The Protector

by Danielle L Davis

  “All right! I left!” She dropped her forehead into her trembling hands and looked down, shaking her head.

  Now we were getting somewhere. It was about time. “Where did you go?”

  “To the store, like the other detective said at my apartment. I went to the store.” Her heel tapped the tile floor.

  “Which store?”

  “Walgreens. For medicine.” She rocked in her seat, hugging herself.

  “Which Walgreens?”

  “The one on Center Street?”

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  “Statement. That’s the store.”

  “It’s near Mr. Harrington’s condo. What time was it?”

  “Eight o’clock? I-I don’t know.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “Uh ... Alka-Seltzer.” Her gaze flitted around the room. Once again, she raked her fingers through her messy hair. “Where’s my water? I’m thirsty.”

  I eyed the door, knowing Theresa was watching the monitor. “I’ll go check.” I left the room and closed the door. Theresa was waiting outside with the water.

  “What do you think?” I asked.

  “She’s still lying,” Theresa said, watching Patricia on the screen.

  “Yeah, I know. She either did it or she’s protecting the person who did.”

  “Want me to take a run at her?” Theresa held up the water. “I’ll give her the water.”

  “All right. Go for it.” I leaned against the wall and watched the action on the monitor.

  Theresa slid the water across the table toward Patricia and leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Listen. We just want to help you. If we find out later that you knew something and someone else gets hurt, you’re going to be an accessory to that crime.”

  Patricia frowned. “What’s an accessory?”

  “It means you’re guilty of failing to report a crime was committed, or you knew another crime could be committed by this person.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s serious. Talk to me, Patricia.” Theresa was doing the good cop, using the “I just want to help you” posture. “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything.” She glared, all done with us.

  After batting a few more questions and answers across the table, Theresa stood, left the room, and joined me. “You have any ideas?” She looked thoughtful.

  “No, but she didn’t ask for a lawyer. Why don’t you go work on a search warrant? We want one for her apartment. Maybe we’ll find a motorcycle, Scrabble game, and a baseball bat. Come back when you’re done. I’m heading back in.” I waited until she headed down the hall before entering the interview room and sitting next to Patricia, real close, once again braving the stench of stale cigarettes.

  She glared and leaned away. “I can’t help you.”

  “Unfortunately for you, there’s one problem with that.”

  “Yeah?” Her eyes narrowed. Good. Angry people made mistakes.

  “Besides your phone being in the vicinity of Mr. Harrington’s condo, we have your prints on something left at the scene.”

  “No way! I didn’t leave any prints anywhere.” She looked around the room, her eyes shiny. She sprang to her feet.

  I slammed the flat of my hand on the table. The slap echoed through the confined space. “Sit down!”

  She gasped and stared at me before dropping into her chair. “I’m telling the truth. I didn’t hurt him. I didn’t hurt anybody.” She shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut.

  “Do you know who did hurt him?” I locked eyes with her. “Tell me what you know.”

  “I can’t. I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I just don’t know.” She sobbed, cradling her head in her arms on the table.

  “I’m going to ask you again. Look at me.” I wanted to see her eyes.

  She didn’t budge.

  “Look at me!”

  She jumped, then raised her head, sniffling. She didn’t resemble Rebecca anymore. Hell, she didn’t resemble herself anymore.

  “What?” she asked, her voice timid.

  “We can lock you up. You know that?”

  She shrugged.

  “All right. I’ll start the paperwork.” I stood and crossed to the door.

  “Wait!”

  I turned but kept my hand on the doorknob. “What is it?”

  “Okay. I don’t know what happened, but I’ll tell you what I do know. Can I go after that?”

  “I can’t make any promises. Your prints were lifted from evidence found at the scene. We’re still checking for your prints at other crime scenes.”

  “I wasn’t at any crime scenes!” She rubbed her arms.

