Few employees had keys to the building, but that didn’t tell us who stayed beyond their normal hours and worked late that night.
I had the Scrabble tiles left at the scene of Baker’s homicide scattered atop my desk. Well, not the actual letters—which were in the forensics lab undergoing tests—but tiles from my own personal game of Scrabble. I thought it would be easier to rearrange them on my desk, rather than writing them on paper. My cell phone vibrated with a text message from Mac. I had told her about Ann Baker’s death during our run.
“Hunh.” I stared at it. Mac remembered something related to Baker. She’d heard gossip about people not liking her, which we’d already surmised from her co-workers’ responses to our questions. Mac confirmed our suspicions. Apparently, Baker had a reputation for being aggressive and stepping on many toes. She’d burned bridges on her way up the supervisory ladder. Mac added that people thought Baker was a “batch,” but it was probably supposed to be “bitch.” Knowing Mac, she may have entered “batch” because she didn’t cuss often, although it was possible her phone turned it into “batch.” It annoyed the crap out of me when that happened, which was why I added cuss words to the personal dictionary on my cell phone. When I swore, I didn’t want autocorrect sanitizing my words.
What would be the fun in that?
I heard Bernie talking to Pete Ramsey, another detective in our division. Their voices grew louder as they drew closer to my cubicle, then receded as they moved toward Ramsey’s desk. Ramsey reeked of Drakkar Noir cologne and cigarette smoke. I would’ve known it was him even without seeing him. Moments later, I glanced up. Bernie strolled toward me.
“Hey, what’s going on?” He rubbed his whiskers. Trying to grow a beard, I guessed. The patchy growth looked as though he’d trimmed some sections and not others, or he’d shaved with a rock. Because of his vanity, I gave it another day or two before he couldn’t stand it anymore and shaved it off.
“Look, Bernie ... about the other night ...”
He held his hands up, palms facing me. “Don’t worry about it. I would’ve done the same thing in your position.” He perched a butt cheek on the corner of my desk, one foot on the floor and the other dangling and broke off a chunk of my cinnamon bun. “Got the message figured out?” he asked, his gaze resting on the scrabble tiles.
“Nope.” Part of my breakfast moved from my desk to his mouth. He took a bite and dipped the rest into his takeout coffee. “But, Mac seemed to think she was asking for it.”
He chewed vigorously. “Oh, yeah?” He popped the last of the bun into his mouth and licked his fingers. “How so?” A crumb had lodged in the scraggly facial hair on his chin.
I handed him a napkin. “Apparently, Baker was a piece of work.” I propped my feet up on my desk and leaned back, hands folded comfortably over my abs. “Not well-liked. By anyone.”
“We have our work cut out for us then. And, as it happens, I have something, too. I talked to my Uncle Gavin, the attorney. He picks up the occasional juvie case. He heard through the grapevine that Baker didn’t always tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothin’ but the truth when reporting events.”
“If that’s true, how did she manage to keep her job, let alone get promoted?”
“Don’t know. Politics? Bureaucracy?” He eyed the rest of my breakfast.
In one smooth motion, I took my feet off the desk, leaned forward, and grabbed the remaining bun. “Maybe she was killed because a parent blamed her when they lost their parental rights and then their child to adoption.”
“Maybe.”
“Lord knows they sure wouldn’t blame themselves. You know how it is.” I took a huge bite out of the bun, still staring at the crumb on his chin. It was like I was watching an auto accident, unable to tear my eyes away. It distracted me, but not enough to tell him. Sometimes, I was a real bitch.
Bernie snapped his fingers. “Earth to Syd. Where were you?”
“Distracted.” I grinned, then checked myself.
He finished the dregs of his coffee and squashed the paper cup with one hand. “People joked behind her back and said she should change her name to Anne Rice.”
“That’s cold. I guess.” I removed the lid on my green tea and added half a stevia packet. “Who’s Anne Rice?”
