I shook my head and looked at Bernie. “What do you think?”
“There’s something here. I don’t know what, but there’s something.”
“Agreed. It’s just hard to get to it with all the attitude being tossed at us.” The door knob twisted, and I shut my mouth.
The door opened. The lady had something in her hand. “Is it against the law to give you her mail? I don’t want to break any laws.”
“Did Sharon open the mail?” I asked.
She nodded. “Just bills, I think.” She opened the door a crack and shoved them through. “Take ’em.”
I looked through the credit card transactions. Charges for gas and eating out took up the majority of her five-thousand-dollar credit limit. I jotted down the credit card number, the issuing bank, and cities where she’d used her card. She had a gym membership, too. I gave the lady the envelope and bill. “Did she leave any personal items here? Maybe some clothes or a hair brush?”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Did she actually move and take her clothes, toothbrush, or luggage?”
She chewed on her lip. “Wait a minute. Do you think something happened to her? Like she didn’t leave on her own or something?”
“We don’t know. I’m just trying to figure out if she moved or if she had an accident and couldn’t make it back. You seem to think she simply left without a word.”
“Well, she’s done that before. I mean, left without saying anything. She’d show up later as if she was just here that morning, having breakfast with me—not that that ever happened. I mean, she’d take me out to dinner sometimes, but we rarely ate together at home as a family—not since she became a teenager and decided she didn’t need me. Girl thinks she knows everything.”
“How long has it been since you’ve seen or spoken to her?”
“Couple of months.” She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know.”
“Did she tell you she was leaving?” I kept pulling the string. Something had to come loose, eventually. It usually did.
“Well, not exactly. She told me she had a plan that was going to make her rich. I assumed that’s where she went. To get rich. If that ever happened, she sure ain’t sharing it with me.”
I looked up from my writing. “Did she say what the plan was?”
“Of course not.”
“Have you ever filed a missing person’s report on her?” Bernie asked.
“No. She’s never been missing.” Her eyes widened, and she pressed a palm to her chest. Her face sagged and turned pale. “Do you think she’s missing?”
“I have no idea. If you have anything she may have used, like a toothbrush or hair brush, we’d like you to get it for us.”
She gazed at me. “Well, all right.” She shut the door on us again but not before her eyes moistened. So, she did care for Sharon after all.
Bernie’s phone buzzed, and he glanced at the display then walked toward his car.
The woman returned and handed me a toothbrush and hairbrush in a plastic Walgreens bag. She reached into her robe pocket and gave me a palm-sized sheet of paper. “I found this stuck in her mirror. You know…” She cleared her throat. “…in case you need it.”
I flipped it over. My heart skipped a beat.
Oh my goodness. Bingo!
26
She’d handed me a photo showing a smiling Sharon. Her face was less thin than the one on the driver’s license and she was with two other teen girls about the same age. The back of the photo, dated five years earlier, included two names along with Sharon’s: Jennifer Moore and Kelly Simon. They were all wearing denim shorts, San Sansolita Community College cropped T-shirts, and baseball caps.
“Does that help?” she asked.
“Yes, it does. Thank you.” I gave her my business card. “In case she returns, or you think of something else, ma’am.”
She slipped the card in her robe pocket. “Call me Mavis.” She peered at me through the security door. “I’m Mavis Carter.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mavis.”
“Why do you need Sharon’s toothbrush and hair brush? Do you think she’s dead?” She sniffled. “I know about DNA from that show, CSI. I like it because they find the bad guy fast.”
Didn’t they all think that? These shows weren’t realistic, I wanted to tell her. Law enforcement doesn’t get DNA results back as quickly as they do on TV.
I sighed. “We’ve been trying to determine the identity of a young woman for several days. She didn’t have ID on her, and nobody has reported anyone fitting her description as missing.”
“What does she look like?” Her chin trembled.
“Blonde hair and petite. She was wearing white jeans, white tank top, and black suede boots.”
Mavis gasped. “But that could be anybody. It could even be one of the other girls in that picture.”
I shook my head. “No, they’re both accounted for.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ve spoken to them several times.”
“Oh. I still don’t believe it was Sharon. She never wore white jeans.” She wrapped her arms around herself and swayed.
“You might be right. Is there anyone you could call? To stay with you?”
“No. I’ll be all right.” She gazed past me.
I turned. Bernie walked toward us.
After pulling out my phone, I showed her the picture I took of Jane Doe as she lay in the hot tub.
She gasped. “Her face is really bruised and swollen.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. It could be my Sharon.”
“There’s another way to determine if our victim is Sharon.” I preferred to get an official ID right away since we’d found someone who admitted to knowing Sharon.
She shook her head. “I couldn’t. What if it’s her?”
“If it’s her, it would be her whether you came with us or not,” I said. I handed Bernie the picture she’d given me.
“We could take you now and have someone bring you back home. At least this way, you’ll know for certain,” Bernie said. He returned the photo to me and I slipped it into my pocket.
“I’d have to get dressed.” She patted her curlers. “And do my hair.”
“We’ll wait.” I glanced at Bernie, who nodded.
