I watched her eyes.
Did I see any wariness?
Cynthia, hands folded in her lap, held her back straight, her chin tilted up. She gave a slight nod. “I did. Yes.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“Just before visiting hours. I had to wait a short while before they allowed me in.”
“How long did you stay?”
“Long enough to hear him mumbling in his sleep about Patricia.” Her lips curled into a bitter sneer. “I left soon after.”
“What did he say? Specifically.”
“He kept saying her name and seemed to be in distress.” She tsked. “A woman does not wish to hear her husband say another woman’s name in his sleep, or at all for that matter.”
I studied her for a minute, wondering if she’d stood over him deciding whether she could get away with putting a pillow over his face.
Yeah, I bet the thought crossed her mind.
“I can understand that, Mrs. Harrington. Does he often talk in his sleep?”
“Not at all. It surprised me. Do you suppose his injury caused him to behave that way?” She looked hopeful. Why? I had no clue. He had still called Patricia’s name.
“Sorry, I have no idea, but I do have to ask you where you were last night.”
She stiffened, and her eyes narrowed, then widened. She composed herself and sighed. “I was speaking at a charity dinner at the Hilton.” She handed me a brochure, her lips so tight I couldn’t see any pink.
I observed the time of her speech. If they’d stayed on schedule, she wouldn’t have had time to clobber the scumbag cheater. “What time did you leave the event?”
“I stayed until the end. Approximately ten o’clock.” She brushed strands of hair behind both ears. “Surely you don’t think I did that to Montgomery. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”
But, you thought about it, lady.
“I have to explore all avenues.”
“I … understand.” Her words were icy. “And the spouse is always the first suspect, or in some cases, the only suspect.”
“There’s a valid reason for that. Do you plan to go by the hospital again?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced at the dogs. “Perhaps.”
I tucked the charity brochure in my purse and stood, heading for the door. “Thanks for your help.”
Thirty minutes later, I’d reached at the Camps’ house. I checked my cell phone for voicemail before leaving the car. Bernie had called while I was talking to Cynthia, but I hadn’t felt the phone vibrate. He told me there had been a multi-car pileup with injuries on the 10 when he was on his way into the station this morning. He had stopped to assist the California Highway Patrol. He expected to be in the office within the hour, which meant he should’ve already been there. On the voicemail, he sounded tired and cranky. He’d probably been out partying through the night, overslept, and was late for work. Then, he encountered the accident on the freeway. Great way to start the day, but it wasn’t my fault. When I called him back and gave him an update, he told me he’d work on our backed-up reports while I was in the field. I was on my own for now.
Fine by me.
I didn’t need Oscar the Grouch riding next to me for the rest of the day. I rang the Camps’ doorbell and waited. Nobody answered. No cars in the driveway. We should’ve run the plates through DMV when we were last here. I gave up and headed to CSS.
The guards’ alcove was empty when I reached County Social Services. I signed in and rode the elevator to the second floor. Camp’s door was open, and he was typing something on his computer. I knocked on the doorframe. He switched to locked mode on the computer to hide the screen before turning my way.
“Detective Valentine.” He didn’t sound thrilled to see me, but I had that effect on people and was used to it. “May I help you?” He flipped papers over on his desk.
I sat in a guest chair. “I stopped by your house to speak to your wife, but she wasn’t there.”
One brow lifted. “Why would you need to speak to her?” He moved papers and files on his desk, aligning them, not looking at me. “What do you want with her?”
None of your damn business.
“Does she have a job?”
“She’s a housewife. That’s her job. Why do you ask?” He sat up straight, his posture defensive.
“I ask the questions here. Has she ever had a job?”
He leaned forward and folded his hands on the desk. “She worked in college and off and on throughout our marriage.”
“What type of work did she do?”
“Financial. She’s good with numbers. She can remember phone numbers and can add up figures on a page just by running her finger down the column. It’s impressive.”
“And she doesn’t work now? Outside the home?”
“No. We had a foster child at one time and Fran stayed home to take care of her. She hasn’t returned to work since.”
My ears perked up. “When did you have a foster child?”
“We had Sherry for almost three years, up until last spring.”
“Where is Sherry now?”
“She’s with her biological father. We were heartbroken when he showed up ... out of nowhere.”
“What do you mean?”
“We planned to adopt her. Went to court and did everything we were supposed to do. We made sure she went to the pediatrician and dentist every six months. She was behind on her immunizations and had to get several at a time over a thirteen-month period to catch up. They terminated parental rights for Sherry’s biological mother and we were set to adopt.” His face darkened. “After she’d been with us all that time, her father showed up and said he didn’t know she was in foster care.”
“And you don’t believe that?”
“Of course not. He was a deadbeat dad, and her mother was a deadbeat, too. Fran took it extra hard.” His eyes flashed.
Clearly Fran wasn’t alone in taking it hard.
I nodded. “How is she handling it now?”
“Better. She’s training to be a CASA, a Court Appointed Special Advocate for children. She wants to make sure abused and neglected children don’t get lost in the system.”
“Is she doing it because of what happened with Sherry?” I didn’t want to let on that I knew about Fran being in foster care as a child.
