The Clandestine Coroner : A Fenway Stevenson Novella, page 5
“You mean on top of those weekly thousand-dollar payments? Online transfer for seventy-five hundred.”
“Thanks, Piper. I’ll let you get back.”
“Before you go—there’s something weird going on with Haley. I’ve been trying to trace her online activity and I keep running into dead ends.”
Fenway stared at the ceiling for a moment, thinking. “You think someone at Radical Familiar is covering up her tracks? Maybe all her interactions with Redmond Northwall?”
Piper clicked her tongue. “It’s possible. But if it were someone at Radical Familiar, wouldn’t their motive be to hide all the shady stuff Northwall is doing—not the shady stuff Haley’s doing? Anyway, I’m still digging. I’ll let you know what I find.” She said her goodbyes and ended the call.
“Well?” Dez asked. “Haley’s payment?”
“Oh—seventy-five hundred dollars. On top of the grand she got every week.”
“That makes sense,” Dez mused. “A relatively small payment to Haley in order to stop Frank from getting away with a huge amount of money. We could be talking about eight figures here. Insider trading—or maybe even straight-up embezzlement. These privately held firms don’t have the oversight that public companies do.”
“Right.” Fenway turned to Sarah. “We find that secret bank account, we’ll find motive for murder.”
“Not just Redmond Northwall, either,” Dez said. “All the investors in the private equity firm. They may have had millions stolen from their personal investments.”
Fenway put a hand to her forehead. “Judge Harada.”
“What?”
“Judge Harada—she signed the search warrant for the temple.”
“Right…” Sarah said.
“How do you think she’d feel if she found out that a member of the Monument Brotherhood just blocked her warrant?”
“I would imagine she wouldn’t feel great about it.”
“And I can’t believe I didn’t mention this, Sarah, but Emma Northwall just told us her husband had come home after we spoke to him at the temple. He drove into his garage, then left again—after fifteen minutes.”
“She said all that? I can use that in the new warrant application. That will provide better probable cause.” Sarah turned toward the computer and brought up the warrant application in another window. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready for your signature.”
The phone in Fenway’s office rang.
“Who’s calling you at eight o’clock on a Tuesday night?”
“Someone who knows I’m still working,” Fenway said. She hurried into her office and picked up the phone. “Fenway Stevenson.”
“Fenway, it’s Celeste.”
“Hi, Celeste. Did you think of something else regarding Emma Northwall’s statement?”
“It’s not that. I have three people wanting to make statements concerning the death of Frank Mortimer.”
“Three people?”
“Yeah.” A shuffling of papers. “Chad Wilkenson, Benjamin Nichols, and Travis Foxwell. All dressed identically in gray pants, white dress shirts, and lavender ties.”
Right—the three men Fenway remembered as Chad, Brad, and Tad. “Anyone interviewing them yet?”
“They specifically asked for you.”
Fenway pinched the bridge of her nose. “I guess I better come over.”
Dez had said Chad Wilkenson looked about thirty years old, but Fenway had him pegged for closer to twenty-five. He had a neat, trimmed mustache and goatee, but his hair was fuzzy, as if he didn’t put gel or mousse or any kind of product in it. His eyes were bright, and he had no bags under his eyes. About six foot three, he slouched in the plastic chair in the interview room, though he clasped his hands together like a schoolboy. Fenway sat down across the table, placing a yellow legal pad and pen in front of him.
“I hear you’d like to make a statement, Mr. Wilkenson.”
Chad straightened. “That’s correct.”
“And what statement would that be?”
“At approximately four fifteen p.m. today, January twenty-seventh, I was working in the supply room at the Monument Brotherhood Temple.”
“Supply room?”
“It’s about twenty feet down the hall from the ballroom. I heard loud voices coming from the ballroom. When I came to investigate, I saw Frank Mortimer and Ben Nichols standing in the middle of the room. Frank was holding a hunting knife straight out in front of him. I heard him say that he was going to stab Ben.”
