McVie held up the gun case. “And I’ve got Dylan Richards’ gun here.”
“Let’s go up to the ballistics lab.” Dr. Yasuda pulled the sheet up over Walker’s head, then turned and was out the door. Fenway and McVie were caught lagging behind again; Dr. Yasuda was up the stairs so quickly that McVie and Fenway were breathing hard by the time they hit the ground floor. A turn down a hallway, and another fifty feet later they were at the lab.
Yasuda walked up to a technician behind a microscope. “Okay, Trevor. Richards’ firearm is here.”
McVie was still breathing a little heavily. “Great.” He hoisted the gun case up onto the counter, got his keys out and unlocked it. “I’m going to have to have you sign this for the chain of custody—”
“Hold on. This is a Glock 26,” Dr. Yasuda cut in.
Trevor nodded, looking at McVie.
McVie nodded. “Right. And we need to see if—”
Dr. Yasuda interrupted him. “This is a nine-millimeter weapon. I told you that the murder weapon fired a ten-millimeter bullet. There are several weapons that could have fired that bullet, but a Glock 26 isn’t one of them. This isn’t the murder weapon.”
McVie’s face fell.
Fenway piped up. “Aren’t there some cases where bullets can be used in different caliber weapons?”
Dr. Yasuda gave her a disapproving look. “Yes. A ten-millimeter gun could potentially fire a nine-millimeter bullet, albeit less accurately. But if you try to fire a ten-millimeter bullet from a nine-millimeter gun, the barrel could prohibit the bullet from going forward, and the gun could explode. And even if it doesn’t, the markings on the outside of the bullet would make it very clear that it was fired from a nine-millimeter weapon.” The doctor shook her head definitively. “No, this is a ten-millimeter bullet fired from a ten-millimeter weapon.”
Fenway was quiet.
“Thanks, Doctor.” McVie looked a little embarrassed. “I appreciate the time.”
“Certainly.” Dr. Yasuda nodded curtly. “And when you find the ten-millimeter firearm that you think did the job, bring it here and I’ll make sure it gets fast-tracked.”
“Absolutely,” McVie clicked the gun case closed. Trevor hadn’t even taken the Glock out.
Fenway and McVie walked back down the corridor and out through the main doors. McVie was fuming silently all the way to the parking lot. When they got in the car and closed the doors, he let out a loud stream of profanity.
Fenway was silent. He finally fell silent too.
He started the car and they started down the road, back to Estancia.
“I thought we had him, Fenway.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Sheriff. Dylan’s got the motive, for sure, not to mention he lied about where he was on Sunday night, his truck is the one that crashed through the wall, and the people in that truck stole those files. That evidence might be mostly circumstantial, but it all points to him.”
“Exactly.”
“But his gun didn’t match. And his height doesn’t match either.”
“He could have been crouching or leaning over Walker. Michi’s autopsy didn’t tell us nearly as much as I was hoping.”
“Well, maybe the car will point us in the right direction. You heard that they found Walker’s car in long-term parking at LAX, right?”
“Yes. I meant to tell you earlier. Thanks for giving us the idea to look there. I asked Mark to make some calls yesterday.”
“So, Dez and I were talking. And there are a couple of things that bother me. Like, do you think Dylan Richards has the intelligence, or experience, to get rid of a murder victim’s car in a long-term lot at LAX?”
McVie was quiet for a second, and Fenway could see him thinking it over. “I don’t know.”
“I mean, we’re thinking this is a crime of passion, right? Sometime between Friday night and Sunday afternoon, Richards watches the video of Walker sexually assaulting his wife, and he’s so pissed off, he lures Walker to a wilderness area, where he gets Walker on his knees and executes him.”
“Yeah, that’s my theory.”
“Okay, I can see that. And then what does he do? He’s 27, he doesn’t have a record. He leaves the body. He gets in Walker’s car, drives it to LAX, takes the train back, takes a taxi, or an Uber, or something from the Estancia station back to his car, which he’s left on the side of the road for six hours?”
