by Nancy Skopin
I grabbed Bill’s fingerprinting kit and popped open the hidden door with one of Cliff’s steak knives. I switched on the flashlight and stepped onto the landing. The stairs leading down to the pantry were still dust free, but the air was stale and musty smelling. It had probably been that way before, and I’d been too excited by my discovery to notice.
I walked carefully down the steps and turned on the overhead light as soon as I reached the bottom. Bill had given me some basic instructions, and I had watched him do this once. I took out the small container of white powder and the big fluffy brush, and coated the brass door handle. Then I picked up the flashlight and shone it directly on the handle. I couldn’t see any prints, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. I took the tape out of the kit and covered the door handle one strip at a time, paying special attention to the thumb grip above the handle. Then I slowly peeled each piece of tape off and returned all the items to the kit.
I’d have to take the tape to an independent lab. I couldn’t ask Bill to process this through the police department. But if I got any prints on film I could ask him to check them against existing records.
I eradicated any evidence that I’d been there, turned off the overhead light, and climbed back up the stairs. I found Cliff stretched out on his bed. He was dressed in an elegant jogging ensemble and clean, white tennis shoes. I was willing to bet that suit had never been jogged in, but I held my tongue.
“How’s your neck?” I asked.
“It’s better. We’re not doing any painting today are we?”
“No. Not today. I need to make a call,” I said, taking out my cell.
“Of course,” he said. “You can use the kitchen if you’d like some privacy.”
“It’s a business call, Cliff, but it might be easier for me to concentrate in the kitchen. Thanks.”
I pulled my notebook out of my purse and swallowed another pain pill while I was at the sink. I called the UC Berkeley, and asked for the admissions office. When I was connected I asked to speak with the department manager.
A high-pitched, nasal voice came on the line. “This is Mr. Anthony.”
“Mr. Anthony, my name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a freelance journalist in San Francisco, and I’m doing a story on Professor Leon Matzek. I’ve been interviewing some of his students, but I don’t have current addresses and phone numbers for all of them. I was hoping you could help me out.”
“Surely you know I can’t give out personal information on our students,” he huffed.
“Of course not. But you could take my name and number and the names of the students I’m interested in interviewing. Then you could call them yourself and ask if they would be willing to be interviewed. I’d be happy to pay you for your time. Say a hundred dollars?”
“Hmph,” he grunted. “That won’t be necessary, Miss...what was your name again?
“Hunter,” I said.
“Miss Hunter. If you’ll just hold on a moment I’ll get a pen and paper.” After a brief silence he said, “All right, go ahead.”
I read him Cliff’s list of names, then gave him my office, home, and cell numbers, asking that he give all three numbers to each of the students. He grudgingly agreed.
“I can’t promise I’ll get to this today,” he said, sullenly.
“Whenever you have the time,” I said as politely as I could through clenched teeth. “And let me know if you change your mind about the hundred dollars.” It was a parting shot, but if I was reading this guy correctly he’d want to be rid of me as soon as possible.
When I re-entered the bedroom, Cliff had dozed off. I woke him up just long enough to tell him I was going to the hospital to see Nahdi, and that I would be back in about an hour. He handed me his keys and rolled onto his side. I picked up the print kit and stuffed it into my bag. After exiting Cliff’s suite, I engaged the deadbolt using one of the keys.
No one was in the front hall as I exited, but, as usual, I had the feeling I was being watched. I slipped quietly out the front door, wondering if there might be covert surveillance cameras throughout the house. I could totally picture Mrs. Peterson in a basement room, hunched over a multi-monitor security console, her beady little eyes constantly scanning for any sign of intruders. It was not a pleasant image, but it made me smile.
CHAPTER 16
I WAITED IN LINE at the hospital information desk for almost fifteen minutes. When it was finally my turn I gave my name and asked to have Dr. Nahdi paged. After a few minutes one of the women behind the counter informed me that Dr. Nahdi was in the food court, and would be happy to speak with me there. I found my way back to the food court, grabbed a yogurt from the vending machine, and sat down across from him.
