"Oh, right. Do you remember what the cleaning guy, Gonzalez, said about the wet floor signs?"
"I wasn't there when you interviewed him, but I recall reading that he said he moved them around 6 o'clock." He sat on the corner of my desk. "Why? Got something?"
"Maybe. Baker died late that night."
"What time was it, again?"
"The ME says between eight and midnight." I showed him the report.
He glanced at it. "And he moved the floor sign at six. While she was still alive?" Bernie scrunched up his face. "Did he move the sign or signs to the area or from it at six?"
"I thought he meant away from the area. How could he have moved it and found the body in the stairwell at six the previous evening when she hadn't died yet?" I flipped through the reports of our interviews.
Bernie dropped the report on my desk and stood. "Unless…"
"Unless he meant at six Friday morning?" I asked. "He told me he got there at 5:30 on Thursday, before the guard leaves at six. So, he was there for over twelve hours before he moved the sign?"
"Yep. So, where was he between the time she died, until six Friday morning?"
"Beats me, but that's something we need to ask him." I found my interview with Gonzalez. I pointed to Gonzalez's statement, circled it. "He said he got mad because he wanted to watch a soccer game."
"So, he left the building, went home, or wherever, to watch it?" Bernie leaned over my shoulder. "He also said her light was on in her office, but he didn't see her. The light was still on when we went in."
"He went home to watch the game, returned and saw the mess on the stairs before he saw her body. He got angry because he'd have to clean again...if he ever did in the first place. I have my doubts." I ran my finger over the page. "He didn't see her in her office and didn't see her leave that night."
"Because he wasn't there?" Bernie frowned. "He didn't see her at all until he found her body on the stairs."
"Could be. What else could it be? How did he get back in the building if he left?"
"We don't have any way of knowing when she came into the building unless she swiped her card key before the building closed. They'd have a record of that. But she wouldn't need to swipe it."
"Right. She was a supervisor and probably had a key to the front door if it was locked." I picked up the list of Baker's personal effects found at the scene and in her office. "I recall reading that she had a key." I pointed to the key listed. "There it is. And two cell phones. Her personal cell, which was an iPhone, and the work cell phone."
Bernie looked through the pile of reports and CPS case documents. "I'm wondering if she used a debit or credit card to pay for her Starbucks drink."
"I don't have the financial records. She was so organized. I'd think she would've kept the receipt," I said.
"You didn't see it in the trash with the cup." He flipped through several pages.
"Gonzalez must've emptied the trash before she arrived," I said.
"Yeah." Bernie pushed the stack of papers aside. "Are you sure you don't have the financial records?"
"No. I thought you had them." I continued to read the autopsy report.
"Be right back." He left my cubicle and returned with a stack of papers. He wheeled my guest chair from the corner to the side of my desk.
I looked up. "The autopsy report says Baker had recently been pregnant."
He raised his eyebrows. "She had another baby?"
"It doesn't say she delivered a baby. Just that she'd been pregnant." I circled it, then leaned back in my chair.
"Abortion?"
I shrugged. "Who knows?"
"Harrington? You think he knocked her up again?"
"Maybe. It could go to motive if he knew. We don't know how well Cynthia and Baker got along. Baker had some type of altercation that night. But, with whom?"
"Her sister? Maybe that's what the call was about," Bernie said.
"That seems unlikely, but anything is possible. The call could've been about anything. For all we know, Baker and Harrington could've been planning a surprise party for Cynthia."
"I doubt that. He would've told Cynthia when we were there. She got pissed when he said he didn't remember what he talked about with Baker."
"Yeah. Harrington's not talking. All right. Let's see if we can find out who her primary care physician was." Bernie stood. "I'm going to call Cynthia. She may know."
"I'd be surprised if she did. I don't know Mac's and she doesn't know mine. But, we do have the same gynecologist because Mac recommended hers to me." I turned to my computer and began completing the search warrant form. "I might as well get started while you do that."
