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

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  "Valentine." It was Cynthia. "When?" I dried my hands. "We'll be there as soon as we can." I disconnected and went back to our table. "Cynthia says she's getting threatening phone calls."

  "Let's go then. We can get on the 79 and head over that way now."

  "All right. Do you know where Camps' wife works?"

  "Hunh. I don't know if she works anywhere. In fact, I don't recall the topic of Fran's employment ever coming up. Why do you ask?"

  "Just curious." It had started to rain again. I sat in silence the rest of the way, listening to the wipers while I tried to put the pieces together.

  We arrived at Cynthia's house earlier than I'd anticipated. The same maid who had been at the door the first time we came there, when we notified Cynthia of Baker's death, answered the door. Her nametag indicated her name was Elena. I hadn't noticed it on her when we were here before. A new policy? As we moved through the house, I wondered why they needed nametags. No food smells greeted us this time. Bummer.

  Elena showed us into the great room. Cynthia was seated with a cordless phone on her lap. She handed it to Bernie before he sat. "Some calls came on that phone." She gave me her cell phone.

  Bernie punched through the Caller ID. "Which number is it?" He wrote the number down when Cynthia told him.

  "It was the last call on the cell—I didn't recognize the phone number."

  I scrolled through the received calls on her cell phone. "There are four here. The first one was two days ago."

  "The last one was right before you got here. I didn't answer."

  "Does the caller ever leave a voicemail if you don't pick up?" I asked.

  "Never. Sometimes when I've answered, I heard someone breathing and other times a man…I think it was a man… spoke briefly. He laughed once." She shuddered.

  "What does he say?" I asked.

  "It's difficult to understand what's being said."

  "Can you take a guess?" I asked.

  "It sounds like he’s saying 'Give it up.'" She shrugged. "Or something like that." Her hand trembled as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just don't know."

  "Are your numbers published or private?"

  "Neither are listed. I don't give out my cell phone number freely."

  "Are you sure the caller was male?" Bernie asked.

  "No." She frowned. "Maybe female with some distortion." She pushed at her hair again and sighed. "I don't know."

  "Did you Google the phone number to see if anything came up?" Bernie asked.

  "I did. Well, a friend did it for me when I told her about the calls. She wasn't able to determine who the phone number belonged to."

  "All right. We can see what we can find out." I returned her phone. "Other than that, I don't think there's anything else we can do. They're not threatening to do you harm, are they?"

  "No. But, it feels threatening. I'm frightened."

  "Are you here alone a lot?" I asked.

  "I have Franklin and Elena here, but they go home in the evening."

  "Would it be possible for you to stay elsewhere or have Franklin or Elena stay the night?" Bernie asked.

  "They have families of their own. I couldn't ask them to stay." She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

  "Then you should leave if you're not comfortable being here alone," I said.

  "What about Chester and Liz?" she asked. "I can't leave them alone."

  "There are hotels that accept pets. How about boarding them?" Bernie asked. "I hear there are some nice kennels around here."

  Her eyebrows rose. "That's a good idea. Someone gave me a recommendation for one when I inquired a little while ago. Thank you, Detective Bernard."

  "Welcome. Let us know where to find you if you decide to leave," Bernie said. We left her and returned to the station to work on our backlog of reports for the rest of our shift.

  I went home that evening, showered, and put on my pajamas. I sat in the La-Z-Boy with the remote in my hand and a big bowl of popcorn. I was cozy as I scrolled through the available on-demand movies. I'd planned to relax and enjoy a night of solitude. Then, my cell phone rang. Dispatch. Well, so much for movie night. Time to go back to work.

  "Valentine." I looked for a pen and paper. "Was it a hit and run?" I clicked the television off and hurried down the hall to my bedroom as I listened. "All right. I know where it is." I disconnected, pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, grabbed the bowl of popcorn and brought it with me. I set it on the passenger seat of my car and munched on it on my way to San Sansolita Memorial Hospital. Harrington had been attacked and I was on my way there to speak to him.