“Partially.” He looked away.
“What’s the other reason?”
“Because of how she grew up—in foster care.”
“What was her experience?”
“She doesn’t discuss it.”
“Was it a decent foster family?”
“She endured it.” Camp shrugged. “At least her foster family was big on education and made sure she went to school and helped her with her homework. They even paid for college. That doesn’t always happen.”
“Right. I came here to ask you about Fran’s sister.”
“Sister?” His brows furrowed again, and his ears turned red.
“Yes. Why do you always seem confused whenever one of her sisters is mentioned?”
“I’m sorry. I … just don’t know what it has to do with your investigation.”
“Let me be the judge of that. I’ve been made aware that Fran has a sister named Patricia.”
“Oh, yes. Fran had been looking for her for a long time. They were separated in foster care. Patricia was adopted, and they lost contact.”
“What about Rebecca?”
“What about her?” He picked up a pencil and tapped the eraser tip on his desk, not looking at me.
He always became fidgety when Rebecca’s name was mentioned. What was up with that? Was he sleeping with her, the way Harrington had been sleeping with his wife’s sister? “Was she in the same foster care family as Fran?”
“Yes, she was. She and Fran both aged out of the foster care system.” Sweat speckled his upper lip and glistened on his forehead.
“Is she still living with you and Fran?”
“At present, yes.” H
e peeked at his watch. “I have a meeting now. Is there anything else you need?” He picked up a notepad and pen, then stood.
“I don’t think so. Thanks for talking with me again.” I gathered my things and left his office.
Oops.
I turned and went back. “Do you have Patricia’s address?”
“I don’t. I can get it from Fran though. Or you can.” He came around his desk. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really do need to get going or I’ll be late.”
He clearly wanted to escape.
“Can you call Fran and get the address?”
He glanced at his watch again. “Okay.” He made the call. After a few moments, he shrugged. He put it on speakerphone. Fran’s voicemail. He left a message, then ended the call.
I held out my hand. “Mr. Camp, thanks again for your help.”
He stared at my hand for a moment before reaching out to shake with a limp and clammy grip. Why the nervousness? It seemed more and more likely that he was cheating on his wife with her sister. I followed him out of his office and continued my journey out of the building.
We were getting close to an answer. I could feel it in my gut.
26
I awoke the next morning to clear blue skies and lots of sun, and had to indulge myself with a quick run. Nothing like running on a such a wonderful morning. Even the long hill in the last mile seemed flat.
Oh yeah. I might even take another run after work.
I had brought two doughnuts to work—one for me and one for Bernie. Mine was chocolate custard and his was a Long John, the kind that looks like a chocolate-frosted hot dog bun. Didn’t think he would care. He liked all doughnuts equally. I drew a smiley face with evil eyebrows and a creepy jack-o-lantern smile on the bag and set it on his desk. The very least I could do for Bernie’s thirty-first birthday.
I read reports that had come in while I had been out interviewing the previous day. We received the results of Tenley and Jamie’s DNA tests. There was a 99.999% chance that Tenley was Jamie’s biological father. Not much of a surprise there.
I stood and looked over the cubicle wall to see if Bernie had arrived yet. Maybe he overslept or stopped at a bakery on the way to the station. I hoped he would be in a better mood but pushed the thought aside and continued to read.
Bernie had left me a note saying the ME’s report indicated the Scrabble letters left with Judge Franklin were “E” and “I,” which I already knew. We also had two each of “R,” “T,” and “H.” In addition, there were “C” and “L.” Still not many vowels, and trying to figure out words without vowels would be pointless.
Lieutenant Peterson rapped on my desk as he strolled by. “Sydney, can I see you in my office?”
“Sure.” I grabbed my doughnut and took a bite as I followed. By the time I reached his office, he was standing behind his desk and I was still chewing.
“Have a seat.” He sat and folded his hands on the top, his face a somber mask.
“Something wrong?” This wasn’t normal. I began to sweat. I was no longer interested in my doughnut and couldn’t even taste it anymore. I swallowed hard, forcing it down.
He looked me in the eyes and swallowed. “There’s been an incident. Bernie’s in the hospital.”
I gasped, jumped to my feet, and leaned over, placing my fists on his desk. “What kind of incident? Which hospital? Is he all right?”
He waved me back to my chair. “Sit down, Sydney.”
My chair had overturned. I picked it up, sat, and tossed the doughnut in the trash can. “Just tell me if he’s okay and where he is.”
“It’s bad, Syd. We don’t have any details because he’s not conscious.”
“Not conscious? What the hell happened?” I stood again and paced.
“He was found unconscious last night. He was parked on a side-street downtown.”
I headed for the door. “Where is he?”
“San Sansolita Memorial with a head injury. Listen. This has to do with your case.”
“Oh God.” That stopped me. “Did he have Scrabble letters in his mouth?”
“The medics told me they were in his hand. A ‘P’ and an ‘N.’” He cleared his throat. “We have them here.”
I took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Have you talked to his parents?”
“Yes. They’re at the hospital now.”
“And Khrystal?”
