Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries)

by Nancy Skopin

  “Everything here is good. You didn’t sign a pre-nup did you?” I asked, bringing her back to point.

  Her mouth was full, but she shook her head.

  “How much money do you have in checking, savings, stock, and property? How well off are you?”

  “Why are you asking me these things?”

  “I’m trying to identify whether or not you have a valid reason to be afraid.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I guess on paper we’re worth about four million.”

  “Okay, so after you pay the attorneys you’ll have at least a million-five each, which you can convert into liquid assets if necessary.”

  “I guess. I haven’t really thought it through. I haven’t wanted to, but talking to you about this is making it real for me. Maybe that’s good.”

  “It is.” I squeezed her hand and offered an encouraging smile. “Okay, so you don’t need to worry about money, and your fear of being alone is something you can work on with your therapist. You might learn to enjoy the independence, but if you want another relationship I’m sure you won’t have any trouble finding a flock of willing suitors.”

  “If I divorce Hal for irreconcilable differences, will I still get half the money?”

  “I think so. California is a community property state. Do you know any good divorce lawyers? Any friends recently divorced?”

  “No.”

  “I’ve been divorced three times, but I handled each of them myself. I’ll call my cousin Aaron and ask him for a referral.”

  “I thought you hated your cousin.”

  “Not so much anymore. Besides I don’t have to like him to get you a referral.”

  My cousin Aaron was an asshole when we were kids. Now he’s a criminal defense attorney. Go figure.

  We ate our lunch and talked about what had been going on in our lives since high school. I told Cher the details of my three divorces. Her eyes widened when I told her my second marriage had been to a friend who wanted to immigrate. She was appropriately sympathetic when I told her that my most recent marriage had ended because I hadn’t wanted children, and she laughed when I told her that Drew, my ex, now had triplets.

  “Serves him right,” she said.

  “Do you have any kids?” I asked.

  “Oh, no,” she looked wistful. “I was afraid I wouldn’t be a good mother. Because I’m so screwed up, you know?”

  “As far as I can tell, you’ve only improved with age,” I said. “The fact that you’ve stayed married to a man you don’t love is a choice I might not have made, but it doesn’t mean you’re screwed up.”

  Cher put down her fork and reached for my hand. “You always say the right thing. Thank you for having lunch with me.”

  “Honey, I wanted to have lunch with you. I didn’t realize how much I’d missed you until I saw you again.” I squeezed her hand and saw tears form in her eyes. She asked me where the ladies’ room was and excused herself.

  I’d lost my appetite. I sat there wondering what had occurred in Cher’s childhood that made her feel like she had no choices. Then I remembered Fragoso’s background report was in my purse. I pulled out the sheaf of paper and scanned the first three pages, which were the criminal background I’d already read, then I turned to page four and read the significant dates.

  Fragoso’s wife, Mindy, had been born on October 9th and his daughter, Samantha, had been born on September 19th. Holy shit! Those were two of the dates when air traffic controllers had been killed. I was sure of it.

  The date of death for Fragoso’s wife and daughter was mentioned in the report—August 16th. Someone had tried to kill Paul yesterday, on October 16th, exactly two months after the plane crash. I kept reading and saw that Chuck and Mindy had been married ten years ago on October 17th. Today was October 17th.

  “Oh my God!” I said aloud, and a dozen heads swiveled in my direction. I stuffed the report back into my purse and ran for the ladies’ room. Cher was coming out the door as I approached.

  “I have to go,” I said hastily.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s this case I’m working on. I just figured it out. I’ll call you later and explain. I’m sorry to rush off.”

  I kissed her on the cheek and sprinted across the complex, reaching for my cell phone as I ran. I called Sam, slowing down long enough to select the right number.

  “Pettigrew,” he answered on the first ring.

  “It’s Fragoso!” I shouted into the phone.

  “Nicoli? Are you all right?”

  “I took a closer look at the background report on Fragoso. The dates match.” I was unlocking my office door and breathing hard. “I have to double check the file, but listen to this. Today is his wedding anniversary! He’s going to kill someone today. Hang on.”

  I was at my desk. Grateful I’d left the computer on, I quickly opened the report I’d typed after having lunch with Paul. Gordon Mayes – October 9th. James Flannery – September 19th. Shirley Jensen – September 24th, I didn’t have a match for that date in the background report, but I was sure it would be something significant to Fragoso. Maybe a first date with his wife, or the date he’d proposed. I was certain Paul’s name would end up next to October 17th if I didn’t do something fast.

  “Nicoli? Are you still there?”

  “Yes. I have to warn Paul.”

  “Take a breath. There’s no point calling the police because they won’t do anything until a crime has been committed. We’re going to have to keep track of Fragoso ourselves. I’ll call Best Buy to see if he’s working today. If he isn’t, I’ll call his apartment manager and ask him to check his apartment and the garage. You call Paul and his bodyguard and fill them in, then call me back on my cell.”

  “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sam.”

  I frantically dialed Paul’s home number.

  “Marks residence.”

