“Your former girlfriend, then,” Bernie said.
“I’m married to my former girlfriend. She ain’t dead,” he said through a grin. “Well, sometimes she just lay there when she had a long day at work. Know what I mean?” He winked.
“Mr. Tenley, we’re referring to Beatrice Menifee,” I said.
“Hey.” He pointed a grubby finger my way and leered. “I told you to call me Chuck.”
“I’m going to call you arrested for possession if you don’t start cooperating,” I said, although I had no probable cause.
“Okay. Okay. A man can’t have no fun no more.” He picked up his beer, turned it upside down, and a few drops dribbled onto his dirty jeans. He looked toward the kitchen and started to push himself up using the threadbare arm of the sofa.
“Don’t even think about it,” Bernie growled, pointing to the sofa cushion. “Sit down!”
“Okay, man. I’m sittin’.” Tenley sat, but not before giving the kitchen another longing glance.
“Did you or did you not have a relationship with Beatrice Menifee at any time within the last year?” I asked.
“Well ... I wouldn’t call it a relationship ... not exactly.”
“What would you call it?” Bernie asked.
“Just hanging, I guess.”
“Was your wife present when you were hanging out with Ms. Menifee?” I asked.
“Y’all like something to drink? Water?” He eyed the kitchen again.
“Answer the damn question!” I snapped. “Was your wife there when you were with Ms. Menifee?”
“Oh, hell nah!” He leaned back and scowled. “My mama didn’t raise no dummy.”
“When was the last time you saw Ms. Menifee?” Bernie asked.
“Can’t recall.” He scratched his head, examined his fingernail, sniffed it, then rubbed whatever had dislodged from his scalp onto his jeans. “Coupla months, maybe. How she die?”
Bernie ignored him. “When did your wife find out you were hanging out with Ms. Menifee?”
“She didn’t,” he drawled and glanced at his watch. “How long this gonna take?”
“Why? Do you have an appointment?” I asked.
He glanced at the door. “Nah. My girl be leaving work soon. She called and said she on her way. Don’t want her to know ’bout this.”
“We don’t need to talk to her just yet, but we might in the future,” I said.
“I agree.” Bernie stood. “I don’t have anything else for now.”
I stood as well. “We’ll be back if we need to be and it won’t matter if you’re not alone.”
“But, what about my wife?”
“You should’ve thought about that before you started hanging with someone else.” I made air quotes around the “hanging.” We walked past several drawings on the wall. “Did you draw these?” I pointed to an illegible signature scrawled in the corner.
“Yeah. That one’s from high school. I drawed all the time in class.”
“They’re actually pretty good,” Bernie said.
“Thanks, man … er, I mean detective.”
Tenley headed to the door with us, but then made a beeline for the kitchen, no doubt for the next beer.
As we started down the steps, an overweight, African-American woman trudged up wearing a backpack and carrying a plastic Stater Bros. grocery bag in one hand and a six-pack of Corona in the other. I watched her for a few moments. Bernie had disappeared around the corner. She stopped a few steps from the top, put the bag and beer down, and leaned against the wall. She stared at me, stomped to Tenley’s door, then kicked it.
“Chuck! Let me in!” she yelled and kicked the door again. “My hands are full!”
I returned to the parking lot and headed toward Bernie.
Bernie circled a red motorcycle. “I checked for the space allotted to Tenley’s apartment.” He hovered his hand over the engine cover. “It’s hot.”
I pulled out my phone. “I’m calling in the plates.”
We had run Tenley through the DMV before we left the station but came up empty on registered vehicles. One had been registered to him several years ago and he had a couple of dozen unpaid parking tickets, but that was about it. Having no registered vehicles didn’t mean he didn’t drive. We’d discovered he still had an active driver’s license. He’d had some DUIs but attended traffic school and a substance abuse program. A lot of good that did.
“Does this look like the bike that almost ran you down?” Bernie asked.
“Can’t say for sure ... but, it looks too small.” I walked around the bike, stopped in front, and examined the headlights. “I’m not positive,” I said, shaking my head, “but I’m leaning toward no.”
