Criminal Negligence

by Danielle L Davis

  “I agree. I never let anything distract me before. Why start now?” With that, he pulled into the station parking lot.

  I marched to my desk and checked the Missing Persons database for anyone matching the description of our Jane Doe in the hot tub, but came up empty. After receiving notification that the canvassing of the Moores’ neighborhood had produced no results, I checked the database on the Moores, Monica Stewart, and Sylvia Frakes. None had a criminal history—not even a traffic violation. After that, I headed home.

  Later that evening, I sat at the island in the kitchen of Brad’s latest renovation project, which was where he lived. I hadn’t been there since he’d finished the renovations. I scanned the room. He’d removed the laminate countertops and installed granite in a milk-chocolate brown, cream, and black. The color combination gave the kitchen a luxurious feel. The glass backsplash coordinated in clear, cream, and a lighter brown, which reminded me of steaming hot tea with lots of milk added. He’d ripped out the original tile floor, which had been cracked and the grout filthy, and installed gleaming oak hardwood floors throughout the house. The man had skills.

  I nodded, impressed. “Can’t believe you did all of this.”

  “Why not? It’s how I make my living.”

  “How did you get into flipping houses? You never said.” I picked up the camera lying on the island and looked through the viewfinder at him. His usually trim golden-blond hair had grown longer, and the ends were curly.

  “Remember I told you how I was burned out from the corporate world? With engineering in general?”

  I took his picture and nodded. “What you actually said was your job was killing you.”

  “Good memory.”

  “It helps with my work.”

  “‘Killing me,’ was a little over the top.” He laughed. “I like working with my hands and figured why not make money doing something I loved? I left my job after I’d saved up enough money to support myself for a year.”

  I took a couple more pictures and tried to figure out how to view them. “And you’ve been doing it for two years, right?” I flipped the screen to the side and scrolled through the images. Not bad. Maybe I’d found a new career if I ever burned out as a detective.

  “Two and a half on my own, but some of that time was while I was still working my job. My parents were renovating houses way before all of those TV shows became popular, and I used to help them.”

  “How many houses have you flipped so far?” I watched him slice tomatoes as he talked, wondering how he managed to keep all his fingers. Surely, I would’ve noticed if any were missing. I counted—to make sure.

  “Nine on my own. The first one took the longest because I contracted out too much of the work and ran into problems. Live and learn. You know?”

  As he spoke, I continued to view photos, passing the ones I’d taken and reaching some of his. They contained pictures of houses: interiors, exteriors, landscaping, and pools. A few were before-and-after shots, and the transformations were amazing. “Are these the houses you flipped?”

  “Sure. When I finish the reno, I take pictures and post them online for potential buyers.”

  My stomach rumbled, and he glanced at me.

  “Hungry?”

  “You heard that?”

  He chuckled. “Seismographs would have picked it up in LA. Dinner will be ready soon. Have patience. Your master chef is at work here.” He flipped a knife in the air, and it landed, tip down, on the butcher-block cutting board.

  That got a laugh out of me. I’d fallen off the wagon of semi-meatless eating and planned to have one of Brad’s self-proclaimed “world-famous turkey tacos” as soon as he finished making them. The knife he was using on the lettuce, tomatoes, and other veggies for the tacos and salad looked as if it could slide through someone’s throat easily.

  Always a cop.

  I thought about the body in the hot tub.

  What the hell happened there? Who was she? We would have to wait until our ME, Dr. Lee, and her team provided more information. We didn’t even have the victim’s approximate age yet, but my guess ranged from twenty to thirty.

  I’d received a voicemail from Joan Moore. She indicated she was on her way back to town and would be in her office soon. I checked her flight arrangements when we disconnected. She—or someone using her ID and ticket—had boarded a plane to Phoenix that morning. We ran the couple’s DMV records and checked their IDs, and Joan Moore was a tall woman—much taller than her husband. Of course, she could’ve lied about her height on her driver’s license, but that was unlikely. Women usually reduced their weight when asked to report it on anything. They would lie about their age, as well, if they could. Men typically increased their height. I laughed as I envisioned the Moores standing side by side. Bowling ball and pin.

