Criminal Negligence

by Danielle L Davis

  Had to be good news.

  I glanced at Bernie. He shrugged. I opened the envelope and tugged on a sheaf of papers inside. I read the top page and looked up. “Really?”

  Monica scooted to the edge of the chair, rubbing her hands together. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re going to be a wealthy woman.” I handed the papers—a copy of Vincent Frakes’s will—to Bernie. Vincent had left her a significant portion of Portrero Meyer Homes and Frakes Realty. In fact, once the will passed probate, Monica would own the majority of Frakes Realty, pushing Sylvia out almost entirely.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “A messenger brought it. I didn’t even know Vincent owned anything having to do with Portrero Meyer. Never really thought about who owned the company. I assumed he was an employee, not an owner. He never seemed like that.”

  The new information changed everything. Could Monica have killed him for this? Did Sylvia know he’d planned to leave Monica a share of the businesses? If she had, she certainly would have wanted him alive. Wouldn’t she? Unless she thought she could kill him before he changed the will.

  Bernie read the will and stopped to peer at me. He leaned my way, pointing out the estate attorney’s name: Joan Moore. Then he returned the papers to Monica.

  I turned to Monica. “Do you have an attorney?”

  “No. Can’t I use the one who did his will?”

  “If I were you, I’d get my own attorney to avoid a conflict of interest.” I shrugged. “But that’s just me.”

  Monica pulled additional pages from the envelope. “Look at this.” She gave me a few sheets. “I don’t know who that is, but she’s getting part of Portrero Meyer Homes, too.”

  The name read Sharon Carter, residing in Cherry Valley. I shrugged and gave the document to Bernie. “Have you seen that name during our investigation?”

  Shaking his head, he wrote the name and contact information in his notebook.

  “There’s a date of birth in the papers. Sharon Carter’s a couple of years younger than me, but Vincent never mention her,” Monica said.

  “Well, she’s about to inherit something.” I jotted down the information. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk to us about?”

  “Do you know the name of an attorney? And maybe a financial advisor?”

  “I don’t know of an attorney, but I can give you the business card of a financial advisor who’s highly recommended by other people I know.” I pulled out the business card of the financial planner Mac and Mike used. I’d given the information to someone I knew from a previous case who’d hit the lotto. The last time I’d spoken to him, he’d seemed to be happy with the help he’d received. I’d kept a couple of the cards on me since then.

  She took the card and stared at it. “I can’t believe he’s gone, and I didn’t get a chance to get to know him as my father.”

  “But you did get the chance to know him. He cared enough for you to leave you a piece of the businesses,” I said.

  “Yes, I did get to know him. You’re right.” She smiled, and her eyes glistened. “Are you getting close to figuring out who killed him?”

  Close is a relative concept.

  “Possibly. These things can take time.”

  “Do you think Sylvia knew about the will?”

  I shook my head and shrugged. “It’s hard to say. You should keep the information to yourself, for the moment.”

  “Maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she forced me out of Frakes.”

  “But why would she kill him, knowing you’d get so much of his estate?” Bernie asked.

  “She might not have realized what he planned to do.” She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. She’s not a nice person, and I do think she had something to do with my father’s death. I guess I’m just hoping she gets what she has coming to her.”

  “It doesn’t always work out that way,” Bernie said, speaking softly.

  I leaned forward. “Monica, when did you start working for Frakes Realty?”

  “Years ago. Maybe six? I left to try something else, and I got engaged, but it didn’t work out the way I expected. I went back because of Vincent. I thought he’d be a good mentor, and I was right.”

  “Why did you stay when Sylvia was treating you poorly?” Bernie asked.

  “Vincent asked me to. He said it would work out, and I had a good career ahead of me. He told me he’d talk to Sylvia to get her to ease up. She never did, though. When do you think you’ll find out who killed him?”

  “Hopefully, we’ll figure it out soon. One way or the other. All right?” I headed for the door and turned the knob.

