“Oh.” McVie cleared his throat. “Fenway, you’re doing okay?”
“Yeah.”
McVie nodded. He looked awkward for a moment, but straightened up, turned, and went back to the car.
Dez tapped her pen on the notebook. “How long had you been seeing Dr. Tassajera?”
“This would have been our third session.”
“He was the one doing family therapy for you and your father?”
“Yes.”
“You had an appointment this morning? On a Sunday?”
“Yes, at eleven.” And Fenway told Dez about the bug detectors, the succulents in the ceramic pot hiding the microphones.
“You have the hidden microphone?” Dez said.
“Sure. It’s bagged up.” She pulled it out of her purse and handed it to Dez. “I was planning to give it to Kav or Melissa when they got here.”
Dez nodded. “Okay, Fenway, I think we have everything we need.”
“Also—” Fenway lowered her voice again. “I’m starting to think whoever blew up the minivan and whoever killed Dr. Tassajera aren’t trying to kill me.”
“Who else would they have targeted with the minivan?”
Fenway shook her head. “My father said Domingo Velásquez left town. He was the owner of that minivan. Maybe whoever put the bomb in there meant to kill him, not me.”
Dez put her hands on her hips. “Why would they kill him?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet, Dez. But, hypothetically speaking, someone who’s investigating this might look at someone besides me as the potential target, right?”
Dez pursed her lips. “I’m not sure Donnelly’s going to like this.”
“She likes where the evidence takes you, though, right?”
“It was taking us to Charlotte. Donnelly wants to close this and move on.”
Fenway paused. “How has it been working with her?”
“Fine,” Dez said evenly. “She’s intelligent. She makes good connections. She’s asking all the right questions. And because she’s been running the P.Q. office, she doesn’t have preconceived notions of Barry Klein or—well, to be blunt, your father.”
Fenway crossed her arms. “I sense a but coming.”
Dez screwed up her mouth. “The gun belonging to Charlotte and the emails between them—she’s hung up on them. She wants to give the D.A. an ironclad case with Charlotte.”
Fenway nodded. “My father is very upset about Charlotte spending the night in jail.”
Dez shrugged. “She’s probably going to spend more than one night in jail. She owns the gun that killed him. And she’s a flight risk—with your father’s money and access to a private plane, bail’s out of the question.”
“The ballistics matched?”
Dez nodded. “We got the results from San Miguelito this morning. Charlotte’s gun shot the bullet that killed Jeremy Kapp.”
“Have you looked at the security footage? My father said it’ll show Charlotte coming home on Friday and never leaving.”
“We have the footage,” Dez said. “Our techs are going over it right now. The problem is—at least according to Donnelly—it’s your father’s security footage. She thinks it might have been tampered with. And Charlotte is denying she and Jeremy Kapp were having an affair,” Dez said. “Even when confronted with the emails this morning.”
“You got those email printouts from Officer Young?”
“Of course we did.”
“You believe the emails are real?”
“Piper’s looking into it.”
“Good. If those emails were faked, she’ll find out.”
“I’ll tell you something else,” Dez said thoughtfully. “Charlotte didn’t know anything about the name Potemkin. Now, I know sometimes people are good actors and everything, but your stepmother is definitely not a good actor. I don’t think she has any idea who Potemkin is. She said she had heard of Catherine the Great—she said she was the queen who had sex with a horse.”
Fenway nodded. “That would be all Charlotte would think about Catherine the Great. She probably doesn’t even know she’s Russian.”
“I have my doubts about Charlotte’s involvement in this,” Dez said, “and ordinarily, I’d look at the husband too, but the way your father reacted when I arrested Charlotte—well, I don’t think he knew anything about it. And he was so upset about Charlotte getting taken away, and I think it was genuine.”
“Yeah,” Fenway said, “I guess despite everything I hate about Charlotte, my father is pretty hung up on her.”
“I might even use the ‘L’ word,” said Dez drily.