“His parents said they broke up.”
“What?” My whole world shifted. I couldn’t believe neither he nor Khrystal told me about their split. “When did that happen? Never mind. It’s not important.”
“They said he’s holding his own and they’re cautiously optimistic. If you need to take time ... to process—”
“I need to shut this murdering sonofabitch down.” I stopped in the doorway and looked back at my lieutenant. “Permission to leave, sir.”
“Permission granted. Let me know if you need anything. I can assign Theresa Sinclair to assist. If you need her.”
“Thanks, sir. I’ll let you know.”
I raced past Bernie’s desk and to my car.
At the hospital, I headed straight to the information desk. Bernie was in the ICU. My heart pounded as I waited for the elevator. I got off and rushed to the waiting area. Bernie’s parents greeted me, faces hollowed and pale, dark circles underneath their eyes gave them a haunted look. After a stifled greeting, I learned they were only allowed to visit for a few minutes each hour.
He’d spiked a fever earlier, but it was down now. Other than that, he hadn’t shown any improvement, but he hadn’t worsened either. I took it as a good sign. Glass half full and all that.
Mrs. Bernard told me she’d called Khrystal but couldn’t reach her. She felt Khrystal would want to know, even though the relationship had ended. Bernie would want her to know. I agreed. The Bernards let the hospital staff know it was okay for me to see Bernie.
When visiting time came around again, they insisted I go. I called on the phone outside the locked ICU door, but nobody answered. After waiting a few moments, I hung up and tried again. I didn’t like hospitals, especially when someone I cared about was a patient.
When I was eight years old I fell off a boat during a class field trip. By the time a teacher pulled me out, I’d gone under. Someone resuscitated me and off I went to the ER, and I stayed overnight. I still can’t swim, but sometimes I waded around in Mac’s pool with everyone else on hot days just to cool off. I avoided the deep end, though. Maybe I needed to get me some adult size floaties, like the ones Josh used.
A woman finally answered the ICU phone. The doors clicked, and I yanked them open. I continued past the nurses’ station and a nurse in purple scrubs pointed me in the right direction. Nobody else paid attention to me.
Bernie’s room had a glass wall looking out on the central area where nurses and doctors sat in front of computer monitors or talked amongst themselves, creating a quiet buzz.
He lay still in the gloomy room, his chest moving slowly. The equipment hooked up to him beeped and flashed. Various bags of stuff dripped into his veins. Like Harrington, he had a thick bandage on the side of his head. He had a swollen lip and a bruised face. His hand was wrapped in bandages and abrasions covered one arm. The other was in a cast.
“Bernie, you fought back, didn’t you?” I smiled, then touched his hand and squeezed for a few moments. He didn’t squeeze back. I pulled a chair close to the bed, choking back tears.
A nurse entered the room. She gazed at me over her clipboard. “Is he your brother?”
“He’s like a brother to me. I’m his partner, Detective Valentine.” I looked at her badge. “Arlene, how’s he doing?”
I held my breath and kept still.
“As you can see, he’s breathing on his own. A good sign. He’s holding steady.” She replaced the clipboard in its rack. “He’s strong and we’re taking good care of him here.”
“When will he wake up?”
“I don’t know. Th
e sooner the better though.” She touched my shoulder. “I always tell people to talk to their loved ones. Do that. Keep talking to him.” She left the room.
A loved one?
Yeah, I guess so.
My brother.
I stared at Bernie’s face, looking for any twitch in response. “What were you doing downtown? Investigating Judge Franklin’s murder or having fun?” His eyes moved under his lids. I wondered what he was thinking. Whether he was thinking. I tried to remember how I had felt when I was unconscious after falling overboard but came up blank. Too long ago, and I’d only been out for a few moments, apparently.
“How long were you lying there before someone found you?”
No idea why I asked him these questions. Talk, the nurse had said. If he could hear me, he needed to know I was working on finding out what happened to him. If I’d been lying in the bed, I’d have wanted to know.
“Detective Valentine?” It was the same nurse, Arlene. “Sorry, but time’s up. You can come back later.” She turned and left.
I stood, moved the chair back, and squeezed Bernie’s arm. “Bernie, I’m going to find out who did this to you and the others. We’re close.” I squeezed his arm again. “See you later.” I kissed his forehead—he’d never know—and returned to the waiting area. His parents had left, but Bernie’s brother, Brian, had arrived. He bolted from his chair when he noticed me.
“Sydney! I just got back in town. How’s he doing?” His eyes were red-rimmed, and stubble fuzzed his chin. He was tall with dark hair—a smaller, slimmer version of Bernie.
“They told me he’s holding his own and he’s able to breathe without help. A good sign.” I dropped into a chair, suddenly exhausted. “They allow visitors once per hour and just for a few minutes.”
“Mom and Dad told me.” He sat in the chair next to me. “I’ll wait for the next round.” He ran his fingers through his hair and his knee bounced. “Jon’s coming by later.”
“Where did your parents go?”
“I sent them home. They’ve been here for hours and needed to rest.”
“Have you heard from Khrystal?”
The Protector Page 19
