I nodded again and leaned toward him, whispering, “Bernie, you’ve got to let it go. It’s eating you alive.” I pointed to the beers on the table.
“Syd, I killed that kid.”
“Like I told you before, he would’ve killed you if you hadn’t.”
He sighed. “I know, but he wouldn’t be dead.”
“And you wouldn’t have that beautiful baby in the next room.” I stood. “You’ve got to talk to somebody about this.”
He cleared his throat. “I’m fine.”
“The hell you are. I don’t think you should name your son after a kid that tried to kill you. Does Khrystal know?”
“She knows I shot Joey.”
“Does she know his name?” I sat near him.
He peered at me and rubbed his eyes. “She never asked me for Joey’s name, and I never told her.”
“She doesn’t know that’s who you’re naming your son after.”
He sat back, sighing.
“Bernie, don’t do it.” I shook my head. I didn’t know what to do. “Please, let it go. Talk to someone.”
“I already went through that crap for the job.” He snatched a beer from the table. “They said I’m fine and that I’ve dealt with it.”
“Oh, yeah? Well, they’re wrong.”
“I’ll be okay, Syd. Don’t worry.” The corner of his mouth lifted.
“I’m going to have to talk to Lieutenant Peterson. You’re not okay.” I waved my hand over the table of beers. “Look at this. Look at you.”
“Syd, do what you have to do. I’m tired. I’ve been up all night because I couldn’t sleep at the hospital.” He picked up the bottles and headed to the kitchen.
I stood and followed him. “I’m going to go. Tell Khrystal I said goodbye. Think about what I said.” I left him in the kitchen and went home, where I cleaned for a while. My cell phone blinked with a notification. I picked it up and read the text from Bernie. He told me he’d think about what I said. I felt slightly better. I went to my bedroom, removed my shoes, lay down, and fell asleep.
I woke up to the chimes of the doorbell. Disoriented, I looked at the clock: quarter after four. I rolled over and covered my head with the pillow. I tried to go back to sleep, hoping the person would go away. I peeked at the clock again. Four fifteen? Oh, no! Brad! I hopped out of bed, ran down the hall, and pulled open the door. Nobody was there. I ran out of the door in my socks just in time to see Brad’s truck rolling down the street. I jumped up and down, waving. He stopped. The reverse lights brightened, and he backed up straight to the curb. I ran to the driver’s side.
“I’m so sorry. I fell asleep. Why didn’t you call when I didn’t answer the door?”
“I forgot my phone at home.” He climbed out of the truck and took my face in his hands. “Are you sure you want to get together tonight? You look like you could use more sleep.”
I stepped back, shoving his hands away. “Well, thanks a lot.” I smoothed my curls back from my face. I probably looked a mess. My face warmed with embarrassment.
He pushed my hands out of my hair. “Stop. You look fine—just tired. That’s all.”
“I am tired.” I looked away, down the street. “Maybe we should try again tomorrow. I’m not going to be much fun tonight. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“You got it. Maybe we could go to the park and have a picnic with Josh or something.”
“He’d love that.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do.” He kissed me on the top of my head. “Go back to bed, Sydney. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He pulled the truck’s door open and climbed in.
“Bye, Brad. Thanks for understanding.”
“No problem. Go.” He pointed toward my open apartment door. I shuffled toward it while he waited. I went inside, closed the door, then opened it to see him driving off. I went back to bed and slept like a baby.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Joan Moore had fired Todd Lancaster after finding out that he’d given Monica a copy of the will, which Joan had never intended to reveal.
Vincent Frakes had been texting while walking alone in the evening when Todd ran him down with his car. Frakes’s iPhone survived and Todd had taken it with him. Once he realized that Joan had no intention of following through on her promise to make him a partner, he’d decided to file the will with probate and provide Monica with a copy. He had used the phone to contact Monica several times, trying to work up the nerve to warn her about Joan’s intentions regarding the will. He’d also burned down the Portrero Meyer Homes building. He’d done that on his own, however, out of spite.
Brad and I were still trying to make the time so that we could move on with our relationship. Time would tell.
I received a call from Bernie and he told me they’d named their little boy Michael. Good choice.
I arranged to meet Theresa at the San Sansolita Boxing Club the weekend after we’d closed our case. I hoped she was ready to take a beating, because I was ready to give one.
THE END
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Mega Dead
A Sydney Valentine Mystery
Danielle Lenee Davis
Dedicated to Mocha.
Chapter One
I’d left the San Sansolita Boxing Club wearing black cargo pants, a green T-shirt, cowgirl booties, and sporting a fat lip.
Soon after, I’d arrived at the current crime scene—a 3500-square-foot, one-story, gray house with a stucco exterior. There were five bedrooms and four bathrooms. I found the victim sprawled on the gray tile floor in her dining room. A floral print scarf encircled her neck, and blood had dried in her hair. A bloody Emmy statue lay beside her, and long strands of auburn hair clung to it. The statue appeared bigger and heavier than it did on TV. Out of curiosity, I wanted to hold it, but the forensic techs were doing their thing, and the coroner hadn’t arrived yet. Roses and glass shards from a broken vase and wine glass littered the floor. Two round white pills imprinted with “OP” lay near the tips of her red-lacquered nails. I knew from past investigations that the pills were OxyContin Purdue, and I wondered how many she had swallowed. Her lips were separated, as if she were about to speak.
