“Seriously?” Bernie laughed. “I’m not going to ask how you happened to have a nail gun handy. Weren’t you afraid he’d call the cops?”
“Nope. I knew his kind. Rich boy. Couldn’t fight worth shit. Wouldn’t want anyone to know he got his ass kicked by a girl.”
“Sure as hell wouldn’t let anyone know if it had been me.” Bernie shook his head. “Shit.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?” I was sure my eyes were bloodshot and my face a blotchy mess.
“Ironic?” He tilted his head. “How?”
“I wanted to kill him, Bernie. I did. Now look at me. A homicide detective.”
And a damn good one even if I do say so myself.
I jerked open the passenger door, slid in, and buckled up. After removing my tomato stress ball from my purse, I went to town. I needed it.
3
Dispatch tagged us as we rolled onto Maple Drive from the Harringtons’ driveway. A Mrs. Johnson had reported a possible homicide less than a mile away, on First Street. We arrived at the Johnsons’ home within minutes and stood face-to-face with the Pillsbury Doughboy’s grandma. Mrs. Johnson’s white hair, worn in a tight top knot, gave her the appearance of having had a bad face lift. Her eyes stretched toward her ears, and the white warm-up suit and Keds sneakers reinforced the initial image.
As we trailed behind her through the house, I gagged from the powerful scent of her old-lady perfume. I didn’t know the name of the fragrance, but it’s brown and elderly women wear it. How did I know it was brown? Because I’d gotten a whiff of it once in a department store, courtesy of an overzealous spritzer girl. You know the type. The girls, or sometimes guys, stand there looking like a praying mantis, holding a bottle of whatever fragrance the store happened to be pushing that day. At the time of the attack, my mind was elsewhere as I strolled through that section of the store. I’d forgotten my vow never to make eye contact with a fragrance-section mantis. In fact, I usually dashed through like a thief, or avoided the fragrance section altogether.
After my brush with Montgomery Harrington, I found the scent particularly offensive, and my empty stomach didn’t help. My thoughts drifted to IHOP’s double blueberry pancakes.
Mrs. Johnson hurried us into a room with floor to ceiling glass on one wall, revealing a panoramic view of the backyard. Two redheaded boys played with a young fawn-and-white Boxer. Built-in cherry wood bookcases lined the other three walls. Dozens of dolls filled the shelves. Not just any dolls, but US presidential dolls. I spotted a president wearing denim jeans with a leather bomber jacket. I was ashamed to admit I didn’t recognize him. Eisenhower? History was not my best subject at school. I wondered whether the dolls wore underwear, too. Boxers or briefs?
“Over here!” Mrs. Johnson hurried to a lower shelf and pointed. Bernie and I stared at the dismembered dolls. A few had their plastic heads or limbs pulled off. Red liquid soaked others and puddled on the shelf. It looked like blood.
“Mrs. Johnson, we’re here because of a call regarding a possible homicide ... of a person.” I continued to gawk at the shelves, not believing we were here for doll maiming. “What is it you expect us to do?”
She returned a blank stare, but her eyes moistened. “Someone hurt them.” She picked up the separated head and trunk of a Bill Clinton doll, which had an arm and leg missing. “See?” The one she held had wavy silver hair. Another Clinton doll sat next to it. This one was intact and porcelain with darker, thicker hair. Remarkable. Bernie’s phone vibrated.
“I got this.” He moved away, then turned with raised eyebrows and a grin behind Mrs. Johnson’s back and circled his finger next to his temple before he made his escape. I nodded. Rich people!
“Mrs. Johnson, these are dolls, not people.” I sauntered to the shelf where the other Clinton doll lay, leaned over, and sniffed. Ketchup. I glanced her way and noticed a tear squeeze from the corner of her eye.
“I know they’re dolls. I’m not crazy.” She stared at the Clinton doll in her hand. “But, they’re like people to me.”
I gazed at the rows of dolls, wondering how much money and time she’d spent on them over the years.
