Sydney Valentine Mystery Series: Books 1-3 (Boxed Set) (A Sydney Valentine Mystery)

by Danielle Lenee Davis

  “I’ll check Missing Persons.” I pocketed my notebook and headed for my car.

  “All right.” Bernie proceeded past me toward his car. “See you tomorrow.”

  I hopped in my car then drove home while munching on the last taco. It was no longer warm, but I didn’t care.

  The next morning, I arrived at work to find that Bernie had called off sick, which left me on my own for the day. I wondered if he had a hangover. I’d hoped he would cut back on the drinking after he told me about Khrystal being pregnant. Maybe Bernie was genuinely sick. I’d heard a bug had been spreading at work.

  I got in touch with Missing Persons again for hot tub Jane Doe, but nobody fitting her description had been reported missing. I checked for John Doe from the previous night and had the same results. While sipping green tea and nibbling on a cinnamon raisin bagel slathered with cream cheese, I searched public records for the Moores’ house, just to make sure they were the owners. They were listed as the property owners. Not a surprise. They paid annual property taxes of nearly ten grand. Ouch. That was ridiculous. Note to self: if I want to have money for meals, I need to consider the property taxes on any house I’m interested in.

  I found the Frakes Realty website, which had photos of a much younger Sylvia and her husband Vincent. He was average—brown hair and eyes. His face looked like a pale mask, and he appeared to be wearing makeup, maybe blush. He was smiling, but no expression marks existed. Had to be Botox. His teeth were bright white. The set of Sylvia’s mouth made her look as though she’d smelled something offensive.

  The website led me to Portrero Meyer Homes. I did a public records search on the company, and it listed Vincent Frakes as the President and CEO. Sylvia wasn’t mentioned. Hunh. They’d been in business for nearly three decades, and other people had served as officers over the years. One was a Gerald Cooper, the company’s founder. I Googled him and found an obituary dated six years prior. Apparently, he was Sylvia Frakes’s father. Then why wasn’t she President? She got ripped off, if anybody asked me. Nobody had, of course. I continued reading, feeling a bit of dislike for the man. Their family dynamics had nothing to do with me—yet.

  “Hey, Sydney.” Theresa Sinclair, a detective I’d worked with on the CPS Murders case a little while ago, plopped down in the chair across from me. It wobbled because one of the wheels had cracked. Theresa was African American, and I noticed she’d colored her short, natural hair. She used to have dark-brown hair with reddish tips, but all of her hair was a little redder. I stared. It looked good on her. She struggled to wheel herself over to my desk, pushing with her feet, like Fred Flintstone. Eventually, she stood, grabbed the back of the chair, and shoved it across the floor.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She took a seat and eyed my bagel until I cut the uneaten portion in half and slid it to her on a napkin. She nibbled on the bagel. “I read the report on that couple—the teachers. Jake and Shelly Milton.” She took a bigger bite, finished it, then licked her fingers. She plucked a napkin from the many varieties in a stack on my desk. I was a napkin hoarder.

  I strummed my nails on the gray metal desk and hummed while she wiped her mouth and hands.

  “Impatient much?” She glanced at the other half of my bagel.

  I covered it with a pink napkin. “Don’t even think about it. Tell me about Jake and Shelly.”

  “I haven’t talked to them yet, but it’s obvious they’ve been conned.”

  “No kidding.” Tell me something I didn’t know. “By whom?”

  She shrugged then stood. “I don’t know yet. I’m sure there are other victims out there. There always are.” She turned to leave, glanced at the napkin-covered bagel, then left my cubicle. That was all she had? It made me think she’d just come for the grub. I would have to keep my eye on her. I couldn’t have her turning into another Bernie where my pastries were concerned. It’s not that I didn’t want to share—well, yes, that was what it was. Too much one-sided sharing was going on here.

