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

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  "I can't hear you! I'm at the Starbucks on Third Street."

  "Okay. What's up?"

  "Someone busted out the rear window of my car a little while ago."

  "Whoa! You think this has something to do with our case?"

  "Yep. We've got Scrabble letters again."

  "Shit! You hurt?"

  "I'm okay."

  "You were in the car at the time?"

  "Yep. About to drive away. I've got two flat tires, too."

  "Give me fifteen minutes. Stay there, okay?"

  "Not much choice unless I call a cab." I disconnected and walked around my car. A patrol car had arrived—a different one than the one that had taken Mr. Jones to the hospital. This Starbucks was a popular stop for cops on the job. I left it to them to canvass the bystanders. I doubted they'd get anything of use. I asked the officers, Jacobs and Rodriguez, to have my car taken to the garage. I planned to call my insurance company tomorrow about the damage.

  "Hey, Syd." Bernie came around the front of my car, whistled and looked around at the mess.

  "You got here fast. Where were you?" I asked.

  "I wasn't that far away." He leaned closer and squinted. "You're cut. You need to get that looked at. Make sure there's no glass in your skin." He reached for my face.

  I slapped his hand away. "I'm fine."

  "All right. If you say so."

  I handed him the bag of Scrabble letters. He held it up to the dim and flickering lampposts. "So, who'd you piss off?"

  "Me? No clue. You've been with me, except when you were out sick. Why me and not you?"

  "It's personal? Maybe Harrington? I don't like him for this though." He frowned. "But, I can't think of anyone else." Our phones rang. Dispatch. Another dead body. "C'mon. I'll give you a ride."

  We took off in Bernie's car a few minutes later. A couple who’d been on Morrison Park’s walking trails had found the body. This was the same park where Mac and I had worked out this morning. It seemed so long ago. We wouldn't be out there tomorrow, for sure. For now, Bernie and I were on our way to a homicide. Someone would have to inform another family that their loved one wouldn't be coming home.

  When we arrived at Morrison Park, we found it cordoned off and the nearby streets barricaded. Police cars and other official vehicles filled the street, parking in many directions. Uniformed officers had scattered, walking the perimeter. Morrison Park covered ten acres and had playgrounds, a wave pool, pavilions, ball fields, and a two-block wide grassy area used by people exercising their dogs. I'd been to picnics, family gatherings, and birthday parties here. The park sat on land donated to the city decades ago by a relative of one of San Sansolita's founding families.

  We headed toward the park bench, to the victim. The flashing lights of the police cars, fire engines, fire rescue vehicles, and an ambulance flickered over nearby buildings. People had begun to turn on lights in the homes closest to the park. Some residents had already come out onto their lawns to gawk. Others had gathered in their driveways and on the sidewalks. We pulled on our disposable gloves while walking through the grass, which smelled freshly cut.

  "Lots of brass here." Bernie watched the people moving about the park. "Only a matter of time before the TV crews arrive." He gave a half-hearted shrug and sighed.

  "Yeah. I spotted Mayor Bradley behind the barricade. Let's get this done before the news birds start flying over our heads." Nothing like the continuing racket and downwash of the news choppers to spoil a quiet investigation. At the picnic area, a uniformed officer whom I didn’t know stood guard. We signed the log and showed him ID. Bernie went ahead of me and turned on his recorder.

  "Oh, shit." He spun on his heel, almost knocking me over. I skipped out of his path, but not before I got a glimpse of the grimace on his face.

  "Jesus." I stared at the victim, scanned the area around him. No blood on the ground. The victim, a fit white male in his early to mid-50s, lay sprawled on his back, naked. Dried blood had caked on his torso and legs. Cuts and abrasions covered him, as if he had been dragged across asphalt. He had what appeared to be ligature marks on his wrists. He'd struggled. Who wouldn't, if they could? A lot of good that did though. A bloodied and folded wad of black fabric—maybe some type of robe lay beside him. Interesting. Terror glazed his grey eyes—the type of terror brought on by torture and excruciating pain. The kind where the victim just wanted to die to escape the pain. Major bruising darkened the thigh area. One testicle was missing and the remaining skin had a shredded appearance. The other testicle had swollen to the size of a large tangerine, or maybe a peach. The extensive bruising and swelling in this case would indicate the victim had been alive for some time during the mutilation. He'd probably bled to death slowly, but Dr. Lee would know. Like I said, lots of pain here. I stepped back.

