A Side Order Of Murder

by Nancy Skopin

  A Side Order Of Murder

  The Sixth Nikki Hunter Mystery

  Copyright © 2016 by Nancy Skopin

  All rights reserved.

  First Digital Edition: June 2016

  Cover: Boulevard Photografica

  Artist: Patty Henderson

  Digital Formatting: A Thirsty Mind Book Design

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication:

  This one is for you, Jim.

  Team Acknowledgements:

  Juliann Stark: editor and head cheerleader

  Max Ferry: boating and gun consultant, proofreader, and best husband ever

  Nicoli Bailey: proofreader and astrological consultant

  Jim Sutherland—the Real one: marketing and advertising genius, media advisor, and treasured friend

  Mark Pollio: police procedure consultant

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Team Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Books by Nancy Skopin

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Berkeley, California

  Three Months Ago

  LEON MATZEK KNEW HIS TIME was running out. He’d noticed the onset of the symptoms a week ago. What he hadn’t anticipated was the speed and effectiveness of the onslaught. He fought with what remained of his will to regain control of his mind and body. It was 2:00 a.m., and he was halfway up the steps to the bell tower before he was able to stop climbing. He’d done his best to prepare himself for death. In fact, he’d been preparing for more than twenty years—ever since he’d sold his discovery to Batcom. At the time he had no money, so he'd reluctantly sold the process to the highest bidder. It had to be Batcom doing this to him. Nothing else made sense. They had promised him they were going to keep the formula a secret only until they’d worked out all the bugs. Of course they had lied, but it was too late to worry about that now. What really troubled him was that his students would believe he had killed himself voluntarily.

  His feet began climbing again, and he groaned with the effort it took to resist. He continued up the steps, searching his pockets for a scrap of paper—anything on which he could write a message. He had no paper, but he did have a hundred-dollar bill in the hidden compartment of his wallet. He always kept it there to remind him he was a wealthy man. Fat lot of good that had done him in the end. He took his fountain pen out of his breast pocket and hastily scribbled a note on the border of the bill. “I, Leon Matzek, did not commit suicide. I was murdered by Batcom.”

  He dropped the pen and clenched the bill in his right hand as he continued up the steps. By the time he reached the tower he was breathless and there were tears in his eyes. An area had been roped off because the bars were being replaced on one of the windows. Matzek stepped over the rope and grabbed hold of a pillar, trying once again to put a stop to the inevitable. His right leg stepped over the railing onto the ledge. He looked down.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, as his left leg joined his right and his hands let go of the pillar.

  Those were the last words uttered by Doctor Leon Matzek—a man who had enthusiastically dedicated his life to teaching physics. His body dropped the 307 feet in a matter of seconds, and he died almost instantly.

  The blood on the concrete had darkened and congealed by 5:30, when Louis, a janitor, found the professor’s ruined body. The hundred-dollar bill was just peeking out above his clenched fist. Louis needed the money. The cost of living was steadily climbing in California, and his pregnant wife had been laid-off. It took Louis a minute to pry the bill from Maztek’s hand. Then he took out his cell phone and called 911.

  CHAPTER 1

  Redwood City, California

  The Present

  IT WAS EARLY MAY and eighty degrees in the shade at ten o’clock in the morning. I was grateful that i lived on the water where the wind picks up in the afternoon.

  My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a Private Investigator, licensed in the State of California. I specialize in covert restaurant and bar surveillance, including quality of cuisine, ambiance, and employee performance. I’ve been a PI for five years now, give or take. Licensed and on my own for almost three. I became a PI because of my compulsion to see that justice is done and my need to protect the innocent, because I need to be my own boss, and because I’m obsessively curious.

  I live aboard a forty-six-foot Cheoy Lee Motorsailor at a marina in Redwood City, halfway between San Francisco and San Jose. I also rent a ground floor corner office in the marina complex where I live. It’s a beautiful complex made up of five two-story office buildings, lush and casually manicured grounds, and six gates or docks which house approximately five hundred yachts. More than half of the yachts are owned by individuals and families who choose to live aboard, as I do.

  I’m thirty-six years old and five foot seven in my bare feet. I have long, curly, chestnut brown hair and dark blue eyes. I’ve been married and divorced three times and I have no children, but I do have a wonderful dog.

  I was in my office with the doors and windows open and a table fan laboring on high, doing my best to concentrate on reports for my regular clients, when the phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.

  “Hunter Investigations,” I answered.

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Is this the answering service?” asked a male voice.

  “No, this is Nicoli Hunter, in the flesh,” I said. “What can I do for you?”

  “Um, I need to make an appointment.”

  “In regard to... ?” I prodded.