“Then what happened?”
“Ben grabbed a scepter that was lying on the floor. He hit Frank over the head and Frank dropped the knife.”
“Hang on,” Fenway said. “What direction was Frank facing?”
“It happened very quickly,” Chad said. “I don’t remember a lot of the details.”
“And what did you do?”
“I left the room.”
“Did you call the police?”
“I intended to, but I panicked. I must have frozen. The next thing I knew, the police were in our hallway.” He nodded at Fenway. “You and the other lady officer.”
“The sergeant,” Fenway said. “Where did you go when you left the room?”
“Back to the supply room.”
“What else can you tell me?”
“I don’t remember anything else.”
“We didn’t find a hunting knife. Do you know what happened to it?”
“No.”
“Did you go back into the ballroom?”
“No.”
Fenway leaned back and scratched her head. “So you’re telling me you walked into the ballroom, witnessed Frank Mortimer threaten Benjamin Nichols with a knife, then you saw Benjamin grab a scepter on the floor and hit Frank over the head, but you can’t remember which way Frank was facing, and you don’t know where the knife went.”
“That’s correct.”
“And you remember nothing else?”
“I’ve never seen anyone get killed, Miss Stevenson. It was quite traumatic.” He looked up at Fenway and met her gaze with an odd intensity. She felt a chill run down her spine.
Fenway cleared her throat. “How well did you know Mr. Mortimer?”
“I have said all I’m prepared to say at this time.”
“But you did know him from the Monument Brotherhood.”
“I have said all I’m prepared to say at this time.”
“Were you aware that he and your, uh, leader—the whatchamacallit, the Grand Master—”
“High Worshipful Master.”
“Right, that. You realize that he and Mr. Mortimer worked at the same company.”
“I have said all I’m prepared to say at this time.”
“You led Sergeant Roubideaux out of the building, and your friends locked the door, preventing her—and our CSI team—access to the crime scene. That’s obstructing a police investigation.”
“I am not the one who locked the building. As you just said, I was talking to the officer outside the building. I could not have locked it.”
“I thought you weren’t prepared to say anything else.”
Chad scowled, then his face went impassive again. “I’m merely pointing out a fact that your officer was witness to.”
“Who locked the building?”
“I have said all I’m prepared to say at this time.”
Fenway leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table between them.
“Okay, Mr. Wilkenson,” Fenway said, sliding the legal pad over in front of Chad. “Write down what you told me, then let’s get you back to the break room so we can interview your colleagues.”
“We are brothers in Monument,” Chad said. “We are not colleagues.”
“Aww, that’s sweet.” Fenway leaned back in her chair. Chad wrote at a determined, even pace, with legible if juvenile printing. Halfway down the page, he lifted the pen and stared at Fenway.
“Done?”
“Yes.”
“Sign and date below, please.”
Chad did so, and Fenway turned to the one-way mirror and nodded. A moment later, Deputy Salvador came into the room, led Chad to his feet, and walked him out.
Fenway waited a minute, counting the seconds in her head, then grabbed the legal pad and walked out of the room and into the observation room. Dez stood, arms crossed, gazing into the empty room.
“What do you think?”
“I haven’t seen anything that rehearsed since my niece’s fifth-grade play.”
“Light on details, for sure. You think he’s lying?”
“We’ll see.”
A moment later, Celeste Salvador brought Benjamin Nichols into the room. He was about Fenway’s height, just shy of six feet, and his straight blond hair was parted on the left, falling just over his forehead. He was rail-thin, with watchful brown eyes and a curl to his upper lip that was almost a sneer. Benjamin sat at the table, leaning forward, but hands folded just like Chad’s had been.
Fenway ran her hands over the stubble on her scalp, then shook out her hands, grabbed a fresh legal pad, and left the observation room. She went back into the interrogation room. Benjamin looked up and his lip curled further.
