The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  Still a frat boy. No doubt about it. “What’s this woman’s name?”

  “I will not have her dragged into this.” His eyes flashed.

  “Then you’re interfering with a homicide investigation.” Bernie stood. “Put the drink down. Let’s go.”

  “Wait. Okay.” He sneered. “Her name is Patricia Riley.”

  “We’ll need her contact information.” I prepared to write.

  “I can’t do that.” He leaned away. “She doesn’t know anything anyway.”

  “Can’t or won’t do it?” Bernie asked.

  “I wish I could help.” He grinned again. “But, the best I can do is provide you with her cell phone number.” He removed his phone from his pocket, tapped, scrolled, and tapped again.

  “We’ll need her address,” I said.

  “I told you I don’t have it.” Harrington told us the phone number. “And you can’t get her address from the cell phone carrier because I got the phone for her. It’s in my name.”

  “And you’ve never been to her home?” Bernie asked.

  Harrington shook his head. “She comes here, because she’s married.”

  “Where does she work?” I asked.

  “Everywhere. She’s a freelance makeup artist.”

  “How did you meet her?” Bernie asked.

  “You two are like a tag team.” His glass was almost empty again and he glanced at the bottle of Johnnie Walker across the room.

  “Answer the question,” I said.

  He took another sip of his Scotch. “I’d met Ann for lunch and Patricia came from the CSS building as Ann went in. She approached me.”

  “How does Patricia get here?” I asked.

  “She drives ... a Toyota Corolla.”

  “DMV,” I said, turning to Bernie.

  “On it.” He stood. “I’ll be right outside.” He strode out the door.

  “When did you move here?”

  “Five months ago.”

  “Okay.” I stood. “I don’t have any more questions.”

  He remained seated and picked an invisible piece of lint from his suit jacket, ignoring me.

  “I’ll see myself out.” I headed toward the door. As I moved past, he flicked his hand at me in dismissal.

  Creep.

  I should have punched him in the throat.

  Bernie stood a few feet from the door, still on his cell phone. He kept talking as we strode to the car. He slid into the driver’s seat and I rode shotgun.

  Bernie disconnected. “Well, there’s no DMV record for a Patricia Riley.”

  I buckled up. “I guess Harrington’s not the only one telling lies.” My cell phone buzzed. “Valentine.” Harrington. I listened. “Okay.” I disconnected.

  “Who was that?” Bernie cranked the engine.

  “Harrington. While you were outside, he told me he moved here five months ago. Now, he’s saying he signed the lease and rented furniture at that time, but was still living with Cynthia,” I said.

  “So, he was seeing both Baker and Riley here and Cynthia thought he’d been here for a couple of weeks.”

  “Yep. Clueless. Maybe.” I motioned for him to drive.

  His phone rang. “Yeah?” He paused. “All right. Thanks.”

  “Dispatch?”

  “Judge Franklin’s wife is back in town. Finally.” Bernie pulled away. “No time like the present.”

  “She took her sweet time getting back, didn’t she?”

  Traffic was still light and we reached the Franklins’ place in no time. Forensics had released the property and Mrs. Franklin was able to come home when she returned from wherever she’d been. Bernie rang the doorbell and she answered. She wore a dark blue dress with a double-strand of pearls. Her dark hair was in a fancy twisted top knot that looked messy by design, but probably took a while to do. Her first name was Judy, and she told us she’d made funeral arrangements.

  “Where have you been all this time?” I asked. “The coroner’s office has been trying to reach you for days.”

  “Africa. With my sisters.”

  “Didn’t you have a cell phone with you?” Bernie asked.

  “I turned my cell phone off and purchased a new one just for the trip. Cecil and my sisters had the new number. Nobody else. Many social responsibilities are expected of a judge’s spouse and, from time to time, I need to get away from everything.”

  “May we see your passport?” I asked.

  “Sure, I’ll get it for you.” She left the room and returned a few moments later without it. She told us she couldn’t find it.

