“Does the caller ever leave a voicemail if you don’t pick up?” I asked.
“Never. Sometimes when I’ve answered, I heard someone breathing and other times a man … I think it was a man … spoke briefly. He laughed once.” She shuddered.
“What does he say?” I asked.
“It’s difficult to understand what’s being said.”
“Can you take a guess?”
“It sounds like he’s saying something like, ‘Give it up.’” Her hand trembled as she pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just don’t know.”
“Are your numbers published or private?”
“Neither are listed. I don’t give out my cell phone number freely.”
“Are you sure the caller was male?” Bernie asked.
“No.” She frowned. “Maybe female with some distortion.” She pushed at her hair again. “I don’t know.”
“Did you Google the phone number to see if anything came up?” Bernie asked.
“I did. Well, a friend did it for me when I told her about the calls. She wasn’t able to determine who the phone number belonged to.”
“All right. We’ll see what we can find out.” I returned her phone. “Other than that, I don’t think there’s anything else we can do. They’re not threatening to do you harm, are they?”
“No. But, it feels threatening. I’m frightened.”
“Are you here alone a lot?” I asked.
“I have Godfrey and Elena, but they go home in the evening.”
“Would it be possible for you to stay elsewhere or have Godfrey or Elena stay the night?” Bernie asked.
“They have families of their own. I couldn’t ask them to stay.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek.
“Then you should leave if you’re not comfortable being here alone,” I said.
“What about Chester and Liz?” she asked. “I can’t leave them here alone.”
“Some hotels accept pets. Could you board them?” Bernie asked. “I hear there are some nice kennels around here.”
Her eyebrows rose. “That’s a good idea. Someone gave me a recommendation for one when I inquired a little while ago. Thank you, Detective Bernard.”
“Welcome. Let us know where to find you if you decide to leave.”
We left her and returned to the station and worked on our backlog of reports for the rest of the shift.
That evening, I returned home, showered, and put on my pajamas. I sat in the La-Z-Boy with the remote in my hand and a big bowl of popcorn in my lap. I was cozy as I scrolled through the available on-demand movies. I’d planned to relax and enjoy a night of solitude, until my cell phone rang. Dispatch.
Well, so much for movie night.
Time to head back to work.
Dispatch informed me about an incident connected to the investigation. I pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and sneakers, grabbed the bowl of popcorn and brought it with me. I set it on the passenger seat of my car and munched on it on my way to San Sansolita Memorial Hospital. Harrington had been attacked and I was on my way to speak to him.
I rolled up at the hospital after a relaxed twenty-minute drive. There was no rush. For all I cared, the asshole could die slowly and in great suffering.
Yes, my bad.
The nurse at the reception desk told me Harrington had suffered a head injury and lost consciousness in the ambulance. At that moment he was waiting in line for a CT scan. Bernie hadn’t arrived yet and there was nothing for me to do, so I left them my contact information if anything changed with his condition. To kill time, I decided to go to the scene—Harrington’s condo community.
Traffic held me up and the drive took thirty-five minutes. Bernie was already at the scene, walking around Harrington’s Mercedes. Uniformed officers had cordoned off the area. The air smelled of car exhaust, but the slight breeze helped to lessen the fumes.
“What’s up?” I said.
“A neighbor found Harrington out here lying next to his car.” Bernie pointed to a man dressed in a dark leather jacket. “That’s Craig Jackson.”
I circled the car. Harrington’s garage door was open, and his Mercedes was sitting in the driveway. The driver’s door was open, and the chime was going off. “You talk to Jackson yet?”
“Nope. Just got here.” Bernie removed the key and handed it to the tow truck driver.
I watched the activity around us. “Did you call Cynthia?”
“No answer. Left her a voicemail.”
“You think she’s capable of this?” I asked.
“Isn’t everybody?”
“In the right circumstances. Did you find any Scrabble tiles?”
“Nope.”
Officer Johnson approached and waved us over to the other side of the car. I begged off and told Bernie I’d interview Jackson, the guy who had called it in. I headed toward the man, who stood to the side with Officer Mercer.
“Mr. Jackson? I’m Detective Valentine. Can you tell me what you saw tonight?”
“Sure. But, it was kinda dark.” He shrugged.
“Understood. Please start from the beginning.”
“Well, I came home and saw his garage and car door were open. I saw the exhaust fumes from the car.”
“Where do you live?”
“Two doors down.” He pointed to a detached single-story McMansion.
“What did you do next?”
“I kept walking home. Minded my own business or tried to. I kept looking over there. It seemed weird.”
“What time was that?”
“Around eight, I guess.” He tugged on his earlobe. “Sorry. Wasn’t really paying attention.”
That was close to the time of Mac’s attack. It was also within the range of Baker’s time of death. “How long was it between when you saw the car and the time you called 9-1-1?”
“No more than two or three minutes. I called as soon as I got close enough to see him lying there.”
“Did you touch him?”
“Yeah, I touched his shoulder and asked if he was okay. I thought he was drunk.”
