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

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  "We've got our work cut out for us then. I have something too. I talked to my brother-in-law. The attorney? He heard through the grapevine that she didn't tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin' but the truth when she reported events. "

  "I wonder how she managed to keep her job, plus get promoted if that’s true."

  "Don't know. Politics. Bureaucracy." He eyed the rest of my uneaten cinnamon bun.

  In one smooth motion, I took my feet off the desk, leaned forward, and grabbed it. "Maybe some parents blamed her when they lost their parental rights, and then their child to adoption."

  "Maybe." A cinnamon bun crumb had lodged in the scraggly facial hair on his chin.

  "Lord knows they sure wouldn't blame themselves. You know how it is." I bit into my cinnamon bun, still staring at the crumb on his chin. It was like an auto accident; I couldn't tear my eyes away. It distracted me. Not enough to tell him about it though.

  Bernie snapped his fingers. "Earth to Syd. Where were you?"

  "Just distracted." I grinned, then checked myself.

  He had finished the dregs of his coffee and squashed the paper cup with one hand. "People joked behind her back and said she should change her name to Anne Rice."

  "That's cold. I guess." I removed the lid on my green tea and added half of a stevia packet. "Who's Anne Rice?"

  "The author of a bunch of vampire novels." He tossed the crumpled wad of his coffee cup toward the wastebasket and missed. "I think there was a movie made out of one of them a while ago. Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise starred in it. Remember?"

  "Interview with the Vampire." I stirred my tea and took a sip.

  "Anyway, one of Baker's former co-workers..." He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small notebook. He wet the tip of his finger and flipped through the pages. "...a Mrs. Sunny Patterson, told me Baker would be out for blood if she felt wronged, which was often."

  "So, more than one person won't shed any tears over this."

  "The Scrabble letters don't spell anything." Bernie slid the notebook into his pocket. "That worries me."

  "Me, too." I nibbled on my bun. "It could be an acronym."

  "Doubt it. Unless we're incredibly stupid and it is an acronym, I'd say letters, certainly vowels, are missing. That means more victims to come." He ran his hands over his face, and then scratched his chin. The crumb dropped to the floor.

  "As for suspects, I think we should start with people who had their parental rights terminated in the past six months. I learned from Mac that final adoption can happen as soon as five or six months after that."

  "And the parents are pissed about it. More co-workers need to be interviewed, too." He stood and headed toward his cubicle, whistling.

  "Hey, Shaq! Where're you going?"

  He pivoted. "To my desk. Why?"

  "Aren't you forgetting something?" I pointed toward the pseudo basketball on the floor next to the trashcan.

  He sighed, but came back to pick up the squashed coffee cup. As he passed my desk, he peeked in the bakery bag. Empty. He strolled toward his desk, but half-turned and gave me a wary eye.

  When the coast was clear, I slid out the file drawer and retrieved another bakery bag. "Ahhhh. This is the life." I removed a chocolate custard doughnut, took a bite, leaned back, and closed my eyes. I put my feet up on my desk. Doughnuts, cinnamon buns, and brownies made running in the morning worthwhile. I opened my eyes and looked up. Bernie was standing in my cubicle entrance, his eyebrows raised. Oops. "What's up?"

  "The LT wants us in his office now." He turned on his heel and hurried to the LT's office.

  I jumped up to follow. "Us, as in you and me?"

  He glanced over his shoulder. "No. The squad."

  We entered Lieutenant Peterson's office. Well, it was really a cubicle but his walls went up to the ceiling. The rest of us had half walls, so that we could talk to one another without shouting. He had a door and a long narrow window looking out toward the squad room. A larger window behind him showed rain drizzling down the glass. As everyone drifted into his office, I scanned the room, watching the puzzled faces of my co-workers. The atmosphere in the room was solemn. Peterson stood behind his oversize oak desk. He cut an imposing figure at 6'5" with a body fat percentage in the single digits. He was African-American and wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his massive forearms. He'd shaved his goatee and sported a mustache, and wore his black hair cropped short. Although in his mid-50's he looked like he belonged on a football field, sacking NFL quarterbacks. When I joined the force at age nineteen, after dropping out of UCLA, I feared him. Hell, I'm not afraid to admit I still do at times. I've seen others quake under his glare.

