Bernie arrived as I was finishing my oatmeal. He'd called the techs about my car and they told him it would be ready by the end of the day.
Chapter Thirteen
Bernie and I went to the station and completed reports. Later, when we were on our way to Judge Franklin's home my phone rang. "Valentine." Dispatch. "Okay. Text me the address." I disconnected.
"What was that about?"
"Remember the elderly couple from the park?"
He narrowed his eyes. "I don't remember talking to an elderly couple."
I sighed. "The non-pooper scoopers from Morrison Park last night."
"Oh, the ones with the little dogs that Jamison and Parker told us about. What about them? Are they dead, too?"
"No. Ken Doll...I mean, uh...Jamison saw them leaving Denny's this morning and told them what had happened. Turns out, the elderly couple saw a vehicle in the park."
Bernie had a smirk on his face. "Ken Doll?"
"Oh, come on! Are you telling me you didn't notice?"
"Well, yes I did, but you just called him Ken Doll like he'd introduced himself to us that way."
I glared at him. "Bite me."
"Just don't call him Ken Doll if we have to speak to him again."
"I won't."
"Do they have names?" Bernie was still smirking. “The elderly couple?”
"The Clyders. Marge and Bill." I read the text message. "They're not far from here."
We arrived at the Clyders' home within minutes. Bill answered the door. "You're the detectives, aren't cha?" Mr. Clyder stood all of five feet tall. Pale and slim with fuzzy white hair and light blue eyes, he looked like a Q-tip.
"I'm Detective Valentine and this is Detective Bernard."
"I knew it!" He rubbed his hands together, like a kid in a candy store.
"May we come in?" Bernie asked.
"Yeah. Yeah, sure. Where are my manners?" He stepped aside and grinned. "I always wanted to meet real detectives. I'm a bounty hunter, ya know."
"You are?" A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I couldn't imagine this little man taking down a bail jumper.
"Yeah, I am. So's Marge, my wife."
"You don't say," Bernie said, with an admirably straight face. "May we sit?"
"Yeah. This way." He led us into a living room with plastic-covered furniture. Wooden carvings and ceramic knick-knacks sitting on crocheted doilies covered every surface.
"Mr. Clyder, tell us what happened last night. What did you see?" I flipped the switch on the recorder.
"Me and Marge were out walking our dogs, Jack and Jill."
"Where? Be specific," Bernie said.
"We start out here and go down Jackson Street, then head to the park."
"The time?" I asked.
Mr. Clyder glanced at his watch. "Getting close to noon."
"Mr. Clyder, what time was it when you headed to the park?" I asked.
"Oh. Well, we wait 'til the sun goes down. It's cooler then. The time? I'm not sure, but it was dark."
"Would your wife know the time?" Bernie asked.
As if on cue, the door opened and two chunky dogs, each wearing a bow on its head, waddled into the room.
"Marge, these are detectives asking about last night. They want to know what time we went for our walk."
"Hello, Detectives. I think it was between 7:30 and 8 o’clock. I remember watching the show, Friends.”
"Where did you see the vehicle?" Bernie asked.
"In the park, by the playground," Mrs. Clyder said. "I didn't see the driver."
"I didn't either," Mr. Clyder said. "I remember the headlights weren't on."
"Yes, it was dark," Mrs. Clyder said.
"What type of vehicle was it?" Bernie asked.
"Truck," Mr. Clyder said.
"No, it was a van," Mrs. Clyder said.
"What color was it?" I asked.
"White," they said together. Well, at least they could agree on that.
"Can you think of anything else you saw or heard?" Bernie asked.
"We saw two men sitting on a bench. Just sitting there talking," Mr. Clyder said. “They told us about the murder this morning.”
"Jack was whining and we got scared," Mrs. Clyder said.
"I weren't." Mr. Clyder threw his shoulders back, stood tall and hitched up his pants.
Mrs. Clyder snorted. "Dear, stop with the bounty hunter stuff, will you?"
"I was just saying...I weren't scared."
