Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery)

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  "Did you know Ms. Baker well?" I pulled out the drawer to a lateral filing cabinet.

  "We talked a little at work. You know, in the break room or bathroom. Shooting the breeze. I didn't socialize with her outside of work, if that's what you're asking."

  "Is this her sweater?"

  Carmen nodded, her lips forming a tight thin line, as if she was trying to keep her teeth in her mouth.

  "Was she dating anyone?"

  "Who wasn't she dating would be a better question."

  "She dated a lot?"

  "Let me put it this way. Over the years, I've seen her with lots of different men taking her to lunch or picking her up for dinner. It was obvious that they were romantically involved. And they bought her things. Expensive things."

  "What kinds of things?"

  "Weekend getaways to resorts, Jimmy Choo shoes, that briefcase and a Rolex watch. I told her not to wear the watch to work. Some of the neighborhoods we have to visit aren't the safest."

  "A person can get robbed in affluent neighborhoods, too."

  "True. I didn't mean to imply—"

  "Did she wear it to work often?"

  She sighed. "Every day."

  Baker didn't have a watch on her wrist when I walked the scene. "Did she smoke?"

  "Cigarettes? I don't think so. Other things?" She lifted a shoulder. "Possibly."

  "All right. Can you give me the contact information for the employees you supervise and for Ms. Baker’s sister?"

  "Sure. I'll get it all from my office on the way out."

  A few moments later, I left CSS and drove my personal vehicle, a Nissan Altima, to San Sansolita Police Department, where I'd planned to meet Bernie.

  Chapter Two

  A half-hour later, I dropped my car off at the station and rode to Cynthia Harrington's home in Temecula with Bernie in our department-issue blue Ford Fusion.

  "Is this the same Harrington who's in the society news a lot?" Bernie glanced at me in an odd way.

  "I'm not sure, but I heard someone mention her a few weeks ago when I was volunteering at the Boxer rescue. They said she does charity work related to animal causes."

  "Oh, she's an animal lover. I think she's married to a big shot criminal defense attorney." He stared at me with a strange look on his face.

  I turned in my seat and glared at him. "What the hell are you looking at?"

  "Just wondering why you're wearing that." He pointed to my head.

  "What?" I touched my forehead. Felt the headband I'd forgotten about. "Oops. I was in the middle of a run with Mac." I pulled it over my head, removed the ponytail holder and stuffed both in my purse, which, by the way, was not a Coach. "She's trying to lose a few pounds. I'm her trainer and I've gotta tell you, I'm loving every minute of it."

  "I'm sure you are." He grinned. "Are you trying to make MacKenzie into a lean, mean, fighting machine like yourself?"

  "Yeah, like that'll ever happen. Mac doesn't like to sweat. Or, perspire, as she calls it."

  "The two of you are opposites. Fraternal twins, but opposites in some ways."

  "You're not kidding. When Dad was teaching me martial arts and how to box, Mac was painting her nails and straightening the daylights out of her curls."

  "How old were you?"

  "Eight, almost nine. Why?"

  "Just wondering how you were able to focus on that at such a young age when your sister was doing the opposite."

  "I wanted to do it. But, Dad had a saying. 'Keep your eye on the moon.'"

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means focus. There were times when I'd goof off while he was trying to show me something important. He made up the saying. Well, I think he did."

  "I get it. When you're looking at the moon, you don't notice anything else. Interesting. Did it work?"

  "It did after he knocked me on my butt when I didn't focus. I got the message." I smiled at the memory. "My mom used to say that to Mac when she was going on and on about what her friends were wearing at school instead of doing her homework."

  Bernie was grinning. "How much weight has Mac lost so far?"

  I snorted. "Not enough to suit her. Hey, get this. She thinks I should join a dating website."

  "That's not a bad idea. My brother, Jon, met his wife online. Jon and Cindy have been married five years and they're expecting twins in a few months."

  "I'm not sure about the ad, Bernie. Sounds like a lot of work."

  "That's because you're too picky." He'd stopped at a red light, turned to face me.

  "I don't want to waste my time with cheats and liars." The light changed and I motioned for him to drive. "I bet most of those guys are married or have girlfriends."

  "Cynical and picky. You might even be a commitment phobe." He navigated the winding curves of the 79.

