After a few minutes, Bernie returned from his desk and told me Cynthia didn’t know the name of Ann Baker’s doctor, but she could find out. Cynthia had a key to her sister’s house and would go there shortly to search. She didn’t expect it to take long because Ann was so orderly, a trait we’d already discovered.
After we’d had our fill of reading reports, we stopped and had lunch at Sizzler. I tore through a large salad, mixed fruit, and a soft serve ice cream cup. Bernie had fried chicken and at least six tacos. I lost count. At least he had a side of peach slices to go with all that protein and cholesterol.
“Ready to see Gonzalez?” Bernie asked.
“Sure. Let’s go.” I grabbed my jacket. “Are you driving?”
“I can.” He headed out of the restaurant, taking long strides, and I had to hurry to catch up.
As Gonzalez lived in a house in Hemet, Bernie hopped onto the 79. Traffic was light and we made good time.
My cell phone chirped. “Sydney Valentine.” It was Cynthia. “Can you repeat that?” Bernie silently mouthed, “What?” I shrugged and ignored him. “All right. Stay there. We’re on our way.”
I disconnected and turned to Bernie, who was trying to watch me and keep the car on the winding roads at the same time.
“Cynthia thinks somebody tried to run her off the road. Gonzalez will have to wait. We need to get over there. She said the police officers just left.”
“What exactly happened?”
Bernie exited the 79 and turned onto the Ramona Expressway. He hit the buttons to roll up our windows because the stench of dairy farms filled the car.
“She was on her way to Baker’s house to look for the medical records and a motorcycle drove alongside and smashed in her car window.”
“Hunh. Which window?”
“The passenger side.”
“Front or rear?”
“What the hell difference does it make?” I snapped.
“Did you ask?”
“Did you hear me ask?”
“Guess not. We’ll find out when we get there.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“It seems that somebody, I’m not saying who, got up on the wrong side of her coffin this morning.”
“I did not. I’m frustrated. Cynthia’s scared. When she told me what happened, I thought of the attack on Mac. They both could’ve been killed and you’re making jokes. And they’re not good jokes either, let me tell you.”
“How’s that online dating going? Meeting anyone?”
I turned and narrowed my eyes. “You’re trying to distract me.”
“I’m not.” He was wearing his innocent face. “I want to know if you’ve met anyone. You need to have more fun when you’re not working. I try to. You know what they say. All work and no play. Yada, yada.”
I hesitated before divulging my pathetic love life, but Bernie meant well and … heck, partners were supposed to trust each other. “I’ve met a few guys, but no second dates yet. Slow down! You’ll miss the turn coming up.”
I couldn’t help thinking of the nightclub sounds filtering in the background when he called me the night my rear windshield was smashed after my date with ... well, what’s-his-name. Bernie had also smelled of booze another evening.
So much for trusting partners.
Bernie pulled into the Harringtons’ driveway next to a silver Mercedes and examined the car. The rear passenger window had been shattered. Glass granules covered the back seat and floor. Some had made it to the front of the car. We headed to the front door of the house, it opened, and Godfrey led us into the great room, where Cynthia sat on the sofa, drinking from a tiny teacup that appeared as solid as wet paper. I sat on the other end of the sofa. Bernie sat in one of the ugly, uncomfortable chairs. Cynthia had scratches on her face, but otherwise looked fine, if I ignored her washed-out appearance.
“Would you like tea, Detectives? Or would you prefer something else?” Her hand shook as she set the cup in the saucer.
“No, we’re fine. Can you tell us exactly what happened?” Bernie studied her.
“I’d just left here to go to Annie’s house,” she said, watching us closely. “To get the medical information for you.”
“And then?” Bernie asked.
“Okay. Well, I’d stopped at a stop sign a mile or so from here and heard a crash in the back seat. I thought someone had sideswiped me.” She picked up her cup, sipped, and held it in her lap with both hands. “I-I covered my head and tried to lean toward the front passenger seat, but my seat belt restrained me. The car started to roll through the stop sign and I got back up and stepped on the brake ... except it wasn’t the brake. It was the accelerator. The car lurched forward. Luckily, there was no other traffic around, and I managed to stop before running into anyone.”
“Did you see the motorcycle rider?” I asked.
“Not really. He wore all black.”
“What about the type of motorcycle or color?” Bernie asked.
“It’s a blur and I don’t know motorcycles. It didn’t look like the one Montgomery owns, though.”
My ears perked up. “Your husband rides a motorcycle?”
“Yes, yes. He owns a Harley-Davidson.” She pointed to the wall behind her. “It’s in the garage. The motorcycle I saw wasn’t as big as Montgomery’s.”
“Are you sure it’s still in the garage?” Bernie asked.
“Yes. I saw it in there this morning.”
“What color is his Harley?” Bernie asked
“Black and silver.”
“Do you mind if we take a look?” I asked.
Cynthia stared for a moment, frowning. “I don’t see why not.”
She showed us to the garage and I noted the Harley’s plate number while Bernie held his hand over the engine case. Cold. We returned to the great room.
“Does your husband know what happened?” I asked.
