Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (19 page)

Chapter 27

A
s I pulled into the library parking lot I remembered that Betsy didn’t start work until 12:00. It was barely 10:00. Since I was already there, I decided to go inside.

To my surprise, I discovered Betsy working alone at the reference desk. There was a plainclothes officer seated at a nearby table; a clean-cut man in his early thirties, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He was reading a paperback novel and he looked up whenever someone approached. He glanced at me briefly, then went back to his book. I guess I didn’t appear threatening to him.

“Hi, Betsy,” I said. “I thought you didn’t come in until noon.”

“Normally I don’t, but Carlie is out sick today.”

I decided not to waste words. I took the envelope out of my purse and placed the pictures of Fred Wulf and Charles Spencer on the desk in front of her. Betsy looked down and furrowed her brow.

“I assume you want me to tell you if either of these men is the one I saw with Barb that night.”

“Yes,” I said. “If you can.”

She picked up each picture and studied it, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just not sure. It could be this one,” she pointed at one of the photos of Fred, “but it was dark. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s okay,” I said, tucking the pictures back into the envelope. “Thanks for trying.”

The officer looked up again as I left, and checked out the next person in line. It appeared Betsy was in capable hands. If someone was following me, I hoped it was obvious that she hadn’t been of any help.

I went back to the office, locked myself in, and reread and printed my entire file on Laura Howard. I decided to hide a hard copy of the file in case something happened to me, the flash drive, and my computer. It was fifty-one pages long. I stuffed it into a large manila envelope, which I set by the door so I wouldn’t forget it when I was ready to leave.

I glanced outside as I put the envelope down and noticed a man standing near one of the pillars, smoking a cigarette. I hadn’t seen him in the complex before. He was over six feet tall and had red hair and fair skin. He was heavy set, wearing a dress shirt with slacks, but no tie or jacket. He was turned so that my office was peripherally visible to him, but he wasn’t looking directly at me. I wondered if he was the link between me and the killer, or if maybe this was the killer himself. I decided to find out.

I slung the pistol purse over my shoulder, and, turning my back to the door, compulsively press-checked the Glock to be sure it was loaded and had a round in the chamber. I snatched up the envelope, exited the office, and locked it behind me. After locking the door I tried the knob, just to be sure. When I turned around the red-haired man was gone.

I walked casually to the parking lot, unlocked the 2002, and got in. I drove to the marina management office and parked. I checked the box where I receive my personal mail. Nothing but junk mail. As I was getting back into my car I noticed a midnight blue, late model Volvo with tinted windows pulling into a space nearby. The windows were too dark for me to see who was driving. When I pulled out of the lot the Volvo did not follow.

I drove to the gym, just around the corner on Veterans Boulevard, and parked at the farthest corner of the lot near Whipple Avenue so I could watch the street where Bair Island Road exits onto Whipple. After about a minute the blue Volvo drove out, and sure enough, it made a left on Veterans, then a left on Convention Way. It didn’t enter the fitness center lot, but it was nearby. This led me to the conclusion that whoever was driving the car was not actually tailing me. They didn’t have to. They had attached a transmitter to my car.

I drove straight to the Redwood City Police Department, parked in front of the main entrance, locked the car, jogged up the steps, and blew into the lobby.

L Ketteridge was behind the front desk. I asked her if Detective Anderson was in. She grinned happily, said she would check, and winked at me.

Three minutes later Bill entered the lobby, looking worried. How could someone this sensitive handle the job he had to do every day?

“What’s up, Nikki?” he asked.

“I think there’s a transmitter somewhere on my car,” I whispered. “Do you have one of those bug detector thingies?”

“Yes,” he said, moving me toward the door. “But not here. I’ll bring it to dinner tonight. Can it wait that long?”

“I guess. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll see you later.”

“It’s no bother,” he said, squeezing my arm. “Be careful.”

He held the door for me and watched until I was safely inside my car.

I scanned the small parking lot as I drove to the street. The Volvo was nowhere in sight. I felt like an idiot. I was supposed to be this big, tough detective, and I didn’t even have the hardware necessary to check for transmitters. I thought about taking a drive to Radio Shack to pick something up, but decided to play cat-and-mouse with my tail instead.

I went to the Albertson’s market in San Carlos, parked in a side lot under a tree, and walked back to the street. I hid behind a fenced-in dumpster at the corner of the building and waited. Two minutes later the Volvo drove into the main lot. It made the rounds of the various parking areas, slowly cruising up and down each aisle and, eventually, rolled around the side of the building where my car was located. The driver returned to the main lot, and parked. No one got out of the car.

