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

by Danielle Lenee Davis

“When did she leave?” I asked.

  “Early this morning. Why?” He paced in front of me, casting glances to the back, periodically swiping his face with the handkerchief.

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?” I asked.

  He stopped pacing and frowned. “It sounds like you’re implying that Joan is involved. I can assure you that she’s not.”

  Well, that settles that. The investigation is over because he said so. “Just part of the investigation. When was the last time you spoke to Joan?”

  He pushed his jacket sleeve up and glanced at his watch. “About three or four hours ago. Her plane was about to board this morning.” He frowned more now. “Did you find remains here? Is that why you’re asking about Joan?”

  “What’s your medical specialty, Dr. Moore? And what’s your wife’s occupation?”

  “Cardiology. Joan’s an attorney.”

  “Which airport did Joan fly out of, and how did she get there?”

  “She drove to Ontario International. She went to Phoenix.”

  “Where were you before you came here?”

  “Surely, you’re not suggesting I did whatever brought you here.”

  “Mr. Moore, this process will go much faster if you’d answer my questions when I ask them.”

  “Doctor Moore. I went to my office.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Where is your office?”

  “It’s here, in San Sansolita.”

  “What time were you there?”

  “I usually leave home at seven o’clock. I probably arrived at the office by seven thirty, give or take a few minutes.” The handkerchief reappeared. He sopped up the sweat, folded the cloth, but didn’t put it in his pocket.

  Why bother? “And how long did you stay at your office?”

  “Until my neighbor called me about the police activity here.”

  “Can anyone verify your arrival and departure from your office?”

  “Eleanor and Carol arrived at the office before me. Eleanor is one of our nurses, and Carol is front desk. They typically open up.”

  “What’s their contact information? And I’d like your phone number and office address, too.”

  He gave me the information then squared his shoulders. “I’ve been very patient, and I’m cooperating. Tell me what happened. Please.” He patted his forehead. The comb-over had become disheveled long ago.

  “As you can see, there’s a lot going on back there.” I pointed to the rear of the house.

  “Yes. Yes, I see. I have no vision difficulties, Detective. What’s going on?” He turned and took a step toward the patio.

  I shot out my arm. “You can’t go back there.”

  He spun toward me, eyes flashing. “And why not? I just spoke to my agent last night, and she hasn’t sold the house yet. This is still my house.”

  “We’re investigating a possible homicide.” I slipped my notebook into my pocket.

  “What? Homicide?” Moore took off toward the patio.

  Who knew he could move that fast?

  Officer Rodriguez stopped him before he got to the door.

  Moore doubled over and gasped for air as sweat dripped from his nose onto the floor. “Why can’t I see what’s happened in my own house?”

  “I’ve already told you we’re still investigating.” I turned to Officer Johnson and asked her to take Moore through the house to determine if anything was missing. They turned toward the marble stairs; Johnson nudged Moore along the way because he kept stopping to look back at us.

  “Wait, Dr. Moore,” I said.

  “Yes, Detective?” He looked hopeful.

  “Do you have any children?”

  “I do. Jennifer, my daughter.” His lids lowered, and he bit his lip.

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?” I held my breath.

  “It’s been awhile.” He looked away.

  “How old is she?”

  “Twenty-five. Why?” Moore glanced toward the patio. “You don’t think…” He took a step in that direction. Johnson blocked his path, shaking her head. Moore’s shoulders sagged, and he sighed.

  “Describe her please.” There was no way I could let him view the body in its current state, even though he worked in the medical profession. No parent should see that and I can’t have him out there contaminating the scene.

  Moore smiled. “Beautiful.”

  Okay, great. That helped. “Height? Build?”

  “Taller than me,” he said.

  Who wasn’t? He was the shortest one in this room. “How tall? Be specific.”

  “When she’s not slouching, she’s five-seven. He looked me up and down. About as tall as you.”

  I’m five-eight, so he was close. “Hair color? Eye color?”

  “Blond hair and green eyes.”

