"It doesn't have to be all that you are. There's too much stress in your job and you need an outlet."
I slurped my smoothie, licked the straw. "Okay. I'll give you that. But, I know how to channel my stress and divert it. Channel and divert."
"Yeah, like you channeled it into Monty Bradford's nose after he was acquitted for raping Allison."
"I wasn't on the job yet, so it doesn't count." I flashed a wide grin at her and turned back to the laptop. "And if you can't come up with anything else I think I'm doing just fine. Thank you very much."
"Give me time and I'll think of more."
"Now I have to deal with him again, though."
"What?" She scooted her chair closer, leaned her arms on the table. "Why?"
"He's the brother-in-law of Ann Baker."
"Wait. Ann Baker's sister married that creep?" She pulled her glass toward her, then peered at me. "Do you think he killed her?"
"I don't know if he had anything to do with it, but if he did..." I pushed my chair back, took my glass to the sink. "...I'll do my damndest to make sure his ass doesn't walk this time."
Later that morning, I drove while Bernie rode shotgun on the way to the CSS offices to interview some of Baker's co-workers. "I know we're talking to the guard, but who else is on our radar for today?" It started to rain and I switched on the wipers.
"First, we see Mark Camps, a therapist." He ran his finger down the list. "Then we talk to Geraldine Smythe, a Supervisor II. That's t-w-o, not too, as in also."
"All right. Baker was a supervisor, but with no numbers after her title." I rolled into the crowded CSS parking lot and scanned it for a place to park.
"Over there." Bernie pointed. "They have visitors' slots." He turned and looked out the rear window. "And they're close to the entrance."
I backed up and headed toward the spaces he'd suggested. "Crap. They only allow parking for thirty minutes."
He turned in his seat. "And the problem is?"
"We don't know how long we'll be there, but I'm sure it'll be longer than that." I turned left and went down another row looking for an available space. I was stuck behind someone waiting for somebody to leave. "There's an empty space two slots down. Lazy people piss me off." I drove around the waiting vehicle and glared at the driver as I passed. In my mind, I also gave the driver the finger. Hey, cops are human, too.
"Aw, c'mon Syd. Nobody cares how long somebody parks in the visitor spaces."
"It's not going to hurt us to walk a little farther. And when I say us, I mean you. You're getting a little pudgy around the middle, Porky."
He sucked in his stomach. "Ever since Khrystal moved in I've been gaining weight." He pulled his arms through his brown suede jacket, folded it and laid it on his lap. "She gave me this jacket last week. It'll be ruined by the rain."
"Far be it from me to ruin Khrystal's gift to you the first week you've had it." I turned the corner and went up another row.
"Porky or not, I'd still beat you in a 10K."
"Doubtful." I slid into a spot five spaces from the entrance, but not in a visitor's slot. "How's this? It's not raining anymore anyway."
"It's too warm for the jacket. I think I'll leave it in the car."
"Oh, for the love of..." I pushed open my door and stepped out into a puddle. "Crap." I hopped out and stomped my feet.
Bernie stood on the other side of the car and smiled. "You're so easy to mess with."
I glared at him and narrowed my eyes. "Eat shit." I strode toward the building entrance, leaving him standing there with that stupid grin on his smug face.
Chapter Six
We entered the building to find the reception area empty. No guard. While Bernie viewed the visitors' log, I examined the building's directory of occupants. The directory, enclosed in a glass case on the wall, had a lock on it. To keep people from changing it, confusing the unwary visitor? It listed the various CSS departments and the floor they occupied. Since I didn't know Mark Camps' department, it wasn't helpful. I heard someone around the corner clear their throat and sauntered toward the sound. An elderly man with a halo of white hair encircling his bald head limped down the hall, tucking his shirt inside his pants. He was dressed in a uniform of black pants, white shirt, and a narrow black tie. The guard? I joined Bernie and waited. The man whistled as he came around the corner.
"Can I help you folks?" He wore a CSS badge clipped to his shirt pocket. It indicated his name was Homer Cooper. Yep, he looked like a Homer Cooper, all right. He eased into the guards' alcove, picked up a stack of stapled papers and placed them on a lower shelf. Busy work.