“Benjamin Nichols?”
“Ben.”
“Your friend was just in here, accusing you of killing Frank Mortimer.”
Ben didn’t even blink. “Chad must be mistaken. I did not engage with Frank.”
“Okay,” Fenway said. “What statement do you want to make?”
“At approximately four fifteen p.m. today, January twenty-seventh,” Benjamin began, “I was working in the supply room at the Monument Brotherhood Temple.”
“Wait—you were working in the supply room?”
“That’s correct. It’s about twenty feet down the hall from the ballroom. I heard loud voices coming from the ballroom. When I came to investigate, I saw Frank Mortimer and Travis Foxwell standing in the middle of the room. Frank was holding a hunting knife straight out in front of him. I heard him say that he was going to stab Travis.”
Fenway ran a hand over her face. “Do you know Chad told us this exact story? Except he was the one working in the supply room, and Frank was arguing with you, not with Travis.”
Benjamin cocked his head. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Just what I said. This exact same story, only he changed the names.”
“I don’t know what to tell you, Coroner. All I know is what I saw.”
“Did you see where the knife went?”
“No. I haven’t finished—"
“We’re done here.”
“Aren’t you obligated to take my statement?”
“Let me guess,” Fenway said, exasperated. Then she took a deep breath. No. If she finished the story for Benjamin, that could be fodder for an appeal—assuming there was ever a trial and a conviction. “Never mind, I’m not going to guess. Please continue.”
“Travis grabbed a scepter that was lying on the floor. He hit Frank over the head and Frank dropped the knife.”
“What direction was Frank facing?”
“It happened very quickly,” Benjamin said. “I don’t remember a lot of the details.”
“Of course,” Fenway said, tapping her fingers on the table. “Why didn’t you call the police?”
“I intended to, but I panicked. I must have frozen. The next thing I knew, you and the other Black female policeman were in our hallway.”
Fenway ground her teeth. “Where did you go when you left the room?”
“Back to the supply room.”
“What did you do back in the supply room?”
“I don’t remember anything else.”
“You don’t remember anything else? No other details? Was Travis facing you or was he turned away from you?”
“I can’t recall.”
Fenway leaned back and stroked her chin. “So you’re telling me you walked into the ballroom, witnessed Frank Mortimer threaten Travis Foxwell with a knife, then you saw Travis grab a scepter on the floor and hit Frank over the head, but you can’t remember which way Travis was facing.”
“That’s correct. I’ve never seen anyone get killed before. It was quite traumatic.” Benjamin kept his head down, staring at his clasped hands.
Fenway knew how Benjamin would respond, but she had to ask anyway. “How well did you know Mr. Mortimer?”
“I have said all I’m prepared to say at this time.”
Fenway pushed the legal pad in front of Benjamin.
“Okay, Mr. Nichols. Write down what you told me, sign and date at the bottom, then let’s get you back to the small conference room so we can interview your colleague.”
“We are brothers in Monument,” Benjamin said.
“Right, right,” Fenway said with a wave of her hand. “One big happy family.”
Dez held the two legal pads in front of her in the observation room. “Exactly the same story,” she mused. “The names are different, but other than that, it’s exactly the same.”
“Do we even need to get Travis in here? He’s just going to repeat what they said—only I’ll bet he says Chad killed Frank. A big ol’ circle of death.”
“And we don’t have a shred of evidence to prove otherwise. If we arrest one of them for murder, one of the others will testify to his innocence.” Dez rubbed her temples. “ADA Pondicherry will never bring this to trial.”
“But we don’t even think any of them did it. It’s just a ruse to get attention off Northwall.”
Dez nodded. “Right. While we’re in here playing Whack-a-Mole, Redmond Northwall is probably gassing up his plane right now, getting ready to leave the country.”
