“What happened to the bully?”
“He cried his eyes out, and I got in trouble for fighting. But he left Mac alone after that.”
We entered the CSS building and spotted Mr. Cooper reading at his desk in the guards’ alcove. He flipped a page in a magazine, his lips moving as he read. We waited a few moments before I cleared my throat.
“Oh. Sorry, ladies.” He groaned as he climbed to his feet, marked his place with a scrap of paper, and laid it next to his workstation keyboard. He hiked up his pants and glanced at the magazine. “What can I do you for?”
I began to wonder if this was a common occurrence. I decided it was. A person could enter the building unnoticed, even though Cooper sat right there. “Mr. Cooper, I’m Detective Sydney Valentine and this is Detective Theresa Sinclair.”
He pointed at me, doing the tap-point people do when they’re trying to remember someone’s name or face. “You’re the one who came by here not too long ago.” He studied Theresa and squinted over the rim of his glasses, which had slid down his nose. “But, not with you.”
“No. Not with me.” Theresa stepped up. “But, I’m here now. Which days do you work, Mr. Cooper?”
Mr. Cooper stood taller and stuck his chest out. “Uh, Thursday and Friday. I’m retired.”
“Today’s Wednesday, but you’re here.” Theresa lifted her gaze from her notepad.
“Right. I’m covering for Barb,” he answered. “She had something to do.”
“Were you here last Thursday and Friday?” I asked.
“I was here Thursday.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief he’d pulled from his back pocket. Then blew his nose with it. “I left early Thursday and didn’t come in Friday. The flu.”
I envisioned him wiping his forehead with that snot-crusted handkerchief later in the day, and my stomach lurched. I didn’t know why since dead bodies didn’t affect me too much.
Then again, I’m not wiping them across my face.
“Who replaces you on the days you’re not scheduled to work?” I asked.
“They call Barb. She works Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.”
I recalled seeing a Barbara Henry on the employees list I had received from Edith Jones, the HR Director. “What happens when neither of you can work?”
Mr. Cooper scratched his bald head, which was speckled with age spots. “Well, I reckon someone from Facilities will cover if it’s just for a day or two.” He eased himself into his tall office chair. “Please ’scuse me. Gotta sit. Bad hip.” He rubbed his hip with the heel of his hand.
I made a note to speak to Edith Jones about Mr. Cooper’s replacement when he was out, assuming there had been a replacement. Since I’d already decided the guard was there for show, it wouldn’t surprise me if the guards’ alcove had been unattended for the remainder of the day. “Mr. Cooper, I think that’s it for now. Thank you.” I turned to leave.
“I have another question,” Theresa said.
I stopped, studied her, and blinked. “Go ahead.”
“Mr. Cooper, does someone replace you when you take breaks?”
“Sometimes, but not usually.”
Theresa lifted her gaze from her notepad again. “Are the doors locked when you’re on a break?”
He snorted. “Nope. They don’t lock until six o’clock.”
“Do people sign in on their own when you’re not at the desk?” I asked.
“If they want. Most don’t bother.” He looked from me to Theresa.
“So, they just walk right in and wander around the building?” Theresa asked.
“Yep. I’ve seen people get off the elevator and come to the desk to ask where to find someone’s office and I’ve never laid eyes on ’em before.” He shrugged. “I just ask ’em to sign in.”
“Do you happen to know who replaced you after you went home sick Thursday?” I asked.
“Sure don’t.” He looked up at the ceiling and scratched his cheek. “Barb would be my first guess though.”
“Okay, I don’t have anything else.” I looked at Theresa. “Do you?”
“Nah. I’m good.” She turned to Mr. Cooper. “Thank you, sir.” She leaned on the counter. “My grandma rubs her bad hip with peppermint oil and says it helps.”
Mr. Cooper smiled. “Thank you, Detective.” He pushed himself off the chair, grunted, and limped away.
I approached the automatic doors. When they opened, I turned to Theresa. “What do you think?”
She looked toward the empty guard alcove before stepping outside, then shook her head. “I don’t think anybody replaced him.”
