I couldn't contain myself. I needed to see Mark and Fran Camps. Now. "All right. Thanks for your time." I wanted to find out more about Patricia and where she was last night at the time of Harrington's attack. I hadn't ruled her out as a suspect in Harrington's injuries. I don't know what her motive would be. His being a world-class prick might be enough for some women.
I left the hospital and grabbed a bite to eat at Sizzler's salad bar before going to Temecula to talk to Cynthia. She needed to account for her whereabouts last night, too.
I made it to Cynthia's home in record time and was invited into her great room with her and the pups, Liz and Chester. "The unit clerk at the hospital told me you visited your husband this morning." I watched her eyes as I flipped the switch on the recorder and placed it on the coffee table. Did I see wariness there?
Cynthia, hands folded in her lap, held her back straight, her chin tilted up. She gave a slight nod. "I did. Yes."
"What time did you arrive?"
"Just before visiting hours. I waited a little while and they let me in."
"He didn't know you were there. How long did you stay?"
"I stayed long enough to hear him mumbling in his sleep about Patricia." Her lips thinned. "I left soon after."
"What did he say? Specifically."
"He kept saying her name and seemed to be in distress." She tsked and had a tick in her cheek. "A woman does not wish to hear her husband say another woman's name in his sleep, or at all for that matter."
I studied her for a minute, wondering if she stood over him deciding whether she could get away with putting a pillow over his face. Yeah, I bet it crossed her mind. "I can understand that. Does he talk in his sleep often?"
"Not at all. It surprised me. Do you suppose his injury caused him to behave that way?" She looked hopeful. Why? I had no clue. He had still called Patricia's name.
"I have no idea. I have to ask you where you were last night."
She stiffened and her eyes narrowed, then widened. She composed herself and sighed. "I was at a charity dinner at the Hilton. I was a speaker." She handed me a brochure, her lips so tight you couldn't even see pink now.
I observed the time of her speech. If they stayed on schedule, she wouldn't have had time to clobber her husband. "What time did you leave the event?"
"I stayed until the end. It was about 10 o'clock." She pushed strands of hair behind both ears. "Surely you don't think I did that to Montgomery. I couldn't. I wouldn't."
But, you thought about it, lady. "I have to explore all avenues."
"I see." Her words were icy. "And the spouse is always the first suspect, or in some cases, the only suspect."
"There's a valid reason for that." I turned the recorder off and packed it away. "I don't have any more questions. Do you plan to go by the hospital again?"
"I don't know." She glanced at the dogs. "Perhaps."
I tucked the charity brochure in my purse and stood. "Thanks for your help." I headed for the door. My next stop was the Campses’ home.
Thirty minutes later, I was at the Campses' house. I checked my cell phone for voicemail before leaving the car. Bernie had called while I was talking to Harrington at the hospital but I hadn't felt the phone vibrate. He told me there had been a multi-car pileup with injuries on the 10 when he was on his way into the station this morning. He had stopped to assist the California Highway Patrol. He expected to be in the office in an hour, which meant he should be there by now. He sounded tired and cranky. I bet he'd been out partying last night, overslept, and was late for work. Then, he encountered the accident on the freeway. Great way to start the day, but it wasn't my fault. I called him back and gave him an update. He told me he'd work on our backed up reports while I was out in the field. I was on my own for now. Fine by me. I didn't need Oscar the Grouch riding next to me for the rest of the day. I slid the phone into my purse and rang the doorbell. I waited, but nobody answered. No cars in the driveway. We should've run the plates through DMV when we were last here. I could get the information from Camps. I headed to CSS.
The guards' alcove was empty when I arrived at County Social Services. I signed in and rode the elevator to the second floor. Camps' door was open and he was typing something on his computer. I knocked on the doorframe. He switched to locked mode on the computer to hide the screen before turning my way.
"Detective Valentine." He didn't sound thrilled. "May I help you?" He flipped papers over on his desk.