  “If your prints are found at more crime scenes, it won’t look good for you. If you have an explanation, you’d better start talking.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening to me.” Her hand trembled as she pushed hair away from her face once more. “I’ve never even had a parking ticket.”

  “Start talking.”

  “I’m just not sure and don’t want to get anyone in trouble.”

  “Let me explain something to you in case you haven’t figured it out.” I leaned in close. “Right now, you’re the one in trouble.”

  She stared, blinking rapidly.

  I opened the door and Theresa entered.

  “I’m done with her.” I didn’t have to pretend to be in bad cop mode now. “It’s time to lock her up.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Watch me.” I kicked her chair. “Get up.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Theresa said.

  She grabbed Patricia by the arm and led her away to be processed. I wanted to punch something—or someone—but made do with storming to my desk.

  After I’d calmed down and Theresa had booked Patricia into holding, we drove to the Camps’ home to discuss the phone call made to Patricia. The Toyota Prius sat in the driveway. We marched up to the door and it opened.

  “Detectives, I don’t have time to answer questions now.” Camp stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Make the time or you can come to the station with us and answer our questions there.” I stood before him. “Your choice. It makes no difference to me.”

  He glanced at his car, then his watch, and groaned. “Oh, all right.” He unlocked the door and entered his house.

  Theresa and I followed. I took out my notepad.

  “What’s this about now?” Camp stood in the living room, scowling.

  “This is about your phone call to Patricia O’Riley on Monday evening between seven and eight o’clock.”

  “I didn’t call Patricia that Monday night. I’m certain of it.”

  I pulled out the phone records and showed him the call. “Is this your cell phone number?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “Yes, it is.”

  “Well, then let’s say a call was made from your phone to Patricia’s,” I said.

  Camp shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

  “Too bad because we need an explanation.”

  Camp plopped onto the sofa. “I was at the adoption class that night.”

  “Right.” I put the phone records in my purse and sat in a chair. The recorder went on the ottoman.

  Theresa settled on the opposite end of the sofa and asked, “Did you call her during a break?”

  Camp stared at her as though he hadn’t noticed her until that moment. “People were asking me questions during the break, so I didn’t get one.” He continued to shake his head. “Why does this matter?”

  “Why did you leave the adoption class?” I flipped through my notes. Carmen Delgado hadn’t been sure how long he’d been gone.

  “How did you … oh, Carmen.” He rubbed the back of his neck and stretched it. “I had a personal matter to attend to.”

  “What specific personal matter?”

  “My wife wasn’t feeling well, and I was worried, so I left to check on her.�
��

  “What was wrong with Fran?” I asked.

  “She was really sick. and I was worried. That’s all.” He focused on the floor. “Anything else?”

  “Where is Fran now?”

  “She had a doctor’s appointment.” Camp stood and paced, then dropped into a chair once more.

  “What kind of doctor?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “Answer the question.” I tried to lock eyes with him, but it wasn’t easy because he was looking at everything in the room except me, which was enough for me to get a read. I let the silence drag out.

  Camp stared at the floor for several moments, then peered at me through tear-filled eyes.

  All right. Now we’re cooking.

  29

  The doorknob twisted and we all looked toward it. Rebecca pranced into the house in a tight knit dress and heels that must’ve been at least six inches in height. “Hey, Marky! Having a party without me? Shame on you.”

  Marky?

  “It’s not a party.” He wiped his eyes and glared at me. “You have to leave now.”

  Yeah, right.

  I was going nowhere.

  “We’re not done yet, Mr. Camp.”

  “Marky, what are you up to?” Rebecca perched on the arm of Camp’s chair, crossed her slender legs, and ruffled his hair.

  “Stop.” Camp leaned away from her and smoothed his hair.

  What in the hell was going on here?

  “Okay, what’s the story here?” I waved my finger between the two of them. “What do you two have going on?”

  “Nothing. You have to go.” Camp pushed himself to his feet, but Rebecca shoved him back down. Who was in charge?

