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

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  “Mr. Mathews, can you give me an estimate of when this townhouse will be completed?”

  He turned to glance at the house. “Not for a couple more months.”

  “There are no addresses on the nearby homes yet. What’s the address here?”

  He flipped a few pages on his clipboard. “Four twenty-two South Nolan Drive. What’s this about?”

  “We’re trying to locate someone, and this is the current address we received,” Theresa said.

  “Well, obviously they’re not living here yet.” He pushed the hard hat forward. “If you have no other questions, I’d like to get back to work. I’ve got other houses to check.”

  “We’re done. Thanks,” I said.

  He turned to leave. Theresa and I headed back to the car.

  Theresa spun around. “Mr. Mathews?”

  “Yes?” He tapped the clipboard against his thigh.

  “Who’s the builder on this project?”

  “Portrero Meyer Homes. Anything else?”

  “Thanks for your help.” Theresa headed back to the car. Mathews watched her walk away then looked at me before strolling toward another house.

  Theresa and I didn’t say anything until we were in the car.

  “That was a bust,” I said.

  “So, what’s next?” She started the car and headed down the street.

  I got out my cell phone. “I’m going to Google Monica Stewart.”

  “Hey, good idea!”

  I typed Monica Stewart’s name and “San Sansolita” into the Google search box. Several social media accounts belonging to her, or someone with her name who claimed to be in real estate, popped up. I wrote the information in my notebook. I would only contact her through those accounts if I had no other options. I also browsed the Frakes Realty website, looking for her contact information, hoping they hadn’t removed her.

  “Jackpot!” I pumped my fist. “Got her!”

  “What? How?” Theresa stretched to get a look.

  “Eyes on the road!” I pointed to the red light. “I swear, between you and Bernie, I’m going to die in a car accident any day now.”

  “All right. Sheesh. How’d you find her, anyway?”

  “She’s still on the Frakes Realty website. I guess they forgot to remove her. It has contact information there, and it’s different from the information I have. There’s also an e-mail address for a Gmail account. That might be her private e-mail.”

  “Have you considered that Sylvia was lying about Monica not working there anymore?” Theresa glanced at me then focused on her driving.

  “Hmm. No, I hadn’t. I think she’s gone—or avoiding me.”

  “Maybe the information she gave you was her contact information from Frakes.”

  “Well, she didn’t give me her contact information. I took her card from the business card holder on her desk. I gave her and Sylvia my card, though.”

  “I wonder if your card is still sitting on her desk. Even if it is, you’ve called her several times and left messages. She hasn’t returned your call.”

  “If the phone number I was calling was a Frakes cell phone, she wouldn’t have received the messages if she’d already left their employment.” I sighed. “But we don’t know if Frakes provided her with a phone or if it’s hers.”

  “I doubt that it’s Frakes’s phone. Maybe she’s avoiding you. I could call her. I’d pretend like I was looking for a buyers’ agent.” She shrugged. “It might work. She might already be working at another agency.”

  “What do we have to lose? Let’s give it a shot tomorrow.” I felt tired and ready to call it a day in the field. I still had a ton of reports to complete at the station.

  Theresa pulled into the San Sansolita PD parking lot. “I’ve got to write up the interview with the Miltons.” She shook her head as she cut the engine. “I still can’t believe she fell for it and paid that guy.”

  “The con man was smart. He didn’t ask for an amount that would be considered unreasonable to most people for that type of house. I think she gave him twenty-eight hundred. She probably thought it was a bargain.”

  “And it was—if it had been for real.” Theresa sighed and locked the doors, then we went into the station.

  Chapter Seven

  The next morning, I caught up with Bernie at work. He’d brought donuts for the squad. I couldn’t recall many times when he’d done that. Usually, he wolfed down seconds of someone else’s bakery run. I grabbed a glazed donut on the way out since Bernie was driving. I hoped our A/C worked because it felt like a hundred degrees outside. As we left the station, I gave him an update on everything that had happened while he was out.