  I popped a bagel chunk in my mouth, leaned back, and enjoyed. I patted my stomach. Uh-oh. I squeezed. Getting a little soft there. I’d been running and working out with Mac up until several weeks ago, when the perpetrator of the crimes I was investigating attacked her. As a reward for being with me at the wrong place at the wrong time, Mac had suffered a broken arm, and she hadn’t felt up to running or doing anything physical for a while. Bernie and I had also been injured while working on the same case. Since then, I’d let exercise fall by the wayside. Time to get back to it. I picked up the rest of the bagel and held it over the trash can, but I couldn’t seem to let it fall inside.

  “I’ll start tomorrow.” I bit off another piece and smiled. Yeah, tomorrow.

  “Sydney, where’s Bernie?” Theresa was back. I could guess why.

  “He’s out today. Why?” I chewed, reaching for my tea to wash it down.

  “Are you free to take a ride out to see Jake and Shelly now? I spoke to her, and she said he’s back from San Francisco.”

  “Yep.” I gobbled up the rest of my bagel and gulped the tea, which was now lukewarm. I followed her out.

  She drove her department-issue Ford Focus, and I rode shotgun.

  Ten minutes later, Theresa pointed at the house ahead. “This is where Shelly’s parents live.” She rolled to the curb and cut the engine.

  Shelly’s parents resided in an upscale area of San Sansolita. Most of the homes were on par with the Moores’ house—more than I could afford on my current salary, if ever. We strolled down the walkway toward the house, which may have been the smallest on the street. Two little mixed-breed dogs yapped at the security screen door. How did all of that noise come out of such small bodies? Theresa reached for the doorbell, and I blocked her. Someone was walking toward us from the rear of the house. No sense in getting the dogs more excited—if that was even possible. They panted and paced frantically. One ran in circles.

  Chapter Five

  The man shushed the dogs. “You must be the detectives my wife told me about. I’m Jake Milton.” We introduced ourselves. He unlatched the ornate steel screen door and pushed it open. “Come in. Shelly’s this way.”

  He stepped aside as we entered. He was skinny with dark hair. With the dogs at our heels, sniffing the bottoms of our slacks, we followed him through the house to a sunroom in the back. Shelly brought in iced tea and fancy cookies on a shiny silver platter. I didn’t understand the rationale of having sweetened tea with cookies. They nearly cancelled each other out. The tea lost something when paired with cookies, in my opinion. Still, I didn’t turn either down.

  Jake and Shelly sat on the wooden swing, and Theresa and I sat across from them in patio chairs with a pattern of yellow and white flowers. I sipped my tea. Very sweet. And cold. I pulled my jacket around me and got out my notebook. I looked through my pockets and couldn’t find a pen, so I picked up the one on the table. I planned to let Theresa ask the questions while I observed.

  Theresa had her notebook out on her knee, and she glanced at her notes. “I’ve read the report of your account of how you rented the house.”

  “Right. Right. Did you find the guy she rented the house from?” Jake leaned forward, anxiety in his eyes. Shelly stroked his arm, and he sat back.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Milton—”

  “Please, Jake and Shelly. No need for formalities here.” Jake’s smile twitched.

  “Okay. Jake and Shelly, did you find your lease agreement?” Theresa asked.

  Shelly fished around in a folder that sat next to her. “It was here all along. My mother saw it on the table and put it away. She can’t stand seeing things lying around.” She slid out a bundle of papers and handed them to Theresa. “I made copies.”

  Theresa read the documents, making notes as she went along. She looked up and pointed to the signature section of the document. “This says you rented the house from John Smith.” Theresa folded the papers and tucked them under her notebook. “Where do you teach?”

>   Shelly smiled. “I teach third grade at Sunrise Elementary, and Jake teaches high school history and English.” She touched his arm and grinned nervously. “He’ll find another job soon.”

  I couldn’t keep my mouth shut after all. “Can you describe the person you rented the house from?”

  Shelly looked at me, wide-eyed. Did she not understand the question?

  “How tall was he?” I asked.

  “Tall. He was pretty tall.” Shelly glanced at Jake. “Taller than him. He looked like Lincoln.”

  “Lincoln, the president?” I asked. Stupid question—like I knew of any other Lincolns.

