Criminal Negligence

by Danielle L Davis

Time to get back to it.

  I picked up the rest of the bagel and held it over the trash can, but I couldn’t let it fall.

  “I’ll start tomorrow.” I bit off another piece and smiled.

  Yeah, tomorrow.

  “Sydney, where’s Bernie?” Theresa was back.

  “He’s out today. Why?” I chewed, reaching for my tea to wash it down.

  “Are you free to take a ride out to see Jake and Kelly now? I spoke to her, and he’s back from San Francisco.”

  “Yep.” I gobbled up the rest of my bagel, gulped the lukewarm tea, and followed her out.

  She drove her department-issue Ford Focus, and I rode shotgun.

  Ten minutes later, she rolled to the curb and cut the engine.

  Kelly’s parents resided in an upscale area of San Sansolita. Most of the homes were on par with the Moores’ house—far more than I could afford on my current salary. We strolled along the walkway toward the house, which may have been the smallest on the street. Two little mixed-breed dogs yapped behind the security screen door. How did all of that noise come out of such small creatures?

  Theresa reached for the doorbell, but I blocked her. Someone was walking toward us from the rear of the house. No sense in getting the dogs more excited—if that was even possible. They panted and paced frantically. One ran in circles.

  The man shushed the dogs. “You must be the detectives my wife mentioned. I’m Jake Milton.” We introduced ourselves. He unlatched the ornate steel screen door and pushed it open. “Come in. Kelly’s this way.”

  Skinny and sporting a mop of curly dark hair, Milton stepped aside as we entered. With the dogs at our heels, sniffing the bottoms of our slacks, we followed him through the house to a sunroom in the back. Kelly brought in iced tea and fancy cookies on a shiny silver platter. I didn’t understand the rationale of having sweetened tea with cookies. The tea lost something when paired with cookies. Still, I didn’t turn either down.

  Jake and Kelly sat on the wooden swing, while Theresa and I sat across from them in patio chairs with a pattern of yellow and white flowers. I sipped my tea. Very sweet. And cold. I pulled my jacket tighter around me and took out my notebook. A quick pocket search for a pen came up empty, so I picked up the one on the table. I planned to let Theresa ask the questions while I observed.

  Theresa had her notebook out on her knee, and she read through her scribbles. “I’ve read the report of your account of how you rented the house.”

  “Right. Right. Did you find the guy she rented from?” Jake leaned forward, anxiety in his eyes. Kelly stroked his arm, and he sat back.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Milton—”

  “Please, Jake and Kelly. No need for formalities here.” His smile twitched.

  “Okay. Jake and Kelly, did you find your copy of the lease agreement?” Theresa asked.

  Kelly fished around in a folder balanced on her lap. “It was here all along. My mother saw it on the table and put it away. She can’t stand seeing things lying around.” She slid out a bundle of papers and handed them to Theresa. “I made copies.”

  “Thank you.”

  Theresa read the documents, making notes as she went along. She looked up and pointed to the signature section of the document. “This says you rented the house from ‘John Smith.’” Theresa folded the copies and tucked them under her notebook. “Where do you work?”

  Kelly smiled. “I teach third grade at Sunrise Elementary, and Jake teaches high school history and English.” She touched his arm and grinned nervously. “He’ll find another job soon.”

  “Can you describe the person you rented the house from?” I asked, unable to keep my mouth shut after all.

  Kelly looked at me, wide-eyed.

  Did she not understand the question?

  “How tall was he?” I asked.

  “Tall. He was pretty tall.” Kelly glanced at Jake. “Taller than Jake. He looked like Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln, the president?” I asked. Stupid question—like I knew of any other Lincolns.

  “Yes, Abraham Lincoln.” She nodded, apparently satisfied she’d made it clear.

  “Did you see what kind of car he drove?” I asked.

  “It was blue. I don’t really know cars.”

  “How was he dressed?” Theresa asked.