  Before we rolled out of the parking lot to interview Dr. Moore and his wife Joan at their home in Palm Springs, I set a reminder on my cell phone to call Brad before the end of the day. I thought he expected to see me over the weekend, but I’d promised to babysit Josh while Mac and Mike celebrated their anniversary in Las Vegas.

  I texted Brad to say, “Good morning.” Sometimes, relationships seemed like too much effort. I wondered why. I sniffed the air. “The car smells like strawberries.”

  “It does. And it’s too strong.” Bernie cranked up the A/C, blowing more of the fruity scent about.

  “That doesn’t help.” I noticed an air freshener clipped to the vent in front of me. “Who put that there?” I plucked it off and tossed it in the backseat. “How’s Khrystal?” I slid my phone in my pocket. “I haven’t spoken to her in a while.”

  “She’s been having some problems.”

  I turned in my seat to look at him. He was pale, and his bloodshot eyes had dark crescents underneath. “What kind of problems? Serious?”

  “It can be. It’s called hyperemesis gravidarum.”

  “What’s that? Sounds scary.” My palms began to sweat, and I rubbed them on my pants.

  “It’s severe morning sickness. That’s why I called off yesterday. She’s been vomiting a lot. She almost fainted, so I took her to the ER.”

  “Oh! What happened? What did they say?”

  “She was dehydrated.”

  “I’m sorry, Bernie.” I felt a twinge of guilt for thinking he’d been hungover. “Is there anything I can do for her? I should call.” I pulled out my cell phone.

  “She was finally sleeping when I left.”

  “You’re exhausted, too.” I slid the phone back in my pocket. “And the baby? It’s okay?”

  He smiled, and his eyes lit up. “So far, so good.”

  “I’m glad.” My phone beeped twice. I got it out. Brad had sent a text wishing me a good morning. I resisted the urge to smile because I knew Bernie was watching me. Why did I care? The second text was from Mac. She wanted to know if I was still planning to babysit Josh.

  I texted back, “Of course!” Her response was “K. Just checking in case something came up on your end.”

  Was I unreliable? I didn’t think so. I’d only ever canceled at the last minute when it was work related. It wasn’t my fault people killed each other. I stared at her text, ready to fire off a defensive response.

  “Syd, we’re here. That’s their house.” Bernie pointed. “Nice, huh?” He pulled up to the curb and cut the engine.

  “Yeah. A doctor and a lawyer aren’t working for minimum wage.” I followed Bernie up the driveway, to the front door.

  While Bernie pushed the doorbell, I looked around at the nearby yards. Several of their neighbors had no lawns. Instead, they’d opted for drought-tolerant shrubs, various succulents, and flowers. It looked like an expensive oasis. Even so, I found it relaxing in a non-indulgent sort of way. I didn’t want a front lawn if I could help it. Mowing was not high on my list of enjoyable things to do on the weekends—or ever.

  Finally, the locks disengaged, and the door swung open. A blast of cool air hit me, and it felt good. The slim woman was in shape and about my height, with dyed-blond hair. Although her face was smooth, her neck and décolletage were like spotted crepe and showed her
age and then some. Despite her physique, she appeared older than her husband, even considering his excess weight. Sun damage on her part, I believed. She was wearing yoga pants and a knit top. She was barefoot.

  “We’re here to see Mrs. Moore. I’m Detective Bernard of the San Sansolita Police Department. This is Detective Valentine.”

  “I’m Joan Moore. My husband told me about the house situation. He’ll be downstairs in a minute.” She pushed open the door. “Please come in. It’s dreadfully hot out there.”

  Bernie and I stepped through the door into their home, which was like a walk-in freezer. Were they polar bears or what? I rubbed my arms.

  “We were about to have iced tea on the deck. Please join us.” She glided through the house and out to an enclosed deck. CNN was on the flat-screen television. She muted it with the remote. The sun glared at us through the tinted glass of the room and warmed it somewhat, but the air was still frigid. Joan sat in a wrought-iron chair at a matching table with smoky tinted glass. They sure liked their wrought iron. Bernie and I took seats next to each other at the table.

  I shivered as I flipped on the recorder. “Has your husband spoken to you about your daughter?”