  “Take care, Monica.” Bernie gave her a business card. “Call if you think of anything else.”

  I slid into the driver’s seat of our car and buckled up. “I forgot to tell you what Brad said the other day.”

  Was it yesterday? It seemed longer.

  “Oh? Still seeing him?” His gaze slid my way.

  “Why wouldn’t I be? What do you know?”

  “Don’t get paranoid.” He smirked. “I know nothing. What did he say?”

  “Vincent mentored Brad when he was in college and Frakes Realty wasn’t as big as it is now.”

  “Now that’s interesting. What about Monica?”

  “What about her?” I asked, a bit too testily.

  “You tell me. Did they have a thing or something?”

  “Who is they?” I stopped at a red light and glowered at the pedestrians strolling past as if they had all day.

  “They is whomever you want it to be.” He turned in his seat, staring. “What the hell is wrong with you all of a sudden?”

  “To answer your question, Brad knew Monica, too. He seemed surprised she was Vincent’s daughter. He basically told me the same thing she did about how she learned from Vincent and how good he was to them.”

  “And what was Brad’s impression of Sylvia?” Bernie asked.

  “He said she wasn’t in the picture when he first met Vincent. She arrived later. He doesn’t think very highly of her, though. Told me she wasn’t a nice person.”

  “No surprise there. But can you blame her? I mean, her father practically gave the company to someone who wasn’t born into the family. Why?”

  “Maybe he didn’t trust her to run it properly, even though she was the only daughter to go into real estate.” The light changed, and a teen sprinted across in front of the car, eyeing me as I nudged forward.

  “Maybe he thought a woman couldn’t run the company.”

  I shrugged. “That might be it.”

  When Bernie and I arrived at the Simons’ house, they were pulling out of their driveway. Bernie jumped from the car to flag them down, and I parked and followed.

  Carl stopped his car and got out. “Hey, you trying to get yourself killed or something?” His face was flushed.

  Bernie flashed his badge and smiled. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Simon, but we came across some new information we needed to discuss with you.”

  “Oh, it’s you. I didn’t recognize you. Sorry ’bout that.” He went around the passenger side of his car and opened his wife’s door. I didn’t often see that type of chivalry. He reached for her hand to help her out. “Linda, it’s the detectives.”

  We gathered in the driveway near their car. The little dogs scurried around inside the wrought-iron gate on the side of the house, barking ferociously at us.

  “What new information do you have?” Carl asked.

  “Do you know who Sharon Carter is?” I asked.

  Carl and Linda looked at each other and frowned. Carl rubbed his stubble, and Linda pursed her lips.

  “The name sounds familiar. It does.” Linda shook her head. “I just can’t say for sure.”

  “Did you know Vincent Frakes?” Bernie asked.

  “Yeah, he was married to her sister.” Carl pointed to Linda.

  “Did you know him well?” I asked.

  The couple looked at one another but r
emained quiet.

  “Linda, how is your relationship with Sylvia?” Bernie asked.

  “We don’t see each other often.”

  Carl scoffed. Bernie and I gazed at him. Linda glared. Carl looked away.

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

  Linda didn’t respond. Carl stared at his feet.

  “Did you go to Vincent Frakes’s funeral?” I asked.

  “We did not,” Carl said.

  Linda gasped.

  “Now, honey,” Carl said, quietly. “We need to tell them. I’m sure they’ve seen these situations before.” He glanced our way. “When their daddy didn’t help me and Linda when we were struggling, we had some animosity toward him. We did. We got over it after a while, but then when Sylvia married Vincent, her daddy let him run the company.” He touched Linda’s elbow. “Go on. Tell them.”

  “And that’s when things got worse between Sylvia and me.” Linda’s eyes had moistened. “I mean, we were never close, but we certainly aren’t now. If she had at least stood up for us, things might be different now.”

  “What about your other sister? Joan Moore? Are you close?” I asked.