  “When did you leave the country for your trip?” I asked.

  “A month ago.” She reached into her purse and pulled out a business card. “This is my travel agent’s information.”

  “Mrs. Franklin, were there any problems in your marriage?” I asked.

  “Am I a suspect?” A line formed between her brows. “I know the spouse is usually the first suspect.”

  “We’re investigating all possibilities,” Bernie said.

  That platitude never grows old.

  “Perhaps I should have my attorney present.” She reached for her purse and removed her cell phone.

  I shrugged. “Your choice.”

  She glanced at me, then Bernie. “All right.” She set her purse aside. “Let me start by saying Cecil was a good man. However, he had certain ... let’s say ... proclivities.” She moved slim fingers over the pearl necklace. The ring on her finger sparkled. A band of small diamonds encircled it.

  “What type of ‘proclivities? ’” Bernie asked.

  She sighed. “He liked being dominated.”

  “I see.” I scribbled in my notepad.

  “That’s not so strange. Many powerful men do,” she said.

  “Was it a problem for you? For your marriage?” Bernie asked.

  “I couldn’t meet those needs and I loved him.” She lifted a shoulder. “We had an arrangement.”

  “Did the arrangement become an issue for you?” I asked.

  “It wasn’t a problem until he started seeing men.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “I was okay with the women. The dominatrixes. Really, I was.”

  “Was he seeing anyone in particular? Do you know their names?” I asked.

  “He kept that private, and I didn’t want to know. You understand?”

  Nope, I really don’t understand.

  “Where did he keep his contact information for these people?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Where did he meet them?” Bernie asked.

  “We didn’t discuss it. However, a friend of mine saw him leaving a club. A couple accompanied him.”

  “Did you ask your husband about it?” I asked.

  “Of course not.” Mrs. Franklin leaned away. Offended?

  “Which club?” Bernie continued to write.

  “It was called The Place. Do you know of it?”

  Bernie’s head snapped up. He’d thought Franklin looked familiar when we first saw the body in the park. Maybe he had seen the judge before.

  “We know where the club is located,” I said.

  “Do we have permission to search his home office?” Bernie asked, adding, “He may have kept something with the contact information of the people he’d been seeing.”

  Mrs. Franklin gasped, and her hand flew to her throat. “Do you think one of those people might have killed him?”

  “We don’t have any suspects yet, but we need to investigate every possibility,” Bernie answered.

  “Well, I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t allow you to look.” Mrs. Franklin stood. “It’s this way.”

  “I need your signature for consent before we start.” Bernie gave her the form and she signed it and led us to her husband’s office.

  Judge Franklin’s office contained a built-in mahogany bookcase that covered two walls. A desktop computer and an all-in-one printer combo sat on a large antique-looking desk near a window. A laptop sat
on the corner of the desk. He might have met his partners online.

  “May we have your consent to take his computer and laptop?” I asked.

  “If it would help. Yes, of course.” Mrs. Franklin reached for the form Bernie handed her. She signed it and gave it back.

  We searched the desk but didn’t find an address book or even scraps of paper with names and phone numbers. The office was well organized. Judge Franklin’s murder might not have been related to his professional life after all. From the sound of it, he had led a risky personal life that might well have gotten him killed. Perhaps he’d been here having a little fun while the wife was away. How did it relate to the murder of Baker and Menifee? I drew a blank.

  “Did he use this office often?” Bernie asked.

  “Oh yes. Frequently,” Mrs. Franklin said.

  Bernie returned to the car to get boxes for the items we were taking. I continued to walk through the room. I hadn’t found anything by the time he returned. We filled the boxes and loaded them in the car. The Computer Forensics Unit would go through the computers looking at files, emails, web history, and so on. For now, our job was to get the equipment to them and wait while we continued our own investigation.

  “Any idea how Judge Franklin’s habits might have anything to do with Menifee and Baker?” Bernie asked, backing out of the driveway.

