“Bernie, you need to see this. It’s important.”
He sighed. “See what? You need to give me more than ‘this’ if you expect me to drop everything and run over there.”
“Two words.”
“C’mon Syd. Stop playing games and just tell me.”
“Scrabble letters. Here. Now.”
“Syd, that’s four words.”
“ASAP.” I disconnected.
“That went well.” Mac stood before me, drying her hands on a dishtowel. “What do the Scrabble letters mean?” she asked, staring at the plastic bag.
“Sorry, sis. Case related. Can’t share it with you.”
“Sheesh. I won’t say anything.” She strolled to the kitchen, tossed the dishtowel on the counter, and spun around. “Does it have to do with Ann Baker’s murder?”
“Thanks for your help today. Now, scram.” I gave her a phony grin. “Don’t you need to take Josh to school?”
“I’m on my way.” She pulled open the door, then turned. “Don’t forget about dinner.”
“Dinner? Do I ever forget to eat dinner?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Did you eat last night?”
“Well ... no, I didn’t.”
“Anyhoo, I was referring to Mom and Dad’s. They’re coming home today. Remember?”
“I texted Dad when I was at Chili’s last night. Asked about it.”
“What did he say?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. Didn’t hear from either of them.” I glanced at the broken phone.
“Right. Well, they told me we should come over at six.”
“I can’t go there looking like this.”
Mac nodded and raised her brows. “Mom’s going to freak when she sees you. They both might.”
“Yeah. More fuel to the fire about Sydney’s job being too dangerous.”
“Knock, knock.” Bernie stepped through the part-open door.
“Hey, Bernie.” Mac gave him a demure wave.
“Hi, Mac.” He studied her. “You’ve lost weight.”
“Thank you!” She beamed.
Bernie, the sweet-talker, made her day.
“Will I see you tonight, Syd?” she asked.
“Not sure. I’ll let you know.”
“Well, you’re not going to be healed for days. You can’t avoid them that long without making them suspicious.”
“Right. And they’ll ask you if you’ve heard from me.”
“Shoot. You’re right.”
She was clearly worrying.
“Go drop off Josh. I might show up and deal with it.”
She reached for the doorknob again. “Call if you need anything. See you, Bernie.”
“Bye, Mac,” we said together.
“You got here fast.”
“I was at the post office when you called. The L-T called after you did and told me what happened. You look like you’ve been through the wringer.” He was staring. “There’s no way your face is gonna heal quickly. It’ll take at least a week.”
He parked himself on the far side of the sofa.
I touched my face. “I should say screw it because I’m not in the mood to hear about how dangerous my job is.”
“Why do you think it has to do with the job? Maybe it was random. Some wacko.”
“It’s not random.” Using the tissue, I held out the plastic bag. “Take a look.”
He held up the bag, looking at its contents, frowning. “Letters ‘H’ and ‘L.’ What’s going on?”
“That’s not all.” I pointed. “Read the note.”
Bernie read it aloud, “Mind your own business, cop bitch!” and peered at me. “So, you’re a target now?”
I shrugged and winced at the movement. “Guess so. What do you think?”
He stood and paced. “It has something to do with our case, obviously.”
“If we combine the letters with what we’ve already got, it still doesn’t make sense.”
“Can you describe the bike?”
“Nope. It happened too fast and the headlight blinded me. Mostly, I was trying to get the hell out of the way.”
“I understand the uniforms got various makes, models, and colors of bikes from our witnesses ... such as they are.”
“In other words, the usual useless crap.”
“Uh huh. So, you didn’t see the rider either?”
“Again, too busy trying to stay alive. Did any bystanders see the rider or get at least a partial plate?”
“Nope. Zilch.” He raked his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end in sections. “But, one person said the rear plate was covered.”
I stared at him. “Are you still sick?” He had dark circles under his eyes and he looked pale.
“I feel like shit. Might have caught a new bug.”
I leaned away. “Are you contagious?”