  “He was wearing beige Levi’s Dockers and a blue shirt.”

  “You said he looked like Lincoln. How did he resemble Lincoln, other than his height?” I asked.

  “His hair was straight, short and dark, and he had a beard.” She closed her eyes then opened them. “No, it was a goatee.”

  Theresa looked at Jake. “You were in San Francisco at the time of the lease signing?”

  “Right. I was there working.” He glanced at his wife. “I trusted Kelly’s judgment and knew I’d be happy with her choice.”

  Theresa turned to Kelly. “Did you happen to print out the ad you saw online?”

  “I didn’t. Sorry,” she said. “I called the number right away.”

  Jake squeezed Kelly’s hand. “My wife is a go-getter. She gets things done.”

  Theresa nodded. “It’s okay. We’ll see if we can find it.” She jotted more notes. “Did you call the agent from your cell phone?”

  “I don’t remember. Let me check.” She scrolled through her recent calls, shaking her head.

  I looked at Theresa. This felt like it would go nowhere. “Could you have called from a landline?”

  The Miltons stared at me, both blinking.

  Kelly shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Are your parents here?” Theresa asked Kelly.

  “No, they’ve gone away for a few days. They’d planned it before all of this happened,” Kelly said.

  “We were supposed to pick up their dogs and take them to our new place, but …” Jake shrugged.

  “Mom doesn’t like boarding them.” Kelly reached down to pick up one of the dogs that had wandered toward her and placed it on her lap, on top of the file.

  “How did you pay your security deposit?” Theresa asked.

  “I used money orders,” Kelly said.

  “That’s unusual,” I said.

  Kelly shrugged. “He said he needed a money order. I ended up getting three to have enough for the full amount of twenty-eight hundred dollars.”

  “Did you think requiring a money order was odd?” Theresa asked.

  “I didn’t know. I just figured he’d had problems with bad tenants in the past and didn’t want the hassle of bounced checks. He asked for the rent to be paid that way, too.”

  Jake stared at her. “Seriously?” Then he lifted a shoulder. “Well, I know people who don’t have bank accounts and pay their bills with money orders.”

  “See? It’s not so unusual, after all. Maybe he didn’t trust banks.” Kelly smiled triumphantly at Theresa.

  Theresa gazed at Kelly “I have to tell you, the homeowner told Detective Valentine the house is for sale, not for rent. So, whoever you met is not the owner, not according to the information I’ve been able to determine so far.”

  “But, we have his name. It’s right there on the papers Kelly gave you,” Jake said.

  “That money was all we had. We saved for ages to get it so we could have our own place.”

  “Did you keep the receipts for the money orders?” I asked.

  “No. I threw them in the trash. They’re gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Theresa said. “We don’t have much to go on in order to track the fraudster down, but we’ll be in touch.”

  I should have told them to consider their money gone and most likely unrecoverable, but why pile on more bad news? I left the pen on the table and we headed for the door, escorted by the yappy little dogs, with the Miltons close behind, perhaps still hopeful. We each gave Jake a business card.

  I slid into the passenger seat. “Would you mind stopping by Frakes Realty? I’ve been trying to reach the agent handling the Moore’s sale.”

  “No problem.” Theresa glanced my
way. “You think she knows something?”

  “She seemed to have something to say when I was there yesterday, but she backed down when Sylvia Frakes came around.”

  “Then why isn’t she returning your calls?”

  “Good question.” I shrugged. “I didn’t want to go back to their office, but I don’t have a choice now.” I turned in my seat. “Hey, do you own a house?”

  “No, but I’ve been thinking about buying. Why?”

  “Me too. Do you know any real estate agents?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “I was thinking of asking Brad. He’s an agent, and his parents are agents.”

  “Who’s Brad?” She turned my way and smiled. “Oh, he’s the guy from the dating site your sister ambushed you with!”

  I pointed to a building. “Frakes Realty. I hope she’s here.”