  “Yes, Abraham Lincoln.” She nodded, apparently satisfied she’d made it clear.

  “Did you see what kind of car he drove?” I asked.

  “It was blue. I don’t really know cars.”

  “How was he dressed?” Theresa asked.

  “He was wearing beige Levi’s Dockers and a blue shirt.”

  “You said he looked like Lincoln. How did he resemble Lincoln, other than his height?” I asked.

  “His hair was straight, short and dark, and he had a beard.” She closed her eyes then opened them. “No, it was a goatee.”

  Theresa looked at Jake. “And you were in San Francisco at the time of the lease signing?”

  “Right. I was there working.” He glanced at Shelly. “I trusted her judgment and knew I’d be happy with her choice.”

  Theresa turned to Shelly. “Did you happen to print out the ad you saw online?”

  “I didn’t. Sorry,” she said. “I called the number right away.”

  Jake squeezed Shelly’s hand. “My wife is a go-getter. She gets things done.”

  Theresa nodded. “It’s okay. We’ll see if we can find it.” She jotted some notes. “Did you call him from your cell phone?”

  “I don’t remember. Let me check.” She scrolled through her recent calls, shaking her head.

  I looked at Theresa. This felt like it would go nowhere. “Could you have called from a landline?”

  The Miltons stared at me, both blinking.

  Shelly shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Are your parents here?” Theresa asked Shelly.

  “No, they’ve gone away for a few days. They’d already planned it before all of this happened,” Shelly said.

  “We were supposed to pick up their dogs and take them to our new place, but…” Jake shrugged.

  “Mom doesn’t like boarding them.” Shelly reached down to pick up one of the dogs that had wandered toward her and placed it on her lap.

  “How did you pay your security deposit?” Theresa asked.

  “I used money orders,” Shelly said.

  “That’s unusual,” I said.

  Shelly shrugged. “He said he wanted a money order. I ended up getting three in order to have enough for the full amount of twenty-eight hundred dollars.”

  “Did you think that requiring a money order was odd?” Theresa asked.

  “I didn’t know. I just figured he’d had problems with bad tenants in the past and didn’t want the hassle of bounced checks. He asked that the rent be paid that way, too.”

  Jake stared at her. “Seriously?” Then he lifted a shoulder. “Well, I do know people who don’t have bank accounts and pay their bills with money orders.”

  “See? It’s not so unusual, after all. Maybe he didn’t trust banks.” She smiled triumphantly at Theresa.

  Theresa gazed at Shelly. “I have to tell you, the homeowner told Detective Valentine that the house is for sale, not for rent. So, whoever you met is not the owner, not according to what I’ve been able to determine so far.”

  “But, we have his name. It’s right there on the papers Shelly gave you,” Jake said.

  “That money was all we had. We saved for a while to get it so that I could move out of my parents’.”

  “Did you keep the receipts for the money orders?” I asked.

  “No. I threw them in the trash. They’re gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” Theresa said. “We don’t have much to go on in order to track him down. We’ll be in touch.”

  I didn’t want to tell them they should consider their money gone and most likely unrecoverable. But why pile on more bad news? I left the pen on the table and we headed for the door, escorted by the dogs, with the Miltons close behind, perhaps still hopeful. We each gave Jake a business card.

  I slid into the passenger seat. “Would you mind stopping by Frakes Realty? I’ve been trying to reach the agent handling the Moores’ sale.”

  “No problem.” Theresa glanced my way. “You think she knows something?”

  “She seemed like she had something to say at the time but backed down when Sylvia Frakes came around.”

  “Then why isn’t she returning your calls?”

  “Good question.” I shrugged. “I didn’t want to go back to their office, but I don’t have a choice now.” I turned in my seat. “Hey, do you own a house?”

  “I don’t, but I’ve been thinking about buying. Why?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it, too. Do you know any real estate agents?”

  “Nope. You?”

  “I was thinking about asking Brad. He’s an agent, and his parents are agents.”

  “Who’s Brad?” She turned my way and smiled. “Oh, he’s the guy from the dating site your sister ambushed you with!”

