Criminal Negligence

by Danielle L Davis

  Mac and Mike followed us to the door.

  “It was nice meeting you, Brad. Finally,” Mac said, flicking a glance my way.

  Mike shook Brad’s hand, smiling. “We’ll be in touch. Thanks for helping our son. And Sydney, too.”

  “No problem. Bye, Josh,” Brad said.

  Josh was standing next to Mike, clinging to his leg. “Bye, Mr. Brad.” He smiled and waved.

  Brad followed me to my car.

  I opened my car door and turned toward him. “You were great with Josh. We should do this again soon.”

  “Oh, we will.” He grinned, pulling me to him. “You still owe me dinner, and I intend to collect.” He gave me a quick peck. “By the way, I liked your hair when it was wet—the color of an old penny. It’s lighter and looks shorter now it’s dry, but it’s still pretty.” He tugged a curl, and it sprung back into place. “I’ve always wanted to do that.” He winked and sauntered away, whistling.

  I watched him go, then looked at my clothes. I still hadn’t brushed my teeth, bathed, or done any personal grooming. What a slob—a slob with a tangled mess of pretty, penny-colored hair. I shut my car’s door and hurried back to the house, wondering how Mac could have let me leave the house looking like that. I rushed back inside, showered, and slathered tons of conditioner into my hair to help with the tangles. I brushed my teeth and pulled on a pair of Levi’s and a black T-shirt. I hopped in my car and headed to the address on Sixth Avenue.

  14

  Half an hour later, I arrived at the address Dispatch had given me. A shiny black Mercedes convertible occupied half the driveway. Nice car. Monica must’ve done well as a real estate agent. I jotted down the vehicle’s model and license plate, checked the DMV, and learned the car was registered to Vincent Frakes. Interesting, but hardly a surprise.

  Maybe I would finally get to meet the guy.

  I stepped from my car and strolled up to the front door, rang the doorbell, and waited. The door opened slightly. One bloodshot blue eye peered at me from the slit.

  What the…

  “Detective Valentine!” Monica opened the door and waved me in. “Hurry.”

  I entered the house and turned to look at her. “What’s going on, Monica?” Her breasts overflowed from the jade silk robe like rolls of bread rising from a pan. The fabric strained. That couldn’t have been comfortable. And why wasn’t she dressed yet?

  “Have you talked to Sylvia?” She looked around the room.

  I looked, too. What were we looking for?

  “I haven’t spoken to Sylvia recently. Why? Have you?”

  “It’s all wrong.” She paced. Her robe flapped behind her, and the matching feathered high-heel mules clicked on the tile floor. Her hair, still brown but mussed, appeared as if she’d just gotten out of bed, but I was willing to bet it had taken her a while to style it that way. Her makeup had also been applied with some effort, though more understated than when I’d first met her at Frakes Realty. Still, a bit much for a Sunday morning. But what did I know? I rarely wore any. Darn it, I’d almost left Mac’s house without even brushing my teeth.

  Monica must have been expecting company. Or was he already here? Vincent Frakes?

  “What’s wrong?” I lost my patience—what little I had. I wanted to go home. Well, to Mac’s house. I needed to contact the management company about my apartment restoration. My mind was wandering. “Monica, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”

  Spit it out woman, or I’m out of here. I’ve got places to go—and people to see.

  “I think something’s happened to Vincent.” She scanned the room again. “It’s not right.” She tried to pull the robe tighter over her chest, but the skimpy fabric made it impossible. Her hands trembled as she pushed her hair away from her face. “He should have contacted me by now.”

  Says the mistress. Maybe he was with his wife. Ever thought of that?

  I sighed, stifled a yawn, then stole a glance at the grandfather clock in the corner. I’d been there for a few minutes and still had no clue as to why Monica had called. “Can we sit down?”

  I ambled to the slate-blue leather sofa, and her mules clicked behind me. I sank into the sofa and, still sore from my struggle in the pool then sleeping on the sofa recliner with Brad, I wanted to lie down and stretch out.