  “We’ve been focusing on Baker and Franklin for the past few days. I’d like to talk to Camp and ask him why he thinks Menifee was in that parking lot. They didn’t have a therapy session booked that night.”

  “Let’s do it tomorrow.” Bernie pulled onto the 15 north.

  Why would Menifee be at the CSS building when she didn’t have a therapy appointment? Who knew she was there? Was it a random killing? It didn’t seem likely, not to me.

  24

  We pulled up to the curb near the Camps’ home in Calimesa late the next morning. A Ford Fiesta and Toyota Prius were parked in the driveway in front of a two-car garage. Bernie rang the doorbell and we waited. The television volume decreased inside the house. After a short wait, the door opened.

  “May I help you?” asked the woman in the doorway. I recognized her right away. Bernie and I had seen her at CSS. She was the one Bernie couldn’t stop gawking at—Fran’s sister, Rebecca.

  I nudged Bernie aside. “I’m Detective Valentine.” I jerked a thumb in Bernie’s direction. “This is Detective Bernard. We’d like to speak to Mark Camp.”

  With one hand on the doorframe and the other on her hip, she glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s busy. Taking a shower, I think.”

  Interesting.

  Had she ever been in there with him?

  “May I ask who you are?” Bernie spoke up.

  “I’m Rebecca.” She picked up a gym bag from the floor and strutted through the doorway, closing the door behind her. “And I’m leaving. My personal trainer is waiting.” She winked at Bernie and pursed her lips. “Ciao.” She turned on a spiked heel and sashayed in the direction of the driveway.

  “She’s prettier than Fran.” Bernie watched her slide into the driver’s seat of the Fiesta. “But, now I see the resemblance.”

  “I don’t think she’s prettier. Edgier and sluttier for sure.” I rang the doorbell. “Who goes to the gym dressed like that, anyway? Personal trainer, my ass.”

  I jabbed the bell again.

  Camp opened the door, hair slicked back and a small round Band-Aid on his chin. “Detectives. Something wrong?” He tucked in his shirt as he looked past us to the street.

  “Do you have a minute to talk?” Bernie asked. “We have more questions.”

  “Okay. Come in.” Camp moved aside. “How can I help?”

  He closed the door but didn’t offer us seats. We stood in the entryway. The room smelled of bacon and burnt coffee.

  Yummy. Not.

  I looked around the living room. “Does Rebecca live here?” A wedding picture of Camp and Fran hung on the wall above the fireplace.

  “Rebecca?” Camp’s brow furrowed.

  “Yes. Your sister-in-law?” Bernie had folded his arms over his chest, feet spread wide. “Does she live here with you and Fran?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is she living here now?” I asked.

  “Rebecca is irresponsible and occasionally stays over.”

  “You didn’t answer the question,” I said. “Is she living here now?”

  “Temporarily.” His eyes shifted away. “Why do you ask?”

  “We just saw her,” I said. “We asked for you and she told us you were busy. Then she left.”

  “Oh.” Camp frowned.

  “Is there a problem?” Bernie chimed in. “You seem confused.”

  “It’s just that she said she wanted to lie down because she had a headache.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m surprised she left without telling me you were here.”

  “Well, she did,” I said.

  “I’m sorry. You said you had questions?” He headed to the living room. “Please, have a seat.” He grabbed a teddy bear and baby blanket off the ottoman, lifted the lid to its storage compartment, and tossed them both inside.

  Camp turned off the television.

  Very interesting.

  Barbara, the CSS guard, had told us Fran wanted a baby.

  “Do you have a child?”

  “No.” Camp rubbed the back of his flushed neck before sitting.

  “Where’s Fran?” I asked.

  He lifted a shoulder and felt his chin until he found the Band-Aid. “Obviously she’s not here, or she would’ve answered the door while I was in the shower.” He pulled off the Band-Aid and laid it on the table.