  With his hands behind his back, chest thrust out and standing tall, Peterson cleared his throat. "You all know that employers, both private and government, in the state of California, as well as other states, have been hit with budgetary issues over the past several years." Murmurs and whispers stopped. I held my breath. "It's come down from the brass that we've got to institute some changes around here." He paused. You could hear a pin drop. "Some of you in this squad and others in the division have taken the early retirement incentive. At this time, these positions will go unfilled. Instead, with the exception of Sex Crimes, you'll all be receiving cases that aren't in your area of expertise. For example, Homicide may get a robbery case or Fraud may get homicide. You most likely won't be the primary, but you'll be assisting the others with the case." His piercing brown eyes surveyed the room. "Questions?" A wave of murmured 'no sirs' swept the room. "Okay." His gaze scanned the room. "Dismissed." We filed out and went back to our respective cubicles, or elsewhere, to complain or rejoice about the news. Hey, at least nobody was canned.

  When I got back to my cubicle, Bernie was already there sitting in my chair with his feet on my desk and eyeing my doughnut. How had he beat me back here? I shoved his feet off, spinning him around. He grunted as he pushed himself up.

  "Before we were called into the LT's office I got a call from the Forensic Unit techs. Baker's iPhone was under her body," he said. "It looks like her sister called her a little while before her death. The call lasted less than a minute. Maybe it went to voicemail. A longer call was made from her phone about an hour or so after that."

  "Really? Who'd she call?" I finished my doughnut and wiped my mouth with a napkin, hoping no crumbs clung to my face.

  "Guess. You won't believe it." He tapped his foot and grinned.

  "Just tell me for chrissakes." I had no patience today. Maybe because he'd gobbled up some of my cinnamon bun. I hold grudges.

  "Harrington." His grin reminded me of a hobo clown who'd forgotten to apply his makeup. I felt like laughing out loud, wishing I had a red rubber ball to stick on his nose. Big floppy shoes wouldn't hurt either. "She returned her sister's call? What's so special about that?" I shrugged.

  "No. She called your favorite attorney...the husband." He smirked and nodded, eyebrows raised. "The call lasted fifteen minutes. Then it looked like he called her back, but it was a missed call on her part. I guess she ignored it and didn't pick up."

  "Or she couldn't pick up." I pushed back from my desk and stood. "We've got to talk to him."

  "I agree. Let's go." He leaned over my desk and peeked in the bakery bag from which the chocolate custard doughnut had come. I crumpled the bag and tossed it in the trash. I wanted to call him a cheap jerk, but I bit my tongue and almost choked on it. Why didn't he buy his own damn doughnuts? Uh, oh. There's that grudge again.

  Chapter Five

  The rain had cleared, but there was a chill in the air. We'd called Harrington as he left court and he told us he was on his way home. We asked him to meet us there. We arrived at the Harringtons' just as he stepped from his Mercedes. Wearing a navy suit, shirt open at the collar, and carrying his tie, he waited for us. This time, I could see him. No problem. He was fatter, older, but it was still him. Frat boy, Allison's rapist. I avoided his eyes and we entered their home together. T
he house was toasty and smelled of cinnamon today. He ushered us into the room where we'd talked before, while he went to find Cynthia. We sat in the same dainty uncomfortable chairs facing the sofa. Harrington entered the room, followed by Cynthia. She wore a dark grey knit dress and a single strand of pearls. They sat on the sofa. Cynthia's eyes were red and she held a pink handkerchief. She stared at her hands in her lap and twisted the handkerchief.

  Harrington eyed Bernie. "Detectives, do you have any news about Ann?" He glanced at me, then back to Bernie.

  "We do." Bernie nodded. "The cause of death was a broken neck and she also had a skull fracture." I watched Cynthia absorb that information. She sobbed and dabbed at her nose.

  "You previously indicated it wasn't an accident. Now you're saying her skull was fractured and her neck broken." Harrington grimaced.

