Criminal Negligence

by Danielle L Davis

  Criminal Negligence

  A SYDNEY VALENTINE MYSTERY

  Danielle L. Davis

  Copyright © 2018 by Danielle L. Davis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  300 S. Highland Springs Ave., PMB #247

  Banning, CA 92220

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Design by Books Covered Ltd.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  SRD, I’m looking forward to the day when you’ll be old enough to read this. I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  1

  My partner, Detective Russell “Bernie” Bernard, and I rolled our unmarked Ford Focus slowly down the street of a hoity-toity neighborhood, heading to the scene of another suspicious death. I couldn’t help wondering what the hell these people did for a living to enable them to live in houses like the ones we were passing. The community was considered to be one of the most desirable in San Sansolita. The cars in the driveways probably cost more than my parents’ house. If I saw another white Mercedes I might have screamed. What the hell was so special about that color? I hadn’t a clue. The devil to keep clean in the dusty Californian summer. Still, if you could afford a car like that, you could afford to run it through the carwash every now and again or pay someone to do it for you, I guessed.

  Bernie parked near the two-story monstrosity of a house and we headed straight around the side to the backyard, as per the dispatcher’s instructions.

  The offensive odor punched me in the face before I even peered into the hot tub, which was empty of water, but not of a body.

  The victim lay sprawled on her back. Strands of medium-length, pale-blonde hair clung to the congealed blood trailing from her crushed nose. Extensive swelling added to her facial injuries. A fly crawled from her nostril and I waved it away. Blood spatter had dried on her white tank top and matching jeans. She wore one black, calf-high boot with a spiked heel. The other lay on the patio near the hot tub. Her slim, bruised arm reached toward a digital camera that had fallen just out of reach.

  After swallowing hard, I held my wrist to my nose and swatted at the flies swarming around the open wounds.

  The hot tub—about the size of a compact car—sat below the ground level. A concrete bench encircled it.

  A gardener who’d come to tend the yard had discovered the victim. He’d noticed the boot and investigated. When he found her, he called us, the San Sansolita PD.

  While Bernie stood near the French doors leading to the patio, speaking to Graham, one of the forensic techs, I took a few moments to absorb the scene. It helped me get a feel for the case.

  The clear, still pool water reeked of heavy chlorination. An outdoor kitchen with a massive grill took up the opposite side of the patio. Although it was still early in the afternoon, the sky had darkened, hinting at rain, and palm fronds swayed in the stifling breeze. Storm clouds rolled in from the east promising a wet afternoon.

  On arrival, one of the uniformed officers found the French doors open and completed a walk-through inside. He found nothing suspicious and nobody responded to his calls. A second officer interviewed a neighbor, Ron Miller, who understood the house to be empty. Mr. Miller indicated the Moore family owned the property and that it was on the market. However, he admitted he’d recently been out of town and the house could have been sold while he was gone.

  After taking a photo of the victim’s face, I drifted away from the stench and walked around the edge of the adjacent pool. I approached Bernie on my way to the patio door. “I’m going to take a look around.”

  “Right behind you in a sec,” he said.

  I pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and disposable booties, stepped through the door, and headed for the wide marble staircase. The ornate filigree of the wrought-iron spindles made an interesting combination with the marble. The staircase appeared sturdy, yet elegant, and even delicate in some ways. The wrought iron was also cold when combined with the marble. No warmth there for me. The stairs curved toward the left, and the railing continued along the second floor. I cast my eyes downward and watched everyone below.

  Nice view.

  Bernie caught up with me. “What do you think of this?”

  I shook my head. “No clue. It’s odd. We have a Jane Doe, the open patio door, and an empty house with no signs of forced entry. Why was she here?”

  “Good question,” Bernie said.

  We passed an open loft area with empty built-in bookcases. Buying a house was something I started giving serious thought to pursuing. I made a decent salary, but not enough to purchase anything similar to this place. However, I could get something bigger and nicer than the apartment I currently called home. Heck, even Bernie owned a condo.

  Bernie searched the hall closet. “Empty.”

  I entered the room across the hall and opened a closet. “Same here.”

  Voices exploded from downstairs. I rushed out of the room and joined Bernie in the hall. We quickly descended the stairs heading toward the commotion.

  “I will not be treated this way! I own this house!” A man who resembled a plump, force-fed rooster, wearing an expensive suit and little round glasses, marched toward us. A red-faced Officer Reed trailed behind him.

