"Hi, Mom." I managed a smile. "How was the cruise?"
She looked up, placed a hand to her throat. "Sydney!" She came across the room and stood in front of me, staring at my face. She then held it in hands that smelled of onions. "What happened to you?"
I placed my hands over hers and pulled them away from my face. Mom stared at the abrasions on my hands. I heard Dad's smooth baritone singing The Temptations' My Girl in the backyard. I received Dad's athleticism and curly hair, but the ability to sing on key had bypassed me altogether. I'm guessing he was playing with his new gas grill, purchased before they left for the cruise. The singing grew louder, then the screen to the sliding glass door slid open.
"Pat, the grill's ready..." He saw me and stopped short. "Sydney, what happened?" His dark brows furrowed. He'd put on weight since I'd last seen him and he'd shaved his mustache for the first time in five or six years. It would take some getting used to. His upper lip seemed bare and thin.
"Dad, it's nothing." I tried to smile, but caught the worry in their eyes. "I'm okay."
Dad stared. "You don't look okay."
"You've both seen me banged up before. If I weren't okay I wouldn't be here."
Dad continued to frown and stare. "You fell?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
He nodded, picked up a platter of chicken. "How?"
I swallowed. I heard voices coming toward the house. A child's laughter. Josh. Mac and her family were here. Good.
"We'll talk later." Dad stepped onto the patio. I opened the door and Josh squealed.
"Aunt Syd!" He hugged my legs, jumped up and down.
I bent to pick him up and a sharp pain ripped through my back. "Crap!" I shot back up, rubbing the sore spot.
"Aunt Syd said a potty word!" Josh pointed accusingly at me.
I gazed at him. He reminded me of Mac when we were kids. She was such a tattletale. "What did I say?"
"I'm not allowed to say it." He looked up at Mac. "Right?" Mac's eyebrows had risen high on her forehead, but her eyes smiled. "Mommy!" Josh tugged on Mac's jeans. "Aunt Syd said a potty word!"
"You're right. I did." I eased down on one knee beside him. "What should be my punishment?"
He looked toward the ceiling and put a finger to his chin. "You have to give me your dessert."
We all laughed. I glanced at Mac. She nodded.
"It's a deal, buddy." Still on one knee, I turned my palm toward him. "High five."
He slapped my palm, then ran off to the kitchen. "Grandma!" More giggling.
"I'm going to help Frank." Mike left Mac and me alone.
"Give me a hand." I reached up so Mac could grab my hand. I pushed myself up from the floor.
Mac leaned in. "How are you doing?"
"I'm dealing with it." I watched Mike and Dad outside. Dad opened doors, wiped off spots visible only to him, and pointed out features on the grill. "Why do guys like grilling so much?"
Mac shrugged. "Caveman stuff, maybe." She laughed. "I don't care. As long as I can escape from the kitchen from time to time."
"C'mon, Mike cooks more than that. Mom seems to work more when Dad's grilling though."
"Did you tell them what happened to you?" She was whispering.
"Not yet. I was going to tell them, but they looked so worried, I didn't want to ruin their first evening home."
"You've been hurt before. So have I." Mac glanced toward the kitchen, shrugged. "What's the big deal?"
"I guess it's different this time. It feels different."
"How's it different?"
"Because I, specifically, was possibly followed and targeted. And I didn't see it coming."
"It's personal."
"Right. I need to be more careful."
"Okay. You do that." She touched my arm and ambled into the kitchen. I followed. Josh licked a Popsicle and watched his grandma stir the potato salad.
"Hey. Wanna toss the bean bag outside when you're done with your Popsicle?" I asked him.
"Yay!" He ran around in circles, then tore through the kitchen to the screen door and bounced off it, tumbling to the floor. The Popsicle dropped to the tile floor in a splat of crimson. He looked up at me, chin trembling.
I braced myself for the pain, gritted my teeth with a smile on my face, then scooped him up.
He stared at me, tears threatening to spill. "What happened to your face, Aunt Syd?" He touched my bruises, his own tears forgotten.
