The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  “I think so. I never saw her with anything else.” She picked it up and popped it open. “Hmm. It’s unlocked and it’s a mess.” She used a tissue from her pocket to wipe the fingerprint powder from her hands.

  I peeked inside. The papers were in disarray. “As far as you know, does she keep it locked?”

  “I can’t imagine her leaving it unlocked. I keep case files in mine. It looks like she does—did—too. Confidential stuff.” She observed the perfectly aligned pencils and pens on the desk and smiled.

  “Did you know Ms. Baker well?” I pulled on the drawer to the filing cabinet at her desk to see if it was locked. It was.

  “We talked a little at work. Shooting the breeze in the break room or bathroom. I didn’t socialize with her outside of work, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “Is this her sweater?”

  Carmen nodded, her lips forming a tight, thin line, as though she was trying to keep her emotions in check.

  “Was she dating anyone?”

  “Who wasn’t she dating would be a better question.”

  Interesting.

  My ears pricked up. “She dated a lot?”

  “Let me put it this way. Over the years, I’ve seen lots of different men taking her to lunch or picking her up for dinner. It was obvious they were romantically involved. And they bought her things. Expensive things.”

  “What kinds of things?”

  Without hesitation, she rattled off the list. “Weekend getaways to resorts, Jimmy Choo shoes, this briefcase, and a Rolex watch. I told her not to wear it to work. Some neighborhoods we visit aren’t the safest.”

  “A person can get robbed in affluent neighborhoods, too.”

  “True. I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Did she wear it to work often?”

  She sighed again. “Every single day.”

  Baker didn’t have a watch when Bernie and I checked the body. “Did she smoke?”

  “Cigarettes? I don’t think so. Other things?” She lifted a shoulder. “Possibly.”

  “All right. Can you give me the contact information for the employees you supervise and for Ms. Baker’s sister?”

  “Sure. I’ll get it from my office on the way out.”

  A few moments later, I left CSS and drove my personal vehicle, a Nissan Altima, to the San Sansolita Police Department, where I’d arranged to meet Bernie. Time to pay a visit to the victim’s sister.

  2

  A half-hour later, I left my car at the station and Bernie and I rode to Cynthia Harrington’s home in Temecula in our department-issue Ford Fusion—dark blue, functional, engine tuned to perfection, but still screaming “unmarked police car.”

  “Is this the same Harrington who’s always in the society news?” Bernie asked, glancing at me in an odd way.

  “Not sure, but someone mentioned she gave large donations to several organizations a few weeks ago when I was volunteering at the Boxer rescue. They said she does a lot of charity work related to animal causes.”

  “Oh, she’s an animal lover. I think she’s married to a big shot criminal defense attorney.” He stared at me, a strange look creasing his tanned face.

  I turned in my seat and glared at him. “What the hell are you looking at?”

  “Just wondering why you’re wearing that.” He pointed to my head.

  “What?” Touching my forehead, I felt the headband. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? Dispatch called when I was just starting my run with Mac and I forgot this when I changed clothes, all right?” I pulled it from my head, removed the ponytail holder, and stuffed both in my purse, which, by the way, was not a Coach.

  “I didn’t tell you because …” His gaze shifted to the sidewalk and he pointed. “Hey, look at that puppy!”

  Always ready for puppies, I looked. There was no puppy. I scowled. “Jerk.”

  Grinning, he lifted a shoulder. “Anyway, tell me more about Mac.”

  “She’s trying to lose a few pounds. I’m her trainer and I’ve gotta tell you, I’m loving every minute of it.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He grinned. “Trying to turn her into a lean, mean, fighting machine like yourself?”

  “Yeah, as if that’ll ever happen. Mac doesn’t like to sweat. Or, as she calls it, ‘perspire.’”

  “As fraternal twins, you’re similar, but opposites in so many other ways.”

  “You’re not kidding. When I was eight, Dad was teaching me how to box and Mac was painting her nails and straightening the daylights out of her curls.”

  “You never mentioned that before. Why was he teaching you?”