  Here we go.

  “May I see your ID?” I held my hand toward Mr. Rooster, looking down at his comb-over.

  Beads of sweat covered his face, and his nostrils flared.

  “Who are you, and what happened?” Mr. Rooster puffed out his chest.

  Yeah, that’s intimidating. I’m terrified.

  “I’m Detective Valentine, and this is Detective Bernard.” I showed him my badge. “And you are?”

  “I’m Dr. Moore. As I said, I own this house. I demand to know what happened.”

  Demand? Hunh.

  I glanced at Officer Reed. “ID?”

  He shook his head, shrugged, and looked away.

  “All right. Back to your post, and thanks.”

  Bernie turned to the po
mpous little man. “Mr. Moore, we’ll need to see some ID.”

  “What happened to the real estate agency sign in the yard? And the lockbox?” Moore removed his glasses and wiped his face with a crisp monogrammed handkerchief plucked from his back pocket.

  “Mr. Moore, your ID?” Bernie held out his hand and sighed.

  “Doctor Moore,” he said, sliding his driver’s license from his wallet and shoving it toward Bernie.

  Bernie read it, said, “Right. Thank you, sir,” passed it to me, and jotted the name in his notebook.

  Outside the open patio door, Graham waved Bernie over.

  Harold Moore’s license showed he had a Palm Springs address. I tapped it. “Is that your primary residence, Dr. Moore?” I wrote it down in the notebook I’d pulled from my pocket.

  “Yes. This house used to be a rental, but we’re selling it. You still haven’t told me what happened.” Moore leaned sideways, in an attempt to look around me toward the back of the house.

  “Are you married, Dr. Moore?” I returned his license and noted his behavior.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” He looked toward his feet, probably unable to see them because of his belly.

  I glanced at him, pen ready. “Just a question.”

  “I don’t see how that matters.” His gaze darted around the room. “When is someone going to tell me what happened here? I have a right to know.”

  I studied his body language and waited.

  He crossed his arms over his stomach, interlocking his fingers. “Fine. I’m married.”

  “Who has access to this house?”

  “My wife, me, and the realtor estate agent.” He swiped his shiny forehead with the back of his hand.

  “Which agency?”

  He gave me the agent’s business card: Monica Stewart, of Frakes Realty. I wrote down her information and returned the card.

  “We’ll need to talk to your wife, too. Where is she?”

  “Joan’s out of town and will be back later today.”

  “When did she leave?”

  “Early this morning. Why?” He cast glances to the back, flouncing in front of me with his handkerchief, reminding me of Pavarotti.

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?” I asked.

  He stopped pacing and frowned. “It sounds like you’re implying that Joan is involved in whatever brought you here. I can assure you that she’s not.”

  Well, that settles that. The investigation is over because he said so.

  “We’re simply asking questions. When did you last speak to Joan?”

  He pushed his jacket sleeve up and glanced at his watch. “Approximately three or four hours ago. Her plane was in the process of boarding this morning.” His frown deepened. “Did you find remains here? Is that why you’re asking about Joan?”

  I ignored his questions. “What’s your medical specialty, Dr. Moore? And what’s your wife’s occupation?”

  “Cardiology. Joan’s an attorney.”

  “Which airport did she fly out of, and how did she get there?”

  “She drove to Ontario International and flew to Phoenix.” He looked around the room at the officers.

  “Where were you before you came here?”

  He gasped. “Surely you’re not suggesting I did whatever brought you here?”

  “Mr. Moore, this will go much faster if you’d answer my questions.”

  “Doctor Moore. I went to my office.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Where is your office?”

  “It’s here, in San Sansolita.”

  “What time were you there?”

  “I usually leave home at seven o’clock. I probably arrived at the office by seven thirty, give or take a few minutes.” He sopped up the sweat, folded the cloth, and stuffed it in his pocket.

  Why bother?

  “And how long did you stay at your office?”

  “Until my neighbor called me regarding the police activity here.”

  “Can anyone verify your arrival and departure from your office?”

  “Eleanor and Carol were both there before me. Eleanor is one of our nurses, and Carol is front desk. They typically open the clinic for me.”

  “What’s their contact information? And I’d like your phone number and office address, too.”

  He gave me the information then squared his shoulders. “Detective Valentine, I’ve been very patient, and I’m cooperating. Tell me what happened. Please.” He patted his forehead. The comb-over had become disheveled long ago.

