The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

“Nope. Dad went ballistic.” Bernie shook his head. “I didn’t know I wanted to be a cop until long after graduating college.”

  “Why didn’t you at least take the bar until you decided?”

  Bernie frowned. “That’s what Dad said.”

  “Well? Why didn’t you?”

  “Because he wanted me to join his firm. My brothers did. Brian’s an attorney and Jon’s a paralegal.”

  “So?”

  “If I had taken the bar, my parents would’ve had hope. More pressure on me.”

  “But, you can handle pressure better than anyone I know. Well, except me,” I added, grinning.

  “You know, studying for the bar exam is a lot of work.”

  “You weren’t afraid of working hard, were you?”

  “No, not afraid. I was lazy back then. The point is, I may not have known I wanted to be a cop, but I knew I didn’t want to be an attorney.”

  “And you broke their hearts?”

  “Guess so. They got over it, though. I needed to find my own way, rather than follow my dad. I’m not like either of my brothers.”

  “I understand. Remember, I wanted to be an attorney too, but that ended for me when Monty Bradford was acquitted and Allison committed suicide. I think I told you, I earned my degree while working patrol.”

  Bernie nodded. “I’m not trying to change the subject, but that reminds me. Any idea what’s tying these homicides together?”

  “Besides CPS, I have no idea.”

  We rode the rest of the way in silence, each absorbed in our own family dynamics and life paths.

  16

  We entered through the automatic doors of the CSS building. A line had formed at the guards’ desk. Several people stood at the elevator and others sat off to the side in visitors’ chairs. We waited in line for our turn to sign in and then talk to Barbara, assuming she was the one standing in the alcove. It was Monday, one of her scheduled work days. The elevator door opened, and a tall woman sashayed out. She wore black leather pants stretched tight across her hips, a short leather jacket, and stilettos. Her hair was short, spiked, and black. A white camisole barely contained her breasts. I turned to nudge Bernie, who was watching her strut by, her heels clicking on the gleaming tile floor. Her perfume took my breath away. Literally. I coughed. Couldn’t she smell herself?

  “Bernie, do you know who that is?” He didn’t respond. “Bernie!” I poked his arm.

  “Huh?” He looked around. “You say something?” He’d turned away again before I could speak, perhaps trying to get another look at her ass while she stood at the door, digging inside her little black purse. He glanced my way again.

  “Yes, I said something.” I shook my head. “Do you know who that was?”

  “I don’t. No.” His eyes followed the woman again. She’d pulled out a cigarette, then continued toward the door. She stood outside the entrance, cigarette in her mouth, hand cupped while she lit up. Another one ignoring the “No smoking on government property” signs. A young woman stopped on her way from the building and stared at the leather-clad woman, then pointed to the sign.

  The smoker put a hand on her hip. “What?”

  The young woman scurried past, head down.

  “For goodness sakes!” I whirled on Bernie and stood between him and the door. “Do I have to remind you that you have a girlfriend?”

  “What? I didn’t touch her.” He tried to look around me. “No harm in a quick glance at a pretty girl.”

  “Quick glance, my ass. Looked as though you wanted to follow her out the door. Stick your tongue back in your mouth and stop drooling.” I shook my head. “Men.”

  “I saw you checking her out, too,” he said, smirking.

  “No, I wasn’t. Not the way you mean, anyway. I recognized her. You would’ve too if you’d paid attention to her from the neck up.”

  “What were you saying about knowing who she was?” He was frowning now, thinking. Blood flow must’ve begun its journey back to the brain.

  “I asked if you knew who she was. Never mind.” I flicked my hand at him. “You didn’t.”

  “Well, who was she?” He scratched his chin, thinking.

  Houston, we have brain activity.

  “That was Mark Camp’s wife.” I said. “Fran. Remember her now?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.” He nodded. “She came into his office and rushed him off somewhere.”

  “She did, but she didn’t look like that.” I pointed to the door she’d just pranced through. “And she sure didn’t have that attitude.”

