The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  “Hi, Syd.” Bernie approached, carrying his prized San Diego Chargers mug and a doughnut. “How’s Mac?” He poured decaf coffee and took a greedy slurp.

  I nibbled my doughnut and sipped my tea graciously, making a point that was lost on him. “Mike says she’s okay.”

  He chomped on his food. “Is she in a lot of pain?”

  “She was still asleep, so maybe not.” I peered at him over the rim of my mug. “We have to solve this case.”

  He nodded. “That reminds me. I got a message from Cynthia. She wanted to know if there’s been progress.”

  “Did you talk to her yet?”

  “Not yet, no. There hasn’t been much progress in finding out what happened to Ann and why. That’s not what she wants to hear.”

  “Nobody does. Remember, we planned to see Tenley’s wife again.” My cell phone rang. “It’s Mike.”

  Bernie left for his desk.

  “Hi, Mike. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, fine. I forgot to tell you what Mac said last night before she fell asleep.”

  “Go on.”

  “She thought the motorcycle was burgundy. She wasn’t positive, but she seemed pretty sure.”

  “This could help.”

  “Yeah? Maybe she’ll remember more.” I heard a crash from his end, then Josh crying. “Syd, I have to go. Josh just spilled his juice on the floor.”

  “Thanks, Mike. I’ll be over after work. My car should be ready by then.” I turned around to find Bernie staring at me.

  “Well?”

  “Mac thinks the bike was burgundy.” I couldn’t hold back a smile. “I wonder how she was able to see in the dark.”

  “There was enough light from the lamppost for me to find the Scrabble tile. Anyway, burgundy is almost red.” Bernie grinned. “What a coincidence. We planned to go chat with Tenley’s wife anyway.”

  “So, our next step is to find out where she was last night between eight and eight thirty.”

  “Yep. Let’s go ask her.”

  “Wait.” I stuck out a hand to block him. “What’s her motive? I could understand her going after Menifee, but not the others.”

  “We need to find out if she was even there first.” He rushed through the door, taking long strides.

  “Right.” I hurried to catch up, hindered by my swollen knee, then remembered my food. I raced back, took a sip of tea, and snatched the pastry delight from my desk. I met Bernie at the car. He was in the driver’s seat with the engine and A/C running.

  “I was talking to you, then turned around and you weren’t there.” He stared at my doughnut. “Oh.”

  “Don’t even think about asking. You already had one.” I leaned away from him and took a bite.

  “Wait right here.” Bernie jumped from the car, leaving it idling. He returned with a chocolate frosted.

  “Unbelievable.” I shook my head.

  “Well, let’s just say I’m doing my part to live up to the doughnut-eating-cop cliché.”

  “Do I need to hold an intervention?”

  He choked on his food. “I’m not that bad.” He swallowed, then took another bite and frowned. “Am I?” He gazed at me.

  I made a serious face and turned toward him. No smirking. “You have to decide for yourself. Don’t they say the first step to getting help is to admit you have a problem?”

  “I don’t have a problem,” he snapped, still frowning.

  “See there? You’re not ready to admit it yet so there’s nothing anybody can do to help you.”

  “What’s wrong with having an extra doughnut from time to time?”

  I couldn’t hold it in anymore and doubled over laughing. “Just drive.”

  Traffic was light, and we reached Tenley’s apartment complex inside of forty-five minutes. The red motorcycle was in the lot. We continued to their apartment building. I knocked, and the door opened, more quietly than before. Somebody’d been using WD-40.

  “Well, if it ain’t Detective Cupid and her partner.” Tenley leaned on the doorframe, grinning. He’d colored the lower half of his blond, free-form dreadlocks auburn. It looked hideous. I wondered what he’d been thinking, then I realized he probably didn’t think—ever.

  Bernie tried to see past him. “May we speak with you and Josie?”

  “She ain’t here,” he said, leering at me. “But, I’s free for Detective Valentine.”

  “Where is she?” Bernie asked.

  “Supposed to be working.” He shrugged.

  “How did she get to work? The motorcycle’s here,” I said.