  “Start from the beginning.”

  I reluctantly pulled out my notebook and pen, certain she was going to tell me about a lovers’ spat between a cheater and his mistress. Monica stared off into space—the look she’d had when I first met her, when I thought her not very bright. The jury was still out on that.

  “Well? Tell me.”

  “The beginning? Well, I met Vincent a few years ago.”

  Good grief. Not that beginning, but oh well. Maybe something will come of it.

  I let her talk. As it turned out, she’d met Vincent while she was engaged to be married. Portrero Meyer Homes hired her in a light clerical position, where she spent most of her time answering the phones. After talking for a half hour, Monica looked at her clothing. She apologized and excused herself, saying she would only be a minute.

  Right.

  While I waited, I texted Brad and we made plans to get together at his place later. I promised to make dinner for us there since I didn’t want to impose upon Mac. Plus, the lack of privacy at her house bothered me.

  A barefoot Monica returned wearing a white macramé top and denim cutoffs with strategically placed holes. I’d seen shorts like that at Macy’s, but I saw no reason to spend money on clothes that already had holes in them.

  Call me old-fashioned.

  She took a seat and picked up her story where she’d left off. At Vincent’s suggestion, she’d studied for her real estate agent’s license and passed the exam on the first try. They’d grown closer, and he had even paid for her braces, without Sylvia’s knowledge. She talked for another half hour, regularly checking her cell phone for texts. Once she ran out of steam, I had a few questions of my own and figured I had better get answers while she was still in a talkative frame of mind.

  “Why do you think something happened to Vincent? Maybe he’s with his wife.”

  “Because I haven’t spoken to him.” She practically pouted. “He called twice but didn’t leave a message. I called him back, and it went straight to voicemail.”

  “Monica, maybe he’s with his wife and is busy. He forgot.” I swept my hand around the room. “Is this his house? Their house?”

  “Of course not! It’s mine.” If she’d been standing, she would’ve stomped her foot. Instead, she crossed her arms and huffed.

  “And the Benz in the driveway?” I wrote her answers down.

  “Mine. Vincent gave it to me.” She turned her nose up, actually pouting now.

  How generous of him.

  I leaned closer to her. “What happened to Frakes Realty? I went by there, and the office was cleaned out.”

  She shrugged. “They’re having problems. Like … marital problems.”

  “That doesn’t explain what happened to Frakes Realty. Did they relocate?”

  “That’s Sylvia’s thing. Vincent mostly deals with the new construction built by Portrero Meyer. Of course, Sylvia is the only agent for the homes.” She tsked.

  Jealousy? If Sylvia’s father had started Portrero Meyer Homes, it made sense she would reap the rewards of that venture. “When did Vincent get back into town?”

  “I don’t know. We should’ve spoken to each other by now.” She checked her cell phone again. “We’re playing phone tag, and he’s not leaving messages.”

  “Is it unusual for him to call without leaving a voicemail?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “Sometimes he does that when he’s busy. Mostly, he leaves messages.”

  “Have you texted him?”

  “Yes, and he responded and told me he was busy and would call me. He does, but I end up missing the call. Bad timing, I guess.”

  “And because you haven’t spoken, yo
u think something bad has happened to him? That’s why I’m here?” I felt like sliding my notebook back into my purse and getting out of there. “Seems a little drastic.”

  Or paranoid.

  “You don’t understand!” She hopped up and began to pace. “Sylvia said she’d take everything he had and then some.”

  “Is Frakes Realty his company or hers?” Maybe she’d already started the taking.

  “His. Vincent started it before they met, but she runs it. She always said they were partners. I don’t know if that’s true. Like I said, he runs Portrero Meyer Homes.” She stopped pacing and stared at me.

  “What?” I was ready to get out of there and talk to Sylvia—if I could find her. They probably owned property nobody knew about. I needed to do more digging.

  “She always resented him for that. For being the one to call the shots at Portrero.”