  “I wanted to do it. But, Dad had a saying. ‘Keep your eye on the moon.’”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means I needed to focus. There were times when I’d goof off while he was trying to show me something important. He made up the saying. Well, I think he did.”

  “I get it. When you’re looking at the moon, you don’t notice anything else. Interesting. Did it work?”

  “Yeah, after he kept knocking me on my butt whenever I lost focus. I got the message—eventually.” I smiled at the memory. “My mom used to say the same thing to Mac when she was going on and on about what her friends were wearing at school instead of doing her homework.”

  Bernie grinned. “How much weight has Mac lost so far?”

  I snorted. “Not enough to suit her. Hey, get this. She thinks I should join a dating website.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Did I ever tell you my brother, Jon, met his wife online?”

  “Yes,” I said, trying to kill a yawn, “loads of times. I’m not sure about the website, though. Weeding out the losers sounds like work.”

  “That’s because you’re too picky.” He’d stopped at a red light and turned to face me.

  “I don’t want to waste my time with cheats and liars.” The light changed, and I motioned for him to drive. “Most of those guys are probably married or have girlfriends.”

  “Cynical and picky. You might even be a commitment-phobe.”

  He navigated the winding curves of the 79.

  A coyote was standing on a boulder in the hills. I had to admit, I sometimes felt like a lone coyote. “I’m phobic about cheats and liars.”

  I pulled my cell phone from my jacket pocket and started reading emails. Peripherally, I noticed Bernie sneaking glances at me.

  “I know what you need.” He nodded, seeming satisfied he’d found the solution to my lack of coupledom.

  My gaze drifted from the phone. “Yeah? What might that be?”

  “Therapy. Commitment-phobe therapy.” He laughed.

  “Therapy, schmerapy.” Sighing theatrically, I continued reading emails.

  Mac had sent me a dog-shaming email. I always got a kick out of those. You know the type—where people take photos of their dogs after the dog has done something naughty. Allegedly. Innocent until proven guilty, right? The one I’d just read showed a Dachshund wearing a sign saying “I didn’t do it. Honest.” He sat in the middle of a pile of shredded Pampers, including the ripped-up box. He appeared to be smirking. I laughed out loud.

  “You joke, but it helped me.”

  “It did?” I glanced at him. “Maybe you want to think it helped. You know ... to deal.”

  “It hasn’t been that long ... a couple of months … since”—he swallowed—“the incident.”

  Bernie had shot a twelve-year-old kid during a chase and taken it badly. He had to take time off the job to regroup mentally, but he was fighting through it. We made a right onto the Ramona Expressway.

  “The kid didn’t give you much choice. It was either you or him.” I turned toward the window, watched the scenery whiz by. We passed dairy farms with hundreds of Holstein cattle grazing on the lush grass. Others lay in the mud. The odor was overwhelming, and I pushed the button to roll up my window. “Besides, if he’d killed you, there’d never be any little Bernies running around some day. You know Khrystal’s waiting
for you to pop the question, right?”

  “How the hell did we get on the subject of baby Bernies when we started out talking about your love life, or lack of one?”

  “Put a ring on her finger, already.” I started to sing and dance in my seat.

  “Oh, shut the hell up.”

  I closed my eyes, snapped my fingers, and continued to sing off-key. When I glanced at him again, in profile, the corner of his mouth was turned up ... just a little.

  “Holy crap! Is this the place?” Bernie’s eyes popped as he looked past me at a sprawling stucco house graced with columns, lots of windows, and a circular paved driveway. “Criminal defense must pay him mucho dinero.”

  “No shit!” I looked down. “Number’s painted on the curb. This is the place.”

  “Nice.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “I could live here.”

  “You and how many roommates?” There was no way either of us could afford to live in a place like this. “Thinking of becoming the worst kind of attorney there is? Get everybody off, innocent or guilty ... for the right price?”

  “Syd, everybody has the right to an attorney.”

  “Yada, yada. I know the Miranda Rights as well as you do.” I peeked at the thin, curved scar on my hand and traced it with my index finger. “Let’s go.”