“Author of a bunch of vampire novels.” He tossed the crumpled wad of his coffee cup toward the trash can and missed, as usual. “They made a movie out of one of them a while ago. Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise starred in it. Remember?”
“Yeah, Interview with the Vampire.” I stirred my tea and took a sip.
“Anyway, one of Baker’s former co-workers”—he reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out his small notebook, wet the tip of his finger, and flipped through the pages—“Mrs. Sunny Patterson, told me Baker would be out for blood if she felt wronged, which was often.”
“So, more than one person won’t shed any tears over her passing.”
“The Scrabble letters don’t spell anything.” Bernie slid the notebook into his pocket. “That worries me.”
“Me, too.” I nibbled on my bun. “It could be an acronym.”
“Doubt it. Unless we’re incredibly stupid and it is an acronym, I’d say letters, certainly vowels, are missing. That means more victims to come.” He ran his hands over his face, and then scratched his chin. The crumb dropped to the floor, which was such a shame.
“As for suspects, I think we should start with people who had their parental rights terminated in the past six months. Mac told me that final adoption can happen as soon as five or six months after that.”
“And the parents would be pissed. We need to interview the rest of the co-workers, too.” He stood and headed toward his cubicle, whistling.
“Hey, Shaq! Where’re you going?”
He pivoted. “To my desk. Why?”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I jabbed an index finger toward the pseudo basketball on the floor next to the trash can.
He sighed but returned to pick up the squashed coffee cup. As he passed my desk, he peeked in the bakery bag. Empty. He strolled toward his desk, but half-turned and gave me a wary eye.
When the coast was clear, I slid out the file drawer and retrieved another bakery bag. “Ahhhh. This is the life.” I removed a chocolate custard doughnut, took a bite, leaned back, and closed my eyes. Once again, I put my feet up on my desk. Gooey baked goods made running in the morning worthwhile. I looked up. Bernie was standing in my cubicle entrance, his eyebrows raised.
Oops.
“What’s up, partner?”
“The LT wants us in his office now.” He turned on his heel and hurried to the LT’s office.
I jumped up to follow. “Us, as in you and me?”
“No. The whole squad,” he answered, glancing over his shoulder.
We entered Lieutenant Peterson’s office. Well, it was still a cubicle, but his walls reached to the ceiling. The rest of us had half walls, so we could talk to one another without shouting. The LT’s office had a door and a long narrow window looking out toward the squad room. A larger window behind him showed rain drizzling down the glass. As everyone drifted into his office, I scanned the room, watching the puzzled faces of my co-workers. The atmosphere was solemn. Peterson stood behind his oversize oak desk, watching as we filed in. He cut an imposing figure at six foot five with a body fat percentage in the single digits. He wore a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his massive, dark-skinned forearms. He’d shaved his goatee and sported a mustache, and wore his black hair cropped short. Although in his mid-fifties he looked as though he still belonged on a football field, sacking NFL quarterbacks. When I joined the force at age nineteen after dropping out of UCLA, he terrified me. Hell, I wasn’t afraid to admit he still did at times. I’ve seen battle-hardened vets quake under his glare.
With his hands behind his back, chest thrust out, and standing tall, Peterson cleared his throat. “As you all know, employers all over the country have been hit with bu
dgetary issues over the past few years.” The murmurs and whispers stopped. I held my breath. “It’s come down from the brass that we have to institute some changes around here.” He paused. You could hear people breathing. “Some of you in this squad and others in the division have taken the early retirement incentive. At this time, those positions will go unfilled. Instead, with the exception of Sex Crimes, you’ll all be receiving cases outside your area of expertise. For example, Homicide may get the occasional robbery case, and Fraud may be assigned a homicide. In that situation, you most likely won’t be the primary, but you will make yourselves available to assist.” His piercing brown eyes surveyed the room. “Questions?” A murmured wave of, “No sir,” swept the room. “Okay.” His gaze scanned the room. “Dismissed.” We filed out and returned to our respective cubicles, or elsewhere, to complain or rejoice about the news. Hey, at least nobody was going to be canned.