She tsked and shook her head. "We have a bail bonds business, but he likes to tell folk we're bounty hunters." She chuckled. "Fact is, we hire young people to do that."
Mr. Clyder grumbled, then bent to pet one of the dogs.
"Can either of you think of anything else, however small or unimportant you may think it is?" I asked. They both shook their heads.
"Okay. Call if you remember anything. Anything at all." Bernie gave them a business card and we were ready to go.
Once outside, I said, "I'm not sure we learned anything we didn't already know.”
“It's a toss-up whether the vehicle they saw was the Escalade. If it was, shouldn't it have been closer to the park bench?"
I couldn't think of a reason to disagree.
Out next stop was County Social Services—to interview Barbara the guard, and anyone else who was around that we'd like to speak to. I buckled up. "Why couldn't she just let him have his bounty hunter dream?"
Bernie shook his head, cranked the ignition. "I wondered that, too. Did you see his face?"
"Like somebody popped a little boy's birthday balloon." I stared out the window. "He wasn't hurting anyone." I picked at my cuticles, then looked out the window again. It had started to rain. How appropriate.
"Maybe she'd been hearing it for years and had had her fill." He shrugged. "She was telling the truth though."
"Yeah, but..."
"But, what? You okay?" Bernie engaged the wipers. They scraped over the windows, noisily, doing more smearing than clearing.
"And she laughed. It reminded me of when I told my friends I wanted to be a cop."
"They laughed?"
"Some did. That didn't bother me as much as when I told my parents. I'd already applied, taken the written, psychological, and physical exams."
"Your parents shot a hole in your dreams?"
"Big time. With a shotgun. Double-barreled." I sighed. "It came back to me when I saw his face. That sucked."
"Well, so you did it anyway. You're a good cop." Bernie pulled onto the 60 west and merged into traffic.
"They couldn't stop me, so they let it go. They still worry though. They should, so that's okay." I turned in my seat. "Did your family care about you being a cop?"
"Hell yeah!" Bernie laughed. "I graduated from high school, went to college, then law school. But decided not to take the bar exam."
"Holy crap! I bet they hated that."
"An understatement. Dad ripped me a new one. He even wanted me to pay them back for the college tuition they'd paid."
"You're kidding."
"I kid you not. Dad went ballistic." Bernie shook his head. "I didn't know I wanted to be a cop yet."
"Then, why didn't you at least take the bar until you decided?"
Bernie frowned. "That's what Dad said."
"Well? Why didn't you?"
"Because he wanted me to join his firm. My brothers did. Brian's an attorney and Jon's a paralegal."
"So?"
"If I had taken the bar, my parents would've had hope. More pressure on me."
"But, you can handle pressure better than anyone I know. Well, except me." I grinned.
"You know, studying for the bar exam is a lot of work."
"You weren't afraid of working hard, were you?" I asked.
"Maybe...no, not afraid. I was lazy back then. The point is, I may not have known I wanted to be a cop, but I knew I didn't want to be an attorney."
"And you broke their hearts?"
"I guess so. They got over it.
I needed to find my own way, rather than follow my dad, like my brothers."
"I understand that. Remember, I wanted to be an attorney too, but that all ended for me when Monty Bradford was acquitted and Allison committed suicide."
"I'm not trying to change the subject, but that reminds me. Any idea what's tying these homicides together?"
"Besides CPS, I don't know, but maybe we'll get something at CSS today." We rode the rest of the way in silence, each absorbed in our own family dynamics and life paths, I suppose.
Chapter Fourteen
We entered through the automatic doors of the CSS building. A line had formed at the guards' desk. Several people stood at the elevator and others sat off to the side in visitors’ chairs. We waited in line for our turn to sign in, then talk to Barbara, if that was her standing behind the alcove. Today was a Monday, one of the days she worked. The elevator door opened and a tall woman sashayed out. She wore black leather pants stretched tight across her hips, a short leather jacket, and stilettos. Her hair was short, spiked and black. A white camisole barely contained her breasts. I turned to nudge Bernie and noticed him watching her strut by, heels clicking on the gleaming tile floor. Her perfume took my breath away. Literally. I coughed. Hacked, was more like it. Did she not smell herself? "Bernie, do you know who that is?" He didn't respond. "Bernie!" I poked his arm.