  "Know who it is?" Bernie frowned.

  "I can't say that I do. You?" Strips of yellow duct tape hung from one corner of his mouth. Blood had dried on the sticky side. The victim's mouth was open, as if to scream, his lips bruised and crusted with blood.

  "Don't know his name, but I've seen him before...somewhere." Bernie shook his head. "At first, I thought he was someone else I knew."

  "It's Judge Cecil Franklin," Jake, the young tech, said. He looked a little green around the gills. "He's a juvenile court judge. His court ID is under there.” He aimed his flashlight to an area under the park bench.

  "Did you know him?" Bernie asked.

  "Me? No. I overheard Mayor Bradley mention it. The mayor said he'd played golf with the judge yesterday." He looked off toward the street and pointed. “Here comes the coroner.” A Riverside County Coroner vehicle pulled up behind a squad car.

  "The pressure's officially going to be on to come up with a suspect, then make a speedy arrest. And meanwhile, we're still working the CPS murders." I sighed. Now this. "Great."

  "Damn politics." Bernie walked around the body. "Wait a minute." He knelt.

  "What? What is it?" I leaned over his shoulder, crouching. He pointed.

  Holy shit. I had a sense of déjà vu.

  "See that?" Bernie looked up at me, his expression grim.

  Scrabble letters. Shoved to the back of his mouth. I stood aside. "He's victim number three."

  "Let's see how many Scrabble letters this time." Bernie tried to look without touching. "Looks like two to me, but we'll know for sure once the ME gets him."

  "Plus, the two I got tonight," I said.

  "Judge Franklin's murder is more violent than the others." Bernie shook his head. "Sadistic, even."

  "Is he escalating, or did the judge trigger something in our killer?" I asked. "He wasn't killed here."

  "Not enough blood." Bernie nodded.

  "The judge probably tried hundreds of cases in his career. Could be any number of them, or none," I said.

  The techs took their equipment and samples to their vehicles. We were finished here and we let the uniformed officer standing guard know. Time to interview the couple who had called it in.

  Chapter Twelve

  We found the people sitting in a patrol car. The night had cooled since I'd left my car in the Starbucks parking lot. I pulled my leather jacket around me. Bernie tapped on the window and pressed his shield against it. He pulled the door open and two men slid out. They both had the wide-eyed look of the frightened.

  "I'm Detective Bernard and this is Detective Valentine. Your names?" Bernie turned on the recorder.

  They both wore warm-up suits and running shoes. The taller of the two, a muscular man in his early 30's, stepped up. He resembled a dark-haired Ken doll. "I'm Derek Jamison." He flipped a hand toward the man beside him, who appeared to have puked and looked like he might do it again soon. "This is my...this is Ben Parker."

  "Your addresses?" I'd gotten out my notebook. The squad car had parked near a lamppost and I had enough light to see.

  "3312 Sharpwood Drive, here in town." Ken Doll was breathless.

  I peered at Parker. "And you?"

&n
bsp; "The same. We live together." He scrunched up his face, held a shaky hand over his mouth. I stepped away from Parker. I didn't want vomit on me or on my almost-new cowgirl booties.

  "What were you doing when you came across the body?" Bernie asked.

  Both men's heads jerked toward Bernie. A flash of anger crossed Ken Doll's face. Ben swallowed hard.

  "Whoa!" Bernie held up his hands, palms out. "I'm not implying...I meant, were you running, walking by, sitting on the park bench gazing at the stars, or what?"

  "Oh!" Ken Doll dropped his chin to his chest. "Sorry." His smile twitched. "It's just that...you know."

  "Sure. Did you see anyone around here?" Bernie asked.

  Both men stared at each other. Parker shook his head. "I don't think so."

  "Wait. Remember the elderly couple?" Ken Doll nudged Parker. "The pooper scooping, or rather, the lack thereof?"

  "Oh, yes." Parker tsked. "They were walking two pudgy Lhasa Apsos...or Shih Tzus. I can never tell the difference." He rolled his eyes, shrugged. "Anyway, the dogs pooped and they didn't pick it up!" His voice rose and he threw his hands up. "Just kept walking!" He folded his arms in front of his chest and seemed to be blushing. "Sorry."

