Before we rolled out of the parking lot, I set a cell phone reminder to call Brad before the end of the day. I needed to tell him I’d be with Josh for the weekend. While in the zone, I texted Brad to wish him, “Good morning.”
I sniffed the air. “Smells like strawberries in here.”
“It does. And it’s too strong.” Bernie cranked up the A/C, blowing more of the fruity scent about.
“That doesn’t help.” An air freshener had been clipped to the vent in front of me. “Who put that there?” I plucked it off and tossed it in the backseat. “How’s Khrystal? I haven’t spoken to her in ages.”
“She’s been having some problems.”
I turned in my seat. Bernie was pale. With dark crescents underneath, his bloodshot eyes showed fatigue and worry.
“What kind of problems? Serious?”
“It can be. Doctors called it hyperemesis gravidarum.”
“Sounds scary.” My palms began to sweat, and I rubbed them on my pants. “What is it?”
“Severe morning sickness. Her doctor told us twenty percent of women experience it throughout their entire pregnancy. She’s been vomiting a lot. She almost fainted, so I took her to the ER. That’s why I called off yesterday.”
“Oh, no! What happened? What did they say?”
“She was dehydrated.”
“I’m sorry, Bernie.” I felt a twinge of guilt for thinking he’d been hungover. “Can I do anything for her? I should call.” I pulled out my cell phone.
Bernie raised a hand to stop me. “She was finally sleeping when I left.”
“You’re exhausted, too. And the baby? It’s okay?”
When Bernie smiled, his eyes lit up. “So far, so good.”
“I’m glad.” My phone beeped twice. Brad replied to my good morning text with one of his own and added a goofy emoticon. I resisted the urge to smile because I knew Bernie was watching me. Why did I care? The second text was from Mac. She wanted to know if I was still planning to babysit Josh.
I texted back, “Of course!” Her response was, “K. Just checking in case something came up on your end.”
Was I that unreliable? I didn’t think so. I only ever canceled at the last minute when it was work related. It wasn’t my fault people killed each other. I stared at her text, ready to fire off a defensive response.
“Syd, we’re here. That’s their house.” Bernie pointed. “Nice, huh?” He pulled up to the curb and cut the engine.
“Yeah. Doctor and lawyers don’t work for minimum wage.” I followed him up the driveway to the front door.
While Bernie pushed the doorbell, I looked around at the nearby yards. Several of their neighbors had no lawns. Instead, they’d opted for drought-tolerant shrubs, various succulents, and flowers. Even though the place looked like an expensive oasis, I found it relaxing in a non-indulgent sort of way. I didn’t want a front lawn if I could help it. Mowing grass was not high on my list of enjoyable things to do on the weekends—or ever.
Finally, the locks disengaged, and the door swung open. A blast of cool air hit me, and it felt good. The slim woman was in good shape and about my height, with dyed-blonde hair. Although her face was smooth, her neck and décolletage were like spotted crepe. They showed her age and then some. Despite her physique, she appeared older than her husband, even considering his excess weight. Sun damage on her part, I guessed. She wore yoga pants and a knit top, and she stood barefoot.
Bernie introduced us and added, “We’re here to see Mrs. Moore.”
“I’m Joan Moore. My husband told me about the house situation. He’ll be down in a minute.” She pulled open the door. “Please come in. It’s dreadfully hot out there.”
Their home was like a walk-in freezer. Were they polar bears or what? I rubbed my arms.
“We were going to have iced tea on the deck. Please join us.” She glided through the house and out to an enclosed deck. CNN showed on the flat-screen TV in the corner. She muted it with the remote. The sun glared at us through the tinted glass of the room and warmed it somewhat, but the air was still frigid. Joan sat in a wrought-iron chair at a matching table with smoky tinted glass. They sure liked their wrought iron. Bernie and I took seats next to each other at the table.
I shivered as I flipped on the recorder. “Has your husband spoken to you about your daughter?”
