Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (10 page)

“I asked Derrick about you.” He was smiling, enjoying the game.

I was embarrassed and pissed off. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?”

“I was curious, you know, to find out if you were checking me out as a prospect, or as a suspect.”

I considered the implications. He’d left me alone in his house, so either he didn’t have anything to hide, he’d hidden it well, or he was playing for higher stakes than I was.

“Is your name really Jennifer?” he asked.

“It’s Nicoli. How long had you been seeing Laura?”

“A few months. Am I a suspect?” His eyes shone with the kind of light I used to see in my cousin Aaron’s when he pulled the wings off a moth.

“Why would you think that?” I asked. “Does her father know you were dating?”

“No, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. I don’t know how he’d react and I’m not ready to leave InSight just yet.”

The age difference between Fred and Laura couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven years. I didn’t think he had reason to worry.

“I can’t promise anything,” I said.

His face darkened. “How did you know where to find me tonight?” he asked.

“Coincidence,” I said. “My office is in Redwood City. I worked late and felt like having a drink. What made you ask Derrick about me?”

“I like the way you look,” his eyes grazed my body, “and I liked the way you looked at me.”

I felt that sense of violation again. This was getting old.

“Let’s get the obvious questions out of the way,” I said, fighting the urge to scoot away from him on the couch. “Where were you the night Laura was killed?”

He didn’t flinch and he didn’t hesitate. “I was home,” he said. “Alone.”

“How did you two meet?”

“We met in the parking lot at InSight. She drove down to see her father one day and he was busy. I just happened along at the right moment. She asked if I’d like to join her for lunch and that was the beginning of a short-lived but vigorous relationship.”

I felt myself react to his choice of words. The woman he’d been sleeping with had been brutally murdered and he chose to characterize the affair as
vigorous
.

“How often did you see each other?”

“A couple times a week. I even went to see her dance once. She was good.”

“Do you know if she was seeing anyone else?”

“I didn’t ask, and she didn’t say.”

I picked up a water cracker. “So what
can
you tell me about Laura?”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “How did you find out we were dating?”

“I found a skydiving video in her bedroom.”

He looked surprised at first, and then irritated. “Laura was spoiled,” he said, “but she was beautiful and fun to be with. She was pissed off at her parents and determined to do anything she could to get their attention. It’s not uncommon. She was bored, like the children of wealthy parents often are. It must be exciting being a private investigator. What made you decide on that as a career?”

I ate another cracker while I considered my answer. “I wanted to track down and punish bad guys, but I didn’t want to be a cop,” I said. “It’s not as glamorous as it sounds.”

“No?” He looked intrigued.

“Most investigations are routine and the majority of surveillance time is spent sitting and waiting. What made you decide to write software?”

“It pays well. Why didn’t you want to be a cop?”

I looked at him. “I don’t like being told what to do. I think I’ll be going.” I set my glass on the coffee table and stood. “You’ve been a good sport about all this. May I call you if I think of any other questions?”

“Absolutely,” he said. He was on his feet, his hand resting on my arm. “How about dinner tomorrow night?”

I tried not to shrink away from his touch. “Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll let you know in the morning.”

He took out a business card and wrote his home number on the back, and then he asked for mine. I reluctantly gave him one of my cards, but did not volunteer my home number.

As soon as I was out the front door I heard him throw the dead bolt. Maybe a little paranoid? I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked to my car.

Chapter 12

W
hen I got back to the marina I hurried down to Elizabeth’s boat. I needed to talk this through with someone objective. The trawler lights were on and the door was open. I leaned over the handrail and knocked on a window. A moment later Elizabeth appeared in the doorway.

“How’d it go?” she asked.

“I need to talk.”

It was a warm night so Elizabeth came outside, followed by K.C., her huge orange tabby cat. We all sat down on her dock steps.

“He spotted me as soon as I went inside and bought me a Guinness. When he gave it to me the bottle was already open, so I spilled it in his lap. He invited me to his place and after changing his clothes he left me alone in the house while he went out for beer and Brie. I tossed the place. Then he came back and asked me how long I’d been a PI.”

“Oh my
God
! Wait a minute. Tell me about the case. Why were we following him?”

I told her the whole story. She’d read the newspaper accounts of Laura’s death, and caught the nightly news updates, but neither had covered the details.

“Hideous,” she said, when I’d finished. “How did he know you were a PI?”

“After I left InSight he talked to Derrick about me. Anyway, I asked him some questions and he seemed to answer candidly, but I found a box of condoms in his medicine chest and they were the same kind I read about in Laura’s pathology report. Did you get a look at his eyes?”