  I spotted a coyote standing on a boulder in the hills. I admit, sometimes I felt like that lone coyote. "I'm phobic about cheats and liars." I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket, started reading emails. Peripherally, I noticed him sneaking glances at me.

  "I know what you need." He nodded, seeming satisfied he'd found the solution to my lack of coupledom.

  My gaze drifted from the phone. "What might that be?"

  "Therapy. Commitment phobe therapy." He laughed.

  "Therapy schmerapy." I went back to reading emails. Mac had sent me a dog shaming email. I always get a kick out of those. You know the type where people take photos of their dogs after the dog has done something naughty. Allegedly. Innocent until proven guilty, right? The one I'd just read showed a Dachshund wearing a sign saying 'I didn't do it. Honest.' He sat in the middle of a pile of shredded Pampers, including the ripped up box. He appeared to be smirking. I laughed out loud.

  "You joke, but it helped me."

  "Did it, Bernie?" I glanced at him. "Maybe you want to think it helped. You know... to deal."

  "It hasn't been that long...a couple of months since I killed a kid. It's going to take time." He made a right onto the Ramona Expressway.

  "He didn't give you much choice." I turned toward the window, watched the scenery whiz by. We passed dairy farms with hundreds of Holstein cattle ambling about. Others lay in the mud. The odor overwhelming, I pushed the button to roll up my window.

  "There's always a choice. His name was Joey and he was twelve."

  "I know. Little Joey had already killed the clerk at the 7-Eleven around the corner from there."

  "But, we didn't know that at the time. He won't get a chance to graduate from high school or go to the prom."

  "He hadn't even been to school in over a year. He wasn't going to graduate high school or go to the prom."

  "Yeah...you're right." Bernie's face sagged. "Damnit."

  "Besides, if he'd killed you there'd never be any little Bernies running around some day. You know Khrystal's waiting for you to pop the question, right?"

  "How the hell did we get on the subject of baby Bernies when we started out talking about your love life, or lack thereof?"

  "Put a ring on her finger, already." I started to sing and danced in my seat.

  "Oh, shut the hell up."

  "Bite me." I closed my eyes, snapped my fingers and continued to sing off-key. When I opened my eyes, I glanced at him. In profile, I could see the corner of his mouth turned up...just a little.

  "Holy crap! Is this the place?" Bernie squinted as he looked past me at the sprawling stucco house with columns, lots of windows, and a circular paver driveway. "Criminal defense must pay him mucho dinero."

  "Of course it does." I looked down. "The number's painted on the curb. This is it."

  "Nice." He rubbed his hands together and grinned. "I could live here."

  "You and how many roommates?" There was no way either of us could afford to live there. "Thinking about becoming the worst kind of attorney there is? Get everybody off, innocent or guilty...for the right price?"

  "Syd, everybody has the right to an attorney."

  "I know the Miranda Rights
, too, Bernie." I peeked at the thin curved scar on my hand, traced it. "Let's go."

  Bernie drove up the driveway toward the house. This wasn't just a house. It was an estate. Bernie parked in front of one of the five garage doors. We strolled along the driveway past a white Mercedes S400 Hybrid. I had to admit, I couldn't resist a discreet peek inside. Lots of fancy bells and whistles, and I knew a buttery leather interior when I saw it. We continued our stroll on the stone walkway. I'd often seen this type of house behind a security gate with an intercom system. No gate, but the Harringtons must have some type of visitor notification system. The woman standing in the open doorway wore a black and white uniform with sturdy black shoes. A hair net covered her tight bun of black hair. The red light of a security camera winked at us from above.

  Her warm brown eyes appraised us, stopping at the shields clipped to our jackets. "Officers, may I see ID please?" She spoke with a Spanish accent. Her skin was the color of lightly toasted sand, like mine, but she wasn't as tall as my five-eight.

  "We're detectives, Sydney Valentine and Russell Bernard," I said. We handed her our IDs. "We're here to see Cynthia Harrington."

  She studied the IDs, then gave them back. "Wait here, please." She left and returned moments later. "This way, please. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are in the great room."

  We entered the home and the aroma of butter and vanilla, like Christmas cookies baking, reminded me that I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. We passed what appeared to be an office on the right and a formal dining room on the left. Walking soundlessly on the marble floor, she led us down a hall to a room where Mr. and Mrs. Harrington murmured as they huddled together on the Chippendale sofa. Mr. Harrington stood. Extremely bowlegged, he walked toward us. His cuff links sparkled when he reached to offer his hand, which was soft, but strong. He joined his wife, who'd remained seated. Something about him seemed familiar, but I couldn't place him.