“Lesbian?” Fenway asked, smirking.
Dez shook her head and rolled her eyes. “It’s a good thing I like you, or I’d kick your ass,” she said.
“So—you won’t be closing the case any time soon?”
“Nope, we’re not there yet,” Dez said. “The D.A. doesn’t think we have enough to go to trial and win. Not with Charlotte’s ability to pay for expensive lawyers.”
“The D.A. is probably right.”
“Agreed. So we’re looking into lots of things. Finances, especially. If they were having an affair, there’s gotta be some secret credit card Charlotte used for hotels or gifts or sex toys.”
Fenway closed her eyes. “Come on, Dez, I did not need that visual.”
Dez cackled, then her face became serious. “Okay, Fenway, I’ve done my official duty and told you to stop working this case.”
“I haven’t been working on Charlotte’s case.”
“I mean Dr. Tassajera’s death,” Dez said.
“Really? I don’t think you explicitly said anything.”
“You got my intent, I’m sure of it.” Dez lowered her voice. “Now, if I were you, and I were the type to take everything literally, I might think the literal words I’ve said would still allow me to go back to the office and get Piper to look into some financial records. I might start with the dead doctor.”
Then a thoughtful look crossed Dez’s face.
“What is it?”
Dez squinted at nothing in particular. “So—we’ve been working with the theory that the person who blew up the minivan was trying to kill you, right?”
“So far, yes.”
“Suppose you’re right and the father was the target instead.”
“Domingo Velásquez.”
“Right. And look: Jeremy Kapp was your father’s contractor.”
“Domingo Velásquez was my father’s car fleet mechanic.”
Dez nodded. “And Jacob Tassajera was your father’s shrink. The three of them are connected through your father. Maybe someone tried to kill all three of them, and Velásquez is the only one who got away.”
“That’s an interesting theory.” Fenway thought for a moment. “Maybe I should look into the auto shop’s financial records too.”
Dez nodded. “We’ve already seen that Jeremy Kapp did some shady things with money and that shell company. If either of the others did too, that could establish a pattern.”
“I should be able to get to Dr. Tassajera’s financials—he’s dead. But good luck finding a judge who’d sign off on a warrant for the auto shop.”
“Maybe you’ll get lucky.”
Fenway smiled. “Thanks, Dez.”
“Now go talk to McVie. He’s worried about you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Fenway walked over to the passenger side of the cruiser, and McVie lowered his window.
“Hey, Craig.”
“Hey, Fenway.”
“Everything okay?”
McVie smiled. “Everything’s fine with me. I thought you, uh, might need someone to talk to.” He cleared his throat. “You, uh, have been through a lot the last few days.”
“I’m doing okay. Work is obviously keeping me busy.” She smiled and hoped it was convincing.
McVie craned his neck around Fenway; all the officers were around Tassajera’s office, paying no attention to the two of them.
He turned back to her and lowered his voice. “I wish—I wish I could put my arms around you.”
Fenway closed her eyes. “Yeah, I wish that too.” She put her hand on the door, where the window had rolled all the way down, and McVie put his hand on top of hers.
“I hate this campaign.”
“I hate it too.”
“Gene was worried about how it would look, me being down here with you.”
Fenway opened her eyes. “How it would look?”
“Gene knows I’m, uh, getting a divorce, and he knows that you and I are, uh, you know.”
A frown touched the corners of Fenway’s mouth.
“Obviously, it hasn’t become a topic of conversation on the campaign trail,” McVie said quickly, “but in case it does, Gene thinks the more I know about what’s, uh, going on with you, the better. That way I don’t come across as dim-witted.”
“Dim-witted?” Fenway pulled her hand back.
“Look, I could be asked if you and I are seeing each other, or if we had an affair before the separation. I kind of expected that. But I didn’t expect to be asked if I knew you were seeing a therapist, and if it had anything to do with our affair.”