“No. Why?”

“They’re really intense. He asked me to have dinner with him tomorrow night.”

“Well,
that’s
interesting.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“I told him I’d let him know in the morning.”

“Nicoli Maxine Hunter. Tell me you didn’t give him your phone number?”

“Don’t get excited. I gave him my business card.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“He knows I’m a PI and I’m in the phone book. Besides, I really don’t have any reason to suspect him, apart from the fact that he dated Laura, and he lives so close to where she was killed…and the condoms. But that could be, you know, coincidence.”

“You don’t believe in coincidence.”

“You’re right. I don’t. I was thinking you could check out his house while we’re at dinner.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll pay you. Fifty an hour, same as before. Look for a knife with two spikes on the hilt. If you find it don’t touch it, just take a couple pictures of it. One up close and one from a distance so you get some of the room in the frame.” I pulled the Cyber-shot out of my purse and handed it to her. “Go through the videotapes and DVDs in the living room and see what’s on each one. There’s a VHS tape behind the file box on the shelf in the bedroom closet. If it’s a skydiving video don’t bother to fast forward through the whole thing, I already have a copy. And check the flue in the fireplace.

“He has a laptop computer on a desk near the living room window. If the computer is turned on take a look at his files. See what he has in the
My Pictures
folder. Oh, and there’s a small garage.”

“
Wait
a minute! How will I get in? And what if the neighbors see me? They might have one of those neighborhood watch things.”

She was hooked. I could see it in her eyes.

“It’s a quiet neighborhood,” I said, “I didn’t see anyone looking out their windows when I was there tonight. I’ll tell him I can’t meet him until late, say nine or nine-thirty. That way anyone who’s going out will be out, and the ones who are staying in will be inside with their drapes closed. You can park a few blocks away. Wear dark clothes. Something you would wear to go jogging. There’s probably a side door into the garage. I know there’s a door between the garage and the kitchen. I have a set of lock picks I can lend you. I’ll show you how to use them tomorrow.”

“What if I find the knife? We won’t be able to go to the police and tell them how I found it.”

“I’ll tell Detective Anderson I was interviewing Fred at his home because I found out he was dating Laura, and I just happened to see a knife like the one he described to me.”

“And you think, based on that, he’ll be able to get a search warrant?”

“I don’t know. Will you do it?”

“Of
course
I’ll do it. But if I get arrested you’d better pay my bail, and I mean immediately. If I have to spend even one night in jail our friendship is over.”

“Great!”

I kissed Elizabeth on the cheek, ruffled K.C.’s silky ears, and sauntered off to my boat.

While I was eating dinner I scribbled notes about the day’s events. When I had everything documented to my satisfaction, I closed the hatch and fell into bed. My mind wouldn’t stop working, so I picked up one of Lois Greiman’s Christina McMullen novels from the headboard and read until I dozed off.

Chapter 13

N
ightmares about serial killers plagued my sleep and when my alarm went off at 6:00 on Saturday morning I felt like I needed another four hours. I had a sense of foreboding, but chalked it up to a restless night and dragged myself out of bed.

I started a pot of coffee and turned on the news. According to Channel 36, the temperature would be in the eighties today and the sky would remain clear. The sun was already streaming through my portlights.

I filled a mug with coffee, added lactose-free milk, and lit a cigarette. After my second cup I began to perk up a little. My thoughts returned to the previous night and I began to wonder if involving Elizabeth was a such a good idea. She was right. It was risky and good friends are hard to find. I was having serious second thoughts when the boat swayed and someone knocked on my pilothouse door. I snatched up a terry cloth robe to cover the tee shirt I’d slept in, and opened the hatch.

Elizabeth was standing on deck, her eyes bright with excitement.

“Are you going to show me how to use those lock picks?”

I trudged up the steps and opened the door, squinting in the sunlight. “It’s Saturday,” I whined. “Don’t you ever sleep in?”

“Come
on!
” she said, flapping her arms. “Finish your coffee, take a shower, and cheer up! I’ll be back in an hour.”

She bounced off the boat and I went back inside.

After my third cup of coffee I was fully awake. I grabbed my shower bag, a towel, and a handful of dog biscuits, and headed for the marina facilities.

The restrooms are about a hundred and twenty-five yards from where my boat is docked. I paced it off before I chose the slip. It’s a nice walk. The only time I resent it is in the winter when it’s cold, raining, or windy. Besides, if I don’t mind the lack of water pressure, I can always shower on board.

