The Reluctant Coroner by Paul Austin Ardoin (best ebook reader ubuntu txt) đź“•
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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 a couple blocks away.”
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 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 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 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: 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 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 the 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 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 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, 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.
“Your brother’s story doesn’t match your alibi for Sunday night, Dylan,” the sheriff said. “Care to explain?”
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.
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 officer 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 it 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
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