When I reached my cubicle, Bernie was already there, sitting in my chair with his feet on my desk, eyeing my doughnut. How did he beat me back? I shoved his feet off, spinning him around. He grunted as he pushed himself up.
“Before we were summoned into the LT’s office,” he said, “I received a call from the Forensic Unit techs. They found Baker’s iPhone under her body. Baker’s sister called her a little while before her death. The call lasted less than a minute. Maybe it went to voicemail. A longer call was made from Baker’s phone an hour or so after that.”
“Really? Who’d she call?” I finished my food and wiped my mouth with a napkin, making sure no crumbs clung to my face.
“Guess. You won’t believe it.” He tapped his foot and grinned.
“Just tell me for chrissakes.”
I’d run out of patience. Maybe because he’d scarfed some of my breakfast without asking.
I hold grudges.
“Harrington.”
Bernie’s grin reminded me of a hobo clown who’d forgotten to apply his makeup. I felt like laughing out loud, wishing I had a red rubber ball to stick on his nose. Big floppy shoes wouldn’t hurt either. “She returned her sister’s call? What’s so special about that?” I shrugged.
“No. She called your favorite attorney ... the husband.” He smirked and nodded, eyebrows raised. “The call lasted fifteen minutes. Then it looked as though he called her back, but it was a missed call on her part. I guess she either ignored it and didn’t pick up …” he paused, waiting for me to finish his thought.
I obliged. “…or she couldn’t pick up,” I pushed back from my desk and stood. “We need to talk to the scumbag.”
“I agree. Let’s go.” He leaned over my desk and peeked in the bakery bag, and I crumpled it and tossed it in the trash can, scoring a rimshot. I wanted to call him a cheap jerk, but I bit my tongue and almost choked on it. Why didn’t he buy his own damn doughnuts?
Darn it. There’s that grudge again.
I called Harrington as he left court. He was on his way home, and I asked him—ever so politely—to meet us there.
7
The rain had cleared, but a chill cut through the air. We reached the Harringtons’ as he stepped from his Mercedes. Wearing a navy suit, shirt open at the collar, and carrying his tie, he waited for us. This time, I could see the younger him. Okay, so he was fatter, older, but it was still him. No doubt. Frat boy. Allison’s rapist. I avoided his eyes and we entered their home together. The house was toasty and smelled of cinnamon today. He ushered us into the same room where we’d talked before, while he searched for Cynthia. We sat in the same dainty, uncomfortable chairs facing the sofa. Eventually, Harrington entered the room, followed by Cynthia, who wore a dark gray knit dress and a single strand of pearls. They sat on the sofa. Cynthia’s eyes were red and she held a pink handkerchief. She stared at her hands in her lap and twisted the pink cotton.
Harrington eyed Bernie. “Detectives, do you have any news concerning Ann?” He glanced at me, then returned his focus to Bernie.
“We do,” Bernie answered, nodding. “The cause of death was a broken neck and she also had a skull fracture.”
Cynthia sobbed and dabbed at her nose.
Harrington grimaced. “You previously indicated it wasn’t an accident. Now you’re saying her skull was fractured and her neck broken.”
“Correct,” Bernie said.
“Did someone push her down the stairs?” Harrington held Bernie’s gaze, completely ignoring me.
“We’re still investigating,” I answered, forcing him to include me in the conversation.
Harrington leaned forward. “If you don’t know whether someone pushed her, why do you believe it was a homicide?”
I shifted to the edge of my chair and leaned toward Harrington, elbows digging into my knees. “Mr. Harrington, as we mentioned before, and you should know this since you’re a criminal defense attorney, you are not privy to all the case information. We’re still in the middle of an investigation.”
“Fine. Why did you come here?” His jaw hardened. “You could’ve told us this over the phone.”
I stared him down. “Ms. Baker’s cell phone was found at the scene.”
His face became a mask. No expression. He looked away, speaking to Bernie, not me. “Of course it would be at the scene since she always had it with her. I don’t understand the significance.”