  “What’s so funny?” Brad smiled as he looked up from his slicing and dicing of tomatoes.

  “Oh, nothing. Just thinking about someone I met on a case earlier.” I shrugged, nearly ready to jump over the counter and grab a tomato. “How much longer?” How many veggies did two people need for one meal? Was he planning to feed an army?

  “In a few. You know it could be done sooner if you’d help.” He raised his eyebrows, grinned, and held the chef-quality knife handle out to me. After rolling two tomatoes across the island toward me, he set a bowl close by.

  I put down the camera, hopped off the barstool, and went to work.

  Focus, Syd.

  I didn’t want to end up in the ER, bleeding and starving. Couldn’t have that. My cell phone buzzed and danced on the counter. I glanced at Brad then the display. Bernie.

  I propped the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Yeah?” I continued chopping, but the phone’s small size made it difficult to hold there, and it slid into the bowl of chopped tomatoes. I shrugged, grabbed the phone, and passed the knife back to Brad, handle first.

  “Sorry.” I wiped the cell with a napkin then put it to my ear. “I’m back.”

  “Syd, I heard from the ME. Our Jane Doe had skin and blood under the nails of her right hand. It’s with forensics now.”

  Brad was looking down while slicing, and pretending not to listen. I waved a hand in front of his face and mouthed, “Be right back.”

  He nodded, grim-faced, no doubt thinking another date would end because of my job, and he could’ve been right.

  I pulled open the patio door, hurried outside, and rounded the corner. “Did you just say there might be DNA evidence?” I whispered.

  “Yep. And she said the girl’s approximate age was eighteen through early twenties.”

  “Did they find any other evidence on her body?” The call waiting on my phone beeped.

  “No. Dr. Lee will get back to us, but it could take a few days. She’s got high-priority cases to get to first.”

  “Maybe more political than high-priority.” I roamed through Brad’s backyard. He’d done a lot of work. When did he find the time? “Anything else? Fingerprints?” My phone beeped again.

  “Nope. Not yet. I checked with Missing Persons, and nobody matching her description has been reported missing in the last six months.”

  “Yeah, I checked, too. Same results. Anything else?”

  “Nope. Later, Syd.”

  We ended our call, and I connected to my sister. “Hi, Mac.”

  “Syd, where are you?”

  “At Brad’s. What’s up?”

  “We need a babysitter for Josh for this weekend.” Mac sounded out of breath, and I heard zipper sounds. Already packing before she asked me? “Mike and I are going to Vegas for our anniversary.”

  “Sure. What time should I be there?” I hadn’t introduced Brad to my family yet. It wouldn’t happen before the weekend, either, but I didn’t know why I was waiting.

  “If everything goes the way we planned, we’ll hit the road late Friday evening, after Josh goes to bed. I think traffic will be lighter by then. We should be back Sunday afternoon, maybe around two or three.”
>
  “All right. No problem, I’ll be there.”

  We hung up, and I prepared to tell Brad. He’d been complaining about us not spending enough time together, but before facing that particular challenge, I called Monica Stewart. No answer, so I left a voicemail, slid my phone in my back pocket, and stepped inside the house.

  Brad looked up, with suspicion and disappointment in his eyes. “You have to go, don’t you?”

  I smiled. “Trying to get rid of me?” I made a beeline for a tomato slice. “When do we eat?” I decided to postpone telling him about the weekend.

  So, I’m a coward. Sue me.

  Maybe he already had plans, and I wouldn’t have to say anything.

  When did I get so nervous?

  Brad handed me a crystal bowl of veggies and a glass of lemonade. “I wanted to have wine, but figured it was risky if you had to go to work.” He led me into the dimly lit formal dining room. He’d placed a pretty lace tablecloth on the table. A stunning bouquet of pink and yellow roses in a crystal vase sat in the center. Candlelight danced along the walls and made the vase sparkle. Tasteful. Romantic.