“Do we refuse to take Travis’s statement? We don’t have any physical evidence linking Northwall to the murder. We have the shape of the blunt object, and a theoretical bloodstone scepter that possibly matches it—that’s a lot of ifs and probablys.” Fenway sighed. “I guess we hope the judge signs the warrant for the Northwalls’ home and that we can search it before any Brotherhood judges get their grimy little injunction hands all over it.”
Fenway’s phone rang—Sarah was calling. Fenway tapped Answer and put it on speakerphone.
“Dez and I are here, Sarah. Any news?”
“Frank Mortimer booked a one-way flight a couple of weeks ago—LAX to Belize City. For both him and Haley Sinclair.”
“Belize isn’t quite the Caymans,” Dez said, “but not bad.”
“Not bad? Why do you say that?”
“Not a bad choice for an embezzler, I mean. Belize banking legislation assures strict confidentiality. And the United States doesn’t have a financial exchange agreement with them.”
The door to the interrogation room opened and Celeste led in a man roughly Chad’s height with a similar haircut, but he was clean-shaven.
“See?” Dez said. “He and Chad could be brothers. Shave Chad’s goatee off…”
Fenway blinked. “Hang on,” she muttered, tapping the browser on her phone.
“What is it?”
“Frank Mortimer’s wallet hasn’t turned up yet, right?”
“Right.”
“So why take a wallet off a dead Monument Brotherhood member inside the temple?” Fenway pulled up the DMV photo of Frank Mortimer. “Bald. Eyes set fairly far apart. A pointy nose. Now look.” She tapped her screen and a news photo of Redmond Northwall appeared. “What if he shaved his face and head?”
“He’d have to get brown contacts.”
“Which you can literally buy off-the-shelf at Marks-the-Spot.”
Dez pressed her lips together. “Are you saying that Redmond Northwall is impersonating Frank Mortimer?”
“I bet,” Fenway said, “that if you called Piper Patten at McVie’s office, she’d be able to find a list of accounts with large deposits in the last month or so. I bet she could link one of them to Frank Mortimer in about two hours.” Fenway looked up at Dez. “I bet Frank Mortimer siphoned millions of dollars off Radical Familiar over the last five years. And Northwall killed Mortimer to either get it back…”
“…or to live the rest of his days under an assumed name, on the beach with a pretty girl and millions of dollars,” Dez finished.
“And the crazy thing,” Fenway said, “is that without a body—and if a man calling himself Frank Mortimer resurfaces in Belize—there’s officially no murder. Even if we uncover the financial crimes and we somehow get the paperwork to extradite ‘Frank Mortimer’ back to the states, Northwall can just grow his hair and beard and go under ‘Redmond Northwall’ again. He could get all the money out of Mortimer’s account—and we couldn’t touch him.”
“The perfect crime,” Dez said.
“It’s never perfect. He’ll overlook something.”
“I’ll call Piper Patten as soon as I’m off with you.” Sarah’s phone dinged. “Oh—hang on.”
“What?”
Sarah looked at her screen then sucked in a breath. “Frank Mortimer just checked into his flight.”
Chapter Six
“While our investigators are looking through the garage,” Fenway said, holding out the signed warrant to Emma Northwall, “I wanted to tell you that your husband was detained for questioning an hour ago at Los Angeles International Airport.”
“With that whore,” Emma said under her breath.
“There was a ticket for the young woman, yes, but she didn’t appear to be at the airport and hasn’t yet checked in for her flight. We’ve got a deputy heading over to Nidever University to see when she was last there.”
“He usually keeps things he doesn’t want me to see hidden in a long gun box that’s up in the rafters in the garage.”
Fenway tilted her head.
“We’ve been married for twenty years, Coroner. Very little gets past me.” She set her jaw. “Of course, I didn’t find out about the missing money and the girl he was screwing. I guess he still had ways to hide things.”
Fenway took out her radio and pushed the button. “Deputy Salvador, look for a long gun box hidden in the rafters.”
“Above the Porsche.”
“Above the Porsche,” Fenway repeated.
