by Nancy Skopin
We drove north on El Camino and took a right on Valparaiso in Atherton. No one followed. I parked the car under an oak tree and waited a few minutes, just to be sure we were alone. If the train diversion had worked it might buy us a few hours, but Cliff needed to disappear completely.
“How much money have you got in the bank?” I asked, turning to face him.
“A couple hundred thousand in checking. More in savings. I’ve invested well. Dad gave me some stock tips.”
I bet he did. How many retired government employees could afford multimillion dollar estates in Hillsborough?
“It’ll have to do.” I handed him my cell phone. “Call the manager of your bank and tell them you’re going to close the checking account. Ask them to have the cash ready for you.”
I assumed his family’s money was in the same bank, so it was likely the bank manager would go out of his or her way to keep Cliff happy, regardless of the inconvenience. Luckily, I was right. The withdrawal would be ready in thirty minutes. We drove to San Mateo and parked in the underground lot beneath Central park, both of us constantly checking the rear view mirrors. We waited there for fifteen minutes and then drove across El Camino to the bank.
CHAPTER 22
THE VISIT TO THE BANK went smoothly enough, although the manager had more questions than we were willing to answer.
“Going on a trip, Mr. Montgomery?” she inquired.
“Yes,” Cliff responded.
“Anyplace interesting?”
“I’ll have to let you know about that when I get back.”
I wondered if the bank manager had called Cliff’s parents before releasing his funds. The cash was counted in front of Cliff and placed in a zippered canvas bag. The security guard walked us out to my car and watched until we had exited the parking lot. He was still watching as we turned north on El Camino. Probably grateful for the opportunity to breathe fresh versus recycled air for a few minutes. Either that or he was memorizing my license plate number, in case he needed to give it to the police at some later date.
Once we had the two hundred thousand in hand, I called Bill and left him a voicemail message saying I’d be out of town for a while, and not to worry. I asked him to stop by Kirk’s when he had time to spend with Buddy, and to check up on my boat a couple of times a week. I didn’t tell him where we were going because I don’t trust the security of cell phones or, in my present situation, any phones, and also because I didn’t know where we would end up.
I called Kirk and asked him to care for Buddy, explaining that I had urgent business out of town. He readily agreed. D’Artagnon loved having canine company.
I called my mom and left her a vague message saying I’d be out of touch because I was working undercover on a case. Nothing I could say would keep her from worrying, so I didn’t bother with reassurances. I did remind her voicemail that I loved her. She was a pain in my ass, but she was still my mom.
I called my childhood friend and white hat hacker, Michael Burke. After he confirmed that he had the scrambler activated on his phone I said, “I need you to have a very discreet look at Batcom. See if you can find out who the majority stockholders are and how they’re linked to our government. It probably won’t lead anywhere, but you never know.”
Michael promised he’d be careful.
Next I called Jim.
“Hey, Nikki,” he answered, sounding exhausted.
“Jim, I’m so sorry, but I need another huge favor. Can you check my office voicemail and e-mail once a day and take care of any urgent business my regular clients might have? I’ll copy you on a blind e-mail I’m sending to everyone, letting them know you’ll be available for emergencies. I’ll leave your name and number on the outgoing message for my office phone.”
“Sure, I can do that. I take it you’re going out of town?”
“I am.”
“Any idea when you’ll be back?”
“Not a clue.” I gave him the remote access code to my voicemail, and had him repeat it back to me. “That code will allow you to forward my calls to another number. Might save you some time.” I also gave him the passwords for my laptop and my e-mail.
I asked him to call Elizabeth and let her know I’d be away. If I made that call myself it would take forever. I couldn’t spare the time. Plus, Elizabeth had the spare key to my office, which Jim would need.
Before we hung up Jim said, “Take care of yourself, Nikki.”
“You too. And Jim, thank you. For everything.”
“Not a problem.”