  I shook my head, said, “Wow,” and set the bowl and my lemonade on the table. He held my chair then took a seat opposite me.

  Nice.

  All the prep he’d done made me feel guilty about the weekend. I should’ve asked him if he had plans before agreeing to babysit. It suddenly struck me. I didn’t want to ruin my chance with Brad.

  “Hello, Earth to Sydney.” Brad clinked his fork against his glass. “Where did you go? Were you thinking of work? The phone call earlier?”

  “Nope.” I grinned and felt my face heat up. “Actually, I was thinking about us.”

  “What about us?” He leaned forward, smiling like a kid at Christmas.

  “Don’t get any ideas, buddy. Not yet.” I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. He needed encouragement and all that—like a puppy to be trained.

  “If not that, then what?” He sipped his lemonade, peering at me over the rim.

  My phone vibrated in my pocket, and Brad groaned.

  Uh-oh.

  I slid it out and glanced at the display. Dispatch.

  I sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

  Dispatch told me where I needed to go, and I pulled my notebook and pen from my purse to jot it all down. Brad followed me to the front door. He handed me a bag containing a Tupperware bowl. I stared at it then gazed at him. When had he done that?

  He smiled sheepishly and shrugged.

  What a guy.

  “Another dead body needs your attention?”

  “Yeah. On the other side of town.” I stood on my toes, gave him a quick kiss, and held up the bowl. “Thank you. I’ll cook next time.”

  He tilted my chin up, kissed me, and said, “You’ve got a deal.”

  With that, I was out the door, on my way to deal with my next homicide.

  4

  Brad’s Tupperware bowl contained three soft tacos loaded with turkey, vegetables, cheese, and sour cream. I devoured two on the way to the scene. They were outstanding, and I moaned as I drove. What other talents did he have? Pretty soon, and with luck, I intended to find out.

  I arrived at the scene to discover I’d spilled tacos on my shirt. Not wanting to contaminate the crime scene, I used my last wet-wipe to clean my hands. Before climbing out of the car, I checked the rearview mirror. I had sour cream at the corner of my mouth, in my hair, and on my chin.

  What a slob!

  I peeked in the bag Brad had given me. He’d packed napkins, too.

  Sweet.

  By the time I’d freshened up, Bernie arrived. The latest body lay in the middle of the road. A cemetery occupied the opposite side of the street and an open field the other. The first uniformed officers on the scene had cordoned off the area near the body with crime scene tape. Official vehicles clogged the area.

  The victim, a white male with gray hair, lay face down. Blood had pooled on the pavement beneath him. He wore shorts, a T-shirt, and one running shoe. The other shoe was fifty yards away and I’d passed it as I walked from my car. The foot missing a shoe appeared to have been crushed, and his legs were mangled. The exposed section of his face was shredded. It was a bloody mess and the bones of his cheek were visible. One ear was missing.

  No ID was found on or near the body. I scanned the street and didn’t see any vehicles, other than those of law enforcement and the coroner. There were no houses in the vicinity and no civilian rubberneckers. The street led to an unfinished bridge about a half mile away. According to Dispatch, an anonymous source reported spotting the body.

  “Looks like a hit and run,” Bernie said, stinking of booze.

  “No kidding.”

  In my notebook, I jotted a few details on the location, victim’s description, and condition of the body. I walked down the sidewalks on both sides, looking for anything that may have come from the victim or the vehicle that killed him, but I found nothing.

  We left word for the techs to let us know when they ran the victim’s prints, and I wondered what was taking so long on the prints for the woman in the hot tub. Surely not politics. We needed to call Dr. Lee and our techs in the morning about her. In the meantime, there was nothing left for us to do at the latest scene. Until the guy could be identified, we couldn’t talk to anyone who knew him.

  “I’ll check with Missing Persons.” I pocketed my notebook and headed for my car.

  “All right.” Bernie proceeded past me toward his car. “See you tomorrow.”

  I drove home, munching on the last taco. It was no longer warm, but I didn’t care.