  I pointed to a building. “Frakes Realty. I hope she’s here.”

  “Me, too. But I want to continue our conversation later.” She grinned broadly.

  “You got it.” I stepped from the car and headed to the entrance.

  Theresa strolled behind me, humming “Here Comes the Bride”.

  “Cut it out,” I whispered.

  She giggled. Silly cop. I shoved the door open and scanned Frakes Realty. I didn’t see Monica Stewart. Someone behind me cleared her throat. Theresa and I turned.

  “May I help you, Detective Valentine?” Sylvia had her arms folded in front of her chest and a smirk on her face.

  “I had some follow-up questions for Monica Stewart.” I took another look around the room. “Is she in today?”

  “I’m afraid she doesn’t work here anymore. Perhaps I can be of assistance.” She looked at me then Theresa with raised eyebrows.

  “When did she leave her job?” I asked.

  “I believe it was soon after you were last here.” A hint of a smile graced her lips.

  Something was fishy. “Did you terminate her employment?”

  “I did no such thing! She quit.”

  Right. And Bernie didn’t love donuts.

  Monica had seemed bothered by what had happened and nervous about something. I didn’t have her home address. I didn’t bother asking Sylvia. She would ask for a warrant. No need to give her any more satisfaction than she already had in giving me this bit of bad news. I would have to do some work to track Monica down. Maybe she would call back soon. I wasn’t holding my breath.

  Chapter Six

  I managed to get the address Monica last registered with the California DMV. Theresa and I were on our way there—our last stop before heading back to the station. I was dragging by then, and I thought about the last item of substance I’d eaten that day—a bagel, which I’d shared. And I still hadn’t heard a peep out of the ME about our hot tub victim. We weren’t likely to get any closer to identifying her without a little help from Dr. Lee.

  I had plans for the Moores the next day. I was going to show them a photo of our Jane Doe. Maybe they knew her. It was worth a shot.

  Theresa rolled to a stop outside a townhouse under construction in a community on the north side of town. New houses had recently begun springing up in the area. Contractors were packing up their equipment, loading up oversized green thermoses and orange water dispensers. The men and a couple of women piled into their trucks, kicking up more dust.

  We stepped out of the car as the dust whipped through the air. I looked at the addresses of the neighboring home
s—odd numbers on one side and even on the other. If the pattern continued, we were at the correct house. “I don’t think this is it.” I glanced at the information I’d received from the DMV. “This is the address I was given. How could she live here? It’s not livable. Not yet.”

  Theresa shrugged. “Either the DMV got it wrong, or she gave them this address. I doubt they check out the addresses people give them. They take what they get.”

  “Okay, but how would she have received her license and car registration in the mail if the address was wrong?”

  “Maybe she already had a license, and it still has her old address. She could’ve changed her address with the DMV without getting a new license issued.”

  “Still—it’s wrong. Why change an address so far in advance? I think you have ten days to file the change of address after moving.” I didn’t like it. We were back to square one.

  A bearded man in a battered and dusty white Expedition drove past us and stopped at a nearby house. He climbed out of the vehicle, with a hard hat propped under one arm and a clipboard in his hand. He gazed at the house then walked around one side as he dropped the hard hat over his red hair. A few minutes later, he came around from the other side.

  “Let’s go talk to him.” I pointed then headed that way.

  The man watched as we approached. He stepped up when we got closer.

  “May I help you ladies with something?” He’d removed his hard hat. Up close, I saw that a million freckles covered his face and arms.

  “I’m Detective Valentine, and this is Detective Sinclair, of the San Sansolita Police Department.”

  He gazed at us, head to toe, pausing at the badges clipped to our belts. “All right.” He put on the hat and tilted it back, spread his feet wide, and crossed his arms. His eyes had narrowed. “Is there a problem?”

  “May I ask who you are, sir?” I got out my notebook. Theresa had hers out, too.

  “I’m Roger Mathews, the superintendent for this project.” He frowned. “What’s going on?”