  "Correct," Bernie said.

  "Did someone push her down the stairs?" Harrington held Bernie's gaze.

  "We're still investigating," I said.

  Harrington leaned forward. "If you don't know if someone pushed her, why do you think it was a homicide?"

  I moved to the edge of my seat and leaned toward Harrington, elbows on my knees. "Mr. Harrington, as we mentioned before, and you should know this since you're a criminal defense attorney, you are not privy to all information. We're still investigating."

  "Fine. Why did you come here?" His jaw hardened. "You could've told us this over the phone."

  I stared him down. "Ms. Baker's cell phone was found at the scene." His face became a mask. No expression. He looked away.

  "Of course it would be at the scene since she always had it with her. I don't understand the significance." Cynthia glanced at her husband. "Montgomery? What is it?"

  Harrington glared at me and his nostrils flared. His neck and ears had turned red. He nodded slightly, his lips tight, forming an angry line. It's what he had done when I testified at his trial while he sat at the defendants' table facing rape charges against Allison. I believe he was now aware that I knew who he was, despite the cosmetic surgery, name change, and dental work.

  "Ms. Baker made a phone call to you a little while before her death." Our eyes continued to lock.

  "That's correct." He nodded. His wife stared at him, frowning, but not saying anything.

  "What did you talk about?" I asked.

  "I don't remember." His gaze wandered around the room, not landing on anything for long.

  "You don't remember. You must remember something. The call lasted for about 15 minutes. It was probably the last conversation you ever had with her. It might have been her last conversation with anybody except the killer," I said.

  "I receive numerous calls from many different people throughout the day. Surely, you can't expect me to recall every one of them."

  "People usually remember their last conversation with loved ones who've died," Bernie said.

  Cynthia glowered at her husband. "Why did she call you, Montgomery? Did she have some type of legal trouble?"

  "Honey, if I can't remember it must not have been important." He patted her hand and rested his hand on top of both of hers.

  She slid her hands out from under his. "What time was the call, Detectives?"

  Bernie flipped through his notes and told her.

  "That was about the time we were getting ready to watch the movie. I went upstairs to take my medication and I couldn't find you when I came downstairs." She was scowling at him again.

  "No. I'm sure I was here. You're confused."

  "I am not confused! I explicitly remember I went upstairs and you weren't here when I returned."

  "Look. I didn't phone her. She called me. You're making it sound like I tried to get rid of you so that I could talk to her. I didn't know she was going to phone. I didn't plan it."

  "Montgomery, you remember everything, even things of no significance. I think it's improbable that you forgot the conversation." Her tone was brittle.

  "Let's agree you didn't ask her to call and you don't remember why she called," Bernie said.

  Harrington nodded. "Agreed."

  "Then, do you remember why you phoned her shortly after that particular call ended?" I asked.

  Cynthia's head turned around slowly. She moved away from her husband.

  "I must've touched her number on the recently received calls list by mistake." He was speaking to his wife now. "I don't recall speaking to her again." He stood. "Now, if you have no other questions, I must ask you to leave. You're upsetting Cynthia. She needs to rest. This has been difficult for her. For us both." He turned to his wife and held out a hand to help her to her feet. "I'll call Dr. Andrews and see what he can do about changing your dosage to help settle your nerves."

  Cynthia ignored his hand, stood and marched from the room without another word to any of us.

  Bernie and I glanced at one another, thanked Harrington for his time and left. We needed to start talking to Baker's clients and more of her co-workers.

  The next day, Mac sat at the table in my kitchen while I made smoothies after our easy morning run. I got out the Vitamix blender and added kale, bananas, coconut water, half a lemon, plus some frozen strawberries and a little hemp seed powder for more protein. Then, I turned it on.

  "Is that going to taste good?" Mac scrunched up her face as if I'd smeared dog poop under her nose.

  "Of course it will. I switched it off after a few moments, poured it into tall glasses. I handed Mac an extra-long straw.

