Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (15 page)

Chapter 20

M
y Dream Machine began playing acoustic guitar music at 5:00, but it didn’t wake me until 5:20. I struggled into a sitting position, punched off the CD, and threw back the covers. I needed coffee. I started a pot, extra strong, washed my face, lit a cigarette, and waited for the coffee to finish dripping.

I downed the first twenty-ounce pot and it wasn’t enough, so I made another and got dressed. I carried my insulated mug up to the office where I’d left Charles Spencer’s address. It was already 5:50. Traffic on Highway 101 is heavy after 5:30 on weekdays. I located the address and hustled out to the parking lot.

I was on the freeway heading south by 6:00 a.m. I took the Embarcadero Road exit and turned right on Emerson. I found the Spencers’ gingerbread house easily, and parked down the street. I finished my coffee and realized that I needed a bathroom. It’s inappropriate to relieve yourself behind a bush in the residential section of Palo Alto, so I hoped Charles was an early riser.

At 7:33 Charles Spencer opened his front door and stepped out onto the porch. Candy was right, he hadn’t changed much since college. He was still in good shape but he had a little less hair. A young woman, Ashley, I presumed, was right on his heels, looking fetching in a pink jogging suit. She was blonde, slender, and perky, and bore a noticeable resemblance to Laura. She kissed him good-bye at the car and watched him drive away, waving and smiling.

I waited a beat and then followed Charles, who drove into downtown Palo Alto and made a right on University Avenue. He pulled into an underground garage. I parked on the street and waited, impatiently. Charles came out a minute later, walked half a block, and entered Hubner & Ross, a stock brokerage.

I got out of the car and hightailed it to 525 University, the only high-rise on the block, hoping it would be unlocked at this hour. It was. I took the elevator to the second floor and found a ladies’ restroom.

A few minutes later, feeling much more composed, I walked into the underground garage where Charles had left his car, and wrote down his plate number. Maybe I could get Detective Anderson to run it for me. I’d need his driver’s license number in order to request a background check.

I walked back up to the street and entered Hubner & Ross. In spite of my jeans and tee shirt, the young receptionist greeted me with a sunny smile.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m Sarah Jenkins. Is Charles Spencer in yet?” I didn’t want to tip Charles off in case one of the Howards had told him about me.

“Yes. Is he expecting you?”

“No, but I only need a few minutes.”

She looked curious, but didn’t ask any more questions. She called Charles on the intercom and asked if he had time to see a Ms. Jenkins. She hung up the phone and said, “He’ll be right out.”

Charles stepped out of a rear office, looked at me quizzically, and extended his hand. I shook it. It was warm and dry and his grip was almost painfully firm. He held on a moment longer than was appropriate while standing a little too close.

“I’m Charles Spencer,” he said.

“Nicoli Hunter, Mr. Spencer. I wonder if we could speak privately for a few minutes.”

He shot a glance at the receptionist, who shrugged. Without another word he escorted me down the hall to his office. It was small and had no windows, but it had a door, which he closed. He offered me a chair and sat down behind his desk.

“What’s this about, Ms. Hunter?”

“I’m a private investigator. I was hired by Kate Howard to look into the murder of her daughter, Laura.”

Sometimes it pays to be blunt. Charles recoiled as though he’d seen a rattlesnake perched on his desk. All the color went out of his face, except for his cheeks, which turned red. How was that even possible?

“I assumed you knew she was dead.”

“I read about it in the paper,” he said. “Why do you want to talk to me? I haven’t seen Laura in ages.” His hands were spread, palms down, on top of his desk, and he was tilting himself back in his chair, apparently in an effort to distance himself from me.

“It’s routine,” I said. “I’m talking to everyone who knew her.”

That seemed to relax him a little. He let the front wheels of his chair touch the ground, and his color returned to normal.

“I understand you handle Kate and Derrick’s investments.” I was fishing, of course. They had told me nothing of the kind. In fact, Kate had said they hadn’t seen Charles recently.

“That’s right,” he said.

Bingo!

“Is it a sizable portfolio?”