His laugh turned into a cough. “You called me.”
“I remember. Now you’ve seen the bag, maybe you could stop at the station on your way home and log it into the system. Then take it to the lab.”
“No problem. Need anything before I go?” He glanced at the door. “Something to drink?”
“Ice packs from the freezer would be nice. Thanks.”
“Sure.” He headed toward the kitchen.
“And an orange juice refill?” Wincing again, I held up my empty glass.
He brought the ice packs and the juice container. After refilling my glass, he was on his way.
I hit the sack.
I awoke a few hours later feeling a little better. Most of me still hurt, but I was ready to deal with what was left of the day. The bedside clock glowed four o’clock. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday’s lunch of veggie pizza. Even so, I didn’t feel particularly hungry. I chose something light. A soy yogurt and fruit, with another dose of ibuprofen. I wasn’t averse to taking meds for pain management and recovery.
After a long, luxurious shower, I applied antibiotic ointment, fresh dressings, and an ace bandage on each ankle. With such a magical transformation, I felt ready to see my parents. Well, except I hadn’t dressed yet. Normally, I’m a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl. I had no clean jeans, no time to wash any, and my pair from last night were ruined. At my parents’ place, dinner is usually informal, and I chose a navy running suit. It wasn’t as fashionable as Mac’s, but it would have to do. I needed to cover the bandage on my elbow anyway. My hands and face would be visible, though. Nothing I could do about that.
Okay, whatever.
I was a grown-ass woman with a sometimes-dangerous job I happened to love. I’d tell my parents what happened.
Although I stopped and bought a new cell phone before going to my parents’ house, I still arrived fifteen minutes early. Mom stood at the island pulling a head of red Romaine lettuce apart and tearing the leaves into careful bits, which she dropped in a large salad bowl. She had dyed her hair for the cruise. Her normal stick-straight auburn color was now a brownish-red with a soft wave permed in. Loosely piled on top of her head and secured with a clip, a few strands drooped over her eyes. She swept it back up and tucked it in amongst the others. Her favorite fragrance, Chanel No. 5, mingled with onions, spices, and the aroma of barbecue sauce. I tapped on the wall and stepped closer.
“Hi, Mom.” I guessed my swollen lip made my smile a little wonky. “How was the cruise?”
She looked up and placed a hand to her throat. “Sydney!” She raced across the room and stood in front of me, staring at my face. She then held it in hands reeking of onions. “What happened to you?”
I placed my hands over hers and pulled them away. Mom stared at the abrasions on my hands. In the backyard, Dad’s smooth baritone belted out a rather good version of The Temptations’ My Girl. Although I received his athleticism and curly hair, the ability to sing on-key had bypassed me altogether. I guessed he was playing with his new gas grill, purchased before they left for the cruise. The singing grew louder, and the screen to the sliding glass door slid open.
“Pat, the grill’s ready ...” He saw me and stopped short. “Sydney, what happened?” His dark brows furrowed. He’d put on weight since I’d last seen him and he’d shaved his mustache for the first time in five or six years. It would take some getting used to. His upper lip seemed bare and thin.
“Dad, it’s nothing.” I tried to smile but caught the worry in their eyes. “I’m okay.”
He stared. “You don’t look okay.”
“You’ve both seen me banged up before. If I weren’t okay I wouldn’t be here.”
Dad continued to frown and stare. “You fell?”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He nodded and picked up a platter of chicken. “How?”
I swallowed. I heard voices coming toward the house. A child’s laughter. Josh. Mac and her family were here.
Good.
“We’ll talk later,” Dad said.
Dad stepped onto the patio, I opened the door, and Josh squealed.
“Aunt Syd!” He hugged my legs, jumping up and down.
I bent to pick him up and a sharp pain ripped through my back. “Crap!” I shot back up, rubbing the sore spot.
“Aunt Syd said a potty word!” Josh pointed accusingly at me.
I gazed at him. He reminded me of Mac when we were kids. Such a tattletale. “What did I say?”