  “Me, too. But I want to continue our conversation later,” she said, grinning broadly.

  “You got it.” I stepped from the car and headed to the entrance.

  Theresa strolled behind me, humming the chorus from “Here Comes the Bride.”

  “Cut that out,” I whispered.

  She giggled.

  Silly.

  I shoved open the door and scanned the office. No sign of Monica Stewart. Someone behind me cleared her throat. Theresa and I turned.

  “May I help you, Detective Valentine?” Sylvia had her arms folded, and a smirk curled her thin lips.

  “I had follow-up questions for Monica Stewart.” I took another look around the room. “Is she in today?”

  “I’m afraid she doesn’t work here anymore. Perhaps I can be of assistance.” She looked at me then Theresa with raised eyebrows.

  “When did she leave her job?” I asked.

  “I believe it was soon after your visit.”

  Something smelled of long-dead fish. “Did you terminate her employment?”

  “I did no such thing! She quit.”

  Right. And Bernie doesn’t love doughnuts.

  Monica had seemed bothered by what had happened and nervous about something. I didn’t have her home address. I didn’t bother asking Sylvia. She would demand a warrant. No need to give her any more satisfaction than she already had in giving me this morsel of bad news.

  Maybe Monica would return my call soon, but I wasn’t holding my breath.

  5

  It didn’t take long to find the address Monica last registered with the California DMV. Theresa and I were on our way there—our last stop before heading back to the station.

  Dragging by then, I thought about the last item, other than the cookies, I’d eaten that day—a bagel, which I’d shared.

  I still hadn’t heard a peep from the ME concerning our hot tub victim. We weren’t likely to get any closer to identifying her without a little help from Dr. Lee.

  Theresa rolled the car to a stop outside a townhouse under construction in a community on the north side of town. New houses had recently begun springing up in the area. Contractors were packing up their equipment and loading up oversized green thermoses and orange water dispensers. The men and a couple of women piled into their trucks, kicking up more dust.

  We stepped out of the car as dust whipped through the air. I looked at the addresses of the neighboring homes—odd numbers on one side and even on the other. If the pattern continued, we were at the correct house.

  I glanced at the information I’d received from the DMV. “This is the address I was given, but how could she live here? It’s not habitable. Not yet.”

  Theresa shrugged. “Either the DMV got it wrong, or she gave them this address intentionally. I doubt the DMV check out the addresses people add to their forms. They accept what they get.”

  “Okay, but how would she have received her license and car registration in the mail if the address is wrong?”

  “Maybe she already had a license, and it still has her old address. She could’ve changed her address with the DMV without getting a new license issued.”

  “Still—it’s wrong. Why change an address so far in advance? The DMV gives you ten days to file the change of address after moving.” I didn’t like it. We were back to square one.

  A bearded man in a battered and dusty white Expedition drove past us and stopped at a nearby house. He climbed out of the vehicle, a hard hat held under one arm and a clipboard in his hand. He gazed at the house and walked around one side after placing the hard hat over his red hair. A few minutes later, he appeared from the other side.

  “Let’s go talk to him.” I pointed and headed over

  The man watched us approach and stepped up when we got closer.

  “May I help you ladies with something?” He’d removed his hard hat. A million freckles covered his face and arms.

  I made the introductions.

  He looked us over, head to toe, pausing at the badges clipped to our belts. “All right.” He put on the hat and tilted it back, spread his feet wide, and crossed his arms. His eyes had narrowed. “Is there a problem?”

  “May I ask who you are, sir?” I took out my notebook. Theresa had hers out, too.

  “Roger Mathews, the superintendent for this project.” He frowned. “What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Mathews, can you give me an estimate of when this townhouse will be completed?” I pointed to the building Monica claimed as her home.

  He glanced at the house. “Not for a couple more months.”

  “There are no addresses on the nearby homes yet. What’s the address here?”