Fenway didn’t expect that either, and although she and Millicent had discussed the therapist situation, she didn’t think McVie should know. She didn’t want McVie to know. “I don’t—” she began. What else had Gene uncovered about Fenway—and told McVie? Did he know about Professor Solomon Delacroix? She took a deep breath. “We didn’t have an affair.”
“Whatever it is we’ve done so far,” McVie said. “You know that won’t come across that well.”
“If it comes out.”
“Anyway,” McVie said lamely, “that’s how I know about your therapist. So when I heard this come in, I was, I don’t know, a little worried.”
“I’m fine,” Fenway said, too quickly. She felt a little anger—and a little humiliation—at not being able to tell McVie this on her own terms.
McVie gave Fenway a long look. “Listen,” he said, “if you need to talk, I’m here. This isn’t a date thing, or a Wednesday thing.”
“I’m fine,” Fenway said again. She looked over at Dez and nodded, and Dez began walking over.
“Okay,” McVie said. “Take care of yourself.”
Fenway nodded as Dez handed the keys to McVie through the window. “I’m staying,” Dez said. “I’ll catch a ride back with the uniforms. You can head back to the station.”
“Thanks, Dez,” said McVie.
Dez turned to Fenway. “We all good?”
“Peachy,” Fenway said.
“All right. I’m going to check out the crime scene. See you later, rookie.”
McVie stepped out of the passenger door with the keys. “If you need to talk, you know how to reach me.”
Then Fenway heard the voice of Officer Brian Callahan behind her. “There you are! I wondered where you’d gone.”
She turned. “Sorry, sorry.”
Callahan nodded at McVie. “Sheriff.”
“Everything under control here, Callahan?”
“We had a one-eighty-seven, Sheriff. The coroner and I found the body.”
McVie nodded. “I heard the call come through.” He cleared his throat. “All right. I’m heading back to the office. Sorry to saddle you with paperwork, Callahan, but I’ll need the report on this before you go home.”
“Understood.”
McVie got in the car. “Thanks for taking care of this. And make sure Dez has a ride back to the station.”
He backed out of the space, and drove out of the parking lot. Fenway watched the cruiser until it disappeared around the corner, and she stood alone with Callahan in the parking lot.
She wanted to tell him all her theories and crazy ideas. His mind worked similarly to hers, she suspected: running over the pieces of the puzzle that didn’t fit until another solution presented itself. She thought he might make some connection—besides her father—that she couldn’t see.
But she didn’t trust Callahan with her crazy ideas. He was a rule-follower, after all, and he might place more value on Fenway staying away from the case due to her conflict of interest than he would catching the person who was behind it all.
“Are you sticking around?” Callahan said.
Fenway turned and started walking toward Callahan’s cruiser. “Nope. Let’s follow McVie back to the office. Let’s see if there are any judges around on a Sunday.”
Chapter Seventeen
FENWAY WISHED SHE HAD a phone she could use. Being without one made her feel out of touch and exposed. She laughed to herself—Millicent was probably going crazy right now. Fenway had promised to call after the appointment, but the murder of Dr. Jacob Tassajera threw a monkey wrench into her plans.
“Are you sure you don’t want to at least put in an appearance at the senior center?” Callahan said.
“I’ll call Millicent when I get to the office. A murder’s more important than a campaign stop.” Fenway looked over at Callahan. His eyes were focused on the road, but perhaps his mind was elsewhere. “You seriously worried about my chances in the election?”
“You never know what can happen,” Callahan said. “You don’t want to assume you’ve got it all locked up, especially not three days before.” He tapped the steering wheel, perhaps debating how to phrase the next thing he wanted to say. “And, look, I don’t want to stir anything up, but I don’t want Ivanovich anywhere near this position. He’s bad news. He might be scrambling to distance himself from what his son did last night, but the reality is, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Really?” Fenway asked. “You mean he’s just as racist as his son? How do you know?”