  “Closer than Sylvia and Linda, that’s for sure,” Carl said. “Joan stops by here on Thanksgiving and sees Sylvia on Christmas. We rarely see Sylvia.”

  “I used to babysit Jennifer when she was younger. It made sense as I was home with Kelly anyway.”

  Carl shook his head. “It’s no wonder Jennifer turned out the way she did. Nobody home to pay attention to her. They were too busy building their careers instead of their family. We felt sorry for Jennifer. She was a good kid.”

  “Joan’s law practice never did well. She should’ve just stayed home to raise her daughter,” Carl said.

  “Did Joan show any interest in your father’s businesses?” I asked.

  “Yes, but only to sell them off,” Carl said.

  Linda said, “That’s true. Joan and Sylvia argued about that for a while after Dad died. Joan wanted Sylvia to convince Vincent to sell. He refused.”

  “To be honest, I don’t think Sylvia ever wanted to sell either.” Carl gazed at Linda as she nodded. “She had big dreams but Vincent owned most of the company. Her hands were tied.”

  “Do you know Monica Stewart?”

  They shook their heads. “Should we?” Carl asked.

  “She’s Joan’s real estate agent. She worked for Sylvia.”

  “Oh. We don’t know anything about the business,” Carl said.

  I thought after our previous conversation, these two would’ve found out more regarding Kelly’s search for a place to live. Even with their apparent lack of interest, I gave it another shot. “Has Kelly rented another house yet?”

  They looked at one another and shrugged.

  Good grief. Do they even care?

  I looked at Bernie, who was putting away his notebook. It was a done deal for me, too.

  “Well, we won’t keep you any longer. Thanks.” I turned to leave.

  Back in the car, I slid into the passenger seat. I didn’t want to drive.

  “I’m not sure I know what to think about their lack of concern or knowledge,” Bernie said. “I don’t want to be that kind of parent.”

  “No worries. You won’t be.”

  25

  We returned to the station and I ran a criminal background check on Sharon Carter and came up empty. The DMV reports returned five in Riverside County, but none lived at the address in Cherry Valley mentioned in Vincent Frakes’s will. Bummer. I’d earned myself more legwork, but I still felt we’d made progress. I scanned the birthdates and found one person who matched, and the license had been issued four years ago. The address, in San Jacinto, was a fifteen-minute drive away. The driver’s license photos were useless. They were all fuzzy and looked like mugshots. Nobody smiled, and everyone seemed to be in pain—after waiting for hours at the DMV, no doubt. I stood and looked over my cubicle wall at Bernie’s empty chair.

  “Looking for me?” Bernie said from behind me.

  I jumped. “Darn it, Bernie!”

  He laughed, clearly pleased with my reaction.

  “You want to go by this address with me?” I held out the report, pointing to the driver’s license photo. “This one had the same date of birth as the Sharon Carter in Frakes’s will. I thought we could pay her a visit.” Sharon also had a black 2012 Ford Focus registered in her name at the same address.

  “That girl’s face is really thin. She must’ve been at the DMV so long she missed a few meals.” He laughed as he went back to his desk and grabbed the recorder and his cell phone from its charging station. “I have to call Khrystal. She said she felt a little nauseous this morning.”

  “Better call before we go. If you need to take off, I can see if Theresa’s busy.” I sat in my swivel chair and spun while he called.

  Moments later, he disconnected, slid his phone in his pocket, and shrugged. “She’s okay now.” His brow furrowed.

  “But?” I stood and picked up the DMV information for Sharon Carter.

  “I got the feeling she was trying not to worry me.” He strolled to the door. “Let’s go. She’ll call if there’s a problem.”

  “Maybe we should take two cars—just in case.”

  He turned, seemed to think about it, then nodded. “You’re right. What’s the address?”

  I read it out, and he scribbled it in his notebook, and we went to our separate cars.

