Murder Al Dente

by Nancy Skopin

  In spite of myself I burst out laughing. Then I punched her in the shoulder and said, “How would I know? There’s no mirror over the bed.”

  “He’s watching you like you’re a porn star. I think there’s a little drool on his chin. They’re going to have to break out the defibrillator.”

  We decided to ignore our audience and continued to commune with our entrées.

  Claude checked back to make sure everything was to our satisfaction, which is never in question at Edouard’s. The owners enjoy my descriptions of their exquisite cuisine, but they pay me to make sure their employees are both professional and honest.

  Elizabeth called Lily on the way back to Hillsborough. I could hear Lily’s squeals even though she wasn’t on speaker phone. Apparently she approved of an impromptu elopement to Vegas. She told Elizabeth she’d book her ticket and a room at the Bellagio, where they were staying. She also promised to take tons of pictures in case I couldn’t join in the festivities.

  I pulled up to the estate, and Elizabeth took a remote from her clutch and aimed it at the sensor, causing the iron gates to silently roll open. I parked in front of the portico where Jack and K.C. were waiting. Elizabeth leaned over for a hug before getting out of the car and said, “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

  I gave Jack a big smile before driving away, but his green eyes were fixed on his lovely fiancée.

  CHAPTER 16

  On Sunday morning I was in my office, completing the report on Edouard’s, when Michael called. I only knew it was Michael because of the area code. The man has more disposable cell phones than an arms dealer.

  “You want the good news or the bad news?”

  “Hi, Michael. How are you today?”

  “Busy,” he said. “Good or bad?”

  “Give me the good news first.”

  “I was able to hack into the medical center’s payroll department, from which I gleaned Camilla’s social security number and banking information. Her pay checks are automatically deposited. No unusual activity other than an automatic transfer, which takes place on the same date as the auto deposit, for exactly ten percent of her net income.”

  “Ten percent?”

  “Exactly ten percent.”

  “Okay. Do we know where that money is going?”

  “Funny you should ask. I followed the transfer to a Wells Fargo account registered to the Pentecostal Family of Christ, a fundamentalist cult with no local facility that I can find. That’s the bad news.”

  “Dammit. So she’s giving ten percent of her income to some kind of church. Is there any other good news?”

  “Yeah. I got into her DMV records and she’s driving a white 2015 Toyota 4Runner.” He read me the license plate number.

  I made a note of the model and plate number while Michael continued talking.

  “Here’s the weird part,” he said. “This Camilla person has no address listed in her personnel file, and no home phone number, just a cell. There are no property tax records in her name anywhere in California, no utility bills, and no cable.”

  “Well the lack of an address thing is odd, but lots of people use their cell phones exclusively. Maybe she’s living with someone else and all the bills are in their name. Did the DMV have an address for her?”

  “Yep. I looked it up. It’s bogus. This woman is flying way under the radar.”

  “If she’s our kidnapper, I can understand that. I don’t suppose you had access to her work schedule when you were checking her personnel file.”

  “Monday through Friday, nine a.m. to six p.m. She might have different hours if the doctor she works with is on call.”

  “I guess I could follow her when she leaves work tomorrow night.”

  “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

  “Remind me never to piss you off,” I joked.

  He laughed and said, “I gotta go, Nikki. Call me if I can do anything else.”

  Michael ended the call before I could respond, so I shot him a quick text saying, “Thank you,” and asking him to let me know the next time he’d be in the Bay Area so I could take him to lunch or dinner.

  After a trip to the gym, I spent the rest of my Sunday e-mailing reports and invoices to my clients and notifying those who had surveys scheduled next week that the agents from Superior Investigations would be covering for me. Most of my clients would be fine with that. There were only a few that preferred to have me, personally, dining at their establishments. Apparently I was considered window dressing.

  At 4:30, Buddy and I locked up the office and took a long walk around the Bair Island Nature Preserve. When we returned to the marina I spotted Bill’s Mustang in the boat owners’ lot, so we hurried down to the docks, stopping only briefly to visit with D’Artagnon.