“Mind if I join you?” I asked.
“Ms. Hunter, where is your sling?” he groused.
I dug the thing out of my purse and put it on.
“I need to get a copy of Cliff’s EEG from you. Just a photocopy will be fine.” I handed him the note of consent Cliff had written for me.
“That EEG is very interesting,” he said, pocketing the note without reading it and taking another bite of his sandwich. “Unusual brain waves. Very irregular. Possible seizure activity,” he mumbled, while chewing.
I nodded and opened my yogurt.
“You know we X-rayed his spine,” he went on, making eye contact now. “There was a tiny rectangular shadow just under the left ear.”
I swallowed a mouthful of yogurt, hard.
“On the X-rays?”
He nodded and chewed.
“Could I have a look?”
He checked his watch. “It’s against hospital policy,” he said, then stuffed the remainder of his sandwich into his mouth, wiped his hands on a napkin, and led the way to his office in the bowels of the hospital. He unlocked the door and ushered me in, closing the door behind us. His organizational system was a kind of controlled chaos. I know, I should talk. He was undoubtedly involved in numerous cases concurrently, and could probably put his hands on any file he needed. No administrative assistant would be allowed to tamper with his system, hence the locked door.
Nahdi extracted a long manila folder from the top layer on his desk and handed me an X-ray. I walked over to the wall mounted light box and clipped it into place. I flipped the switch and illuminated Cliff’s profile. Good bones. His spine looked okay to me but, as Nahdi had said, there was a tiny rectangular shadow directly below his ear just behind his jaw. That shadow did not look organic. Nahdi showed me a second X-ray, but there was no duplicate shadow displayed below Cliff’s other ear.
“Left ear?” I asked, indicating the first X-ray.
“Yes.”
“Have you ever seen anything like this before?” I asked, comparing the two pictures.
“I have not,” he answered.
“Any idea what it could be?”
“All I can tell you is that the shape appears to be man-made, and it is not metal. If it was, the MRI would have ripped it out.”
I cringed at the thought.
“Okay. Can I get a copy of this too?” I asked, removing the X-ray from the light box.
“I can’t allow that,” he said. “If you’ll excuse me for a few minutes?”
He left me alone in his office feeling momentarily confused. I was just standing there holding the X-ray when it hit me. He was leaving me alone so I could copy the X-ray without his knowledge. What a guy. I peeked out into the hallway and discovered the copier directly across from Nahdi’s office. It was lunch time and the place was deserted. I found Cliff’s file on Nahdi’s desktop and took the whole thing with me. I photocopied select items, including his EEG, his MRI, the X-ray with the shadow on it, and his medical chart. I was back in Nahdi’s office in less than five minutes. I returned the file and the X-ray to Nahdi’s desktop and folded the copies into my purse. I needed a bigger purse.
When Nahdi returned I was seated in his visitor’s chair, my hands demurely folded in my lap. I hadn’t wanted to leave without thank
ing him.
He sat down behind his desk.
“You’re not really an interior decorator, are you Ms. Hunter?”
“No, I’m not,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push for more information. I was relieved. I didn’t have the time or the inclination to get into it. I stood and we shook hands. I looked him in the eye when I said, “Thank you, Dr. Nahdi.” Then I was on my way as quickly as my aching body would carry me.
Alarm bells were going off in my head. I was flashing on what Jim had said about chips implanted as receivers. I had more than a hunch that shadow under Cliff’s ear had something to do with the voices he heard, his memory lapses, and the hallucinations he’d been experiencing. Technology amazes me. It’s like Arthur C. Clarke said. “Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”
I drove to Superior Investigations, Jim’s firm in Menlo Park, before returning to Hillsborough. I knocked on the locked outer door and exhaled the breath I’d been holding when Heather, Jim’s receptionist, opened it and let me in.
