Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (8 page)

My knees felt weak as I crossed the field to the parking lot. Since this was my first murder investigation any little clue was likely to cause an adrenaline rush. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, feeling the nicotine kick in. I was given my first cigarette when I was fourteen by my best friend in high school, Cher Costanza. It was a Salem. Now I smoke American Spirit Organics. I tell myself the lack of pesticides and additives makes them healthier than conventional cigarettes, but I know it’s a rationalization. I smoke to dull down my feelings. I understand nicotine is an extremely addictive, user-friendly drug, and I’m equally aware that I need to quit depending on it. But not today.

I was too excited to drive, so I sat in my car and read the consent forms. Third from the bottom of the stack was a form signed by Laura, and directly beneath it was the consent form of Frederick Wulf, who lived in Menlo Park roughly two miles from the location where Laura had been killed. The hell with the Motel 6. I had what I needed.

Chapter 10

I
called InSight on my cell and Tanya answered after three rings. Counting the number of times a telephone rings is a habit I picked up working for my mentor, Sam Pettigrew. In the PI business you have to document everything – the number of times a phone rings, the name and gender of the person who answers, the time, the date, everything they say, and everything you say – it all goes in the report.

I said, “Frederick Wulf, please.”

“One moment, I’ll see if he’s in.”

I quickly disconnected, my heart racing. I took some deep breaths and checked my rearview mirrors to make sure no one had been listening. I knew I was overreacting. Laura had gone skydiving with a good-looking guy who had an unnerving stare, and who worked for her father. That didn’t mean anything. The fact that he lived within walking distance of where she was killed might mean something. My solar plexus was doing the samba. Sam taught me never to ignore my instincts.
Your body knows things your mind is clueless about, Nicoli.

I lead-footed it back to Redwood City.

I arrived at the marina just after 5:00 and let myself into the office. I dropped my purse on the desk and rummaged through the office refrigerator looking for something to eat. All I found was a jar of dill pickles, some stale rice cakes, two bottles of mineral water, and a low-fat lactose free yogurt that I should have thrown out the previous week. I tossed the yogurt and ate one of the rice cakes at my desk.

I took the snapshots and consent form copies out of my purse. I needed to learn more about Frederick Wulf. The obvious source would be Derrick, but he might tell Fred I’d asked about him. I decided to return to InSight and follow him when he got off work. I washed down the rice cake with some water, then locked up the office and drove to Palo Alto.

I arrived at InSight at 5:23 and managed to find a parking space that gave me an angled view of both the front and side doors. I rolled down the windows, emptied the ashtray into a garbage bag, and began filling it up again.

At 5:35 Fred came out the side door. I slid down in my seat, trying to be invisible, and picked up my camera. I have the mini digital camera for quick jobs, like Anderson’s binder, and a beautiful old Nikon with all the attachments that my mom gave me. I used the Nikon with a telephoto lens, allowing me to get a close-up of Fred’s profile. He walked around the side of the building to a silver-blue Jaguar XJS convertible. As he was putting the top down I snapped a few more pictures, including one of his license plate.

I followed him as he slowly left the parking lot, staying about forty yards behind. On Highway 101 I closed the gap, but drove in the third lane while he took the first. Traffic was dense, making it easy for me to follow him without being obvious.

Fred took the Marsh Road/Atherton exit, made a left on Marsh, and a right on Bay, then another right onto a residential street. He pulled into the driveway of a small cottage. I parked at the end of the block and discreetly snapped a few more photos as he climbed out of the Jag and entered the cottage.

Laura had been killed on Bay Road in Redwood City and Fred lived in a cottage less than a block from Bay Road in Menlo Park. I don’t believe in coincidence. I sat there thinking for a few minutes before digging my cell phone out of my purse and calling Elizabeth. She answered on the second ring.

“This is Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth is always professional, even when answering her home phone.

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Hi, honey. Why do you ask?”

“I need you to watch someone for a couple of hours. I don’t want to risk having him recognize my car, in case he sees it again later. If he goes out, I need you to follow him. Call me if he stops somewhere and I’ll take over. Can you do it?”

“Is he dangerous?” she asked.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe.”

“What’s the address?”

I read the address off the consent form, and gave her directions.

Elizabeth Gaultier is my best friend for many reasons, among them the fact that she seldom asks for favors, doesn’t gossip, much, and she’s always there when I need her. She’s five feet and one half inch tall and about a hundred pounds. Her strawberry blonde hair, hazel eyes, and the scattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose make her look like an innocent but sexy waif. Her IQ would place her among the elite in Mensa if she were interested, which she isn’t. Nobody calls her Liz or Betsy, at least not more than once. She manages a small scientific software firm in Sunnyvale. She’s thirty-three years old, divorced, and has no children. Elizabeth collects acquaintances like crazy, but has only a few close friends. I consider myself fortunate to be one of them.

Nine minutes later her green VW Beetle pulled up behind me. I climbed over the 2002’s gearshift and got out on the passenger side. I strolled casually back to her car, keeping my face turned away from Fred’s cottage. The drapes in his front window were drawn, but there was no sense taking chances.

I got into the Beetle’s front seat and slid down. I pointed out the cottage and the Jaguar, and gave her the digital camera and my cell phone. Elizabeth doesn’t own a cell phone. She thinks they’re a needless expense. I told her I’d be in my office waiting for her call. This wasn’t the first time she’d covered for me on a surveillance, so there was no need for further instructions.

The shortest route to the marina took me past the parking lot where Laura had been killed. Making a last minute decision I pulled into the lot. A shiny new dumpster had replaced the one confiscated by the police. I got out of my car and walked around the dumpster. There was a rust-colored stain on the pavement. As I looked down at it I felt my eyes begin to fill. It could have been the frustration of working on a case that might be too much for me, or maybe compassion for a young woman whose life had ended tragically, despite the advantages she’d had since birth.