A cool breeze wafted above my head from the ceiling vent. Looking around, I found the thermostat on the far wall next to the security alarm console in the living room. I sauntered over and glanced at the temperature. Sixty degrees.
Gomez was the first officer on the scene, and she stood near the door, her eyes scanning the room. I pointed to the thermostat. “Gomez, is this how you found it? Sixty degrees?”
She nodded. “I didn’t check the room temperature, but I haven’t touched the thermostat either. Nobody has.”
“All right. Thanks.” I surveyed the room. The sleek chrome and glass tables, fluffy white area rugs, and white upholstered sofa and chairs gave the room a sterile appearance. The single source of warmth in the room came from a stunning watercolor of a beautiful golden retriever running across a field of California poppies. He was wearing a blue collar and clutched a tennis ball in his mouth. The painting was easily four feet wide. Two eight-by-ten portraits of the victim and her dog hung on another wall. In one, they sat in front of a decorated and colorfully lit Christmas tree, surrounded by gifts wrapped with fancy bows and ribbons. In the other, she was in bare feet, strolling with her dog across wet sand on a beach, the water licking at their feet. I went into the kitchen, looking for dog bowls, but I didn’t see anything set up for dogs. Bernie, my partner, followed me as I walked do
wn the hall and looked in the rooms for a dog bed. I opened a closet in a small bedroom. Surely, if there had been a dog, it would’ve made its presence known by now, if it was alive. My heart raced, and I hoped we wouldn’t find a dead dog in one of the closets.
“What are you looking for?” Bernie asked.
“Where’s the dog and things people buy for their dogs? I don’t see any dog bowls, chew toys, a leash, or a dog bed.”
He shrugged. “We don’t know if it was her dog in the portraits with her.”
“Did you not see the huge painting on the wall in there?” I pointed toward the living room and scoffed. “Of course the dog was hers. And he’d live in here with her. Nobody commissions a watercolor, especially one of that size, if it wasn’t their pet. Nobody would do it.”
“Maybe she painted it.”
“It was signed by someone named Peter Samuels.”
He nodded. “Okay. You might be right.”
“I’m right. Trust me.” I left the bedroom, heading to another room, which contained a flat-screen television mounted on the wall, free weights stacked on racks, weight machines, and a treadmill. “It looks like she may have let the person in, or they had a key.”
“The alarm wasn’t armed,” Bernie said.
We went into the master bedroom. It had a floral scent. Thick white rugs covered the tile floor on each side of the king-size bed.
Bernie slid open a jewelry box, exposing necklaces, earrings, and a bracelet. They appeared to be diamonds, emeralds, and pearls. “I don’t think robbery was a motive.”
I entered the spa bathroom. A claw-foot tub large enough to accommodate two people sat near a wide window. The room smelled fresh, like a spring day after it had rained. A glass-enclosed shower, tiled to the ceiling in marble, was about the size of two elevator cars. The crystal-clear glass gave the appearance of a shower that hadn’t been used recently, if ever.
The bathroom led to a walk-in closet the size of Mac’s two-car garage. I stood in the doorway and considered the neat rows of shoes, boots, purses, and belts lining the shelves. I’d seen less in small boutiques. Why would someone need that many shoes and purses? I turned and opened vanity drawers, which contained the usual: hair accessories, styling products, body lotion, flat iron, and blow dryer. Her medicine cabinet held Rolaids, Motrin, and a prescription bottle of OxyContin with one pill left inside. It had been refilled yesterday. I handed it to Bernie.
He read the label before dropping it into an evidence bag. “Where are the rest of the pills?”
I shrugged. “Maybe she took them or gave them away.”
“The ones on the floor by the body may have come from that bottle,” Bernie said.
“If that’s true, it accounts for two of them.” I left the bathroom. “What do you think so far?”
Bernie followed me out into the hall. “I think she didn’t have kids. You can’t possibly keep it this clean when you have kids. Michael isn’t running around the house yet, but there are plenty of things lying around that indicate we have a kid.” Bernie’s girlfriend was a friend of mine, and she had just given birth to their baby boy several days ago.
Having babysat my five-year-old nephew Josh recently, I agreed about the cleaning. The victim probably didn’t have children in her household. If she did, it seemed odd that there were no portraits of the child on display. We entered a room that appeared to be an office. I picked up an organizer on the desk and flipped through it before I bagged it as evidence. I would look through it later. We browsed the room for a while then went back to the dining room.
I knelt next to the body. “Who is she?”
“Teena Travis. That’s T-e-e-n-a,” Bernie said. “She’s a celebrity.”
“Yeah, I figured that from the Emmy that might’ve killed her.” I tilted my head to get a better look at her face. She was an attractive woman, probably in her early thirties. “Do you know if she’s married?”