"We're here to see Mark Camps," Bernie said.
"Didja sign in?" Mr. Cooper removed his glasses from his shirt pocket and put them on. He pulled the visitors' log toward him, glanced at it, and nudged it toward me.
I grabbed the pen attached to the alcove counter by a chain and signed my name, the time of day, and the person I came to see. I noticed Bernie had already done so.
"Okie dokie." Mr. Cooper retrieved the log and glanced at it again. "Mark Camps is on the second floor." He pointed to the elevator behind us. "Take the elevator and follow the signs for room 212."
We found Camps sitting at his desk eating lunch, a whole-wheat pita stuffed with vegetables. I also smelled garlic. A creamy sauce was drizzled over the top. My type of lunch. Some of the sauce had made it onto the corner of his mouth. He took several gulps of bottled water as he motioned for us to sit in the orange plastic chairs facing his desk. He wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin. Fancy schmancy, are we? We introduced ourselves.
"Detectives, what can I help you with?" He placed his pita sandwich in a Ziploc bag, then put it in a Coleman cooler sitting on his desk. "Excuse me for eating while you're here. I have an appointment after we're done and I won't have time to eat before then."
Bernie flipped the recorder switch. "No problem. Did you ever work with Ann Baker on cases?" Bernie asked.
Camps cleared his throat. "I've been in TDM sessions with her, but we've never worked together on any cases."
"What's TDM?" I asked.
"Team Decision Making. That's when therapists, social workers, supervisors, and parents involved in reunification get together periodically to evaluate the parents' progress. We talk about the case plan, problems the parents are experiencing as they progress through the program, and adjustments we might want to make to their services. For example, if we feel a parent needs additional therapy, like for depression or something, we may offer it."
"How well did you know her?" Bernie coughed into his hand several times. All of a sudden, he sounded congested. "Excuse me." He reached for a tissue from the box Camps had pushed toward him on his desk and blew his nose. "Thank you." Maybe he was allergic to all of the healthy food in the room.
"I didn't know her well at all." Camps glanced at his watch.
"As far as you know, did she get along with co-workers?" I asked.
"I've seen her be confrontational with some people. With others, she was helpful and encouraging."
Someone knocked on the door, then opened it. We all turned in unison. A svelte and striking woman peeked in. She wore a blue A-line dress with matching pumps. Her sleek black hair hung to her shoulders. A light touch of pale pink lipstick appeared to be all that she wore in makeup. "Excuse me. You about ready?" She spoke with a Southern accent dripping with honey.
"Detectives, my wife, Fran." Camps glanced at his watch. "Are we done? We've got an appointment we can't miss." He stood, placed his water bottle in the cooler and zipped it closed.
I turned to Bernie. He shrugged. "Sure," I said. "We can get in touch with you if we need to." I took the recorder and wondered if I should disinfect it first.
"Which office is Ms. Smythe in?" Bernie grabbed some tissues, then stood.
"She's in 223. Out the door, make a right. She's halfway down the hall on the opposite side."
Ms. Smythe's office door was open and she was on the phone, but she waved
us in. We sat in the guest chairs opposite her desk. Bernie had blown his nose on the way to Ms. Smythe's office. He'd balled it up and looked around. I noticed Ms. Smythe's trash can around the corner from her desk near my chair and pushed it toward Bernie with my foot.
"Sorry about that." Ms. Smythe replaced the receiver on her phone and wrote something in what appeared to be a day planner, which she snapped shut.
We introduced ourselves and showed ID. "Ms. Smythe, did you ever work with Ann Baker?" I asked.
"I hadn't much. No. But, I did work on cases that used to be hers several years ago, and then another time last year."
"Used to be hers? Why did you get them?" I asked.
"The first time was because she was pregnant and took a leave of absence."
"She has a child?" I asked.
Bernie lifted a shoulder. "This is the first we've heard of this. When did that happen?" His eyes were watery.
"Oh, I don't know. It’s been a long time."
"Okay, we'll talk to HR about the leave of absence if we need the information. What happened the next time you were assigned her cases?" I asked.