“I’m not allowed to say it.” He looked up at Mac. “Right?” Mac’s eyebrows had risen high on her forehead, but her eyes smiled. “Mommy!” Josh tugged on Mac’s jeans. “Aunt Syd said a potty word!”
“You’re right. I did.” I eased down on one knee beside him. “What should be my punishment?”
He looked toward the ceiling and put a finger to his chin. “You have to give me your dessert.”
We all laughed. I glanced at Mac. She nodded.
“It’s a deal, buddy.” Still on one knee, I turned my palm toward him. “High five.”
He slapped my palm and I winced, then he ran off to the kitchen. “Grandma!” More giggling.
“I’m going to help Frank,” Mike said and left Mac and me alone.
“Give me a hand.” I reached for Mac to help me up from the floor.
She leaned in. “How are you doing?”
“Dealing with it.” I watched Mike and Dad outside. Dad opened doors, wiped off spots visible only to him, and pointed out features on the grill. “Why do guys like grilling so much?”
Mac shrugged. “Caveman stuff, maybe.” She laughed. “I don’t care. As long as I can escape the kitchen from time to time.”
“C’mon, Mike cooks more than that. Mom seems to work more when Dad’s grilling though.”
“Did you explain what happened to you?” she whispered.
“Not yet. I was going to tell them, but they looked so worried, I didn’t want to ruin their first evening home.”
“You’ve been hurt before. So, have I.” Mac glanced toward the kitchen and shrugged. “What’s the problem?”
“I guess it’s different this time. It feels different.”
“How so?”
“Because I, specifically, was possibly followed and targeted. And I didn’t see it coming.”
“It’s personal.”
“Definitely. I need to be more careful.”
“Okay. You do that.” She touched my arm and ambled into the kitchen. I followed. Josh licked a Popsicle and watched his grandma stir the potato salad.
“Hey. Wanna toss the bean bag outside when you’re done with your Popsicle?” I asked.
“Yay!” He ran around in circles, then tore through the kitchen to the screen door and bounced off it, tumbling to the floor. The Popsicle dropped to the tile floor in a splat of crimson. He looked up at me, chin trembling.
I braced myself for the pain, gritted my teeth, stuck a smile on my face, and scooped him up.
He stared at me, tears threatening to spill. “What happened to your face, Aunt Syd?” He touched my bruises, his own tears forgotten.
“I fell.” I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
He studied me. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
He swiped at his tears. “Mommy kisses my boo-boos to make it all better.” He gave me a sticky peck on the cheek. I smelled cherry.
“Thank you!” I squeezed him. “I’m feeling better already.”
“See? It works!” He wiggled, and I set him down. “Let’s play bean bag!”
“You got it. Let’s go.”
I followed him, hoping he didn’t slam into the screen again. I peeked over my shoulder and glimpsed Mac smiling as she cleaned up the Popsicle.
Under a dark sky, I drove home in the drizzling rain. Halfway home, I received a call from Dispatch. There’d been another homicide.
There goes my day off.
I stood in the parking lot of a two-story building with County Social Services spelled out on the front. The body lay fifty feet from the building. Except for police vehicles and an SUV which I assumed belonged to the victim, the parking lot was empty. The coroner arrived as an ambulance pulled from the parking lot onto the main road. Nobody to save tonight.
I stepped around the woman’s body. A few of her fingers were bloody and appeared broken. Blood had pooled on the wet pavement from her scalp and mixed with the rain. A plastic bag protruded from her mouth. No need to guess what it contained. Bernie strolled my way.
“What do we have here?” Bernie asked. “I noticed the building. Another one?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I shook my head and thought I caught a whiff of alcohol. Bernie must’ve been out on the town. Obviously feeling better.
The coroner told us the California driver’s license indicated the victim of the apparent hit and run was a Beatrice Menifee. They confirmed the SUV in the lot was registered to her.