  “She park here since we have space, then she walk the rest. She trying to lose her baby weight.” Tenley scanned me up and down and licked his chapped lips. “She ain’t in shape like you, slim.”

  “Do you ever use her bike?” Bernie asked.

  “Yup. Sure do.” He patted his flat abs. “I ain’t got no fat on me. No need to walk if I got me a ride.”

  “Where were you last night, Tenley?”

  He blinked. “What time that be?”

  “How about from eight until nine o’clock?”

  He scratched his chin and gazed at the sky. “Hmm. Let me think.” I hoped he didn’t hurt himself. “I was here, then I left around seven thirty. Maybe. Yeah, I think so.”

  “Was anyone with you?” Bernie asked.

  “Nah. Nobody.” He stared at Bernie. “Why you ask?”

  “Where did you go?” I asked.

  “Grocery store.” His brow furrowed. “Why you askin’ me ’bout last night?”

  “How did you get to the store?” I asked.

  “The bike.” Tenley chewed his lip.

  “What did you buy? Do you have a receipt?” Bernie asked.

  “Whoa, now. A receipt?” He stepped back, frowning. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “If you want. You can call him from the station,” I said.

  He sighed and studied his shoes. “The receipt might be in the grocery bag. Be right back.” He went inside and closed the door.

  “What do you think of his story?” I asked.

  “I don’t think he’s smart enough or sober enough to be committing these murders,” Bernie said, shaking his head. “No way.”

  “Whether he comes back with receipts or not, we have to interview the wife at work.”

  “He couldn’t have made it to where you and Mac were if he was at the store when he said he was.”

  “Right.”

  The door opened, and Tenley held a food-splattered slip of paper in his grimy hands. I was glad he handed it to Bernie because I didn’t want to touch it.

  “This is all I could find,” Tenley said.

  “Hold on.” Bernie pulled out a pair of disposable gloves and tugged them on before taking the receipt. “The date was yesterday, and the time was seven forty-five last night.” He dropped it inside the evidence bag I’d given him. “Doesn’t seem like enough time.”

  I shrugged. “Thanks, Tenley.” We started down the stairs.

  “Wait, Tenley.” Bernie turned. “You said Josie had a baby.”

  “Uh huh.” He nodded.

  “How old is the baby?” Bernie headed back up.

  “Ricky’s three now, maybe four.” He lifted a bony shoulder.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “CPS took him.”

  “Why?” Bernie asked.

  “They say Josie was getting high and not taking care of him.” He watched both of us closely. “And they right.”

  “Who’s Ricky’s father?” I asked.

  “Josie say she hooked up with some white dude at a bar. One-night stand.”

  “Okay. That’s all I have. Bernie?”

  “That’s it for me. Thanks, Mr. Tenley.”

  We walked past Tenley’s parking spot and the motorcycle was gone.

  “What the hell?” I spun and headed back to Tenley’s apartment. Bernie followed.

  Bernie banged on the door. It opened, once again.

  “Oh no. Now what?” Ten
ley stood stiffly, arms crossed.

  “The motorcycle is gone. Who rides it besides you and Josie?” Bernie asked.

  “My wife rides it, too.”

  “No, Tenley. He wants to know who else rides it besides you and Josie.”

  “I don’t get it,” Tenley frowned. “I told you my wife rides it.”

  Bernie and I stared at one another.

  “Tenley, what’s your wife’s name?” I asked.

  “Veronica.”

  Damnit.

  “Where is she now?”

  “She working at The Food Shop.”

  “Then who’s Josie?” Bernie asked.

  “Oh, she a friend.” He lifted his shoulders and shot me a sly grin.

  “A friend of yours and Veronica’s or just yours?” I asked.

  “Both. She our friend.”

  “Wait a minute. When we were here before, Josie said it was her bike,” I said.

  “It is her bike. We all ride it.” He shook his head as though in confusion. “You understand now?”

  Bernie stared at him. “Let me get this straight. You’re married to Veronica. Josie is both your friend and Veronica’s friend. Correct?”