  "It's...green." Mac stuck her straw in, swirled it around. "And a little thick." She took a small sip, not using the straw, then smacked her lips together. "Hmm. It's like dessert." She took a bigger sip. She had a smoothie mustache. "I need to get one of those blenders."

  "It's a good way to get Josh to eat more veggies." I joined Mac at the table. "Well, technically, I guess it's drink more veggies."

  "Not just him, but Mike, too. And me. Since I'm trying to lose weight." She dipped the straw into the smoothie and licked it, then glanced at me. "Hey, have you given any more thought to the dating website?"

  "Not much. I told Bernie and he thinks I should do it."

  "You don't have anything to lose."

  "Except time." I sighed, picked up my glass and drank from it.

  "You haven't been serious about a guy since Jessie, in high school."

  "Time moves on, right?"

  "Right. So, you're on board with doing an ad?" Mac smiled the way Tom smiles at Jerry the mouse, just when he's about to eat him on a sandwich. Something was up.

  "Sure. Why the hell not? I'll do it." Sometimes I liked to throw caution to the wind.

  "I'm glad you said that." That 'eat you' smile widened. "I've had your ad up for three or four days. You've got a lot of responses." Still smiling, she scanned the room. "Where's your laptop?"

  "I can't believe you did that without my permission. I'll get the laptop because I'm curious, but rest assured, your ass kicking will come afterward." I stomped into the living room and brought the laptop back. I signed onto Windows, slid the laptop across the table toward her, and twiddled my thumbs. Really.

  Mac hummed as she logged onto my dating profile. "See?" She pushed the laptop in my direction.

  "Mac? What the hell?" I scanned the photos of me she'd uploaded, my gut clenching. "What the hell?" I glared at her.

  "What's wrong?" She leapt from her chair and leaned over my shoulder.

  I tapped the picture of me laughing after I'd climbed out of her pool at her pool party last summer. My hair dripping wet, I was in the process of pulling it away from my face and above my head to secure it in a strip of red hair ribbon. I was wearing a red and white polka dot bikini. "I can't believe you used that picture without telling me."

  "What's wrong with the picture?" She gazed at it, lips pursed. "It's not like it's a rear view of you in a thong."

  “I look like I'm posing for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition!"

  "Calm down. You're not spilling out or anything."r />
  "Yeah. But, still..." I narrowed my eyes and glared again. "I don't want strange guys ogling me without my knowledge. Also, they'll think I can swim."

  "Honestly, Syd. They're not thinking about whether you can swim or not. If they ask, just tell them about what happened when you were a kid."

  "I don't think so. Not yet."

  Mac rolled her eyes. "Anyhoo, you might as well take a look at your responses while you're there. You've got a lot of flirties and emails." She clicked on an email.

  "What the hell's a flirtie?" I glanced at the email, mildly curious. I admit it.

  "It's when a guy likes your picture or profile and flirts with you. You can flirt back or send an email to let him know you're interested...or not." She scrolled through the profile of the guy that sent the email she'd clicked.

  "Okay, the guy is kind of cute." I started to read his profile. "Wait a minute!"

  "What now?" Mac sighed.

  I jabbed my finger at the screen pointing to the guy's age preference. "He's looking for someone between eighteen and thirty-five."

  "So? You fall into that range." She shrugged. "Practically in the middle of it, in fact."

  "What the hell does a 35-year-old man want with an 18-year-old girl?"

  "What do you think he wants?"

  "Exactly." I deleted the email.

  "Syd, you can't blame a guy for trying. He did say up to age thirty-five. At least he didn't say his range was eighteen to twenty-one."

  "He's old enough to be an 18-year-old's father! Pervert." I scrolled through more emails.

  "Sheesh." Mac went back to her chair and plopped down, causing the chair to scrape across the floor.

  I turned away from the laptop and gazed at her. "Problem?"

  "This is why you don't date much." She crossed her arms.

  "What is why I don't date much?"

  "You always think the worst of people."

  "Mac, the worst is usually the most honest part of them. I see it on the job all the time."

  "Maybe that's the problem. The job." She made air quotes around 'the job.'

  "My job is who I am. What's wrong with that?"