  “Quinn, it’s Nikki. The killer is Chuck Fragoso. Mid-thirties, six-one, dark brown hair, mustache and goatee. Lost his family in a plane crash in August. Two of the controllers were killed on his wife and daughter’s birthdays. Yesterday was the two-month anniversary of the crash that killed them, and today is their wedding anniversary. Can I talk to Paul?”

  “Hang on.”

  Quinn put the phone down and I heard her call out. When I didn’t hear a response from Paul the adrenaline pumping through my system kicked up a notch. Almost a minute passed before she came back on the line.

  “He’s not here. He was in the kitchen making sandwiches. I went to take a leak and when I came out the phone was ringing.”

  She sounded perfectly calm, but I knew the apprehension she was feeling.

  “Look outside,” I said. “Find out if the neighbors saw anything. I’m going to read the rest of this background report and then I’ll call you back.”

  “Sounds good.”

  We ended the call and I quickly read about Fragoso’s childhood. He’d been raised in South San Francisco, like me. Lower-middle-class family. Good grades in school. A couple of trips to juvenile hall for smoking pot when he was a teenager. His daughter had gone to McKinley Elementary in Burlingame. I looked up the address online and printed the page. Mindy and Samantha were buried at the Skyline Memorial Cemetery. Maybe he’d want to kill Paul where they could watch. I made a note and kept reading. Mindy and Chuck had been married in Central Park, in San Mateo, at 2:00 p.m., on October 17th. It’s amazing the detail you can get in background reports. I looked at my watch. It was 1:35. There was a rose garden in the park, with a gazebo. Lots of couples got married there. My gut told me that was where I’d find them. I dialed Sam’s cell.

  “Pettigrew.”

  “Paul’s gone. Fragoso took him while Quinn was in the bathroom. There are three possibilities,” I said. “I a
ssume Fragoso’s not at home or at work?”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay. His kid went to McKinley Elementary in Burlingame.” I read him the address. “You go there and search the school. Their graves are at Skyline Memorial. I’ll send Quinn there.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “They were married at Central Park in San Mateo at 2:00 pm, which is too close for comfort. I’m going there, to the rose garden.”

  “Call me when you get there.”

  “Sure.”

  We hung up and I took the Glock out of my purse holster, checking to make sure the magazine was fully loaded. Then I grabbed an extra magazine from the gun drawer, locked the office, and ran to the parking lot.

  When I was on the road I called Quinn back and told her about the cemetery. I also told her that Sam was going to the school and I was going to the park.

  “You think they’ll be at the park, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know. They might be at the cemetery.”

  “You think they’re at the park.”

  “Just go to the cemetery, Quinn. And be careful!”

  “I’ll go to the cemetery. But if you get yourself killed I’ll tell everybody you were a fucking cowboy.”

  “Fine!”

  I disconnected and drove at the speed of light toward San Mateo. It’s about thirteen miles from the marina. I cranked the Bimmer up to 110 and hoped like hell there weren’t any Highway Patrol officers on the freeway.

  I pulled off 101 at 3rd Avenue West and slowed enough to stay alive on the city streets. At the first red light I checked my watch. It was 1:45. I could almost hear the clock ticking down the minutes Paul had left to live.

  When the light turned green I floored the 2002, weaving around other motorists, eliciting angry honks and gestures. I arrived at Fifth and Laurel and turned left, pulled into a no-parking zone, and slammed out of the car with only my keys and the Glock stowed in my jacket pockets.

  I ran full out toward the rose garden. There was a Japanese family taking pictures of each other in the gazebo. I slowed to a walk, not wanting Fragoso to notice me if he was in the area. When I reached the gazebo I stopped and scanned the surrounding area, turning in a slow circle, taking everything in. There were tourists and locals walking the paths. That was good for me—they offered cover—but dangerous for them.

  As I pivoted to my left I spotted Paul and my heart stopped. He was seated at the base of an oak tree about ten yards away from me. His face was ashen and Fragoso was standing next to him, one hand behind his back and the other on Paul’s shoulder. I grasped the situation instantly. Fragoso had threatened to kill innocent bystanders if Paul didn’t cooperate. I knew Paul would willingly give his life to save a total stranger. That’s the kind of guy he is.

  Fragoso was probably waiting until the gazebo was unoccupied so he could kill Paul at the exact location where he and Mindy had been married. The fact that he was doing this in a public place meant Fragoso no longer cared about getting caught, which made him infinitely more dangerous.

  I moved around the back of the gazebo, trying to stay hidden. There was a waist-high hedge growing in a maze-like pattern through the rose garden. I dropped to my knees behind it and crawled toward the oak tree. When I got to the end of the hedge I peeked out and noticed a child’s archery set on the lawn next to Paul. The bow couldn’t have been more than thirty-six inches long. Both the bow and the quiver looked like they were made of sturdy plastic, but I was willing to bet the arrows were steel-tipped. The skateboard chasing Paul’s car and the rubber snake found in the remains of Gordon Mayes’ SUV made sense to me now. Fragoso had been using his daughter’s toys to kill the people he judged as responsible for her death. She must have been a tomboy.

  I took a deep breath, pulled the Glock from my pocket, and stood. I leveled the gun at Fragoso and shouted, “Police, freeze!” I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me from our interview at Best Buy.