  I arrived at the hospital in fifteen minutes and they told me Harrington was unconscious. He'd suffered a head injury and lost consciousness in the ambulance. He was getting a CT scan when I arrived. Bernie hadn't arrived yet and there was nothing for me to do here. I left them my contact information in case he woke up or anything changed with his condition. Time to go to the scene—Harrington's condo community.

  It took me thirty-five minutes to make it through traffic. Bernie was already there, walking around Harrington's idling Mercedes. Uniformed officers had cordoned off the area. The air smelled of car exhaust, but the wind helped to lessen the fumes.

  "What's up?" I said.

  "A neighbor found Harrington out here lying next to his car." Bernie pointed to a man dressed in a dark leather jacket. "That's Craig Jackson."

  I walked around the car. Harrington's garage door was open and his car was sitting in the driveway. The driver's door was open and the chime was going off. "You talk to Jackson yet?"

  "I haven't. Just got here myself." Bernie turned the ignition off, removed the key, and handed it to the tow truck driver.

  "I went to the hospital. Harrington was unconscious, so I came here." I watched the activity around us. "Did you call Cynthia?"

  "Yep. No answer. Left a voicemail for her."

  "You think she's capable of this?" I asked.

  "Isn't everybody?"

  "In the right circumstances. Did you find any Scrabble letters?"

  "Nope."

  Officer Johnson approached and waved us over to the other side of the car. I begged off and told Bernie I'd talk to Jackson, the guy who had called it in. I walked toward the man, who stood to the side with Officer Mercer.

  "Mr. Jackson? I'm Detective Valentine." I showed him my ID. "I'd like to talk to you about what you saw tonight." I flipped on the recorder.

  "Sure. But, it was kinda dark." He shrugged.

  "All right. Start from the beginning," I said.

  "Well, I came home and saw his garage and car door were open. I saw the exhaust fumes from the car."

  "Where do you live?"

  "Two doors down." He pointed.

  "What did you do when you saw the garage open and car idling?" I asked.

  "I kept walking. Minded my own business, or tried to. I kept looking over there. It seemed weird."

  "What time was that?" I asked.

  "About eight, I guess." He tugged on his ear lobe. "I wasn't paying attention."

  That was close to the time of Mac's attack. It was also within the range of Baker's time of death. "How long was it between the time you saw the car and the time you called 911?" I asked.

  "No more than two or three minutes. I called as soon as I got close enough to see him lying there."

  "Did you touch him?" I asked.

  "Yeah, I touched his shoulder and asked if he was okay. I thought he was drunk."

  "Was he conscious?" I asked.

  "Yes, but it didn't seem like he saw me, you know?"

  "Did he say anything?"

  "He did, but I couldn't make it out. He mumbled." Jackson's phone buzzed, but he ignored it.

  "What did he say? Your best guess."

  "He said something about boots. He said it twice. It didn't make sense," he said.

  "Did he say anything else?"

  "No. He passed out after that. The ambulance pulled into the
parking lot and I came over here after I flagged them down."

  "Did you see anyone else in the area?" I asked.

  "No. Just him."

  "Were any vehicles leaving the parking lot when you arrived?"

  "No." A frown line appeared between his brows. "I think I heard screeching tires down the street. Didn't think anything of it at the time. Sorry."

  "That's all right. Can you think of anything else?" I dug in my purse for a business card and handed it to him.

  "Not really." He slid the card in his jacket pocket. "I hope he'll be okay."

  "Thanks, Mr. Jackson. You have my card if you remember anything else." I walked back to Harrington's car. "Hey, Bernie. Find out anything?"

  "Yeah. There were bricks outside the garage door. I guess he backed over them and got out to take a look."