“Well, if it’s her bike it can’t hurt to ask her where she was at the time of the incident,” Bernie said and we returned to the apartment.
I rang the doorbell and we waited. The peephole darkened. Someone watched us. I banged on the door and it opened right away. The woman I’d passed on the steps stood there, swaying.
“Whatch’all want?” She had neat rows of baby dreds. She’d changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Her clothing appeared neat and clean. What the hell was she doing with Chucky boy?
“What is it, baby? Tell ’em we don’t want none,” Tenley said, from inside the apartment. “C’mon girl, where you at?” He was laughing.
The woman said, “Your friends.” She didn’t turn around as she said it and didn’t say it loud enough for Tenley to hear. “Who are you?” She glared at me, maybe thinking I wanted Tenley. Fat chance. She stood no more than five-two, a good six inches shorter than me. I approached her.
She reeked of weed and booze.
Okay, that’s what she was doing with Tenley.
I hadn’t smelled anything on her when we passed on the steps. She was already smashed. I wondered if she was high when she rode back from the store. Maybe not weed or booze, but something. The door opened wider.
“Baby, what take you so—” Tenley leaned on the door. “Y’all back. What now?”
“Can we speak to you?” I eyeballed the woman. “I’m Detective Valentine and this is my partner Detective Bernard.”
She gave Bernie a slow once-over. A smile curved her lips. It grew wider, showing the smudges of wine-colored lipstick on her teeth. “Talk to me about what?”
“First of all, what’s your name?” I asked.
Attitude oozed from her. “Josie.” She reached over and stroked Tenley’s bony chest. “What you want? I’m busy.” She attempted to give Bernie a sexy pout and a doe-eyed look, except her heavy-lidded eyes were uncooperative. She looked like a petulant child pleading to stay up past her bedtime.
“Do you own a motorcycle?” Bernie asked.
“Yep.” Josie gave him a wink. “Saves on gas.”
“Where is it?” Bernie asked.
“In the parking lot.” She frowned. “Why? Something happen to it?” She started to move past us toward the steps.
I stuck out my arm to block her. “The bike’s fine. Where were you Saturday night at about eight o’clock?”
“My job. Working. Anything else?”
“Where do you work?”
“Denny’s.”
“The address, your manager’s name, and phone number?” I asked. She gave me the information and we left them standing in the doorway. I felt dirty and needed a shower. A long hot one and not just to ease my aching bones.
12
The next morning, Mac and I met up early for our run through Morrison Park. We didn’t run hard because I hadn’t fully recovered from my injuries. Mac had been doing well and was getting extra running in on her own.
“How much weight have you lost so far?” I asked as we jogged up the steep trail.
“Eight pounds.” She twirled, sending a breeze of fruity fragrance my way. “I’ve gone down two sizes. Although, I was hoping to lose more weight by now.” She pouted.
“Don’t focus on the pounds as much because you’ve gained mus
cle.” I sat on the grass and patted a spot next to me.
“Hey, did you go on any more dates?”
“Nah, haven’t had time.” I rolled onto my front and into the push-up position, but I rested my forearms flat on the ground. “This is called the plank. It’s good for your core.”
“You need to make time, Syd,” she said, following my lead.
“I do make the time for it. I’ve talked to a couple of guys since what’s-his-name at Chili’s.”
“What was his name?” She followed me to the park bench.
“Gary? Greg?”
I couldn’t remember, and it didn’t matter. No way was I going to see Mr. Moldy-teeth again. I’d read so many emails and profiles I couldn’t keep them straight and began to wonder whether I was cut out for this serial dating stuff. “Got an email from him a few days after our almost-date. He asked how I was doing.”
“Did you respond?”
“Of course, I’m not as rude as you think.”
“Really?”
“Really!”
“And did he ask you out again?”
“He didn’t. I told him I was okay and thanked him for his concern and his shouted warning. Never heard from him again.”
“Aww. That’s sweet he emailed though. Do you have any other prospects?”
“Actually, yeah, I do. I’m meeting a guy named Randall at Starbucks.”