I entered the store and purchased some lunch items to restock the office fridge, taking my time at it. I know from personal experience that the most maddening part of any surveillance is waiting for something to happen.

Driving home I kept checking my rearview mirror, but he wouldn’t be close enough to spot. He didn’t have to be. I hadn’t gotten the license plate number and I was kicking myself for that as I unlocked the office door.

I unpacked the groceries and decided to give the office a thorough cleaning. I needed to wash away the feeling of having my space violated. I dusted file cabinets, washed walls and baseboards, cleaned the toilet, wiped the bathroom shelves, and even cleaned the refrigerator. When I’d exhausted myself I locked up and walked down to my boat.

Chapter 28

A
t 6:30 I hiked up to the marina facilities to shower. As I passed Elizabeth’s trawler I noticed that her door was closed. She was probably working late. When I came out twenty minutes later, her door was open. I dropped my shower bag on the dock, climbed aboard, and peered inside. “Anybody home?”

Elizabeth came up from the stateroom.

“Hi, honey.” She grinned at me. “Ready for your hot date?”

“Yes and no. I printed a hard copy of the Howard file. Can I leave it with you?”

“Sure. Can I read it?”

“If you have a strong stomach. That hairdresser I told you about was killed last night, I’m being followed again, and my office was broken into.”

“Jesus, Nikki. What have you stepped in?” Her smile was gone.

“I wish I knew. Will you be here for a while?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Back aboard my boat I blew my hair dry and carefully applied smoky green eyeliner, mocha shadow, black mascara, and cherry red lip gloss. I dressed in jeans and my favorite green blouse. When I was satisfied with my appearance I stuffed the large manila envelope into a grocery bag and walked to Elizabeth’s. I went inside so no one could see me give her the file, and I closed the door behind me. Elizabeth was sitting at the galley counter and she looked a question at me.

“I don’t know who might be watching and I don’t want anyone to know you have this,” I said.

“Okay.”

“After you read it, hide it.”

“I have the perfect place.” Her eyes twinkled.

“Lock your door,” I said. “I know you never lock your door, but this is serious. Please lock the door, and keep the windows closed and locked too.”

“Okay,” she said again.

We embraced longer than usual. I didn’t like involving Elizabeth in something this dangerous, but she was one of the few people I knew I could trust. I stepped outside and waited until I heard her deadbolt slide into place.

When Bill arrived for our date I was waiting in the office with the lights off and the door locked. Even though I was expecting him, I jumped when he knocked. Maybe I should cut back on the caffeine. I turned on the lights and unlocked the door. Bill came in with a fingerprinting kit under his arm.

“Let’s get this out of the way first,” he said, holding up the kit.

“Oh, well, actually I cleaned today. I figured if it was the killer who broke in, there wouldn’t be any prints anyway. Sorry.”

“You cleaned
everything
?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“Let’s go to dinner, then.”

“What about my car? Can you check it for transmitters?”

“I knew I was forgetting something. We’ll have to stop by my house.”

That’s when it first crossed my mind. It was a ridiculous notion and I was almost ashamed to have it, but what if Detective Bill Anderson wasn’t what he appeared to be?

We took his Mustang and drove across town in silence, each absorbed in our own thoughts. Bill lived in a cream-colored stucco house on Madison. The garage was a separate wooden structure behind the house, with sliding doors that opened horizontally.

He parked in the driveway and we entered the house through the laundry room, which opened onto the kitchen. He had one of those antique gas stoves that collectors are always looking for, and the kitchen was spotless. Why did I keep meeting men who were more into housekeeping than I was?

“Make yourself at home,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

I watched as he went inside the garage, partially closing the door behind him. It was a warm evening. Why he would want to close the door, even part of the way?

I walked around the house, just to get my bearings. Moving through the living room at the front of the house I appreciated the absence of the usual knickknacks that most people collect.

There were two bedrooms, one at each end of a long hallway, with a bathroom between them. The bedroom at the front of the house had been converted into a studio. Mounted on stands were an electric guitar and an acoustic with mother-of-pearl inlays. An amplifier was set against one wall and on an adjacent table were three mixing boards and a high-end recorder. Judging by the investment he’d made in equipment, I guessed he was probably talented, or at least dedicated.

I went back into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, scanned the contents, and found nothing out of the ordinary. I had no valid reason to suspect Bill of any wrongdoing. This is just something I do when I’m left alone in the home of someone I’m curious about. I checked the kitchen trash. It had recently been emptied and there was nothing much in it, just some used paper towels and an empty egg carton.