  "You think he was ambushed?" With Harrington being a criminal defense attorney there could be any number of suspects who'd want to get him, including his wife. I planned to get a read on her once I saw her again. My phone rang. "Valentine." The hospital. Harrington was awake, but groggy. I disconnected. "Harrington woke up. I'm heading over there. Are you going?"

  "You bet." Bernie jogged to his car, which was parked a few slots from mine.

  I parked my car at the hospital, got out, and searched for Bernie's car. I didn't see it, so I went through the emergency entrance of the hospital, showed my badge, and asked for Harrington's location. He was still in the ER in a curtained-off section. A doctor or nurse was leaving the area as I approached. Harrington appeared to be sleeping. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

  "Excuse me. Miss?" A woman wearing scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck pushed the curtain aside and came in. "May I help you?"

  I showed her my ID. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Harrington about what happened tonight if he's able to communicate..." I read her hospital badge. "...Dr. Pauley."

  She glanced at Harrington, then me. "Please be brief, Detective. I'll be back in a few minutes to check on him." She turned on her heel and left me alone with Harrington.

  I edged closer to the bed. "Harrington. It's Detective Valentine. Are you awake?" I touched his arm. A blood pressure cuff rose. A machine he was hooked up to ticked and purred.

  His eyes opened and he tried to reach up and touch the nasal cannula, but his hand fell to the side. He had on one of those finger clips—the kind that measures oxygen saturation. He looked around, not moving his head. "What happened?" His head was bandaged on the side and back.

  I could barely understand him. "That's what I'd like to know. Do you know why you're here?"

  He grimaced. "Head. Hurts." His eyes closed and he breathed deeply.

  I watched the monitors. "Harrington." I touched his arm.

  "That's enough, Detective." Dr. Pauley stepped into the cubicle. "He needs to rest now. You can come back in the morning."

  "Has anyone else called or been here to ask about him?" I asked.

  "I haven't heard or seen anything, but you can ask the unit clerk out front."

  I again told them to let me know if he had any visitors and to call if his status changed. Bernie arrived as I ambled to my car. I relayed the information to him and we went our separate ways.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The next morning, Bernie had an appointment and wouldn't be in until later. I left the station and headed for the hospital. Once there, the unit clerk told me Harrington was conscious and that Cynthia had stopped by earlier that morning. The hospital had no beds available and Harrington was still in the same ER cubicle as the night before. I shoved the curtain aside and pulled out the recorder and a notepad. I set the recorder next to the pitcher of water on the bedside table.

  Propped up on pillows, he turned his head toward me. "Detective." His face looked like a deflated balloon—shriveled and weak.

  I still detested him, but I had a job to do here. It's always about the job. Isn't it? "You're awake. Good." I stepped toward the bed. "What do you remember?"

  "I was supposed to meet Patricia for a late dinner." Harrington scratched his blond-and-white beard stubble.

  "Have you heard from her?"

  "Yes. I guess she called while I was in the shower last night. I checked my voicemail this morning and listened to the message."

  "What did she say?"

  "She wasn't feeling well and asked to reschedule in a day or two." His eyes narrowed. "Who did this to me?"

  "That's what we're trying to determine." I sat in a chair near the bed. "Do you remember anything else?"

  He nodded. "I was backing out of the garage and hit a bump. I thought I'd hit someone's cat or something. I know what you think of me, but I wouldn't let a cat suffer if I'd hurt it."

  Tell it to the Pope buddy. I didn't give a shit. Cynthia had told us Harrington was indifferent to Chester and Liz, the Lab pups. What kind of person is indifferent toward puppies? I mean, really? "What did you hit?"

  "I have no idea." His brow furrowed. "The next thing I remember was a pain at the back of my head and falling in the driveway."

  "Did you see anything once you fell or before you fell?"

  "I didn't see anything before I fell, but just before I passed out I saw...I think I saw someone walking away from me while I was lying there."