  "Please, take a seat." He waved us to a set of chairs facing them. He sat, crossed an ankle over his knee. "Let's get to it. Why are you here?" So, the coroner's office hadn't told them yet.

  Bernie and I eased into twin dainty, and equally uncomfortable, chairs across from them. Cynthia held herself so stiffly that I wondered if she'd shatter into little pieces if she sneezed. Her hand shook as she pushed her blonde shoulder-length hair behind her ears, which displayed pearl earrings. Her blue eyes glistened, as if she already knew why we'd come. She wrung her hands and twisted her wedding band. Her gaze darted around the room like a trapped animal. She focused on a framed photo of a girl with pigtails and ribbons in her hair. Cynthia’s face softened.

  I cleared my throat. "Mrs. Harrington, we're sorry to inform you—"

  "Oh, no. Please, no." The tears streamed down her ashen face. Her body shuddered. She reached for the framed photo and clutched it to her chest. "Montgomery?" She glanced at her husband.

  Montgomery? I watched him. Thought about the bowed legs. I'd known one person that bowlegged in my life. Shit. My stomach lurched. Couldn't be....

  "Your sister, Ann Baker, has died." Bernie looked more at Harrington than his wife.

  "How? When?" Harrington slid an arm around his wife, his eyebrows rising. "Well? What happened? Tell me everything." Tell me everything? Not us?

  I eyeballed him. "I'm sorry, but the investigation is ongoing." My voice sounded hollow in my ears. "She fell down the stairs in the building where she worked."

  "But, you're homicide detectives, correct?" Harrington stared at us.

  Bernie nodded.

  "Was she murdered?"

  "The fall may not have been accidental." Bernie was sneaking sideways glances at me.

  "Oh, dear God." Cynthia collapsed onto her husband. "Not Annie, too." She stroked the face of the portrait in her lap.

  Perspiration inched down my back. My face felt flushed. A wave of...something…flowed from my head down through my extremities. My fingers tingled. Panic attack?

  "Syd?" Bernie leaned in. "You okay?" he whispered.

  I had no answer. "Excuse me. May I use your bathroom?"

  "You passed it on the way in." Harrington pointed. "It's around the corner to your left."

  I jumped to my feet, rushed from the room and into the bathroom. Inside, I closed the door and leaned on it, gasping for air before I staggered to the sink, held onto it for balance. After all these years... I felt my heart beating and heard myself breathing as I stared at the scar on my hand. Dizzy, I put the toilet seat down and dropped onto the lid. I hung my head between my knees. After a few moments, I went to the sink and faced the mirror. I almost laughed out loud. My curly hair a mess, and red as it was, I had, what I liked to call my rodeo-clown-gone-mad look going on. Or maybe a wild Ronald McDonald in a wind tunnel. I sure needed that ponytail holder now. I splashed water on my face, did my best to smooth my hair back into place and left the bathroom. I returned to find Bernie and the Harringtons standing in the foyer. Bernie handed Harrington a business card.

  I turned to Cynthia. "I'm sorry for your loss." I managed to speak calmly...I think. A huge relief washed through me as I stepped out onto the porch and took a deep breath. Bernie was a step behind me.

  "You want to tell me what the hell just happened in there?" Bernie jerked his thumb at the now closed door.

  "That was him." I marched to our car.

  "Him, who?" He jogged to catch up.

  "Monty Bradford."

  "No, his name's Montgomery Harrington." He glanced back at the house, then at me, frowning. "What are you talking about?"

  "He raped Allison our freshmen year in college." I turned to go, then spun to look at Bernie. "That's him! He changed his name. Had some work done on his face. His teeth. Whatever." I moved toward the car. "He couldn't do anything about those legs though."

  Bernie grabbed my arm. "Who's Allison?"

  "Allison was my best friend since first grade." My eyes burned. Not being a crier, I looked away. "We were roommates at UCLA."

  "Was your best friend?"

  "Allison's dead, Bernie."

  "I'm sorry. What happened?" He handed me a handkerchief.

  I waved it away. "Freshman year..." I paced. "...she was date raped by a boy, Monty Bradford, from another school."