  “Yep.” Tenley nodded.

  “And the bike belongs to Josie, but you and Veronica also ride it.”

  “True.” Tenley sighed. “That all you need?”

  “Sure,” Bernie answered, and we returned to our car.

  “What a mess,” I said from the driver’s seat. “I can’t decide whether that was a huge waste of time or not.”

  “Well, we found out Josie isn’t his wife, like we thought.” He sighed. “What happened to the public records check on his marriage?”

  “It’s not back yet.” I cranked up the A/C. “Maybe Josie’s performance was all show for our benefit.”

  “Maybe. Now what? The Food Shop?”

  “Here we go.” I rolled out of the parking lot.

  The Food Shop was only a few blocks away from Tenley’s place. We entered and asked for the manager, a Mr. Thomas. We introduced ourselves and he told us Veronica was on a break and pointed to a woman standing outside near the entrance, smoking. “She’s not supposed to be standing that close to the doors.”

  She wore black slacks and a white shirt. We’d passed her when we arrived. A statuesque, late-twenties Latina, she had dark brown wavy hair pulled into a loose ponytail and stood about six feet tall—with wide shoulders—like she lifted weights. Fit.

  Bernie approached her first. “Veronica Tenley?”

  “Yes? Who are you?” She dropped her cigarette on the sidewalk and ground it out with more force than was necessary.

  We flashed our IDs and I said, “We’re investigating a series of homicides.”

  She jerked her head back and gasped. “Homicides? What does that have to do with me?”

  “Where were you last night between eight and nine o’clock?” Bernie asked.

  “Here. Working.” She’d planted her hands on her hips and turned her wrist up to read her watch.

  “We’ll check with Mr. Thomas about that,” Bernie said.

  “Okay. Do what you want.” She made a point of looking at her watch again. “My break’s over.”

  “Do you know Beatrice Menifee or Ann Baker?” I asked.

  She hesitated, thinking. “No. Should I?” She tapped her foot and crossed her arms.

  Oh please.

  I stepped in close, glaring. “I’m sorry to inconvenience you but, as I said, this is a homicide investigation. People are dead. Got that?”

  “Yeah. Sure.” She shrugged and glanced at the door to the store. “I don’t know what else to tell you, but I need to get back to work.”

  “We’ll be in touch if we have more questions,” Bernie said, holding out a business card.

  She stared at it for several seconds before taking it. “Okay.” She jogged toward the door but turned and stared back at us before stepping through the doorway.

  “That didn’t go well,” I said. “Let’s go talk to her manager.” We stepped back into the store and looked for Mr. Thomas.

  He came toward us. “Is there anything else, Detectives?”

  “Did Veronica Tenley work last night?” Bernie asked.

  “She was here,” he said. “Is she involved in your homicide?”

  “We’re still investigating,” I answered. “Does she have to punch a time clock?”

  “Yes, it’s right through there.” He pointed to a door marked “Employees Only” located between a Chase Bank ATM and the customer restrooms. “I’ll show you.”

  We followed him. The time clock was electronic. No time cards needed, but employees could obviously punch each other in and out if they had the other person’s code. The records showed Veronica had been at work during the time of Mac’s attack, but had she really been there?

  “So, you don’t know whether she, or anyone else, was here for their entire shift?” Bernie asked.

  “No, we don’t. Not every minute. This is the best we can do.” He shrugged. “We considered time clocks with thumb scans but couldn’t afford them. We’re a small group of stores, not a corporation.”

  “What time did she take a lunch—or I guess it would be dinner—break that evening?” Bernie asked.

  “They rotate from seven thirty to nine o’clock. They all get thirty minutes.”

  “What time did Veronica go?” I asked.

  Mr. Thomas entered his office, looked at his schedule, and told us she’d taken her break at seven thirty. Well, it seemed unlikely she’d have been able to reach the scene of Mac’s attack and return to work in time. Unless, of course, someone else punched her in, and maybe out, for her break.

  “All right. Thank you, Mr. Thomas.” I gave him a business card. “If you think of anything.”