“Well, it’s not small.”

“When was the last time you saw Laura?”

Charles turned two-tone again, just for an instant.

“I haven’t seen Laura in over a year. Not since we broke up.”

Lying sack-of-shit.

“Charles, I took some of your yearbook pictures to the
Fanny Pack
. I know you went to see her dance, frequently.”

Now his whole face turned purple and he shuddered. Could an aneurysm be far behind?

“I think you’d better leave,” he said, standing abruptly and pointing stiff-armed at the door.

“Okay, but I have more questions.” I held out one of my cards. “Maybe we can schedule a time that’s more convenient for you.”

He didn’t move, so I put the card on his desk and backed out of his office.

Standing on the sidewalk in front of the brokerage, I lit a cigarette and thought about the interview. It didn’t seem likely that someone as volatile as Charles could murder anyone without leaving an evidence trail. He might strangle Laura with his bare hands in a fit of rage, but it would be done without stealth. That was assuming he was even capable of such a brutal act. He was probably just afraid I’d tell his wife that he’d been spending time at a strip joint.

I walked back to my car and called Derrick. I got the receptionist and then Derrick’s admin, who said he would be in meetings all day.

“Please tell Mr. Howard that if I don’t hear from him within thirty minutes, I’ll discuss the matter in question with Mrs. Howard.” I gave her my cell number.

My phone rang before I made it the three blocks to the freeway. I let it ring a few times before answering. I was feeling vindictive.

“Nicoli Hunter,” I said, in my most professional voice.

“I don’t appreciate being threatened, Ms. Hunter,” said Derrick.

“And I don’t appreciate being lied to. I’d like to speak with you in person this morning. I’m already in Palo Alto. I can be there in ten minutes.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment and I imagined steam coming out of his ears. Then he said, “You’ll have to get here quickly. I have back-to-back meetings all day.”

“On my way.”

When I arrived, Tanya, the receptionist, called Derrick’s admin, then looked at me apprehensively as she issued a visitor’s badge. Derrick came out to get me two minutes later. We walked up to his office in silence. He closed the door and sat down behind his desk. I stayed on my feet this time.

“I imagine you’ve heard from Charles by now,” I began. “I’d like to know why you and your wife chose to tell me you hadn’t seen him recently when he handles your stock portfolio.”

“If you must know,” he said, “we’d already spoken about it before you asked. We decided Charles would never hurt Laura, so there was no reason to involve him. Besides, we really haven’t seen him recently. He handles our transactions by telephone and e-mail.”

“You decided? Like you decided there was no reason to tell me about Rod and the inheritance? Just how much interest does five million dollars accrue in four years?”

He stared at me levelly, his face expressionless.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” I said. “I’m used to dealing with clients who want me to find the truth. When a client lies to me, it makes me suspicious. Let’s talk about Laura’s solicitation arrest. How did you manage to keep it from Kate?”

He sighed impatiently. “When Laura was arrested she called our attorney and Gerald called me. I asked him not to mention it to Kate, and told him to arrange for Laura’s release on the condition that she
wouldn’t mention it to Kate.”

“So you blackmailed your own daughter before getting her out of jail.”

“I will not tolerate being judged by an employee,” he said, with absolute calm.

“Let’s get something straight, Derrick. I don’t work for you. Your wife hired me to look into Laura’s murder, so technically
she
is my client, but I work for myself. I am no one’s employee. Is that clear?”

Derrick said nothing.

“Were you aware that Laura got herself arrested intentionally?”

“No,” he said. “I knew she was angry, but …” he let the thought go unfinished.

“That’s why she took the job at the
Fanny Pack
, isn’t it? Because she was angry with you, and with Kate.”

“I suppose so, yes.” Hardly a confession, but as close as I was likely to get.

“Why didn’t you talk to her? You could have gone into family therapy.”

“Do you have children, Ms. Hunter?”

“I don’t even have a dog,” I said, though why I’d volunteered that information was beyond me.

He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I have a meeting to get to.”

I decided to leave quietly. I followed him to the door and he held it open for me.