  “All right.” Time to get in his face. “This concerns Beatrice Menifee. Why would she go to that particular CSS building the night she died?”

  Camp swept his hands over his face. “Actually, I’ve been wondering that myself.” He leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. “We haven’t had therapy in that building for several months, and she’d missed a few sessions. These days we use the one on Market Street.”

  “And what reason have you come up with for her being there?” Bernie asked.

  “Maybe she forgot we moved. Perhaps she had her nights mixed up or she was having a problem and needed someone to talk to.” Camp scrunched up his face in apparent apology for his poor answer.

  “If she had her nights mixed up, wouldn’t she have gone to the building you’re currently using?” I asked.

  “Since she missed sessions, she may have gone to the old building out of habit.” Camp bit his lips, then licked them.

  “Would she normally call you if she needed to talk?” Bernie asked.

  “Certainly. She has in the past.”

  “Then why wouldn’t she have called that night?” I asked. “Rather than just showing up in the wrong place?”

  “There are times when clients desperately feel the need to talk ... in person. Maybe she was confused.”

  “Had she ever needed to do that with you before?” I asked. “Desperately needed to talk in person?”

  “No. Never, but”—he leaned forward again and tapped his chin with the tips of his fingers—“if she wasn’t on her medication ...”

  “What kind of medication? What was she being treated for?” I asked.

  “She was taking lithium. She’d been diagnosed with bipolar disorder several years ago.”

  “Diagnosed by whom? I didn’t see anything about her visiting a psychiatrist.”

  “She was diagnosed before CPS became involved, and she continued to see her psychiatrist. Off and on. She’d been self-medicating with drugs and alcohol for years.”

  “Okay. This still doesn’t tell us why she was at the CSS building that night,” Bernie said.

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I wish I could help you, Detectives.” He started picking at his nails.

  “Where were you that night?” I asked.

  Camp’s head snapped up. “What?”

  “Y
ou heard me.”

  “Fran and I went out to dinner, then came home.”

  “Where did you go and what time did you arrive?” I asked.

  “The Olive Garden. I can’t say for sure, but I think we arrived around seven o’clock.”

  “You have anything to add?” I glanced Bernie’s way.

  “Not a thing.”

  We let ourselves out and returned to our car. It had rained while we were inside. The air smelled musty and felt heavy ... humid. I rode shotgun while Bernie drove to Bob’s Big Boy for lunch. While we waited for the check, I visited the rest room and thought about Fran. My phone chirped as I washed my hands and I answered it. “Valentine.” It was Cynthia. “When?” I dried my hands. “We’ll be there as soon as we can.” I disconnected and returned to our table.

  “While I was in the restroom I received a call from Cynthia. She says she’s been receiving threatening phone calls.”

  “Let’s go then. We can get on the 79 and head over that way now.”

  “All right. Do you know where Camp’s wife works?”

  “Hunh. I don’t know if she works anywhere. In fact, I don’t recall the topic of Fran’s employment ever coming up. Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  It had started to rain again. I sat in silence the rest of the way, listening to the wipers while trying to put the pieces together.

  We reached Cynthia’s house earlier than I’d anticipated. The same maid who greeted us when we notified Cynthia of Baker’s death answered the door. Her nametag indicated her name was Elena. I hadn’t noticed it on her when we were here before. A new policy? As we moved through the house, I wondered why they needed nametags.

  No food smells greeted us this time.

  Bummer.

  Elena showed us into the great room. Cynthia was seated with a cordless phone on her lap. She handed it to Bernie before he sat and passed me her cell phone. “Some calls came on this one.”

  Bernie punched through the Caller ID. “Which number is it?” He wrote the number down when Cynthia told him.

  “It was the last call on the cell—I didn’t recognize the Caller ID.”

  I scrolled through the received calls on her cell. “There are four here. The first one was two days ago.”

  “The last one was right before you got here. I didn’t answer.”