The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  “You haven’t been serious with a guy since Jessie, in high school.”

  “Time moves on, right?”

  “Right. So, you’re on board with doing an online dating profile?” Mac smiled the way Tom smiles at Jerry when he’s just about to eat him on a sandwich. Something was up.

  “Sure. Why the hell not? I’ll do it.” Sometimes I could let go and try new things with the best of ’em.

  “I’m glad you said that.” The “eat you” smile widened. “I’ve had your profile up for three or four days. You have dozens of responses.” Still grinning, she scanned the room. “Where’s your laptop?”

  “What? I can’t believe you did that without my permission. I’ll get the laptop because I’m curious, but be warned, your ass-kicking will follow.” I stomped into the living room and returned with the laptop. I hit the power button, slid the device across the table toward her, and we waited for the ancient thing to boot.

  Mac hummed as she logged onto my profile. “See?” She pushed the laptop back at me.

  “Mac?” I scanned the photos of me she’d uploaded, my gut clenching. “What the hell?” I glared at her. “These are too damn …”

  “What’s wrong?” She leapt from her chair and leaned over my shoulder, her blonde curls tickled my cheek.

  I tapped the picture of me laughing after I’d climbed out of her pool at her pool party last summer. My hair dripping wet, I was pulling it away from my face and above my head to secure it in a strip of red hair ribbon. I was wearing a red and white polka dot bikini. “You used that picture without telling me!”

  “What’s wrong with the picture?” She gazed at it, lips pursed. “It’s not like it’s a rear view of you in a thong.”

  “I look like I’m posing for the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition!”

  “Calm down. You’re not spilling out or anything.”

  “Yeah. But, still ...” I narrowed my eyes and glared again. “I don’t want strange guys ogling me without my knowledge. Also, they’ll think I can swim.”

  “Honestly, Syd. They’re not wondering whether you can swim. If they ask, just tell them what happened when you were a kid.”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet.”

  Mac sighed. “Anyhoo, you might as well take a look at your responses while you’re signed in. You’ve received loads of flirties and emails.” She clicked on an email.

  “What the hell’s a flirtie?” I glanced at the email.

  Okay, I had to admit, I was mildly curious.

  “It’s when a guy likes your picture or profile and flirts with you. You can flirt back or send an email to let him know you’re interested ... or not.” She scrolled through the profile of the guy who sent the email.

  “Okay, the guy is kind of cute.” I started to read his profile. “Wait a minute!”

  “What now?” Mac sighed.

  I jabbed my finger at the screen, pointing to the guy’s age preference. “He’s looking for someone between eighteen and thirty-five.”

  “So? You fall into that range. Practically in the middle of it, in fact.”

  “What the hell does a thirty-five-year-old man want with an eighteen-year-old girl?”

  “What do you think he wants?”

  “Exactly.” I punched the button to delete the email.

  “Syd, you can’t blame a guy for trying. He did say up to age thirty-five. At least he didn’t say his range was eighteen to twenty-one.”

  “He’s old enough to be an eighteen-year-old’s father! Pervert.” I scrolled through more emails.

  “Sheesh.” Mac returned to her chair and plopped down, causing the chair to scrape across the floor.

  I turned away from the laptop and gazed at her. “Problem?”

  “This is why you don’t date much,” she huffed, crossing her arms.

  “What is why I don’t date much?”

  “You always believe the worst of people.”

  “Mac, the worst is usually the most honest part of them. I see it on the job all the time.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. The job.” She made air quotes around “the job.”

  “My job is who I am. What’s wrong with that?”

  “It doesn’t have to be the only thing you are. There’s too much stress in your job and you need an outlet.”

  I slurped my smoothie and licked the straw. “Okay. I’ll give you that. But, I know how to channel my stress and divert it. Channel and divert.”

  “Yeah, like you channeled it into Monty Bradford’s nose after he was acquitted for … attacking Allison.”