“Can you show yourself out?” he asked.

“Of course. Thank you for your time.”

He nodded and closed the door behind me. I took the back stairs and stopped by Research and Development. Fred was there, but he was concentrating on what he was doing. What he was doing was bending over the shoulder of a twenty-something redhead who was seated at a computer. He was leaning on her desk with one hand, and the other hand was resting on her shoulder. I smiled to myself and kept walking.

Chapter 21

W
hen I got back to the office I called Bill Anderson on his cell, knowing incoming calls to the PD were automatically recorded.

“It’s Nikki,” I said, when he answered. “I need a DL number.” I read him Charles Spencer’s license plate number.

He didn’t comment one way or the other, but he did ask if I was free for lunch.

“What time?” I asked.

“One o’clock? I’ve got some things to tie up here.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll meet you at your office.”

“That’ll work. I’ll pick something up. You have any menu preferences?”

“Surprise me,” he said.

I could tell from his voice that he was smiling, and so was I. I called Bennett, the owner of The Diving Pelican,
and ordered roast turkey and top sirloin sandwiches to go. Then I called Sylvia. She answered on the second ring. 

“Sylvia, it’s Nicoli. How are you doing?”

“Oh hello, dear. I’m all right. How’s the investigation coming along?”

“I need your help again. I keep hearing from third parties about Kate and Derrick’s attorney, Gerald Kuhlman. Can you tell me anything about him?”

“Oh, yes. I know Gerry. He and Derrick went to Harvard together. I even went out with him a couple of times. I think one of the reasons he moved his practice to San Francisco was so he could be closer to Derrick. They’ve grown apart over the years, though, both being so busy. I understand Gerry has himself quite an empire now. Derrick tells me some of his clients are politically significant.”

“Wow,” I said, half to myself. Her description of Kuhlman jibed with what Bill Anderson had told me. “Sounds like a good person to know.”

“Yes, I suppose he is.”

“Thanks for the info, Sylvia. I’d be lost without you.”

“No, you wouldn’t, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Call me if you need anything else.”

I liked Sylvia and she was a great source of information. I’d have to send her a thank you card when the investigation was concluded.

I started updating Laura’s file and while I was typing I remembered that I had yet to examine her most recent phone bill. I located the statement Kate had given me and scanned it quickly, then began highlighting the numbers she’d called more than once. I recognized Sylvia’s number, having just called her. There was a number in San Francisco that Laura had called three times. I checked my notes and found it was Rod’s. There was one in Menlo Park that she’d called four times. I checked the consent form from The Sky Ranch. It was Fred’s number. No big surprise there. The calls to Fred were short, each less than three minutes. The last one was at 6:00 p.m. on the night she was killed. Maybe making plans to meet up later in the drugstore parking lot. The calls to Rod were longer. I wondered what they had talked about.

I glanced at my e-mail and saw that I‘d received one with attachments from CIS. It was the background I’d requested on Rod Howard. The first attachment showed me that he had two parking tickets in San Francisco in the current year, and that two years ago he’d been convicted of possession of an illegal substance
.
He’d been fined and placed on probation for six months. The report didn’t list what the substance was, but it was a safe bet that Rod had at least one expensive habit.

I opened the next attachment - his financial background. A
very
expensive habit. Apparently Rod had burned through his inheritance and piled up some vicious debts. His car wasn’t paid for, he owed back taxes, and his house was mortgaged. I wrote a check to CIS and put it with my outgoing mail. Money well spent.

I decided to give Gerald Kuhlman a call and see if he was willing to meet with me. I found the paper on which Kate had written his number, and dialed. The phone rang twice before being answered by a receptionist who sounded mechanically poised.

“Kuhlman, Ross, and Bassett. How may I direct your call?”

I gave her my name and asked for Gerry Kuhlman. She requested that I hold. A moment later I was transferred to another woman.

“Mr. Kuhlman’s office,” said a silky alto voice.

“My name is Nicoli Hunter. I was referred by Derrick Howard. I wonder if I might speak with Mr. Kuhlman.”