“Yes, he mentioned you needed to know where she was.” Joan reached for the pitcher of tea. “Would you like some?”
Hell no.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“Yes please,” Bernie said.
I stared at the polar bear beside me.
She poured him a glass and slid it across the table. “May I ask why you need to find Jennifer? Do you think she’s committed a crime?”
“We’re interviewing anyone who had access to your house,” I said. “Your husband told us he didn’t know where she was.”
“I see.” She nodded slowly and sipped her tea.
The door opened, and we all turned to look. The man himself had arrived.
“Hello, Detectives. Sorry for my tardiness, I had a conference call. Have I missed anything?” He pulled out the chair next to his wife and dropped into it. The chair creaked in protest.
“We’re just getting started. Mrs. Moore, do you know where your daughter is?” Bernie asked.
She stared at a cactus terrarium the size of a twenty-pound watermelon on the table, then her gaze followed a hummingbird in the backyard.
“Mrs. Moore?” I said. “Do you know where Jennifer is? Maybe her address?”
She watched the condensation dribble down the glass then wiped her hands on a napkin. “I don’t know. Not exactly.”
I leaned in. “What does that mean?”
Who doesn’t know their child’s home address?
“I don’t know where she lives,” she said, avoiding eye contact. “I’m sorry.” I could barely hear her.
Someone’s cell phone chimed. Dr. Moore reached in his pocket and glanced at the display. “I’m sorry. I have to take this. Excuse me.” He left the table and stepped inside the house, closing the door behind him.
“Mrs. Moore, do you know how to reach your daughter?” Bernie asked, his voice firm and commanding.
“She’s a good kid. Just … mixed up.” She looked me in the eye, then her gaze slid to Bernie. “Jennifer doesn’t take advice well.”
I tried a different tactic. “When did you last speak to her?”
“Three or four days ago.” Her lip trembled. “Oh God, she looked so thin.”
“How do you contact her?”
“I don’t. She calls me. I try to take her somewhere to eat. She needs to eat better.”
As a drug addict, Jennifer probably needed a lot more than food.
I sighed. “Mrs. Moore, we need to speak with her.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know when I’ll hear from her again. I don’t know if I’ll hear from her again. Every time I see her, I fear it could be the last.”
“Do you give her money?” I asked. Parents usually did—at least enablers did.
She nodded. “I do. My husband insisted that we let her hit rock bottom,” she whimpered, tears spilling onto her cheeks, “but she’s my baby. I try to help. I-I keep clean clothes and toiletries in my car for her. Do you know how it feels when you can’t help your own child?” She plucked a tissue from a decorative silver holder on the table and dabbed at her eyes. “If she’d simply listen to me, her life would be better.” She sobbed. “But she won’t listen. She prefers to listen to those people she runs around with, but what do they know?”
I turned to a fresh page in my notebook and slid the notebook to her. “Please write down the names and contact information of her friends.”
“I don’t know her friends. Not the ones she took up with once she started on the … drugs.”
“Then give me a list of the friends you know from the past.” I gave her my pen.
She opened a drawer on a table,
retrieved an address book, and flipped through it. She picked up the pen, paused with it over the page, then copied information from the address book. I watched her closely; she seemed to be barely holding it together. I had the feeling her anxiety had more to do with her lack of control over Jennifer’s life and decisions than with anything else. When she finished, she’d given us three names—two females and one male, all in San Sansolita.
“I’m not sure about the addresses. We all lost track once our children went their separate ways. Those are the last addresses I have for the parents. I don’t know where their children live now.”
“Do you have a recent picture of Jennifer?” Bernie asked.
Smiling bravely, Mrs. Moore nodded. “I have some from about a year ago before and after she went to her last rehab. We took a vacation, to celebrate.” She stood, wiping her hands on her pants. “I’ll get them for you.” She left the deck and pulled the door closed behind her.
“Could Jennifer be the perp?” Bernie asked.