“He’s in his office,” she said.
“I knew you wouldn’t be sleeping,” I chided, as he came out of his office to greet me.
I gave him the photocopy of the EEG and the pieces of tape from the fingerprinting kit. I asked him if he could have any prints on the tape enlarged, and requested that he attempt to locate an expert who could analyze the EEG with attention to the possibility of electronic or microwave influence.
Jim yawned in my face, nodded, and said, “I’ll do what I can.”
I suddenly realized that I wasn’t allowing him any time to take care of his regular clients. That was why he was here instead of at home asleep. I decided not to bring up the blip on Cliff’s X-ray. Jim already had enough on his plate.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t even ask if you have time to deal with this for me. Do you?” I was holding my breath again. Not a healthy habit.
“Not really, but I’ll do it anyway.” He grinned, and I knew everything was going to be okay. He’d make the time because he was my friend and I needed him. I was relieved and touched.
I sped back to Hillsborough and Cliff. I was worried about having left him alone, even during daylight hours. I parked the van on the street and hustled down the driveway. I took Cliff’s keys out of my purse and wondered what would happen if I used one of them to unlock the front door. Visions of Mrs. Peterson transformed into a vicious attack dog came to mind. I rang the bell.
After about a minute, Anna opened the door for me.
“Oh, Nicoli,” she said. “We thought you were upstairs with Cliff.”
“I was. I just had to run out for a minute. Listen, Anna, I wonder if you and I could have a private talk sometime soon. Maybe lunch tomorrow?”
She looked apprehensive, but then her features smoothed out. “I don’t have any plans to redecorate the house, if that’s what you want to discuss.” She smiled sweetly.
“Actually, I’d like to speak with you about Cliff.”
That got her attention. “All right,” she said slowly. “Is one o’clock good for you?”
“Fine,” I said. “Thanks.”
I moved toward the stairs before she could ask any more questions. I really needed Cliff’s permission for what I was about to do. He was my client after all. But I thought he was in danger, and revealing who I was to his parents might assist me in removing the threat.
I let myself into Cliff’s suite and bolted the door behind me. He was still dozing on the king-size bed. I glanced around the room and realized I hadn’t reloaded the video camera since yesterday morning. I popped it open and was stunned to find the DVD-R fused to the inside of the camera. It looked like it had melted. Melted. Cooked. Nuked. Holy shit!
I snatched up my cell and called Jim.
“What’s up?”
“We need to get Cliff into some kind of a safe house,” I whispered. “Whoever is fucking with his sanity has upped the ante. I think they mean to kill him.” I told him about the melted disk. “I’ve gotta get him out of here now. I’ll call you when we’re settled somewhere.”
“Okay. Be careful, Nikki.”
We hung up and I reached for Cliff’s wrist. As I touched his arm he stirred and I drew my hand away. “Cliff,” I whispered. “Wake up. We need to get you out of here.”
His eyes opened and he struggled to focus them.
“Why? What’s going on?” He sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.
“The video camera’s been fried,” I said. “I need you to pack some clothes and whatever you need for a few days away from home. Quickly.”
“I don’t understand,” he said. “What happened to the camera?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t want you to be here when it happens again. Pack. We’re leaving in five minutes. Bring any notes you have from Matzek’s study group and grab your passport, just in case.” Luckily, I carried mine in my purse at all times.
Cliff pulled himself up off the bed and shuffled to the closet. “I have a disk,” he mumbled.
I watched as he dug a CD case out of a heavy ski boot. He put some clothes in a suitcase, took the bag into the bathroom and packed his toiletries, then opened a desk drawer from which he withdrew his passport. He scanned the bedroom, looked at me and said, “Okay. Let’s go.”
