Mega Dead Read online

  Mega Dead

  A SYDNEY VALENTINE MYSTERY

  Danielle L. Davis

  Copyright © 2018 by Danielle L. Davis

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

  300 S. Highland Springs Ave., PMB #247

  Banning, CA 92220

  Printed in the United States of America

  Cover Design by Books Covered Ltd.

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Created with Vellum

  For Mocha.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Danielle L. Davis

  1

  I’d left the San Sansolita Boxing Club wearing black cargo pants, a green T-shirt and cowgirl booties, and sporting a fat lip.

  Soon after, I arrived at the latest crime scene—a 3500-square-foot, one-story, gray house with a stucco exterior, five bedrooms and four bathrooms. As I entered the house, I pulled on disposable gloves and booties. I found the victim—a slender Latina, probably in her early thirties—sprawled on the gray tile floor in her dining room. A floral print scarf encircled her neck, and blood from a vicious-looking gash to her left temple had dried in her hair. A blood-encrusted Emmy statue lay on the tile floor beside her. Long strands of auburn hair clung to the congealed blood. The statue appeared bigger and heavier than it did on TV. Out of curiosity, I wanted to pick it up and hold it, but the forensic techs were doing their thing, and the coroner hadn’t arrived yet. Roses and glass shards from a broken vase and wine glass littered the floor. Two round white pills lay near the tips of her red-lacquered nails. Experience told me the pills were oxycodone. I wondered how many she had swallowed. Her full lips were parted, as if she were trying to tell me something.

  A cool breeze wafted above my head from the ceiling vent. Looking around, I found the thermostat on the far wall next to the security alarm console in the living room. Someone had set the temperature to a chilly sixty degrees.

  Gomez had been the first officer on the scene, and she stood near the door, her eyes scanning the room. She’d already told me there had been no evidence of forced entry. I pointed to the thermostat. “Gomez, is this how you found it? Sixty degrees?”

  She nodded. “Yes, Detective Valentine. I didn’t check the room temperature, but I haven’t touched the thermostat either. Nobody has. Not since I arrived.”

  “All right. Thanks.”

  I took in the room. The sleek chrome and glass tables, fluffy white area rugs, and white upholstered sofa and chairs made the room appear sterile. The single source of warmth came from a stunning watercolor of a beautiful golden retriever running across a field of California poppies. He wore a blue collar and clutched a tennis ball in his mouth. The painting was easily four feet wide. Two eight-by-ten portraits of the victim and her dog hung on the wall opposite the painting. In one, they sat in front of a decorated and colorfully lit Christmas tree, surrounded by gifts wrapped with fancy bows and ribbons. In the other, the victim strolled barefoot with her dog across wet sand on a beach, the water licking at their feet.

  I entered the kitchen, looking for food and water bowls, but I found nothing set up for pets. Bernie, my partner, had arrived and joined me as I walked along the hall, searching the rooms for a pet bed. I opened a closet in a small bedroom. Surely, if there had been a dog, it would’ve made its presence known by now, assuming the poor thing were still alive. My heart raced, and I hoped we wouldn’t find a dead canine in one of the closets.

  “What are you looking for?” Bernie asked.

  “What happened to the dog and where are the things people buy for them? I don’t see any bowls, chew toys, or a leash.”

  He shrugged. “We don’t know if it was her dog in the portraits with her.”

  “Did you not see the huge painting on the wall in there?” I pointed toward the living room and scoffed. “Of course it was hers. And he’d live in here with her. Nobody commissions a watercolor, especially one of that size, if it isn’t their pet. Nobody would do it.”

  “Maybe she painted it.”

  “It was signed by someone named Peter Samuels.”

  He tilted his head in agreement. “You might be right.”

  “I am. Trust me.” I left the bedroom, heading to another room, which contained a flat-screen, wall-mounted television, free weights stacked on racks, weight machines, and a treadmill.

  “The alarm wasn’t set. Officer Gomez indicated there didn’t appear to be evidence of forced entry,” Bernie said.

  “She may have let the person in, or they had a key.”

  We crossed the corridor and found the master bedroom. It had a floral scent. Thick white rugs covered the tile floor on each side of the king-size bed.

  Bernie slid open a jewelry box, exposing necklaces, earrings, and a bracelet. They appeared to be diamonds, emeralds, and pearls. “Doesn’t seem like robbery was a motive.”

  I opened a door, found a spa bathroom and entered. A claw-foot tub large enough to accommodate two people sat beneath a window with a panoramic view. The room smelled fresh, like a spring day after light rain. A glass-enclosed shower, tiled to the ceiling in marble, was about the size of two elevator cars. The crystal-clear, highly polished glass gave the appearance of a shower that hadn’t been used recently, if ever.

