by Nancy Skopin
When I unlocked the office my voicemail light was blinking. I opened the blinds and started a pot of coffee, turned on my computer, and downloaded the pictures I’d taken of Buddy, making enough color copies to post around the marina. Then I listened to my messages. One was from Sam, asking if I had the next of kin information on the accident victims. The other message was from Cher.
I called Cher back first and we made a lunch date for the following Saturday. I gave her directions to the marina and told her I’d meet her at The Diving Pelican.
I hung up the phone and glanced at the fax machine. I had received several pages from Paul. Snatching them up, I made sure they were in numerical sequence, and called Sam.
He picked up on the first ring. “What took you so long?” he said.
“You’ve got caller ID haven’t you, you sneaky bastard? I have the next-of-kin data. Do you want me to scan it to you, fax it to you, read it to you, or bring it to you in person?”
“Fax it to me. I’ll call you back when I’ve looked it over.”
I sent the fax, then sat down to read the pages myself, struggling to focus because the sense of urgency had me a bit rattled. The report included the names, phone numbers, and addresses for the relatives of the deceased accident victims, matched with the names of the family members who had been killed. I was sure this must be privileged information. I hoped Paul wasn’t putting his job in jeopardy, but I knew he understood that saving lives was more important than remaining employed.
I automatically focused on the men. I know first-hand that women are capable of killing, but there are fewer female multiple murderers than there are male, so it made sense to look at the men first. Because we’d narrowed the list to those who had lost more than one relative, only three of the names on my list were male. Two had lost a wife and a child, and the third had lost his wife and two children. I shuddered at the thought.
Sam called me back five minutes later.
“Run background checks on the three males,” he said. “Regardless of what you find out, we should plan to interview all three of them right away. I need to clear my schedule. Can you do a couple of restaurants for me tonight?”
“Sure. Where do you need me?”
“At the San Leandro Lyons. Ask for a window booth and order a vegetarian entrée. Do a quick survey of the bar, not more than ten minutes. And make sure you’re armed.”
Sam was always protective, but in this case he was right. San Leandro is an enchanting little city on the California coast with an extremely high crime rate. Southeast Oakland is right next-door.
“Then what?” I asked.
“Scoma’s at Fisherman’s Wharf. Ask to be seated in Glen’s section. The manager got a complaint about his attitude. See if you can piss him off.”
“Okay. Is that it?”
“That’s it.”
“What time do you want to get together tomorrow?”
“Meet me here at nine a.m. And bring tonight’s dinner surveys. We’ll take my SUV for the interviews.”
I said, “Great,” but I was thinking oh crap! I hate driving anywhere with Sam. Unless he’s tailing someone he drives like an old woman. It’s fine to be cautious, but Sam takes defensive driving to the extreme.
I sent an e-mail to CIS, aka Criminal Investigative Services, requesting background checks on each of the three men. I didn’t have social security or driver’s license numbers, so there was no guarantee I’d get the information I was after. I submitted their names and addresses, including a note saying the backgrounds were urgent and offering a bonus for speed, and hoped for the best.
At 11:00 a.m., I collected my pictures of Buddy and a handful of thumbtacks. I locked up the office and went to The Diving Pelican where I posted one of the pictures on the restaurant’s bulletin board. I had added my office telephone number to each photo with a note that said “Do you know this dog?”
I posted another picture above the marina mailboxes and then walked around to each of the six gates, tacking photos on all the bulletin boards outside each one. When I was finished I felt a little better, but I still wanted to spring Buddy as soon as possible. I could probably wait a day. Two days tops.
On my way back to the office I stopped at The Diving Pelican again and picked up a newspaper from one of the dispensers Bennet keeps outside for customers. As I walked I scanned the lost and found section of the classified ads. There were several ads for missing dogs, but there was nothing about a red shorthair.
Back at the office I called Bill.
“Anderson,” came the expected response.
“Don’t you have anything better to do than sit at your desk answering the phone all day?” I asked.
“Hi, Nikki,” he said, a smile in his voice.
“How would you feel about doing a couple of restaurant surveys with me tonight? I have to go to Lyons in San Leandro and Scoma’s at the Wharf.”
“Lyons I can do without, but I’ll join you at Scoma’s.”
“Come for both. Otherwise we’ll have to take separate cars. I need to catch the dinner rush at Lyons, so we should probably leave here by six.” I checked my watch and was surprised to discover it was already after 12:00.
“I’ll try,” Bill hedged. “If I’m not there by six, call my cell, and whatever you do don’t go to San Leandro without your defense spray.”
“Yes sir, Detective Anderson, sir.”
“That’s right, baby.”
As I hung up the phone I pictured myself in a house with a fenced yard and half a dozen dogs. I had to shake myself out of that compelling vision and back into the real world. I stood and walked to the plate glass window overlooking the marina. I could see D’Artagnon lying out on the deck of Kirk’s yacht. I had clients who were anxious for their weekly surveys, but I decided there was nothing more important at the moment than taking my friend for a walk, if he was up to it.