I pulled off the freeway for a minute so I could send the blind copy e-mail from my smartphone to all of my clients. Then I changed the outgoing voicemail for the office, and checked all three of my phones for messages. There was one from Neal Cooperman, the seventh student, and he sounded nervous. He must have caught wind of what was happening to his classmates, but he was still willing to talk. He left a number, saying he wasn’t there, and would be checking his messages frequently. It was a 510 area code. The East Bay. I called it and got his voicemail.
“Neal, this is Nicoli Hunter. I’m returning your call. I can meet with you today if you’ll let me know where and when.” I left my cell number.
Cliff’s eyes doubled in size as I pulled into the Oyster Point Marina parking lot in South San Francisco.
“What are we doing here?” he asked, bracing his hands against the dashboard as if that would somehow protect him.
“We’re buying a boat,” I said. “We need to get you out of town and we can’t take my boat. They know who I am, so they probably also know where I live. It wouldn’t be safe. I’m sure they’re watching my office by now. Even if they don’t know I live aboard, they might see us arrive at the marina. Too risky. If we fly we’ll have to use ID and they’ll be able to track us. This is our safest bet.”
I opened my car door, grabbed my purse, and started to lock the car. Cliff was just sitting there holding onto the dashboard and turning very pale.
I opened my door again and leaned in. “Is there a problem?”
“I can’t swim,” he whispered.
“What are you talking about? What’s that got to do with anything? Come on Cliff, we don’t have time for this!”
“I can’t, Nicoli. I’m afraid of the water.”
I didn’t realize how close I was to my limit until I’d reached it. “Listen very carefully, Cliff,” I growled, “your life is at stake. Not just your sanity, your life. You are paying me to keep you safe, although at the moment I have my doubts about the merit of that endeavor. Now get your bony ass out of the car and come with me, or I swear to God I’ll let the bad guys have you!” I felt my face heating up. Could an aneurysm be far behind?
Cliff’s mouth dropped open and he moved his jaw a few times, but no sound came out. Then he closed his mouth and got unsteadily out of the car. His lower lip was trembling. I headed for the yacht brokerage office and Cliff silently followed. I felt a little guilty for blowing my top. I wouldn’t really have let the bad guys have him. I just wanted him to understand how serious the situation was.
Forty-five minutes later Cliff was the proud owner of a used Nonsuch 33. She was a cat-rigged boat equipped with an inboard motor, GPS, and an inflatable dinghy with an outboard. Catboats are easy to single-hand because they have only one sail, and the Nonsuch is extremely fast. We needed the speed. The original owner had named her Seas the Day. Clever.
The salesman threw in a pair of Giant’s baseball caps, two yellow life vests, and a full tank of fuel at no extra charge. I used a barrette to clip my hair up and put on one of the caps before we took off. Better a minimal disguise than none at all. I left my name, my home number, and my car keys with the salesman, telling him that a friend would come by to pick up the BMW. I didn’t say when. I’d think about that later.
CHAPTER 23
IT TOOK ME ALMOST FIFTEEN MINUTES to coax Cliff onto the sailboat. Fifteen minutes and a life vest secured around his chest. I’d seen people like this before, bu
t they were usually under ten years old or over seventy. Cliff was in his twenties and apart from a few bruises and a stiff neck, apparently healthy. I didn’t think he was really phobic about water. He was just extremely insecure about his ability to handle whatever might happen in life. I recognized the symptoms. His psyche was overflowing with what if scenarios, so I told him a few slight exaggerations about the comparative safety of sailing versus driving or flying, and he finally climbed aboard. Once he was below deck, I untied the lines and motored out of the marina.
I felt safer just being on the water. The scope of things changes for me when I’m offshore. I started breathing deeply and stopped hyperventilating. I hadn’t even noticed that I was doing it until I stopped. My shoulders dropped from their hunched position and my jaw unclenched. The knots in my solar plexus slowly started to unwind. When we were about a half-mile out I called down to Cliff, who was still below deck. He poked his head up out of the hatch, looking a little queasy.
“You’ll feel better if you come up here in the fresh air,” I said. Cliff looked skeptical. “Trust me. Besides I need you to take the helm while I raise the sail.”