“Right. Anyone could’ve come in here and waited until most of the employees left or wandered around without anyone knowing.”
Theresa nodded. “And if Cooper was sick, I bet he was in the bathroom a lot.”
“I’d say the chances are pretty good the desk was unmanned.”
“Or unstaffed.” Theresa smiled.
“If you need to be politically correct,” I said.
She nodded. “I want to be.” Theresa strutted off ahead of me toward the car.
“Well, damn,” I said under my breath. “Excuuuuse me.”
Theresa turned. “You’re excused.” She smiled, winked, and continued to the car.
“By the way, I have the car keys!” I moseyed after her. She laughed, as did I.
9
Later that evening, I sat at the bar in Chili’s and waited for my date to arrive. I’d decided to take the plunge and try one of my online dates. Greg, my date, said he was five-ten and thirty-five years old. He taught high school English. My stomach rumbled. The smell of roasted, grilled, and fried food, never mind watching the greedy patrons gobbling it up, didn’t help. If we clicked, perhaps dinner would be on the agenda. I sipped from a glass of Sprite and kept an eye on the entrance. While I waited, I texted my dad. My parents were due home from a two-week cruise to Copenhagen, Denmark, the next day. I asked if they still planned to host dinner for us in the evening. They’d invited Mac’s family and me before they left for the cruise.
A height-deprived man, with a few remaining wisps of dark curly hair atop his head, entered the restaurant and scanned the room. We made eye contact as he strolled my way, smiling. He looked nothing like Greg’s profile photo. Surely, it couldn’t be my date? He stood before me, threw his shoulders back like a uniformed officer saluting the brass, and cleared his throat. “Sydney?”
Crap.
“Yes, that’s me. And you are?”
“Greg. Don’t you recognize me?” His smile faltered a little. “You look just like your pictures.”
And you don’t.
I managed not to sigh. He was still grinning, widely now, revealing grayish-green teeth. I wanted to throw up. Mac would say, “Ewww,” and it sounded about right to me.
He held out his hand.
Although I’ve been eating mostly vegetarian for years, I do enjoy the occasional grilled fish. His hand reminded me of something gutted and descaled, but yet to hit the grill. I slid from the barstool. Although I wore flats, I towered over him by at least four inches. Five-ten my ass. If he topped the scales at more than five-four, I’d have been stunned. I’d had enough.
“I’m sorry, but I need to go.” I forced a smile and held up my cell phone. “Family emergency. I’ll email you.” Already thinking of what I was going to say, I backed away.
“But ...” His face drooped. He plopped down on the stool I’d vacated. Although I felt bad for leaving, I figured he had it coming. Did he think I wouldn’t notice the six-inch difference in his height? And what was with those teeth? I strode out the door and took a deep breath of the crisp night air. The scent of orange blossoms wafted around me. A full moon gleamed in a dark night sky sprinkled with stars. I spotted my car and headed toward it while I called Mac. We’d planned the date together, and she’d be longing to hear the scoop. I waited for her to pick up. No answer. Her cheerful outgoing voicemail message played. I went with the default one. I hated
the way my voice sounded on a recording—like a child of nine or ten. The message dragged on and I wondered if there was a way to interrupt it and go straight to the prompt.
“Watch out!” someone screamed.
An engine growled behind me. I spun. A single headlight. A motorcycle. It roared toward me. Fast! Blinded by the glare, I leapt to the side. Too late. Something slammed into my back. Pain flared. My knee rammed into the grill of a car as I rolled over it. I landed hard. My hands scraped on pavement. I lay still, tasted blood. Rolled onto my back and groaned. My lip hurt, already swollen. I sat up, struggled to my knees. Tried to catch my breath.
“Are you okay?” Someone tapped my shoulder. “Sydney!”
I peered up at Greg. With his help, I pushed myself to my feet. I wobbled and leaned on the nearest car. My ankle was sore, maybe sprained. Grit covered my bloodied palms and my back hurt like hell. Blood seeped through the knee of my torn jeans. A crowd of people murmured and pointed.
A siren wailed in the distance, and I scanned the crowd. “I’m Detective Valentine of SSPD. Anyone see what happened?” Nobody spoke, at least, not to me.