  “Please be specific about the last time you saw her.” Something was up.

  “It’s been about six months.” His eyes sparkled with tears, and one trickled down his cheek. He wiped it with the back of his hand.

  “Why haven’t you seen her? Where is she?”

  “Drugs. My wife and I thought if we stopped enabling Jennifer, she’d straighten out. Tough love.”

  “Please get in touch with your wife. I would also like you to attempt to find out your daughter’s address.” Giving him a task would at least give him something to do later.

  Moore nodded.

  “Okay. Thank you.” I nodded at Johnson, signaling that I was finished.

  She followed Moore up the stairs.

  Chapter Two

  “Sydney, you’re needed outside.” Officer Reed pointed to the front door, which was open.

  I followed him outside and stood on the porch. “What is it, Reed?” A group of about twenty onlookers stood in the street and on the sidewalk. A few talked among themselves in driveways. Five or six were chatting on cell phones or snapping photos. A couple of people appeared to be videotaping. Uniformed officers canvassed the area for witnesses.

  Reed gestured toward a woman standing at the barricade erected around the property and sidewalk outside the house. She was animated. “The woman talking to Miller wanted to come in. She overheard people referring to this as the Moore family’s house. She’s angry.”

  I studied the woman, who was in her mid-twenties. She stood with her hands on her hips as if she were prepared to fight anyone who looked at her wrong. “What’s she angry about?”

  “She’s telling everybody that she was supposed to move into the house.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She wouldn’t say.”

  “All right. I’ll go talk to her.” I marched down the sidewalk toward her with my badge in my hand.

  She saw me and tossed her mane of streaked blond hair over her shoulder, glaring at me. I stood in front of her.

  “Why can’t I get in the house?”

  “I’m Detective Valentine. What’s your name?” I had my notebook out.

  “I’m Shelly. Shelly Milton. I signed a lease on this house a few days ago and was expecting to move in soon.”

  “I need to see your ID.”

  She dug in her purse for several moments, checking her wallet and compartments. Then she looked at me and shrugged. “I can’t find my driver’s license.”

  “Okay. Do you have anything that proves you rented this house?” I asked. “Maybe a lease?”

  Shelly brightened. “Yes! Of course I do.” She stared, not moving.

  “Do you have it with you?”

  “No, I didn’t think I’d need it. I was just coming to see if I needed to clean before moving in. My husband’s coming back. We want to move in tomorrow.”

  “Where is your husband now?”

  “In San Francisco.”

  “Where were you last night?”

  Her hand flew to her chest. “What?” The color drained from her face.

  “Where were you last night?”

  “At home. I mean, at my parents’ house. That’s where I live.”
She trembled, hugging herself.

  “And your husband lives in San Francisco?”

  “For the past year he has. We’re teachers, and Jake was laid off last year. He couldn’t find a job here.”

  “Is he moving back here now?”

  “He is. It was too expensive for him to live there. It’s not worth it to us to spend that much money and be apart.”

  I nodded. “What’s your parents’ address?”

  She gave me an address a few miles away. “Will I get my security deposit back if I can’t move in?” Tears pooled in her eyes.

  “How did you find out the house was for rent?”

  “I answered an ad on one of those list websites and looked at the house last week.”

  “Which website?”

  She gave it to me, then I asked her for the key to the house. I dropped it into an evidence bag, which I put in my pocket. I handed her a business card before leaving her.

  I called Lieutenant Peterson and gave him a heads-up. We were going to need the assistance of someone in the Fraud Division on this one if someone had rented her this house illegally. The two cases could be related.

  I met up with Bernie as Joe, a coroner’s assistant, prepared to remove the body. I approached Joe before he wheeled her away.

  “Joe, can you confirm her eye color for me, please?”

  “Sure, Sydney.” He leaned over the victim and gently pulled both of her eyelids up. “They look blue to me. Take a look.”

  I leaned over the body. “I agree. Thank you.” She wasn’t Jennifer Moore.