I sat in a guest chair, slid the recorder out and laid it on the desk corner. "I stopped by your house to speak to your wife, but she wasn't there."
One brow lifted. "Why would you need to speak to her?" He moved papers and files on his desk, aligning them, not looking at me. "What do you want with her?" He still hadn't looked up.
None of your damn business. "Does she have a job?"
"She's a housewife. That's her job. Why do you ask?"
"I ask the questions here. Has she ever had a job?"
He leaned back and folded his hands on the desk. "She worked in college and off and on throughout our marriage.”
“What type of work did she do?”
“Financial. She’s good with numbers. She can remember phone numbers and can add up numbers on a page just by running her finger down the column. It’s impressive.”
“And she doesn’t work now? Outside the home?”
“No. We had a foster child at one time and she stayed home to take care of her. She hasn’t returned to work since."
My ears perked up. "When did you have a foster child?"
"We had Sherry for 2 1/2 years, up until last year."
"Where is Sherry now?"
"She's with her biological father. We were heartbroken when he showed up...out of nowhere."
"What do you mean?"
"We had planned to adopt her. We went to court and did everything we were supposed to do. We made sure she went to the pediatrician and dentist every six months. She was behind on her immunizations and had to get four or five at a time over a period of eleven months to catch up. They terminated parental rights for Sherry's biological mother and we were set to adopt." His face darkened. "Then her father showed up and said he didn't know she was in foster care."
"And you don't believe that?"
"Of course not. He was a deadbeat dad and her mother was a deadbeat, too. Fran took it extra hard." His eyes flashed.
Fran wasn't alone in taking it hard. I nodded. "How is she handling it now?"
"Better. She's training to be a CASA, a Court Appointed Special Advocate for children. She wants to make sure abused and neglected children don't get lost in the system."
"Is she doing it because of what happened with Sherry?" I didn't want to let on that I knew about Fran being in foster care as a child.
"Partially." He looked away.
"What's the rest of the reason?"
"Because of how she grew up—in foster care."
"What was her experience?"
"She doesn't talk about it."
He clearly didn't want to know. Must've been bad. More than bad—or he suspected it was. Head in the sand. "Was it a decent foster family?"
"She endured it." Camps shrugged. "At least her foster family was big on education and made sure she went to school and helped her with her homework. They even paid for college. That's not always what happens."
"Right. I came here to ask you about Fran's sister."
"Sister?" His brows furrowed again and his ears turned red.
"Yes. Why do you always seem confused whenever one of her sisters is mentioned?"
"I'm sorry. I just don't know what it has to do with your investigation."
"Let me be the judge of that. I've been made aware that Fran has a sister named Patricia."
"Oh, yes. Fran had been looking for her for a long time. They were separated in foster care. Patricia was adopted and they lost contact."
"What about Rebecca?"
"What about her?" He picked up a pencil
and tapped the eraser tip on his desk, not looking at me.
He always got fidgety when Rebecca's name was brought up. What was up with that? Was he sleeping with her, the way Harrington had been sleeping with Cynthia's sister? "Was she in the same foster care family as Fran?"
"Yes, she was. She and Fran both aged out of the foster care system." Sweat speckled his upper lip and glistened on his forehead.
"Is she still living with you and Fran?"
"At present, yes." He peeked at his watch. "I have a meeting now. Is there anything else you need to know?" He picked up a notepad and pen, then stood.
"I don't think so. Thanks for talking with me again." I gathered my things and left his office. Oops. I turned and went back. "Do you have Patricia's address?"
"I don't. I can get it from Fran though. Or you can." He came around his desk. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get going or I'll be late." He clearly wanted to escape.
"Can you call Fran and get the address?"
He glanced at his watch again. "Okay." He made the call. After a few moments, he shrugged. He put it on the speakerphone. Fran's voicemail. He left a message, then ended the call.
I held out my hand. "Mr. Camps, thanks again for your help."
