The Protector
A SYDNEY VALENTINE MYSTERY
Danielle L. Davis
Copyright © 2018 by Danielle L. Davis
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.
300 S. Highland Springs Ave., PMB #247
Banning, CA 92220
Printed in the United States of America
Cover Design by Books Covered Ltd.
ISBN: 9781729246153 (paperback)
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
To my parents: Thank you for keeping plenty of books around the house when I was a child.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Also by Danielle L. Davis
Acknowledgments
About the Author
1
The crumpled body lay near the bottom of the stairs, sprawled sideways, her neck twisted. She stared up at the ceiling through dull hazel eyes that saw nothing. The stairwell reeked of human excrement and cheap janitorial soap. A yellow “Wet Floor” cone stood off to the side, near the white cinder block wall. A County Social Services photo identification badge for Ann Baker, MSW-Supervisor, was clipped to the strap of a black Coach purse—some of its contents scattered below—showing me she had worked in the Child Protective Services Division.
I sidestepped a pair of ankle-breaking red heels that reminded me of the pair I’d worn as maid of honor at my sister MacKenzie’s wedding several years ago, only mine had been half that height. A pastel dress with puff sleeves had completed my transformation into an enormous Princess Barbie. In the wedding photos, I’d looked awful, but MacKenzie had been radiant, which was the whole point, of course.
Stepping around the body, I headed toward the exit at the bottom of the stairs, pushed open the heavy metal door with my hip and stepped out into the alley. The garbage odor smacked me in the face. Several feet to the left, near twin brown dumpsters, two Forensic Unit technicians squatted amidst the trash.
Graham, the lead evidence technician, picked up a cigarette butt with lipstick tinting its tip and dropped it into an evidence bag. He peered at me, boredom in his eyes. “Hey, Detective Valentine. Lots of debris out here. And this.” He held up a used condom and dropped it into a separate bag.
“Who the hell …” I sighed. “Never mind. I’ll leave you to it.” Returning inside, I approached the body.
The door at the top of the stairs opened and my partner, Detective Russell “Bernie” Bernard, entered the stairwell from the inner hallway. “Hey, Syd.” He glanced at the ceiling corners. “Don’t see any security cameras.” He pointed up. “Looks like blood spatter on the wall up here.” Bernie is six foot tall and the stains on the wall were about a foot above his head.
I nodded. “Make sure the techs take plenty of pics and a swab for analysis.”
Bernie gave me that old-fashioned look of his which might as well have asked me not to treat him, and the rest of the forensics boys, as rank amateurs, but said, “Sure thing, Syd.”
I nodded a thanks that doubled as an apology—at a crime scene, I often became a little officious—and edged closer to the body for a better view. The tip of an object protruded from Ms. Baker’s lips. I kneeled and pointed. “You see this?”
“What is it?” Bernie hurried down the stairs and leaned in, crouching like a baseball catcher. “A plastic bag? With something inside.”
“Yep. We’ll leave it for the ME.” She surely didn’t put that there herself. This was most likely a homicide.
“Her lip’s swollen.” Bernie stood, grunting like an old man even though he was only thirty, three years older than me.
“What’s with the groaning, Grandpa?” I smirked.
“Worked out too hard, I guess.” He squeezed his thigh and winced. “Might’ve pulled a muscle. Anyway, she’s got a ripped earlobe. Nasty bruise on her cheek.”
“Probably a broken nose, too.” I stood. “Had enough time for that bruise to form, so the beating must have happened a while before she died.”
“Not much blood on the forehead gash.” He faced me. “Could be from the fall.”
“Yeah. Like she had a fight some time before she entered the stairwell.” I started up the steps.
“Maybe she was leaving to go home for the night.” Bernie hopped around the spilled contents from her purse on his way to the door. A young, male, uniformed officer stood at the entrance. The door had been propped open with a kickstand.
I tiptoed around Baker’s belongings, ducked under the crime scene tape at the top of the stairs, and stepped into the second-floor hall, which was lined with offices. “Let’s find her office.”
We passed Jack and Andy from the Forensic Unit who told us they’d finished Baker’s office and pointed us in the right direction. After pulling on fresh gloves and booties, we showed our shields to the officer and entered. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead and something hummed.
“Why is it so damn hot in here?” I peeked around the desk. A portable ceramic heater behind a chair blasted out hot air. Had Ms. Baker forgotten to turn it off or had she planned to return before taking her dive in the stairwell? Honda car keys and a cell phone lay on her pristine desk blotter. Either she didn’t do much work here, or she was an organized neat freak.