"I fell." I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.
He studied me. "Does it hurt?"
"It hurts a little."
He swiped at his tears. "Mommy kisses my boo-boos to make it all better." He gave me a sticky peck on the cheek. I smelled cherry.
"Thank you!" I squeezed him. "I’m feeling better already."
"See? It works!" He wiggled and I set him down. "Let's play bean bag!"
"You got it. Let's go." I followed him, hoping he didn't slam into the screen again. I peeked over my shoulder, glimpsed Mac smiling as she cleaned up the Popsicle.
Under a dark sky, I drove home in the drizzling rain. Halfway home, I received a call from dispatch. There'd been another homicide. Well, there goes my day off.
I stood in the parking lot of a two-story building with County Social Services spelled out on the front. The body lay fifty feet from the building. Except for police vehicles and an SUV I assumed belonged to the victim, the parking lot was empty. The coroner arrived as an ambulance pulled from the parking lot onto the main road. Nobody to save tonight.
I walked around the body. Some of her fingers were bloody and appeared broken. Blood had pooled on the wet pavement from her scalp. A plastic bag protruded from her mouth. No need to guess what the bag held. Bernie strolled my way.
"What do we have here?" Bernie asked. "I noticed the building. Another one?"
"Unfortunately, yes." I shook my head and thought I caught a whiff of alcohol. Bernie must've been out on the town. Feeling a lot better, I guess.
The coroner told us the California driver's license indicated that the victim of the apparent hit and run was Beatrice Menifee. They also confirmed that the SUV in the lot was registered to her.
"We should check to see if her name shows up in anyone's CPS notes." Bernie walked around the body.
"I've got a feeling it will. I'm done here." I put my notebook away. "You done?"
"Yeah. Let's get going." He raked his fingers through his wet hair. We walked to our cars and called it a night. I wondered what Menifee had been doing there tonight.
Chapter Nine
Back at the station the next morning, I read case notes and wrote up more reports. I sipped green tea and chomped on a wheat bagel with fresh strawberries. Bernie hadn't come in yet. We had found out Menifee's estranged parents and siblings lived in Northern California. She had moved to Southern California with a boyfriend, who later broke up with her. She decided to stay in the area. I read Baker's reports and noticed she had been Menifee's social worker before Camps received the case. I flipped through Baker's notes from two years ago and found out Menifee had a more recent boyfriend.
Late that morning, we cruised down the 10 heading to Redlands to see Menifee's boyfriend, Charles Tenley. We took the Alabama Street exit and turned on Redlands Boulevard. Mr. Tenley's sprawling apartment complex was a few blocks down.
"I'll check the directory for building twenty-five." I headed toward the directory. I crossed paths with a tanned, petite woman as she struggled to push a wheelchair. The younger, but larger, male passenger stared straight ahead. They stopped at a wastebasket near the bank of mailbox receptacles.
"It's over there." Bernie gestured to the right and went that way.
I jogged to catch up. "How did you know?"
"I used to date someone who lived in this complex a few years back. She lived in building twenty-eight." He glanced at me sideways. "Before you introduced me to Khrystal, of course."
We walked past a small playground with a slide, tire swing, monkey bars, and p
lastic benches in primary colors. We strolled along the walkway lined with trees and perennials until we came to building twenty-five. The entry doors to the apartments were on the outside, like a motel, instead of on the inside opening into a hallway, like a hotel.
"He's on the second floor." I pointed.
We went up the steps to apartment 2B. I rang the doorbell. The door, its hinges in dire need of a hefty spritz of WD-40, creaked open. The man resembled the mug shot I'd seen earlier. Pasty white, with blonde free-form dreadlocks, he looked and smelled as if he hadn't bathed in days. Tats covered both arms and encircled his neck. His T-shirt, spotted with whatever he'd eaten over the previous several days, had tattered edges and was full of holes. He held a bottle of Corona by the neck with two filthy fingers. Dirt had made a home under his long fingernails. I didn't want to think about the type of dirt. I held back a shudder.