I said good morning to a couple of my neighbors who were outside varnishing their brightwork. I inhaled the marina smells as I walked; sawdust and wet varnish, salt water and seaweed, diesel fuel, last night’s barbecued chicken, and the pungent odor of someone’s overflowing holding tank. Along the way I stopped to visit with Hobbs, Denali, Rocky, Rasputin, and D’Artagnon, a few of the marina dogs.

The marina culture wouldn’t be the same without the dogs. Hobbs is a big goofy yellow Lab who loves being hugged. If you’re one of his people, his whole body will wag when he sees you. He lives aboard a sailboat with two humans, Will and Leslie, and is easily bored. He takes frequent, unescorted walks around the marina in search of something to do. If he head-butts your hatch in the middle of the night and you don’t let him in, he’ll snub you the next day.

Denali also resides with Will and Leslie. She’s a brindle Lab around fourteen years old, and she’s a singer. When she sees a friend approaching she howls with delight, and I’m often inspired to howl along.

Rocky is part Golden Retriever and part Chow. He’s starting to gray around the muzzle and he’s very affectionate, dopey, and unpredictable. He’s also obsessed with tennis balls. On hot days he’s been known to drop one of his balls in the water, and then follow it in. Fortunately he’s a good swimmer.

Rasputin is an English Setter and is extremely well behaved apart from his penchant for licking faces. He loves to carry things around in his mouth. He can hold up to six small dog biscuits before he’s forced to begin chewing, and he picks up garbage of all descriptions from the marina grounds, just to have something to carry.

Last, but far from least, is D‘Artagnon, the self-appointed marina watchdog. He’s a black Labrador Retriever, frequent visitor of those who feed him treats, and a glutton for affection. He lives with Kirk and Jonathan, father and son, on a Bluewater 42. I have a soft spot in my heart for this guy. His tail is crooked where it was broken when he was a puppy, he’s always hungry, and he is never satisfied that you love him enough.

As I made my rounds I gave each dog two biscuits and scratched behind their ears. It’s one of my morning rituals. I love dogs, but I resolved never to own one again after my two-year-old English Mastiff jumped a six-foot fence and tracked my scent onto the freeway. I tell my friends it’s too much responsibility for me, that I want to be able to travel without attachments, but the truth is I don’t have the emotional courage to endure another loss.

Elizabeth came back at 7:30. She knocked on the open pilothouse door and I shouted for her to come in. I was cleaning my revolver at the galley counter, so she sat down and watched. The Ruger SP101 is a stainless steel five-shot .357 magnum with a two-inch barrel. It’s built like a hammer. It will never break down.

When I finished, I handed her the unloaded gun. “I want you to take this with you tonight.”

She held it carefully, her eyes wide. “No way am I carrying this,” she said.

“You probably won’t need it, but I’ll feel better if you have it with you. Just put it in your pocket.”

“It weighs a
ton
!”

“Is it too heavy for you? Okay. Let’s go shopping.”

We took my car and stopped at the 1-Hour-Photo on El Camino, so I could drop off the film from my Nikon, then drove on to Heinz’s Gun Shop in San Carlos. Heinz opens at 8:00 a.m., even on Saturdays. I bought my first handgun from him when I was working for Sam Pettigrew.

Heinz is about five-eight and a hundred and seventy pounds with a full head of silver hair and steely blue eyes set in a craggy face that you can tell was once handsome, even though he’s now older than dirt.

I escorted Elizabeth to a display of used handguns, but it was clear she was in unfamiliar territory. I asked Heinz if I could look at a used matt black Glock twenty-six he had in the display case. It was a small 9mm composite frame that only weighed about twenty ounces, but held a ten-round magazine plus one in the chamber.

Elizabeth took the gun and I showed her how to sight it. She held it at arm’s length for a minute, and she was okay with the weight, so we grabbed earplugs, goggles, and a box of ammo, and went back to Heinz’s indoor firing range.

I gave Elizabeth a lecture on handgun safety as I loaded the magazine, pointing out the lack of an external manual safety on the gun. It’s the only thing I don’t like about Glocks. The safety guard is part of the trigger mechanism, so if anything trips the safety accidentally the gun can easily go off. A lot of cops have shot themselves in the foot by failing to keep their fingers out of the trigger guard on the draw. This is also why it’s unsafe to carry a Glock in your purse.