  As we left the store I spotted the red bike. She must’ve gone home on her break to pick it up.

  “How about Denny’s next?” Bernie said. “According to Tenley, Josie’s supposed to be there.”

  “Sure. I’ll drive.”

  We stopped at the Denny’s where Josie worked. After speaking to the manager, we waited outside on the corner of the building, away from the entrance. He brought her to us.

  “Hello, Josie. Remember us? We spoke to you at Charles Tenley’s apartment.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” She leaned against the building.

  “Why did CPS remove your son from your home?” Bernie asked, getting straight to the point.

  “How did ...” She sighed. “Oh, Chuck told you.”

  “Why is your son in foster care, Josie?” I asked.

  “I love my son! I do!” Her eyes filled. “It’s hard.”

  “What’s hard?” Bernie asked.

  “Takin’ care of a kid. People don’t understand.” She swiped at her tears. “They don’t know what I went through tryin’ to do that stuff for CPS.”

  “And your son’s father. Where is he?” I asked.

  She sighed. “I don’t know.” She was mumbling. “Is that it? I gotta go back to work.”

  “Josie?” Bernie spoke softly. “Is Charles Tenley Ricky’s father?”

  Her head snapped around. “No!” she snapped. “Can I go now?”

  “One more question. Did you participate in the CPS reunification program?” I asked.

  “For a while, but they kicked me out. They make it too hard. Always changing things. They mess with you.”

  “When did they terminate your reunification services?” Bernie asked.

  “Few months ago.” She looked at the restaurant’s entrance. “I have to go back to work. Can I?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Thank you, Josie.”

  “Yeah.” She looked down at her feet as she shuffled away.

  “Wow.” I didn’t know what to think about that. “That’s sad. For Ricky.”

  “He’s young. Maybe someone will adopt him.”

  “You’re naïve.” I scoffed. “I might be wrong, but I don’t think children of color g
et adopted out of foster care as easily as white children.”

  “She made it all about her,” Bernie said. “Did you notice that?”

  “That’s the problem. Selfishness.”

  We headed to the car.

  “Selfish people shouldn’t have children,” Bernie said.

  I slid into the driver’s seat. “We should see what we can dig up on Josie.” I started to drive, then slapped the steering wheel. “Hey, can you check to see if my car is finished?”

  Bernie called the garage and they told him my car was ready, and he and I played “musical cars” until I’d dropped off Mac’s and collected my own. With my old jalopy back, the world seemed a better place, and I even felt like we were maybe making progress with the case.

  I hoped so, anyway.

  19

  After picking up my car, I headed straight for Mac’s place. I rang the doorbell. Moments later, locks engaged and disengaged. The doorknob turned, the door opened, and Josh tumbled out.

  “Aunt Syd!” I scooped him up and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek. He smelled of strawberries. The kid always smelled like fruit. I set him down and he scampered inside.

  “Hi, Syd.” Mike had been standing behind Josh. He waved me in. “Mac’s inside watching TV. I’ll be in the family room if you need me.”

  Mac was sitting in the corner of the sofa, broken arm propped up on pillows. Her hair was pulled into a sloppy ponytail and she wore no make-up. She looked pale and I noticed more freckles since the last time I’d seen her barefaced. I didn’t often see Mac that way. She was always “done up,” as I liked to call it.

  She lifted a hand in greeting. “Mike’s not much good at doing my hair.” She pointed to her ponytail and shrugged. “And forget makeup. I don’t care about that now, anyway.” Mac patted the sofa cushion. “Have a seat.”

  “It looks okay,” I lied. “How are you feeling? Does it hurt?” I eased gently next to her on the sofa.

  “Yes, it does. A little. I have pain medication, but they make me tired.”

  Josh, who’d been sitting on the floor near the TV, hopped up and bounded across the room. “Aunt Syd! Look what I wrote on Mommy’s cast.” He pointed to his name. The “J” was backward.

  “That’s nice, Josh. Good job!” I put my palm up for a high five and he leapt up and slapped it.