I looked out the window to see if he was coming. He wasn’t, so I went into the rear bedroom and opened each of the dresser drawers, feeling under the clothes. The nightstand to the left of the bed contained a small box of Trojans, and yes, they were prelubricated Supra. I felt a chill. Maybe every male in California used these condoms. Bill seemed like such a dedicated cop. He couldn’t possibly be the killer, could he?

I replaced the box in the nightstand resisting the temptation to count the number he had left in the box. The nightstand on the right revealed a Smith & Wesson .38 Special. I didn’t touch the gun, but carefully closed the drawer and went back into the living room.

I sat down on the sofa, my pulse racing, certain that he’d walk in any instant and guess what I’d been up to. Not that there’s anything wrong with snooping around someone else’s house. I just don’t like getting caught at it. After about thirty seconds I went and checked the window again. The garage door was still partially open.

I went into the bathroom and looked in the medicine cabinet. Bill used the same Artic Mint Listerine that I did. He had a bottle of aspirin, a jumbo-size bottle of Aleve, Crest toothpaste, some KMS hair gel, a full four ounce bottle of Grey Flannel cologne, a toothbrush, shaving cream, a razor, and a comb. The contents of the medicine cabinet were casually organized, and I was relieved to see it. I’d been afraid I would find all the labels facing forward, like I had at Fred’s house. The bathroom trash basket contained an empty shampoo bottle, the box that the Grey Flannel had come in, and an empty toothpaste box. I wondered if I should be flattered, new toothpaste and cologne. Could be a compliment, right?

I decided to go outside and see what was taking him so long. As I approached the garage and reached for the sliding door, Bill stepped out into the daylight, looking startled to see me. He quickly closed the door behind him. Okay, this was definitely getting weird. I can understand being embarrassed about an untidy garage. I sometimes feel insecure about people seeing the mess on board my boat, but I make no effort to hide it. It’s just something about me that my friends have to accept. Love me, love my clutter.

“Sorry that took so long.” He held up a black wand. “I couldn’t remember where I’d put this thing. Shall we get going, or would you like a drink first?”

“No thanks. I’d really like to get the debugging over with so we can go to dinner.”

“I was thinking,” he said, “since I have to drive you back to the marina after dinner anyway, why don’t we eat first and take care of your car after? It would save driving time.”

If I didn’t know better I’d have sworn he was stalling, maybe giving someone enough time to remove the transmitter from my car. And I didn’t know better. Would the police stoop to planting a bug on my bumper to keep track of where I was going in the course of an investigation they weren’t having any success with? Was the Pope Catholic? Plus there were those incriminating condoms.

I felt a profound sense of disappointment. I was growing fond of Bill and, like most people, I assumed that my instincts and hormones would never lead me astray. If I was attracted to him, he had to be a good guy, right? Maybe I was letting my tendency to distrust everyone get the better of me. I decided to stop jumping to conclusions and wait to see what happened next.

“Okay,” I said. “Where are we going?”

“Gypsy Cellar. Hungarian food and, if we’re lucky, a violin player.”

“That sounds great.”

The Gypsy Cellar was a quaint little restaurant on the corner of Jefferson and Middlefield. Bill had made reservations, but we didn’t need them. The place was practically deserted. We were seated at a window table with a lovely view of the traffic on Jefferson.

After a few minutes we were approached by a waitress in her sixties wearing a white peasant blouse, a red skirt, a colorful bandana in her hair, and sensible shoes. She served us ice water and handed each of us a menu, then asked if we’d like anything from the bar. Bill ordered a Corona and I asked for a glass of Chablis. I don’t normally drink wine. I’d probably have a headache tomorrow. I was punishing myself. Try as I might to quiet my imagination, I now suspected that Bill was not what he seemed on the surface, therefore I felt there must be something wrong with me because I liked him. This is the way my mind works. Being aware of the process doesn’t always put a stop to it.

We silently looked over our menus. Everything looked good and, although I hadn’t felt like eating all day, I now realized that I was starving. When our drinks were served I ordered the stuffed chicken breast and a dinner salad. Bill ordered lamb chops and a Caesar salad. We handed the waitress our menus and she ambled off toward the kitchen.

I sipped my wine, looking at Bill over the rim of my glass. He was tough-guy handsome, rather than pretty like Fred. His eyes were warm but shrewd, and they met mine without hesitation.  

“Sorry,” I said. “I guess I’m not very good company tonight.”

“You have a lot on your mind. Did you call any of the bodyguards I recommended?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure I can afford one. Besides if this maniac is serious about taking me out, I don’t think a bodyguard will do much good.”

