Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery)

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  Mrs. Johnson hurried us into a room with floor to ceiling glass on one wall, revealing a panoramic view of the backyard. Two redheaded boys played with a young fawn-and-white Boxer. Built-in cherry wood bookcases lined the other three walls of the room. Dozens of dolls filled the shelves. Not just any dolls, but U.S. presidential dolls. I spotted a president wearing denim jeans with a leather bomber jacket. I'm ashamed to admit that I didn't recognize the president. Eisenhower? History was not my best subject. I wondered if the dolls wore underwear too. Boxers or briefs?

  "Over here!" Mrs. Johnson hurried to a lower shelf and pointed. Bernie and I stared at the dismembered dolls. A few had their plastic heads or limbs pulled off. Red liquid soaked others and puddled on the shelf. It looked a lot like blood.

  "Mrs. Johnson, we're here because of a call regarding a possible homicide...of a person." I continued to gawk at the shelves, not believing we were here for doll maiming. "What is it you expect us to do?"

  She returned a blank stare, but her eyes moistened. "Someone hurt them." She picked up the separated head and trunk of a Bill Clinton doll, which had an arm and leg missing. "See?" This one had wavy silver hair. Another Clinton doll sat next to it. This one was intact and porcelain with darker, thicker hair. Remarkable, if I must say so myself. Bernie’s phone vibrated.

  "I got this." He moved away, then turned with raised eyebrows and a grin behind Mrs. Johnson's back to circle his finger next to his temple before he made his escape. I nodded. Rich people!

  "Mrs. Johnson, these are dolls, not people." I sauntered to the shelf where the other Clinton doll lay, leaned over and sniffed. Ketchup. I glanced her way and noticed a tear squeeze from the corner of her eye.

  "I know they're dolls. I'm not crazy." She stared at the Clinton doll she held. "But, they're like people to me."

  I gazed at the rows of dolls, wondering how much she'd spent on them over the years.

  Mrs. Johnson sniffled. "I just thought with the murder of Cynthia Harrington's sister, the same person might have hurt my dolls too."

  I spun toward her. "How did you know about her sister?" I pulled out my notebook, flipped it open. "We just notified the family."

  "It was on the news this morning." Her hands trembled as she attempted to put the doll together.

  I reached for the doll. "Let me get that for you." I pushed Clinton's head onto the torso and it made a popping sound. Mrs. Johnson gasped.

  "This isn't the first tragedy that family's had, you know." She flinched while I twisted on Clinton's separated limbs.

  "No? What else happened?" I ambled to the shelf.

  "Their daughter Annabelle was killed in a car accident, oh, about five or six years ago, I'd say." She studied me.

  I dropped the doll on the shelf. "What happened?"

  She peered at the ceiling and bit her lower lip. "If I remember correctly, the nanny picked her up from school and she lost control of the car. They both died." She removed the doll I'd placed on the shelf and put it on a different shelf, patting it before she walked away. She stepped away, then went back to nudge Clinton a millimeter to the left. "I did volunteer work at a Boxer rescue with Cynthia Harrington back then. She had a breakdown when her daughter died."

  "Which Boxer rescue was this?"

  "The same one where I got Frankie, my Boxer." She pointed outside at the dog running around with the boys. "BRLA, Boxer Rescue Los Angeles. Have you heard of it?"

  I nodded. "I do volunteer work there, too. I didn't realize Cynthia Harrington volunteered."

  "She doesn't anymore. She quit after her breakdown, but I heard she still donates a lot to several animal rescue groups."

  I noticed a toy dart behind Reagan. The plastic dart had a removable suction cup tip. I didn't realize they still made those. I held it out to her. "The assassins left a clue."

  Our gazes slid to the window across the room. The alleged assassins watched through the window with their freckled faces pressed to the foggy glass and their hands cupped around their heads. We strode toward them and they scampered to the center of the yard, climbed the rope ladder to the tree house and ducked in.