  “I’d rather not discuss it over the phone. Are you free this afternoon?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  Actually I was, but with the air conditioning on the fritz, I didn’t want to be inside when the real heat of the day hit.

  “I can see you this morning,” I offered.

  “Um, I guess I can do that,” he said, though he sounded uncertain.

  “May I have your name?” I asked.

  “Montgomery,” he said.

  “Is that your first name?”

  “No. It’s Cliff. Clifford Montgomery.”

  Seriously? I wrote down the name, automatically transposing the first and last. Montgomery, Cliff.

  “Okay, Cliff. Do you know how to get here?”

  “I have your address,” he said.

  “That’s a start, but the layout of the
complex is a little confusing.”

  I gave him detailed directions and hoped he was taking notes.

  “Can you be here by eleven?” I asked. “I have an appointment outside the office at noon.”

  “Yes, I think so,” he said.

  “Great. I’ll see you then.”

  Cliff and I ended the call, and I completed the reports I was working on. I printed some of the reports, e-mailed others to my more technologically tuned in clients, and stuffed the hard copies into envelopes along with invoices.

  I considered walking down to the boat and changing into something a little more businesslike, but decided the shorts and Hawaiian shirt I was wearing would have to do. It was too hot for anything else. My dog, Buddy, was at my side and when I set the outgoing mail on the corner of my desk he raised his head and chuffed. Buddy is a ninety-five pound Rhodesian Ridgeback and Golden Retriever mix, and chuffing is his way of saying, “I need a walk.” It also means other things, so you have to pay attention to the context. I hooked his leash to his collar, closed the sliding windows, turned off the fan, and took my boy for a walk.

  Clifford Montgomery arrived at precisely 11:00 a.m., knocking on the open office door. He was Caucasian, with a pasty complexion, and appeared to be in his early to mid-twenties. He stood about six feet tall with slightly hunched shoulders. He had a slender build and brown hair and eyes. Cliff was wearing a long-sleeved, white, button down shirt tucked into a pair of neatly creased, khaki-colored Dockers. The effect was both casual and conservative, but it was way too hot for long sleeves.

  “Ms. Hunter?” He hovered in the doorway, looking uneasily at the large dog by my side.

  “Yes.” I nodded. “You must be Cliff. This is Buddy.” I put my hand on the canine’s head. “He’s friendly. Come inside and have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  Clients like Cliff Montgomery make me glad I’ve studied psychology. I’ve never actually taken a class, but I read everything on the subject I can get my hands on. I even read Psychology Today, just to stay current, although lately it reminds me a lot of Cosmopolitan. Cliff walked hesitantly toward my desk, his eyes going everywhere at once. He finally perched on the edge of one of my visitor’s chairs, pressed his knees together, and clasped his hands in his lap. He said nothing.

  “Would you like some coffee?” I asked, wondering if the caffeine might push him over the edge.

  “No, thank you. I’m allergic,” he said.

  Probably just as well.

  “So Cliff,” I said. “What can I help you with?”

  He looked at me searchingly and I saw the apprehension in his eyes. I wondered what kind of trouble this timid young man could possibly be in. I tried a smile. He looked away again.

  “It’s embarrassing,” he began. “I went to another PI in Burlingame and he told me he couldn’t accept my case.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Promise not to laugh,” he pleaded.

  Okay...

  “I promise,” I said, raising my right hand in a pseudo-pledge. Actually, laughter was the farthest thing from my mind. This guy was making me nervous.

  He took a deep breath. “I think someone’s trying to drive me crazy. It started a couple of months ago, when we first moved here. I don’t have any proof, but I just can’t take it anymore.” He looked down at his hands, and I thought he might cry.

  “Who’s we?” I asked.

  “What?” He looked up and, sure enough, there were tears in his eyes.

  “You said ‘when we first moved here.’ Who’s we?”

  “Oh. My family. Me and my parents.”

  “So you moved to the bay area two months ago?” I started taking notes.

  “Yes,” said Cliff. “To Hillsborough. That’s how I heard about you. One of our neighbors recommended you. Jack McGuire?”

  That got my attention. Jack is a former client who has become a valued friend. He’s also a retired cat burglar and the fiancé of my best friend, Elizabeth Gaultier, who is a fellow boat dweller.

  “What makes you think someone’s trying to gaslight you, Cliff?”

  “Several things,” he said. “Sometimes I wake up at night and there are bright lights shining through my windows. I keep the blinds closed, but the light gets through anyway. When I’m driving, sometimes I see flashes of light and bright geometrical patterns. And I hear things. Like people whispering.”

  Oh boy. I started making a mental list of ways I would punish Jack for referring this fruit loop to me.

  “Can you hear what they’re saying?” I asked.

