“I haven’t. Why?”
“I heard they broke up.”
“That’s the second time this month.”
“What?”
This is getting weirder.
“When was the first time?”
He twisted his mouth and looked up. “I think it was the same day the judge was killed.” He peered at me. “Something happened to you that night too, right?”
I nodded. “Someone broke my car window in the Starbucks parking lot.”
“Yeah. That was the night.”
I called Khrystal that night to invite her out. She declined and seemed distracted. “Why did they break up?”
“He didn’t tell me, but I got the feeling he wasn’t ready to settle down.”
“And she is. I know that.” I sighed.
“Right. He’s still going out with friends, without her. She’s in nursing school and working. Not home much.”
“That won’t be forever though. She’ll be done soon.” They would have made a good couple. Might still.
Well, except for his going out partying in the evenings.
“I don’t think he’s ready for marriage,” he said.
“Probably not. I have to get going. Keep me posted?” I pushed myself up, still feeling drained.
“Sure thing.” He glanced at his watch, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his foot over his knee. “See you, Sydney. Get the asshole who did this to my brother.”
“That’s the plan.”
I left the waiting room, wondering if the breakup was the reason Bernie had been downtown last night. No, he’d been going downtown regularly, even before the breakup. I returned to the information desk and asked for Harrington’s room number.
Harrington had been moved from the ER cubicle to a private room on the second floor. When I got there, he was sitting in a chair watching the news on CNN as he pulled on his socks. He muted the volume when I walked in without knocking.
“Detective. Have you come to bring me news regarding my case?” His skin had more color and had puffed up. He’d also shaved and smelled of expensive cologne. Expensive maybe, but it still made me gag.
“No news yet. Are they discharging you?”
“I’m discharging me. I’m fine and want to go home.”
“Against doctor’s orders?”
“They advised against it. They observed, poked, prodded, scanned, and measured this and that. When my doctor came in this morning, he said everything looks good right now, so I’m leaving. I’ll follow up with my family doctor soon.”
Like I care about your health, asshole.
“Have you heard from Patricia yet?” I pulled up a chair and sat down.
“No, I haven’t, and I’m worried.”
He sounded phony as hell. Basically, he just wanted to get laid. I slid my notepad from my purse. “You told us the phone she has is paid for by you. Correct?”
“That’s correct. Why?”
“Did you buy the phone too?”
“I purchased it for her and I pay for the plan. Why?” He was frowning.
“May I have your permission to access her cell phone records?”
“Why would you need to do that and what does it have to do with what happened to me?”
“It’s part of our investigation. Will you give your consent?” I removed a consent form from my purse and laid it on the table.
He slipped into his shoes and stared at the form. “I don’t understand. Did she do something wrong?”
“I don’t know, but I think the information would help our case.” I needed her GPS information and getting his permission would be quicker than obtaining a warrant without probable cause. “Did she say where she was when she called to tell you she wasn’t going to make your date?”
“I don’t remember. I’d have to listen to the message again.” He reached into his pocket, feeling around and frowning. He removed a plastic bag. “What’s this?”
Scrabble tiles.
Well, I’ll be damned.
“Can I have that?” I reached for it.
“It’s not mine. Scrabble tiles?”
He handed the baggie across and I pinched one edge between finger and thumb, holding it up to the light. I glanced at the “D” and “E” tiles before dropping the bag into one of the evidence bags I always carry, and then slid it into my purse. “It’s important that you sign this consent form. Now.” I held it out to him with a pen. Reluctantly, he signed it and handed it back. I slipped it into my purse alongside the scrabble tiles.
“Thank you. You need to be careful. These tiles link you to your sister-in-law’s murder.”
“And Judge Franklin’s too?”
“Yes, but keep that information to yourself.”
“I understand.” He pulled on his jacket, fear showing in his eyes. “Oh, the message. I forgot.” He removed his phone from his other pocket and played it on the speaker.
Patricia didn’t mention her location and there was no southern accent, like Fran had. I asked him for the time of her call. I’d missed it. He scrolled through the message screen—she’d called at seven thirty.
I left him to his discharge preparations and rushed back to my car.
All right, Patricia. Ready or not, here I come.
I called Dispatch to request the cell phone records for Patricia’s phone, including her cell’s GPS information for the time of Harrington’s attack, and headed to the Camps’ home again.
I rolled up to the curb near their house. A Ford Fiesta was parked in the driveway. I rang the doorbell.
“May I help you, Detective Valentine?” Camp stood in the doorway, not smiling.
Did he even know how?
“I’m still trying to track down Patricia’s address. Do you have it now or is Fran here?”
“She’s not here and I don’t have the address, I’m afraid.”
“Get on the phone and call your wife. I want that address.” Done with his excuses, I got in his face and folded my arms across my chest. “I can wait.”
He looked past me before turning inside. “Come in. I’ll try to reach her.”
I entered the living room, picked up a baby blanket and teddy bear from a chair, and sat. Camp took out his cell phone and eyed the display. He held the phone up. “No signal.”