  Can’t say I blamed her. Sylvia Frakes’ father had started the company then let her husband run it? Not good. “Do you know where I can find Sylvia? I need an address.”

  “I sure do.” She hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a Gucci crocodile tote bag from a bar stool. She rifled through it, tossing candy wrappers and tissues on the counter. “Here.” She shoved a slip of paper at me.

  I took it and read what it said, but couldn’t place the street. “Is this her residence or is it another business address?”

  “It’s their house. She’s been talking about selling it, though.”

  I slid the paper into my purse and packed away my notebook. “Does Vincent have any other family? Maybe he’s visiting them.”

  “His parents died a long time ago. He had a sister, but she passed away, too.”

  “When did she die?” It might be something useful for the case, but I was mostly just curious. Once again, I took out my notebook and pen.

  “Freda died in a car accident. Vincent told me a truck ran a red light and T-boned her on the driver’s side. She died instantly. Her daughter was in the car, too. She was hurt but survived.”

  I wrote it all down. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “No. I think that’s it.”

  We stood and headed to the door. She opened it and I handed her another business card I’d removed from my pocket. I assumed she’d misplaced the other one if she’d called Dispatch to get in touch with me.

  I headed to my car, wondering if she hoped I wouldn’t find Vincent at home—with his wife. In my car, I called Bernie to update him, although I didn’t plan to see Sylvia right away. It could wait. Vincent had not been registered as a missing person, and no threats of physical harm had been made. I believed he’d just left Monica, the worried mistress—nothing more. Still, she’d provided me with some new information I could chase up the following day.

  On my way to the station, I took a detour to stop by my apartment to pick up a few things and check on the restoration progress. Since the manager had extinguished most of the flames in the other apartment by the time the fire department arrived, I only had to deal with smoke removal from my place. The insurance company brought in a smoke remediation service, who told them it wouldn’t take long to get my apartment back into shape.

  15

  When I arrived at my apartment building, I headed around the back before going in. I wanted to see the sliding-glass door that had been manipulated to gain entry to the adjoining apartment, but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary at my bedroom window. It appeared secure; the screen was back in place. My own slider looked fine, other than the smudges. Next, I walked to the empty apartment’s glass door, which was crystal clear with not a smudge in sight. In fact, from inside, someone watched me. An African American man in his early thirties with a cropped haircut and wiry build peered at me through the closed window. I waved, smiled, and flashed my badge. That did it. He offered a smile and slid the door open a crack.

  “Is there a problem, Officer?” His gaze followed mine to the door’s track. It appeared new.

  I didn’t correct him on my job title, deciding to keep it friendly—and unofficial, even though I’d flashed my badge. The badge opened doors, literally. Which was why so many evildoers posed as law enforcement.

  “Hi, I’m Sydney, and I live next door.” I jerked a thumb toward my apartment. “I don’t know if you knew there was a fire here and it affected my apartment, too.”

  He slid the door aside a bit more and stepped outside, holding out his hand. His dark-brown eyes smiled. “I’m Craig. The management told me there was a fire. The carpet was removed and there’s some construction materials stacked in the other room.”

  We shook hands.

  “Nice to meet you. May I ask when you moved in?”

  “It was supposed to be yesterday. They offered me another apartment two doors down instead. They forgot to ask me for the key to this place. I shouldn’t be here but I was curious.”

  I nodded. “Hope you like it here.” I backed away. “Nice meeting you.”

  He waved and went back inside.

  I headed around the front of the building and checked my mail box before going inside. Mostly junk mail and my electric and credit card bills. “What a waste of paper.”

  I dropped all the fliers and sales ads in the trash near the entrance and stuffed the bills in my purse, wondering why the apartment management hadn’t called to tell me the apartment next door had been repaired. I assumed that meant mine was okay, too. I unlocked my door and took a step inside. Everything seemed to be as I’d left it. A faint smoke odor lingered in the bedroom, though. That was probably from my clothes and bed linens. My carpet had been cleaned. I grabbed a suitcase and rolled it to my car. After tossing it in the trunk, I climbed behind the wheel and called the apartment manager to confirm it was okay to move back in. Before driving off, I invited Brad to my place for dinner instead of me going to his house. I wanted to be home and intended to pick his brain about real estate transactions—for my own personal purposes and for the case.