  The bathroom led to a walk-in closet the size of my twin sister, MacKenzie’s, two-car garage. I stood in the doorway and considered the neat rows of shoes, boots, purses and belts lining the shelves. I’d seen small boutiques that carried less stock. Why would someone need that many shoes and purses? Vanity drawers contained the usual: hair accessories, styling products, body lotion, flat iron and blow dryer. Her medicine cabinet held Rolaids, Motrin, and a prescription bottle of OxyContin with a single pill left inside. It had been refilled with twenty pills yesterday. I handed the bottle to Bernie.

  He read the label before dropping it into an evidence bag. “Where are the rest of the pills?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe she took them or gave them away.”

  “The ones on the floor by the body may have come from the bottle.”

  “If that’s true, it only accounts for two pills,” I said, leaving the bathroom. “What do you think so far?”

  Bernie followed me into the hall. “She didn’t have kids. You can’t possibly keep a place this clean when you have kids. Michael’s too small to be running around the house yet, bu
t there are plenty of things lying around to indicate we have a kid.” Bernie’s girlfriend was a friend of mine, and she had given birth to their baby boy only a few days ago, so I could attest to the amount of stuff a kid of any age needed.

  Having babysat Josh, my five-year-old nephew recently, I also agreed about the cleaning. The victim having young children in her household seemed unlikely. The absence of portraits of children supported our suppositions. We entered a room set up as an office. I flipped through a desk organizer before bagging it as evidence. One of us would look through it later. From there, we took in the spacious kitchen. The appliances were stainless steel, including a double oven and a large sink built into the granite counter on the island. We browsed the room for a while before returning to the dining room.

  I knelt next to the body. “Who is she?”

  “Teena Travis. That’s T-e-e-n-a,” Bernie said. “She’s a celebrity.”

  “Yeah, I figured that from the Emmy that probably killed her.” I tilted my head to get a better look at her face. “Married?”

  Bernie shrugged and shook his head. “No idea. There’s not much of blood, so I’m assuming she died quickly.”

  “Who called it in?”

  “Her personal assistant, Billi Jones.” He jerked a thumb toward the window. “She’s outside, in Gomez’s car.”

  I headed to the window and looked out. The fire department rescue squad was pulling away from the curb. No need for their expertise this time around. Jones held her cell phone to her ear as she gazed at the police activity.

  “You talked to her?” I asked.

  “Not yet. Too distraught at the time. Her, not me.” He smiled. “Figured I’d let her calm down first.”

  “Well, I’m done here for now. I’ll give it a go.” I headed for the door, looking over my shoulder. “You coming?”

  “Right behind you.” He looked as if he wanted to laugh, but he followed me outside.

  I spun around. “What’s your problem?” I glowered at him and planted my hands on my hips.

  Bernie grinned. “You lost the fight.”

  No sympathy for me. “Theresa and I were sparring at the boxing club, and she hit me when I turned away after the gym manager called me to the phone. We were supposed to be light sparring. It was a cheap shot.”

  His smile widened as he scratched his stubble. “Well, remind me to congratulate her on a job well done.”

  I ran a finger lightly over my lip, wincing. I should’ve grabbed some ice before leaving the gym. “She got in a lucky punch while I was distracted, I tell you.”

  “Looks like she got in more than one lucky punch to me.” He raised his eyebrows, clearly enjoying my misfortune.

  Jerk.

  I narrowed my eyes. “Shut up.”

  He breezed past me, heading toward Gomez’s patrol car. “Let’s go talk to Billi Jones.”

  No doubt about it, Bernie was right. I’d underestimated Theresa, another detective in our division, when we sparred.

  As we approached Gomez’s car, I looked at the clear sky and pulled off my disposable gloves and paper booties. I turned them inside out, pushed them in my pocket and removed my notebook. The sun warmed the back of my neck, and I rubbed my tight muscles.

  I guessed Jones’s age at about thirty. She was sobbing and dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissues as she spoke into her cell phone. At one point, she set her phone in her lap to blow her nose. Bernie held up his badge. Mine was attached to my belt. She nodded and ended her conversation. The day was already hot and, even with the windows down, the car must’ve been stifling.

  I opened the car door. “I’m Detective Valentine, and this is Detective Bernard of the San Sansolita PD. Can you step out of the car, please?”

  2

  We moved back as she slid out. Slim and about five-six, Jones wore black slacks and black patent flats. Her skin was pale and blotchy. A large pimple on the tip of her nose made her look like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She wore her shiny black hair in a chin-length bob and peered at us through red-rimmed hazel eyes made up in a smoky-eyed look I associated with an evening out on the town or glamour photos. Tears and mascara clung to her unnaturally long eyelashes. Surprisingly, her makeup had smeared very little. Her hand shook as she tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing four tiny gold hoop earrings lining the edge of her left ear and three lining the right. Perspiration had soaked through her turquoise short-sleeve top. Either she was an excellent actress, or she was upset at what she’d seen. As far as suspects went, I mentally added her to the “possible” category. Too early to tell. She reached through the car window and removed a large black purse as big as the pillow on my bed. She hung it over her shoulders so the strap crossed her body and the purse rested on her hip.