She gazed at us, said, “All right. I won’t be long,” and shut the door again.
We stood next to Bernie’s car and waited. While we did so, Bernie told me his phone call was from Khrystal and that she was slightly nauseous again. I told him he should take off, but he wanted to stick around. We called the morgue to let them know we were on our way and we were bringing someone to identify the body. They’d already cleaned Jane Doe up, but there was only so much they could do.
Mavis didn’t take long. She’d removed her curlers but hadn’t brushed out her hair. A zebra-striped scarf-headband encircled her head, and she wore black stretch pants, a white T-shirt, and fuzzy slippers. She slid into the backseat of my car, buckled up, and we were on our way, with Bernie taking the lead.
Mavis didn’t speak much on the way to the morgue, which was only to be expected given our destination and her task. We met Bernie outside the morgue, and he led us downstairs, through the ominous hallway. We let the attendant know we’d arrived and waited to enter. Mavis breathed heavily. I sat her down to calm her before entering, not wanting her hyperventilating and passing out on us.
“There’s no need to go in the room. You can view her through the monitor,” I said.
She shook her head. “I need to see her in person.” Closing her eyes, she took deep, shaky breaths. Once she’d regained her composure, we stepped through the door.
In the chilly room, Jane Doe lay on a stainless-steel table, arms to her sides and covered up to her shoulders. She’d been cleaned up, but her face still showed evidence of multiple injuries.
Nothing we could do about that. The dead don’t heal.
I glanced at Mavis. Her hand trembled as she placed it over her mout
h. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. She blinked rapidly, and tears flowed as she shook her head slowly. She reached out to smooth Jane’s hair. We had our answer. I needed to ask the question anyway—one of the most difficult parts of my job.
“Mavis, is this Sharon Carter?” I asked in a soft voice.
She nodded. “Someone hurt her,” she whispered then collapsed onto the table, leaning close to Sharon, grasping her limp pale hand. “It’s Sharon.” She shook her head, staring at the face of the girl she seemed to despise a short time ago. “Oh, Sharon. What did you get yourself into this time?”
Bernie offered her a Kleenex. After wiping her eyes, she blew her nose, still shaking her head. She stood tall, sniffled, then took a deep breath, sandwiched Sharon’s hand between hers, and put the hand to her face. She swallowed and laid Sharon’s hand back on the table gently, then turned and looked at me. “When can I begin to make arrangements?”
“I’ll let them know you’ve identified her, and someone will be in touch.” I squeezed her shoulder. “I’m sorry for your loss.” I gave her my business card. “Call if you have questions.”
Nodding, she looked me in the eyes, then did the same to Bernie, biting her lip. “Thank you,” she whispered, swiping a tear, and took another deep breath. “I’m ready to go now.”
Bernie stepped up and guided her from the room. “I’ll see to it that you get home. I’m sorry.” Bernie would get her phone number later.
I began the paperwork to have the body—Sharon—released to a funeral home once they’d heard from Mavis. Then I returned to the station and sat at my desk for a while, completing reports on our most recent interviews.
So many unanswered questions.
Why had Sharon Carter been at the Moores’ house? Who killed her? Who killed Vincent Frakes and why?
My next stop was to track down Kelly and Jake Milton. I had the photo of the trio of teen girls and would use it to get information.
Somebody’d better start talking.
Since we’d identified Jane Doe, I planned to head back to Mavis’s house and search Sharon’s room. We also needed to find her car. It might’ve been near the Moores’ house. I put out a BOLO for any patrol officers to bring it in if they saw it.
Although I’d had a long work day, it was about to get longer. Bernie and I stood on the Simons’ porch once again, listening to their dogs’ incessant barking.
Bernie frowned. “Do you know their dogs’ names?”
“I’m not sure if Kelly or Jake ever mentioned their names. Why?”
He shrugged. “Just wondered.” He jabbed the doorbell again, setting off another round of ferocious yapping.
“They’re not home.” I looked around the neighborhood. A woman next door was kneeling to pull weeds in her yard. “I’m going to have a chat.” I meandered toward the woman, in her mid-forties, who watched me warily.
The woman pushed herself up, dusted her knees, and pulled off her gardening gloves. “May I help you?” She shoved stray strands of dark hair away from her deep-brown eyes and wiped perspiration from her brow, all the while studying the badge clipped to my belt.
“I’m Detective Valentine of the SSPD.”
“I’m Leslie. Leslie Carmichael.”
I scanned her yard. Somebody had done quite a bit of work there. It looked like upkeep was a daily chore. I wouldn’t have wanted to do it. Leslie probably spent a lot of time out there. “Do you know your neighbors? The Simons?”
She nodded. “I do, but lately it’s just to say hello. They left early this morning. I’ve been out here trimming, digging, and planting on and off. The weather finally cooled off for a bit, so I’m back at it. The sun will come around and be at my back soon, though.” She gazed at the sky.
I glanced around the yard again. “It’s paying off. You have a beautiful yard.” I smiled. “You’ve got a green thumb.”
She gave me a big grin. “I just love being out here. It’s therapeutic, you know? Watching things grow.”