  After picking up my belongings from Mac’s, I stopped at the grocery store. Then, at home, I marinated salmon steaks and portobello mushrooms. I dressed in white cargo capris, a pale-green T-shirt, and white sandals. The color of the top complemented my dark-auburn hair, which I left loose, cascading over my shoulders. Brad said he liked it that way.

  While waiting, I updated Bernie on the case and asked if he had any new information. Also, I wanted to know how Khrystal was doing. So far, so good, he told me. I promised to stop by to see Khrystal soon. After ending the conversation, my text notification buzzed with a message from Brad saying he was a few minutes away. My phone battery was low, and I set it in its charging stand in the living room.

  The doorbell chimed as I was picking tomatoes from my container gardens. Figuring it was Brad, my stomach quivered. After dropping the tomatoes on the counter and smoothing my hair, I pulled open the door.

  “Hi, Sydney.” My new neighbor stood at my door, a crooked smile plastered on his clean-shaven face and a bottle of red wine in his hand.

  Oh no.

  “Hi, Craig.” I attempted to look past him for Brad.

  Craig held up the bottle. “I thought if you weren’t doing anything, you could join me for a glass of wine.” He flashed a smile again. “If you’re not busy.” His smile twitched.

  “Craig, I’m sorry. I’m expecting company.” I was growing nervous.

  Had I given him the impression I was interested and available?

  “Maybe another time then?” He took a step back but didn’t turn toward his apartment.

  A red truck turned the corner down the street and headed toward us. “Maybe, but I have to tell you I’m seeing someone.” The truck drew closer. Brad’s F-150.

  “Well, it wouldn’t have to be a date. Just two people hanging out, enjoying a glass of wine.” And there was that smile again. The guy must’ve bathed in cologne, too. I didn’t recall the overwhelming urge to turn my head and take a breath when I first met him.

  I poi
nted to Brad’s truck pulling up to the curb. “Here he comes now.” I hoped Craig would get the hint and get moving because I didn’t want a scene with Brad. I wasn’t one to juggle men. I could barely make time for one.

  I was sure Brad’s long strides weren’t the sole reason he’d arrived quickly. His jaw pulsed.

  Uh-oh.

  We hadn’t exactly established our relationship as exclusive, but maybe it was time for that conversation.

  Still grinning, Craig stretched out a hand toward Brad in greeting. “Hi, I’m Craig. I just moved in next door.” He pointed the wine bottle in the direction of his apartment.

  Brad eyed Craig’s hand and the wine then looked at me. He shook Craig’s hand, clearly squeezing harder than necessary. Craig grimaced and quickly squelched it.

  Brad moved to stand next to me and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Hey, Sydney.” He wrapped an arm around my waist, claiming me.

  Men!

  He turned to Craig. “It was nice meeting you.” He pushed open the door and stepped inside, holding my hand, practically dragging me with him.

  “Have a good evening, Craig,” I said.

  Craig finally got the hint. “See you later, Sydney.” He shuffled away, head down.

  I stumbled inside and closed the door. “Well, that was rude.” I frowned at Brad.

  “Yeah, the guy wouldn’t go away. What’s up with that?”

  I stood, hands on hips, scowling. “Not him. You!” I jabbed him in the chest.

  “Huh? Me?” He laid a hand to his chest, acting innocent and holding my finger. He wasn’t fooling me. He knew what he’d done. “I was nice to him. Did you tell him you were dating someone?”

  “Don’t change the subject.” I headed to the kitchen. “You were rude, and I don’t like it.” I shredded the lettuce for the salad, ripping it as though it had committed a felony.

  “Sydney, he was hitting on you. He even had the nerve to bring wine! I’m not going to stand there and let some guy hit on my woman.”