The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  “Mommy, show Aunt Syd my drawing!” He tried to lift Mac’s arm, but she had to help. “Look!” He pointed to something that looked like a truck.

  “It’s a dump truck. I love it.” I smiled.

  He poked his bottom lip out and scowled at me. “It’s a turtle.”

  I turned my head sideways. “Oh! Yes, it is. I see it now.” I didn’t, but I put him on my lap and squeezed him. “And you drew a pretty flower next to him.”

  He scowled again. “That’s a butterfly.” He scooted from my lap and hopped like a bunny into the family room to join Mike.

  I pointed to the cast. It looked heavy and awkward. “How long will you have to wear it?”

  “Six to eight weeks.” She adjusted her arm on the pillows.

  “Do you need anything? Something to drink?” I looked around. “More pillows? A hairstylist?” I laughed.

  “I know.” She laughed with me, patted her stray strands, and tried to shove them into the ponytail holder. “It’s okay. He tried.” She shook her head, then laughed again.

  It was good to see her in such high spirits. “I could do your hair.”

  She shook her head. “That’s okay. He was proud of what he did and I’m sticking with it.”

  “Well, I’m glad you’re going to be okay.”

  “Me, too.” She sighed, then brightened. “Did Mike tell you I thought the bike was burgundy?”

  “Yes, he did. It might help. We don’t have a suspect yet.”

  “Do you think it’s connected to your homicide cases? The CPS murders?”

  “Yeah, it might be.”

  Mac nodded. “I thought so.” Her eyes closed briefly, then opened slowly. No doubt about it, she really was tired.

  “I’m going to let you get some rest.” I leaned in and gave her an easy hug. “I should see Josh before I go.”

  She waved me away. “No, he’s fine. I thought the turtle was a truck, too. He drew it while I was asleep. Surprise!” She gave me a weak smile.

  “See you later.” I turned to go but heard her start to get up. “Don’t.” I pushed my hand downward the way people do when they’re telling a dog to stay. “Relax. I’ll lock the door.”

  “All right.” She plopped back down.

  “See you later.” I headed for the door.

  “Syd?”

  I turned. “Yeah?”

  “Get the sonofabitch who did this to me.” She gritted her teeth and narrowed her eyes.

  I stared at her. Blinked. She rarely cussed. “You bet I will.” I twisted the lock on both the inside door and security door on my way out. I took a deep breath and let it out. “That’s my girl.”

  20

  The next day, I sat at my desk in the squad room drinking green tea, reading the ME’s report on Judge Franklin. He’d suffered a coronary and a massive loss of blood. The Scrabble letters in his mouth were “E” and “I.” I browsed through the CSS information we had on Menifee. Camp’s notes indicated Beatrice had missed several therapy sessions. She’d tested positive for meth at least once and had completed six months of reunification services in the beginning. She’d made enough progress for them to extend her services for another six months. Her child’s name was James, but he was referred to as Jamie in the notes. There was no mention of the father. Why was Jamie in foster care and not with his father? Bernie arrived and I asked him if he’d read anything about Jamie’s father. He hadn’t seen anything either. I suggested we take another trip to CSS and ask in person. We headed out. This time, Bernie drove.

  It took us an hour to reach CSS. It would’ve normally taken thirty to forty-five minutes during that time of day, but there’d been a three-car accident and one of the disabled vehicles hadn’t been cleared. As we passed it, it appeared the California Highway Patrol had the situation under control, so we cruised by. We entered the building and approached the guards’ alcove to sign in. Homer Cooper was on duty, replacing Barbara, I assumed.

  “Hi-ya, folks.” He waved.

  I signed in first. “Hello, Mr. Cooper.” I liked him. “How are you today?”

  “Good. That gal ... your other partner.” He scratched his head and frowned. “The black girl.”

  “Detective Sinclair?” I asked.

  He slapped the counter and pointed at me. “Right. She told me her granny used peppermint oil on her hip.”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I remember that.”

  “Well, it worked for me. Tell that gal I said thank you. Will ya do that for me?”

  “Sure. She’ll be happy to hear it.”