Bernie shook his head. “There’s not a lot of blood, so I’m assuming she died quickly.”
“Who called it in?”
“Her personal assistant, Billi Jones.” He jerked a thumb toward the window. “She’s out there in Gomez’s car.”
I ambled to the window and looked out. The fire department rescue squad was pulling away from the curb. There was nobody to rescue this time. Billi held her cell phone to her ear as she gazed at the police activity.
“You talked to her?” I asked.
“Nope. Too distraught at the time. Her, not me. I figured I’d let her calm down first.”
“Well, I’m done here. I’ll give it a go.” I headed for the door, looking over my shoulder. “You coming?”
“Right behind you.” He looked as if he wanted to laugh, but he followed me outside.
I spun around. “What’s your problem?” I glowered at him and planted my hands on my hips.
Bernie grinned. “You lost the fight.”
No sympathy for me. “Theresa and I were sparring at the boxing club, and she hit me when I turned away after the gym manager called me to the phone. It was supposed to be light sparring, so it was a cheap shot, let me tell you.”
His smile widened as he scratched his chin stubble. “Well, remind me to congratulate Theresa on a job well done.”
I ran a finger lightly over my lip, wincing. I should’ve grabbed some ice before I left the gym. “She got in a lucky punch while I was distracted.”
“Looks like she got in more than one lucky punch to me.” He raised his eyebrows, apparently enjoying my misfortune. Jerk.
I narrowed my eyes. “Bite me.”
He breezed past me toward one of the patrol cars. “Let’s talk to Billi.”
I’d underestimated Theresa, another detective in our division, when we had sparred that morning.
As we approached Gomez’s car, I looked at the clear sky and pulled off my disposable gloves and paper booties. I turned them inside out, pushed them in my pocket, and removed my notebook. The sun warmed the back of my neck, and I rubbed my tight muscles.
Billi was sitting in the backseat of the patrol car. I guessed her age to be about thirty. She was sobbing. She dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissues as she spoke into her cell phone. At one point, she set her phone down and blew her nose. Bernie held his badge up. I wore mine on my belt. She nodded and ended her conversation. The day was already hot, and even with the window down, the car must’ve been uncomfortable.
I opened the car door. “I’m Detective Valentine, and this is Detective Bernard of the San Sansolita PD. Can you step out of the car, please?”
Chapter Two
We moved back as she slid out. She was slim and about five-six. She wore black slacks and black patent flats. Her skin was pale and blotchy. A large pimple on the tip of her nose made her look like Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She peered at us with red-rimmed hazel eyes made up in a smoky-eyed look that I associated with an evening out on the town or one of those glamour photos. Tears and mascara clung to her lashes, which were longer than what was natural. Surprisingly, her makeup had smeared very little. She wore her shiny black hair in a chin-length bob. Her hand shook as she tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing four tiny gold hoop earrings lining the edge of her left ear, and three lining the right. Perspiration had soaked through her turquoise short-sleeve top. Either she was an excellent actress or she was upset at what she’d seen. I mentally added her to the maybe category as far as suspects went. Too early to tell. She reached through the car window and removed a large black purse that looked as if it were as big as the pillow from my bed… or a small child. She hung it over her shoulders so that the strap crossed her body and the purse rested on her hip.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Billi Jones.” She leaned toward me, watching as I wrote her name in my notebook. “It’s spelled B-i-l-l-i.”
“All right.” She could have said that before I started writing. I crossed out what I’d written and rewrote it, then looked up. “Do you hav
e ID?”
“Sure.” She reached into her purse. A moment later, she handed me a driver’s license.
I wrote down the address of her apartment in Rancho Cucamonga, which was about thirty-five miles away. “Tell us what happened.” I returned her license, and she dropped it in her purse.
She sniffled. “Well, I came here, like I always do.”
“What time was that?”
“Noon. Teena required punctuality. I had to be on time—or else.”
I studied her. “Or else what?”
She ran her finger across the front of her neck, mimicking a knife slicing her throat. “I need this job.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
Her chin trembled. “Last night at seven o’clock.”
“We’ll check her phone records. Did she live alone?”
“Yes.”
“Uh-oh.” Bernie pointed down the street as news vans rolled toward us and came to a stop a couple of houses down.
I recognized the petite blond reporter who fluffed her hair and checked herself in the van’s mirror before strutting our way. She’d spent too much time primping because a skinny male reporter from a competing station beat her to us. He was standing a few feet away talking as the cameraman aimed a camera at him. I recognized him too but couldn’t recall either reporter’s name. It didn’t take long for them to smell a story.
“I got this.” Bernie hurried toward the male. Ray. His name was Ray.
The female reporter didn’t bother to introduce herself on the air. She was rushing to get to us while Bernie was talking to her competitor. She had a microphone in her hand and shouted at her cameraman to hurry. Vultures.
“Stay here.” I walked about twenty feet away from Billi.
“Detective, I’m Vanessa Perkins.” She was out of breath and spoke into the microphone. “My sources told me that Teena Travis was murdered. Do you have any suspects?” She shoved the microphone in my face.
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 42