Actually, no one needed to steer for the short time it would take to raise the sail, but I knew Cliff would feel better up on deck. The motion of the boat is less likely to make you nauseous if you can see the water. It has something to do with the inner ear and the body’s ability to visually justify the motion of the boat. He didn’t budge.
“Come on, Cliff. I need your help.”
That got him. I should have thought of it sooner. People need to be needed. He pulled himself up the companionway steps and looked around. I think he would have thrown up over the side if he hadn’t been afraid to get that close to the water. He staggered haltingly to the helm and I took his right hand, and then his left, and placed them on the wheel. He wrapped his fingers around it at ten and two o’clock and the color began to return to his face. This was good. I pointed out the Bay Bridge and asked him to keep us pointed in that direction.
I moved over to the electric winch and pushed the button to raise the sail. Nothing happened. I tried not to panic as I realized that I wouldn’t be able to use the manual winch with one hand. My left arm was almost useless. Cliff would have to raise the sail. I would have considered a powerboat, but I had no idea what kind of distance we’d need to cover and how often it would be safe to stop for fuel. I walked back over to Cliff. My solar plexus was knotting up again. If I couldn’t get him to function like an adult we’d be in big trouble.
“Cliff, I need you to go forward to the mast and uncleat the halyard.”
“Do what, now?”
I rigged the autopilot, then took Cliff’s arm and walked him over to the mast.
“I can’t do this alone, Cliff. My shoulder’s fucked-up. I need you to raise the sail.”
I talked him through each step and, much to my surprise, he caught on quickly. He was surefooted and agile. I’d expected him to be clumsy. Once the sail was up, I cut the engine.
When my cell phone rang I nearly jumped out of my skin. Then I realized what the sound was. It just didn’t make any sense out on the water.
“Cliff, will you take the helm please?”
He actually smiled. I couldn’t believe it. I dug the phone out of my purse, which I’d dropped on the deck, and checked the display. It was a 510 area code.
“Neal?”
I heard static, and then a male voice asked, “Is this Nicoli Hunter?”
“Yes,” I yelled above the static and the noise of the waves.
“This is Neal Cooperman.”
“Hi, Neal. Thanks for calling me back. We don’t have much time, so I’ll cut to the chase. I’m a friend of Cliff Montgomery’s and I have reason to believe your life and his are in danger. It has something to do with that study group you were in at Cal Berkeley. Cliff’s here with me now. What city are you calling from?”
He hesitated briefly. “Oakland,” he said. It sounded like a question.
“Okay. Great. Do you know where the San Leandro Marina is?”
“Sure.”
“Can you meet me at the Spinnaker Yacht Club in forty-five minutes?” I checked my watch. It was 1:15.
“I guess so.”
“Terrific. It’ll take us about that long to get there. I’m five-foot-seven and a hundred and thirty pounds. I have curly, dark brown hair, and I’m wearing a Giants baseball cap, cargo shorts, and a short sleeved, white shirt. How will I know you?”
Again he hesitated. I couldn’t blame him. He had no way of knowing who the hell I was. Mr. Anthony had probably left him a message saying a reporter wanted to interview him, but if he had called my office he’d have heard the outgoing message for Hunter Investigations. He was smart not to trust anyone he didn’t know.
“Cliff knows what I look like,” he finally said.
I handed the phone to Cliff, asking him to say a few words to Neal.
“Neal?” he began, tentatively.
I couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation, but when Cliff began talking about Matzek and how he would never have killed himself, I asked for the phone back.
“Okay, Neal. Cliff won’t be with me when I come to meet you. So how will I know you?” I asked again.
“I’m wearing Levis and a purple Grateful Dead tee-shirt. I have blond hair, I’m five-eleven, and about two-ten.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in forty-five minutes. And Neal, watch your back. This is serious.”
I dropped the cell back into my purse, lit a cigarette, and told Cliff we needed to head south. I pointed toward San Leandro and watched as he deftly steered the Nonsuch through the narrow channel. It was a beautiful day to go sailing and the kid was a natural on the water. His face was flushed and the wind was blowing through his hair. Less than an hour ago he’d been afraid of his own shadow.
