Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (15 page)

My mouth dropped open. “You think I need to see a
shrink
?”

“I think you need to talk to someone, yes.”

For some reason I felt betrayed. Was Bill suggesting that I was unbalanced? Did he think I’d
planned
to kill Maggie? I couldn’t have been more disappointed if he’d suggested I confess to murder.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because killing another human being is traumatic,” he said. “And because I know you. You feel guilty. You need someone to help you get past this so you can defend yourself against the charges, if it comes to that.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” I was so relieved that he didn’t think I was a crazed killer that I was ready to sign up for whatever he believed was necessary. “What’s her name?”

“Loretta Dario. She has an office on Jefferson.” He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “Get some rest, Nikki. I have to go.”

Bill held me close for a moment, kissed me on the forehead, and left. He was stretching himself pretty thin in an effort to help me get through this ordeal unscathed, and he hadn’t even said
I told you so
. What a guy.

Chapter 28

B
ill had been gone about two minutes when I heard a knock on the pilothouse door.

“What?”
I hollered.

“It’s me,” Elizabeth called out. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

She let herself in, sat down next to me at the galley counter, and put her hands in her lap.

“I saw Bill leave. What’s going on?”

“I’m being charged with murder.”

I watched Elizabeth’s expression shift from amazement, to horror, and, finally, to anger, all in about two seconds.

“Why?”
she squealed. Now she was doing outrage.

“They couldn’t find the knife and it doesn’t show up on the video. Maggie’s original tapes are missing and the sheriff’s department doesn’t put much stock in the authenticity of the copies I had in my safe.”

“I see. Why don’t we go take a look at the crime scene.” Beyond outrage and into hero mode.

“They probably have patrol officers posted to keep the press out.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll just drive on by.”

I looked at her. It was risky, but how much more trouble could I be in? Maybe, while we were at it, we should take a look around Maggie’s house. It made more sense than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself.

“Okay,” I said. “I need to get the Glock back from you.”

Elizabeth picked up the business card Bill had left behind. “What’s this,” she asked.

“She’s a therapist the department uses for cops with PTSD,” I said. “Bill thinks I should talk to her.”

“That’s a good idea. Have you called for an appointment?”

“Not yet. I can do it later.”

“Do it now. If you wait you’ll probably talk yourself out of it.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Give me the damn card.”

I dialed the phone and a woman answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded maternal.

“This is Loretta,” she said.

“Hi,” I began, suddenly not knowing what to say. “My name is Nicoli Hunter.”

“Oh yes, Detective Anderson’s friend. He told me you might be calling.”

“He did?”

“Yes, dear. He’s very concerned about what happened to you. When would you like to come in?”

“Maybe sometime next week?” I hedged, already having doubts about allowing someone to analyze my psyche.

“I’ve had a cancellation for this afternoon at four-thirty,” she said. “Will that work for you?”

I looked at Elizabeth, who could overhear the whole conversation, and was nodding enthusiastically.

“I’ll see you then,” I said.

I hung up the phone feeling apprehensive. I’d never been to a shrink before, and I had my doubts about trusting a stranger with what I was feeling, but Bill had a high opinion of this woman. How bad could it be? I tucked the card into my purse and gave Elizabeth a hug.

“Thanks for making me do that,” I sighed.

“No problem. Shall we go?”

It was good to be with someone who believed in me, even if she was slightly prejudiced in my favor. I pocketed my lock picks and was halfway up the steps when I remembered I hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous night. I ducked back inside and grabbed an apple from the fridge.

We stopped at Elizabeth’s boat and retrieved the Glock, which I locked in the trunk of my car.

Our first stop was Heinz’s Gun Shop. I took the Glock out of the trunk and put it in my shoulder bag. Once inside we waited until there were no other customers present, then approached Heinz at the counter. I explained my situation and handed him the gun. He took out a work order and pre-dated it by a week. He listed my request for a new sight with a tritium insert, and gave me a receipt for the gun.