  “I wasn’t on the job at the time, so it doesn’t count.” I flashed her a wide grin and turned my attention back to the laptop. “And if that was the best example you could give me, I’m doing just fine. Thank you very much.”

  “Give me time and I’ll come up with more.”

  “Now I have to deal with him again, though.”

  “Who, Monty Bradford?” She scooted her chair closer and leaned her arms on the table. “Why?”

  “He’s Ann Baker’s brother-in-law.”

  “Wait. Ann Baker’s sister married that creep?” She pulled her glass toward her, then peered at me. “Do you think he killed her?”

  “I don’t know if he had anything to do with it, but if he did”—I pushed my chair back and carried my glass to the sink—“I’ll do my damndest to make sure his ass doesn’t walk this time.”

  Later that morning, I drove to CSS while Bernie rode shotgun.

  It started to rain, and I switched on the wipers.

  “I know we’re talking to the guard, but who else is on our radar for today?” I asked.

  “First, we’re seeing Mark Camp, one of the therapists.” He ran his finger down the list. “Then we talk to Geraldine Smythe, a Supervisor Grade II.”

  “All right. Baker was a supervisor, but with no numbers after her title.” I rolled into the crowded CSS parking lot and scanned it for an open spot.

  “Over there.” Bernie pointed. “They have visitors’ slots.” He turned and looked through the rear window. “And they’re near the entrance.”

  I backed up and headed toward the spaces he’d suggested. “Crap. They only allow parking for thirty minutes.”

  He turned in his seat. “And the problem is?”

  “We don’t know how long we’ll be there, but I’m sure it’ll be longer than that.” I turned left and cruised down another row looking for an available space. I was stuck behind someone waiting for somebody to leave. “There’s an empty space two slots over. Lazy people piss me off.” I drove around the waiting vehicle and glared at the driver, a woman, as I passed. In my mind, I also gave her the finger.

  Hey, cops are human, too.

  “Aw, c’mon Syd. Nobody cares how long somebody parks in the visitor spaces.”

  “It’s not going to hurt us to walk further. And when I say us, I mean you. You’re getting a little pudgy around the middle, Porky.”

  He sucked in his stomach. “Ever since Khrystal moved in I’ve been gaining weight.” He pulled his arms through his brown suede jacket, folded it, and laid it on his lap. “She gave me this jacket last week. It’ll be ruined by the rain.”

  “Far be it from me to ruin Khrystal’s gift to you the first week you’ve had it.” I turned the corner and rolled up another row.

  “Porky or not, I’d still beat you in a 10K.”

  “Doubtful.” I slid into a spot five spaces from the entrance, but not in a visitor’s slot. “How’s this? It’s not raining anymore anyway.”

  “It’s too warm for the jacket. I think I’ll leave it in the car.”

  “Oh, for the love of ...” I pushed open my door and stepped out into a puddle. “Crap.” I hopped out and stomped my feet.

  Bernie stood on the other side of the car and smiled. “You’re so easy to mess with.”

  I glared at him, told him to “Shut up,” and strode toward the entrance, leaving him standing by the car with a stupid grin on his
smug face.

  8

  We entered the building to find the reception area empty. No guard. While Bernie viewed the visitors’ log, I examined the building’s directory of occupants. The directory, enclosed in a glass case on the wall, had a lock on it. To keep people from changing it, confusing the unwary visitor? It listed the various CSS departments and the floor they occupied. Since I didn’t know Mark Camp’s department, the list wasn’t helpful. Someone around the corner cleared their throat, and I headed toward the sound. An elderly man, with a halo of white hair encircling his bald head, limped down the hall, tucking his shirt inside his pants. He wore a uniform of black pants, white shirt, and a narrow black tie. The guard? I joined Bernie and waited. The man whistled as he rounded the corner.

  “Can I help you folks?” A CSS badge clipped to his shirt pocket indicated his name was Homer Cooper. Yep, he looked like a Homer Cooper, all right. He eased into the guards’ alcove, picked up a stack of stapled papers, and placed them on a lower shelf. Busy work.