  "Is that how she died? Did he do time?"

  "She didn't want to report it. Too scared."

  "So, she let him get away with it?" He was pacing now. Patted all of his pockets. Looking for cigarettes, forgetting he'd quit a month ago.

  "Oh, no." Every word tasted bitter. "I talked her into going to the police. Drove her there myself. It went to trial and the asshole's attorney made her look like a tramp. Bernie, she was a virgin!"

  "Ah, man." He looked around, shoved his hands through his hair.

  "Monty's parents had big bucks and a swanky lawyer. He got off. Destroyed Allison."

  "That's not justice. I'm sorry, Syd."

  "Do you remember...in elementary school...when we said the Pledge of Allegiance in the morning?"

  "Sure. Now people get all riled up about the 'one Nation under God' part.”

  "Yeah. Well, screw that. I'm talking about the 'and Justice for all' part. Allison didn't get that."

  "What? She didn't understand what it meant?"

  "No. Bernie, I mean she didn't get any justice."

  "Syd, how did she die? What happened?"

  "Two weeks after the trial I found her in her room lying on her bed. She never made her bed, but she did this time. She was all dressed up in her favorite pink dress. Seeing her lying there reminded me of when she'd played Sleeping Beauty in third grade. Then I noticed the vomit on her dress. Found a nearly empty bottle of her anti-depressants and an open bottle of Tequila on the carpet next to the bed. She didn't even drink booze. Wasn't old enough to buy it either."

  "Was she already...gone?"

  "Not yet. I called 911. She died in the ER. Never woke up."

  "Did she leave a note?"

  "On my pillow. She said, 'Syd, I'm so sorry. I can't
. Best friends forever. Love Allison.' The 'for' in forever was the number four. We always did that when we were kids. We both wanted to go to law school. Work for the DA's office. If I hadn't pushed her into reporting it, she'd still be alive."

  "You don't know that."

  "I do. I know it. That's why I nailed that sonofabitch to the wall."

  "He went to jail after all?"

  "No, Bernie. I went to his condo, kicked his scrawny ass all over it. Broke his nose, too. When he woke up—"

  "Whoa! Woke up?"

  "Yeah...woke up. I made him stand against the wall. Then, I literally nailed him to the wall through his clothes with my dad's nail gun." I let my breath out in a rush. "I'm sorry it was through his clothes."

  "Seriously?" Bernie laughed. "I'm not going to ask how you happened to have a nail gun handy. Weren't you afraid he'd call the cops?"

  "Nope. I knew his kind. Rich boy. Couldn't fight worth shit. Wouldn't want anyone to know he got his ass kicked by a girl."

  "I sure as hell wouldn't let anyone know if it was me." He shook his head. "Shit."

  "Ironic, isn't it?" I was sure my eyes were bloodshot and my face a blotchy mess.

  "Ironic?" He tilted his head. "How?

  "I wanted to kill him, Bernie. I did. Now look at me. A murder cop." And a damn good one. I opened the passenger-side door, slid in and buckled up. I removed my tomato stress ball from my purse and went to town. I needed it.

  Chapter Three

  Dispatch tagged us as we rolled onto Maple Drive from the Harringtons’ driveway. Possible homicide less than a mile away on First Street. A motor vehicle accident with a fatality sidetracked the patrol officers. We arrived at the Johnsons’ home within minutes and stood face-to-face with the Pillsbury Doughboy's grandma. Mrs. Johnson's white hair, worn in a tight top knot, gave her the appearance of having had a bad face lift. Her eyes stretched toward her ears. The white warm-up suit and Keds sneakers reinforced that initial image. As we trailed behind her, I gagged from the scent of her old-lady perfume. I don't know the name of the fragrance, but it's brown and elderly women wear it. How do I know it's brown? Because I got a whiff of it once in a department store, courtesy of an overzealous spritzer girl. You know the type. The girls, or sometimes guys, stand there looking like a praying mantis holding a bottle of whatever fragrance the store happened to be pushing that day. At the time of the attack, my mind was elsewhere as I strolled through that section of the store. I'd forgotten my vow never to make eye contact with a fragrance-section mantis. In fact, I dash through like a thief, or avoid the fragrance section altogether. Today, I found the scent particularly offensive on an empty stomach. My thoughts drifted to IHOP's double blueberry pancakes.