No surprise there.
“Sydney, are you going to be okay?” Greg held his hands out as if he thought I might topple over. He handed me the broken pieces of my phone. “Whoever it was had a baseball bat or something!” His gaze darted around, wide-eyed. “It looked like he was going for your head, but you dove out of the way!”
“I think I’m okay, but my ankle hurts. My car is on the other side of this one.” I put most of my weight on the non-injured foot as I took another survey of my injuries. I didn’t think anything was broken. My denim jacket and long-sleeved top had ripped at the elbow. I could see and feel my skinned, bloodied, and banged up elbow underneath. Greg picked up my purse and handed it to me. I limped to my car and he followed.
“Sydney?” Greg held up a plastic bag with a rock in it. “I think he threw this at you.”
I thanked him for the warning and the bag, stuffing it in my jacket pocket. I unlocked and opened my door and dropped the pieces of my phone on my car’s passenger seat.
The paramedics and patrol cars arrived. I gave the officer my limited statement and left them to interview Greg and others. I planned to deal with the rest tomorrow. The medics patched me up, but I refused to go to the hospital. Instead, I returned home and took Ibuprofen PM with a glass of orange-mango juice.
I let my jacket fall to the floor and climbed into bed fully clothed. Sleeping sporadically, I dodged Harleys and Ducatis in my dreams throughout the night.
I woke the next morning in such pain I didn’t want to leave my bed. My head throbbed, which is why I left the lights off, and I was thankful the plantation shutters allowed very little light into my bedroom. Rolling to the edge of the bed, I grabbed my legs to swing them over the side. My body hurt everywhere. Both ankles were sore and swollen. Okay, so I’d injured them both. One elbow was stiff, and my palms had scabbed over. Too angry to sit still, I forged on.
Damnit, someone tried to kill me!
As I inched my way to the bathroom, I wished I’d removed my clothing the previous night. My bandages and wounds had stuck to my clothes. With a pair of scissors from the bathroom medicine cabinet, I cut my shirt and peeled it off carefully, letting it drop to the floor, where I intended it to remain until ... well, until whenever. Who cared? The mirror showed me a split and swollen lip. Gently, I turned around and cringed at the long purple-and-black bruise across my back and shoulder. If Greg hadn’t yelled, it would have been worse. Much worse. Perhaps dead worse if he was right about the rider aiming for my head. I remembered the plastic bag he’d given me. From the bathroom doorway, I scanned the gloomy bedroom and found my jacket—a lumpy shadow on the floor near the foot of the bed. Shuffling toward it, I held onto the mattress and grunted all the way down as I reached to pick it up. I lost my grip and fell to my knees. I contemplated crawling across the floor and heading back to bed. Holding the jacket, I grasped the footboard and pulled myself to my feet. The room tilted and, with jacket in hand, I eased myself back to the bed and flopped onto it, dropping the jacket beside me.
The doorbell rang.
Great! Just what I need.
Bathed in sweat, I grabbed the robe draped over the foot of the bed and pushed my arms into the sleeves, groaning with the effort.
“Suck it up, Syd!” I snarled. “What’s wrong with you?” It was a weak snarl. Hobbling from the room and down the hall, I slid my hands along the wall for support. The doorbell sounded again. “I’m coming!” Shit, it even hurt to yell. Maybe I’d pulled a muscle in my abs. My ribs hurt with every breath. I moved along as best I could. Finally at the door, I opened it to Mac, dressed in pink New Balance running shoes and matching fancy sweats. Miss Perky Priss. A pink fanny pack encircled her waist. I’d forgotten about our morning run. Not gonna happen now.
No freaking way.
“I’ve been calling ...” She pushed her way inside and looked me up and down. “Oh my God! What happened? Did your date hit you?”
I stared at her and blinked.
“Okay. Stupid question.” She circled me. “What happened, Syd?”