  "My grandsons." She reached for the brass handle to the French doors and made a growling sound. That growl shot my poppin' fresh grandma image all to hell. She marched across the lawn and I turned and departed the room of presidents. Bernie leaned against the wall in the hallway with one leg crossed over the other, and still on the phone. I kept going and waited for him at the door. When he finished, I opened the door and he followed me out.

  "What was the call about?" I asked.

  "The ME had something for us on Baker." He clicked the car doors open.

  I settled into my seat as my stomach growled, protesting its lack of nutrition thus far today. "What did Dr. Lee say?"

  "She said there was evidence of Baker having had sexual intercourse before she died."

  "Rape?"

  "She saw no evidence of forcible rape," Bernie said.

  "All right. Maybe we can have the condom the Forensic Unit found tested for her DNA. What else?"

  "She said Baker had multiple contusions, a broken neck, a fractured skull and nose. Her left ear lobe had ripped where an earring tore through it. I assume the missing earring would match the one still in the other ear, but you never know with some people. It wasn't found at the scene."

  "Did the broken neck kill her?" I rifled through my purse looking for something to eat. No luck. "Let's stop and get a bite."

  "She said the broken nose and neck were most likely caused by the fall, but not the skull fracture." He pulled into the parking lot of a Denny's. "The broken neck killed her."

  "Why doesn't she think the skull fracture was from the stairs?"

  "I asked the same question. She believes an object with a smooth curved surface, like a baseball bat was used." He faced me. "The skull fracture would've killed her if she hadn't broken her neck."

  "Did she tell you the time of death?" I asked.

  "Between eight and midnight." He turned to me. "Dr. Lee also found three Scrabble letters in that baggie we saw in Baker's mouth."

  "What the hell?" As hungry as I was, I didn't move. "Was it a message?"

  "Maybe, but I don't know what the message could be." He opened his door. "The letters were two R's, and a T."

  "Hunh. Can I buy a vowel for chrissakes?"

  Bernie and I spent several hours interviewing Baker's co-workers the following day, which was a Sunday. Nobody seemed to know her very well. So, not much progress there. I had dinner at Mac's, then went home and crashed early.

  The next day started out as a gorgeous spring day for my morning training run with Mac. Sparrows chirped and splashed in puddles along the side of the road.

  Mac and I dragged ourselves back to my apartment after a vigorous morning run. Mac exceeded her previous distance and beat her fastest time since she'd started this newest health kick.

  She stopped, bent at the waist, reached for her toes and bounced. "I went to a bachelorette party Saturday at the Doubletree downtown."

  I plopped onto the grass to stretch my hamstrings. "Who's getting married?" I felt the back of my sweat pants. Wet. Crap. Now, I'd look like I wet my pants. That brought back memories of Kindergarten when I'd peed in my pants twice. Mac still teased me about it from time to time. Every so often, she asks if I remember. How could I forget? She'd never let me. She interrupted my trip down memory lane.

  "Marjorie's getting married." Her head upside down and ponytail flopping, she peered at me. She groaned and stood tall, reaching her arms up, stretching. "But, that's not why I mentioned it."

  "Why'd you mention it?" I switched legs. "This isn't another pitch for me to set up an online personal ad is it?"

  "No." She sat next to me. "Ewww. The grass is wet!" She hopped up, wiping her hands on the front of her sweats. She glared at me. "Why didn't you tell me?" Miss Priss unzipped her fanny pack and removed tissues. They shredded as she used them to wipe her hands. She had pastel flowe
rs painted on her nails.

  In response to her question, I did the palms up shrug and tried to look innocent. "Anyway, so it's not about the personal ad. What is it about then?"

  "It's not good, Syd." She gazed down the street. "I'm not sure how to say this." She was whispering, but her words seemed to hang in the air, as if she was about to tell me she had a week to live...or I did.

  I pushed myself up, leaned on a palm tree and kicked one leg behind me. I grabbed my ankle and pulled it toward my rear, stretching my quad. I could feel how wet the back of my sweats had gotten. Maybe the prank wasn't such a good idea. "Just say it." I dropped my foot, tapped my watch. "Times-a-tickin'."