"What?" He looked around. "You say something?" He'd turned away again before I could speak, perhaps trying to get another look at her ass while she stood at the door, digging in her little black purse. He glanced my way.
"Yes, I said something." I rolled my eyes. "Do you know who that was?"
"I don't. No." His eyes followed the woman again. She'd pulled out a cigarette, then continued toward the door. She stood outside the entrance, cigarette in her mouth, hand cupped while she lit up. Another one ignoring the 'No smoking on government property' signs. A young woman stopped on her way from the building and stared at her, then pointed to the sign.
The smoker put her hand on her hip. "What?"
The young woman scurried past with her head down.
"For goodness sakes!" I whirled on Bernie, stood between him and the door. "Do I have to remind you that you have a girlfriend?"
"What? I didn't touch her." He tried to look around me. "No harm in a quick glance at a pretty girl."
"Quick glance my ass. You looked like you wanted to follow her out the door." I shook my head. "Men."
"I saw you checking her out, too." He was smirking.
"No, I wasn't. Not the way you mean, anyway. I recognized her. You would've too if you'd have paid attention to her from the neck up."
"What were you saying about knowing who she was?" He was frowning now, thinking. Blood flow must've begun its journey back to the brain.
"I asked if you knew who she was. Never mind." I flicked my hand at him. "You didn't."
"Well, who was she?" He scratched his chin, thinking. Houston, we have more blood flow to the brain.
"That was Mark Camps' wife." I said. "Fran. Remember her now?"
"Oh, yeah. Right." He nodded. "She came into his office and rushed him off somewhere."
"She did, but she didn't look like that." I pointed to the door she'd just pranced through. "And she sure didn't have that attitude."
"She did look a little like her, now that you mention it. But, I'm not so sure it was her." He glanced at the door again, shaking his head. "No, you're mistaken."
"The hell I am. It was her." I moved up in the line. "Even with all that leather, expertly applied makeup, too much perfume, and the swagger. Underneath it all...Fran Camps. Twenty bucks says it was her." I dug in my pocket for twenty dollars and came up with lint. "I'll owe you if you win." I didn't expect to have to pay up.
"All right. I'll take that bet. She walked differently than Fran and had that don't mess with me attitude." He pointed at me. "Hey, maybe she has a sister. A twin, like you and Mac."
I thought about it. "Yeah, maybe." I nodded. "That's possible. We can ask him while we're here."
It was our turn to sign in. Besides two people in the visitors' seats, we were alone with the guard. I reached for the dangling pen, taped to a chain, started to write my name. Nothing. No ink. "What the hell?" I tossed it aside, reached in my jacket and grabbed the pen clipped to my notebook. After signing in, I glanced at the guard, who was on the phone. Her nametag indicated her name was Barbara Henry. I walked to the end of the guards' alcove, away from the sign-in log, and waited for her to finish her conversation. Bernie signed in and joined me, chewing on the inside of his cheek, perhaps thinking about Fran Camps, or whoever the mystery woman was.
Ms. Henry gave me a slight smile, then held up a finger. She mouthed 'One moment.' She was a petite woman, in her early 60's, with short, reddish, curly hair. She pulled the log toward her, scanned it, then glanced our way. Once finished, she came over.
"Hello. I'm Detective Valentine, and this is my partner, Detective Bernard." We showed her our IDs. She glanced at them, a nervous smile on her lips.
"What can I help you with, Detectives?" She peered at Bernie, then me, eyebrows raised. "Is this about the social worker, Ms. Baker? Homer told me he talked to you."
"Yes, it's about the homicide. We'd like to ask you a few questions." I pulled out my notebook and Bernie turned on the recorder.