“What is this regarding?”

“I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the Howards to look into their daughter’s murder.”

She considered that briefly and then said, “One moment, please.” When she came back on the line she told me that Mr. Kuhlman couldn’t be disturbed just now. I wondered how she’d found that out without disturbing him. She asked specifically what I wanted to speak with him about and I told her I wanted to discuss Laura’s criminal record and the disbursement of her inheritance. She took my phone number, asked me to spell my first and last names, and said she would give Mr. Kuhlman the message. I was sure she would. I was equally sure Kuhlman would speak with Derrick before calling me back.

I checked my watch and hurried down to the boat to freshen up before lunch. I was looking forward to seeing Detective Bill Anderson. I changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and put on fresh lip gloss, then walked across the marina to The Diving Pelican to pick up the sandwiches I’d ordered. I took a minute to chat with Bennett, the owner; a short, solidly built man I’ve known since moving aboard. He’s outwardly cantankerous, but always has a smile for me.

Anderson arrived at my office at 1:15. He knocked on the open door and I motioned him in.

“Another five minutes and I would have eaten both of these myself,” I said.

“Sorry. I got hung up.”

“Hungry?”

“Starved. What have we got?”

“We have roast turkey and top sirloin. Take your pick.”

“Wow, tough choice. Can we split ’em both?”

A man after my own heart. I set out paper plates and napkins, and got two bottles of mineral water and the jar of dill pickles out of the fridge. We ate and drank quietly for about ten minutes, and it was nice. If you’re comfortable being silent with someone it implies a degree of compatibility.

When we were finished eating, Bill wiped his mouth with a napkin, then dug in his pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper. He handed it to me. Typed on the page was the name Ralph Hearn
,
an address on San Mateo Drive, and a phone number. Underneath that was an eight-digit number.

Anderson said, “The guy who owns the jeep is a PI and he does
not
have a good reputation. He’s been in trouble with the law more than once. Frankly, I’m surprised he still has his license.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Breaking and entering. Aggravated assault.”

“So you’re saying someone hired another PI to assault me?”

“You don’t know for sure this is the guy.”

“You’re right, I don’t. Maybe I’ll pay Mr. Hearn a visit.”

“That could be dangerous. Besides, even if it is him, he won’t tell you who he’s working for.”

“It can’t hurt to ask.” I looked at the paper he’d given me. “What’s this?” I said, pointing to the number typed under Hearn’s address. “Is this the driver’s license number for Charles Spencer?”

He nodded.

“You married?”

“Nope.” He showed me the great smile with the crinkles around the eyes.

“Attached or involved?” I asked.

Another smile, wider this time. “Nope. You?”

“Nope. Why are the fingernails on your right hand longer than the ones on your left?” I’d been dying to know.

“I play the guitar,” he responded.

That I was not expecting, and it was a pleasant surprise. It’s not often you find someone creative in law enforcement, or any government position for that matter. Or maybe that’s just my prejudice talking.

“I used to play the piano,” I said. “How about dinner sometime?”

“I’d like that,” he said. “Wednesday?”

“Wednesday works for me.”

“Meet you here at eight?”

“Okay,” I said. “And thanks for the info.” I waved the page he’d given me like a flag.

“Don’t mention it,” he muttered, “please.”

He got up and started toward the door, then turned back to me. “You aren’t flirting with me just to get DMV information are you?”

The look on my face must have spoken volumes.

“Sorry,” he said hastily. “See you Wednesday.” He waved over his shoulder as he went out the door.

I sat at my desk feeling perplexed for a few minutes before picking up the phone and calling Hearn’s number. It rang four times.

“Hearn Investigations,” said a gravelly male voice.

“Is this Mr. Hearn?”

“Who wants to know?”

Odd question.

“My name is Bernice Rhodes. I need someone to follow my husband.”

“Well, then, I’m your man.”

I was willing to bet he was. We made an appointment for 3:00 that afternoon.

Before leaving the office I sent an e-mail to CIS, requesting a background check including credit history on Charles Spencer.