  “Yes, he mentioned you needed to know where she was.” Joan reached for the pitcher of tea. “Would you like some?”

  Hell, no. “No, thank you,” I said.

  “I’d like tea, thank you,” Bernie said.

  I stared at the polar bear beside me.

  She poured him a glass and slid it across the table toward him. “May I ask why you need to find Jennifer? Do you think she’s committed a crime?”

  “We’re interviewing anyone who had access to your house,” I said. “Your husband told us he didn’t know where she was.”

  “I see.” She sipped her tea.

  The door opened and we all looked. Dr. Moore had arrived.

  “Hello, Detectives. I had a conference call. Have I missed anything?” He pulled out the chair next to Joan and sat.

  “We’re just getting started. Mrs. Moore, do you know where your daughter is?” Bernie asked.

  She stared at a cactus terrarium the size of a twenty-pound watermelon on the table, then her gaze followed a hummingbird in the backyard.

  “Mrs. Moore?” I said. “Do you know where Jennifer is? Maybe her address?”

  She watched the condensation run down the glass then wiped her hands on a napkin. “I don’t know. Not exactly.”

  I leaned in. “What does that mean?” Who doesn’t know where their child lives?

  “I don’t know where she lives.” She didn’t make eye contact. “I’m sorry.” I could barely hear her.

  Someone’s cell phone chimed. Dr. Moore reached in his pocket and glanced at the phone display. “I’m sorry. I have to take this. Excuse me.” He left the table and went inside the house, closing the door behind him.

  “Mrs. Moore, do you know how to reach your daughter?” Bernie asked.

  “She’s a good kid. She’s just…mixed up.” She looked me in the eyes, then her gaze slid to Bernie. “She doesn’t take advice well.”

  I tried a different tactic. “When was the last time you spoke to Jennifer?”

  “Three or four days ago.” Her lip trembled. “She looked so thin.”

  “How do you get in touch with her?” I asked.

  “I don’t. She calls me. I try to take her somewhere to eat. She needs to eat better.”

  I remembered Dr. Moore telling me Jennifer was a drug addict. Knowing what I knew from being on the job, I suspected she needed a lot more than food.

  I sighed. “Mrs. Moore, we need to speak with her.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know when I’ll hear from her again. I don’t know if I’ll hear from her. Every time I see her, I fear it could be the last.”

  “Do you give her money?” I asked. Parents usually did—at least enablers did.

  She nodded. “I do. My husband insisted that we let her hit rock bottom.” Tears spilled onto her cheeks. “She’s my baby. I try to help. I keep clean clothes and toiletries in my car and give them to her. Do you know how it feels when you can’t help your own child?” She plucked a tissue from a decorative silver holder on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “If she’d simply listen to me, her life would be better.” She shrugged. “But she won’t listen. She’d prefer to listen to those people she runs around with. What do they know?”

  I ripped a page from my notebook and slid it to her. “Please write down the names and contact information of her friends.”

  “I don’t know her friends. Not the ones she took up with once she started… drugs.”

  “Then give me a list of the friends you know from the past.” I gave her my pen.

  She opened a drawer on a table, retrieved an address book, and flipped through it. She picked up the pen, paused with it over the page, then copied from the address book. I watched her; she seemed to be barely holding it together. I had the feeling that her anxiety had more to do with her lack of control over Jennifer’s life and decisions than with anything else. When she finished, she’d written three names—two females and one male, all in San Sansolita.

  “I’m not sure about the addresses. We all lost track once our children went their separate ways. Those are the last addresses I have for the parents. I don’t know where their children live now.”

  “Do you have a recent picture of Jennifer?” Bernie asked.

  Smiling, Mrs. Moore nodded. “I have some from about a year ago before and after she went to her last rehab. We took a vacation, to celebrate.” She stood, wiping her hands on her pants. “I’ll get them for you.” She left the deck and pulled the door closed behind her.

  I looked at Bernie. “We need to talk to Jennifer. She might know the Jane Doe.”

  “Could she have been the perpetrator?”

  “Bernie, we don’t even know how the victim died. Maybe nobody was the perpetrator. What’s taking Dr. Lee so long in determining how and when she died?”