"I'm not sure how much help I can give, but I'll try." Barbara glanced at the door as a woman entered and headed to the visitors' log. She removed a tissue from her purse, then picked up the pen I'd tried to use. She appeared to be writing her name. What? I turned my attention back to Barbara, shaking my head.
"Homer Cooper told me he went home sick that Thursday," I said. "Did you replace him?"
"I normally would have, but I'd promised my grandkids I'd take them to The Living Desert to see the baby giraffe." She gazed at me. "That's where we were when I got the call from HR." She lifted her shoulders. "Family first, you know?"
"I do." I closed my notebook. "Bernie?"
"Do you know Mark Camps? The therapist?" Bernie glanced at me and grinned. I withheld a groan.
"Yes, I do. Nice man." She stared at us. A noisy group of people came into the building, headed to the elevator without signing in. "Excuse me." She hustled over there and said something to them. One by one, they got in line to sign in. Barbara watched as they did so, occasionally making it a point to look at the log between entries.
I turned toward Bernie, hands on my hips. "Seriously? You're going to ask her about Miss Hottie Patottie?"
"Sure." He shrugged. "Why not?"
"Why not, he says. Okay." I watched Barbara and the group. "Well, I guess it won't hurt and it might be useful." And I might get his twenty bucks sooner than I thought.
Barbara returned after she had taken care of the group. "Now, where were we?" She pursed her lips. "Oh, yes. Mark Camps. He's on the second floor."
"Do you know his wife?" Bernie asked.
"She comes in a lot. Lovely lady." The front doors slid open and she turned to look. The man entering had a badge, held it up for her, then kept walking. "Mrs. Camps chats sometimes when she's waiting down here for Mark."
"What does she chat about?" I asked.
"Oh, they're trying to get pregnant and not having much luck." She shook her head. "I'm like a grandma. People tell me things. Anyway, Fran's stressing over it."
"Did you see her in the building today? Before we came in?" Bernie asked.
"No, I didn't." She stared at both of us, from one to the other and back again. "Was she here?" A frown line appeared between her brows.
"I thought I saw her," I said. "Maybe it wasn't her."
She put a finger to her chin. "That's odd. She stops by and says hello when she comes in. Let me check the log." She walked behind the other end of the alcove. We followed, but walked in front of the alcove. She pulled the log toward her and turned it so that it wasn't upside down. She shook her head. "No, she didn't sign in."
"Does she have a sist
er?" I asked.
"Well, yes she does." She nodded. "Yes, maybe that's it."
"What's her sister's name?" Bernie asked.
"Rebecca." She glanced at the log again. "She didn't sign in, either."
"Do you know her?" Bernie asked.
"I don't know her, know her, but I've met her. She comes in and chats while she’s waiting for Mark."
Now, we're getting somewhere. "What does she look like?" I wrote in my notebook.
"Tall and pretty, like Fran." She tilted her head. "I don't think they're that far apart in age and seem to be close."
"What else can you tell us? Hair color?" Bernie asked.
"Lately, red. But, that Rebecca changes her hair like the weather!" She chuckled. "I think she's a hairdresser, or maybe she just gets tired of it and changes her mind."
"When was the last time you saw her?" I asked, but I was ready to talk to someone else. Barbara hadn't been in the building on Thursday and couldn't tell us who came and went that day, other than by looking at the log, which wasn't accurate, from what we'd gathered so far.
"I saw her about a month ago. I remember because she signed in and accidentally left a brochure on surrogate pregnancies on the counter." She glanced at her watch.
"All right, Ms. Henry. Thank you," I said. "Bernie?"
"That's all for me. Thanks," he said.
"You're welcome." She reached for the ringing telephone and waved as we headed to the elevator. We stepped off onto the second floor, then headed to Mark Camps' office. Bernie knocked on the closed door. I heard a muffled voice. The door opened.
"Mr. Camps, we have more questions." I moved my jacket to show him my shield clipped to my belt. Bernie's was clipped to his jacket pocket.
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 10