"Charles Tenley?" Bernie asked.
"Depends on who be asking," he said. His eyes were narrow and suspicious.
Bernie flashed his shield. "We be asking."
Tenley staggered back, put his hands up. "Whoa. Man. Chill." His dilated pupils told me he was high. That figured.
"Can we speak to you about Beatrice Menifee?" I asked.
He looked me up and down. "Baby, you can speak to me about anythang." He licked his cracked lips. "What your name?"
"My name is Detective Valentine." It was my turn to flash the shield. I made sure he got a peek at my Sig Sauer in its shoulder harness. His blood-shot eyes widened.
"Dayumn, baby!" He snapped his fingers. He made my skin crawl. Not easy to do.
"May we come in?" Bernie looked at the neighbors' doors, hinting at the lack of privacy.
Tenley looked behind him, then back to us. "Uh. Yeah...c'mon in." He stepped aside.
I walked past and could feel him staring at my ass. The drawn blinds made the apartment dark, but not too dark to hide the weed-scented haze rolling through the air. I glanced at Bernie. He'd raised his eyebrows.
"Have a sit down." Tenley plopped his scrawny butt down in the corner of the sofa and set his Corona on the end table. An overflowing ashtray sat next to it. I observed no drug paraphernalia out in the open. "I'd offer y'all a brew, but y'all be working." He gulped his beer, then burped.
I leaned in. "Mr. Tenley—"
"That's Chuck to you, pretty lady."
"Mr. Tenley, I'm sure you've heard about your girlfriend's murder by now?" I asked.
He shook his head. "Ain't got no girlfriend."
"Your former girlfriend, then," Bernie said.
"I'm married to my former girlfriend. She ain't dead." He grinned. "Well, sometime she just lay there when she had a long day at work." He winked. "Know what I mean?"
"Mr. Tenley, we're referring to Beatrice Menifee," I said.
"Hey." He pointed a grubby finger my way. "I told you to call me Chuck." He leered.
"I'm going to call you arrested for possession if you don't start cooperating," I said, although I had no probable cause to arrest him.
"Okay. Okay. A man can't have no fun no more." He picked up his beer, turned it upside down and a few drops dribbled out onto his dirty jeans. He looked toward the kitchen and started to push himself up using the threadbare arm of the sofa.
"Don't even think about it," Bernie growled. He pointed to the sofa cushion. "Sit down!"
"Okay. I'm sittin'." Tenley sat, but not before giving the kitchen another glance.
"Did you or did you not have a relationship with Beatrice Menifee at any time within the last year?" I asked.
"Well...I wouldn't call it a relationship...not exactly."
"What would you call it?" Bernie asked.
"Just hanging, I guess."
"Was your wife present when you were hanging out with Ms. Menifee?" I asked.
"Y'all like something to drink? Water?" He eyed the kitchen again.
"Answer the damn question!" I said. "Was your wife there when you were with Ms. Menifee?"
"Oh, hell nah!" He leaned back and scowled. "My mama didn't raise no dummy."
"When was the last time you saw Ms. Menifee?" Bernie asked.
"Can't recall." He scratched his head, examined his fingernail, sniffed it, then rubbed whatever had dislodged from his scalp onto his jeans. "Coupla months, maybe."
"When did your wife find out you were hanging out with Ms. Menifee?" Bernie asked.
"She didn't." He glanced at his watch. "How long this gonna take?"
"Why? Do you have an appointment?" I asked.
"Nah. My girl be leaving work soon. She called and said she on her way." He glanced at the door. "Don't want her to know about this."
"We don't need to talk to her just yet, but we might in the future," I said.
"I agree." Bernie stood. "I don't have anything else for now."
I stood as well. "We'll be back if we need to be and it won't matter if you're not alone."
"But, what about my wife?"
"You should've thought about that before you started hanging with someone else." I made air quotes around hanging. We walked past several drawings on the wall. "Did you draw these?" I pointed to an illegible signature scrawled in the corner.
"Yeah. That one from high school. I drawed all the time in class."