“We don’t even know how the victim died. Maybe a perp doesn’t exist. What’s taking Dr. Lee so long in determining how and when she died?”
“Call her and find out.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Moore stepped through, carrying a small photo album. “This is from our vacation. I keep it separate from the other family photos because it was a victory. Well, I thought so at the time. Turned out to be short-lived, though.” She slipped several photos from beneath their cellophane sleeves and handed them to us.
In the pictures, Jennifer’s clothes hung on her loosely. She appeared frail, but she was smiling. I glanced at Bernie, who shook his head. We’d seen it before, many times. Jennifer would have to fight hard to claw her way back out of her addiction—if she wanted to.
Mrs. Moore flipped through the remaining photos in the album, smiled again, and ran a finger over Jennifer’s face.
Jennifer’s straight blonde hair was just above shoulder-length and blunt cut. I pointed to the sores and scabs in the photo. “When you saw Jennifer, did she have these sores on her face?”
“She had a few small ones, barely noticeable.” She shook her head. “She could’ve had a good life. What kind of existence is it to beg for money all day?”
Jennifer’s face was scarred—from picking at imaginary bugs. Crank bugs were hallucinations some meth users experienced. It caused them to believe bugs were crawling on or under their skin. I shuddered at the thought.
“Mrs. Moore, can we keep a few of these photos? At least one should be a close-up of her face, please.” I said.
“Yes. Sure. Please call me Joan.” She removed three photos from the album and stared at them for a few moments before sliding them across the table.
“Okay. Where do you meet Jennifer when you give her money?” Bernie asked.
“At the Denny’s on Fourth Street.”
“All right. The next time you hear from her, please call us, and give her this card if you see her.” I handed her a couple of business cards and packed up the recorder, notebook, and the photos. “It’s important.”
Mrs. Moore took the cards. “Okay. I’ll call.” She led us back through the house to the front door. “I’ll give her your card, but I can’t promise she’ll call. She lives in the moment and doesn’t always make the best decisions.”
Dr. Moore came from another room as we passed and followed us. “I’m sorry I missed the conversation. I hope it was a successful visit.”
I slipped a copy of the photo of Jane Doe from my pocket. “Before we go can you take a look at this photo and tell us if you recognize her?” I gave the photo to Joan.
She held the photo up and shook her head. “I’ve never seen her before.” She handed it to her husband. “I’m sorry.”
He took the photo and studied it. “No, I’m afraid not.” He gave it back. “This appears to be the same woman from the image you showed me on your phone previously.”
“Yes, she is,” I answered.
“That’s a tragedy. Well, I hope you find out who she is and what happened to the poor girl. Her family must be worried sick.”
“I’m sure they are,” Bernie said. “Please let us know if you think of anything else.”
“We will.” Mrs. Moore opened the door and we left.
As we buckled up, I pondered whether Joan would call us if she heard from Jennifer. I didn’t think she would. She was protecting her daughter.
Bernie pulled away from the curb and headed back to San Sansolita—and a more reasonable temperature. If I had to live in Palm Springs, I would never leave the comfort of my air conditioning.
“How about some lunch?” I asked.
“Denny’s sounds good.”
On the way, I called Dr. Lee and asked if there’d been any progress with Jane Doe. There hadn’t been. She was in the field on another case involving a murder-suicide at a popular local political figure’s home. I ended by telling her a preliminary report would suffice if we could get one.
7
We reached the San Sansolita Denny’s after the lunch crowd had dispersed. Lucky for us. No waiting. In the mood for breakfast, I ordered pancakes. Bernie chose the Build-Your-Own Burger and included every ingredient known to man on the damn thing. Who put cucumbers and shredded carrots on a cheeseburger? Gross. Those weren’t even on the list of options, but the waitress let him do it. He also had a pile of fries to go with his burger, and he shoved a few into his bun and proceeded to eat every scrap. I doubted he would need to eat for the next two weeks. I avoided watching him eat the mess and focused on my own meal.