“Someone tried to kill me last night.” I closed the door and hobbled to the La-Z-Boy, my favorite place to sit. It was a cozy place to curl up and relax, but there would be no curling up today, and I passed it by. Although more comfortable, climbing out of the deep pillow-soft cushion would’ve been difficult. Not to mention, painful. I shuffled to the sectional sofa, squelching a grimace as I dropped onto the corner cushion.
“How did they try to kill you?” Mac’s eyebrows furrowed.
I told her what happened and waved my hands over my battered face and body.
“Any idea who it was? Or why?” She scanned the room with wide eyes as if she expected to find the person here, ready to try again.
“None,” I answered, keeping my responses short. It hurt to breathe, let alone talk.
The landline lay on the kitchen table. Should have gotten a cordless, or at least a longer cord. “I need to call it in. The LT needs to hear from me about this. Can I use your cell?”
I should’ve called the previous night but not having my cell phone handy threw me off kilter. Well, okay, to be honest, I simply needed to hit the sack.
There, I said it.
“Sure, but what happened to yours?” She retrieved her phone from her purse and handed it to me.
“It’s in my car.” I took her phone. “What’s left of it.”
“I can get it while you make your call.” She removed my key from the hook on the wall and hurried out the door. I spoke to Lieutenant Peterson, but he’d read the report and had called my cell that morning. I told him I needed to replace my phone. He said he’d see me on Monday, which was his way of telling me to take a day or two off, but I’d planned to do just that. The door opened.
“Got your phone.” Mac replaced my key. “There’s blood on it. Yours?”
“Probably.” I showed her the abrasions on the heels of my hands and made a mental note to call my cell carrier.
“Ouch!” She quivered, laid the ruined phone fragments on the coffee table, and eased onto the sofa. “Did it get run over?”
“I don’t know. Greg handed it to me like that after I got up off the ground.”
“Your date! Tell me about it!” She leaned in and did the rolling hand motion thing. “Come on. Out with it.”
“Thanks for the concern over my near-death experience.”
“Yeah, yeah. Give me the scoop already.”
“The date lasted less than two minutes.”
“You’re kidding. Why?” Her brow furrowed.
I told her about my date’s misrepresentation of his height.
“How tall was he?” She was smirking.
“My guess is five-four. His profile said he was five-ten. What a waste of time that was. And his teeth were nasty.”
Mac laughed. “What do you mean?” She’d r
emoved her shoes and pulled her legs up under her.
“They looked like pond scum was growing on them.” I shuddered. “I couldn’t imagine anyone kissing him.”
“Ewww.” The corners of her mouth had turned down. “Was that a deal breaker?”
“Yep.” I nodded. “Even if he’d been five-ten. Oh, crap!” I struggled to rise. “Shit!”
“What’s wrong?” Mac unfolded her legs and sprang from her seat. “Are you in pain?”
“Look at me. Of course I’m in pain.” Sighing, I dropped back into my seat. “Can you get my jacket from the bed, please?”
“Sure. Back in a sec.” She flounced down the hall.
“Mac, bring the bottle of ibuprofen from the bathroom while you’re in there! Not the PM though!”
She came back with the goods and had something else thrown over her forearm. She tossed me the ibuprofen. “You cut your shirt off?” She held it up. “You must’ve been a mess last night. You should’ve called me.”
“I just needed my bed. Hey, before you sit, can you get me juice from the fridge?” I opened the ibuprofen and shook out two capsules. I laid a Kleenex in my lap and used another to remove the plastic bag Greg had given me from my jacket pocket. “Oh my God.”
Mac set the glass of orange juice on the coffee table next to the cell phone. She stood over me, bent down, eyeing the bag’s contents. “What is it?” she whispered.
“Evidence.” I used the Kleenex to pick up the bag and set it on the table. “Can I use your phone again please? I need to call Bernie.”
10
Mac handed me her phone. “Scrabble tiles? I don’t understand.”
“It’s about a case. Don’t touch them.” I dialed Bernie’s number.
“All right. I’m going to clean up your kitchen and bathroom before I have to take Josh to school.” Mac headed to the kitchen.
Bernie answered on the second ring. “Hello?”
“It’s me, Sydney. You have to come over to my place.”
“Syd, I’m in the middle of—”
The Protector Page 6