Mrs. Johnson sniffled. “I just thought with the murder of Cynthia Harrington’s sister, the same person might have hurt my dolls, too.”
I spun toward her. “We just notified the family. How did you know about her sister?”
“It was on the news this morning.” Her hands trembled as she attempted to put the doll together.
I reached for the doll. “Let me get that for you.” I pushed Clinton’s head onto the torso and it made a popping sound. Mrs. Johnson gasped.
“This isn’t the first tragedy that family has had, you know.” She flinched while I twisted on Clinton’s separated limbs.
“No? What else happened?” I ambled to the shelf.
“Their daughter Annabelle was killed in a car accident, oh, five or six years ago, I’d say.”
She studied me.
I dropped the doll on the shelf. “Who was driving?”
She peered at the ceiling and bit her lower lip. “If I remember correctly, the nanny picked her up from school and lost control of the car. They both died.” She removed the doll I’d placed on the shelf and put it on a different shelf, patting it before she turned away. She stepped forward, then returned to nudge Clinton number two a millimeter to the left. “I did volunteer work at an animal rescue with Cynthia Harrington back then. She had a breakdown when her daughter died.”
“Which rescue was this?”
“The same one where I got Bobby, my Boxer.” She pointed outside at the dog running around with the boys. “Hemet Fur-ever Rescue. Have you heard of it?”
I nodded. “I didn’t realize Cynthia Harrington volunteered.”
“She doesn’t anymore. She quit after her breakdown, but I heard she still donates to several animal rescue groups.”
Behind a Reagan figurine, I found a toy dart. It had a removable suction cup tip. I held it out to her. “The assassins left a clue.”
Our gazes slid to the window across the room. The alleged assassins watched through the window with their freckled faces pressed to the fogged glass and their hands cupped around their eyes. We strode toward them. They scampered to the center of the yard, climbed the rope ladder to the tree house, and ducked inside.
“My grandsons.” She reached for the brass handle to the French doors and made a growling sound. That growl shot my poppin’ fresh grandma image all to hell. She marched across the lawn, and I turned and departed the room of presidents. Bernie leaned against the wall in the hallway with one leg crossed over the other, still on the phone. I kept going and waited for him at the door. When he finished, I opened the door and he followed me out.
“What was the call about?” I asked.
“The ME has something for us on Baker.” He clicked the car doors open.
As I settled into my seat, my stomach growled, protesting its lack of nutrition thus far today. “What did Dr. Lee have to say?”
“She found evidence of Baker having sexual intercourse shortly before her death.”
“Consensual?”
“She saw no evidence of forcible rape.”
“All right. Maybe we can have that condom the Forensic Unit found tested for her DNA. What else?”
“She said Baker had multiple contusions, a broken neck, a fractured skull and nose. Her left ear lobe had ripped where an earring tore through it. I assume the missing earring would match the one still in the other ear, but you never know with some people. It wasn’t found at the scene.”
“Did the broken neck kill her?” I rifled through my purse looking for something to eat. No luck. “Let’s stop and get a bite.”
“The broken nose and neck were most likely caused by the fall, but not the skull fracture.” He pulled into the parking lot of a Denny’s. “And you’re right. The broken neck killed her.”
“Why doesn’t she think the skull fracture was from the stairs?”
&n
bsp; “I asked the same question. Dr. Lee believes an object with a smooth curved surface, like a baseball bat, was used.” He faced me. “If she hadn’t broken her neck, she most likely wouldn’t have survived the skull fracture.”
“Time of death?”
“Between eight and midnight.” He turned to face me. “Dr. Lee also found three Scrabble tiles in the baggie we saw in Baker’s mouth.”
“What the hell?” As hungry as I was, I didn’t move. “A message?”
“Maybe, but I don’t know what the message could be.” He opened his door. “The letters were two Rs, and a T.”
“Hunh. Can I buy a vowel for crying out loud?”