“It will be ready whenever you want to pick it up,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll replace the sight today.”

“Thank you, Heinz.” I reached over the counter to give him a quick hug, and my eyes filled. Funny how you find out who your real friends are when circumstances turn against you, I thought.

Our next stop was Atherton. We parked half a block from our destination. There was yellow crime scene tape across the front door of the house, but no squad cars in sight. We jogged around to the side yard and forced our way through the dense cypress. Not an easy task.

There was crime scene tape everywhere in the backyard. I walked directly to the pool. Despite what Bill had told me, I remained convinced that the knife was in there somewhere, and I would be able to find it.

Elizabeth hung back, taking everything in. The pool had been drained, so I stepped over the tape and climbed down the ladder at the deep end, dropping the last few feet. I walked the periphery of the empty pool and checked all the drains. Other than a few leaves, it was pristine.

“
Hey, Nikki
,” Elizabeth shouted. “
Come look at this!”

I trotted to the shallow end of the pool and took the steps up, just as Maggie had the night before. Elizabeth was standing on the lawn between the hedge and the pool, near the back of the house.

“Did you wear pumps last night?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Did you walk around over here at all?”

I looked at the ground. There were two small indentations in the grass.

“No,” I said. “We came in through the house. I only walked around by the pool.”

“Don’t these look like they could have been made by high-heeled shoes?”

I leaned down to get a closer look. She was right. If a woman wearing high heels had stepped through the hedge as we had, it might account for the two indentations in the sod. The grass flattened under the toe of the shoe would have sprung back by now. Elizabeth and I were both wearing athletic shoes and the tracks we’d made on the lawn a few minutes earlier were barely noticeable now.

“Were there any female cops here last night?” Elizabeth asked.

“There were a couple in uniform, but no lady detectives that I noticed.”

We looked at each other.

“I’ll mention it to Bill,” I said. “Come on. We may not have much time.”

We searched the yard, looked up into the trees, and checked all the planter boxes. We even acted out the whole gruesome event. I played Maggie and Elizabeth played me. I lunged at her, pretending my smartphone was a knife, and she pointed her finger at me and said, “Bang!” I flung my arms forward as Maggie had done, releasing the phone, which flew in a spiral to my right landing on the lawn near the house, behind the planter box where the camera had been hidden, and not far from the indentations Elizabeth had noticed in the grass. If the knife had followed a similar trajectory it was conceivable that someone could have picked it up without me seeing them. If they moved fast they could have been gone by the time Bill arrived. Unfortunately, knowing this didn’t give us a clue as to who it might have been. We were assuming it was a woman, but that really didn’t narrow things down much.

We pushed our way back out through the cypress and hustled to the Bimmer. As we were pulling away from the curb a patrol car made the turn off El Camino. The driver glanced at us, but continued on down the street.

From Atherton we took El Camino north to Woodside Road. I turned down Maggie’s private driveway, parked under a tree at the top of the hill, and we walked the rest of the way to the main house. There was a single strip of crime scene tape across the front door. We crept around the side of the house to the family room entrance.

I selected a tension wrench from my set of lock picks and went to work. A tension wrench is a very thin, flexible piece of steel. The one I was using was two inches wide and thirteen inches long, with a handle on one end. We were inside in about a minute.

The small cabinet under the VCR had been left open, and it was empty. It gave me a chill just looking at it. We walked through each room on the first floor. All the bookshelves had been emptied by the search team. The place was a mess.

I started going through the kitchen while Elizabeth went upstairs. I had my head in the oven when she called out, “
Nikki
, I think I found something!”

I raced up the steps. “Where are you?”

“Master bedroom,” she shouted.

I found her standing in front of the fireplace. The framed mirror over the mantel had swung away from the wall on hinges, revealing a safe.

“How did you find that?” I asked.

“Easy,” she said grinning. “There had to be a safe somewhere. It wasn’t in any of the closets. So I started checking picture frames and ended up here. I think it’s elegant.” She was very pleased with herself.