  Bernie cleared his throat. “Mr. Cooper, we’re here to see Mark Camp.”

  “Go on up.” He pointed to the elevator, then eased back into his chair. I swore his bones creaked louder than the chair.

  The elevator door slid open on the second floor. A woman entered, bumped into Bernie, and bounced back into the hall.

  “Oh! Excuse me,” she said. It was Fran Camp. She wore a floral knee-length dress and pink pumps. Spring-like. It matched her light floral scented perfume. Jasmine, maybe. Camp stood in the hall, hands on his hips. He must’ve accompanied her to the elevator.

  “Detectives. You remember my wife, Fran.”

  “Yes, excuse me, Mrs. Camp.” Bernie stepped into the hall and held the elevator door open for her.

  “It was my fault. I wasn’t paying attention.” She scooted past him into the elevator. “Bye, honey. Don’t forget about our date.” She smiled and waved goodbye to Camp. I half-expected her to say “toot-a-loo” with a Southern accent. The elevator doors slid shut.

  Camp turned to us. “What can I do for you, Detectives?” We followed him to his office. Bankers Boxes cluttered his desk and floor. Disconnected computer cables dangled over the desk edge, and his printer sat on one of his guest chairs. He’d moved the other guest chair to a corner.

  “Going somewhere?” I asked.

  “I was promoted.” He pulled his desk drawer open, removed staples, pens, and paper clips, and dropped them into a small box.

  “Congratulations,” Bernie said. “What’s your new job?”

  “I’ll be a supervisor now.” He continued packing.

  “Ann Baker’s old job?” I asked.

  “Sort of. It’s a different title, but it basically covers the same duties.”

  “They move fast, don’t they?” Bernie moved the empty guest chair closer to the desk.

  “I don’t think you’re here to discuss my career aspirations, Detective. How can I help you?”

  “We’ve read your notes on Beatrice Menifee’s therapy and drug issues.” I perched on the corner of his desk. “I didn’t see anything about her son’s father.”

  Camp nodded. “Yes. Ms. Menifee wasn’t forthcoming, initially, regarding him or any other family members.”

  “Initially? Meaning she did eventually talk about him and her family?” Bernie asked that one.

  “Yes.” He sighed and dropped into his chair. “She didn’t want her family to know her son was in foster care.”

  Bernie looked up. “Why not?”

  “The shame. It often happens.” He pushed pencils and markers into a pile. “Typically, parents in her situation give little thought to what the child is experiencing. Fear and confusion. Living with strangers.”

  “Yeah, we get it,” I said.

  “The information on her child’s father is in the files you’ve received.”

  Bernie frowned. “No, it isn’t.”

  “I’m sure it is. You have everything I have.”

  “Well, I’m telling you it wasn’t there.” I stood and leaned on the desk. “Can you please check your files again?” I waved my hand over the boxes. “You can check your system, right?” I stared at his unplugged computer and shook my head.

  “Just tell us his name.” Bernie sighed. “Don’t you know it?”

  “Sorry, I can’t remember.” He turned his palms up and shrugged. “I have a lot of cases.”

  “All right. Who has the authority to
get into the system to tell us his name?” I asked.

  “Carmen Delgado will be able to help.”

  “Before we go, can you tell us if the father has visitation rights with the child?” Bernie asked.

  “I can’t remember the details of every case, but I think so.”

  Bernie nodded, but I could tell by the set of his jaw he was starting to lose his cool. “Where’s Carmen Delgado’s office?”

  “Make a right out the door. Her office is down—”

  “I know the way.” I headed for the door. “Thanks.”

  For nothing.

  Like Bernie, I was dipping into a foul mood. Camp didn’t know anything, or at least, wasn’t telling us anything of value. We headed down the hall. “I hope she’s more on the ball than he is.”

  “I don’t know how she could be any less on the ball than him. But, in all fairness, they do have hundreds of cases. They do the best that they can. We’ll get the help we need from someone.”

  Bernie, the damn optimist.