4
The next day started out gorgeous and spring-like for my morning training run with Mac. Sparrows chirped and splashed in puddles along the side of the road. I’d woken in a funk because Bernie and I spent several hours the previous day interviewing Baker’s co-workers and made little progress, except for determining she wasn’t well-liked, which was something. I needed the early-morning jog to clear the cobwebs from my head.
We dragged ourselves down the street where my apartment was located, heading back to my place after a vigorous session. Mac had exceeded her previous distance and beat her fastest time since starting her latest health kick. She stopped a block from my apartment, bent at the waist, reached for her toes, and bounced. “I went to a bachelorette party Saturday at the Doubletree, downtown.”
I sank onto the grass to stretch my hamstrings. “Who’s getting married?” I felt the back of my sweat pants. Wet. Crap.
Now I’ll look like I peed my pants.
It brought back memories of Kindergarten when I’d had accidents twice. Mac still teased me about it from time to time. Every so often, she’d ask if I remembered. How could I forget, since she’d never let me?
She interrupted my trip down memory lane.
“Marjorie’s the bride-to-be.” With her head upside down and ponytail flopping, she peered at me. She groaned and stood, reaching her arms up, stretching tall. “But, that’s not why I mentioned it.”
“Go on, I’m listening.” I switched legs. “This isn’t another pitch for me to set up an online dating profile is it?”
“No.” She sat beside me. “Ewww. The grass is wet!” She hopped up, wiping her hands on the front of her sweats and glared at me. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Miss Priss unzipped her fanny pack and removed tissues, which shredded as she used them to wipe her hands. She had pastel flowers painted on her nails.
In response to her question, I did the palms-up shrug and tried to look innocent. “Anyway, so it’s not about the dating website. What is it then?”
She gazed down the street. “It’s not good, Syd. I’m not sure how to say this.” Although she was whispering, her words seemed to hang in the air, as if she was going to tell me she had a week to live ... or I did.
I pushed myself up, leaned on a palm tree, and kicked one leg behind me. I grabbed my ankle and pulled it toward my rear, stretching my quad. The back of my sweats had gotten very wet and clung to me. Maybe my prank hadn’t been such a good idea. “Just say it.” I dropped my foot and tapped my watch. “Time’s a-tickin’.”
“When I left the party, I saw Bernie going into The Place.” She looked away again. “You know. Down the street. The Place.” To add emphasis to her revelation, she locked eyes with me and raised her brows, which made her look like a nut case.
“What place down the street? Be more specific.”
“The Place,” she said, enunciating each syllable and drawing out the last word.
I straightened. “The gay bar?” My hand flew to my forehead.
Mac touched the tip of her nose, pointed her finger at me, and nodded. “Bingo.”
“What the hell was he doing going in there?”
“I have no idea, but I thought I’d let you know because Bernie and Khrystal met through you. I mean ... she’s your friend.”
I turned toward home. Maybe Bernie had a look-alike in town. Maybe Mac had had too much to drink. That wasn’t like her, but I didn’t know what else to think. Well, I did, but didn’t want to go there. Not now. Not ever. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes, I’m certain.” She trailed behind me. “I couldn’t see at first, because of the rain. My friend Kelly was with me and she wanted to go inside. I didn’t want to go in, so I did surveillance outside to confirm it.”
“Surveillance?” I laughed. “Confirm? Do you even know what surveillance means? What did you do?”
“Why are you laughing?” She scowled. “You’re not the only person on the planet who can gather evidence.” She stomped away, her arms swinging in a wide arc. The back of her pants were wet, but not as wet as mine felt.
After chuckling to myself, I chased after her. “What type of evidence did you gather?” I made air quotes around the word “evidence” and stifled another chuckle.
“Kelly saw a sign that said there was additional parking on the other side of the building, so I drove around back looking for his car.”
“And?”
“And I found it.”
“Damnit.” I didn’t have a problem with anyone being gay. I did have a problem with Bernie stepping out on Khrystal. If that was the case, he’d be in the wrong, and Bernie’s problem was going to be with me. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it wasn’t easy.