  “We’re here to see Mark Camp,” Bernie said.

  “Didja sign in?” Mr. Cooper removed a pair of black-framed glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. He nudged the visitors’ log toward me.

  I grabbed the pen attached to the alcove counter by a chain and signed my name, the time of day, and the person I came to see. Bernie had already done so.

  “Okie dokie.” Mr. Cooper retrieved the log and glanced at it again. “Mark Camp is on the second floor.” He pointed to the elevator behind us. “Take the elevator and follow the signs for room 212.”

  We found Camp sitting at his desk eating lunch—a whole-wheat pita stuffed with vegetables. I smelled garlic. A creamy white sauce was drizzled over the top. My type of lunch. A smudge of sauce had made it onto the corner of his mouth. He took several gulps of bottled water as he motioned for us to sit in the orange plastic chairs facing his desk. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin.

  Fancy schmancy, are we?

  We introduced ourselves.

  “Detectives, what can I help you with?” He placed the remains of his pita sandwich in a Ziploc bag and slid it in a Coleman cooler sitting on his desk. “Excuse me for eating while you’re here. I have an appointment after we’re done, and I won’t have time to eat before then.”

  Bernie set the digital recorder on the desk and flipped the switch. “Do you mind if we record this interview? It helps keep the record straight and protects both you and us.”

  Camp glanced at the shiny black device and shrugged. “No problem. We have the same procedures.”

  “Thanks. Did you ever work with Ann Baker?” Bernie asked.

  Camp cleared his throat. “I’ve been in TDM sessions with her, but we’ve never worked together on any cases.”

  “What’s TDM?” I asked.

  “Team Decision Making. That’s when therapists, social workers, supervisors, and parents involved in reunification get together periodically to evaluate the parents’ progress. We discuss the case plan, problems the parents are experiencing as they progress through the program, and adjustments we might want to make to their services. For example, if we feel a parent needs additional therapy, like for depression, we may offer it.”

  “How well did you know Ms. Baker?” Bernie coughed into his hand several times. All of a sudden, he sounded congested. “Excuse me.” He reached for a tissue from the box Camp had pushed toward him on his desk and blew his nose. “Thank you.”

  Maybe he was allergic to the healthy food in the room.

  “As I said, I didn’t know her that well.” Camp glanced at his watch.

  “As far as you know, did she get along with her co-workers?” I asked.

  Camp shook his head a little and a pained expression creased his narrow face. “I’ve seen her be confrontational with some people. With others, she was helpful and encouraging.”

  Someone knocked on the door and pushed it open. We all turned in unison. A svelte and striking woman peeked in. She wore a blue A-line dress with matching pumps, and her sleek black hair hung to her shoulders. A light touch of pale pink lipstick appeared to be all she applied in the makeup department. “Excuse me. You about ready?”

  Her Southern accent dripped honey.

  “Detectives, my wife, Fran.” Camp glanced at his watch. “Are we done here? My wife and I have an appointment we can’t miss.” He stood, placed his water bottle in the cooler, and zipped it closed.

  I turned to Bernie, who shrugged.

  “Sure,” I said. “We can get in touch with you if we need to.” I took the recorder and wondered if I should disinfect it first. Bernie’s eyes were a little bloodshot, he sounded nasally, and the last thing I needed was to catch whatever bug he was incubating.

  “Which office is Ms. Smythe in?” Bernie asked, grabbing a bunch of tissues from the box on Camp’s desk.

  “She’s in 223. Out the door, make a right. It’s halfway down the hall on the opposite side.”

  Ms. Smythe’s office door was open and she was on the phone, but she waved us in. We sat in the guest chairs in front of her desk. Bernie blew his nose on the way to Ms. Smythe’s office. He’d balled up the tissue and looked around. Ms. Smythe’s trash can sat around the corner from her desk near my chair. I pushed it toward Bernie with my foot. This time, for once, he didn’t miss.

  “Sorry about that.” Ms. Smythe replaced the receiver on her phone and wrote something in what appeared to be a day planner, which she snapped shut.