When Sandy, our stick of a waitress, returned to check on us, I showed her one of the photos of Jennifer.
She frowned as she held the photo. “She looks familiar. I think she comes in here occasionally. Can’t say for sure, though.”
“Do you normally work this shift?” I asked, sliding my notebook out of my pocket.
“I do, but I’m part-time. You might want to ask Becca.” She pointed to a tiny waitress across the room who looked about twelve years old. “She works full-time and covers other shifts.” She returned the photo and took her water pitcher to refill glasses at her other tables.
When Becca hurried past, Bernie flagged her down. She had large round eyes the color of iced tea framed by thick long lashes. As cute as a button, she had braces and her hair was reddish-brown, with a stubby ponytail brushing the nape of her neck. Becca reminded me of a young Bambi.
“Can I get somethin’ else for y’all?” She set a stack of menus on the table and had her pad out, even though we weren’t sitting in her section.
Bernie handed her a photo of Jennifer. “Have you seen this woman before? In here or anywhere else?”
“Yeah, I think I’ve seen her. Do y’all have any other pictures?”
I gave her one of the close-ups.
She tapped the face with her pencil. “Yeah, definitely.” She handed the photos back. “What did she do?”
“Nothing that we know of. We’d just like to talk to her. Where have you seen her?” I asked.
“In the parkin’ lot. Beggin’ for money.”
“What time of day?” Bernie asked.
“All times. Nights, too. The managers make her and her friends leave when they catch ’em out there.”
“Do you remember the last time you saw her?” I sipped my ice water.
“Sure do. Yesterday.” She’d placed her hand on her hip, all attitude.
“What happened?” I kept writing. We’d been lucky to find this information.
“I was hoppin’ mad ’cause a big group of people I waited on that night didn’t leave me a tip. Not a dime.” She narrowed her Bambi eyes.
“All right. Go on.” Bernie wrote in his notebook.
“I was goin’ to my car, and she came from out of nowhere. Scared the heck out of me.”
“Then what happened?” I asked.
“She asked for money. Said she was tryin’ to take the bus to someplace, but they all s
ay that.”
Bernie looked up. “Did you give her any money?”
She whirled on him. “Do I look like Bank of America or Goodwill to y’all?” she scoffed. “I ignored her.”
Bernie handed her a business card and a five-dollar bill. “Thanks. If you see her again or think of anything else, please call us.”
Becca slipped the card and money in her pocket. “Sure will. Thanks, Detective.” She grabbed her menus and strolled to another table.
I left a tip on the table for our waitress and headed to the front to pay the bill. Afterward, we returned to the station, where reports were calling our names.
Oh, the joy.
As I stepped out of the car in the station parking lot my cell phone rang, but I didn’t recognize the number on the display.
“Who is it?” Bernie asked.
I shrugged, said, “No idea,” and accepted the call.
“Detective Valentine? This is Monica. Monica Stewart.”
I raised my brows. “Thanks for getting in touch, Ms. Stewart.” I glanced at Bernie and pointed to the phone, as if he couldn’t figure it out for himself.
“I’ve been kind of busy. Sorry it took so long to get back to you,” she whispered. I wondered who she was afraid would overhear.
“We need to talk to you.”
“I can’t talk to you now.”
Then why call me?
“Can we meet you somewhere?”
“I don’t want to be seen with you in San Sansolita. Too many eyes and ears there.”
“Give me a time and place.” I hoped she would say right now. Reports could wait.
Silence. Paper rustled in the background then gum smacked. Why did people make phone calls right before putting something in their mouth?
So rude.
“Ms. Stewart?”
“Meet me at the McDonald’s in Yucaipa. Now. It’s right off the exit.”
We walked into the Yucaipa McDonald’s, and Bernie went straight to the counter for coffee and I asked for a bottle of water. Monica sat in a booth near a window toward the back. She raised a hand and waved us over.
Criminal Negligence Page 5