  “Yeah. Mac said the budget’s been cut and workers laid off. The rest had their caseload increased. I suppose I can cut him some slack. I’m not that happy about it though.”

  I wanted to growl but thought better of it since we were walking amongst mental health professionals. Bernie would let them take me away, screaming and kicking. Of that, I had no doubt.

  We reached Carmen Delgado’s office, but she wasn’t there. “Now what?” Bernie asked. “Her light’s off.”

  “Is her computer on?”

  He stepped into her office and peeked around her desk. “Nope.”

  We got back on the elevator and headed downstairs. As we rounded the corner, someone we both knew bopped toward us.

  “Detective Cupid!”

  “Tenley. What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Just visitin’.”

  “Who are you visiting?” Bernie asked.

  “Jamie.” He headed toward a glass door and reached for it.

  “Hold on, Tenley.” I put my hand out to stop him. “How are you able to see Beatrice’s son?”

  “The court said I could.” He reached for the door again.

  “Are you his father?” Bernie asked.

  He nodded and smiled. “My name’s on the birth certificate.”

  “That doesn’t answer the question. Now, does it?” Bernie placed his hands on his hips.

  “What was the question?” Tenley shifted from one foot to the other, looking away.

  “Are you Jamie’s father?” I asked, laying on the emphasis.

  He sighed. “Yes and no.” He looked inside the door he’d tried to enter. “Can we talk later? My appointment.”

  “What the hell does ‘yes and no’ mean?” Bernie stood near the door, barring Tenley’s way.

  “She didn’t want his real father’s name on the birth certificate.”

  “Why not?” I was growing impatient, and Bernie was getting angry.

  “Said he was an asshole. Didn’t want nothin’ to do with him.” He peeked at his watch. “I’m gonna miss my appointment.”

  “How long are you going to be?” I asked.

  “One hour.” He glanced at his watch. “I missed time talking to you though.”

  “Go ahead.” I pulled the door open for him. “We’ll wait out here for you.” I watched him slope to the receptionist, who sat behind a protective glass wall containing a security screen. He leaned down toward the screen, spoke, then signed in and sat down. There were other people in the waiting area. Some tried to herd children. Others sat alone. Some of the children played at colorful child-sized tables. Bernie and I sat on a bench near the guards’ alcove. Mr. Cooper was not at his post.

  “So, what do you think of this latest bit of information?” Bernie asked.

  “Why the hell didn’t he tell us this when we talked to him the first time?” I stood and paced, eager to hit something. A young couple, wearing shabby clothing, came out of the door Tenley had gone through. The woman was crying, and the man wiped his eyes.

  “He’ll say we didn’t ask,” Bernie said. “And we didn’t.”

  “It might not matter ... except.” I plopped down. “What if his wife knows about Jamie?”

  “He said Veronica didn’t know about Menifee and Veronica told us she didn’t know her.” Bernie turned in his seat. “But, if she did. Motive.”

  “Big time motive, Bernie.” I grinned and nodded. “Big time motive.”

  The glass door finally opened, and Tenley came out. He looked around. I waved him over. He was smiling.

  “He’s getting bigger every time I see him,” Tenley said and dropped onto the bench. “Thanks for letting me go.” He looked every bit the proud papa.

  “Does Veronica know about Jamie?” I asked.

  “Hell, nah!” He scowled. “She’d kill me!”

  Or kill Beatrice.

  “Tenley, why do you think she doesn’t know?” Bernie asked. “Don’t you get papers from CPS in the mail?”

  Tenley stared at Bernie as if he’d never met him. He frowned. “I hide the CPS mail. Jamie was born before I met Veronica.”

  Bernie sighed. “And you think she doesn’t know.”

  “She ain’t tell me she know.”

  “Do you have reunification services?” I asked.

  “Used to, but ... the drugs. I get supervised visits.”

  “Forever?” Bernie asked.

  “Until he adopted. But, maybe with Beatrice gone they give me another chance.”

  “Okay. We won’t keep you any longer. Thank you, Mr. Tenley.” I turned to leave. “You seemed sure Veronica knows about Beatrice and Jamie,” I said to Bernie on the way out of the building.