I hate those people.
The desk calendar showed no appointments for the day. The cell phone looked generic, similar to the one my sister, Mac, had been issued for work. Two sharpened pencils and two pens lay parallel to one another, spaced equally apart, and the tips pointed in the same direction. A flying stars screensaver flashed on the desktop computer. The trash can on the floor beside the chair contained an empty Starbucks cup and lid. Pink lipstick stained the cup’s rim, but only on one spot.
Who drinks from one spot on a cup?
“Anything in the trash?” Bernie ambled around the office, looking at the bookshelf and papers on top of the filing cabinet. His dark hair was wet and combed back away from his face. It suited him that way but, with Bernie, I suspected it had more to do with rushing to get ready for work rather than a fashion statement.
“Just the cup and lid. No receipt.”
A luxury black leather briefcase with a combination lock stood upright on the floor under the desk. A pink angora sweater hung from one hook on a polished
mahogany coat rack. The pockets were empty. The sweater smelled of an expensive perfume I couldn’t name.
As there wasn’t much for us to do without permission from CPS or a search warrant for any confidential files, we headed out.
I made my way through the County Social Service building’s parking lot. Bernie had gone to track down someone from CPS and to let Graham know we’d finished in Baker’s office. Lots of employees had access to the building. We wanted to determine who had keys to the door at the entrance of the building. Raul Gonzalez, a member of the two-person cleaning crew, had discovered the body and called it in.
I approached Officer Bates, who had been first on the scene about an hour earlier and found Raul Gonzalez pacing at the front of the building. Gonzalez appeared to be in his mid-to-late forties and wore a shabby gray T-shirt and dirty Nike sneakers. He leaned against the tan brick building, speaking to Officer Bates.
“Mr. Gonzalez, I’m Detective Sydney Valentine. What happened here?”
The stench of stale cigarettes seeped from his clothing. One of his front teeth was missing, the others stained brown.
Gonzalez eyed the Sig Sauer in my shoulder harness and peered at Officer Bates, who gave a slight nod of encouragement.
“Sí. I move ‘Wet Floor’ sign in hall and stair.”
“What time was that?”
“Uh, maybe six o’clock? I not sure.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I have many floor to do.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin. His nails were bitten to the quick and his fingers calloused.
“What time do you start work?”
“Five-thirty in evening. Before guard leave because I have no key.”
“Does anyone help you clean the building?”
“My brother. He stay home yesterday.”
“You cleaned alone?”
“Sí.”
“Had you already mopped the stairs where you found the body?”
“Sí. Earlier.” He nodded vigorously. “I come back to get sign.”
“Did you move the signs before you found the body?”
“I start to pick up sign, then I see mess.” He slid his hands in his pockets. “I got mad ...” He lowered his eyes in apparent shame. “I clean there already. I want to go home to see soccer match.” He glanced at me, then away. “I did not know.”
“Okay. Did you walk down the stairs?”
“A little.” He lifted one shoulder and gave me a worried look. “To see why there was mess.”
“Did you go as far as the body?”
“No. I ...” Deep furrows creased his brow. After a moment, he nodded. “Sí,” he said, clearly reluctant. “I did.” He looked past me.
“What did you do next?”
“I run up step. I fall.”
“Did you recognize her?”
“Sí. I empty garbage in her office. Sometime she still there.”
“Did you see her in her office last night?”
“No.” Again, he rubbed the back of his neck—his version of a nervous twitch. “But, maybe she there. I see light on in office.”
“Did you see her leave last night?”
Another head shake. “No.” He looked around the parking lot again.
“Is something wrong?” I watched him.
“I’m okay.” He sighed. “She was nice lady.”
“All right. Thank you, Mr. Gonzalez.” I took down his contact information, scanned the parking lot, and looked north to the snow-covered mountains. Gorgeous morning for a murder. Way too gorgeous. I continued searching the parking lot. Another uniformed officer was in a deep discussion with a woman. After waving her arms about, she took a defensive posture. I hurried toward them. The woman, stylish in a dark green pantsuit, tapped one of her low-heeled spectator pumps. A battered and overstuffed brown briefcase stood next to her feet. On spotting me, she turned her full attention my way, hands on her hips.
“Can someone tell me what’s going on? Why can’t I go inside?”
“I’m Detective Sydney Valentine.” I pushed my jacket away to show the shield clipped to my belt. “And you are?”
“Carmen Delgado.”
“Why are you here, Ms. Delgado?”