“Are you going to tell him I saw him?” She examined her shoes and kicked a dandelion puff, sending the little parachutes adrift. “What are you going to do?”
I said nothing. I had no idea.
5
Knowing Khrystal would be at work that evening, I paid Bernie a visit. Standing outside their condo door, I closed my eyes for a minute, taking a few deep breaths. My stomach rumbled at the fragrance of pizza filling the hall and a sports game blared on the television as I knocked.
“Syd, what are you doing here?” With the TV remote still in his hand, Bernie looked past me. “Is something wrong?”
“I hope not. Where were you last Saturday night?” After squeezing past him uninvited, I plopped onto the sectional sofa. A pizza box sat open on the coffee table. Uneaten crusts and used napkins littered the inside.
“Well, why don’t you make yourself at home?” He stood, scowling, his feet spread wide.
“Seriously. Where were you?”
“Do I need a lawyer?” His scowl morphed into a smirk, but his jaw twitched. He muted the television, tossed the remote onto the sofa, and sat on the arm at the opposite end from me.
“It’s important. Please.”
“Please? Where the hell do you get off barging in here treating me like a suspect?” He shoved his fingers through his thick straight hair and grabbed a Heineken from the table, sloshing beer in the air. He took a long pull. His Adam’s apple bobbed with each gulp. He stopped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
We locked eyes. “Were you at a gay bar Saturday night?”
He looked away and watched the muted Lakers game, or pretended to. I waited. Bernie wasn’t about to wear me down, and I had plenty of time.
He cleared his throat. “What do you want me to say?” He kept his eyes on the television.
“The truth works for me.” I leaned forward, elbows on my thighs.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I was there. Not long, but I was there.” He glanced in my direction before looking away. He scratched his whiskers.
“Bernie, are you gay?”
He still refused to look at me. “A woman I used to date called and begged me for a ride home. She was on a date at a club and they got into an argument. They left the club and the argument escalated. She jumped out of the car at a stop light. It was late. She ended up near The Place. Ducked inside out of the rain to call me. We talked over a drink, and I drove her home.”
“Did you sleep with her?” The question was out of line. All my questions were, but I didn’t give a shit at that point.
�
�What’s with the third degree? I don’t ask you about your nights out. Oh! That’s right, you don’t have any.” He gulped his beer, emptied the bottle, and grabbed two more empties from the coffee table. They clanked together as he hurried into the kitchen.
I sprang from the sofa and followed him. “You don’t have to be a prick about it! I don’t want to see Khrystal hurt.”
“And you think I do?” He lowered the bottles into the recycle bin and whirled on me. “My relationship with Khrystal is none of your business.”
“The hell it isn’t. I introduced you two, and if you’re cheating on her ...” I’d made tight fists and my breathing had changed. No doubt about it, I needed to get a grip.
He glanced at my hands. “What, you want to take a swing at me because you think I cheated on Khrystal?”
“You once told me she was the best thing in your life. Since she moved in you’ve been coming to work with creases pressed into your pants and shirts. You even have creases in the jeans you’re wearing now.” I pointed at his jeans. “She loves you! She doesn’t deserve to be treated that way.”
“What way? She’s fine. We’re fine.” Taking long strides, he hurried to the door, opened it, and stood aside. “See you at work.”
“Whatever.” I marched across the room. “But, think about what you’re doing, Bernie.”
He positioned himself inside the doorway and leaned on the doorframe. “Syd, the next time you come into my home and think about hitting me, remember I’m not a scrawny rich kid who can’t fight worth shit.”
I stepped into the hallway expecting a slam, but the door closed with a mere whisper of a click, which, oddly, had more of an effect.
Well, so much for my subtle questioning. I didn’t find out a damn thing.
6
I stomped into work Monday morning, still in a mood, and learned that CPS had sent over their employee contact information. They’d also allowed me access to Baker’s cases and I lost myself in the work.
The Protector Page 3