He stared at my hand for a moment before reaching out to shake with a limp and clammy grip. Why the nervousness? It seemed more and more likely that he was cheating on his wife with her sister. I followed him out of his office and continued my journey out of the building. We were getting close. I could feel it in my gut.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I woke up the next morning to clear blue skies and lots of sun, so I had a quick run. What a beautiful day. Nothing like running on a morning like this. Even the long hill in the last mile seemed flat this morning. Oh, yeah. I might even take another run after work.
I had brought two doughnuts to work—one for me and one for Bernie. Mine was chocolate custard and his was the kind that looks like chocolate frosted hot dog buns. I didn't think he would care. He liked all doughnuts equally. I drew a smiley face with evil eyebrows and a creepy jack-o-lantern smile on the bag and set it on his desk. Today was Bernie's 31st birthday.
I read reports that had come in while I had been out interviewing yesterday. We had received the results of Tenley and Jamie's DNA tests. There was a 99.999% chance that Tenley was Jamie's biological father. Not much of a surprise there.
I stood and looked over the cubicle wall to see if Bernie had come in yet. Maybe he overslept or stopped at a bakery on the way to the station. I hoped he would be in a better mood than he was yesterday. I pushed the thought aside and continued to read.
Bernie had left me a note letting me know that the ME's report indicated the Scrabble letters left with Judge Franklin were 'E' and 'I'. I already knew that. We had two each of 'R', 'T', 'E', and 'H'. We also had one 'C', 'I', and 'L'. Still not many vowels and trying to figure out words without vowels would be pointless.
Lieutenant Peterson rapped on my desk as he strolled by. "Sydney, can I see you in my office?"
"Sure." I grabbed my doughnut and took a bite as I followed. By the time I got to his office, he was already standing behind his desk and I was still chewing.
"Have a seat." He sat at his desk and folded his hands on top, his face a somber mask.
"Is something wrong?" This wasn't normal. I began to sweat. I was no longer interested in my doughnut. I couldn't even taste it anymore. I swallowed hard, forcing it down.
He looked me in the eyes and his lips formed a thin line. "There's been an incident."
I could barely hear him. "My parents! Are my parents okay?" I leaned forward.
"They're fine as far as I know. Bernie's in the hospital."
I gasped and stood, leaned on his desk. "What kind of incident? Which hospital? Is he all right?"
He waved me back to my chair. "Have a seat, Sydney."
I tossed the doughnut in the trash. My chair was overturned. I picked it up and sat. "Just tell me if he's okay and where he is."
"It's bad, Syd. We don't have the details because he's not conscious to tell us."
"Not conscious? What the hell happened?" I stood again and paced.
"He was found unconscious last night. He was parked on a side-street downtown."
I headed for the door. "Where is he?"
"He's at San Sansolita Memorial with a head injury. Listen. This has to do with your case."
"Oh, God." That stopped me. "Did he have Scrabble letters in his mouth?"
"The medics told me they were in his hand. A ‘P’ and an ‘N’." He cleared his throat. "We have them here."
I took a step toward the door, then stopped. "Have you talked to his parents?"
"Yes. They're at the hospital now."
"And Khrystal?"
"His parents said they broke up."
"What?" I couldn't believe neither Khrystal, nor Bernie had told me they had broken up. "When did that happen? Never mind. It's not important."
"They said he's holding his own and they're cautiously optimistic. If you need to take time...to process—"
"I need to shut this killing sonofabitch down." I stopped in the hall, looked back at my lieutenant. "Permission to leave, sir."
"Permission granted. Let me know if you need anything. I can assign Theresa to assist. If you need her."
"I'll let you know." I marched past Bernie's desk, crumpled up the doughnut bag with the doughnut still in it, and tossed it in the trash. "Happy birthday, Bernie. Damnit."
At the hospital, I went straight to the information desk, showed my ID, and asked for Bernie's room. He was in the ICU. My heart pounded as I waited for the elevator. I got off and went to the waiting area hoping to see his family. His parents were there—their faces hollowed and pale, dark circles underneath their eyes. They told me they could go in for a few minutes at a time every hour. He'd had a fever earlier, but it was down now. Other than that, he hadn't shown any changes. I took it as a good sign. Glass half full, and all that.