  Bernie drove up the driveway toward a building that was more of an estate than a house. He parked in front of one of the five garage doors. We strolled along the driveway past a white Mercedes S400 Hybrid. I have to admit, I couldn’t resist a discreet peek inside. Lots of fancy bells and whistles, and I knew a creamy leather interior when I saw it. We continued our stroll along the stone walkway. I’d often seen this type of place behind a security gate with an intercom. No gate, but the Harringtons must’ve had a visitor notification system. The woman standing in the open doorway wore a black and white maid’s uniform and sturdy black shoes. A thin net covered her tight bun of black hair. The red light of a security camera winked at us from above the doorway.

  The maid’s warm brown eyes appraised us, stopping at the shields clipped to our jackets. “Officers, may I see ID please?” She spoke with a Spanish accent. Her skin tone was similar to mine, the color of sand, but she wasn’t as tall as my five-eight.

  “Detectives Sydney Valentine and Russell Bernard,” I announced, and we showed her our IDs. “We’re here to see Cynthia Harrington.”

  She studied the IDs, checked the photos, and stared at me hard. My photo ID made me look like I should be on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted list, but I hadn’t had time to update it.

  “Wait here, please.” She left and returned three minutes and fifty-seven seconds later. “This way, please. Mr. and Mrs. Harrington are in the great room.”

  We entered the home, and the aroma of butter and vanilla, like Christmas cookies baking, reminded me I missed breakfast. We passed what appeared to be an office on the right and a formal dining room on the left. Moving soundlessly on the marble floor while we clomped, the maid led us along a hall to a room where Mr. and Mrs. Harrington murmured as they huddled together on the Chippendale sofa. He stood. Extremely bowlegged, he swaggered toward us. His cufflinks sparkled when he reached to offer his hand, which was soft, but strong. He rejoined his wife, who remained seated. Something about him seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  “Please, take a seat.” He waved us to a set of chairs facing them and crossed an ankle over his knee. “Let’s get to it. Why are you here?”

  So, the coroner’s office hadn’t told them yet.

  Bernie and I eased into twin dainty, and massively uncomfortable, chairs. Cynthia held herself so stiffly I wondered whether she’d shatter into little pieces if she sneezed. Her hand shook as she hooked her blonde, shoulder-length hair behind her ears, which displayed pearl earrings. Her blue eyes glistened, as if she knew why we’d come. She wrung her hands and twisted her wedding band. Her gaze darted around the room, giving her the look of a trapped animal. She focused on a framed photo of a girl with pigtails and ribbons in her hair, and her face softened.

  I cleared my throat. “Mrs. Harrington, we’re sorry to inform you—”

  “Oh, no. Please, no.” Tears streamed down her ashen face, and her body shuddered. She reached for the framed photo and clutched it to her chest. “Montgomery?” She glanced at her husband.

  Montgomery? I watched him. Thought about the bowed legs. I’d known one person that bowlegged in my life.

  Shit.

  My stomach lurched. Couldn’t be.

  “Your sister, Ann Baker, has died.” Bernie looked more at Harrington than his wife. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

  “How? When?” Harrington slid an arm around his wife, his eyebrows rising. “Well? What happened? Tell me everything.”

  Tell me everything? Not us?

  I eyeballed him. “I’m sorry, but the investigation is ongoing.” My voice sounded hollow in my ears. “We found her body on the stairs in the building where she worked.”

  “But, you are homicide detectives, correct?” Harrington stared at us.

  Bernie nodded.

  “Was she murdered?”

  “It’s too early to tell,” Bernie said, sneaking a sideways glance at me.

  “Oh, dear God.” Cynthia collapsed onto her husband. She stroked the face of the portrait in her lap.

  Perspiration rolled down my back. My face flushed. A wave of ... something … flowed from my head through my extremities. My fingers tingled. Panic attack?

  “Syd?” Bernie leaned in. “You okay?” he whispered.

  I had no answer. “Excuse me. May I use your bathroom?”