"That's when she got the promotion. Her cases were split up amongst me and other workers and therapists."
"Based on the case files you were assigned, can you tell us what type of worker she was?" I asked.
She tsked. "I sure can." She looked away, then looked me in the eyes. "Understand, I don't like speaking ill of the dead, but I sometimes wondered why she chose this profession." She shook her head, then her phone rang. "Excuse me." The call sounded urgent. A foster child had run away.
Sweat dotted Bernie's flushed face. "Bernie, I think you're too sick to be working and should go home. I bet you have a fever." What I meant was that he was too sick to be working around me.
He wiped his forehead with a tissue and stood. I caught Ms. Smythe's attention and pointed to the door. She nodded and we left her office and the CSS building without talking to Mr. Cooper again.
Late the next morning, the LT paired me up with a different partner because her partner, Pete Ramsey, and Bernie were both out sick. Theresa and Pete had just closed a case, so she was available to ride along with me. We planned to head over to CSS to interview Mr. Cooper.
We strolled across the station parking lot toward our car. Theresa was African-American and about five-seven. She wore her dark brown hair in a short natural with reddish highlights throughout. Her caramel skin glowed. "How long have you been with San Sansolita PD?"
"Six years. They used me a few times in Vice and we broke some cases."
"How do you like working in Property Crimes?" I unlocked our car doors.
She shrugged. "It doesn't seem as dangerous as Vice, but it has its moments."
"Uh, huh. How are the guys treating you?"
"Okay, I guess." She glanced at me, then away. "I mean...well, sometimes I get the feeling they think I can't handle it. I haven't been a detective long. You know?"
I nodded. "There aren't many female detectives here, so some of the guys make you feel like you've got to prove yourself more than they do." I turned toward her. "It's not fair, I know."
"They seem to respect you. How'd you do it?"
"I kicked ass at the academy."
Theresa laughed. "I got better scores than some of the guys in my classes."
I glanced at her. "I meant that I physically took a couple of them down. Word gets around."
"You beat them up?" Her brow furrowed.
"Not exactly. But, to be fair, I had my share of being on the losing end, too. I got tossed around."
"I'm surprised you took them down." She blinked. "I mean...you're not that much taller or bigger than me."
"My dad taught me martial arts and how to box when I was a kid. Sometimes technique gets the job done. Not size. I don't know. Maybe I got lucky with my opponents."
"I wish my dad would've taught me something like that." She laughed. "You're lucky."
"Yeah. I realize that. He told me to be mature about it and don't go around kickin' butt just because I could."
"Did you listen to him?" She acted as if she knew what was coming.
I shrugged. "Mostly."
"Tell me what happened." Theresa was laughing now.
"It was justified. The school bully was picking on my sister and I couldn't allow that."
"Aww. Girl, that's sweet. Your younger sister?"
"No. Same age. We're twins."
"Cool. I've never known an identical twin before."
"And you still don't. We're fraternal twins." I pulled into the CSS parking lot.
"What happened to the bully?"
"He cried and I got in trouble for fighting. But he left Mac alone after that."
Theresa and I entered the CSS building and spotted Mr. Cooper reading at his desk in the guards' alcove. He flipped a page in a best-selling mystery novel, his lips moving as he read. I'd read the novel myself. As entertaining as it was, I found the plot unlikely to occur in real life. We waited a few moments, then I cleared my throat.
"Oh. Sorry, ladies." He groaned as he got to his feet, marked his place with a scrap of paper and laid it down next to his workstation keyboard. "A real page-turner, that one." He hiked up his pants, glanced at the book. "What can I do you for?"
I began to wonder if this was a common occurrence. I decided it was. A person could enter the building unnoticed, even though he sat right there. "Mr. Cooper, I'm Detective Sydney Valentine and this is Detective Theresa Sinclair."
He pointed at me, doing the tap point people do when they're trying to remember someone's name or face. "You're the one who came by here not too long ago." He studied Theresa and squinted over the rim of his glasses, which had slid down his nose. “But, not with you."
"No. Not with me." Theresa stepped up. "But, I'm here now. Which days do you work, Mr. Cooper?"
