Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (16 page)

Chapter 22

S
an Mateo is about ten miles north of Redwood City. It’s a conservative, middle-class town, primarily residential, but like all cities, it has a dark side. I parked around the corner from Hearn’s office, locked the car, and walked back, pepper spray in hand. A jeep like the one I’d seen the night before was parked on the street. I checked the license plate and felt my stomach clench. It was a match.

The office was a tacky storefront, the windows filmed with soot and streaked from the last rain. The front door was unlocked, so I opened it and stepped inside.

The outer office was furnished with a metal desk, a brown vinyl couch, and a glass coffee table covered with magazines and fingerprints. Cigar smoke hung in the air.

Ralph Hearn stepped out of a dark hallway. His salt and pepper hair was greasy. He was stocky and in his mid fifties. He looked shorter than the guy Elizabeth and I had encountered at the
Fanny Pack
, but holding a weapon makes everyone look bigger. There was an angry welt on his forehead.

It took a moment before recognition registered on his face, then his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

“Mr. Hearn?”

“What are you doing here?” he finally said.

“My name is Nicoli Hunter. I think you know why I’m here.”

He was silent, but I decided to wait him out. After a moment he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m expecting a client. If you’d like to make an appointment …”

“I’m your three o’clock,” I said. “I wanted to make sure you were here when I dropped by.”

He looked cornered at first, and then resigned. “Come on back,” he sighed.

I followed him into a small office at the back of the suite. He removed some file folders from the visitor’s chair and I sat down.

The wall behind Hearn’s desk displayed his framed business license and some enlargements of him golfing, as well as a poster of what appeared to be a younger, trimmer Hearn in the boxing ring. There was an ashtray in the middle of his desk the size of a dinner plate, filled with cigar and cigarette butts. The desk was piled high with case files. The telephone receiver was coated with a yellowish film and the carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in decades. If he was expecting a client he certainly hadn’t made an effort to tidy up, or maybe he had.

I scanned the files on his desk, looking for a familiar name. He saw what I was doing and snatched a folder out of the pile, placing it in his lap drawer, which he locked.

He fished a cigar butt out of the ashtray, lit it, and said, “All right, Nikki. What do you want?”

“Call me Nicoli,” I said. “I want to know who hired you.” Nothing like putting your cards on the table.

He stared at me with hard eyes. “I can’t help you,” he said.

“Look, Ralph, we’re both professionals,” I stretched a point. “I understand client confidentiality, but I’m investigating a murder at the moment and apparently someone wants me to stop. If your client turns out to be the killer, you could be charged as an accessory.” I was making this up, of course, but it sounded like a plausible threat.

He shook his head. “I can’t help you,” he repeated.

“Your choice. Your cover’s blown either way. I’ll make a point of telling everyone involved in the investigation that I spotted you the first time you tailed me. Maybe I’ll even call some local TV stations and newspapers, and tell them about the attempted assault. It might make an amusing human interest story. Local PI turns thug
.
I promise I won’t make you look good.”

That got his attention. “Wait a minute,” he sputtered. “You wouldn’t really do
that, would you?”

“If you tell me who hired you I promise not to confront them with that information, and you can even keep following me if you want to. Just don’t expect it to be easy.”

“I need time to think about this,” he said, stubbing out what was left of his cigar.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.

I got up and left. He didn’t bother walking me to the door.

Ralph Hearn was a sleaze, but I could understand his hesitation. A PI never reveals who the client is to the subject.

I drove back to my office, hoping the background on Charles had come in. He seemed emotionally unstable and that worried me.

I checked my e-mail, but there was nothing from CIS.

I updated my case notes, adding the interview with Ralph Hearn, and then reread the entire file again. As I read my notes about Fred, I realized I hadn’t returned his call. I looked up his work number and dialed. When we were connected I told him I’d be happy to have dinner with him on Friday night. My treat. I said I’d meet him at the Garden Grill at 8:00. He sounded pleased.

Chapter 23

T
he background reports on both Fred and Charles came in Tuesday morning. Charles had no criminal record and appeared to be doing quite well in the stock market. He’d joined Hubner and Ross the year he graduated from Stanford and had purchased his house later the same year. He’d married Ashley only six months ago – perhaps when he’d finally given up hope of a reconciliation with Laura.

Fred, on the other hand, had an indecent exposure conviction from last year. Probably just a nude sunbathing thing, but it piqued my curiosity. I remembered him saying his father had died recently. I had an unbidden image of Fred pissing on his father’s grave. Too bad I couldn’t ask him about the arrest without tipping my hand.