Cynthia glanced at her husband. “Montgomery? What is it?”
Harrington glared at me and his nostrils flared. His neck and ears had turned bright red. He nodded slightly, his lips tight, forming an angry line. He’d done the same thing when I testified at his trial while he sat at the defendants’ table. I had no doubt he was now aware I knew who he was, despite the cosmetic surgery, the name change, and the fancy dental work.
“Ms. Baker made a phone call to you a little while before her death.” Our eyes remained locked.
“That’s correct.” He nodded.
Cynthia stared at him, frowning, but not saying a word.
“What did you talk about?” I asked.
“I don’t remember.” His gaze wandered around the room, not landing on anything for long.
“You must remember something. The call lasted for approximately fifteen minutes. It was probably the last conversation you ever had with her. It might have been her last conversation with anybody … except the killer,” I said, adding emphasis to the final words.
“I receive numerous calls from multiple people throughout the day. Surely, you can’t expect me to recall every one of them.”
“People usually remember their last conversation with loved ones who’ve died,” Bernie said, smoothly.
Cynthia glowered at her husband. “Why did she call you, Montgomery? Did she have legal trouble?”
“Honey, if I can’t remember it must not have been important,” he said, almost cooing, and rested his hand on top of both of hers.
She jerked her hands out from under his. “What time was the call, Detectives?”
Bernie flipped through his notes and told her.
“That was about the time we were getting ready to watch the movie. I went upstairs to take my medication and I couldn’t find you when I came back downstairs.” She was scowling at him again.
“No. I’m sure I was here. You’re confused.”
“I am not confused! I explicitly remember going upstairs and finding you gone when I returned.”
“Look. I didn’t phone her. She called me. You’re making it appear as though I tried to get rid of you to give me a chance to talk to her. I didn’t know she was going to phone. I didn’t plan it.”
“Montgomery, you remember everything, even things of little significance. I think it’s improbable that you forgot the conversation.” Her tone was brittle.
“Let’s agree you didn’t ask her to call and you don’t remember why she called,” Bernie said.
Harrington nodded. “Agreed.”
“Then, do you remember why you phoned her shortly after that particular call ended?” I asked.
Cynt
hia’s head turned around slowly, and she edged away from her husband.
“I must’ve touched her number on the recently received calls list by mistake.” He was speaking to his wife now. “I don’t recall speaking to her again.” He stood and faced us. “Now, if you have no other questions, I must ask you to leave. You’re upsetting Cynthia, and she needs to rest. This has been difficult for her. For us both.” He turned to his wife and held out a hand to help her to her feet. “I’ll call Dr. Andrews and see if he can adjust your dosage to help settle your nerves.”
Cynthia ignored his hand, stood, and marched from the room without another word to any of us.
Bernie and I glanced at one another, thanked Harrington for his time, and left. We needed to interview Baker’s clients and the rest of her co-workers.
The following morning, Mac sat at the table in my kitchen while I made smoothies with spinach after our easy run.
“Is that going to taste good?” Mac scrunched up her face.
“Yes, it will.” I switched off the high-speed blender, poured the liquid into tall glasses, and handed Mac hers with an extra-long straw.
“It’s ... green.” Mac stuck her straw in and swirled it around. “And a little thick.” She took a small sip, not using the straw, then smacked her lips together. “Hmm. It’s like dessert.” She took a bigger sip, giving herself a green smoothie mustache. “I need to get one of those blenders.”
“It’s a good way to get Josh to eat more veggies.” I joined Mac at the table. “Well, technically, I guess it’s drink more veggies.”
“Not just him, but Mike, too. And me. Since I’m trying to lose weight.” She dipped the straw into the smoothie and licked it, then glanced at me. “Hey, have you given any more thought to the dating website?”
“Not much. Bernie thinks I should go for it.”
“You don’t have much to lose.”
“Except time.” I sighed, picked up my glass, and drank.
The Protector Page 4