  He flipped a few pages on his clipboard. “Four twenty-two South Nolan Drive. What’s this about?”

  “We’re trying to locate someone, and this is the current address we received,” Theresa said.

  “Well, obviously no one’s living here yet.” He pushed the hard hat forward. “If you have no other questions, I’d like to get back to work. I’ve got other houses to check.”

  “We’re done. Thanks,” I said.

  He turned to leave but Theresa called out, “Mr. Mathews?”

  “Yes?” He tapped the clipboard against his thigh.

  “Who’s the builder on this project?”

  “Portrero Meyer Homes. Anything else?”

  “Thanks for your help.”

  Theresa and I headed back to the car. Mathews watched us walk away before strolling toward another house. Neither of us said a word until we were back in the car.

  “The builder is the one mentioned on the Frakes Realty website. It’s owned by Frakes,” I said.

  “They have their fingers in everything. So, what’s next?” She started the car and cruised down the street.

  I got out my cell phone. “I’m going to Google Monica Stewart.”

  “Good idea.”

  When I typed Monica Stewart’s name and “San Sansolita” into the Google search box, I was presented with several social media accounts belonging to her or someone with her name who claimed to be in real estate. If I had no other options, I would contact her through those accounts. I also browsed the Frakes Realty website, looking for her contact information, hoping they hadn’t removed her yet.

  “Jackpot!” I pumped my fist. “Got her!”

  “What? How?” Theresa stretched to get a look.

  “Eyes on the road!” I pointed to the red light. “I swear, between you and Bernie, I’m going to die in a car accident any day now.”

  “All right. Sheesh. How’d you find her, anyway?”

  “She’s still on the Frakes Realty website. It has her contact information there, and it’s different to the information from the DMV. There’s also an e-mail address for a Gmail account. That might be her private e-mail.”

  “Have you considered Sylvia was lying about Monica not working there anymore?” Theresa glanced at me then focused on her driving.

  “Hmm. No, I hadn’t. Why would she do that? I think Monica’s gone—or is avoiding me.”

  “Maybe the information she gave you was her contact information from Frakes
.”

  “Well, she didn’t give me her contact information. I took a business card from her desk, but I did give her and Sylvia my card.”

  Theresa pulled into the SSPD parking lot. “I’ve got to write up the interview with the Miltons.” She shook her head as she cut the engine. “I still can’t believe she fell for it and paid that guy.”

  “The con man was smart. He didn’t ask for an amount that would be considered unreasonable to most people for that type of house. She probably thought it was a bargain.”

  “And it was—if it had been for real.” Theresa locked the doors, and we entered the station.

  On my way home a while later, I passed Joan Moore’s law practice, a one-story office building, which included a dental office and insurance agency. I pulled into the parking lot and headed to the door. A young man sat at a desk at the front of the office, his back toward me. The receptionist?

  “I know it’s overdue. We’ll get it to you next week.” He swiveled his chair around, facing me. “I’m sorry. I have to go now.” He hung up. “Can I help you?” He eyed my weapon.

  I’m Detective Valentine from the SSPD.“Is Joan Moore here?”

  He cleared his throat and tugged at his collar. “I’m sorry, she’s not.” He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “I need to talk to her. She told me she’d be back today.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Not yet. I can give her a message.” His face was flush and his hair wet with perspiration. He moved his stapler to one side of his desk, then to another, fidgeting.

  “Are you okay?” What was wrong with him? Nervous? Frightened?

  He picked up a pen, tapping it on the desk blotter. “I’m fine. I have to lock up now. Uh…can I tell Joan what this is about?”

  “Tell her to call Detective Valentine.” I left the building, thinking I’d seen him before and wondering what was wrong with him.

  6

  The next morning, I caught up with Bernie at work and gave him an update on everything that had happened while he was out sick. When we left the building to interview the Moores at their Palm Springs home, the sun blasted me in the face and it felt like it was a hundred degrees. Once in the car, I turned the A/C on.