“I have vegetable and herb container gardens on my apartment patio. That’s about the extent of it for now.”
“At least that’s something.” She looked at the weeds she’d pulled, probably wanting to get back to work. “Is there something you need, Detective?”
“How long have you been neighbors with the Simons?”
“My husband and I bought this house about ten years ago. The Simons were already here.”
“Do you know their daughter Kelly?”
“You could say that.” He expression hardened and she looked away.
“Do you have a problem with her?”
“Not anymore. Now that she doesn’t have her claws in my son.”
“What do you mean? They dated?”
“Dated? No, I wouldn’t say that. It was more like partied. Drugs.”
“When was that?”
“Seven or eight years ago. She’s older than Jeremy.”
“What happened?”
“She got into drugs and dragged him in with her. My husband and I put a stop to it right quick, let me tell you.”
“Were there any legal issues involved?”
“No. Not with Jeremy, anyway. I don’t know about Kelly. We found marijuana joints in his room, and he told us he got them from Kelly. He was fifteen! He had a crush on her, and she knew it.”
“Have you seen her lately? We’ve been looking for her.” I looked over at Bernie, who’d returned to the car. He leaned on the rear passenger door while talking on the phone.
“It’s been several days. I saw her and her husband carrying boxes to a Ryder truck.”
I asked for her phone number then gave her a business card. “Can you give me a call if you see the Simons come home?”
She nodded, slipping the card in her back pocket. “What’s this about? Did they commit a crime?”
“They may have information that could be helpful to us.”
“I’ll let you know if I see them.” She tugged her gloves back on.
“Thanks.” I took one last look around her garden. She’d already knelt and gone back to work.
I walked back to Bernie and our car. “That was Leslie Carmichael.” I opened the door and slid in.
Bernie went around to the driver’s side and climbed behind the wheel. “And what did Leslie have to say?”
“She seemed to have a bit of animosity toward the Simons, especially Kelly. She gave their son marijuana when he was fifteen.”
“Oh, wow. What happened?” He turned the corner and continued down a street lined with mature palm trees.
I told him what Leslie said.
“Uh-oh. They moved to a new place?”
“It sounds like it. Were you just talking to Khrystal?”
“No, Monica. She wanted to know if we’d arrested Sylvia yet.”
“Arrested her for what?”
“Killing Vincent. She’s convinced Sylvia had something to do with his death.”
“And if Sylvia goes to jail, that leaves the whole company to Monica, since Sharon Carter is dead.” I glanced at Bernie. “Maybe we need to look at Monica more closely.”
“We also need to talk to the Moores.” Bernie yawned. “Will this day ever end?” He stopped at a red light.
“Not until we talk to the doctor and Joan or Monica. Which will it be?”
“Monica is closer and she’s home. The Moores are in Palm Springs and may not be home from work yet. I wanted to talk to them both together. Want to call and see if they’re home?”
“I’m not ready to talk to them yet.” I checked the weather app on my phone. “It’s one hundred fifteen degrees in Palm Springs right now.”
Bernie headed for Monica’s. I didn’t think she had anything to do with the deaths, but I wanted to be sure.
27
Before we knew it, we’d rolled to a stop outside Monica’s house to find her at the door. My shoulders ached from tension. Bernie’s dark circles had grown, too, and I decided to call it a day after we finished
with Monica.
Monica ushered us inside to the living room then plopped onto the sofa, pulling a leg under her. “Did you talk to Sylvia yet? Did she kill my father?”
Bernie sat at the opposite end of the sofa, crossed his leg over his knee, and threw his arm over the back of the sofa, making himself at home. “We’re still investigating.”
I took the chair across from her. “Why are you so convinced Sylvia harmed her husband?”
“Because she hated the fact her father let Vincent run the company. He had more confidence in Vincent than in her.”
“But why would she kill him now? After all this time?” Bernie asked.
“She had big plans, and he didn’t always agree with her. They argued about it all the time.” She looked from me to Bernie. “Don’t you see? She wanted it all … Frakes Realty and Portrero Meyer Homes.”
I couldn’t disagree with that because Sylvia had told me she had plans to grow the business before John Doe had been identified as Vincent Frakes. If she already knew he was dead, would she have told me her business goals and make herself the prime suspect? She may have been arrogant, but I didn’t peg her as stupid.
“Monica, she could’ve still worked on those plans while Vincent was alive. Didn’t he go to Hawaii on business? Portrero Meyer were developing timeshare resorts, right?”
“That’s true, but you don’t know if Sylvia agreed with those plans.”
“Why are you pointing the finger at Sylvia? Is it because she fired you?”
“She didn’t fire me!” She jumped up and paced the far side of the room.
“Well, whatever she did, you don’t work there anymore. So, what’s going on?”
“I know she did it. She wanted the businesses to herself.”
“Okay. Well, we’re continuing our investigation and considering the facts.” I pulled out the photo of the teen girls and showed it to her. “Do you know these girls?”
Monica took the photo and looked closely, frowning. She pointed to Sharon and looked up. “This one. I’ve definitely seen her before.”
Criminal Negligence Page 16