“I called him. He was brusque.”
“How so?” Bernie asked.
“He said I needed to take care of these things myself from now on, since I’d filed for legal separation,” she answered, trying to hide a sniffle. “His point is valid, I suppose.”
“If I remember correctly, you were going to a marriage and family therapist,” I said.
“Well, yes. That was the plan ... until I learned of his latest indiscretion.”
Bernie leaned closer. “Do you mind explaining?”
“He told me he’d been seeing someone ... again.” She choked back tears. “Excuse me.” She took another sip of tea, placed a hand to her throat, and swallowed. “He said he’d also rekindled his affair with Annie several months ago but broke it off two weeks before she died. Apparently, Annie didn’t like it one bit, and I feel betrayed beyond reason.”
It was about time. What had taken her so long?
“I’m sorry,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “Do you know who this new woman is?”
Did Harrington’s latest mistress have a run-in with Baker? Did Baker know of her? Jealousy? Competition? Based on what others had told us about her personality, if Ann Baker knew about Monty’s latest indiscretion, she wouldn’t have let it go.
“I don’t know her, but Montgomery told me her name is Patricia. He called her Patty.”
“Do you have her last name?” Bernie asked.
“No, sorry. I have no idea. I didn’t ask, but I do know he met her at Annie’s job. Either in the building or in the parking lot.” She shook her head angrily. “I should’ve known months ago.”
“Why?” I asked.
“He’s never liked being around smokers. Recently, I started smelling cigarette smoke on him, but he’d always explain it away, and I wanted to believe him.”
“Mrs. Harrington, I know this is difficult for you, but I have to ask you a question,” I said.
She stared, then blinked, as tears trickled down her pale cheeks. “You want to know if he was here with me the night Annie died.”
I nodded. “Yes, I do.”<
br />
“Well, then.” She cleared her throat, inhaled deeply, then let it out. “It happened as I told you before.”
“You went upstairs to take medication,” Bernie said.
“Yes.” She placed a finger to her chin and gazed upward.
“What is it, Mrs. Harrington?” I asked.
“I can’t say with absolute certainty, but I think Montgomery was the one who suggested I was due for another dose of medication.”
“Do you remember what time you began watching the movie?” Bernie asked.
“Around eight o’clock.”
“How long were you upstairs?” I asked.
“Well, that’s what I’m not sure about. I had trouble finding my medication.”
“Did you find it?” I asked.
“Eventually, but it took me a while. Even so, Montgomery was not in the family room when I returned. She looked from me to Bernie. “I mentioned that already.”
“Yes, and that’s when he told us he didn’t remember what he and Ann talked about on the phone,” I said.
“Correct. I have had issues with my mental health in the past. However, in this case, it’s not me. I’m certain I know what I know.”
Bernie nodded. “Where is Mr. Harrington living currently?”
“At an executive condo, for now.” She grimaced as though tasting something bitter.
“The community name and address?” I asked.
“I’ll get it for you. Excuse me.” She set her cup and saucer on the coffee table and left, returning shortly with a glossy brochure for an upscale condominium community. She handed it to me, having written his address on the front.
“Thank you.” Bernie studied her. “Are you okay being here alone?”
Mrs. Harrington scanned the room. “I’ll be fine. I can contact private security if I find it necessary.”
“All right then. We have everything we need,” Bernie said.
“Will you still be able to go to Ann’s house to get her medical information?” I followed Cynthia to the door.
“I’ll drive out there tomorrow. I need to contact my insurance company now and make arrangements to have my window repaired.” She opened the door. “I’ll let you know if I find anything. Goodbye, Detectives.”
“Take care.” I stepped outside, and Bernie was right behind me.
“Gonzalez or Harrington now?” Bernie unlocked the car doors and opened the driver’s side.
I checked the time. “Neither. I’m done for the day.” I slid into the passenger seat and leaned my head on the back rest.
What the hell? Did Harrington kill Baker? I hoped so. It would be a blast to wrap the cuffs around his wrists. With any luck, he’d do something stupid, like resist arrest.
23
Early the following afternoon, Bernie and I drove along Sanderson Avenue in Hemet on the way to interviewing Gonzalez. He worked evenings. We’d planned to stop at Harrington’s condo later.
“How’s Mac?” Bernie bit into his second doughnut of the day.
“She’s doing okay but is bored and ready to go back to work. I think I need to turn right two lights up.”
“It’s understandable she’s bored. She’s used to being out and about during the day,” Bernie said.
“Yeah, that’s what it is. Gonzalez’s address should be a few blocks down.” I slowed the car, reading the house numbers.
Bernie pointed. “There it is. The one with four junker cars out front.”
I pulled up to the curb across the street and cut the engine. “Let’s do this.”
We crossed the narrow potholed street. Bernie knocked on the door.
A short Latino opened the door. “Sí?” He looked like a younger version of Raul Gonzalez.
After introducing ourselves, I said, “We’d like to see Raul Gonzalez. Is he here?”
“He’s here. Yes.” He stepped aside. “Come in.”
“Thanks. And you are?” Bernie asked.