  “You passed it on the way in.” Harrington pointed. “It’s around the corner, to your left.”

  I jumped to my feet and rushed from the room into the bathroom. Inside, I closed the door and leaned against it, gasping for air before staggering to the sink, holding on for balance.

  After all these years.

  My heart pounded as I stared at the scar on my hand. Dizzy, I put the toilet seat down and dropped onto the lid. I hung my head between my knees. After a few moments, I pushed myself upright, leaned my hands on the sink once again, and faced the mirror. I almost laughed aloud. My curly hair was a mess and, red as it was, I had what I liked to call my rodeo-clown-gone-mad look going on. Or maybe a wild Ronald McDonald in a wind tunnel. I sure needed that ponytail holder now. After splashing water on my face, I did my best to smooth my hair into place and left the bathroom, returning to find Bernie and the Harringtons standing in the foyer. Bernie handed Mr. Harrington a business card.

  I turned to Cynthia. “Once again, I’m sorry for your loss.” I managed to speak calmly ... or hoped I did. A huge relief washed through me as I stepped out onto the porch and took a deep breath of the cool, fresh air. Bernie was a step behind me.

  “You want to tell me what the hell just happened in there?” Bernie jerked his thumb at the now-closed door.

  “That was him.” I marched to the car.

  “Him, who?” He jogged to catch up.

  “Monty Bradford.”

  “No, his name’s Montgomery Harrington.” He glanced back at the house, then at me, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

  “He raped Allison our freshmen year in college.” I turned to go, then spun to look at Bernie. “That’s him! He changed his name. Had work done on his face. His teeth. Whatever.” I moved toward the car. “He couldn’t do anything with those bandy legs though.”

  Bernie grabbed my arm. “Who’s Allison?”

  “Allison was my best friend since first grade.” My eyes burned. Not being a crier, I looked away. “We were roommates at UCLA.”

  “Was your best friend?”

  “Allison’s dead, Bernie.”

  “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  He passed me a handkerchief, but I waved it away.

  “Freshman year ...” I paced. “... she was date-raped by a boy from another school, Monty Bradford.”
<
br />   “Is that how she died? Did he do time?”

  “She didn’t want to report it. Too scared.”

  “She let him get away with it?” He paced alongside me, patting his pockets, looking for cigarettes, forgetting he’d quit a month earlier.

  “Oh, no,” I answered quietly, every word tasting bitter. “I talked her into going to the police. Drove her there myself. It went to trial and the asshole’s attorney made her look like a tramp.” After I stopped pacing, we faced each other. “Bernie, she was a virgin!”

  “Ah, man.” He looked around and shoved a hand through his hair.

  “Monty’s parents had big bucks and a swanky lawyer. He got off, and it destroyed Allison.”

  “God, I’m so sorry, Syd. How did she die? What happened?”

  “Two weeks after the trial I found her in her room lying on her bed. Although she never made her bed, she did this time. She was dressed in her favorite pink dress. Seeing her lying there reminded me of when she played Sleeping Beauty in third grade. There was vomit on her dress. Found a nearly empty bottle of her anti-depressants and an open bottle of Tequila on the carpet next to the bed. She never drank booze. Wasn’t old enough to buy it either.”

  “Was she already ... gone?”

  “Not at that stage. I called 9-1-1. She died in the ER. Never woke up.”

  “Hell. Did she leave a note?”

  “On my pillow. It said, ‘Syd, I’m so sorry. I can’t. Best friends forever. Love, Allison.’ We both wanted to go to law school. Work for the DA’s office. If I hadn’t pushed her into reporting the rape, she’d still be alive.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. I know it. That’s why I nailed the sonofabitch to the wall.”

  “He went to jail after all?”

  “No, Bernie. I went to his condo, kicked his scrawny ass all over it. Broke his nose, too. When he woke up—”

  “Whoa! Woke up?”

  “Yeah ... woke up. I made him stand against the wall. Then, I literally nailed him to the wall through his clothes with my dad’s nail gun.” I let my breath out in a rush. “I’m only sorry it was through his clothes.”