“We’ve got people at the front desk who’ll do that,” McVie said from behind her. She jumped a little at his voice and turned around. He and Dylan were standing next to each other.
She smiled at McVie. “Okay. Maybe one of them could bring Rachel and me a couple of mugs when it’s finished.”
“Why don’t you come on back to the interview room? I’ve got some questions for Dylan, and you might want to sit in.”
McVie left Fenway with Dylan for a moment while he went to find the officer on duty to bring the coffee when it was ready.
Dylan looked down at the floor, then looked at Fenway and pointed at her cap. “Red Sox fan?”
“My dad is.” She smiled back.
“My brother and I drove across the country one summer during college,” he said. “We tried to hit as many major league parks as we could. We drove south first, then over to Phoenix, through Texas, then up through Missouri to Chicago and Milwaukee. But it was taking too long, so we turned around.” He sighed. “I still haven’t seen Fenway Park.” He pointed at her. “Your dad named you after the ballpark? It’s not some crazy family name?”
“Family name?”
“Sure, why not? A combination of your great-uncle Fenwick and your third cousin Hemingway?”
Fenway surprised herself by laughing. “I’m going to have to make that my story from now on,” she said. “That’s a lot more interesting than the Red Sox jokes I’ve heard all my life.”
McVie came back. “Ready?”
She nodded. As Dylan walked into the interview room, she pulled McVie aside just outside the door. “Are you sure you want to talk with them together? Rachel knows police procedure and rules a lot better than most people. She’ll stop him from saying anything incriminating.”
“I know,” whispered McVie. “But it’s not about their answers. I want to keep them here for another couple of hours at least, and I thought if I kept them apart, they’d insist on leaving. We woke up a judge for a warrant to search Dylan’s place. They’re on their way to execute it right now.”
“You know you’re going to find that USB drive with that video of Walker attacking Rachel.”
“I know.”
“But she says he didn’t see it.”
“Look, if it turns out that he did do it, this goes to motive, and we have to have that USB drive in our custody. Besides, I was hoping that you would be talking with Rachel separately when I was gone, and we can see if there are holes in their story.”
“Yeah, I got that,” Fenway said. “I’ve got her alibi for both Sunday night and early this morning. She was with Dylan at home asleep this morning, and she was with a friend at a movie and Krazy Burgers on Sunday.”
“She wasn’t with Dylan Sunday?”
“She was asleep when he got home.”
“All right, let’s see what he says.”
They went in.
Chapter Ten
“Okay, Dylan,” McVie said. “Now that we’ve gotten your stolen vehicle report filed, let’s talk about where you were a couple nights this week.”
Dylan leaned back in his chair. “I already told you, I was asleep at home. Rachel and I went to bed around eleven. And you saw the report for my stolen truck—we got back from the grocery store at about six-thirty, we left the truck in my spot, and I haven’t seen my truck since.”
“How about Sunday night?” Fenway asked.
Dylan’s face darkened, and he looked from Fenway to McVie. “Sunday night? Where did you see my truck Sunday night?”
Rachel leaned over to Dylan and spoke softly. “They aren’t asking about your truck. They want to know where you were when Mr. Walker got shot and killed.”
Dylan balked. “Why would I kill Walker? Because he was a shitty boss to Rachel?”
Fenway looked at Rachel, who frowned and quickly shook her head, as if to quiet Dylan. McVie saw it, too. Fenway wasn’t sure McVie was going to let it go; he might dig into this line of questioning to see if it would push Dylan’s buttons. But he didn’t, to Fenway’s surprise.
“Because your truck was caught on camera, leaving the scene of a break-in at Walker’s office barely two hours ago.” McVie raised his voice slightly. “And we’re working under the assumption that the break-in and the murder are related.”
Dylan had a confused look on his face. “But my truck was stolen.”
“Right, you’ve told me that.” McVie stood up and leaned on the table, looking Dylan in the eyes. “But there are lots of situations where a husband has done something stupid because of his wife. Maybe Walker was a shitty boss to Rachel. Maybe he was hitting on her and you didn’t like it. Maybe she was going to get fired. Maybe she was stealing paper clips, and her boss found out, and so you took him out to the woods, or followed him out there, and killed him. And maybe her stealing paper clips was in Walker’s files, so you had to take that, too.”
Rachel narrowed her eyes. “You don’t have proof of any of that.”
McVie straightened up and sighed. “Right. All we have to go on is video evidence of Dylan’s pickup truck, smashing through the wall of Walker’s office, and leaving with a file drawer.”
Dylan shook his head. “You’re crazy. Smashing through the wall? In my truck?”
“Dylan loves that truck.” Rachel put her hand on Dylan’s shoulder. “He’d never even park it under a tree if he thought a bird would crap on it, never mind purposely smashing it through a wall.”
Dylan looked from Rachel, to Fenway, then to McVie. “I swear that wasn’t me driving.”
Rachel shrugged. “He wouldn’t hurt that truck. Plus, we were together, in bed, asleep, two hours ago.”
McVie sat back down. “Okay, so you’ve said that’s where you were tonight. How about Sunday night? You still haven’t answered that. Where were you on Sunday night between eight o’clock and eleven?”