I locked the office and jogged down to the dock. I knocked, but no one answered. It was early afternoon on a weekday. Of course, Kirk would be at work. D’Artagnon turned and watched me from the bow. He wagged his tail slowly, but he didn’t stand up. My heart moved up into my throat as I approached. I leaned my forehead against his and gently stroked the back of his neck.
“Did you want to go for a walk?” I asked. The tail wagging picked up speed, but he remained lying down. I spent about ten minutes petting the sweet boy and wishing there was something I could do. I walked the short distance to my boat and took a grief-induced nap.
Chapter 12
At 4:00 p.m. I forced myself up off the queen-size bunk, stripped off my clothes, and stepped into the shower.
After blow-drying and scrunching my curls, I dressed in black jeans and a black silk blouse. I tucked my Ruger into the holster at the small of my back and put on my camel hair blazer. I checked my image in the mirror to make sure the silhouette of the gun wasn’t visible.
I was hungry, but I knew if I ate anything now I’d be sorry later when I was trying to choke down my second entrée of the evening, so I pocketed half a dozen dog biscuits and headed out. D’Artagnon was no longer on the deck of Kirk’s yacht. I knocked on the window and waited, but there was no answer. By the time I reached the office I’d made up my mind that first thing Thursday morning I would adopt Buddy.
I brewed a pot of coffee and was sipping the first cup when the phone rang.
“Hunter Investigations,” I answered. There was cell phone static on the line.
“Nikki, it’s Kirk. I came home for a late lunch today and D’Artagnon couldn’t stand up, so I carried him to the truck and took him to this guy Lily told me about. His name is Bob Culver and he’s a chiropractor. I didn’t have an appointment, but he managed to squeeze us in. He adjusted D’Artagnon’s spine and then he asked me about his diet. He told me to cut out corn
, wheat, red meat, sugar, and anything in the nightshade family, like potatoes. I carried D’Artagnon into his office but he walked out on his own. We have to go back a couple times a week, but I think he’s going to be okay. I couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, fighting back tears of relief. “I’m so glad you called.”
I typed up some of the surveys I’d done recently and was just completing the invoices when Bill walked in the door at 6:10.
“Do we really have to go to Lyons?” he asked.
“Yes. I’m doing it for Sam because he’s helping me with Paul’s case.”
We took Bill’s Mustang and hit the freeway.
On the way to San Leandro he reached for my hand and said, “Nikki, I’ve been thinking.”
“That can’t be good,” I said, turning to him with a smile.
“Why don’t we try living together? See where this takes us. My house has lots of room, and we could still spend some weekends on the boat. Or, if that doesn’t appeal to you, maybe I could rent out the house and move aboard with you. We’d have more time together that way.”
The smile dropped from my face and I felt a knot form in my solar plexus. “Whoa,” I said, snatching my hand away. “Bill, we’ve only known each other for three months. I really enjoy spending time with you, but don’t you think this is rushing things a bit? I don’t want to live on land, and if you moved in with me where would you keep your guitars? Plus I only have one hanging locker. Where would we put all your clothes?” While my lips were offering logical arguments against cohabiting on my boat, my lizard brain was screaming, Oh, hell no!
I was touched that Bill was willing to sacrifice his comfort in order to have more time with me, but I was not looking for this level of commitment. I preferred living alone. I needed my privacy and independence, and I treasured the freedom it gave me.
“I do like having all that space,” Bill said, “but I think I love you, Nikki.” He said it quietly, almost a whisper, then he reached over and gave my hand a gentle squeeze.
Oh crap. There it was. The dreaded L word. Were we already moving into that stage of our relationship? I had suspected it was coming eventually, and it made my stomach ache. After my last marriage failed I’d given up on the ‘happily ever after’ fantasy. Bill had slowly begun changing my mind about that, but this was too much too soon.
“I think I might be falling for you too,” I hedged. “But living together just doesn’t seem practical to me. I know it’s been hard to find time for each other, but I don’t think this is the solution. I’m sorry.”
There. I’d said it. I hoped my decision wouldn’t push Bill away.
“Okay,” he said. “No pressure.”
No pressure? What did that mean? Was he assuming I’d change my mind after I thought about it? I hadn’t said I wanted time to think about it, I’d said no. I hate it when men don’t listen to me. It’s as though they have pre-conceived ideas about what I need, feel, and think, so there’s no reason to actually pay attention to the words coming out of my mouth. No pressure my ass! Was I over reacting? I didn’t think so.
We were silent for the remainder of the drive.
At 7:20 we pulled into the Lyon’s parking lot. We entered the restaurant and waited for the hostess to approach the podium. She was a six-foot tall black woman with her hair pulled up into a bun, which made her look six-two. She was dressed in black slacks, a white blouse, and a red vest. Her nametag read Anna.
“Table for two?” she asked, looking us over.
“Yes,” I answered. “We’d really like a window booth, if you have one available.”
Anna surveyed the restaurant and said, “Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”
“No problem,” I said. “We’ll be in the bar.”