Bernie returned and told me Cynthia didn't know who Ann's doctor had been, but she could find out. Cynthia told him she had a key to Ann's house and would go there this morning to look through Ann's filing cabinet. She didn't expect it to take long because she said Ann was anal about order. She had a neat office. The trash contained a Starbucks cup and lid. The cup rim had been stained with lipstick on one spot. Who drinks that way? Anal Ann, apparently.
After we'd had our fill of reading reports, we went to lunch at Sizzler. I tore through a large salad, mixed fruit, and a soft serve ice cream cup. Bernie had fried chicken and at least six tacos. I had lost count. At least he had a side of peach slices to go with all that cholesterol.
"Ready to take a ride out to see Gonzalez?" Bernie asked.
"Sure. Let's go." I grabbed my jacket. "Are you driving?"
"I can." He headed out of the restaurant, taking long strides, and I had to hurry to catch up.
Gonzalez lived in a house in Hemet, so Bernie hopped onto the 79. My cell phone chirped. "Sydney Valentine." It was Cynthia. "Can you repeat that?" Bernie silently mouthed What? I shrugged and ignored him. "All right. Stay there. We're on our way." I disconnected, then turned to Bernie, who was trying to watch me and keep the car on the winding roads. "That was Cynthia. She thinks somebody tried to run her off the road. Gonzalez will have to wait. We need to get over there. She said the police officers just left."
"What happened?" Bernie exited the 79 and turned onto the Ramona Expressway. He hit the buttons to roll up our windows because the stench of dairy farms filled the car.
"She was on her way to Baker's house to look for the medical records and a motorcycle drove up next to her and smashed in her car window."
"Hunh. Which window?"
"The passenger side," I said.
"Front or rear?"
"What the hell difference does it make?" I snapped.
"Did you ask?"
"Did you hear me ask?"
"Guess not. We'll find out when we get there."
"That's what I figured."
"It seems that somebody, I'm not saying who, got up on the wrong side of her coffin this morning."
"I did not. I'm frustrated. I thought about what happened to Mac when Cynthia told me what happened. She's scared. She could've been killed and you're making jokes. And they're not good jokes either, let me tell you."
"How's that online personal ad going? Meeting anyone?"
I turned and narrowed my eyes. "You're trying to distract me."
"I'm not." He had his innocent face on. "I want to know if you've met anyone. You need to have some fun when you're not working. I try to. You know what they say. All work and no play."
"I know. I've met a few guys, but no second dates yet. Slow down! You'll miss the turn coming up." I remembered the club sounds I'd heard when he called me back the night my rear windshield was smashed in the Starbucks parking lot after my date with...well, whoever. He'd also smelled of booze another evening.
Bernie pulled into the Harringtons' driveway next to a silver Mercedes. We walked around the car. The rear passenger window had been shattered. Glass shards covered the rear seat and floor. Some had made it to the front of the car. We headed to the front door, and it opened. Franklin didn't ask for ID this time. He led us into the great room, where Cynthia sat on the sofa d
rinking from a tiny teacup that appeared to be as fragile as wet paper. I sat on the other end of the sofa. Bernie sat in one of the ugly uncomfortable chairs opposite the sofa. Cynthia had scratches on her face, but otherwise looked fine, if I ignored her washed-out appearance.
"Would you like tea, Detectives? Or would you prefer something else?" Her hand shook as she set the cup in the saucer.
"No, we're fine. Thank you." I removed my notebook from my pocket. "Can you tell us what happened?" Bernie turned the recorder on and placed it on the coffee table.
"I'd just left here to go to Annie's house." She watched us. "To get the medical information."
"And then what happened?" Bernie asked.
"Okay. Well, I'd stopped at a stop sign a mile or so from here and heard a crash in the back seat. I thought someone had sideswiped me or something." She picked up her cup, sipped, and held it in her lap. "I covered my head and tried to lean over toward the front passenger seat, but my seat belt restrained me. The car started to roll through the stop sign and I got back up and stepped on the brake...except it wasn't the brake. It was the accelerator. I lurched. Lucky for me, nobody was around and I realized my mistake and stepped on the brake."