“I’m his brother, Juan.” He indicated a lumpy sofa along the wall. “You can have a seat while I get him.” We sat and waited. The room had a large screen television. Milk crates served as a coffee table. Muffled voices filtered through from the rear of the house and a door slammed shut.
“Detectives?” Gonzalez looked different. He wore khaki cargo shorts, a T-shirt with flip-flops, and was clean-shaven.
“We’d like to talk to you about Ann Baker,” I said.
Gonzalez dropped into a chair across from the makeshift coffee table. The chair wobbled. “What you wanna know?”
I watched him closely. “First, what time did you discover Ms. Baker’s body?”
“Six o’clock. I think I already say that.” He frowned.
“Was that six p.m. or six a.m.?” Bernie asked.
“In the morning.” Gonzalez picked at his nails, looking a little sheepish.
“Tell us what you do when you get to work.”
A frown line formed between his eyes. “What I do?”
“Yes. What’s your routine?” I asked.
“Oh, Sí. I empty all office garbage first. I take stack of ‘Wet Floor’ sign and put them down.”
“Then what do you do?” Bernie asked.
“I clean employee break room. Then all bathroom.”
“When do you mop the floors?” I asked.
“I do floor last.” He stared at his feet. Was he nervous or scared?
“Did you mop the floors that night or in the morning?” I asked.
We hadn’t found any buckets or mops at the crime scene in the stairwell.
He swallowed and looked up at me. “I can’t remember.”
“You told me before that you mopped the floor already,” I said and we locked eyes.
“I don’t remember.”
“What were you doing when you found Ms. Baker on the stairs?”
“I was getting sign.”
He was hedging. “Mr. Gonzalez, did you leave the building that night?”
He gulped and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Sí.”
“What time did you leave the building?” Bernie asked.
“I think nine o’clock,” he said.
“What time did you return?” I asked.
“Six o’clock next morning.”
“Before you called 9-1-1?” Bernie asked.
“Sí.”
“How do you get back into the building when you leave?” I asked.
“I put rock in side door so it stay open.” Again, he swallowed hard, and his brow furrowed.
Bernie shook his head slowly. “Do you realize you may have allowed someone to enter the building to kill Ms. Baker?”
Gonzalez nodded. “Sí.” His chin trembled, and his eyes glistened. “I am sorry.”
“Why did you leave the building?” I asked.
“To see soccer game.”
“It lasted all night?” Bernie asked.
“No. I fall asleep.”
“Is there anyone who can verify where you were that night?” Bernie asked.
“Sí. My brother.” He pointed toward the hallway. “Juan was with me here. We clean together, but not that night.”
Bernie left to go down the hall. He knocked on the door, maybe to a bedroom. Canned laughter drifted toward us, possibly from a television. The door must’ve opened because the laughter grew louder, reducing the sounds of the men’s conversation.
I studied Gonzalez. “When CSS finds out you routinely leave the building door open, they’re not going to be happy.”
Gonzalez’s eyes grew wide. “You tell them?”
“Of course.”
“Okay.” He slumped.
Bernie came into the room and told us Juan had corroborated his brother’s story. Of course he did. They had surely already discussed it. Time to go.
After leaving the Gonzalez’s shabby abode, Bernie and I headed for Harrington’s new upscale residence. The community had two-car garages for its tenants. We marched across the lot and headed toward the town homes an
d condos. His condo was easy to find, and Bernie rang the doorbell.
The door opened. Harrington stood in a black pinstriped suit and tie. “Detectives.” He lifted his chin in greeting, or was it arrogance?
“May we come in?” I moved up. “We need to talk to you.”
“All right.” He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Have a seat. I arrived a few minutes ago.” He crossed to the bar and picked up a highball glass containing amber liquid with ice. He gulped and sighed.
Bernie and I sat on a leather sofa. “When was the last time you saw Ann alive?” I asked.
Harrington drank again, then sat in an armchair. “The day she died.”
“What time?” I asked.
“Five thirty or six, maybe. I’m not sure.”
“You were having an affair,” Bernie said.
Harrington raised his brows. “Is that a question?” He was smirking.
“Were you having an affair with Ann at the time of her death?” Bernie asked.
Harrington sighed. “I see you’ve spoken to Cynthia.” He cleared his throat and swirled his drink before taking another glug, almost finishing it. “Then you know the answer to the question.”
“We’d like to hear it from you.” I inched forward. “If you don’t mind.”
“Well, you see, I do mind.” He rose from the chair and strode to the bar. He poured another drink. Scotch. “It’s personal and has nothing to do with her untimely demise.”
“Untimely demise? She was murdered,” Bernie said. “Don’t make it sound like she died in her sleep from natural causes.”
“You’re right.” Harrington grinned as he ambled to the armchair and sat down. “If you must know, we did have a brief fling in the months before she passed away.”
“How long did the fling last and when did it end?” Bernie asked.
“We saw each other for approximately six months and ended the week before she died.”
“Why did it end? Who ended it?” I asked.
Harrington sighed. “I’d met someone else.” He shrugged. “I had to choose between her and Ann.”
How about choosing your wife?
The Protector Page 16