  “I just don’t believe he’s as clever as he thinks he is.”

  “And that gives us motive, again,” I said.

  “For Menifee, but what about Baker and Judge Franklin?”

  I didn’t have the answer, but I felt like we’d turned a corner.

  21

  Back at my desk at the station, I read more of the CPS documents on Menifee. Baker’s notes gave me information on Jamie Menifee. Camp had been right. I’d put aside everything except her therapy sessions with Camp. Menifee told Camp she believed Tenley was the father of her son, but she’d never had it confirmed. A picture of Jamie was included in the report. The lanky boy had curly, blond hair, blue eyes, and skin the color of peanut shells.

  “Who’s that?” Bernie leaned over my shoulder.

  I tapped the picture. “Jamie Menifee.”

  “Didn’t give him Tenley’s last name. Looks like a younger Tenley, though.” He scratched his chin. “You see it?”

  I squinted. “Nope.”

  Bernie took the picture and tilted his head to study it closely. “Yeah, I think so.”

  I began filling out an affidavit for a search warrant form to have a buccal swab taken of Jamie’s mouth. “This is for Jamie. Can you do one for Tenley?”

  “On it. We might not need it, though.” He strolled back to his desk, whistling.

  The next day, we learned the search warrant for Jamie’s DNA test had been granted and headed to the foster family’s home in Moreno Valley.

  Toys cluttered the lawn. The sound of children playing drifted from the backyard. Bernie rang the doorbell and an older Mexican woman opened the door. “Si?”

  Bernie introduced us and reached in his pocket but came up empty. “Syd?”

  I stepped up and handed her the search warrant. “This entitles us to take a DNA sample from Jamie. We just need to swab the inside of his mouth.”

  She stared at the warrant, gave us a brief, wary look, and turned away. “Miguel!” she shouted and said something in Spanish.

  A middle-aged man came to the door and took the paper. He read it, peered at us, nodded, and even smiled.

  “Please. Come in. Jamie is in the back. This way.” He led us to the backyard. “He is over there, near the slide.”

  I glanced at Bernie, who�
��d been staring at me.

  I nodded and said, “I see it now.”

  Jamie was playing with an African-American boy with buzzed hair, making roads for toy trucks in a pile of sand. He looked like a young Tenley with a tan. How did Tenley not see it? If his wife ever saw the boy, she’d know Jamie was Tenley’s son. The shape of his face, the eyes, even the way he moved was pure Tenley, poor lad.

  “Let’s do this.”

  Miguel rounded up Jamie and brought him inside where we waited.

  Bernie tugged on a pair of latex gloves and held up the swab. “Jamie, I’m going to rub this inside your mouth, okay? It won’t hurt.”

  Jamie stared at Miguel, his eyes wary.

  “Open your mouth, Jamie. It’s okay,” Miguel said.

  Jamie opened his mouth wide and Bernie did the swabbing. He was a nice kid, puzzled by us, but cooperative. As soon as we were done, he bolted back outside to his game. Five kids under the age of twelve played in the backyard, sounding happy. As foster homes went, it seemed like it might be a nice one. Not all of them were. We thanked Miguel and the woman and returned to the station.

  After sending the swab to the lab, we left for the Harringtons’ place. As we turned onto their street, Cynthia rounded the corner heading toward their home. She was strolling with the Labrador puppies. Once the pups noticed us, they scampered over.

  I dropped to a knee and rubbed their chubby tummies. “Hi there. Look how big you two are.” I peered at Cynthia, who had flushed cheeks and a broad smile.

  She glowed. She wore Capri leggings with a long floral top and Keds sneakers. Her dress had been more casual each time we’d stopped by.

  Interesting.

  “I try to get at least one walk in every day,” she said, patting her chest and gasping for air. “I’ve lost six pounds since I’ve had them. I even joined a Pilates class.”

  Who is this person?

  “You all look like you’re having a good time,” I said, smiling.

  “Did you decide to keep them after all?” Bernie had knelt to pet the pups. They put their big wet paws on his slacks and he laughed.