  The next morning, I arrived at work to learn Bernie had called off sick, which left me on my own for the day. Probably another hangover. I’d hoped he would cut back on the drinking after learning of Khrystal’s pregnancy. Maybe Bernie was genuinely sick. A bug had been spreading at work.

  A repeat search of the Missing Persons database produced nothing for either hot tub Jane Doe, for the previous night’s John Doe.

  Exasperating!

  While sipping green tea and nibbling on a cinnamon raisin bagel slathered with cream cheese, I searched public records for the Moores’ house and confirmed they were listed as the official property owners. Not a surprise. They paid annual property taxes of nearly ten grand.

  Ouch. Completely ridiculous.

  Note to self: if I want money left over for meals, I need to consider the property taxes on any house I’m interested in.

  The Frakes Realty website had photos of a much younger, prettier Sylvia and her husband, Vincent. He was average—brown hair and eyes. His face looked like a pale mask, and he appeared to be wearing makeup, maybe blush. Although he was smiling in the photo, his expression left no creases on his forehead or smile lines. Had to be Botox. His teeth were brilliant white. For Sylvia’s part, the set of her mouth suggested she’d smelled something offensive.

  The website led me to Portrero Meyer Homes. A public records search on the company listed Vincent Frakes as the president and CEO, but didn’t mention Sylvia.

  Hunh.

  Portrero Meyer Homes had been in business for nearly three decades, and other people had served as officers over the years. One was a Gerald Cooper, the company’s founder. I Googled him and found an obituary dated six years prior. Apparently he was Sylvia Frakes’s father. It begged the question, why wasn’t Sylvia president? If anybody asked me, I’d have said she’d been ripped off. Nobody asked, of course. I continued reading, feeling a growing dislike for Mr. Cooper, although their family dynamics had nothing to do with me—yet.

  “Hey, Sydney.” Theresa Sinclair, a detective I’d worked with on the CPS murders case, plopped down in the chair across from me. It wobbled because one of the wheels was broken. Theresa had colored her short hair red since I’d last seen her. I stared, took it in. Yes, it looked good on her, complementing her caramel complexion.

  She struggled to wheel herself over to my desk, pushing with her fee
t, like Fred Flintstone. Eventually, she stood, grabbed the back of the chair, and shoved it across the floor.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She took a seat and eyed my bagel until I cut the uneaten portion in half and slid it to her on a napkin. After a quick thanks, she nibbled and talked. “I read the report on that couple—the teachers. Jake and Kelly Milton.” She took a bigger bite, finished it, licked her fingers, and plucked a clean napkin from the many varieties in a stack on my desk.

  Clearly I am a napkin hoarder.

  I drummed my nails on the gray metal desk and hummed while she wiped her mouth and hands.

  “Impatient much?” She glanced at the other half of my bagel.

  I covered it with a pink napkin. “Don’t even think about it. Tell me about Jake and Kelly.”

  “I haven’t talked to them yet, but it’s obvious they’ve been conned.”

  “No kidding.”

  Tell me something I didn’t know.

  “By whom?”

  She shrugged and stood. “Don’t know yet. I’m sure there are other victims out there. There usually are.”

  She turned to leave, glanced at the napkin-covered bagel, then left my cubicle. That was all she had? It made me think she’d just come for the grub. I would have to keep my eye on her. I couldn’t have her turning into another Bernie where my pastries were concerned. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to share—well, yes, that was what it was. Too much one-sided sharing was going on already.

  I popped a chunk of bagel in my mouth, leaned back, and enjoyed. I patted my stomach. I squeezed.

  Uh-oh. Getting a little soft there.

  I’d been running and working out with Mac until a few weeks earlier, when the perpetrator of the crimes I’d been investigating attacked her. As a reward for being with me at the wrong place at the wrong time, Mac had suffered a broken arm, and she hadn’t felt up to running or doing anything physical since. During the same case, Bernie and I had also been injured. Since then, I’d let exercise fall by the wayside.