“Was he conscious?”
“Yes, but it didn’t seem like he saw me, you know?”
“Did he say anything?”
“He mumbled something, but I couldn’t make it out.” Jackson’s phone buzzed, but he ignored it.
“What did he say? Your best guess.”
“He said something about boots. He said it twice. It didn’t make sense,” he said.
“What else did he say?”
“Nothing. The ambulance pulled into the parking lot. I shut off his car and came over here after flagging them down.”
“Did you see anyone in the area?”
“No. Just him.”
“Were any vehicles leaving the parking lot when you arrived?”
“No.” A frown line appeared between his brows. “I think I heard screeching tires down the street. Didn’t think much of it at the time. Sorry.”
“That’s all right. Can you think of anything else?” I dug in my purse for a business card and handed it to him.
“Not really.” He slid the card in his jacket pocket. “I hope he’ll be okay.”
“Thanks, Mr. Jackson. Call me if you remember more.”
I returned to Harrington’s car. “Hey, Bernie. Find anything?”
“Yeah. There were bricks outside the garage door. I guess he backed over them and got out to take a look.”
“You think he was ambushed?”
With Harrington being a criminal defense attorney there could’ve been any number of suspects who’d want to get him, not just his wife. I planned to get a read on her once I saw her again. My phone rang with a message from the hospital telling me Harrington was awake, but groggy. I disconnected and told Bernie. “I’m heading over there. Coming?”
“You bet.” Bernie jogged to his car, which was parked a few slots from mine.
I parked my car at the hospital, got out, and searched for Bernie’s car. I couldn’t s
ee it, so I entered through the emergency entrance of the hospital, showed my badge, and asked for Harrington’s location. He’d been returned to the ER from the CT scan and rested in a curtained-off section. A doctor or nurse was leaving the area as I approached. Harrington appeared to be sleeping. His eyes fluttered open, then closed again.
“Excuse me. Miss?” A woman wearing scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck pushed the curtain aside and came in. “May I help you?”
I showed her my ID. “I’d like to ask Mr. Harrington what happened if he’s able to talk”—I read her hospital badge— “Dr. Pauley.”
She glanced at Harrington, then me. “Please be brief, Detective. I’ll be back in a few minutes to check on him.”
She turned away and left me alone with the preppy rapist.
I edged closer to the bed. “Mr. Harrington. It’s Detective Valentine. Are you awake?” I touched his arm. A blood pressure cuff rose. A machine he was hooked up to ticked and purred.
His eyes opened, and he tried to reach up and touch the nasal cannula, but his hand fell to the side. He had on one of those finger clips—the kind that measures oxygen saturation. He looked around, not moving his head. “What happened?” His head was bandaged on the side and back.
I could barely understand him. “That’s what I’d like to know. Do you know why you’re here?”
He grimaced. “Head. Hurts.” His eyes closed, and he breathed deeply.
I watched the monitors. “Harrington.” I touched his arm again, hating the feel of his clammy skin.
“That’s enough, Detective.” Dr. Pauley stepped into the cubicle. “He needs to rest now. You can come back in the morning.”
“Has anyone else called or been here to ask about him?”
“No idea. You should ask the unit clerk out front.”
Bernie arrived as I ambled to my car. I relayed the information to him and we went our separate ways.
25
The next morning, Bernie called me at home and told me he had an appointment and wouldn’t be in until later. I called the hospital and the unit clerk told me Harrington had been conscious and talking for several hours and Cynthia had stopped by earlier that morning so I headed straight over.
The hospital had no beds available and Harrington was still in the same ER cubicle as the night before. I shoved the curtain aside.
Propped up on pillows, he turned his head toward me and groaned. “Detective.” His face looked like a deflated balloon—shriveled and weak.
Even though I detested him, I had a job to do.
It’s always about the job. Right?
“You’re awake. Good.” I stepped toward the bed. “What do you remember?”
Eyelids drooping, Harrington scratched his blond-and-white stubble. “I was supposed to meet Patricia for a late dinner.”
“You heard from her?”
“Yes. Guess she called while I was in the shower last night. Checked my voicemail this morning. Listened to the message.”
“What did she say?”
“She wasn’t feeling well and asked to reschedule in a day or two.” His eyes narrowed. “Who did this to me?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” I sat in a chair near the bed but kept plenty of distance between us. “Do you remember anything else?”
He nodded and flinched. “I was backing out of the garage and hit a bump. I thought I’d maybe hit someone’s cat. I know what you think of me, but I wouldn’t let a cat suffer if I’d hurt it.”
Tell it to the Pope, buddy. I don’t give a shit.
Cynthia told us Harrington was indifferent to Chester and Liz, the rescue pups. What kind of person is indifferent toward puppies?
I mean, really?
“I have no idea what I hit.” His brow furrowed and sweat formed on his upper lip.
Poor man must have been in tremendous pain.
Such a shame.
He continued. “Next thing I remember was pain at the back of my head and falling in the driveway.”