“You may be right, but any protection is better than none. They don’t charge that much. You should give it some thought.”

“Maybe I’ll call, just to get prices.”

Of course if I had an off-duty police guard with me they wouldn’t
need
to plant a transmitter on my car. They’d know every move I made. Being suspicious, even paranoid, keeps you on your toes and causes you to examine everything, question everything. It also gets you in trouble if your suspicions are unfounded, and it totally prevents you from enjoying the present moment. I drained my wine glass and looked around for the waitress. She was nowhere in sight.

“So what’s your next move?” I asked.

“I assume you’re referring to the case,” he said, with a wolfish grin.

I grinned back at him in spite of myself, and nodded.

“We’ve questioned everyone on your list and gotten basically the same answers you did. I took a look at Fred Wulf and Rod Howard’s prints. Both were in the database. Wulf’s right index fingerprint might be a match to the partial we got from Laura’s zipper pull. Also his right thumbprint looks like a match to a partial the Menlo Park PD got off Andrew McConnell’s belt buckle, but that’s not enough to justify a search warrant. There isn’t much we can do except watch and wait. I assume you already know about the indecent exposure charge.”

“Yes. I ran a background on Wulf. Why aren’t the partial prints enough to justify a warrant?”

“Not enough points.”

“So your plan is to wait until he kills again?”

Bill flinched. “Even if there were enough points to verify that the prints are Wulf’s, that would only prove that he knew both victims. Of course, there was that phone call.” He took a sip of his beer, looking distracted.

“What phone call?”

His eyes focused on me again. “The day after Barbara Herbert was killed we got an anonymous call on the tip line. The caller described someone he’d seen leaving the alley where the victim was found. Wulf matches the description.”

“And that, combined with the partial prints, still isn’t enough evidence for a search warrant?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Unbelievable.
It might not be enough to convince a judge, but it was enough for me. Fred had just moved to the top of my list.

Bill spotted the waitress and waved. When she approached he requested another glass of wine for me and coffee for himself.

A few minutes passed before the waitress returned with our drinks and salads. I was dismayed to discover that I’d lost my appetite. I picked at my salad, drank more wine, and watched the traffic go by.

When Bill had finished his salad, our entrees were served. Even without an appetite, the chicken breast was hard to resist. It was plump and moist, stuffed with rice, goat cheese, butter, and basil. The asparagus was slightly al dente, just the way I like it. I ate more than half of my dinner and finished a third glass of wine. I asked for a doggy bag for my leftover chicken, thinking of D’Artagnon.

After dinner we stopped in the parking lot to check out the sunset and Bill casually draped his arm around my shoulder. I wanted to relax and enjoy the intimacy, but I couldn’t.

We didn’t talk much during the drive back to the marina. Bill pulled into the boat owners’ lot and parked in a vacant space right beside my 2002. How had he known where I was parked? Had he seen my car before? Maybe on one of my visits to the police department. I couldn’t remember. I’d had too much to drink.

Bill picked up the wand and asked me to pop the hood. I got out my keys, unlocked the BMW, yanked the hood latch, and went around to open it for him. A BMW’s hood is hinged in the front so you have to lift from the end nearest the windshield. He automatically lifted the hood as though he’d done it a hundred times before.

“You ever own a BMW?” I asked.

“No. I like American cars.”

I stood there and watched him run the wand over the engine. When he’d finished, he closed the hood and asked if I had a jack.

“Of course,” I said, sounding more defensive than I’d intended.

I unlocked the trunk and got out the jack. Bill cranked up the front of the car and asked if I had a towel or a blanket that I didn’t mind getting dirty. I keep a beach towel in the back seat for sunny days. The leather upholstery gets really hot. Bill took the towel and spread it on the ground under the elevated end of the car.

“What about a flashlight?” he said.

I took my Maglight out of the glove compartment and handed it to him. He crawled under the car and rolled onto his back, then ran the wand under the engine. After a few minutes he got up, handed me the wand, followed by the towel and the flashlight, then lowered the jack. I thought that was going to be it, that I was right, and he had stalled me long enough for someone to remove the gadget from my car.

He carried the jack to the rear of the 2002 and started cranking it up. He spread the towel out on the ground, lay down on his back again, and scooted under the car until only his legs were visible. They were nice legs…

I crouched down and watched him move the wand slowly under the middle of the chassis. When he shifted to his left and started running it under the trunk area I heard a sharp beeping sound, like one of those travel alarm clocks. Bill pressed something on the handle of the wand and it stopped beeping. He set it on the ground, fished a handkerchief out of his pants pocket, and pulled something off the bottom of my car.