“Good. I want to hear all about it. Anyhoo, what exercise are we doing next?”
“Triceps.” I turned my back to the park bench, placed my hands on the seat, and slowly lowered my body and came back up, making my triceps do the work.
Mac jiggled her minimal bat-wings. “I need this one the most!” she said, watching me do another.
“You can do this at home with a sturdy chair.” I did a few more. “Now, you do it.”
Mac managed to complete a few.
“Let’s move on to abs.” I showed her how to do crunches. She had to remove her precious fanny pack. She kept her cell phone, health insurance card, and a couple of dollars in it. I worked her through my usual core routine: bicycle, reverse, and basic crunches. She managed a few of each rep, but soon started whining again. That was enough for the day. Hopefully, she’d be sore for a couple of days. I smiled inside. Well, maybe a little on the outside too, but I didn’t let Mac see me. That probably made me sadistic.
Oh, well. No one’s perfect
Later that day, I stood at Bernie’s desk while he read the DMV information on the red motorcycle we saw parked in one of Tenley’s spaces. The bike was registered to Josephine Nelson. Josie. The address on the DMV registration wasn’t Tenley’s. Maybe she hadn’t changed it yet.
Bernie plucked a tissue from a box of Kleenex and blew his nose.
“What did Tenley call Josie when he talked about her, before she got there?” I asked.
“Let me think.” Bernie rubbed his temples. “Babe? Does that sound right?”
“No. I meant when he said she called and was on her way there from work.”
Bernie leaned back in his chair and stared at me. “Syd, what are you thinking?”
“A hunch. Josie might not be his wife.”
“Who is she then?”
“I think he’s cheating on his wife. I bet Josie’s his girlfriend.”
Bernie stood and paced. “He said he didn’t have a girlfriend, but ...” He raked his fingers through his hair. He made it stand on end and it gave him a frantic look. The man needed a haircut.
“Ha!” I banged on his desk. “Got it! He called her his girl. He never said ‘wife’ except when he said he didn’t want his wife to find out.”
Bernie nodded. “He said he was married to his girlfriend, but he didn’t say Josie was his wife or anything except babe or baby.”
I shook my head. “Okay. We need a public record check for the marriage.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Bernie said.
“We should start by checking California. I don’t see him as being the Vegas type,” I said. In fact, I couldn’t picture him as someone’s husband at all.
“Anyway, we need to talk to his wife, whoever she might be,” Bernie said.
“She’d have a motive for killing Menifee if she knew he was cheating.”
“He claimed she didn’t know about Menifee.” Bernie doodled a chart with arrows pointing to and from Tenley, his wife, and the victims.
“Tenley’s wife might know without telling him she knew.”
“Where does Baker fit in?” Bernie asked.
“We don’t even know if either of them knew her.” I could feel myself frowning and made myself stop. I rubbed my forehead and temples.
“Remember Smythe from County Social Services? She told us Baker had given birth several years ago.”
“Right. We could pay a visit to HR. I wonder who’s raising the child now.” I stood up and stretched my back gently, still feeling the aftereffects of the baseball bat.
“We could talk to Cynthia. She’d know.”
“Let’s do that. Before or after we have another chat with Tenley?”
“After. Let’s go see Chucky Boy.” I stopped at my desk and grabbed my jacket from the back of my chair. We were on our way.
After parking at Tenley’s apartment complex, we walked to his assigned parking spaces and found both empty. We continued toward building twenty-five. Bernie rang the doorbell and banged on the door. No answer. We headed back down.
“Let’s check with the leasing office,” I said.
San Sansolita participated in the Crime Free Multi-Housing Program. One of the program’s goals was to reduce criminal activity in rental properties, and the property owners’ cooperation with law enforcement was an integral part of it. We ambled over to the leasing office. A sign with a clock on it claimed they’d return at one o’clock, an hour and a half from now. We left to see Cynthia. I drove, heading for the 10 East. The drive took over an hour.