  We climbed aboard Turning Point, or rather, I climbed aboard while Buddy leaped over the dock steps skidding to a stop on deck. I unhooked his leash and let him into the pilothouse, closing the door behind me before opening the hatch leading down into the galley. Buddy’s feet barely brushed the companionway steps as he flung himself into Bill’s outstretched arms.

  I stopped to watch. It was amazing how quickly the two of them had taken to each other. Buddy is cautious with strangers, but when I adopted him a year and a half ago, he’d trusted Bill instantly and the two had bonded almost overnight. Lucky for me. I could never be with a man who didn’t love my dog specifically, and all dogs in general.

  I continued down the steps and Bill gave me a warm smile while ruffling Buddy’s ears. I spotted an extra-large Rainbow Pizza box on the galley counter next to what I assumed was Chet’s murder book. Excellent. Maybe I’d get chance to check it for updates.

  Bill finally extricated himself from Buddy and gave me a hello kiss, to which I enthusiastically responded before asking, “What kind of pizza did you get?”

  Rainbow has a meat-lover’s pizza that’s to die for, but as long as my half had sausage and mushroom, I’d be happy.

  “Half Greek Style number two and half Hawaiian,” Bill replied.

  “Yes!”

  The Greek Style 2 pizza has salami, pepperoni, bell peppers, onions, fresh mushrooms, Italian sausage, Greek feta, hickory smoked bacon, and, of course, tons of melted Mozzarella. Bill’s half of the pizza was his favorite; Canadian bacon and pineapple.

  “Let me wash up and feed Buddy. Is the pizza still hot?”

  “Should be. I just got home.”

  I dropped my shoulder bag on the settee, thinking that would give me quick access to my iPhone camera if Bill left me alone with the binder again. After dishing up Buddy’s kibble and freshening his water, I rinsed my hands and grabbed plates and a stack of napkins. Bill moved the murder book onto the settee and opened the pizza box. I inhaled the aroma of meat, mushrooms, and cheese and happily dove into my first slice. The spicy Italian sausage exploded in my mouth, temporarily distracting me from the presence of Chet’s binder of death.

  We focused exclusively on eating until nearly half of the pie was gone. You don’t want any distractions when you’re eating a Rainbow pizza. The flavor of the sauce alone can make your taste buds do summersaults. Buddy caught the occasional piece of pineapple or sausage tossed in his direction. A puddle of drool was forming at his feet.

  I finally paused for a sip of the IPA Bill had opened for me. “Anything new you can tell me about Chet’s case?” I asked. “Did the M.E. narrow down the time of death?”

  Bill swallowed and his eyes narrowed. He was giving me his cop stare. I snickered. I couldn’t help it. He had pizza sauce on his chin and was trying to look like a badass. I picked up a napkin and wiped his chin for him.

  “I guess there’s no harm in telling you the time of death. It was between midnight and two a.m. Friday morning.”

  “Have you had a chance to check alibis?”

  “You’re pushing it, Nikki.”

  “Yeah, yeah. My guess would be that most everyone you questioned was home, alone, and asleep during that small window.”


  “You’re a pretty good guesser.”

  “What about Chet’s cell phone? Did he call his attorney on Thursday? Did you find the GPS app to track his Zodiac?”

  “Nikki, stop.”

  “Fine.” I made a pouty face and Bill laughed at me.

  “I need a shower,” he said. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Okay. I’ll take Buddy for his walk.”

  Bill kissed me before ducking into the stateroom. He tasted like pineapple.

  I waited until I heard the shower running, then took out my cell phone and grabbed the murder book. I quickly located the new entries, snapped photos of each page, and carefully placed the binder back on the galley settee exactly where it had been. I picked up Buddy’s leash and he followed me up the companionway.

  CHAPTER 17

  First thing Monday morning I made a run to New Age Communication in Belmont and picked up a magnetic tracking device. My plan was to locate Cammie’s 4Runner in the hospital parking lot and attach the gadget to its undercarriage, making a close tail unnecessary. I’d still be waiting for her when she got off work, but this way I could keep my distance and not risk losing her.