I glanced up from my notebook. "Did you see the motorcycle rider?"
"Not really. He wore all black."
"What about the type of motorcycle or color?" Bernie asked.
"It's a blur and I don't know motorcycles. It didn't look like what Montgomery owns, though."
My ears perked up. "What does he own?"
"He has a Harley-Davidson." She pointed behind her. "It's in the garage. The motorcycle I saw wasn't as big as Montgomery's."
"Are you sure it's in the garage?" Bernie asked.
"Yes. I saw it there this morning."
"What color is his Harley?" Bernie asked
"Black and silver."
"Do you mind if we take a look?" I asked.
Cynthia stared for a moment. "I don't see why not."
She showed us the Harley and I wrote down the plate number while Bernie held his hand over the engine case. Cold. We returned to the great room.
"Does your husband know what happened?" I asked.
"I called him. He was brusque."
"How so?" Bernie asked.
"He said I needed to take care of these things myself from now on, since I'd filed for legal separation." She shrugged. "His point is valid, I suppose."
"If I remember correctly, you were going to a marriage and family therapist," I said.
"Well, yes. That was the plan...until I found out about his latest indiscretion."
"Please explain." Bernie leaned in.
"He told me he'd been seeing someone...again." She choked back tears. "Excuse me." She sipped her tea, then placed a hand to her throat and swallowed. "He said he'd also rekindled his affair with Annie several months ago, then broke it off two weeks before she died. She didn't like it. I feel betrayed beyond reason." It was about time. What had taken her so long?
"I'm sorry. Do you know who this new woman is?" Did his newest mistress have a run-in with Baker? Did Baker know about her? Jealousy? Competition? If Baker knew she wouldn't have let it go, based on what others had told us about her personality.
"I don't know her, but Montgomery told me her name is Patricia. He called her Patty."
"What's her last name?" Bernie asked.
"I have no idea." She shrugged. "I didn't ask. I do know that he met her at Annie's job. Either in the building or in the parking lot." She shook her head. "I should've known months ago."
"Why?" I asked.
"He’s never liked being around smokers. I smelled cigarette smoke on him often, but he'd always explain it away. I wanted to believe him."
"Mrs. Harrington, I know this is difficult for you, but I have to ask you a question," I said.
She stared, then blinked, as tears trickled down her pale cheeks. "You want to know if he was here with me the night Annie died."
I sighed, then nodded. "Yes, I do."
"Well, then." She cleared her throat, inhaled deeply, then let it out. "It happened as I told you before."
"You went upstairs to take medication," Bernie said.
"Yes." She placed a finger to her chin, and gazed upward.
"What is it, Mrs. Harrington?" I asked.
"I can't say with absolute certainty, but I think Montgomery was the one that suggested I was due for another dose of medication."
"Do you remember what time you began watching the movie?" Bernie asked.
"Eight o'clock."
"How long were you upstairs?" I asked.
"Well, that's what I'm not sure about. I had trouble finding my medication."
"Did you find it?" I asked.
"I did, but it took me awhile. Even so, Montgomery was not downstairs when I came down." She looked from me to Bernie. "I mentioned that already."
"Yes, and that's when he told us he didn't remember what he and Ann talked about on the phone," I said.
"Correct. I have had issues with my mental health in the past. However, in this case, it's not me. I know what I know."
Bernie nodded. "Where is Mr. Harrington living?"
"At an executive condo, for now." She grimaced.
"The community name and address?" I asked.
"I'll get it for you. Excuse me." She set her cup in the saucer and left, returning later with a brochure for an upscale condominium community. She handed me the brochure. She'd written his address on the front.
Bernie put the recorder in his jacket pocket. "Thank you. I don't think we have any more questions."
"Will you still be able to go to Ann's house to get her medical information?" I stood and walked to the door.