  "Pet peeve?" I asked.

  "That's good." He grinned, then firming up his face, went back to looking serious. At least he didn't seem about to toss his cookies at us anymore.

  "What about vehicles?" I glanced at my notebook. "See any? Hear any?"

  "Hmm. I don't recall hearing or seeing anything." Ken Doll shrugged.

  "And you, Mr. Parker?" Bernie asked.

  "I wasn't paying attention, if you want to know the truth." He watched the activity in the park. "But, I don't think I saw or heard anything other than the old people."

  "Was he..." Ken Doll pointed to the picnic area. "...an important person?"

  "They're all important persons to us." I snapped my notebook shut and looked at Bernie. He got their phone numbers. I'd forgotten to do it when I requested their addresses. He told them we would be in touch if we needed them for anything else. He gave them a business card.

  After leaving the park, we arrived at Franklin's home amidst a flurry of activity. Officers came to speak to Franklin's wife, but nobody had answered the door. The Escalade was about to be winched onto the department's impound tow truck. Departmental vehicles had parked along the street near the home. Crime scene tape fluttered around the yard and door. The rambling single-story house had a two-car garage in front. The driveway curved toward the back and a detached structure stood back there. The Forensic Unit techs were awaiting our arrival to give them the go-ahead. Officer Carmichael stood outside the front door.

  We showed our shields, signed the log, and pulled on our disposable gloves and booties, then stepped through the open door onto a tile floor. The killer must’ve left the door open. A small cherry wood table had toppled onto its side. I stepped around the mess and noticed shattered pieces of a porcelain cup and saucer on the floor. A dried brown liquid had splattered the cream-colored walls and floor. Coffee? Tea? I turned to look at the doorframe. No signs of forced entry. We walked through the great room. The carpet showed a trail. Drag marks. They led into the enormous master suite. My entire apartment could fit into this suite. Bernie whistled, then flipped the light on.

  "Oh, my God." I scanned the room and pushed the back of my wrist against my nose. The room smelled like a slaughterhouse. My mouth tasted as if I'd been holding pennies in it.

  "Scene of the crime." Bernie's gaze darted around the room. Blood spatter seemed to cover every surface. A dark stain, still wet, had soaked the carpet near the foot of the bed. It was about the size of a plastic kiddie pool. The mattress was soaked, too.

  "Okay. So, he was dragged in here and...tortured?" I walked to the bathroom. Clean.

  "None of the others looked like they'd been tortured," Bernie said. "It looks like this is where the killer spent the most time with him. Assuming most of this is Franklin's blood."

  "Yeah, it looks that way." I looked in the shower and sink. Both dry. "The killer should've been covered in blood."

  "Hmm. I wonder if he knew his killer."

  "Well, based on the stuff on the floor, I'd say he didn't let them in willingly." I moved to the doorway.

  "Or he let them in, but something happened and he changed his mind."

  "Maybe. We saw drag marks leading to the bedroom, but not from the house, in the front." I looked through the door to the backyard.

  "How did his body leave this room?" Bernie asked.

  I shrugged. "With all this blood, I'm assuming he didn't walk out on his own."

  "He was dead." He studied the carpet. "Had to be."

  "The French doors." I nodded. "They left through the French doors."

  "And around the corner to the other driveway. Nobody would see a car back there." Bernie stepped outside. "Let's take a look." The motion detector floodlights came on.

  "Yep. That’s how they got out." I saw blood in the grass. I aimed the flashlight at the concrete where the motion detector lights didn’t reach. "Blood over there."

  Bernie headed to the front of the house. "Let's check out the Escalade."

  "Why would someone take his car, then bring it back?"

  "Good question." Bernie flagged down the driver of the tow truck. "Maybe there was more than one assailant."

  "Hey, Bernie." The driver leaned against the fender of his rig. "You guys caught this one?"

  "Yeah. Frankie, can we take a look?"

  "Sure. Go ahead."

  We walked around the car looking at its body. I directed the flashlight over the rear bumper. "There." Grass clippings clung to it and a dark stain marred the paint.

  Bernie found Frankie. "We're done. Thanks."

  "No problem."

  "This is how he got to the park," I said.

  "Give you a ride home?" Bernie walked toward his car.