I called Ralph Hearn a little after 10:00, got his answering machine, and left a message saying he had until noon, and then I planned to make good on my threat. Whenever possible, I do what I say I’m going to do.

I had reached a point in the investigation where I felt stalled. I pulled out some other case files and typed up reports and invoices, paid some bills, and then walked across the street to the mailbox, sending off the reports, the invoices, and the checks I’d written.

I walked back to the office and tidied up my desk, hoping that an organized environment would help me focus. I brewed a fresh pot of Kona and filled a mug, topping it with milk. I sipped the fragrant brew, and plodded back to my desk. Taking the flash drive containing Laura’s file out of my bag, I inserted it in the computer, and saved the updated version yet again, then dropped the drive back into my purse. I lit a cigarette and reread the file, hoping lightning would strike and I’d have some amazing new insight into the case.

When I was finished, I decided I needed to look into the lives of the other two victims, Barbara Herbert and Andrew McConnell. I dug through a stack of old newspapers until I located the stories. Good thing I’d put off recycling.

I read the articles and discovered that Barbara had been employed by the Redwood City Public Library on Middlefield Road, and Andrew had practiced his art at the Mane Line salon on Jefferson. I called the salon to schedule an appointment. When the receptionist asked which stylist I wanted, I asked which of them had been there the longest.

She said, “That would be Kurt.”

Kurt had an opening the next day at 2:30.

I locked up the office and drove to the Library. When I entered the lobby there were two employees assisting customers who were checking out books, and a third behind a small metal desk. I approached the one at the desk, an Asian male in his late twenties with thick glasses and shoulder length hair.

He smiled and said, “May I help you?”

“My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a private investigator looking into a murder that took place here in Redwood City. Did you know Barbara Herbert?”

His face froze. “How do I know you’re not another reporter?”

I handed him my PI license and he took a moment to examine it, then returned it to me and said, “What do you want to know?”

“Did she work up front here with you?”

“No, Barbara worked the reference desk.” He nodded toward the back of the library.

“Were you close?”

“Not really. We were friendly, but we didn’t see each other socially.”

“What hours did she work?”

“Twelve to nine. Same as me.”

“Were you aware of anyone special she was dating, or any close friends she might have had?”

“You know, the police already asked us all these questions. I didn’t see her with anyone, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t dating, it just means I don’t know. She and Betsy were pretty close. Betsy’s in reference too.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

I handed him a business card, asking him to call if he thought of anything that might help. He glanced at the card and tucked it in his shirt pocket.

I walked back to the reference desk and found two women seated at computer terminals. Both were occupied at the moment. I waited in line and observed them as they worked. One was slender, Caucasian, and in her late forties, with graying mousy-brown hair cut in a pageboy. She wore rimless glasses and was dressed like a Laura Ashley catalog model. The other was in her twenties, heavy set, possibly Samoan or Hawaiian, with a vast quantity of wavy black hair. She wore a white blouse tucked into a royal blue skirt. I was betting the older woman was Betsy. They both finished with the people they were assisting and looked up at me. I approached the older of the two.

“Are you Betsy?” I asked.

She smiled and pointed to the other woman, who said, “I’m Betsy. Can I help you?”

So I was wrong. I’m a PI, not a psychic.

“Hi,” I said. “My name is Nicoli Hunter.” I shook her hand. It was soft and her grip was gentle. She had puppy dog eyes and a sweet smile. “I’m a private investigator,” I continued. “I understand you and Barbara were friends. I was hoping we could talk.”

The smile disappeared and her eyes filled with tears. “I don’t understand,” she said.

“Can I take you to lunch, or meet you outside when you get off work tonight?”

“I go to lunch at three,” she sniffled.

I asked her where she’d like to eat and she said, “Max’s.” It’s an all-you-can-eat buffet-style restaurant on El Camino with a world-class salad bar.

I said I’d be back at 3:00, thanked Betsy, and shook her hand again, which was now slightly damp.

I drove over to Max’s and paid for two meals and beverages in advance, so Betsy and I wouldn’t have to waste time standing in line. I pocketed the receipts and spent the next hour browsing the mystery section at Barnes & Noble.

At 2:50 I drove back to the library. I waited in the lobby, not wanting Betsy to feel rushed. At 2:58 I saw her go into the ladies’ restroom. A few minutes later she joined me in the lobby. We walked to my car and made the drive to Max’s in awkward silence.

Once we had piled our plates with food and were seated, I let her take a few bites before asking my first question.

“Did you and Barbara spend a lot of time together?”