I could do the bar survey while we waited for a booth to free up. I gave Anna my name and she said she’d come and get us when our table was ready. She was surprisingly professional for a Lyon’s hostess.
The bar scene was pretty much what I’d expected. There were a few older couples who had probably lived in San Leandro since the seventies, and there were gang members out on dates with their significant others.
The bartender was Hispanic, about five-eight, with black hair combed straight back and a neatly trimmed mustache. He was dressed in the same uniform of dark slacks, white shirt, and red vest. He was filling a drink order for the cocktail waitress when we entered.
Bill and I took seats at the bar and the bartender approached less than a minute later, placed cocktail napkins in front of us, and nodded deferentially to Bill as though he recognized a cop when he saw one. It wasn’t the first time this had happened when I was out with Bill, and I’d learned that the individuals who were adept at spotting police were usually worth watching. His nametag read Hector. I looked at his hands and spotted the tattoos across his knuckles, telling me he’d probably been in prison at some point in his life. From a distance he’d looked maybe thirty-five or forty. Up close he looked fifty. His eyes were dark and revealed a combination of respect and defiance. Interesting mix.
“Two Dos Equis,” Bill said, in his tough-guy voice.
What the hell? Since when did Bill order for me? Especially when I was working. He hadn’t even asked me what I wanted. This was a new side to the considerate guy I’d spent the last three months dating. He must be one of those men who decide it’s time for a commitment and then try to take over your life. I couldn’t believe I’d misread him so completely. I mean, I know the balance between people changes when they get married, but prior to tonight we’d never even discussed whether or not we were exclusive. And even if we were in a committed relationship I wouldn’t want him making decisions for me. This is one of the reasons I choose to live, and work, alone. Nobody can tell me what to do.
Hector placed chilled pilsner glasses on our napkins, then took two bottles of Dos Equis out of the cooler and opened them above the bar. He set the bottles next to the glasses and said, “Twelve dollars.”
Bill paid him in cash. Hector recorded the sale and placed a cash register receipt on the bar along with the correct change. Bill left the change on the bar and I picked up the receipt.
The details of what I observed would go into my report but, as always, I would keep any unnecessary opinions to myself. I watched the way Hector cruised the bar, checking on his customers. He smiled and chatted with an elderly couple as he placed fresh napkins under their drinks and refilled the bowl of peanuts in front of them. He was a good bartender. He recorded two other transactions before Anna came and told us our table was ready, and they both looked legitimate to me. Sales were recorded on the register and receipts given to customers.
Anna escorted us to a window booth facing Davis Street. She offered us menus and told us our waitress, Maria, would be right with us. As she departed, Maria approached. She was Caucasian and appeared to be in her late teens, five-six, slender but not anorexic, with brown hair worn in a ponytail, minimal make-up, and a nose piercing. She recited the specials of the day, which included various combinations of protein, carbohydrates, and fat, none of which sounded appetizing. She offered to give us time to consider the menu, but I had another survey to do tonight, and didn’t want to wait for her to get back to us.
“What vegetarian entrées to you have?” I asked.
She had turned to walk away and my question caught her mid-stride. To her credit, she only grimaced slightly as she turned back to the table. “We have fettuccini Alfredo and a very nice vegetarian lasagna,” she said.
“I’ll have the veggie lasagna,” I said, turning to Bill.
“Chef Salad with ranch dressing.”
I smiled. Both entrées would take only minutes to plate and serve. We could be out of there in half an hour and in San Francisco by 9:00.
Whi
le we were waiting to be served I dug my cell phone out of my purse and called Elizabeth.
She answered on the second ring.
“Kirk called me,” I began. “He took D’Artagnon to a chiropractor this afternoon. Someone Lily recommended.” I told her about the spinal adjustment and dietary changes, and how D’Artagnon had been able to walk again after the adjustment. She was as thrilled as I had been. Everybody loves D’Artagnon.
I ended the call and dropped the phone back into my purse, took a sip of my beer, and looked up at Bill. “Why did you order me a Dos Equis?”
“Because the bartender was Mexican and it’s a Mexican beer. I was showing respect.”
I stared at him for a moment before I realized he was serious. “Must be a guy thing,” I said. “But please don’t do that again.” I tried to soften my request with a smile, but Bill simply nodded. The dynamics between us were definitely shifting. A relationship that I relied on to be casual and fun was suddenly strained.
Eleven minutes after we ordered, Maria served our entrées. The vegetarian lasagna was predictably bland, but it wasn’t over or undercooked and the side vegetables and garnish were fresh and nicely displayed. Five minutes after serving us, Maria returned to ask how everything was. This is one of the things I time. The most professional waiters and waitresses are back within two minutes, giving you just enough time to taste everything, but five minutes is acceptable.
We nibbled at our entrées for ten minutes, and I motioned for the check. At the cash register, Anna recorded the sale and issued a receipt and the correct change. All in all, it was a pretty good survey.
Bill and I were vigilant walking through the parking lot. It was after dark, and you can’t be too careful in a city where more than seventy thousand crimes are reported annually.