  “As you can see, there’s a lot going on back there.” I pointed to the rear of the house.

  “Yes. Yes, I see. I have no vision difficulties, Detective. What’s happening?” He turned and took a step toward the patio.

  I shot out my arm. “You can’t go back there.”

  He spun toward me, eyes flashing. “And why not? I just spoke to my agent last night, and she hasn’t sold the place yet. This is still my house.”

  “It’s a crime scene. We’re investigating a possible homicide.” I slipped my notebook into my pocket.

  “What? Homicide?” Moore took off toward the patio.

  Who knew he could move that fast?

  Officer Rodriguez stopped him before he reached the door.

  Moore doubled over from his extended bout of exercise—a whole ten-yard shuffle from me to the door—and gasped for air as sweat dripped from his nose onto the floor. “Why can’t I see what’s happened in my own house?”

  “I’ve already told you, this is a crime scene and we’re still investigating.” I turned to Officer Johnson and asked her to take Moore through the house to determine if anything was missing. Johnson nudged Moore along the way because he kept stopping to look back at us.

  “Wait, Dr. Moore,” I said.

  “Yes, Detective?” He looked hopeful.

  “Do you have any children?”

  “I do. Jennifer, my daughter.” His lids lowered, and he bit his lip.

  “When did you last speak to her?” I held my breath.

  “It’s been a while,” he answered, looking away.

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-five. Why?” Moore glanced toward the patio, steadying himself with a hand on the bannister rail. “You don’t think …” He took a step in that direction. Johnson blocked his path, shaking her head. Moore’s shoulders sagged, and he whimpered.

  “Describe her please.” I couldn’t have him out there contaminating the scene.

  Moore smiled. “Beautiful.”

  Okay, great. That helps.

  “Height? Build?”

  “Taller than me,” he said.

  Who wasn’t? He was the shortest one in the place.

  “How tall? Be specific.”

  “When she’s not slouching, she’s five-seven.” He looked me up and down. “About as tall as you.”

  I was five-eight, so he was close. “Hair color? Eye color?”

  “Blonde hair, green eyes.”

  “Is this Jennifer?” I showed him Jane Doe’s photo on my phone.

  He shuddered as he exhaled, grabbing the bannister. “That’s not her. Thank God.”

  “Okay. Good. Please be specific about the last time you saw your daughter.”

  Something was wrong—I could sense it.

  “It’s been nearly six months.” His eyes sparkled with tears. One trickled down his round cheek, and he wiped it with the back of his hand.

  “Why haven’t you seen her? Where is she?”

  “Drugs. My wife and I thought if we stopped enabling Jennifer, she’d straighten out. Tough love.”

  “Please contact your wife. I would also like you to attempt to find out your daughter’s address.” Giving him a task should at least keep his mind occupied. It could help quell the fears, but I doubted it.

  Moore nodded.

  “Okay. Thank you, sir.” I nodded at Johnson, signaling that I was finished.

  She followed Moore up the stairs.

/>   2

  “Detective Valentine, you’re needed outside.”

  Officer Reed pointed to the open front door. I followed him outside and stood on the porch.

  “What is it, Reed?”

  A group of approximately twenty onlookers stood in the street and on the sidewalk. A few talked among themselves in driveways. Five or six spoke into cell phones, texted, or snapped photos. Two appeared to be recording the scene with their cell phones. Uniformed officers canvassed the area for witnesses.

  A Mercedes SUV pulled into the driveway next door and a Bentley convertible, with its headlights on, rolled out of the garage across the street. The drivers of both vehicles exited their vehicles and paused to observe for a few minutes before moving along.

  Reed gestured to a woman standing at the crime scene tape around the property and sidewalk outside the house. She was animated. “The woman talking to Miller demanded to come in. She overheard people referring to this as the Moore family’s house and is livid.”

  The woman was in her mid-twenties. She stood with her hands on her hips as if prepared to fight anyone who looked at her sideways.

  “What’s she angry about?”

  “She’s telling everybody the house is hers.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “All right. I’ll go talk to her.” I marched along the sidewalk toward her, badge in hand.

  She saw me and tossed a lock of streaked blonde hair over her shoulder, glaring at me. We faced off. With the full force of the law on my side, I was not intimidated.

  And I’m also pretty handy in a fight.

  “Why can’t I get in the house?”