“Do you have a landline?”
“We only have cell phones. Saves money.”
I handed him my cell phone and he entered the kitchen. He paced as he whispered, but I heard him ask about someone moving. He disconnected and came into the living room carrying a half-sheet of legal paper.
“Fran gave me this address, but said Patricia told her she was moving.” He returned my cell phone and gave me the paper.
I glanced at it. Patricia lived less than five miles from Harrington’s condo. “Did she say when Patricia was moving?”
“She thinks it’s this weekend but said it could’ve been last weekend.” He shrugged and shook his head. “She wasn’t sure.”
“Thanks.” I left him standing in the middle of his front room, headed to my car, and slid into the driver’s seat. I pulled out my phone to check the time. The display said, “No Recent Calls.”
Camp had deleted my recent calls. All of them!
How dare he!
I jumped out of the car, raced up to the door, and banged on it.
Camp opened it immediately. He must’ve been watching me. “Yes?”
“Give me Fran’s cell phone number right now!” I handed him the sheet of paper he’d given me.
“But, why? I gave you the information you needed.” His face had turned red and he rubbed the back of his neck.
“Interfering with a police investigation is illegal.” I pushed the paper at him. “Give me her cell phone number or take a ride with me to the station. Your choice.”
He grabbed the paper, scribbled a phone number, and pressed it into my hand. “Please leave now.”
“Is there a problem with me having her phone number?” I fold
ed the paper and put it in my pocket.
“No. Nothing. Anything else?” He started to close the door.
“This is fine. Thanks.”
I hurried back to my car. What was up? Perhaps my chat with Patricia would solve the riddle. I’d had more than enough of this crap.
27
Not knowing what to expect, I picked up Theresa from the station to act as backup and we headed straight to Patricia’s apartment complex. On the way, I updated her on the case.
“How’s Bernie?” she asked.
“Holding his own. It looks as though he fought back.”
“Good for him. Did he wake while you were there?”
“No. He didn’t move at all.” My voice cracked, and I swallowed past the restriction in my throat.
Theresa gave me a quick look. “He’ll recover Syd. He’s young and healthy. Strong.” She touched my arm.
I moved my arm away, pretending I had an itch. I didn’t need her pity. Yeah, I cared for Bernie. A lot. We’d worked together for years. “I think so too ... but, when will he wake up?”
“Did the doctors offer a prognosis?”
“Nothing, except the sooner the better.”
“I’m sure he’ll come out of this fine.”
I didn’t want to talk about it anymore. “I hope so. His family’s spending a lot of time at the hospital.” I glanced at her, hoping she’d take the hint. “Anyway, we have to focus on finding out what Patricia knows.”
“What’s your gut feeling about her? Is she involved?”
“Yep,” I muttered, trying to organize my scattered thoughts. “Maybe not with all the killings, but I think she’s involved in Harrington’s attack.”
“You think she tried to kill him?”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense.” I shook my head, exasperated by the whole thing. “He seems to think their relationship was going fine. Claimed to be worried when she told him she was sick and couldn’t make their date.”
“Yeah, but she hasn’t let him see where she lives and, to me, that’s a total red flag.”
“True, but he left his wife for her.”
I pulled into the apartment’s parking lot and looked for an empty spot.
“Shoot. It’s cold if she tried to kill him, but it’s happened before,” Theresa said, helping me search for a space.
“Yep. If she didn’t, she knows who did. We can’t find any information on her. Why not?”
And why can’t I find a damn parking space?
“There’s an empty spot over there.” Theresa pointed. “Maybe she lied to him about who she was.”
“I thought of that. We’re going to find out.”
Done being polite, I slid into the restricted parking space. We hiked up the crumbling stairway. Theresa knocked on the apartment door and we waited. The door opened and a long-legged woman, who resembled Rebecca more than Fran, peered warily at us. She wore tight jeans and an even tighter sweater. And heels. Spiked heels. I could see why a guy might go ape over her. Put her in a sexy dress and she’d be a knockout.
“Yes?” she asked.
We flashed our badges. “Detective Valentine and this is Detective Sinclair. What’s your name?”
“Patricia O’Riley. What is this about?”
So, it was O’Riley, not Riley, as Harrington had told us. She had lied to him ... or he’d lied to us. “We’d like to ask you a few questions. May we come in?”
Patricia’s arched brows furrowed, then she looked past us, weighing the odds of neighbors eavesdropping versus letting us in, I imagined.
“Do I need a lawyer before talking to you?” she snapped.
“That’s up to you. Do you want a lawyer?” I wasn’t in the mood to cut her any slack.
She tapped a black Sharpie against her chin and shook her head. “No. It’s okay.” She pushed the door open and stepped aside. “Come in.”
We stepped through the door and waited for her to usher us into the room. Boxes cluttered the hardwood floor and were stacked up in the kitchen. She strutted across the room, hammering the floor with her heels. From a chair, she removed a rectangular carton about the size of three shoeboxes and labeled “jewelry,” and set it carefully on the floor before sitting. Theresa and I took a seat on the sofa. I placed the recorder on the table and flipped the switch. We pulled out our notepads.