“Mrs.” Her eyes narrowed. “I’m a CSS supervisor with Child Protective Services.” She frowned. “What’s going on?”
“We’re investigating a crime. Is this the time you normally arrive?”
“Yes, give or take a half hour or so, depending on traffic.”
Thanks to Mac, I knew social workers did four ten-hour days and had Fridays off. However, their ten-hour days could turn into twelve hours or more since they spent a lot of time on the road doing home and school visits.
“Do you normally work Fridays?”
“Sometimes, but I try not to.” Her lips thinned briefly. “It’s inevitable with budget cuts and increased workloads.” She sighed. “I use my days off to tackle the paperwork or I’ll never catch up. Are you going to tell me what happened in there?”
“Someone died.”
“Oh my God! Who is it?”
“Ann Baker. Did you know her?”
She gasped and nodded. “What happened?” Her lips quivered.
“We’re trying to determine that. When was the last time you saw her?”
Her eyes moistened, and she swiped at a tear easing from the corner of her eye. “Yesterday. Before I left for the evening.”
“What time?”
She looked to the sky and bit her lip. “I had a five thirty appointment, so it must have been about ten past five, maybe a quarter after.”
“Where was she?”
She sniffled, dug through her purse for a Kleenex, and blew her nose. “Downstairs. I got off the elevator and she was coming through the front door.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Just to say goodnight. Her hands were full, and she was rushing. I held the elevator for her.”
“What was she carrying?”
“Let me think.” She closed her eyes and bowed her head. More tears had trickled out by the time she looked up. “She had her purse, a pile of files, and a briefcase.”
“Was she alone?”
“Yes.”
“Does she often work evenings?”
“Yes, we all do. There’s a guard at the front desk who lets people in during the day. Well, they’re not technically guards in the sense that they patrol the building. They just sit at the desk to sign visitors in and out.” She shrugged. “They work nine to six.”
“It’s not nine yet and you’re here. Who lets people in before then?”
“Someone in Facilities sits at the front desk until the guard arrives. Some of us have keys to the outside doors. Others have swipe cards for some of the internal doors with restricted access. The main doors are automatic with sensors. No card key is needed once the building opens.”
“How do the guards, or people in Facilities, determine who’s allowed in?”
“After we show our badge they’re supposed to check it against the list kept at the desk. They don’t always do that though. If they recognize you, they’ll buzz you through without checking.”
“Who provides the list?”
“HR. If there’s a termination or resignation, that person’s name is removed from the list. If there are no changes, the list remains the same, but it’ll show the current date, so the guard knows it’s up-to-date.” She pursed her lips. “I guess if someone didn’t return their badge, they’d still be allowed in, unless the guard checked the list.”
I requested the names of those responsible for monitoring the desk, but she didn’t know everyone’s surname. She gave me the Personnel Director’s name, Edith Jones, and her phone number. “Is there any other way to enter or leave the building?”
“There are a couple of side doors. Fire exits.”
“Can you show me?” I made a quick sketch of the outside of the building as we walked around the left-hand corner. I’d been here before and knew it was an open squar
e. The four wings surrounded a central courtyard which boasted concrete planter boxes and benches. When the weather was decent, employees often used it for breaks and lunch. Three brown dumpsters lined the west side. It stank of rotten food and stale urine.
“There.” She pointed to a battered gray metal door which didn’t have an external doorknob. I marked its location on my drawing and added the dumpsters.
“Please stay here.” I approached the door, tiptoeing around cigarette butts, and candy and gum wrappers. “Smoking is prohibited on county government property.”
“Right. People sneak out these doors and do it anyway. When people end up working outside their scheduled hours, they have a sense of entitlement.”
I nodded, said, “Excuse me,” and used my cell phone to call Dispatch and request a uniformed officer to secure the area. I also called the Forensic Unit techs to work the area.
Carmen showed me a similar door located on the east side of the building, the one I’d opened from the inner stairwell. When we reached the front parking lot again I asked her to accompany me to Baker’s office. She placed her belongings in the trunk of her car and followed me upstairs.
After signing the crime log, we entered Baker’s small office.
“Except for the fingerprint residue, is this the way it normally looks?” I asked.
She pursed her lips. “Pretty much.”
“Did she do any work in here? It’s so organized.”
“That was Ann. Everything in its place.” She skimmed her hand across the desk. “Has her sister, Cynthia Harrington, been informed?”
“The coroner’s office will contact her.” I pointed to the briefcase under the desk. “Is that the one she had when you last saw her?”
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