  “Call her and find out.”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Moore stepped through, carrying a small photo album. “This is from our vacation. I keep it separate from the other family photos because it was a victory. Well, I thought so at the time. It turned out to be short-lived, though.” She slipped several photos from beneath their cellophane sleeves and handed them to us.

  Jennifer’s clothes hung on her loosely. She appeared frail, but she was smiling. I glanced at Bernie, who shook his head. We’d seen this before, many times. She would have to fight hard to claw her way back out of her addiction—if that’s what she wanted.

  I looked at Mrs. Moore. She flipped through the remaining photos in the album, smiled, and ran a finger over Jennifer’s face.

  Jennifer’s straight blond hair was just above shoulder-length and blunt cut. I pointed to the sores and scabs in the photo. “When you saw Jennifer, did she have these sores on her face?”

  “She had a few small ones, barely noticeable.” She shook her head. “She could’ve had a good life. What kind of life is it to beg for money all day?”

  Jennifer’s face was scarred—from picking at imaginary bugs. Crank bugs were hallucinations some meth users experienced. It caused them to believe bugs were crawling on or under their skin. I shuddered.

  “Mrs. Moore, can we keep a few of these photos? At least one should be a close-up of her face, please.” I said.

  “Yes. Sure. Please call me Joan.” She removed three photos from the album, stared at them for a few moments, and slid them across the table.

  “Okay. We still need to speak to Jennifer,” Bernie said. “Where do you meet her when you give her money?”

  “At the Denny’s on Fourth Street.”

  “All right. The next time you hear from her, call us, and give her this card if you see her.” I handed her a couple of business cards then packed up the recorder, notebook, and the photos she’d given me. “It’s important.”

  Mrs. Moore took the cards.
“Okay. I’ll call.” She led us back through the house to the front door. “I’ll give her your card, but I can’t promise you she’ll call. She doesn’t always make the best decisions. She lives in the moment.”

  Dr. Moore came from another room as we passed and followed us. “I’m sorry I missed the conversation. I hope it was a successful visit.”

  I slipped the photo of Jane Doe from my pocket. “Before we go can you take a look at this photo and tell us if you recognize this woman?” I gave the photo to Joan.

  She held the photo up and shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before.” She handed it back. “I’m sorry.”

  I gave the photo to Dr. Moore. “What about you? Do you know her?”

  He took the photo and studied it. “I don’t know her.” He gave it back. “Who is she?”

  “She’s someone we’re trying to identify.”

  “She’s dead. Is she the one who died in our backyard?” Dr. Moore asked.

  “She is,” I said.

  “That’s a tragedy. Well, I hope you find out who she is and what happened to that poor girl. Her family must be worried,” he said.

  “I’m sure they are. Please let us know if you think of anything else,” Bernie said.

  “We will.” Mrs. Moore opened the door and we left their home.

  As we buckled up, I pondered whether Joan would call us if she heard from Jennifer. I didn’t think she would. She was protecting her daughter.

  Bernie pulled away from the curb and headed back to San Sansolita—and a more reasonable temperature. I would have died if I’d had to live in Palm Springs. I would never leave the comfort of my air conditioning.

  “How about some lunch?” I asked.

  “Denny’s sounds good to me.”

  I called Dr. Lee and asked if there’d been any progress with Jane Doe. There hadn’t been. She was in the field on another case involving a murder-suicide at a popular local political figure’s home. I ended the call by telling Dr. Lee that a preliminary report would suffice if we could get one.

  Chapter Eight

  We arrived at the San Sansolita Denny’s after the lunch crowd had dispersed. Lucky for us. No waiting. In the mood for breakfast, I ordered pancakes. Bernie got the Build-Your-Own Burger and included every ingredient known to man on it. Who puts cucumbers and shredded carrots on a cheeseburger? Gross. Those weren’t even on the list of options, but the waitress let him do it. He also had a pile of fries to go with his burger, and he shoved a few of them onto his sandwich, too. He ate every bit of that sandwich. I doubt if he would need to eat for the next two weeks. I couldn’t watch him eat that mess, so I focused on my own meal.