“May I see some ID, please?” I asked.
She stared at me blankly. “Why? I already told you my name.”
“For confirmation of your identity,” I said. “Routine. Since you’re moving, I’ll also need your new address.”
Her eyes narrowed. “All right.”
She jumped up in a huff, left the room, and returned with her purse. A Coach, like Baker’s. She removed a card from a high-end wallet and handed it to me. Her California driver’s license was issued to Patricia Gwen O’Riley.
The address on the license was not this one. I jotted it down and gave the license back. “What kind of car do you own?”
“Toyota Corolla. White.”
“Plate number?” I could’ve gotten it from DMV, but why not get it while we were there? She dug in her purse, pulled out the wallet, and removed her vehicle registration, giving it to me.
“Where are you moving to, in case we need to reach you?”
She picked up documents from the coffee table and handed them across. “This is my new lease.”
I wrote the details in my notepad and passed the papers to Theresa.
“Let’s start with where you were Monday night.”
She lowered her gaze to her lap and twisted a sapphire and diamond ring. Buying time, or thinking about where she’d been that night?
“What time?” She didn’t look up.
“Tell me where you were from six o’clock until nine,” I said.
She focused on a box across the room as she chewed a long, well-shaped fingernail, painted the color of pineapples.
Interesting.
A little different, but it worked for her. The lady had a sense of style—I’d give her that.
She gazed at me and tossed her dark waves over her shoulder, head tilted. “I was home. All night.”
I locked eyes with her. “What did you do at home ... all night?”
“Let’s see.” She swapped chewing her nails with biting her lip. “I watched TV.”
“What was showing?”
“I don’t remember. Do you remember what you watched?”
“Do you know a Montgomery Harrington?” I asked, talking over her defensiveness and aggression.
Her eyes narrowed. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Why didn’t you meet him for dinner Monday?”
Her brows knitted together. “How did you know about that?”
“Answer the question.” From the corner of my eye, I could see Theresa watching me, but I was not in the mood to be nice today.
“What’s going on?” Patricia leaned back, wary.
“Why didn’t you meet Mr. Harrington?”
“I was sick.”
“What was wrong with you?” I asked.
Her gaze shifted away. “Some type of stomach bug maybe.”
“Mr. Harrington was attacked that night.” I hammered the words home. “Did you know that?”
Her eyes widened. “And you think I did it?”
“Did you?” Theresa chimed in.
Patricia’s head jerked in Theresa’s direction. “Of course not! That’s ridiculous.”
Theresa moved to the edge of her seat, elbows on her knees. “Listen. We think you weren’t home all night,” she whispered.
“Excuse me?” Patricia scowled.
“You heard me. Did you step out for a few minutes?” Theresa’s voice flowed like honey. “Maybe to the store to get something for your ... illness?”
“I was home ... all night.” She leaned back and crossed her arms, but she looked spooked. “I told you that already.”
“Okay. You’re sticking to your story?” I gave the wor
ds a ring of finality.
“I am, and I have nothing else to say to you. Now, get out of my apartment,” she said, picking up the recorder and turning it off. “And take this thing with you.” She pushed it at me, jumped to her feet, and marched to the door. She jerked it open and waited, hands on her hips, until we stepped through. The door slammed behind us.
Theresa snorted. “That went well.”
We marched through the parking lot, heading for the car.
“Better than well.” I held the recorder by the opposite end from where Patricia had touched it.
Theresa’s brows lifted. “Prints?” She double-pumped her fist. “Hot damn! I missed that!”
“We may have caught a break.” I slid the recorder in an evidence bag and left it on the back seat. “Let’s get that back and have it dusted. Maybe the prints can be compared to any found on the Scrabble pieces.”
“What do you think of her story?” Theresa slipped her notepad into her purse.
“Pure bullshit.”
“Agreed. Do you still think she didn’t attack Harrington?”
“I’m not sure, but she knows more than she’s telling.” I slid into the driver’s seat and pulled from the lot while Theresa was buckling up.
Slow poke.
“If she didn’t do it herself, she could be protecting the person who did. But, who would that be?”
“The choices are limited, I’d think.” I merged onto the 215.
“What about her sister’s husband? The one who works for County Social Services.”
“Camp.” I shrugged. “Could be. He definitely seemed nervous last time we spoke.”
“Did you ask him where he was that night yet?”
“No. My mistake. I was focused on finding Patricia.”
“Why don’t we swing by CSS and ask him?”
“Sounds like a plan. Let’s do that.”
Yeah, Theresa was good backup for Bernie.
When we arrived at Camp’s office, he wasn’t there. We hurried to Carmen’s office. She was reading something on her computer, leaning close.
I knocked on the door. “Carmen?”
She jumped. “Detective Valentine!” She clutched her chest, then laughed. “You scared me. I was in the zone, focused on what I was doing.”
“Nothing wrong with being focused. Is Mark Camp in today?” I asked.
The Protector Page 20