“So, Cliff,” I shouted over the sound of the wind and the waves rushing by, “what was it about sailing that had you worried?”
He grinned sheepishly. “It’s stupid, I guess,” he yelled. “When I was three my parents decided I should learn to swim. My father, actually. So he threw me in the pool and I almost drowned. I was lucky Mom happened to be out on the patio at the time or I probably would have. Dad always wanted a son who was tough, like he is. I think he’s disappointed in me.”
“He should see you now!”
Cliff smiled. A real smile, with teeth and everything. His shoulders drew back and I thought I saw him flex. I almost pulled out my smartphone to take a photo so I could capture the exact moment when the metamorphosis began, but I didn’t want to make him self-conscious.
CHAPTER 24
I TOOK THE HELM AGAIN as we approached San Leandro. Cliff lowered the sail with a minimum of
instruction and we motored into port. It was a little before 2:00 p.m., so I was cutting it close for my meeting with Neal. I decided to tie up at the yacht club guest dock and leave Cliff onboard the boat with the engine running in case we needed to make a fast getaway. I hoped to persuade Neal to come with us.
I explained all of this to Cliff as I pulled the Nonsuch up to the Spinnaker guest dock. I jumped off the deck, jarring my neck and shoulder, and showed Cliff how to secure the mooring lines to the cleats, and how to quickly untie them, which isn’t as easy as you might think. I climbed back aboard and rummaged around in my damp, salty purse, locating the mini cassette recorder. I handed it to Cliff and then pulled out the Glock 26.
“Listen to the tape, but with the volume low. It’s my meeting with your dad this morning. It’ll explain a lot. Do you know how to use a gun?”
He shook his head. I showed him how to rack the slide and explained the lack of an external safety. Then I instructed him to point the gun slightly below whatever his target might be, and pull the trigger. The Glock has a fairly stiff recoil if you’re not prepared.
If we made it out of San Leandro alive, I’d show Cliff how to sight a target. The most complicated thing about usi
ng a gun is learning how to sight. That’s my opinion, anyway. I tucked the Glock just inside the hatch so the residents of the marina wouldn’t be unnecessarily alarmed, but so Cliff could get to it easily. As an afterthought I picked up the second baseball cap and pulled it down over his forehead. I suggested he stay out of sight as much as possible. No point in making the killer’s job any easier for him.
Cliff was sitting on the companionway steps leading below deck and staring at the tape recorder in his hand as I slipped off the boat and headed for the yacht club. I checked my watch. It was 2:12. I was late. The old wooden dock creaked and groaned under my feet. I climbed the steps to the yacht club deck. There was no one outside, so I entered the bar and found it was also deserted. Very unusual, even on a weekday. I walked into the dining area and glanced out the front windows. There was a small circle of people standing around two men who appeared to be kneeling on the lawn in front of the yacht club. What the fuck? It took me a moment to realize that the men on their knees were EMTs. My heart sank. I found an exit and headed for the lawn, wishing like hell I’d brought the Glock with me.
I was six feet away when I spotted the purple tee shirt on the body of the man the EMTs were trying to resuscitate. One of the paramedics was shaking his head as though he knew the situation was hopeless. The man on the ground was Neal Cooperman. I had no doubt about that. I tried to be inconspicuous as I approached, searching the crowd for anyone who looked suspicious. When I drew close to the center of the activity I turned my eyes downward only to be greeted by the face of Jerry Garcia, silk-screened in black on the purple tee shirt. Blond hair, slightly pudgy, Neal Cooperman, deceased.
Neal’s lips were already turning blue, but there was no indication what the cause of death had been. I looked up just in time to see the Nicolas Cage double exiting the men’s restroom to the left of the yacht club. I turned my back quickly, pulled the Giant’s cap down over my eyes, and pushed my way back through the crowd. I hoped the killer or killers had been following Neal already, and that his phone call to me wasn’t somehow responsible for his death. I just couldn’t handle the guilt. Thinking about it made me feel light-headed.