  “Baby, where are you going?” she said, pouting. She puckered her lips and leaned toward him. “Give Becky some sugar.”

  Camp stood and paced. Perspiration stained his shirt. For the first time, he looked me in the eye. “Please. Can we do this another time?” He glanced sideways at Rebecca.

  I shook my head. “My partner and I aren’t going anywhere. I want to talk to Fran.”

  Rebecca leaned her head back and laughed, slapping her thigh. “Fran? You can’t talk to her. Franny’s gone. Poof, like smoke in the rain.”

  Camp spun around toward her. “She’s. Not. Gone.”

  “Oh, but she is. She couldn’t handle it. Poor thing.” Rebecca dropped sideways into the chair and hung her long legs over the edge, ankles crossed.

  “What do you mean gone?” I stared at her.

  “G-O-N-E. Gone with the wind—and I’m not talking about the movie.” She smirked.

  “Shut up!” Camp screamed. Spittle sprayed the air. Some clung to his lips. The man had turned rabid angry.

  I watched him. “Where’s Fran?” I demanded, getting tired of repeating myself.

  “I told you. She went to a doctor’s appointment.” Camp swiped his hand across his mouth.

  “Marky’s always been a wuss. Haven’t you, Marky?”

  Camp rushed over and got in her face. “Shut your mouth!”

  Theresa and I forced our way between them. Theresa pulled Camp aside. Rebecca sat there swinging her legs, grinning. She sure knew how to push his buttons.

  I closed in on her. “You need to explain what you meant when you said Fran wasn’t able to handle it. Handle what?”

  Rebecca had climbed to the top of my shit list.

  She shrugged. “Life. Fran couldn’t handle life.”

  I was beginning to wonder about Camp and turned to him. “She’s talking in past tense.”

  Camp’s nostrils flared as he glared at Rebecca.

  “Did she commit suicide?”

  Rebecca slapped her thigh. “Hell no! Franny didn’t have the guts to do that. I wouldn’t let her anyway.”

  “Why not? You don’t seem to like her much,” I said.

  Hell, she didn’t seem to like Camp either. Did she like anyone she wasn’t sleeping with?

  “Yeah. You’re right. I didn’t like her. She was a wimp. I didn’t respect her, but I needed her.” She glanced at Camp. “Right, Marky?”

  She dug through her purse, pulling out a pack of Kools.

  Great. Another smoker.

  “And Patricia? How does she fit in?”

  “She doesn’t. She’s a tramp,” Rebecca said.

  Takes one to know one.

  Rebecca pulled a lighter from her purse.

  “You know you can’t smoke in here!” Camp said through gritted teeth.

  I’d had enough of their arguing. I turned to Theresa. “Can you take him into the kitchen?” When they left the room, I stood over Rebecca. “It’s just you and me now. Tell me where Fran is, or I’ll take you down to the station and we can talk there.”

  I’d love to get you into Interrogation—on my turf.

  “Well, now, here’s the thing. I don’t have to go if I don’t want to. I’ve dated cops and lawyers. I know the law.” She winked.

  I wanted to slap that smug smile from her face—and the wink, too.

  “From what you’ve said, I’m getting the idea you’ve done something to Fran Camp. We all heard you and it’s recorded.” I pointed to the recorder. “You ever heard of probable cause?” I raised my brows and flashed a smirk—the same kind she’d been giving me.

  She looked around the room. “I didn’t do anything to Franny. She did it to herself.”

  “Did what to herself? You’re talking in riddles.” She was a piece of work and I wasn’t in the mood. Not anymore. I headed to the kitchen. “Camp, call Fran’s doctor and find out if she ever made it to her appointment.”

  He removed his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at the display. “There’s no signal.”

  Theresa took her phone out and handed it to him. “Try mine.”

  I left the kitchen and approached Rebecca, the bitch from hell.

  “I’m telling you, Franny is fine.” Rebecca held up her fingers. “Girl Scout’s honor.” She swung her legs around to the front of the chair and started to stand.