  The crowd scattered at the sight of the gun as Fragoso slowly turned to face me. His expression remained neutral, and I was terrified that he would kill Paul regardless of the threat to himself.

  “Hands where I can see them!” I shouted. “Now!”

  Fragoso just stood there. I started moving toward him.

  “Charles Fragoso, you are under arrest for the murders of Gordon Mayes, James Flannery, and Shirley Jensen. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up that right, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you.”

  I was telling him his rights, hoping it would reinforce my character as a make-believe cop and convince him it was over and he might as well give up. It didn’t work. Fragoso pulled a large-frame revolver from behind his back and pressed the muzzle against Paul’s head.

  “Drop the gun!” I shouted, but before the words were even out of my mouth Fragoso’s head exploded and he slammed back against the oak. I automatically dropped to the ground, flattening myself in the dirt. I turned my head and saw a solid-looking woman with short blonde hair, feet spread in a shooting stance, gripping a matte-black Desert Eagle double-handed. Her face was frozen in a grimace. Standing behind her was Sam Pettigrew, also aiming his weapon at Fragoso.

  I rose slowly, putting the Glock back in my jacket pocket. I looked over at Paul, who was now on his hands and knees, throwing up on the lawn.

  “Quinn?” I said softly. I had never met the Lieutenant, but I’d recognized her instantly. She looked just like she sounded—tough and rangy.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. She flinched. “I think he’s dead,” I said, knowing the sarcasm would get through to her.

  She lowered the gun, holstered it, and turned to look at me. Her face was almost as white as Paul’s.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “You’re an idiot,” she said. “Nobody freezes when you say ‘Police, freeze!’”

  “You ever fire your weapon in the line of duty before?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, now you have.”

  “Yep.”

  Quinn secured the crime scene and dealt with the police, who were arriving in droves. Sam and I helped Paul onto a park bench. He was shaking uncontrollably, taking in great heaving breaths. His skin was clammy and his head and shoulders were covered with Fragoso’s blood, bone, and tissue. I sat next to him, putting my arm around him, trying to avoid the gray matter.

  “Try to breathe slowly,” I told him, while gently pushing his head down between his knees. “You don’t want to hyperventilate. Everything’s okay now. You’re safe, Paul. You’re okay.”

  Of course he wasn’t okay and he wouldn’t be for a long time. He’d almost been killed and he was wearing the remains of his would-be assassin. He was in shock, severely traumatized, and would need extensive therapy. When he was ready to talk about it, I’d send him to Loretta. Besides being my personal shrink, she’s the psychologist the RCPD uses for post-traumatic stress cases after officer involved shootings. I hoped Quinn would schedule herself an appointment with Loretta as well.

  At least Paul was physically unharmed. That was something. I left him with Sam long enough to move my car to a legal parking space and retrieve the heavy beach towel, which I brought back and wrapped around Paul’s shoulders, greasepaint side out.

  When the police had taken everyone’s statement, I drove Paul home. I’d considered taking him to the hospital, but I figured I could treat shock as well as most doctors, and he really wanted to go home.

  I helped him out of his bloody clothes and stood him in a hot shower. I bagged the clothes for Quinn, in case they were needed as evidence. While Paul was in the shower, I called SFO and told them he wouldn’t be coming in to work that night. Then I heated chicken so
up from a can and grilled a tuna sandwich with Tillamook cheddar.

  When Paul came out of the shower, I put the soup and sandwich in front of him and insisted that he eat. He finished half of the sandwich and most of the soup. Then I gave him a double shot of brandy and poured one for myself.

  We talked for three hours, about Fragoso and how he’d lost his mind to the grief and anger, about Paul’s co-workers who had died by Fragoso’s hand, and finally about Paul’s wife, who had left him.

  I told him about Drew, my ex, and his triplets, and I told him about Cher getting a divorce. I had thought about setting the two of them up later when Cher’s divorce was final, but Paul needed something to cling to right now, so I took the risk and offered him Cher. He lit up like a Christmas tree. He stopped shaking for the first time since the shooting and said, “You think she would go out with me?”

  “You’ll never know if you don’t ask.”

  He looked at me with a mixture of hope and fear in his eyes. “I guess you’re right,” he said. “Okay. I’ll ask her out after she’s divorced.”

  “I’m not that patient. Besides, she’s going to need company during the divorce. She’ll need a friend she can lean on and who can help her deal with all her self-doubts. You’re good at that.”

  I had their whole future planned out in my head.

  Chapter 24

  The weekend before Halloween I hosted a dock party to celebrate Elizabeth and Jack’s engagement. Much to my relief, while Elizabeth had accepted Jack’s proposal, she’d informed me that it would take at least a year to plan the wedding of her dreams, and in the meantime she intended to continue living on her trawler. My apprehension regarding her decision to marry Jack had melted when she told me how he’d proposed, in Gaelic. While down on one knee, holding the engagement ring nestled in a black velvet box, he’d said, “Is breá liom tú, Elizabeth. Déan dom an fear happiest ar fud an domhain, agus a aontú a bheith ar mo bhean chéile.”