“You mean outside of work?” she mumbled, her mouth full. I nodded. “I wouldn’t say a lot. But some. We were friends, even though we were totally different.”

“How do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, Barb was kind of eccentric, but she was secretive about it. She didn’t think people would accept her if they knew what she was really like. The funny thing is, everybody could see right through her, and we all liked her anyway.”

“Eccentric in what way?”

“Well, I guess she wouldn’t mind me telling you under the circumstances. Barb had an active fantasy life. She lived in books a lot of the time. Loved romance novels and murder mysteries. Sometimes she would pretend she was a character from one of the books she was reading. She’d change her hair and the way she dressed to look like the character.”

“How long had you known her?” I asked.

“Three years. Since I started working at the library.”

“Betsy, I need to know who Barbara was dating. I know this is difficult for you, but the thing is, I’m sorry, but the thing is she had sex right before she was killed.” Betsy’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth. “Her companion used a condom,” I continued, “and the police think it might have been someone she knew. There was no evidence to indicate the gender of her partner, so it actually could have been a man or a woman.”

I waited for her reaction. She took a bite of macaroni salad, chewed slowly, swallowed, and said, “I’ve been thinking about it a lot since the police came and questioned all of us. I think she was seeing someone. I only saw her with him once and she didn’t talk to me about him, which made me a little suspicious. Barb was circumspect about her fantasy life, but if she had a date she’d get so excited she’d tell me every detail about the guy. She didn’t go out very often.”

“Can you describe the man you saw her with?”

“Not really. The only thing I remember is that he was tall and good-looking.”

“Did you notice his hair color? If he had a beard or a mustache? Height? Weight? Anything?” I was desperate for something that would identify one of my suspects.

“I don’t remember if he had a beard, but I don’t think so. It was dark when I saw him. He met her after work one night, but he didn’t come inside. He was waiting in the parking lot. I was walking out to my car and I saw them talking. I waved, but Barb didn’t see me. Then they got into their cars and she followed him out of the lot. I asked her about it the next day and she said it was no big deal, just a date. She seemed kind of embarrassed.”

“Do you think you would recognize him if you saw a picture?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It was pretty dark.”

“What was he driving?”

“I was afraid you were going to ask me that. I don’t notice cars and I had no reason to pay special attention. All I can tell you is that it looked expensive and it was a light color.”

Derrick drove a black BMW. I’d seen Charles driving a white Taurus wagon, but there was probably something else in his garage. Fred Wulf drove a silver blue Jaguar XJS. I’d have to ask him if he spent much time at the library.

“What else can you tell me about Barbara?”

“She was a great person. Very open-minded. She didn’t judge people, if you know what I mean. And she was shy, especially with men. She didn’t have much of a life really. She liked working at the library because it gave her more time to read than a conventional job would. She loved to read. I think she found the adventure she was looking for in books because she was afraid to look for it in real life.”

Betsy paused to eat.

I considered what I knew about Laura, automatically comparing it to what she was telling me about Barbara. Laura certainly couldn’t be called shy, but the part about looking for adventure fit. I remembered the romance novel on her bedside table – something else they had in common.

Betsy and I finished our lunch and I drove her back to the library. She accepted one of my business cards and said she would call if she thought of anything else.

I checked my watch, and realized I had time to do some of the work I’d been putting off since taking the Howard case. I stopped by the office and opened the Excel workbook where I keep my master schedule, made a list of the customers I’d been neglecting, stuffed some survey forms into my purse, and left the office.

Most of my work involves bar and restaurant surveillance. The owners of these establishments pay me to observe how their employees perform when they don’t know they’re being watched. I drink and dine at their expense, and report in obsessive detail on everything that happens from the moment I enter until I leave. I evaluate customer service, attitude, and quality of cuisine, and I watch for till-tapping and other types of theft. Occasionally I install covert security cameras, viewing the discs in my office after hours.

I sit in on termination interviews when someone has been caught stealing and needs to be let go with as little fuss as possible. I’m there to convince them that they’re lucky the police haven’t been called, although it’s rare for an employer to file charges. Time is money, and the general consensus is that it isn’t worth the trouble. Catching dirt-bag chefs in the act of pilfering seafood is not what I envisioned when I got my PI license, but it pays the bills.

There are seven restaurants and eleven nightclubs in the San Francisco Bay Area for which I provide ‘shopping’ services on a regular basis. Many of them expect biweekly reports and I’d been too busy to take care of them since accepting the Howard case.

I’d planned to cover at least three establishments that night, but by the time I’d finished the first dinner survey I was exhausted. I managed a half-assed bar survey in downtown Palo Alto, and decided to call it a night.