with—” And then, he stopped. Fenway heard a large exhale of breath on the other end—but she knew he was hooked.

  “Mr. Trejo? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” he said, then paused for a beat. “I’m not able to tell you anything about her conduct or the type of employee she was, unfortunately. That’s against not only our policy but an agreement we hammered out with Miss Morgan when she left.”

  “I don’t understand,” Fenway said. “You hammer out these agreements with all employees who leave?”

  “Not all employees, no,” he said. “Northwest Gas and Electricity—you’re a utility, right?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “You don’t do anything with oil drilling, refining, or reselling?”

  “No, we don’t.”

  “That’s good,” he said. “I wouldn’t want Miss Morgan to be in violation of the agreement.”

  “Agreement? You mean to say that if we were in oil drilling, that would be in violation of some agreement you have with her?”

  “I never said that, Ms. Stevens. I just said I wouldn’t want her to be in violation of our agreement. Whatever it might say.”

  Fenway paused for what she hoped was an acceptable amount of time. “Is there anything else you hope that Rose Morgan doesn’t do while in the employ of Northwest Gas and Electric?”

  He laughed. “You’re a monopoly in Seattle, right?”

  “We’re a tightly regulated utility,” Fenway said, trying to sound annoyed. “Almost a million households in western Washington.”

  “I just meant that you don’t have a lot of competition.”

  “Not as many competitors as other industries.”

  “All right, just—uh—just be sure that Miss Morgan isn’t on anyone else’s payroll when she works for you, and you’ll be fine.”

  “What does that mean?” Although Fenway thought she knew what he was
implying.

  “Think about it for a minute,” Trejo said. “Consider how important trust is to the accounting department there.”

  “I see,” said Fenway. “Well, Mr. Trejo, I won’t keep you any longer. I appreciate your time.”

  “Nice talking to you,” he said, and hung up.

  Fenway dropped her phone in her purse as the server put the omelet in front of her. She looked at the plate. The Jill’s Special was fantastic; she could see the zucchini and chopped tomatoes bursting out of the sides of the omelet, where the pepper jack cheese was still melting. The avocados were out of season, and ever since Fenway’s birthday, they started putting in only half the amount they had over the summer months. Fenway frowned—there was a dollop of sour cream in the center of the omelet right on top, with pico de gallo slathered underneath it. She was sure she’d ordered it without sour cream.

  “What’s wrong? Something the matter with your food?”

  Fenway smiled at McVie. “Just thinking about the case. Everything’s fine.”

  She grabbed her knife and scraped off the sour cream, although most of the pico de gallo went with it.

  “Don’t start eating without telling me what that conversation was about,” said McVie.

  “Corporate espionage,” Fenway said, and she put a forkful into her mouth.

  Chapter Seventeen

  McVie drove. Fenway sat in the passenger seat, thinking about what might have happened two years before.

  “So you’re thinking that your father convinced Rose to turn on her company.”

  “I don’t know,” Fenway mused.

  “Tell me again what you think the situation is.”

  Fenway took a deep breath. “Someone—let’s call them Person x—convinced Rose to steal information from Petrogrande.”

  “Okay. But you don’t have any idea who Person x is, or how they got in contact with Rose.”

  “I think Person x is here in Dominguez County, or close to Ferris Energy, anyway.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “I think the connection is La Mitad. Petrogrande had the business relationships there, they knew the logistics, but they had to stop importing oil from La Mitad because of the sanctions.” Fenway paused. “And I assume Piper showed you the photo of the tanker in La Mitad that she thinks is the same tanker as the phantom one at Ferris Energy.”

  McVie nodded. “That makes a certain kind of sense, I suppose.”

  “Only because Domingo Velásquez was one of the people who was laundering the money,” Fenway said. “So far we know—well, we highly suspect—at least three companies of laundering the oil money: Kapp Landscaping, Dr. Tassajera, and Central Auto Body.”

  “And you said there were more.”

  “If Piper can get us the financials today, we’ll be able to tell better.”

  McVie turned off the freeway toward the hills, where Rose’s rented house was. “I’m not sure this is the best time to tell you this, Fenway, but I think I’ll need to suspend Piper for a week without pay.”

  Fenway looked at McVie. “You can’t be serious, Craig.”

  McVie looked over at Fenway. “She broke into a place of business, Fenway. If this investigation isn’t aboveboard, it could come back to bite us.”

  Fenway shook her head. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that ada Kim forced Piper to resign.”

  McVie’s mouth fell open. “What? But—they haven’t even interviewed me! I don’t—I mean, I know she broke the letter of the law, but with intent and with Mrs. Velásquez—”

  “You’re preaching to the choir, Craig. It’s completely unfair.”

  McVie set his jaw. “You and I should go talk to ada Kim.”

  “You can try. I already went down that path with her. She said it’s above her head.”

  “Above her head? What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t say any more.”

  McVie was quiet as they turned onto Sunrise Terrace, and a moment later, the Highlander pulled up next to the curb in front of a small but elegant Spanish-style house, in a sand color with brown trim.

  “I’ll figure out what’s going on.” McVie looked at Fenway. “You ready?”

  “No,” Fenway said. “That worked me up. Hang on.” She took a few deep breaths, still annoyed, and still feeling her pulse race a little, but after about thirty seconds, she nodded. “Now I’m okay. Let’s go see if we can find those ledgers.”