  “Now you mention it, she did look a little like her. But, I’m not so sure it was.” He glanced at the door again, shaking his head. “No, you’re mistaken.”

  “The hell I am. It was her.” We moved up in the line. “Even with that leather, expertly applied makeup, too much perfume, and the swagger. Underneath it all ... Fran Camp. Twenty bucks says it was her.” I dug in my pocket for twenty dollars and came up with lint. “I’ll owe you if you win.” I didn’t expect to have to pay up.

  “Okay. I’ll take the bet. She walked differently from Fran and had that ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude.” He pointed at me. “Hey, maybe she has a sister. A twin, like you and Mac.”

  I thought about it and nodded. “Yeah, maybe. That’s possible. We can ask him while we’re here.”

  It was our turn to sign in. Besides two people in the visitors’ seats, we were alone with the guard. After signing in, I glanced at the guard, who was on the phone. Her nametag confirmed she was Barbara Henry. I moved to the end of the guards’ alcove, away from the sign-in log, and waited for her to finish. Bernie signed in with his own pen and joined me, chewing on the inside of his cheek, perhaps thinking of Fran Camp, or whoever the mystery woman was.

  Ms. Henry gave me a slight smile, then held up a finger. She mouthed, “One moment.” A petite woman, in her early sixties, she had short, reddish, curly hair. She pulled the log toward her, scanned it, then glanced our way. Once finished, she came over.

  “Can I help you, Detectives?” She peered at Bernie, then me, eyebrows raised. “Is this about the social worker, Ms. Baker? Homer told me he talked to you.”

  “Yes, it’s concerning the homicide. We’d like to ask you a few questions,” I said.

  “I’m not sure how much help I can give, but I’ll try.” She glanced at the door as a woman entered and headed to the visitors’ log. She removed a tissue from her purse, then picked up the pen.

  I turned my attention back to Barbara.

  “Homer Cooper told me he went home sick that Thursday,” I said. “Did you replace him?”

  “I normally would have, but I’d promised to take my grandkids to The Living Desert to see the baby giraffe.” She gazed at me. “That’s where we were when I took the call from HR.” She lifted her shoulders. “Family first, you know? I had my grandkids the next day when they called too.”

  I nodded. “Bernie?”

  “Do you know Mark Camp? The therapist?” Bernie glanced at me and grinned. I withheld a groan.

  “Yes, I do. Nice man.” She stared at us. A noisy group of people entered and headed to the elevator without signing in. “Excuse me.” She hustled over there and said something to them. One by one, they fell in line to sign in. Barbara watched as they did so, occasionally making it a point to look at the log between entries.

  I turned toward Bernie, hands on my hips. “Seriously? You’re going to ask her about Miss Hottie Patottie?”

  “Sure.” He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “‘Why not,’ he says. Okay.” I watched Barbara and the group. “Well, I guess it won’t hurt and it might be useful.”

  And I might get his twenty bucks sooner than I thought.

  Barbara returned after she had taken care of the group. “Now, where were we?” She pursed her lips. “Oh, yes. Mark Camp. He’s on the second floor.”

  “Do you know his wife?” Bernie asked.

  “She comes in often. Lovely lady.” The front doors slid
open and she turned to look. The man entering had a badge, held it up for her, then kept walking. “Mrs. Camp chats sometimes when she’s waiting down here for Mark.”

  “What does she chat about?” I asked.

  “Oh, they’re trying to get pregnant and not having much luck.” She shook her head. “I’m like a grandma. People tell me things. Anyway, Fran’s stressing over it.”

  “Did you see her in the building today? Before we came in?” Bernie asked.

  “No, I didn’t.” She stared at both of us, from one to the other and back again. “Was she here?” A frown line appeared between her brows.

  “I thought I saw her,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t her.”

  She put a finger to her chin. “That’s odd. She usually stops by and says hello. Let me check the log.” She wandered behind the other end of the alcove. We followed but stayed in front of the alcove. She pulled the log toward her and turned it, so it wasn’t upside down. She shook her head. “No, she didn’t sign in.”

  “Does she have a sister?” I asked.