Dylan hesitated, but then leaned back in his chair again and grinned. “I was playing video games with Parker. I got out of there about eleven-thirty. I had to work Monday morning.”
“What’s Parker’s last name?” McVie asked.
“Richards,” Rachel said. “Parker is Dylan’s brother.”
“Did Parker have to work on Monday morning, too?”
Dylan laughed. “No, Parker’s a cook at Villa Roma over in Paso Q. They’re closed Mondays.”
McVie leaned forward. “What video games did you play?”
“Um, I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember? You were playing against your brother and don’t remember what you were playing?”
“We usually play Rogue Nation 3.” Dylan swallowed. “I had a deadline at work this week. I was kind of distracted with that. I wasn’t really paying attention too much.”
“Oh, yeah.” McVie nodded. “I get that, being distracted by work stuff. That happens to me all the time.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “My wife gets all over my ass when that happens. She hates it when I get distracted by work stuff.”
Dylan laughed a little. “Yeah, Parker was kinda ticked off that I was distracted. I wasn’t playing my best.”
“How do you know you weren’t playing your best if you don’t remember what you were playing?”
Dylan paused, his cool smile frozen on his face. “Because I remember Parker said I wasn’t even trying. He called me names.”
“Like what?”
“You know,” he trailed off, shrugging, “names.”
McVie sat back. “How about dinner?”
“Dinner?”
“Yeah, did you and Parker have dinner? I mean, sometimes people are so into their video games that they just order a pizza.”
“Oh, right, yeah, we ordered a pizza.” A bead of sweat was on Dylan’s brow, even though it was cold in the room.
“What time did the delivery guy show up?”
“Um, I don’t know. Maybe seven?”
“Where did you order from?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure. One of the chain
places, I think.”
Fenway looked at Rachel, whose mouth was pursed; she didn’t look like she was buying it. Fenway didn’t need to remember her notes from her witness interview class to tell Dylan was lying.
She stood up. “Hey, Rachel, let’s go see what’s taking the coffee so long.”
McVie looked at her and Fenway looked plaintively at him. She was sure that if she could tell Dylan was lying, so could McVie. Even if McVie’s original plan was to keep the two of them together, Fenway thought that the obvious lies that Dylan was telling probably required a change in strategy. She reasoned that Dylan might have had a reason to lie in front of Rachel—going out to a bar when he promised he wouldn’t, seeing another woman on the side, going to the casino in Dominguez Pines—or maybe he didn’t want to confess to killing Walker in front of Rachel.
Rachel looked at McVie, and looked at Dylan, and then stared straight ahead, tapping her foot. Finally, she relented. “Sure, let’s get that coffee.”
The two women walked out and saw the officer from the night desk pushing buttons on the coffeemaker. Fenway walked up next to the officer.
“Didn’t it work right?” she asked.
“No,” he snapped at Fenway. “The filter holder wasn’t in all the way and it didn’t start.”
“Sorry. First time using it.”
“Maybe ask for help next time.”
Rachel touched Fenway’s arm. “How about we go over to Java Jim’s? I think they open at five. It’s just down the street.”
Fenway looked at her watch, and sure enough, it was five-fifteen.
They walked outside into the misty, early morning air. It was still dark; the morning light was just about to peek over the horizon, although it would have to filter through the fog. They headed down the main avenue.
“So, what’s Dylan lying about?”
“I don’t know,” Rachel murmured, eyes matching the mistiness of the air. “I haven’t seen him like that before.” She pulled her phone out of her purse and dialed a number. After a minute, Fenway could hear it go to voice mail. Rachel redialed. On the third try, someone picked up.
“Parker—it’s Rachel. Yes, I know what time it is, it’s early, but this is important. Where was Dylan on Sunday night?”
She paused, listening.
“Okay, good. No, it’s okay. No, Dylan’s car was stolen last night. We’re trying to piece together where he was, where someone might have been casing the truck. No, we’ve called the police. We’re actually down at the station now, I just stepped out to get some coffee. Yeah. Okay. Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. Sorry to wake you up.” She hung up.
Rachel tapped her phone thoughtfully on her chin. “Parker told me that he and Dylan were playing pool.”
“Oh.”
“Not playing video games.”
They were both silent the rest of the way to Java Jim’s. Fenway ordered a large latte and Rachel ordered a caramel macchiato. Fenway gave the barista a ten and dumped the change into the tip jar. They sat on two overstuffed armchairs facing each other with a small round table in between.
Rachel drew her legs up underneath herself. “Why is he lying to the police?”
“I don’t know.” Fenway tapped the arm of her chair. “How long have you two been married?”
“Um, we eloped in September, so about eight months. I can’t imagine…” She trailed off and fell silent for a minute. “I really don’t believe he saw that video.” she finally said, looking at Fenway. Her eyes were large and pleading.
“I don’t know whether he did or not. But you know he’s lying about something. And if he did see that video, he might be lying about going to confront Walker on Sunday night.” Fenway didn’t mention the other possibility in her head: that Dylan was cheating on Rachel and was with the other woman that night.