“I went to school with the older brother,” Callahan said. “The guy was always the one complaining in February about how we didn’t celebrate White History Month.”
Fenway shrugged. “You have no idea how often I hear shit like that,” she said. “But none of those people ever painted the n-word on my car.”
“No, it wasn’t just that,” Callahan continued. “It was the stickers he had on his binders, the band names he wrote in Sharpie on his backpack.”
Fenway waved her hand. “Ivanovich comes from rich folks,” she said. “I bet all of that stuff was primarily to get on his parents’ nerves.”
“You seem awfully—I don’t know—dismissive,” said Callahan.
“Don’t get me wrong, there are less racist ways to get your parents’ attention, but if I thought every kid who called me names growing up had parents who wanted to put a brick through my window, I’d never sleep at night.”
“Maybe not with the kids you grew up with,” Callahan admitted, “and maybe not with most of the kids who went to P.Q. High, but definitely with Ivanovich. He was the one at the school board meetings complaining loudly about ‘reverse racism,’ about whites being persecuted. He might have money, but there’s not a lot separating him from the, uh, separatists.”
Fenway looked at Callahan’s face. His jaw was clenched and he was still nervously tapping the steering wheel. This hadn’t been an easy conversation for him to bring up. It wasn’t easy for her to hear it, either—she was reminded again of Benjy on the swings in elementary school. She decided to switch gears slightly and move into the actual elements of the crime she was trying to solve.
“So you think Ivanovich is behind the bomb in the minivan? Maybe he’s behind the killing of Dr. Tassajera?”
“No, no.” Callahan shook his head. “I mean—I guess I haven’t talked to you about this yet, but it doesn’t make any sense that a, um, racial slur on your car would escalate into a car bomb, and then would go back down into a brick through your window. Two of those seem like kid stuff, meant to intimidate, show you there are, uh, I don’t know how to say this—white people who don’t like you. The car bomb is serious. It’s not meant to send a message. It’s meant to kill someone.”
Fenway was silent for a
minute.
“And,” Callahan continued, “I overheard some of what your dad said.”
Fenway cocked her head. “Like what?”
“I heard that Domingo Valásquez went missing. And I don’t think the bomb was intended for you anymore. I think it was intended for him.”
Fenway paused. “That’s funny. Dez and I said pretty much the same thing.”
“Really?” He lowered his voice, even though it was only the two of them in the car. “I’m not quite sure why he ran. If it was after work, he must have heard the minivan had blown up. That’s his car, right? That’s not the car Rory usually drove, and it’s sure as hell not your car.”
Fenway nodded. “That’s true.”
Callahan had built up a head of steam. “Why else would he run? He should be angry, not scared. He should be beside himself with grief.” Callahan looked over his shoulder to change lanes; they were almost at Broadway. “I would expect a grieving father to be giving you hell, Fenway. Saying stuff like, ‘How could you let this happen to my son? He was campaigning for you, he trusted you, and you let this happen to him?’”
The words from Callahan’s mouth pierced Fenway’s heart like an arrow; she felt the pain in the words as if the father had spoken directly to her. She turned her face so Callahan wouldn’t see her fighting back tears. He didn’t seem to notice. And they turned down Broadway, and Fenway saw the police tape, the road closed signs. The parking garage wouldn’t be the same for months, and Fenway would be seeing the reminder of the explosion—and of her failure to protect Rory—for a long time.
“But he didn’t react like that at all,” Callahan continued. “He packed a bag and took off.” Callahan turned down Fourth Street and went in behind the sheriff’s office, into the area reserved for police cruisers.
“No,” Fenway said, keeping her voice even and firm. “You’re right. I’ve seen a lot of different reactions to the death of a loved one. I’ve seen denial and I’ve seen avoidance. But packing a bag and leaving—I’ve never seen that kind of reaction.”
They settled into the parking space and got out of the car.
The Candidate Coroner Page 19