“We need Jack,” I said. “I don’t do safes.”

Elizabeth had Jack’s pager number memorized, so we used my smartphone to page him and hoped he would respond quickly. Both of us were nervous about being in Maggie’s house. It was partly the fear that the police would arrive and catch us, and partly the creep-out factor of knowing we were in the home of a recently deceased serial killer. After twenty minutes we had gone through all of Maggie’s closets and drawers, and Jack still hadn’t called. The pressure was building. We’d have to come back later.

We left the way we had come in, and I relocked the sliding glass door with my tension wrench. As we rounded the side of the main house I stopped and stared at the small stone cottage. Elizabeth continued up the hill. I knew she would distract any police who showed up long enough for me to disappear.

The front door lock on the stone structure took a while, but eventually I got it open. The place was full of cobwebs and I didn’t see any footprints in the dust on the floor, so this was probably a waste of time. I looked up the chimney and found that the flue was closed, so I opened it, then jumped back before the soot could envelop me. When the ashes had settled, I reached up into the chimney. All I came back with was a hand full of greasy, black gunk. I shook my hand vigorously and tiptoed into the kitchen. I scrubbed my blackened hand and wrist with a dried up bar of Ivory soap, using my shorts as a towel. I looked in the kitchen cabinets, but apart from assorted bug carcasses and webs, they were empty.

There wasn’t any furniture in the cottage at all. The bathroom sink had rust stains indicating that the dripping faucet had been allowed to persist over a prolonged period of time.

I closed the door behind me, not bothering to lock it, and hiked up the road to Elizabeth. Along the way I glanced at the whitewashed bungalow positioned on the crest of the hill. I remembered it was furnished and wondered if Maggie’s brother might live there when he was in town. Bill had said he was listed at this address, but Jack hadn’t seen him.

Elizabeth noted the direction of my gaze and nodded. Together we marched up to the front door and knocked. When there was no answer, I took out my lock picks for the third time. After a few moments I had the doorknob unlocked, but the door still wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt was engaged. Deadbolts are complicated and time consuming to pick. We had already been there too long and I could hear Bill’s voice in my head, warning me to stay out of trouble. Maybe Jack could open it for us later. It was time to go.

Chapter 29

W
e drove back to the marina and Elizabeth made coffee for me, adding a generous splash of Kahlua. It was heavenly. She had a glass of Kahlua and milk, without the coffee. We sat outside in the sun on her dock steps and drank our chocolatey beverages in companionable silence.

We were both feeling pretty relaxed when my phone rang. It was Jack. I asked him if he could meet us at the Woodside estate to disengage the cottage deadbolt and open the safe in Maggie’s bedroom. He said he wasn’t available today, but that he could do it tomorrow morning around 10:00. Then he asked to speak with Elizabeth. I handed her the phone and she went inside for privacy. When they’d finished talking she came back out.

“How are things going with Jack?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Fine,” she said. “Good, in fact. Nikki, I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Seriously. If the knife isn’t there, someone has to have taken it.”

“
Well
duh.”

“Who could it be?” Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “Who hates you that much?”

“Jim asked me the same question. I can think of several people.”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember the Laura Howard case?” I asked.

“Yeah, but he’s in prison now.”

“He had friends, and money.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and food servers. The eight employees from that club in San Jose.”

“You think it could have been one of them?”

“Not really. I’m tired. I need a nap.”

“Don’t forget your appointment with the shrink.”

Elizabeth hugged me tightly before letting me leave. I shuffled back to my boat, locked the pilothouse door and the hatch, took off my clothes, and slid between the sheets. I tried to sleep. Stress is exhausting and sleep is one of my favorite escapes, but it only comes when I’ve done everything I can to resolve the situation causing the stress in the first place. I have an anxious mind and it will not shut down when there’s work to do. After about an hour I gave up. I needed to take action.

I dressed in slacks and a silk blouse, and drove back to Atherton.