  She nodded when we showed our badges and held out the recorder.

  “Ms. Smythe, did you ever work with Ann Baker?” I asked, taking the lead this time.

  “I hadn’t much. No. But, I did work on cases that used to be hers several years ago, and then another time last year.”

  “Used to be hers? Why did you get them?”

  “The first time was because she was pregnant and took a leave of absence.”

  “She has a child?” I asked, looking at Bernie, who blinked hard and wiped his brow.

  It looked as though he was finding it difficult to swallow. I edged a little further away.

  Paranoid?

  Bernie lifted a shoulder. “This is the first we’ve heard of this. When did that happen?” His eyes were watery.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

  “Okay, we’ll talk to HR regarding the leave of absence if we need the information. What happened the last time you were assigned her cases?” I asked.

  “That’s when she received the promotion. Her cases were split up amongst me and other workers and therapists.”

  “Based on the case files you received can you tell us what type of worker she was?” I asked.

  She tsked. “I sure can.” She looked away, then looked me in the eyes. “Please understand, I prefer not to speak ill of the dead, but I sometimes wondered why she chose this profession.” She shook her head, then her phone rang. “Excuse me.” The call sounded urgent. A foster child had run away.

  Sweat dotted Bernie’s flushed face. “Bernie, I think you’re too sick to be working and should go home. I bet you have a fever.”

  What I meant was, he was too sick to be working around me.

  That’s me, all heart.

  He wiped his forehead with a fresh tissue and stood. I caught Ms. Smythe’s attention and pointed to the door. She nodded, and we left the CSS building without talking to Mr. Cooper again.

  Late the next morning, the LT paired me up with a different partner because her partner, Pete Ramsey, and Bernie were both out sick. Theresa and Pete had just closed a case, making her available to ride along with me. We planned to head over to CSS to interview Mr. Cooper.

  We strolled across the station parking lot toward our car. Theresa was African-American and about five-seven. She wore her dark brown hair in a short natural style with reddish highlights throughout. Her caramel skin glowed. “How long have you been with SSPD?” I asked.

  “Six years. They used me a few times in Vice
and we broke cases.”

  I unlocked the car doors. We scooted into our seats, I fired up the powerful engine, and we headed out.

  “How do you like working in Property Crimes?”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t appear to be as dangerous as Vice, but it has its moments.”

  “Uh huh. How are the guys treating you?”

  “Okay, I guess.” She glanced at me, then away. “I mean ... well, sometimes I get the feeling they think I can’t handle it. I haven’t been a detective long. You know?”

  “Tell me about it. There aren’t many female detectives here, so a few of the guys make you feel like you have to prove yourself more than they do.” I turned toward her. “It’s not fair, I know.”

  “They seem to respect you. How’d you do it?”

  “I kicked ass at the academy.”

  Theresa laughed. “I had better scores than some of the guys in my classes.”

  I glanced at her. “I meant I physically took a couple of them down. Word gets around.”

  “You beat them up?” Her brows lifted.

  “Not exactly. But, to be fair, I had my share of being on the losing end, too. I was tossed around.”

  “I’m surprised you took any down.” She blinked. “I mean ... you’re not much taller or bigger than me.”

  “My dad taught me how to fight. Maybe I got lucky with my opponents.”

  “Maybe.” She laughed. “You were fortunate your father taught you those skills.”

  “Yeah. I realize that. He told me to be mature about it and don’t go around kickin’ butt just because I could.”

  “Did you listen to him?” She acted as if she knew what was coming.

  I shrugged. “Mostly.”

  “Tell me what happened,” Theresa said, laughing again.

  “It was justified. The school bully was picking on my sister and I couldn’t allow that.”

  “Aww. Girl, that’s sweet. Your younger sister?”

  “No. Same age. We’re twins.”

  “Cool. I’ve never known an identical twin before.”

  “And you still don’t. We’re fraternal twins. Completely dissimilar.” I pulled into the CSS parking lot.