  Somehow, Bernie arrived at the address before me. I pulled up behind him, hopped out, and knocked on his window as he chatted on the phone. He looked up and raised a finger to let me know he would be a moment. I leaned on his car, checking out the neighborhood of older homes. The lawns were mostly well kept, but a few sported dry or patchy areas. California had been suffering a drought for a few years and some municipalities encouraged drought-tolerant landscaping. Years ago, I’d heard several nearby cities had implemented green lawn ordinances. I looked it up and found that at least eighty percent of the front yard had to be green, which didn’t sound drought-tolerant to me.

  Bernie opened his door and stepped out. “Khrystal doing okay. No nausea at all now. It’s funny how it comes and goes so quickly.”

  “Good to know.” We headed toward the small home. Its exterior was painted in the variations of tan typical to the region. From the outside, it didn’t look much bigger than my apartment. Water streamed down the sidewalk and driveway near the lush grass. The lawn sparkled with moisture. The sprinklers must’ve just shut off.

  Fine way to help the drought!

  Bernie rang the doorbell. “I hope this leads somewhere. I think we should hold off on showing her the photo of Jane Doe until we ask our initial questions. It might be too distressing.”

  “I agree.”

  The door opened a crack. A woman in her mid-fifties peered out at us. She had a slight mustache and dozens of tiny curlers in her hair. Her blue chenille robe had a few bald spots and holes. The television blared in the background.

  Bernie introduced us and we pressed our IDs to the security screen door.

  She leaned forward, squinting at our badges. “Okay.”

  “Are you Sharon Carter?” I knew she couldn’t be. The woman was too old, according to the date of birth on the will and the driver’s license. Sharon was half her age.

  “No, I’m not. What’s she done now?” Her eyes narrowed as she scanned the street behind us. Bernie had his notebook out.

  “As far as we know, nothing,” I said. “Do you have reason to believe she’s done something we should be made aware of?”

  “Yeah, maybe.” Her eyes flashed. “It’s always something with that girl. If she hasn’t done anything, why are you here interrupting my show?”

  “Ma’am, may we come in to talk to you?” Bernie looked around at the people strolling down the sidewalk. “In private?”

  “Say what you got to say here. My neighbors already know all my business anyhow.”

 
; “All right. Can we start with your name?” I asked.

  “Nope. You got no business with me if you’re looking for Sharon.” She grinned, and her dental plate slipped. She pushed it in place with her tongue. “Next question.” She glanced over her shoulder as canned laughter from a game show roared behind her. “And make it snappy.”

  “Do you own this house, ma’am?” Bernie asked.

  No response.

  “Ma’am, if you don’t respond, we’ll have to do some checking on whoever lives here, whether it’s you or someone else.” I eyeballed her. “And who knows what we’d dig up or how we’d use the information.”

  She glared at me, pursed her lips, then nodded. “Sharon doesn’t live here anymore.”

  We were finally getting somewhere.

  “Do you know where she lives now?”

  “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

  “What is your relationship with her?” I asked.

  “She’s my stepdaughter. Her daddy, my fifth husband, died, and I continued to raise Sharon on my own. She became a problem as she got older.”

  “What kind of problems did you have with her?”

  “She’d steal anything that wasn’t nailed down. When she was younger they told me her IQ was on genius level. I thought she’d be an accountant or something because she always did well in math. Went to college for a couple of years but got tired of it. Too much work, she said. Too much partying with her friends, you ask me. And it was one con after another. Wherever she is, it’s good riddance.”

  “Did she have a lot of friends? How about other family in the area?”

  She tsked. “Yeah, she had friends all right. Birds of a feather, they were.”

  “Do you have their contact information?”

  “Now, why would I have that? I don’t want anything to do with those kinds of people.” She heaved out a breath. “My show’s almost over. Are we done?”

  “Did Sharon leave any belongings behind? Perhaps something we could use to track her down?” I asked. “Did she have a car?”

  She looked to the ceiling, pursed her lips, and nodded. “She had a car. Can’t remember much about it except it was black. Wait here.” She closed the door in our faces.