During the short drive I thought about why I wasn’t calling Sam Pettigrew for help. He’d been a challenging mentor, but I believed that under the gruff exterior he cared about me. I remembered the week I’d spent doing a domestic surveillance job for a musician client of Sam’s who thought his wife was having an affair. Every evening I watched her from the time he went to his gig until he arrived home, which was usually after 3:00 a.m. I slept until noon and then went to the office to type up the previous night’s surveillance report.

One afternoon I noticed that Sam had changed the angle of the coffee table in the front office. I didn’t think much about it until the next day when I noticed that the metal desk he kept in the outer office had been removed. I looked around and found it in the kitchen.

The day after that I needed a Palo Alto phone book, so I went to the closet where Sam kept his collection of telephone directories and discovered that they were no longer there. I eventually found the phone books neatly stacked in the cabinet under the bathroom sink.

The following day the little loveseat that normally occupied the foyer had been moved into Sam’s private office. That was all I could stand. I sashayed into Sam’s office, draped myself dramatically across the loveseat, and asked him what the hell was going on.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

I proceeded to recount each of the changes I’d observed throughout the week. His seldom used smile grew wider with each item I listed.

When I was finished with my recital he said, “You missed one.” He had moved his ashtray from one side of his desk to the other.

“Nobody’s perfect,” I said.

My time with Sam was invaluable in ways I’m still discovering, but I still couldn’t bring myself to admit I needed his help now that I was a grown-up PI out on my own.

When I arrived in Atherton I parked near El Camino and surveyed the neighborhood where I had taken Maggie’s life. I had brought along a clipboard and half a dozen of my cousin Aaron’s business cards. I knew I was treading into a legal gray area just by being there, but I was desperate for information and it seemed like a good place to begin.

Atherton is one of the wealthiest cities in California. It ranks right up there with Beverly Hills and Hillsborough, but the houses in this neighborhood didn’t look all that remarkable to me. Maybe this was Atherton’s low-rent district.

I buzzed the intercom outside the first house and waited patiently for someone to respond. The wall around the estate was about six feet tall, made of pink adobe and covered with ivy. After a minute I buzzed again, then I stepped back and stood on my tiptoes peering over the wall. I caught the movement of a curtain in one of the second story windows. Someone was home, but they weren’t going to let me in. I looked down at my clothes. Maybe I was underdressed by Atherton standards.

I moved on to the next house. This one was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence, so I could actually see the house and property from the street. It was an old two-story brick with a vast lawn and a bed of roses between the driveway and the front door. I’ve always liked brick houses. They look solid to me, like they’re going to last. I approached the intercom box and buzzed politely, not too long, not too short. This time the intercom was answered after a few moments.

“Yes?” said a female voice.

“Hi,” I said, relieved that someone was willing to speak to me. “My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a private investigator and I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the shooting.”

The disembodied voice said nothing further, but the gate slowly eased open. I approached the house, my clipboard held firmly in front of me. Standing in the open doorway was a dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her fifties, about five-four, and slightly plump. She wore a white apron over a navy blue shirtdress, and white athletic shoes. She was wearing red lipstick, but no other make-up. Based on the outfit, I guessed she was a domestic. I introduced myself again and held out one of Aaron’s cards.

“I’m working in association with VanHorton and Raymond out of San Francisco, doing a preliminary investigation of the shooting that took place last night.”

Pretending I worked for Aaron’s law firm wasn’t strictly kosher, but I thought he’d back me up if it came to that.

“Oh yes,” she whispered. “A real estate lady was killed.”

She looked at Aaron’s card, tucked it in her apron pocket, and shook my hand. Hers was warm and dry, callused but soft, like someone who worked hard but used a good hand cream.

“Were you home last night between eight and ten?” I asked.

“You mean did I hear the shot?”

I nodded.

“Yes, I heard it. I was upstairs on my balcony. I thought it was a car backfiring. My name is Rosa, by the way.”

“Can you show me your balcony, Rosa?”