"I'll drive out there tomorrow. I need to contact my insurance company now and make arrangements to get my window repaired." She opened the door. "I'll let you know if I find anything. Good-bye, Detectives."
"Take care." I went outside and Bernie was right behind me.
"Gonzalez or Harrington now?" Bernie unlocked the car doors and opened the driver's side.
I checked the time. "Neither. I'm done for the day." I slid into the passenger seat, leaned my head back. What the hell? Did Harrington kill Baker?
Chapter Twenty
Early the following afternoon, I drove on Sanderson Avenue in Hemet on the way to interview Gonzalez. He'd told us he worked evenings. We’d planned to stop at Harrington's condo later.
"How's Mac?" Bernie bit into his second doughnut of the morning. He picked chocolate icing from his shirt and licked his fingers.
"She's doing okay, but she's bored and ready to go back to work. I think I need to turn right two lights up."
"It's understandable that she's bored. She's used to being out and about during the day," Bernie said.
"Yeah, that's what it is. Gonzalez's address should be a few blocks down." I slowed the car, looking at the house numbers.
Bernie pointed. "There it is. The one with four junker cars out front."
I pulled up to the curb across the street and cut the engine. "Here we go. Let's do it."
We crossed the narrow potholed street, then Bernie knocked on the door.
A short Latino man opened the door. "Yes?" He looked like a younger version of Raul Gonzalez.
"We're Detectives Valentine and Bernard." I showed him my ID. "We're here to see Raul Gonzalez. Is he here?"
"He's here. Yes." He stepped aside. "Come in."
"And you are?" Bernie asked.
"I'm his brother, Juan." He indicated a lumpy sofa along the wall. "You can have a seat while I get him." We sat and waited. The room had a large screen television. Milk crates served as a coffee table. Muffled voices came from the rear of the house. A door shut. I slid my notebook out. Bernie turned on the recorder and set it on the sofa between us.
"Detectives?" Gonzalez looked different. He wore khaki cargo shorts and a T-shirt with flip-flops. He was clean-shaven now.
"We'd like to tal
k to you about Ann Baker," I said.
Gonzalez dropped into a chair across from the makeshift coffee table. The chair wobbled. "What you wanna know?"
I watched him. "First of all, what time did you discover Ms. Baker's body?"
"Six o'clock. I think I already say that." He frowned.
"Was that 6 p.m. or 6 a.m.?" Bernie asked.
"In the morning." Gonzalez picked at his nails.
"Tell us what you do when you get to work," I said.
A frown line formed between his eyes. "What I do?"
"Yes. What's your routine?" I asked.
"Oh, Sí. I empty all office garbage first. I take stack of wet floor sign and put them down."
"Then what do you do?" Bernie asked.
"I clean employee break room. Then all bathroom."
"When do you mop the floors?" I asked.
"I do floor last." He stared at the floor. Was he nervous or scared?
"Did you mop the floors that night or in the morning?" I asked. No mop buckets or mops had been found at the crime scene in the stairwell.
He swallowed. "I can't remember."
"You told me before that you mopped the floor already." I locked eyes with him.
"I don't remember."
"What were you doing when you found Ms. Baker on the stairs?"
"I was getting sign."
He was hedging. "Mr. Gonzalez, did you leave the building that night?" I asked.
He sighed, then shoved his fingers through his hair. "Sí."
"What time did you leave the building?" Bernie asked.
"I think nine o'clock," he said.
"What time did you return?" I asked.
"Six o'clock."
"Before you called 911?" Bernie asked.
"Sí."
"How do you get back into the building when you leave?" I asked.
"I put rock in door so it stay open."
Bernie sighed. "Do you realize you may have allowed someone to get into the building to kill Ms. Baker?"
Gonzalez nodded. "Sí." His chin trembled and his eyes glistened. "I am sorry."
"Why did you leave the building?" I asked.
"To see soccer game."
"It lasted all night?" Bernie asked.
"No. I fall asleep."
"Is there anyone who can verify where you were that night?" Bernie asked.
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 15