Rachel’s mouth was turned down in a frown, but her voice stayed even. “I just wanted Mr. Walker to stop,” she mumbled. “I didn’t want him dead. I just wanted him to stop.”
“So, let me ask you again, was Dylan with you the whole night last night?”
“Yes,” Rachel nodded, definitively. “We were asleep in the same bed, together, all night.”
“Are you a heavy sleeper? Is there a possibility that he could have gotten out of bed without you knowing? Gone out for a couple of hours, then come back in?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged. “It’s happened before. I usually wake up when he gets out of bed, but I had a couple of glasses of wine last night. I thought it would help me sleep, and it did.”
The barista called Rachel and Joanne, and Fenway went to fetch the drinks. She set Rachel’s drink on the table and took a sip of her own before she sat back down.
Rachel picked up her cup and warmed her hands on it. “I really thought if he saw the video, he’d talk to me about it first. I never thought he’d try to go after Mr. Walker himself.”
“Even after seeing what he did in the bar? With that guy you were only flirting with?”
“I really thought he’d talk to me first,” she said, sadly.
They were silent for a moment. Rachel took a slow sip.
Fenway took another drink of the latte and set it down on the table. “So, what do you want to do now?”
“I just want to drink my coffee.” Rachel closed her eyes. “Let me just finish this, and then maybe we can sit here awhile, and then we can go back to the station.”
They sat there, mostly in silence. Fenway finished her latte, but she was still tired. She went back up to the barista to get a large drip coffee, and a scone for Rachel.
They both drank their coffees until just before six-thirty. Rachel had only eaten a couple of bites of her scone.
Fenway checked her watch. “I think we’d better head back to the station.”
Outside the coffee shop, the mist had thickened into a near-drizzle, but the light was stronger. Fenway could feel her hair getting damp and starting to frizz under her Red Sox cap. There was a wet sheen on Rachel’s jacket and purse, but she didn’t seem to notice.
They walked back into the station, entering the coffee area, just in time to see McVie, with a couple of officers standing with him, put cuffs on Dylan.
“Dylan Richards,” McVie recited, “you’re under arrest for the murder of Harrison Walker. You have the right to remain silent.”
Fenway looked at McVie questioningly. “Sheriff?”
“Police found a USB drive at his apartment with a video of Walker sexually assaulting his wife,” McVie replied. “Goes to motive.”
“I told you I don’t know what USB drive you’re talking about,” Dylan snapped. His eyes were narrowed, and he looked angrily at Rachel.
“We found a .22 pistol in one of the bedside tables,” McVie said.
“That’s my gun,” Rachel said.
“And to top it all off, we found a nine-millimeter Glock 26 in the bedroom closet.”
“Which I haven’t fired in months,” Dylan seethed.
“Well, your brother’s story doesn’t match your alibi for Sunday night, Dylan,” the sheriff said. “Care to explain that?”
Dylan looked at the floor and was silent.
Rachel glanced up at Fenway, face stricken. “I can’t stay here.” She ran out the door into the early morning light and mist.
Fenway was going to go after Rachel, but McVie looked at her, shook his head slightly as if to say don’t go after her, and finished reading Dylan his Miranda rights.
Fenway didn’t know what she would have said to Rachel anyway.
Chapter Eleven
McVie took Dylan away. Fenway pictured Dylan getting fingerprinted, then placed in the holding cell at the station. She assumed McVie was going to be caught up with procedural stuff for a while.
The coroner’s office wouldn’t officially open until eight, and her temporary keycard wouldn’t even work in the building until then, as she found out earlier; she wouldn’t be able to work on anything for another hour and a half. Fenway asked the offic
er on duty, the one who had snapped at her for her coffee-making skills, if anyone else could let her into the building. He told her, in a rather stern voice, that she’d have to take that up with Human Resources when they got in at nine. Fenway didn’t bother arguing.
She walked outside and looked up and down the street. City Hall still had its footlights on, the light shining on the American flag out front. The street was slowly waking up: the bakery a block down had its open sign lit, and a few people were arriving in the parking structure.
Fenway sighed, putting her hands a little deeper into her jacket pockets, and decided to take a look at the side of her office again. If the officers were still there, or if a crime scene unit were on scene, Fenway reasoned, she might be able to talk her way through the doors.
She arrived a few minutes later and walked around to the side. There were a couple of crime scene techs dusting the cabinet for fingerprints. A few officers were moving the furniture and equipment out of the room. Dez was standing a few feet away, arms folded. Fenway walked up next to her.
“Hey, Dez.”
“Hey.” She bumped Fenway’s shoulder with hers in greeting. “I heard what happened and thought you’d probably be on the scene.”
“I was questioning suspects with McVie. Can you use your keycard to get me into the office so I can get some work done?”
“Yeah, but let’s wait till the dust clears from the CSI unit.” She knelt down and looked at the tire tracks in the lawn. “So, I heard it was Rachel’s husband that made this hole.”
“Well, his truck, anyway,” Fenway said, noncommittally. “He says it was stolen.”
The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Page 12