Mrs. Bernard told me she'd called Khrystal, but couldn't reach her. She felt Khrystal would want to know, even though the relationship had ended. Bernie would want her to know. I agreed. The Bernards had also informed the hospital staff that it was okay for me to see Bernie.
When the time for visiting came around again they insisted that I go, so I did. I called on the phone outside the locked ICU door. Nobody answered. I waited a few moments, then hung up and tried again. I don't like hospitals. I especially don't like them when someone I care about is a patient. Hospitals smell funny.
I had been a patient myself when I was eight years old. I fell off a boat during a class field trip. By the time a teacher had pulled me out, I'd already gone under. Someone resuscitated me and off I went to the ER, which admitted me. I stayed overnight. I still can't swim, but sometimes I wade around in Mac's pool with everyone else on hot days just to cool off. I avoid the deep end, though. Maybe I needed to get me some adult size floaties, like the ones Josh used when he was a toddler.
A woman finally answered the ICU phone. I told her I wanted to see Bernie. The doors clicked and I pulled them open. I walked past the nurses' station and someone pointed me in the direction of Bernie's room. Nobody else paid attention to me as I strode by. His room had a glass wall that looked out on the central area where nurses and doctors worked on computers or talked amongst themselves, creating a quiet busy buzz.
Bernie lay still in the gloomy room, his chest moving up and down. The equipment hooked up to him beeped and flashed. Various bags of stuff dripped into his veins. Like Harrington, he had a thick bandage on the side of his head. He had a swollen lip and a bruised face. His hand was wrapped in bandages and he had abrasions on one arm. The other was in a cast.
"Bernie, did you fight back? You did, didn't you?" I smiled, then touched his hand and squeezed for a few moments. He didn’t squeeze back. I pulled up a chair close to the bed, choking back tears.
An African-American nurse came into th
e room. She gazed at me over her clipboard. "Is he your brother?"
"He's like a brother to me. I'm his partner, Detective Valentine." I looked at her badge. Her name was Arlene and she was an RN. "Arlene, how's he doing?" I held my breath and kept still.
"Well, as you can see, he's breathing on his own and that's good. He's holding steady." She replaced the clipboard in its rack. "He's strong and we're taking good care of him here."
"When will he wake up?"
"I don't know. The sooner the better though." She touched my shoulder. "I always tell people to talk to their loved ones. Do that. Keep talking to him." She left the room.
I stared at Bernie's face, looking for any twitch in response. "What were you doing downtown? Investigating Judge Franklin's murder or having fun?" His eyes moved under his lids. I wondered what he was thinking. Was he thinking? I tried to remember how I had felt when I was unconscious after falling overboard, but came up blank. Too long ago. I was out for a few moments, they told me.
"How long were you lying there before someone found you?" I don't know why I asked him these questions. Talk, the RN had said. If he could hear me, he needed to know that I was working on finding out what happened to him. I'd want to know if I was lying there.
"Detective Valentine?" It was the same nurse, Arlene. "Time's up. You can come back later." She turned and left.
I stood, moved the chair back and squeezed Bernie's arm. "Bernie, I'm going to find out who did this to you and the others. We're close." I squeezed his arm again. "See you later." I went back out to the waiting area. His parents had left, but Bernie's brother, Brian, was there. He bolted from his chair when he noticed me.
"Sydney! I just got back in town. How's he doing?" His eyes were red-rimmed and he had beard stubble. He was tall with dark hair like Bernie.
"They told me he's holding his own and it's good that he’s able to breathe without help." I dropped into a chair, feeling exhausted. "They allow visitors once per hour and just for a few minutes."
"Mom and Dad told me." He sat in the chair next to me. "I'm going to wait for the next round." He ran his fingers through his hair and his knee jumped up and down. "Jon's coming by later."
Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery) Page 18