Mr. Cooper stood taller, stuck his chest out. "Uh, Thursday and Friday. I'm retired."
"Today's Wednesday, but you're here." Theresa lifted her gaze from her notepad.
"Right. I'm working Barb's day," he said. "She had something to do."
"Were you here last Thursday and Friday?" I asked.
"I was here Thursday." He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief he'd pulled from his back pocket. Then blew his nose with it. "I left early Thursday. The flu."
I envisioned him wiping his forehead with that snot-crusted handkerchief later in the day. My stomach lurched. I don't know why, since dead bodies don't flip my stomach. Then again, I'm not wiping them across my face. "Who replaces you on the days you're not scheduled to work?"
"They call Barb. She works Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday."
I recalled seeing a Barbara Henry on the list I had received from Edith Jones, the HR Director. "What happens when neither of you can work?"
Mr. Cooper scratched his bald head, which was speckled with age spots. "Well, I reckon someone from Facilities will cover if it's just for a day or two." He eased himself into his tall office chair. "Please 'scuse me. Gotta sit. Bad hip." He rubbed his hip.
I made a note to speak to Edith Jones about Mr. Cooper's replacement last Thursday, if there had been a replacement. Since I'd already decided the guard was there for show, it wouldn't surprise me if the guards' alcove had been unattended for the remainder of the day. "Mr. Cooper, I think that's about all for now. Thank you." I turned to leave.
"I have another question," Theresa said.
I stopped, studied her, and blinked. "Go ahead."
"Mr. Cooper, does someone replace you when you take breaks?" She wrote in her notebook.
"Sometimes, but not usually."
Theresa lifted her gaze from her notepad again. "Are the doors locked when you're on a break?"
He snorted. "Nope. They don't lock until six o'clock."
"Do people sign in on their own when you're not at the desk?" I asked.
"If they want. Most don't bother." He looked from me to Theresa.
"So, they ju
st walk right in and wander the building?" Theresa asked.
"Yep. I've seen people get off the elevator and come to the desk to ask where to find someone's office and I've never laid eyes on 'em before." He shrugged. "I just ask 'em to sign in."
"Do you happen to know who replaced you after you went home sick Thursday?" I asked.
"Sure don't." He looked up at the ceiling, scratched his cheek. "Barb would be my first guess though."
"Okay, I don't have anything else." I looked at Theresa. "Do you?"
"Nah. I'm good." She turned to Mr. Cooper. "Thank you, sir." She leaned on the counter. "My grandma rubs her bad hip with peppermint oil and says it helps."
Mr. Cooper smiled. "Thank you, Detective." He pushed himself off the chair with a grunt and limped away.
I approached the automatic doors and they opened. I turned to Theresa. "What do you think?"
She looked toward the empty guard alcove before stepping outside, then shook her head. "I think nobody replaced him Thursday."
"Right. Anyone could've come in here and waited until most of the employees left or wandered around without anyone knowing."
Theresa nodded. "And if he was sick, I bet he was in the bathroom a lot."
"I'd say the chances are pretty good the desk was unmanned."
"Or unstaffed." Theresa smiled.
"If you want to be politically correct," I said.
She nodded. "I want to be." Theresa strutted off ahead of me toward the car.
"Well, damn," I said under my breath, as I rolled my eyes. "Excuuuuse me."
Theresa turned. "You're excused." She smiled, winked, and continued to the car.
"By the way, I have the car keys!" I moseyed after her. She laughed, and so did I.
Chapter Seven
Later that evening, I sat at the bar in Chili's and waited for my date to arrive. I'd decided to take the plunge and try one of my online dates. Greg said he was five-ten and 35 years old. He taught high school English. My stomach rumbled. The smell of roasted, grilled, and fried food, never mind watching the greedy patrons gobbling it up, didn't help. If we clicked, perhaps dinner would be on the agenda. I sipped a glass of Sprite and kept an eye on the entrance. While I waited, I texted my dad. My parents were due home from a two-week cruise to Copenhagen, Denmark, tomorrow. I asked if they still planned to host dinner for us tomorrow evening. They’d invited Mac’s family and me for dinner before they left for the cruise.
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 5