  "When I left the party I saw Bernie going into The Place." She looked away. "You know. Down the street. The Place." She locked eyes with me and raised her brows, making her look like a nut case.

  "What place down the street? Be more specific." I leaned over and touched my toes.

  "The Place." She enunciated each syllable and drew out the last word.

  "The Place? The gay bar?" My hand flew to my forehead.

  Mac touched the tip of her nose, then pointed her finger at me and nodded. "Bingo."

  "What the hell was he doing going in there?"

  "I have no idea, but I thought I'd let you know because he and Khrystal met through you. I mean...she's your friend."

  I turned toward home. Maybe Bernie had a look-alike in town. Maybe Mac had had too much to drink. That wasn't like her, but I didn't know what else to think. Well, I did, but didn't want to go there. Not now. Not ever. "Are you sure it was him? Maybe it wasn't."

  "Of course I'm sure." She followed me. "I couldn't see at first, because of the rain. My friend Kelly was with me and she wanted to go inside. I didn't want to go in so I did some surveillance outside to confirm it."

  "Surveillance?" I laughed. "Confirm? Do you even know what surveillance means? What did you do?"

  "Why are you laughing?" She scowled. "You're not the only one who can gather evidence." She stomped away, her arms swinging in a wide arc. The back of her pants were wet, but not as wet as mine felt.

  After chuckling to myself, I chased after her. "What type of evidence did you gather?" I made air quotes around the word 'evidence.' I held back another chuckle.

  "Kelly saw a sign that said there was additional parking on the other side of the building so I drove around there looking for his car."

  "And?"

  "And I found it."

  "Damnit." I don't have a problem with someone being gay. I don't care. My problem is if he's stepping out on Khrystal with men he's meeting there, then he's on the down low. If that's the case, then Bernie's problem was going to be with me. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but it wasn't easy.

  "Are you going to tell him I saw him?" She examined her shoes, kicked a dandelion puff, sending the little parachutes adrift. "What are you going to do?"

  I stared and said nothing. I wasn't sure yet.

  Chapter Four

  I knew Khrystal would be at work this evening, so I paid Bernie a visit. I stood outside their condo door and closed my eyes for a minute, took a few deep breaths. I smelled pizza and could hear a sports game blaring on the television when I knocked.

  "Syd, what are you doing here?" Holding the remote, Bernie looked past me. "Is something wrong?"

  "I hope not. Where were you last Saturday night?" I squeezed past him and plopped onto the sectional. A pizza box sat open on the coffee table. Uneaten crusts and used napkins littered the inside.

  "Well, why don't you make yourself at home?" He stood there, scowling, with his feet spread.

  "Seriously. Where were you?"

  "Do I need a lawyer?" He smirked, but his jaw twitched. He muted the television volume and tossed the remote onto the sofa, then sat on the arm at the opposite end from me.

  "It's important. Please."

  "Please? Where the hell do you get off barging in here treating me like a criminal?" He shoved his fingers through his hair, then grabbed a Heineken from the table, sloshing beer in the air. He took a long pull. His Adam's apple bobbed with each gulp. He stopped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and glared at me.

  I looked him in the eyes. "Were you at a gay bar Saturday night?" He looked away, watched the muted Lakers game, or pretended to. I waited. I had plenty of time.

  He cleared his throat. "What do you want me to say?" He kept his eyes on the television.

  "The truth works for me." I leaned, elbows on my thighs.

  "Not that it's any of your business, but I was there. Not long, but I was there." He glanced in my direction, then looked away. He scratched the whiskers on his chin.

  "Bernie, are you gay?"

  He still didn't look at me. "A friend I used to date called me and asked me for a ride home. She was on a date at a club and they got into an argument. They left the club and the argument escalated. She got out of the car at a stop light. It was late and she was near The Place, so she went inside because of the rain and called me. We talked over a drink. Then, I took her home."

  "Did you sleep with her?" I knew that question was out of line; all these questions were. But, I didn't give a shit at this point.