Elizabeth listened attentively and watched every move I made. When I had the mag loaded I showed her how to insert it into the gun and how to pull back the slide to chamber a round. I fired a few shots at a paper silhouette target while she watched. Then I handed her the gun and stood back. Elizabeth emptied the magazine, set the gun down, and took off her goggles.

“Wow,” she said, in a throaty voice. “What a
rush
.”

“How does it feel in your hand?” I stepped forward and squinted at the target. She’d actually come close to the 10X a couple of times. 10X is center body mass on a silhouette target.

“It’s a handful,” she said, “but I think I can control it.”

“Good. Reload the magazine.”

I watched as Elizabeth pushed the mag release and then clumsily pressed bullets into the magazine one at a time. This was not going to be a problem, it was just an unfamiliar process. The problem came when she tried to reinsert the mag into the gun. She placed it in the handle of the Glock and gently pushed upward. I think she was expecting it to snap into place. When it didn’t, she looked at me, bewildered.

“You have to jam it up in there,” I said. “Pull it back out a little, then give it a good shove.”

After a couple of tries she had it. She pulled back the slide and emptied the magazine into the target again. This time she got a round in the 10X and whooped like a teenager.

We returned to the front counter and I wrote Heinz a check. I presented my PI license and my concealed carry permit. Heinz and I go way back. He had me fill out the forms for the two-week waiting period, then carefully wrapped the Glock, three magazines, and two boxes of 9mm parabellum ammo, and put them in the bottom of a bag below the counter, which he topped with a hunting vest I would later return.

When we were back in the car Elizabeth gave me an open-mouthed stare.

“What?” I asked.

“Isn’t there a two-week waiting period? Will he get in trouble?”

“Are you going to tell anyone?”

“Of course not!”

“Did anyone else see him do it?”

“There was only one other guy in there and he was on the other side of the store.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You must be a good customer.”

“I buy all my guns and ammo from Heinz, and I listen to his stories about being a Hitler Youth. He likes me.”

Elizabeth hugged the bag all the way back to the marina.

We walked down to my boat and I tossed the vest in the pilothouse and placed the bag with the Glock and ammo in my dinghy. I keep the dinghy inflated year round in case one of my neighbors is having a party and I don’t feel like walking or driving. It’s a big marina.

“You need more target practice,” I said.

I checked my trash and found three empty plastic water bottles and a diet root beer can. I dug my fanny pack holster out of the stateroom locker. I wanted the Glock secured while we were bouncing around on the water.

We got into the dinghy and I showed Elizabeth how the gun fit into the holster, reminding her not to put her finger inside the trigger guard unless she was ready to fire. I strapped on the fanny pack and we motored out to the slough.

I am not by nature a violent person. Although I grew up target shooting with my dad, he only taught me how to use a long gun. I learned to shoot a handgun much later in life at the insistence of Sam Pettigrew. Sam used to take me to the range once a week. He also helped me get my concealed-carry permit. He knew the right people at the Sheriff’s Department. Sam doesn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks.
Pepper spray just pisses some people off, Nicoli
, he used to say.
You need something with stopping power
.

At first, handling any type of pistol creeped me out. It seemed so much more personal than a rifle. If I ever had to shoot someone in self-defense, I wanted to be as far away from the part of the gun where the bullet came out as possible. But the more time I spent practicing at the range and at home cleaning my little Ruger, the more confident I became.

Elizabeth had a good eye and, in spite of her concern about breaking a nail, she was comfortable with the Glock in about an hour. Her wrists were sore and the palm of her hand was red, but she had a self-satisfied smirk on her face. We took the dinghy back to the marina and I taught her how to clean the gun.

At 10:30 I dug out my lock picks. Time for lesson number two. I keep several locksets stowed in my galley settee. I showed Elizabeth how the internal mechanism worked on each type of lock, and again she proved to be a quick study. After the first few tries she could open a standard lock in less than a minute. Sometimes it pays to have a high IQ.

I called Fred and told him we were on for dinner and he asked what kind of food I liked. I said any place with a salad bar would be fine with me. He suggested the Chart House in Half Moon Bay. That would be about a thirty-minute drive.

“Perfect,” I said. “Why don’t I meet you at your house at nine?”

He agreed, saying nothing about the fact that San Mateo, where I had told him I lived, was between his house and Half Moon Bay. 

Elizabeth and I left the Glock on her trawler and walked up to The Diving Pelican, the marina restaurant. Over lunch we discussed the layout of Fred’s house. I drew her a diagram on a paper napkin and made notes of what to check in each room. I felt confident now that she had the skills and information necessary to conduct a successful search.