  I had a flashback from the time he passed out after I kicked his ass all over his condo about 10 years ago—before I nailed him to the wall with my dad's nail gun. I almost smiled, but caught myself. "Could you see who it was? Male or female?"

  "I couldn't tell." His brow furrowed and he tugged on an earlobe.

  "What? Do you remember something?"

  "Boots. Something about boots." His face looked blank. "I'm sorry. I just can't remember. It's frustrating."

  "I was told that you said something about boots before the ambulance arrived."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Your neighbor. Craig Jackson."

  "Was he there? Last night?"

  Didn't I just say he was there? "He was. He called 911."

  "I don’t remember seeing him." He chuckled. "I always thought of him as a young punk. He plays in a band."

  "He probably saved your life." Asshole.

  "Indeed. I must thank him. Punk or not."

  I doubted he'd bother. "Think. Did you hear anything when you got out of your car?"

  "I don't remember hearing anything. What did I get hit with?"

  "We don't know. Nothing was found at the scene. In which direction were you facing when you were hit?"

  "I was kneeling down near the rear tire. I never heard anyone coming. But..."

  "What?"

  "Someone yelled."

  "And said what?"

  He bit his lip. "Leave me alone? No, that's not it." He shook his head. "Leave her alone? I don't know."

  "All right. There are tall bushes on each side of your garage. It's possible your attacker could've been hiding in there. We didn't see any evidence of it though."

  "I'll speak to the HOA about trimming them." He folded his arms over his stomach and looked down his nose. "They're unattractive anyway."

  "How is Cynthia taking this?"

  He shrugged and adjusted his blankets.

  "She was here this morning. Did you speak to her then?"

  His head snapped up. "She was here?"

  Didn't I just say that? Maybe he'd been hit harder than I thought. "You didn't know?"

  "I didn't. When?"

  "I don't know the exact time, but I didn't see her when I came. She must've come as soon as visiting hours started."

  He was scowling. "I must have been asleep. Why didn't she wake me?"

  Maybe there had been too many people around and she couldn't finish him off so she left. Nah, I really didn't think she had it in her...but people can surprise you. "Maybe she didn't want to wake you. They made me leave last night because they said you needed to rest."

  "I can't believe she didn't wake me. I wonder how long she was here."

  "I
don't know." I wanted to ask him why he cared. He had been carousing with two other women over the past several months and one was his sister-in-law. "Has any of this jarred your memory about last night?"

  "I'm afraid not. I have your contact information and I'll call if I remember anything else."

  I slid a business card from my purse and placed it on the table. "In case you think of something and can't find the other card I gave you." I stood and turned to go, then thought of another question. "How much have you found out about Patricia since we last spoke? You were in the dark about some things then."

  "She was born and raised in California. Why do you ask?"

  I couldn't believe how little he knew about this woman. "Just wondering. You said she was married. What does her husband do for a living?"

  "She doesn't talk about her husband. She told me she was adopted from within the foster care system." He rubbed his chin. "In fact, she recently met her sister. I guess she hadn't seen her since she, meaning Patty, was four or five years old. Her sister is three years older, I think."

  "How did they happen to meet?"

  "Well, they were split up in foster care. Patty was adopted early on, but her sister remained in foster care until she was eighteen."

  "How did they find one another?" I sat back down. This was getting interesting.

  "Patty's sister found her. Amazing, isn't it?"

  "I agree." I could probably find Patricia through her sister since Harrington claimed he didn't know where Patricia lived. If he did, he wasn't sharing it with me. Why not? Did he think his newest piece of ass was doing something illegal? Her illness was suspicious last night, to say the least. "What's her sister's name?"

  He stared at the ceiling. "Francine? Yes, Francine."

  "Did Patricia tell you Francine’s last name?"

  "Yes. That's easy. It's Camps."

  Oh my goodness. Ding, ding, ding. "Did she mention another sister? Rebecca?"

  "I don't recall her mentioning another sister. If she has one she didn't tell me."