McVie was silent.
“And the car was in a place where you didn’t find it,” she continued, “because you had already found Walker’s body by then, right?”
“Well, it was dark, and we didn’t do a real search for Walker’s car until the morning.”
She nodded. “Did you find anything in the morning? Someplace where it looked like someone had hidden a car, and driven through bushes and stuff on the side of the road?”
“No.” McVie thought a minute. “Richards might have had an accomplice. Someone to follow him to LAX and drive him back. Maybe Rachel.”
Fenway shook her head. “I don’t think so, Sheriff. She has an alibi, and receipts, and I’m sure there are people who saw her at the movies.”
“Maybe his brother.”
“Parker? Yeah, I guess it’s possible. He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, so I guarantee you he didn’t think about the LAX long-term parking, but it’s possible.”
“We still have motive and opportunity. We don’t have the weapon, but that doesn’t mean Dylan didn’t shoot him.”
Fenway hesitated for a second. “Sure.”
McVie looked at her. “You don’t think it was Dylan.”
“Well…”
McVie turned back to the road. “So, if it wasn’t Dylan, who do you think it was?”
Fenway sighed. “Honestly, Sheriff, I don’t have any better suspects right now.” She shifted in her seat. “I do think my father’s company has —well, something to do with this. I’m not sure if it’s Harrison Walker’s murder, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the files that were stolen.”
“Well, obviously—you didn’t bring your father to the interview room for nothing. You were talking about what was in those stolen files.”
“Yep.” She moved the seat back a little bit. “My father knew way too much about those files. I told him that Walker’s file on Ferris Energy was missing, and he asked if there was another file in the drawer that the thief might want. And he also knew that the files were taken last night. He was acting like I had said, ‘Hey, Dad, someone stole a whole drawer of files from Harrison Walker’s office last night,’ when all I told him was, ‘There’s a Ferris Energy file missing.’”
McVie turned down the corners of his mouth. “I wonder if he got the information from somewhere else. It’s not like we kept it secret.”
“No, I guess not. Maybe he heard on the radio that there was a break-in, or maybe the reporters gave out information. But I don’t think so. I don’t think there was enough time to see what was out there. I mean, maybe there’s someone in the office feeding him information, so maybe he doesn’t have anything to do with the break-in…but it sure feels like he knows something he’s not telling me.”
McVie drummed his fingers on the wheel and exhaled loudly through his mouth. “I’ve been trying to make this all fit with Dylan Richards, but even I have to admit that I don’t think it was him in that truck crashing through Walker’s office.”
“Too—what was the word you used?—brazen?”
“Well, yeah, that. But I was thinking that if he had broken through the wall of the office, he didn’t have a whole lot of time. He’d need to get rid of the truck, get back to his apartment, change clothes, and pretend like we just woke him up. It was, at the very most, forty-five minutes between the time that he sped out of the parking lot and we knocked on his door. I mean, it’s possible, but it would be cutting it really close.”
“And he didn’t seem like he had been up,” Fenway said. “Maybe he’s a great actor, but he and Rachel both se
emed like they had been awakened from a dead sleep.”
“Dammit.” McVie continued drumming his fingers.
She was quiet. The Pacific Coast Highway met with US 101 here, and the Pacific Ocean appeared suddenly on their right. She stared out the window at the sun dancing on the blue-green water; the mist, a looming grey cloud in the distance, waiting for the late afternoon fog to overtake the coast again.
Fenway wondered if she should bring up Dylan’s real alibi. She wondered how McVie would take it. Part of her suspected that McVie already knew—and she wondered how much of it he knew. Did he suspect his wife was cheating on him? Did he know that Dylan was the other man?
She turned her head to look from the ocean to McVie’s face, the creases around his eyes, his jaw almost permanently set in determination. She couldn’t see him arresting Dylan on such thin evidence if he knew about Dylan and his wife—it didn’t seem smart, it just seemed petty. But maybe Fenway just didn’t want to see the sheriff as petty.