“We should check to see if her name shows up in anyone’s CPS notes,” Bernie suggested, moving around the body.
“I have a feeling it will. I’m done here. You done?” I asked.
“Yeah. Let’s get going.” He raked his fingers through his wet hair.
We headed to our cars and called it a night. On my way home, a question kept whirring through my mind.
What the heck had Menifee been doing there so late at night?
11
Back at the station the next morning, I read case notes and wrote up more reports. I sipped green tea and chomped on a wheat bagel with fresh strawberries. Bernie hadn’t arrived yet. We discovered Menifee’s estranged parents and siblings lived in Northern California. She had moved to Southern California with a boyfriend, who later broke up with her, and she decided to stay in the area. Baker’s reports told me she had been Menifee’s social worker before Camp received the case. The notes from two years earlier showed that she had a more recent boyfriend.
Later that morning, Bernie and I cruised down the 10 heading to Redlands to interview the boyfriend, Charles Tenley. We took the Alabama Street exit and turned on Redlands Boulevard. Tenley’s sprawling apartment complex was a few blocks down.
“I’ll check the directory for building twenty-five.” I headed toward the directory.
“It’s over there.” Bernie gestured to the right and headed that way.
I jogged to catch up. “How did you know?”
“A few years back I dated someone who lived in this complex. Building twenty-eight.” He glanced at me sideways. “Before you introduced me to Khrystal, of course.”
We hurried past a small playground with a slide, tire swing, monkey bars, and plastic benches in primary colors and made our way along a walkway lined with trees and perennials until we reached building twenty-five.
“He’s on the second floor,” I pointed out.
We climbed the steps to apartment 2B. Bernie rang the doorbell. The door creaked open, its hinges in dire need of a hefty spritz of WD-40. The man, Charles Tenley, resembled the mugshot I’d seen earlier. Pasty white, with blond, free-form dreadlocks, he looked and smelled as if he hadn’t showered i
n days. Tats covered both arms and encircled his neck. His T-shirt, spotted with whatever he’d eaten over the previous several days, had tattered edges and was full of holes. He held a bottle of Corona by the neck with two filthy fingers. Dirt had made a home under his long fingernails. I didn’t want to think about the type of dirt and held back a shudder.
“Charles Tenley?” Bernie asked.
“Depends on who be asking,” he said. His eyes were narrow and suspicious.
Bernie flashed his shield. “We be asking.”
Tenley staggered back and put his hands up. “Whoa. Man. Chill.” His dilated pupils told me he was high. It figured.
“Can we speak to you about Beatrice Menifee?” I asked.
He looked me up and down. “Baby, you can speak to me about anythang.” He licked his cracked lips. “What your name?”
“My name is Detective Valentine.” It was my turn to flash the shield. I made sure he got a peek at my Sig Sauer in its shoulder harness. His blood-shot eyes widened.
“Dayumn, baby!” He snapped his fingers and made my skin crawl.
Not an easy accomplishment.
“May we come in?” Bernie looked at the neighbors’ doors, hinting at the lack of privacy.
Tenley looked behind him, then back to us. “Uh. Yeah ... c’mon in,” he said and stepped aside.
I strode past and could feel him staring at my ass. The drawn blinds made the apartment dark, but not too dark to hide the weed-scented haze rolling through the air. Bernie and I exchanged glances. He raised his eyebrows.
“Have a seat.” Tenley plopped his scrawny butt in the corner of the sofa and set his Corona on the end table. An overflowing ashtray sat next to it. I observed no drug paraphernalia out in the open. “I’d offer y’all a brew, but y’all be working.” He gulped his beer, then burped.
I leaned in. “Mr. Tenley—”
“That’s Chuck to you, pretty lady. What happened to your face? You need a strong man to take care o’ you?” He glanced at Bernie, who was shaking his head.
“Mr. Tenley, I’m sure you’ve heard about your girlfriend’s murder by now?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Ain’t got no girlfriend.”
The Protector Page 7