He was smiling. I think he liked the idea of being on the lam. I grabbed my purse, the video camera, and Cliff’s keys, and we hightailed it out of there. I locked and bolted his door behind us, remembering at that moment that I hadn’t blocked the door behind the fridge. The hell with it. If Marjorie Peterson was parboiled in Cliff’s place because she was snooping around his rooms at the wrong time, so be it. That wasn’t my problem. When we were halfway down the stairs Mrs. Peterson stepped out of the shadows in the foyer below us.
“Where are you two going?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
“We’re going to Monterey to look at furniture,” I said, forcing a smile. “Be back in a few days, maybe a week.”
Her jaw dropped. I got Cliff as far as the door before she regained the power of speech. “Just a minute, Nicoli. You can’t take Clifford away from his home like this.”
“Why not?” I snapped. “He’s an adult.”
She followed us out the door. “Where shall I tell his parents you’re staying?” she sputtered.
“We’ll let them know when we get there.”
“You mean you don’t have reservations?”
We kept walking toward the van and she trotted along behind us.
“Mrs. Peterson,” I said over my shoulder, causing the muscles in my neck to spasm, “unless you’ve been promoted without my knowledge, you’re the Montgomery’s household manager. Is that correct?” I waited a beat while she turned a nice shade of magenta. “I assume your duties include taking care of the house and the preparation of meals when the cook is not working?” She opened her mouth but no sound came out. “Since you are not Cliff’s social secretary, I fail to see why it should concern you where he goes or what he does.”
That stopped her cold and her face went from magenta to purple.
I unlocked the van and Cliff placed his suitcase in the back, then we both climbed into the front seat.
Mrs. Peterson was still standing in the driveway, her mouth a hard line, as we drove away. I almost felt sorry for her.
CHAPTER 17
I DROVE NORTH ON EL CAMINO, trying to think of a safe place to hide Cliff. Anyone who’d been
watching us would know where I lived and worked, so the boat and my office were out. Ditto for Jim’s home or office, for the same reason. I considered some of the seedier hotels along El Camino and decided Cliff was too sensitive for most of them.
I was keeping an eye on the rear view mirror, but traffic was heavy, making it impossible to tell if anyone was following us. I drove for twenty-five minutes and finally made a left turn on Chestnut Avenue in South San Francisco. I pulled over to the curb an
d parked. It’s an old ploy Sam Pettigrew taught me, but it only works if your tail hasn’t already placed a tracking device on your vehicle. I’d never bothered to check the van for bugs. You know what they say about hindsight.
Two cars made the turn behind us. The first was a white Mercedes SL500. The second was a sleek, black Volvo S90. I couldn’t see the driver of the Mercedes clearly because the car had tinted windows, but the guy in the Volvo turned his head and looked right at me as he drove by. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Nicolas Cage, except that he was Asian. He definitely had the famous Cage attitude. Just locking eyes with him sent a chill up my spine. Both cars continued down Chestnut without turning. I pulled away from the curb, drove up to Hillside Boulevard, and made a right.
This was my old stomping ground. I’d walked these streets to grade school every morning, and then in the opposite direction to junior high and high school. The Volvo had made a U-turn and was coming up behind us again. I floored the van, for all the good it would do, and drove up to Randolph Avenue where I made a left. The Volvo was still visible in my rearview mirror before I made the turn, but I had about a four-block lead. I hoped I’d bought us enough time. I’d hardly realized where I was going until I made the last left-hand turn and found myself on the street where I grew up, and where my mother still lives.
I squeezed my key chain in the middle, disconnecting Lily’s van keys from my office and boat keys, and made a sharp right into the driveway, pulling up as close to the garage door as I dared. I threw the van into park jarring my wounded shoulder, leaped out of the driver’s side door and ran to the left side of the garage. I inserted a tiny brass key into the lock, turning clockwise, and the garage door started opening.
My mother had the key made for me in lieu of giving me my own remote for her garage door. A few of her neighbors have keys identical to mine, in case of emergency.