They passed a sign that read Estancia 7 Miles. Fenway made up her mind.
“Sheriff.” Her voice was soft. “I don’t want to ask you this, but I think I have to.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Do you know anything about the relationship between Dylan and your wife?”
McVie didn’t say anything for a minute. He squinted his eyes at the road. Then he ran his hands through his hair and pressed his lips together before he finally spoke.
“That doesn’t have anything to do with why I arrested him.”
“Dylan’s truck was seen in your neighborhood on Sunday night. The neighbor wouldn’t swear to it, but I was pretty convinced. I think that’s why Dylan lied about his alibi.”
“You asked my neighbors?”
She was quiet.
McVie leaned back in his seat. “Who else knows?”
Fenway closed her eyes. “Dez.”
McVie ran his hand over his face, from his forehead to his chin, and exhaled loudly. “Who else?”
She paused briefly, then went on. “No one else in the department—not that I know of, anyway. I’m not planning on telling anyone else, and I don’t think Dez will say anything either. But your neighbors have seen his truck, and they’re not stupid. And if the neighbors have seen his truck, I don’t know that your wife has done a very good job of keeping it from Megan.”
McVie looked pained and tightened his grip on the wheel.
“Look, it’s really none of my business. Except you just arrested the guy, and now it looks like he’s not the one who did it.”
McVie was quiet again.
They passed a sign that read Estancia Next 4 Exits.
McVie turned on his blinker and exited onto Broadway, heading for Fenway’s apartment. “Get some rest. You’ve got dinner with your dad tonight, and I think you should be ready with a strategy to figure out what’s in those files.”
She gave a small, polite smile. “Thanks. What are you going to do about Dylan?”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He pulled into her apartment complex’s parking lot. Fenway gave him a sad smile and got out of the car. She checked her phone—a little past three o’clock. She had five hours to get ready for a white linen tablecloth dinner, and a strategy for making the most powerful man in the county give up his secrets.
She walked in the door, threw her purse down, kicked her shoes off, and fell asleep on top of the covers of her bed.
Chapter Fifteen
She had a dream where she was in her bed—but it was in her bed at her mother’s house in Seattle. It was raining, and she sat up, lightning flashed, and Lana was standing at the foot of her bed with a big Dirty Harry-style gun.
“You’re nothing but a dirty whore,” dream-Lana sneered, and fired the gun with a blinding muzzle flash.
Fenway woke with a start. It was still light outside. She checked the time; it was just before six. She had enough time to find a dress in her closet, do her hair, and get ready. She shook the cobwebs out of her head. She didn’t feel that she was ready to talk to her father, but she didn’t want to spend the night in, either. She was wary of being alone with her thoughts of Lana, and getting shot, and her Russian Lit professor swarming her mind.
She was ready a little after seven-thirty. Fenway picked a high-necked, purple A-line dress with long sleeves, with a hem that ended at her knees. There was a shift dress in her closet that she liked more, but she thought it was a little too casual for Maxime’s. It also needed to be ironed, and she didn’t have the time. She put her hair up and remembered she had left her Red Sox cap, with the bullet hole in the bill, in the office.
There was a knock at her door at about seven-forty. It was her father.
“Hi, Fenway.” He leaned in and kissed her cheek. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you,” she said, taking a step back. He was in the same suit and tie she had seen him in during the meeting just before lunch. “Did you just get off work?”
“Yes. No rest for the wicked.”
Fenway gave a tight smile. “Are you ready to go?”
“Yes. Are you sure you’re okay? After the day you’ve had?”
“I napped. And it will be good for me to get out of the apartment and take my mind off this.”
“Well, I’m glad. Plus, I have a surprise for you.”
“Today has been full of surprises; I’m not sure I can handle another one.” They stepped out and she locked the door behind them.
“I think you might like this one.”