  After a final walk-through, we spoke to Moore again. He hadn’t reached his wife or daughter but said he would keep trying and had already left voicemails for his wife. He told me his daughter’s phone was apparently not in service—and that was the norm. I gave him my card and requested he let us know when he reached Joan. We would try, as well. Sometimes, wives had contact with estranged children and didn’t tell their husbands.

  It’s a mom thing, I guess. Time to get on the road to Frakes Realty.

  Bernie drove while I responded to Brad’s text. I’d met Brad after my married fraternal twin sister, Mac, signed me up for an online dating site. I’d spoken to Bernie about it at the time, and he’d thought it was a good idea. I felt his eyes on me, trying to see what I was texting, I suspected. Nosey.

  “How’s it going with Brad, anyway?” He reached between the seats, feeling around and taking his eyes off the road.

  “Hey! Eyes on the road! What are you looking for anyway?”

  “My cell phone.”

  I felt between my seat and the console, trying to look where he’d been feeling around near his seat. “I don’t see anything.”

  He glanced at me. “You never answered my question about Brad. How’s it going? Getting serious?”

  “It’s going better than I expected.” Rain drizzled onto the windshield.

  Bernie flipped on the wipers. “But…”

  “But nothing. It’s going okay. He complains that my job gets in the way of us spending time together.”

  “Khrystal used to say that to me. Lots of dates were broken. It’s not easy being a cop’s significant other.” He sighed.

  Bernie used to cohabitate with Khrystal, a friend of mine, but they’d since ended their relationship.

  “You should try online dating.”

  “I don’t think so.” He shrugged. “It’s not something I want to do.”

  I turned in my seat. “You encouraged me to do it. In fact, when you tried to sell me on the idea, you told me how your brother and sister-in-law met online.”

  “So?” The rain grew heavier, and he busied himself with adjusting the wipers.

  “You nagged me to do it, but you won’t do it yourself? What gives? Out with it.”

  “Nothing gives.” He pointed toward the street corner. “Frakes Realty is up ahead.” He pulled up to the curb.

  I shook my head. “Saved by the bell…or whatever.”

  Inside Frakes Realty, we found five or six people behind desks, on the phone, meeting with clients, or clicking away on computers. The office was abuzz with activity. I scanned the desk nameplates for Monica Stewart, Dr. Moore’s agent.

  “Over there.” Bernie strolled toward a woman in her late twenties to early thirties with straw-like blond hair. Her makeup appeared to have been applied with a spatula. She had the deer-in-the-headlights look, which I equated to, ironically, dimness. Yeah, I knew stereotyping people was wrong.

  I followed Bernie to Monica’s desk. He introduced us to her, and we showed ID. She barely glanced at them. Maybe she couldn’t read.

  “What can I help you with?” Ms. Stewart waved us to the chairs opposite her desk, which looked like a small greenhouse or nursery had exploded onto it. Flowers and potted plants covered her desk and surrounded it on the floor. How could she work in this jungle? Not to mention the smell. I’d never had allergies, but my nose tickled, and I wanted to cough.

  I leaned back in my chair. “Ms. Stewart, we’re here about the Moore house. Dr. Moore indicated you were their agent.”

  Ms. Stewart turned to her computer then clicked and scrolled with her mouse. “Oh, yes. The doctor and lawyer. Sure, I represent them.” She looked from me to Bernie and smiled. We were treated to a view of her braces—with whatever she’d eaten last stuck in them.

  I forced my eyes to meet hers. “Ms. Stewart, when was the last time you were at their home?”

  She frowned and twisted her mouth. “Let’s see…” Her head tilted, and she gave me a blank look. “Yesterday?”

  “Are you asking me?” I said.

  “No. It was yesterday.” She nodded and looked at me expectantly.

  “Do you remember the time of day?”

  Another frown.

  “Do you keep track of your appointments? On your phone? Computer?”

  “Yes! I’m sorry. I’m not with it today.” She flipped through a binder and ran her finger down the page. “Here it is. Ten o’clock yesterday morning.” She turned to her computer and began typing.