“Of course,” she said, and ushered me into the foyer.

As we climbed the stairs Rosa chattered happily, pointing out pictures of the couple she worked for and their adorable baby girl.

“I’ve been here four years now,” she said. “What was your name again?”

“Nicoli.”

“Nicoli. That’s a pretty name. The O’Malleys are good people. He’s a doctor, you know. A surgeon at Stanford. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Doctor Ian O’Malley?”

“I don’t think so.”

“The missus does a lot of fund raising for local charities. My room is next door to the nursery, so I can hear the little one if she wakes up in the night.”

Rosa spoke with so much pride that I almost envied her.

“Nothing is more important than children,” I mumbled.

“That’s
right
,” she said with certainty.

We arrived at her room and she walked directly to the French doors and opened them for me. The balcony faced west. Rosa had an unobstructed view of the street. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

“You were sitting out here last night when you heard the shot?”

“Yes, only I had my back to the street because I was watching the television.”

“You said you thought it was a car backfiring. Did you turn around to see what the car looked like?”

“Oh yes, but there was no car driving by. Then a few minutes later I saw this nice-looking man get out of a red Mustang and run toward the back of the house. That’s where it happened, you know.”

“What else did you see?”

“About ten minutes after that I saw the police arrive. Four squad cars and an unmarked car with two men in it.”

“You’re very observant, Rosa. What about the time between the shot and when the man in the Mustang arrived?” I held my breath.

“I was mostly watching TV, I guess.” She looked embarrassed.

“Were the O’Malleys home last night?”

“Just me and the baby,” she said. “The doctor and missus didn’t get home till late. I did get a couple of phone calls though, from the other girls in the neighborhood. Everyone was pretty excited about what happened.”

“You’ve been very helpful, Rosa,” I said. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. I have to go now, but I wonder if you would do me a favor. Could you ask your friends and neighbors if they saw anyone lurking around the house where the shooting took place? I’d be happy to pay you for your time. I’m especially interested in what happened right before and immediately after the gunshot was heard.”

“Sure,” she said. “I could do that.”

I was so grateful I almost wept. “That would be wonderful,” I said. “Just keep track of the time you spend talking to people, and call me if you find anything out.”

I wrote my name and my home and office numbers on the back of Aaron’s card, and returned it to her.

“I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour,” I added. “Will that be all right?”

Rosa beamed. “Yes, Nicoli,” she said. “That will be fine.”

We shook hands before I left. I felt confident that she would begin making phone calls to her neighbors immediately and that I could go home. Maybe now I would be able to sleep.

On my way to the car I checked my watch. It was almost time for my appointment with Loretta. I mentally grimaced, wondering what it would be like forcing myself to confide in someone I didn’t know. I pulled her business card from my purse and memorized the address on Jefferson.

As I drove back to Redwood City I thought about what I was going to say to this woman. I’d have to tell her what happened, and that I’d had trouble with insomnia since first seeing Maggie’s videos. Maybe she could help me with that.

I pulled to the curb and double-checked the address on the business card. I’d expected a medical facility of some kind, but instead what I saw was a mint green gingerbread cottage with a small front yard surrounded by a white picket fence and flowers. Lots of flowers.

I got out of the car and let myself in through the gate. Though it was a warm afternoon, a slight breeze rustled a set of wind chimes above the door. To the right was an old-fashioned porch swing. The only suggestion that this was a professional facility and not someone’s home was a small brass plaque on the door that read
Loretta Dario, Clinical Psychologist.

I overruled the tightening in my solar plexus and rang the doorbell. I could hear footsteps coming toward the front of the house. When the door opened I was greeted by a woman in her mid-fifties with short salt and pepper hair framing a heart-shaped face. She stood about five-nine and weighed maybe a hundred and forty pounds. She wore a calf length denim skirt with sandals and a short-sleeved peach colored blouse. Her eyes were a soft brown and her smile made me feel welcome.

“Hello, Nicoli,” she said. “You’re right on time. Come inside.”