They walked down the stairs to the parking lot. There was a black Mercedes S500 in the visitor’s space, which Fenway assumed was his car; there was a man in a dark suit behind the wheel, who was probably Ferris’s driver. But in her assigned parking space—which had been empty up to this point—was a silver Honda Accord. Her father went over and stood next to it.
“Surprise.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a black car remote and key.
She balked. “You got me a car?”
“Now look, I know you think I’m trying to buy you off with this—”
“Well—”
“Let me finish,” Ferris said.
Fenway clamped her mouth shut.
“You literally just got to town, Fenway. You’ve barely had time to unpack, and you’ve been dumped in the middle of this investigation that’s taking a lot of your time. You’re going to have to get to City Hall every day, you have to interview people all over the county, you’ll probably have to drive to see the M.E. in San Miguelito; you can’t have the sheriff constantly shuttling you around. And I know you, you’re stubborn enough that you’d take the bus, but that just won’t work with how much time this investigation is going to take. And this way, you don’t have to spend the time you don’t have haggling with some dealership and spending three hours filling out paperwork.”
It was all true, Fenway had to admit.
“Now, I was going to buy you a Lexus, or a BMW, but Charlotte thought that you’d think it was too showy, and that everywhere that your fancy car went, people would look at it and think that I bought the coroner’s office. Plus, she said that you wouldn’t want the insurance payment on an expensive car like that.”
Fenway didn’t want to admit that Charlotte was right.
“So, I got a deal on this Accord. Now you’ll have to indulge me a little, it is the top-of-the-line model; great sound system, leather seats, navigation, all the safety features. But no one’s going to look at a Honda and think I bought you off, right?”
“I guess not.”
“So, look, if you don’t want it, if you think you shouldn’t take it, I understand. Just drive it until the investigation is over, then give it back to me. I can always use a car like this in my fleet. You just need a car right now, and I hope that this helps get you and me off on the right foot.”
Fenway had conflicting emotions. She knew that her father could buy his way out of most situations—and he hadn’t lifted a finger to help either her or her moth
er in the last twenty years, with his lawyers making sure he paid almost nothing in child support or alimony. She wasn’t sure if he was genuinely trying to help or not.
Whatever her father’s reason, Fenway realized she needed a car. She needed to find and follow up on the evidence, and she couldn’t keep relying on Dez and McVie to drive her around. She suspected that her father, as he often did, had an ulterior motive, but she needed a car too much to refuse.
Fenway nodded. “Thanks, Dad. I do need a car for this investigation. It’s the kind of car I would have picked for myself.” She paused. “Well, I guess I would have gotten one that wasn’t fully loaded, because I can’t afford it, but I do appreciate it.”
“You’re very welcome.”
Fenway looked at the car for a minute. She had been good at the fake smile so far this evening, but she couldn’t do it for any longer.
“Dad?”
“Yes?
She looked back to her father. “Why now?”
Nathaniel Ferris stopped and looked down at the ground.
“I mean—I appreciate the car, Dad. I need it. And I really needed someplace to go after what happened with Mom, so I appreciate you helping me find the apartment. But—why now?”
“Well, Fenway, because you’re my daughter.”
She pursed her lips and shook her head. “But I was your daughter before. I was your daughter when Mom and I had to go on food stamps. When Mom took the shelves out of the kitchen pantry and slept on a cot because she could only afford a one-bedroom.” Fenway was looking back at the car, and her voice was getting stronger. “I was your daughter when you didn’t show up at my high school graduation. I was your daughter when I was valedictorian at Western. And you didn’t show up to that, either.”
“No,” he said softly. “No, I sure didn’t.”
“I had to work two jobs during college to be able to afford my crappy little Nissan Sentra. And the day I bought it, mom told me that you bought a jet. A jet! A ten-million-dollar jet, all the bells and whistles, can get you from coast to coast in six hours. And I had to struggle to get a Sentra that could barely get me up to Bellingham.”
The Reluctant Coroner (Fenway Stevenson Mysteries Book 1) Page 18