“What did you see once you fell or before you fell?”
“I didn’t see anything before I fell, but I saw ... I think I saw someone walking away from me while I was lying there.”
I had a flashback to the time he passed out after I kicked his ass all over his condo about ten years ago—before I nailed him to the wall with my dad’s nail gun. I almost smiled but caught myself. “Could you see who it was? Male or female?”
“Couldn’t tell.” His furrowed brow deepened, and he winced.
More pain. More sympathy.
Not.
“What? Did you think of something?”
“Boots. Something about boots.” His face looked blank. “I’m sorry. Just can’t remember. So frustrating.”
“Your neighbor, Craig Jackson, told me you said something about boots before the ambulance arrived.”
“Was Craig there? Last night?”
Didn’t I just say he was there?
“Yes, and he called 9-1-1.”
“Don’t remember seeing him.” He smiled weakly. “I always thought of him as a young punk. He plays in a band.”
“He probably saved your life.”
Asshole.
“Indeed. I must thank him. Punk or not.”
I doubted he’d bother. “Try to think back. Did you hear anything when you got out of your car?”
“I think it was quiet. What did I get hit with?”
“We don’t know. Nothing was found at the scene or in your wound. In which direction were you facing when you were hit?”
“I was kneeling near the rear tire. I never heard anyone coming. But ...”
“What?”
“Someone yelled.”
“And said what?”
He bit his lip. “‘Leave me alone?’ No, that’s not it.” He shook his head, which caused him to wince again. “‘Leave her alone?’ I don’t know.”
“Okay. There are tall bushes on each side of your garage. It’s possible your assailant could’ve been hiding in there. We didn’t see any evidence of it though.”
“I’ll speak to the HOA about trimming them.” He folded his arms over his stomach and looked down his nose. “They’re unattractive anyway.”
“How is Cynthia taking this?”
He shrugged and adjusted his blankets.
“She was here this morning. Did you speak to her then?”
His head snapped up. “She was here?”
Didn’t I just say that?
Maybe he’d been hit harder than I thought. “You didn’t know?”
“I didn’t. When?”
“I don’t know the exact time, but I didn’t see her when I arrived. She must’ve come as soon as visiting hours started.”
He was scowling. “I must have been asleep. Why didn’t she wake me?”
Maybe there had been too many people around and she couldn’t finish him off, so she left. Nah, I really didn’t think she had it in her ... but people can surprise even the most experienced detective.
“Maybe she didn’t want to wake you. They made me leave last night because they said you needed to rest.”
“I can’t believe she didn’t wake me. I wonder how long she was here.”
“No idea.” I wanted to ask him why he cared. He had been cavorting with at least two other women over the previous several months, one of them being his sister-in-law. “Has any of this jarred your memory about last night?”
“I’m afraid not. I … have your contact information and will call if I remember anything else.”
I slid a business card from my purse and placed it on the table. “In case you think of something and can’t find the other card I gave you.” I stood and turned to go, then thought of another question. “How much have you found out about Patricia since we last spoke? You were in the dark about some things then.”
“Well, I know she was born and raised in California. Why do you ask?”
I couldn’t believe how little he knew about
the woman.
“Just wondering. You said she was married. What does her husband do for a living?”
“We’re … intimate so she doesn’t discuss him. She did tell me she’d been adopted from within the foster care system.” He rubbed his chin once again. “In fact, she recently met her sister. I guess she hadn’t seen her since she, meaning Patty, was four or five years old. Her sister is three years older, I think.”
Foster care?
I sat back down. Things were getting interesting.
“How did they happen to meet?”
“Seems they were split up in foster care. Patty was adopted early on, but her sister remained in care until she was eighteen.”
“How did they find one another?”
“Patty’s sister found her. Amazing, isn’t it?”
“I agree. Amazing.”
I could probably find Patricia through her sister since Harrington claimed not to know where Patricia lived. If he did, he wasn’t sharing it with me. Why not? Did he think his newest piece of ass was breaking the law? Her illness was suspicious last night, to say the least. “What’s her sister’s name?”
He stared at the ceiling. “Francine? Yes, Francine.”
“Did Patricia tell you Francine’s last name?”
“Yes. That’s easy. It’s Camp.”
Ding, ding, ding.
“Did she mention another sister? Rebecca?”
“No.”
I needed to see Mark and Fran Camp, and as soon as possible. I couldn’t contain myself and jumped from my seat. “All right. That’s all for now. Thanks for your time.”
I also had to find out more about Patricia and where she’d been at the time of Harrington’s attack. I hadn’t ruled her out as a suspect in Harrington’s injuries and had no idea what her motive could be, but his being a world-class prick might be enough for some women.
But first I had to deal with Cynthia. She also needed to account for her whereabouts at the time of the attack.
I made it to Cynthia’s home in record time and was invited into her great room with her and the pups, Liz and Chester.
“The unit clerk at the hospital told me you visited your husband this morning.”
The Protector Page 18