  I stood in front of her. “Sit down!”

  “I just want a smoke. Sheesh.” She leaned back and looked over her shoulder at Camp. “Marky has a stick up his ass, as usual—and so do you.”

  I leaned down and got in her face again. “Where’s Fran?”

  “You sound like a broken record—or a parrot—Detective Whatever.”

  Theresa and Camp came into the living room. Camp’s face was flushed. The man was going to stroke out if he didn’t get a grip.

  “What did you find out?”

  “Fran kept her appointment and left an hour ago,” Theresa whispered.

  Then where the hell is she?

  I stared at Camp. “Would she have come right home after her appointment?”

  “Yes. I’m sure she’s fine. Detectives, can we talk later?” He hurried to the door, taking long strides. He couldn’t wait for us to leave.

  I didn’t move. “We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Why are you trying to get rid of them, Marky? Got something to hide?” Rebecca put her feet up on the ottoman. “Or is it someone to hide?”

  Camp snarled, charged across the room, and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. She clawed and kicked at him. Theresa and I pulled them apart. Part of me didn’t want to get there too quickly.

  Camp slumped on the sofa, trembling. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Becky.” He cradled his face in his hands, shaking his head. Sorry for shaking her—or something else?

  “We’re going to have to cuff you if you don’t settle down,” Theresa said. “She could press charges, you know. Do you want to press charges, Rebecca?”

  We all looked at Rebecca, expecting a nasty response. She had curled up in a fetal position in the chair, rocking herself. She scanned the room, fear and confusion in her eyes. She shivered and sobbed. Camp leapt from the sofa and headed toward her.

  What now?

  Her eyes widened, and she put her hands up. “No! Get away!” she shr
ieked in the voice of a young girl.

  What the hell?

  “Camp, get back!” I got between them. “Stay away from her.”

  “She’s not talking about me. She needs me.” He lurched toward Rebecca.

  I held him. Theresa pushed him back, then cuffed him. He twisted away and fell to the floor on his stomach. We left him there.

  “I need to go to her.” Camp struggled and rolled.

  “Don’t hurt me. No!” Rebecca cringed, made herself smaller, and pushed her face into the back cushion. She kept her wary eyes on us. “Cecil, don’t hurt me. I promise I’ll be good. I won’t tell.”

  “Cecil?” Theresa frowned. “Judge Cecil Franklin?”

  All of a sudden, a bunch of puzzle pieces fell into place. “How many Cecils have you known in your life?” My voice came out gritty. I eased closer, sitting on the edge of the sofa near her. “Nobody’s going to hurt you, Rebecca.”

  She turned her head around slowly and gazed at me. “I’m not Rebecca,” she whispered.

  I shuddered at the picture the puzzle pieces were making. The tips of icy fingers crept down my spine. I turned to Camp, who’d managed to flip onto his back. “What’s going on here?”

  He stared at the ceiling, shaking his head. Tears streamed down the side of his face.

  I leaned toward Rebecca. “What’s your name?” I spoke softly.

  “Janey.”

  Oh boy.

  “That’s a pretty name.” I forced a smile. “How old are you, Janey?”

  She held up seven fingers.

  Shit.

  I locked eyes with Theresa, jerked my head toward the door and met her over there.

  “We need the Psych Unit,” I said.

  “No kidding. I’ll take care of it.”

  She took out her cell phone.

  I focused on Rebecca—I meant Janey. Whoever. “Janey, we’re going to help you.”

  She put a finger to her lips. “Shush. Don’t let Cecil find out,” she whispered, eyes wide.

  “Who’s Cecil?”

  “My foster brother.” She sniffled. “What time is it?”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s almost four o’clock.”

  Janey’s gaze darted about the room. “Oh, no! He’ll be home from school. I want Blanky and Ted.”

  “Who?” I looked around the room.

  “The ottoman storage compartment. Lift the lid,” Camp said, his voice hushed, breaking.