  “Do you have ID?” I asked.

  “Sure.” She reached into her purse and handed me a driver’s license.

  I wrote down the address of her apartment in Rancho Cucamonga, which was about thirty-five miles away. “Tell us what happened.” I returned her license, and she dropped it in the cavernous purse.

  She sniffled. “Well, I came here, like I always do.”

  “What time?”

  “Noon. Teena required punctuality. I had to be on time—or else.”

  I studied her. “Or else what?”

  She ran her finger across the front of her neck. “I need this job.”

  “Why did you come today?”

  “I was picking up dry cleaning and grocery shopping, for starters,” Jones said.

  “When did you last speak to her?”

  Her chin trembled. “Seven o’clock yesterday evening.”

  “Did she live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Uh-oh.” Bernie pointed down the street as news vans rolled toward us and pulled to a stop a couple of houses away—well clear of the crime scene tape.

  I recognized the petite blonde reporter who fluffed her hair and checked herself in the van’s mirror before strutting our way, while uniformed officers dealt with the crowd. Blondie had spent too much time primping, because a skinny male reporter from a competing station beat her to us. He stood a few feet away, talking as the cameraman aimed a lens at him. I recognized him too but couldn’t recall either reporter’s name. It hadn’t taken them long to sniff out a story.

  “I got this.” Bernie hurried toward the male—Ray. His name was Ray.

  Blondie didn’t bother to introduce herself on the air. Rushing to reach us while Bernie talked to her competitor, she held a microphone and shouted at her cameraman to hurry.

  Vultures.

  “Stay here,” I ordered and marched about twenty feet away from Jones.

  “Detective, I’m Vanessa Perkins.” The reporter was out of breath and spoke into the microphone. “My sources tell me that Teena Travis was murdered. Do you have any suspects?” She shoved the microphone in my face.

  “You need to get behind the perimeter.” I waved at Rachel Miles, a uniformed officer who’d been in Travis’s yard. “Officer Miles, please see that she doesn’t breach the tape again.” I turned to leave as Miles approached to shepherd the reporter away.

  Perkins grabbed my arm. “Who were you talking to over there?” She shoved the mic in my face while still holding my arm.

  I shook her off and snatched the mike out of her hand. “You’re interfering with a police investigation. Step back.” I tossed the mike at her and left her standing in the middle of the road. Officer Miles led her away.

  “Detective Valentine! Sydney!”

  Cindy Hayes, a newspaper reporter, hurried toward me.

  How the hell are these people getting through?

  I liked Cindy and had seen her at the boxing club a few times. She was wearing yoga pants, T-shirt and ASICS running shoes.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Breathing hard, she scanned the growing crowd. “Was Teena Travis killed?”

  “You know I can’t talk about this yet. As far as I know, the famil
y of the victim hasn’t been notified.”

  “Come on, Sydney. My editor pulled me from the gym and told me to get my ass over here. Give me something I can use.”

  “Sorry, Cindy, I don’t have anything to give you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Have a good day.” She grumbled as I walked away. When I glanced back, she was hurrying toward the tape as Officer Giles rushed in her direction.

  When I returned to Gomez’s car Bernie was interviewing Jones.

  He scribbled in his notebook. “Did she have family in the area?”

  “Her parents live in Calimesa. She has a brother, George Stone, and a sister, Veronica. I already called her.”

  He studied her. “I need everyone’s contact information.”

  “Her parents are in Paris at the moment. Teena gave them the trip as a gift for their fortieth anniversary. I called them. They’ll be back as soon as they can get a flight.”

  Bernie nodded. “How long have you worked for Ms. Travis?”

  “Almost four years.” Jones removed tissues from a side pocket in her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “Excuse me.” She blew her nose and shoved the used tissue in her pocket. The pimple on her nose grew redder and looked as though it would pop at any moment.

  I stepped back. “What exactly did you do for Ms. Travis?”

  “I was her personal assistant. I did the things she didn’t have the time for or didn’t want to do.”

  “Like what? Please be specific.”

  “Let’s see.” She twisted her mouth and looked around. “I shopped for her groceries and cooked. Teena has a gorgeous kitchen with top-of-the-line appliances but couldn’t boil water.” She ticked off each item as she said them, then took a breath. “I scheduled appointments and made reservations. Did her laundry and picked up dry cleaning. If she wanted to order out, I went to get it. She didn’t like delivery because she didn’t want fans to know where she lived. She kind of assumed everyone was a fan.”