  “And maybe find Domingo Velásquez, too.”

  “Right, of course.” She opened her door and got out. The sun came out for a moment and reflected off the front windows. One of the sheer curtains moved.

  “Someone’s home,” she said.

  “A Mazda 6 in the driveway,” McVie said. “That’s Rose’s car.”

  “How do you want to play this, Craig?” That would have been a better question to ask on the way.

  “It’ll just depend on how she responds to my questions. Hang back, Fenway.”

  “Hang back?”

  “Just for a minute. If Domingo Velásquez is here and doesn’t want to be found, I don’t want to put you in danger.”

  “But you’re okay going up there?”

  “I’ve got a badge and a gun,” McVie said, “and I know how to shoot.”

  Fenway stepped to the side to let McVie pass.

  “Around the front pillar,” McVie said.

  “I know,” Fenway said. “On my way.” She stepped to the side of the porch, putting a stuccoed pillar between herself and McVie. She couldn’t see him, but she heard his footfalls as he stepped up to the front door.

  Fenway faintly heard the doorbell ring. She listened intently, and then heard the door open, and a woman’s voice say, “Yes?”

  Craning her neck around the pillar, Fenway watched McVie nod to the woman in the doorway. She was the same woman from the pictures on the desk at Central Auto Body.

  “Rose Morgan?” McVie asked.

  “Uh, yes, that’s me.” She glanced over at Fenway.

  McVie looked over at the pillar that Fenway stood behind, then briefly closed his eyes. “As you can see, Miss Morgan, I’m here with the county coroner.”

  “Fenway Stevenson,” Fenway said, walking forward and holding out her hand. Rose took it, suspicion in her eyes.

  “You work for Central Auto Body?” McVie asked.

  “That’s right,” Rose replied.

  “We’ve gotten word that your pc is missing from the office.”

  Rose didn’t react.

  McVie frowned. “You’re not surprised to hear it?”

  “Not really,” Rose said. “Did it get repossessed?”

  “No,” McVie said. “You didn’t take it home with you?”

  Rose laughed. “Take it home with me? It’s not a laptop.”

  “The reason we’re concerned, Miss Morgan, is that we believe there’s financial information on it that might put the user of the pc in danger.”

  “In danger? Are you for real? I’m an accountant for a mechanic. Why would I be in danger?”

  McVie glanced around behind him. “Listen, I would rather talk about it inside. I don’t want to worry the neighbors. Especially in this neighborhood.”

  “Worry the—what?”

  “Why don’t we talk about it inside, Miss Morgan—”

  She put her body in front of the sheriff. “Nuh uh,” she said sharply. “I didn’t invite you in. You got a warrant?”

  “No,” he said, “but I’d rather not discuss the danger you’re in where all your neighbors can—”

  “Unless you want me to start talking about my fourth amendment rights in my outside voice, you’ll stay on the porch, officer.”

  “Sheriff.”

  Rose cocked an eyebrow. “Not for much longer.”

  McVie flinched and then visibly relaxed again. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have assumed you’d be okay with discussing this inside.”

  Rose’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Fenway. “Are
you okay with what he just did?”

  “No,” Fenway said, stepping forward, “but it’s kind of my fault.”

  “Your fault?” Rose said.

  “Sure. I found evidence that you and Domingo Velásquez are having an affair.”

  “A what?”

  “His wife filed a missing persons report yesterday,” Fenway lied. “We also found a pile of evidence that he’s booking business that he’s not performing. After his car blew up, killing his son, we found evidence of criminal activity in his business files.” Fenway stepped up onto the porch. “You control the money in that organization.” She looked at McVie. “Now, the sheriff here, he wanted to wait until he got a warrant, he wanted to have you dead to rights before he even showed up.” She tapped her temple. “But I thought you might want to tell your side of the story.”

  “My side?” Rose asked.

  “You know—an older man, a younger woman, you fall in love, he tells you he’ll leave his wife, but he never does. That kind of thing. He asks you if he can have access to the financial files, and since he owns the company, you say sure. He changes a cell in a spreadsheet here, books a couple of questionable accounts there. But he sweet-talks you and says it’s nothing, and suddenly you realize that it looks like he’s doing something illegal, and if the hammer comes down, it’ll come down on you. Then you realize: he’ll never leave his wife. Then his car blows up with his kid inside, and he’s the one who’s been skimming money. So you get your ducks in a row before the cops find the spreadsheets that don’t match and send you to prison for a crime you didn’t commit.”

  Rose pressed her lips together in concentration; Fenway could see the gears spinning inside her head. She had just given Rose a way out. Now Fenway just hoped that she would take it.

  “How am I doing so far?” Fenway asked.

  Rose hesitated. Fenway saw the calculation in her eyes, like a master chess player thinking twenty moves ahead.

  “You know,” Rose said, “you tell a good story. You might even be able to convince yourself it’s true.” She drummed her fingers on the edge of the door as she slid her hands down. “But you have no proof. Because none of that is true. None of that happened. And speaking of not wanting to go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit—I’m definitely not giving up my fourth amendment rights. You’re still not getting in the door.” She set her mouth in a hard line. “So don’t come back here without a warrant.”