  "Sure." I'd forgotten mine was out of commission. What was with my memory tonight? In the car, I slumped in my seat, dead tired.

  I conked out on the way home. I recalled wanting to talk to Bernie about Khrystal, but the next thing I knew, he was shaking me awake outside my apartment. I wiped my mouth, hoped I hadn't drooled.

  "Want me to come in and look around?" Bernie slid from his seat. It wouldn't hurt to have an extra pair of eyes...and ears...and hands. He stepped aside so I could unlock the door. We went in; I flipped on the light, and automatically turned to lock the door.

  "I'll start in the bedroom and work my way back here," I said.

  "I'll check out the kitchen and dining room."

  I turned on the hall light, then peeked in the linen closet. Nothing there. I could hear Bernie moving the blinds in the kitchen window, checking the window locks. I crept to the bedroom door, took a deep breath, gun drawn. I turned on the light. The ceiling fan whirled and its dim light shone. Wrong switch. I tried again. The room brightened. My heart raced as I went farther into my bedroom, looked under the bed and in the closet. I went into the bathroom, pushed the glass shower door back and looked in the tub.

  "Bedroom and master bath are clear!" I went into the hall and into the second bathroom. I pulled aside the shower curtain. "The hall bathroom's clear!" I crept down the hall. "Bernie?" I couldn't remember if I had checked the linen closet, so I checked it. "Bernie?" With my Sig Sauer at my side, I turned the corner and entered the living room. I opened the closet near the front door. I heard the vertical blinds covering the sliding glass doors move. I crouched, swung my arm up and aimed, two-handed. "Don't move!"

  "It's me!" Bernie pushed through the blinds, stepped into the dining area with his hands up.

  "Damnit, Bernie! I could've shot you!" I dropped my hand to my side, relaxed my grip on the gun, tried to calm myself. "Didn't you hear me calling you?"

  "No. I was outside." He slid the door shut and locked it. "It was open a little."

  "What?" I felt my heart begin to race again. Adrenaline. I walked toward
the door, looked to see if it had been tampered with. Didn't appear to have been. "Did you turn on the light out there?"

  "I did. It doesn't look like the latch was messed with." Bernie aimed his key ring's flashlight at the latch. "Did you go out there before you left for work this morning?"

  "I watered my container gardens." I stepped onto the patio. All appeared to be okay—nothing toppled, or missing.

  "Do you want to get someone over here to check it out?" Bernie looked worried.

  "No. Maybe I just forgot."

  "Do you keep any spare keys lying around?"

  "Over there." I pointed. "On the hook on the wall." I walked to the wall. "Nothing's missing."

  "That doesn't mean someone didn't come in, take one and make a copy, then put it back."

  "I doubt it." I gazed at him. "Was the sliding door open completely and unlatched or was it pushed closed and unlatched?"

  "Neither. The door was slightly open." He checked the lock on a window "The door latch was closed though." He faced me. "I'm sleeping on your sofa. I'm not taking no for an answer. In fact, it wasn't even a question."

  I consider myself to have been brave in most situations I've encountered throughout my life and career. But, I'm not stupid. I marched to the closet, brought him a sheet, blanket, and a pillow. I helped him pull out, then make up the sofa bed. I set out extra toiletries in the hall bathroom, then went back into the living room.

  "Bernie?"

  "Yeah?" He had his back to me, as he pulled off his polo shirt.

  "Thanks."

  "No problem. Now let's get some shut-eye. We've got another murder to solve."

  "Night."

  "Good night, Syd."

  I went to my bedroom, checked under the bed again, just in case. Then, I took a shower, dropped into bed, and slept straight through the night.

  I woke up at 6:10 the next morning, minutes before the alarm was to go off. I had a dull headache, but was ready to begin my day. I showered and dressed before making my way to the living room, expecting to find Bernie still asleep. What a surprise it was to see the sofa bed folded into its compartment, cushions in place. He'd folded the bed linens and placed the pillow on top. I expected to find a small piece of chocolate on the pillow. Ghirardelli's maybe. Instead, I found a note. He'd left at 5:30. He told me he'd looked around the backyard patio and hadn't seen anything out of the ordinary. He planned to be back to pick me up at seven. I glanced at the clock on the wall. I had ten minutes to wolf down some breakfast.