  "What's with the third degree? I don't ask you about your nights out. Oh! That's right; you don't have any." He gulped his beer, emptied the bottle. He grabbed two more empty bottles from the coffee table, clanking them together as he hurried into the kitchen.

  I sprang from the sofa and followed him. "You don't have to be a prick about it! I don't want to see Khrystal hurt."

  "And you think I do?" He tossed the bottles into the recycle bin and whirled on me. "My relationship with Khrystal is between her and me. It's not any of your business."

  "The hell it isn't. I introduced her to you and if you're cheating on her..." I realized I'd made tight fists and my breathing had changed. I needed to get a grip.

  He glanced at my hands. "What, you want to take a swing at me because you think I cheated on Khrystal?"

  "You once told me she was the best thing in your life. Since she moved in you've been coming to work with creases pressed into your pants and shirts. You even have creases in the jeans you're wearing now." I pointed at his jeans. "She loves you! She doesn't deserve to be treated that way."

  "What way? She's fine. We're fine." Taking long strides, he hurried to the door, opened it and stood aside. "See you at work."

  "Whatever." I marched through the door. "But, think about what you're doing, Bernie."

  He positioned himself inside the doorway, leaned on the doorframe. "Syd, the next time you come into my home and think about hitting me, remember I'm not a scrawny rich kid that can't fight worth shit." He stepped back and closed the door. I expected a slam, but it closed with a mere whisper of a click, which, oddly, had more effect than a slam. Well, so much for that. I didn't find out a damn thing.

  I sat at my desk in my cubicle Monday morning, contemplating the meaning of life. Just kidding. I'd received the CPS employee contact information and Baker's cases. There weren't many who had keys to the building, but that didn't mean some didn't stay to work late that night.

  I had the Scrabble letters left at the scene of Baker's homicide scattered atop my desk. Well, not the letters, but letters from my own personal game of Scrabble. I thought it would be easier to rearrange them on my desk, rather than writing them on paper. My cell phone vibrated. It was a text message from Mac.

  "Hunh." I stared at it. Mac remembered something related to Baker. She'd heard gossip about people not liking her. She said Baker had the reputation of being aggressive and stepped on many toes. She'd burned bridges on her way up the supervisory ladder. Mac's text said people thought Baker was a batch, but I think it was supposed to be bitch. Knowing Mac, she may have entered batch because she doesn't cuss much. It's also possible her phone turned it into 'batch'. I hate when that happens. That's why I added cuss words to the personal dictionary on my cell phone. I don't want my cuss
words sanitized. What would be the fun in that?

  I heard Bernie talking to Pete Ramsey, another detective in our division. Their voices grew louder as they got closer to my cubicle, then receded toward Ramsey's cubicle. Ramsey reeked of Drakkar Noir cologne and cigarette smoke. I would've known it was him even if I hadn't seen him. Moments later, I glanced up and spotted Bernie strolling toward me.

  "Hey, what's going on?" He hadn't shaved in a few days. Trying to grow a beard, I guess. It looked like he'd shaved with a rock. I hadn't noticed when I was at his apartment. Because of his vanity, I gave it another day or two before he couldn't stand it anymore and shaved it off.

  "Look, Bernie...about the other night..."

  He held his hands up, palms facing me. "Don't worry about it. I would've done the same thing." He sat on the corner of my desk with one foot on the floor and the other dangling. He broke off a chunk of my cinnamon bun. "Got the message figured out?"

  "Nope." I watched part of my cinnamon bun go from my desk to his mouth. I hoped his hands were clean. I stared as he took a bite and dipped the rest into his takeout coffee. "But, Mac seemed to think she was asking for it."

  He chewed vigorously. "Oh, yeah?" He popped the last of the bun into his mouth and licked his fingers, wiping his hands on his Dockers. "How so?"

  I handed him a napkin. "Apparently, Baker was a piece of work." I propped my feet up on my desk and leaned back in my chair, hands folded comfortably over my abs. "Not well-liked. By anyone."