  “Were you alone?” Bernie asked.

  “No. I had clients with me. The Joneses. The property was too large for them. Too many stairs.” She continued clicking away on her keyboard. She sat up straight, and her brow furrowed. Uh-oh. She reached for eyeglasses with dark-blue rectangular frames and pushed them onto her face. Her fingers began to fly. “Hmm.” She no longer looked like the stereotypical dumb blonde. She’d morphed into a smart geek. Something was up.

  I sat up straighter, too. “What did you find?” I glanced at Bernie, who leaned and frowned, as well.

  “This is odd.” Ms. Stewart picked up her desk phone and pushed a button. “Sylvia, we’ve got a problem.” She dropped the phone onto its base and looked at us, her lips in a thin line. “She’ll be right out.”

  “What’s going on?” Bernie asked.

  Before Ms. Stewart could respond, a stylish but skinny dark-haired woman approached. Ms. Stewart introduced us to Sylvia Frakes. According to Monica, Sylvia and her husband, Vincent, owned the agency. Bernie stood, and Sylvia took his seat.

  What a gentleman.

  Ms. Stewart began. “Sylvia, the detectives are here about the Moore house.”

  “Oh, yes. What’s the problem?” Sylvia looked up at Bernie and blinked.

  “You’re the agency of record, and your lockbox is missing,” Bernie said.

  “Dr. Moore told us the realty sign was also missing,” I said. “Any idea where they are?”

  Sylvia and Monica looked at one another. Monica shrugged then said, “The electronic key has been used since I was last there.” She tapped the computer monitor with a squared-off, French-manicured nail. We all went around to look.

  I leaned in and scanned the screen, not making heads or tails of what I saw. “What time was it used?”

  Monica scrolled then pointed. “Here.” She scrolled again. “And here.” She peered at a scowling Sylvia.

  “How did
this happen?” Sylvia stared at Bernie and me as if we had the answer—we didn’t.

  I looked over her shoulder at the colorful charts showing the dates and times their listings had been accessed. “Does it say who used the key?”

  “Let me check.” Ms. Stewart brought up another page. “Oh!” She frowned again. Lots of frowning was going on.

  “Who was it?” I asked.

  Staring at Sylvia, Monica cleared her throat then pointed. “Her.”

  “That’s impossible. I was there around noon, and that’s it.” Sylvia grabbed the mouse and turned the keyboard toward her. She selected different menu options, but the answer remained the same. She shook her head.

  “How do you use the electronic key?” I asked.

  “With our cell phones. They’re smartphone compatible.” Sylvia chewed her lip. She’d gone pale.

  “Can we take a look at your cell phone?” I asked.

  Sylvia gazed at me then Bernie. “I’m afraid I’ve misplaced it.” She peered at Monica and back to me. “I’m sorry.”

  I studied Sylvia. “Mrs. Frakes, I have to ask you this.”

  She held up a hand. “I know. What time are we talking about here?”

  “Last night and this morning. Tell me where you were last night and this morning, beginning at six.” I prepared to write.

  “I was home working last night after leaving here at seven. I worked until about ten thirty then went to bed. I was at the gym from six until seven thirty this morning. I stopped at Starbucks, then was here by eight. I’ve been here ever since.”

  “Can anyone corroborate your timeline?” I asked.

  “Not for my time at home. My husband isn’t in town. I attended a group class at the gym. I stopped at the juice bar afterward. I have a receipt for that and Starbucks.”

  “Where is your gym?” I asked.

  “I don’t understand why you’re making an issue out of a missing lockbox and realty sign. They’re my property and can be replaced.”

  “Mrs. Frakes, we’re investigating a homicide,” I said.

  “Oh!” Monica gasped.

  In a daze, Sylvia rounded the desk and returned to her seat. “My gym is the one on Wilson Street, by the library.”

  “All right. We’ll check it out. Can you please get the receipts?”