On the way home I made a quick stop at a Taco Bell for a low-fat Burrito Supreme, which I wolfed down while driving. I parked near the gated dock and hustled down to my boat where I changed into jeans, a tank top, and a windbreaker to cover the Ruger holstered at the small of my back. I washed my face and put on fresh lip gloss, then trotted up to my office to wait for Elizabeth’s call.

The answering machine light was blinking when I got there. I pressed the play button. The message was from Kate, saying I could pick up a copy of Laura’s criminal record at the RCPD any time, and that I should, once again, ask for Detective Anderson. Anderson was Crimes Against Persons, but he would have pulled all of Laura’s records during the course of his investigation. I was not upset by the prospect of seeing him again.

As I sat at my desk waiting for Elizabeth to call, I thought about the case. What would I do if I discovered who had taken Laura’s life, but couldn’t prove it to the DA’s satisfaction? My thoughts about Laura’s death drifted to thoughts about death in general, and my family. These are subjects that are often on my mind.

Apart from the time we spent shooting at targets, the only happy memory I carry around about my dad is his view of superstition. When I was seven he told me our family was special because all bad luck was reversed for us. It was good luck to have a black cat cross our path, or to walk under a ladder. A broken mirror meant you could look forward to the next seven years. Because I believed him, Friday the thirteenth has always been a very good day for me.

My father was born in St Petersburg. His father, a Cossack, taught him how to kill with a miniature saber at the age of three. To hear him tell it, the Cossacks were more than just a band of Slavic horsemen, they were a bloodline of noble warriors. He once told me he’d changed his name when he arrived in the U.S. in order to avoid a Bolshevik hit squad. I didn’t find this out until my early twenties, when I finally asked him why our name didn’t sound Russian. He said he’d looked in his Russian/English dictionary and chosen Hunter because it was the closest word he could find to the translation of his family name, which he confided to me in hushed tones. He made me promise never to repeat it to anyone.

A few months later Dad disappeared, and I found myself hungry for the details of his life that I’d failed to ask about while he was around. I did some research on Cossacks and Bolsheviks, and it seemed to me that anyone on this so-called hit squad would have to be in his nineties, unless they were descendents of the original group.

I Googled the family name Dad had revealed to me and discovered a sixteenth-century Russian statesman and military leader with the same last name, who was also a cousin of the Tsar. I dug out Dad’s old address book and wrote to his brother in Australia, but he never responded. Finally I called the director of the Russian Choir in Pebble Beach and said I was interested in learning more about my father’s family. I told him my dad’s full name, and he gasped, then went ballistic, shouting,
“One of them is still alive?”
I dropped the receiver in the cradle and jumped back, afraid he might come after me through the phone lines.

My father’s disappearance is still a mystery. He took his little motorboat out on the Bay one morning and never came back. The Coast Guard found the boat, but he wasn’t in it. Everyone assumed he had drowned, but Dad was a strong swimmer and his body was never found.

Maybe the Bolsheviks finally caught up with him, but I have my doubts. I half suspect that he had a mid-life crisis and decided to travel solo. I even thought I saw him once, from a distance, at the marina. I was so startled that without thinking I yelled, “
Dad
!” and started running in his direction. Whoever it was climbed into a red Thunderbird and sped away. I jumped in my little BMW and gave chase, following him all the way to the Marriott Hotel in San Mateo, where I lost him in the parking lot. Some detective.

My mother had learned to speak Russian when her order transferred her from Minnesota to a diocese in San Francisco where there was a large Russian community. When she arrived in the Bay Area, a naive young nun, she developed friendships with some of the gay men and women in her neighborhood, and began to question the Catholic doctrine condemning them. Over the next few years her disillusionment with the Church grew.

Mom was thirty when my father, having just arrived in San Francisco, found his way to the mission where she was serving the homeless two hot meals a day. Her knowledge of Russian gave her the opportunity to converse with him in his own language, and they spent long hours sharing their life stories.

When Dad found a job and rented himself an apartment, he invited Mom to dinner. She accepted, knowing she was treading on dangerous ground. After dinner he made an abrupt pass and she was easy prey, stumbling into her first sexual relationship.

The next day, in confession, Mom admitted breaking her vows. The clever priest convinced her to tell the mother superior, and she was promptly excommunicated. Hysterical with grief despite her disenchantment with the Church, she went to see my dad, and he immediately proposed. They had a civil ceremony at City Hall the following week. Mom didn’t find out she was pregnant until after the wedding.

Elizabeth called at 7:35.

“I’m at
The Wall
on Broadway in Redwood City. He just went inside. You want me to follow?”

“No. Just wait in your car and keep an eye on the Jag. Is he still driving the Jag?”

“Yes. I’m down the block, but I can see it from here.”

“Okay. I’m on my way.”

I locked up the office and jogged out to my car.
The Wall
is only two miles from the marina, but the traffic lights and stop signs slowed me down, and it took almost ten minutes to get there.

I spotted Elizabeth parked near the club and waved as I passed her car. I drove around the block a couple of times looking for a parking space, but I couldn’t find one. I ended up in a bank lot almost two blocks away. I hustled back to Elizabeth’s car and as I approached she got out of the VW and stretched.

“What’s he wearing?” I asked.

“Brown slacks, brown loafers, brown polo shirt, tan leather jacket,” she answered. “Color coordinated, but nice.”

I thanked her, offered her five twenties for her time, which she somewhat grudgingly accepted, and refused to let her come inside with me.

“I don’t want him to recognize you. I might need you to follow him again.”

I collected my cell phone and camera, tucking them into my purse. After Elizabeth drove away, I took a deep breath and entered
The Wall
.