  “Well, yes she does.” She nodded. “Yes, maybe that’s it.”

  “What’s her sister’s name?” Bernie asked.

  “Rebecca.” She glanced at the log again. “She didn’t sign in, either.”

  “Do you know her?” Bernie asked.

  “I don’t really know her, but we’ve met. She comes in and sees Mark. She told me she was in the area.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. “Can you describe her?”

  “Tall and pretty, like Fran.” She tilted her head. “I don’t think they’re far apart in age and seem to be close.”

  “What else can you tell us? Hair color?” Bernie asked.

  “Lately, red. But, Rebecca changes her hair like the weather!” She chuckled. “I think she’s a hairdresser, or maybe she just gets tired of the latest color.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” I asked, but I was ready to talk to someone else. Barbara hadn’t been in the building on Thursday or Friday and couldn’t tell us who came and went that day, other than by looking at the log which, from what we’d gathered so far, was unreliable at best.

  “I saw her about a month ago. I remember because she signed in and accidentally left a brochure on surrogate pregnancies on the counter.” She glanced at her watch.

  “All right, Ms. Henry. Thank you,” I said. “Bernie?”

  “That’s it for me. Thanks,” he said.

  “You’re welcome.” She reached for the ringing telephone and waved as we headed to the elevator.

  We stepped out of the elevator and onto the second floor, then headed to Mark Camp’s office. Bernie knocked on the closed door. I heard a muffled voice. The door opened.

  “Mr. Camp, we have more questions,” I said.

  Camp stepped aside, waved us to the chairs opposite his desk, and retook his seat. He placed his elbows on his desk, propped his chin in his hands, and leaned forward. “How can I help?”

  “Although you didn’t know Ann Baker well, do you know how much contact she had with Beatrice Menifee?”

  Camp cleared his throat. “Well, yes. Prior to her promotion Ann did have contact with Ms. Menifee.”

  “In what capacity?” I asked.

  “She was responsible for Beatrice’s case for a short time. I recall there wasn’t much in the way of notes from Ann because she was promoted soon after Beatrice came into the reunification program.”

  This round of questioning seemed like a dead end. “Mr. Camp, does your sister-in-law ever come here to see you?” I figured I might as well try to win Bernie’s twenty bucks.

  Camp blinked. “Why do you ask?” He flushed and looked around the room. What was up? Bernie might have been right. It likely wasn’t Fran.

  Damnit.

  “Please answer the question,” Bernie said, straight-faced.

  “Rebecca comes here,” he said. “We have lunch when she’s in the area.”

  “Was she here today?” I asked.

  “She stopped in, but just for a few minutes. Then, she left. Can I ask you a question, Detectives?”

  “You may,” Bernie said.

  “Did you see her? She left a while ago.” Camp picked up a bottled water and watched us closely as he twisted the lid.

  “We think we saw her.” Bernie glanced at me. “Detective Valentine thought she was your wife.”

  Camp choked on his water. He plucked a Kleenex from the box on his desk and wiped his mouth. When he’d recovered, he gave me a thin smile. “Easy mistake. They do look alike.”

  I glanced at Bernie, who might have been thinking of the twenty bucks I owed him. “Did you ever have cases involving Judge Cecil Franklin?”

  “Most of us have. It’s a shame what happened to him.” Camp’s gazed fell to his desk blotter.

  “What type of judge was he?” Bernie asked. “In your opinion, of course.”

  “He was generally fair. As you’d expect, he followed the law, but he was seen as pro-parent.”

  “Pro-parent?” I asked.

  “Sure. He wanted families to make it. He’d give the birth parents more chances than most of us thought they deserved.”

  “I see.” I had thought of a question while Camp was talking but had lost it and couldn’t bring it to the forefront. I hated when that happened. Maybe I should’ve written it down. “Mr. Camp, I can’t think of anything else now, but if I do, I’ll be in touch.”

  I pushed my notebook into my pocket, annoyed with losing the twenty dollars. It’s what happened when your mouth writes a check your butt can’t cash.