  “Sometimes I can make out a few words. They’re usually talking about me.”

  “Are you able to determine where the voices are coming from?” I asked.

  “Actually, it sounds like they’re coming from inside my head.” He grimaced, waiting for the axe to fall. I kept my expression neutral.

  “Have you had any recent dental work?” I asked.

  “No,” he sighed. “I thought of that. All my fillings are porcelain. It doesn’t conduct electricity very well.”

  “Okay. What else?”

  He looked up and met my gaze. “So, you’ll take the case?”

  I could tell he was holding his breath.

  “I need more information before I commit. Tell me what else has been happening.”

  Cliff sighed again, and said, “I have memory lapses. Long ones. Once I lost a whole day.”

  “And you can’t remember anything about that period of time?”

  “No. Nothing.”

  “Do you ever wake up in strange places?” I asked.

  “No. I’m always at home when I come around.”

  “I have to ask you this, Cliff, so don’t be offended. Are you taking any kind of drugs, prescription or otherwise?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you drink?”

  He gave me a weak grin. “No,” he said. “I don’t even take aspirin, and I don’t drink at all.”

  “Okay. What exactly do you want me to do?”

  Cliff edged back a little in the chair and visibly relaxed. “First I’d like you to install video surveillance equipment in my bedroom. You’ll have to do that when my parents aren’t home, and you’ll have to arrive in a phone company van or something equally anonymous, so no one knows who you are and what you’re really doing there. I don’t want anyone to know what you’re doing. Then I’d like you to follow me around for a couple of weeks, maybe longer, so if I lose any time you can tell me what I’ve been up to.”

  “You live with your parents?” I asked.

  “Yes.” He blushed slightly, but maintained eye contact.

  “Do you suspect them of tampering with your sanity?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I raised my eyebrows, but he said nothing further. He looked helpless, lost, and defeated. He was a classic victim type, but at least he had the good sense to ask for help.

  “I’ll take your case, Cliff,” I said. “But I’ll need to bring in another PI on this. There’s no way I can cover you twenty-four hours a day by myself. I have a friend I trust completely. With your permission, I’ll give him a call and see if he’s available.”

  He nodded.

  “Now let’s talk about money,” I said.

  “Of course.” He took a checkbook out of his hip pocket and looked at me expectantly.

  “I’ll need a thirty thousand dollar advance to get things started,” I said. “That will cover the cost of the video equipment, and the first seven days of surveillance.”

  Cliff didn’t even blink. Just wrote out the check, signed it, and handed it to me. I looked at the address on the check and noted that it was just down the street from Jack McGuire’s estate. I made out a receipt and printed two copies of my standard contract.

  “I’ll need your phone number,” I said. There was none printed on the check.

  He gave me two numbers. One for “downstairs” and one that he said was in his suite, which I assumed m
ust be upstairs. He asked when I’d be ready to begin.

  “I can pick up the video equipment this afternoon. When would you like it installed?”

  “My parents are often out in the evening,” he said, picking up one of my business cards. “If you let me know when you’re ready, I’ll check their schedule and get back to you.”

  “Fair enough,” I said.

  We both stood, and I held out my hand. Cliff had a weak handshake. Cool, limp, and slightly damp. Normally my intuition kicks in when I shake someone’s hand or make any kind of physical contact. What I felt coming from Cliff was confusion and fear. I wondered if I was making a mistake. I often get myself into situations I later regret while trying to rescue people in trouble of one kind or another.

  CHAPTER 2

  AFTER CLIFF LEFT I countered my feelings of uneasiness by listing possible explanations for what he was experiencing. At the top of my list, and the most likely explanation, was that Cliff was batshit crazy. Under that I added several other options, including a transmitter in his phone, micro-projectors in his bedroom and/or car, and neuro-optical disorders that might not have been detected by a normal eye exam. Of course, none of that would explain the missing time.

  I made a note to myself to ask Cliff how I was going to monitor his activities when he wasn’t in his bedroom and within the radius of the video camera he had requested but was still at home. We might have to think of some way for me or my counterpart to be in the house round-the-clock without arousing his parents’ suspicions. That would be challenging.

  I placed a call to my significant other, Bill Anderson, a detective with the Redwood City Police Department. I know, it’s a cliché, a PI dating a cop, and I swear I never intended to get involved with one. It just kind of happened. Bill and I met when I was working my first homicide investigation. He was intelligent and sensitive, and he helped me with the case far more than he should have, legally speaking. That impressed me.

  Bill is tall and dark, a delicious blend of Irish and Lakota Sioux. He has an amazing smile, a sarcastic sense of humor, and an exceptionally fine backside. We’ve been seeing each other for ten months now and, while I’m not interested in a lifetime commitment, I am in love with the man.