"They're pretty good," Bernie said.
"Thanks." Tenley walked toward the door with us, but then made a beeline for the kitchen, no doubt for the next beer.
As we started down the steps, an overweight, African-American woman trudged up wearing a backpack and carrying a plastic Stater Bros. grocery bag in one hand and a six-pack of Corona in the other. I watched her for a few moments. Bernie had disappeared around the corner. She stopped a few steps from the top, put the bag and beer down, and leaned against the wall. She stared at me, walked to Tenley's door, then kicked it.
"Chuck! Let me in!" She kicked the door again. "My hands are full!"
I went back to the parking lot and walked toward Bernie.
Bernie circled a red motorcycle. "I checked for the space allotted to Tenley's apartment.” He hovered his hand over the engine cover. "It's hot."
I pulled out my phone. "I'm calling in the plates."
We had run Tenley through the DMV before we left the station, but came up empty on registered vehicles. He had one registered to him several years ago and he had some unpaid parking tickets, but that was about it. Having no registered vehicles didn't mean he didn't drive. We'd discovered he still had an active driver's license. He'd had some DUI's, but attended traffic school and a substance abuse program. A lot of good that did.
"Does this look like the bike that almost ran you down?" Bernie asked.
"I can't say for sure...but, it looks too small." I walked around the bike, stopped in front and examined the headlights. "I'm not positive." I shook my head. "I'm leaning toward no, though."
"Well, if it's her bike it can't hurt to ask her where she was at the time of the incident," Bernie said. We headed to the apartment.
I rang the doorbell and we waited. The peephole darkened. Someone watched us. I banged on the door and it opened right away. The woman I'd passed on the steps stood there, swaying.
"Whatch'all want?" She had neat rows of baby dreds. She'd changed into shorts and a T-shirt. Her clothing appeared neat and clean. What the hell was she doing with Chucky boy?
"What is it, baby? Tell 'em we don't want none," Tenley said, from inside the apartment. "C'mon girl, where you at?" He was laughing.
The woman said, "Your friends." She didn't turn around as she said it and didn't say it loud enough for Tenley to hear. "Who are you?" She glared at me, maybe thinking I wanted Tenley. Fat chance. Her height was no more than five-two, which was six inches shorter than I was. I approached her.
She reeked of weed and booze. Okay, that's what she was doing with Tenley. I hadn't smelled anything on her when we passed on the steps. She was already smashed. I wondered if she was high when she rode back from the store. Maybe not weed or
booze, but something. The door opened wider.
"Baby, what take you so..." Tenley leaned on the door. "Y'all back. What now?"
"Can we speak to you?" I eyeballed the woman. "I'm Detective Valentine and this is my partner Detective Bernard."
She gave Bernie a slow once-over. A smile curved her lips. It grew wider, showing the smudges of wine colored lipstick on her teeth. "Talk to me about what?"
"First of all, what's your name?" I asked.
Attitude oozed from her. "Josie." She reached over and stroked Tenley's bony chest. "What you want? I'm busy." She attempted to give Bernie a sexy pout and a doe-eyed look, except her heavy-lidded eyes were uncooperative. She looked like a petulant child trying to stay up past her bedtime.
"Do you own a motorcycle?" Bernie asked.
"Yep." Josie gave him a wink. "Saves on gas."
"Where is it?" Bernie asked.
"In the parking lot." She frowned. "Why? Something happen to it?" She started to move past us toward the steps.
I stuck out my arm to block her. "The bike is fine. Where were you Saturday night at about 8 o'clock?"
"My job. Working. Anything else?"
"Where do you work?" I jotted in my notebook.
"Denny's."
"The address, your manager's name and phone number?" I asked. She gave me the information and we left them standing in the doorway. I felt dirty and wanted to take a shower. A long hot one.
Chapter Ten
The next morning, Mac and I had neared the end of our run through Morrison Park. We didn’t run hard because I didn’t feel like I’d recovered from my ankle injuries. Mac had been doing well and was getting some extra running in on her own.
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 7