  “That does it for me, as well,” Bernie said. “Thank you, Mr. Camp.”

  We left his office and, standing by the elevator, I finally remembered what I wanted to ask.

  “Damn it, I need to ask him something else.” I headed back to Camp’s office. Bernie trailed behind. The door was open, but I knocked anyway.

  Camp looked up from his writing. “Yes, Detective?”

  “Sorry to disturb you again, but I have one more question.” I stepped into his office. Bernie joined me.

  “Go ahead.” Camp tapped his pen and placed his hands over the paper to hide the writing.

  “How do Fran and Rebecca wear their hair now?”

  “Today?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, Becky changes hers from day to day. She also wears wigs, but Fran doesn’t, not usually.”

  “Their current hairstyle, Mr. Camp?” Bernie said. “I’m assuming you saw them both today.”

  “Fran’s hair is reddish blonde. She had it dyed recently. It’s a little past shoulder-length. Becky’s is short and black. You said you saw her.”

  “All right. That’s it for me. Thanks.”

  As we left the building, Bernie held out his hand. “Well?”

  “Well, what? I said I’d owe you.”

  “Tell you what. How about you buy lunch today? They take credit or debit cards.” He grinned, rubbing it in.

  “Deal.” I held out my hand and he shook it. “Give me the car keys. My choice on where we eat, right?” It was my turn to grin, and he tossed me the keys, backhanded.

  I drove to The Vegan Garden. Bernie saw the sign, clutched his throat, and made gagging sounds.

  Oh brother.

  “Cut it out. It’s not that bad.” I pulled into a parking space.

  “That’s because you’re used to eating this crap.”

  “It’s not crap. Try it before you ridicule. You might actually like it.” I started to get out of the car, then looked over my shoulder. “Never took you for a coward.”

  He glared at me. “If I throw up you still owe me lunch.”

  “Okay. Fine. You’re still a coward though. It’s just food.”

  We entered the restaurant and took our place in line. Several people sat on wood benches along the wall. Bernie was frowning and maybe wondering what the fuss was about. As far as he was concerned, it couldn’t be the food.

  It didn
’t take long for us to be seated. Bernie wrinkled his lips as he studied the menu cover before opening it. I laid mine down, already knowing what I wanted, and I waited. When he had continued to read the menu, turned it over, then read it again, I knew I needed to step in or we would’ve been there all day.

  “Would you like me to order something for you?”

  He folded his menu and laid it on the table with his hands folded over it. “Yes, please. I don’t have a clue. How’s the lemonade? The picture sure looks good.”

  “It’s the best.” When one of the wait staff approached, I ordered lemonade, side salads, and two eggplant lasagna entrees. I tapped the picture of the lasagna on the menu rather than naming it because I didn’t want Bernie to know about the eggplant yet.

  Our salads and lemonade arrived, and we dug in. Bernie munched on his salad without complaining. What a surprise. Several minutes later, our lasagna arrived. Bernie stared at it. It smelled delicious. I was going to wait until he tasted it before I started eating, but if he’d taken much longer, all bets would’ve been off. He sliced off a small piece and sniffed it.

  Good grief.

  He lifted his brows and stuck the lasagna in his mouth, pausing before chewing as if he thought it would explode. He nodded and gazed at me.

  “Not bad.” He sliced off a larger portion, started eating faster, and finished before I did.

  I paid the check. “You didn’t throw up, so my debt is paid.”

  “Right. That was the deal.” He held the door open for me as we strode through. “I hope I won’t be hungry in two hours. I feel like I haven’t eaten.”

  “That’s because you usually eat until you’re stuffed.” I unlocked our car doors. “Will you eat there again?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  I doubted that. Not without me, anyway.

  17

  After lunch, we headed for the station and caught up on the paperwork.

  By the time we were ready to call it a day, my car still wasn’t ready, so I called Mac and asked to borrow her precious silver Chevy Cruze. I need a reliable civilian car because I had a hot date. Although close to pulling the plug on the whole online dating thing, I decided to give it a few more tries, not wanting to wimp out too soon.