Bernie rang the doorbell and a different housekeeper answered. This one was an older white male. His nametag indicated his name was Godfrey. He wore black slacks, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a black bow tie. I asked to speak to Mrs. Harrington. He excused himself, leaving us outside. Moments later, he ushered us inside. The house smelled of chocolate chip cookies.
Always something good cooking here.
Godfrey led us into the great room where we took our usual seats in the ugly, dainty chairs. Cynthia drifted in with two black Labrador Retriever puppies. The female pulled on a leash held by Cynthia and the male’s leash trailed behind him.
Cynthia rested on the sofa, breathing hard, pushing stray strands of hair from her eyes. She wore stylish jeans and white sneakers and had pulled her hair back into a loose ponytail. This was the most casual we’d seen her, yet she still exuded elegance. Some people just did. No matter what they wore. “We’re fostering Chester and Liz for a rescue organization.” She patted their heads simultaneously, her face softening. She detached their leashes. “They were abandoned and we’re caring for them until a permanent home can be found. Well, I should say I’m fostering and caring for them. Montgomery is totally indifferent to pets.” She watched us, expectantly. “Do you have anything new to tell me concerning Annie’s case?” Her eyes glistened.
“I’m sorry. We don’t. But, during the investigation we found out she’d had a child.”
“Mrs. Harrington, where is your sister’s child?” Bernie took out his notepad.
Cynthia viewed the photo of the girl in a silver-braided frame. Tears streamed down her face. She’d clutched the same photo when we notified her of Baker’s death.
“This is the child Annie gave birth to.” She reached for the photo. “She was not prepared to be a mother. Ann was ... carefree. Since I could not have children, I adopted Annabelle and loved her like my own.” She stroked the photo, then glanced up, a distant look in her moist eyes.
“Where is Annabelle now?” I recalled the conversation in the room of presidents.
&
nbsp; “She died in a car accident,” she answered, dabbing at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I’ll never get over it. Never.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Who was Annabelle’s biological father?”
She looked me dead in the eyes. Her lips tightened. “Did you notice I said I adopted her?”
Bernie and I nodded, elbows on our knees.
“Montgomery was Annabelle’s biological father.” She replaced Annabelle’s photo and ran her finger over the top of the frame.
I shouldn’t have been surprised. We’d seen it all and then some.
“Mrs. Harrington—” Bernie said.
“He committed adultery with my sister. She became pregnant.” Her mouth formed a thin sneer and her chin quivered. “End of story.”
Not quite. “How did you manage to repair your marriage and your relationship with your sister after something like that?” I couldn’t imagine the betrayal she must have felt. Mac would never do that to me, nor I to her.
“I’m not sure I ever did,” she answered, looking around the room. Where had the pups gone? “Excuse me.” She swiped at her cheeks and eyes with both hands before standing. She grabbed the leashes and rushed around the corner, hurrying through the door from which she and the puppies had entered.
“What do you think?” Bernie asked.
“I knew he was a scumbag, but this ...” I paused and shook my head. “Unbelievable. His sister-in-law?”
“Remember the phone call he got from Baker the night she died?”
“Yeah. The ME report didn’t say she was pregnant. Did it? How many times have we seen someone killed because of an unwanted or unexpected pregnancy? Lots.”
“That’s true.” Bernie continued to write. “Don’t forget about Menifee. That doesn’t fit. Not now, anyway.” He looked up. “Where did Cynthia go?”
“Good question.” I stood and peeked around the corner. Cynthia was heading toward me, carrying her muddy sneakers. Flower petals and potting soil clung to her jeans.
Oh boy.
“We’re still house-training them.” She sighed, but I sensed it was a relaxed sigh, instead of an exasperated one. “They wanted out and Godfrey obliged. Unfortunately, the irrigation system engaged shortly thereafter. They loved it, but I really must speak to the gardener about adjusting the timing.” She dropped her shoes in the mudroom, sat on a cherry wood bench, and began tugging off her socks, which were caked with mud around the ankles. She wiped her hands on her jeans. Bernie stood next to me. Cynthia glanced up. “Is there anything else I can help you with, Detectives?”
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