  Back at my office I plugged my phone into my laptop and read the details I’d photographed from the murder book last night. Not only had the M.E. determined Chet’s time of death within a two-hour window, she’d also noted his blood alcohol level. I logged onto Google and did a quick search. Based on my estimation of Chet’s body-weight, he’d had about five drinks. If the gun in his right hand wasn’t enough to prove it wasn’t a suicide, the fact that he’d been too drunk to shoot a gun, even at himself, should be.

  A ballistics test had been run and confirmed that Chet had been shot with his own Colt M1911. There were powder burns on his right temple, indicating the gun was fired at close range. There was also GSR on his right hand. GSR stands for gunshot residue, aka gun powder residue. That didn’t necessarily mean that Chet had shot himself. A non-shooter who handles a firearm can transfer GSR to his or her hands. Moreover, touching other surfaces, such as tabletops, clothing, or automobile interiors that are contaminated with GSR can also transfer GSR to a non-shooter's hands.

  I finished reading the M.E.’s report and moved on to Bill’s case notes. Chet’s cell phone was logged in as evidence and his call history apparently showed that he had contacted someone named Lawrence Brown. The number had a Portola Valley prefix, so I did another Google search and discovered that Mr. Brown was a probate attorney. So Chet had taken steps to change his will. I made a note of the name and phone number, thinking the fact Chet had hired me the day before he was killed might give me rationale for questioning his attorney.

  Bill had also noted that the call log on Chet’s cell showed the main number for New York Life on Market Street in San Francisco. I made a note of the number, but doubted they’d be willing to talk with me about a client. I hoped Bill would call both the attorney and the insurance agent today, update the murder book, and bring it home again tonight.

  Bill had checked Chet’s cell phone for the dinghy’s GPS app, and apparently it was there, but there were no notes about the Zodiac’s current location. Maybe he hadn’t tracked it yet. Dammit! That would have been really helpful. If I could find someone who had been nearby when the dinghy was tied off, I might have a lead. Vanessa was a noticeable woman. If someone had seen her, they’d remember her.

  Chet had died between midnight and 2:00 a.m., so she could have escaped in the dinghy in the middle of the night and docked it at any of the marinas in Redwood City. I could only hope she’d tied up at a marina populated with either partiers or equipped with security cameras.

  To rent a car or not to rent a car. When doing surveillance, that’s always a question. My vintage BMW is unusual, and therefore noticeable. Probably best not to be recognizable when tailing a potential kidnapper. I put in a call to Enterprise and asked them to deliver a silver Honda Civic to me at the marina no later than 2:00 p.m. Cammie didn’t get off work until 5:00, but I’d need to place that tracking device on her car without being seen, and that might take some time.

  Cammie was my only lead to Sky’s whereabouts and Chet wasn’t getting any deader, so I decided to run to the gym and get some much-needed endorphins pumping through my system. I took Buddy for a walk, then left him on Kirk’s yacht with D’Artagnon before changing into workout gear and heading around the corner to the Redwood City Athletic Center.

  By the time my rental Honda was delivered I was freshly showered and dressed in my usual work attire. I’d called Kirk to ask if he could keep Buddy until Bill got home and then texted Bill that I’d left Buddy with D’Artagnon. All the Buddy business now taken care of, I locked up my office and got into one of the most common cars on the road. Hondas are fine, but they sure don’t handle like Bimmers.

  I made the drive to the medical center in less than ten minutes and pulled around to the employee parking lot. I drove up and down the rows of cars until I located Cammie’s white 4Runner. There were no open spaces nearby, so I parked a couple of aisles away, took the tracking device and my cell phone out of my purse, and climbed out of the Honda.

  I casually strolled toward Cammie’s SUV, holding my phone up in front of me while my eyes, shielded by sunglasses, scanned the area for anyone who might notice what I was doing. The parking lot was deserted. It was 2:30 in the afternoon. Not the end of anyone’s shift and not lunch time, so I was in luck. When I reached the 4Runner I bent down and untied one of my shoes while placing the magnetic tracker on the car’s steel undercarriage. It latched right on. I retied my shoe and stood up, dusting off my hands and, again, pretending to check the screen of my phone as I moseyed back to the Honda.

  I now had two and a half hours to kill before Cammie’s shift ended. I considered going back to the marina, but something told me to stay where I was. I rolled down the car windows, situated my rearview mirror so I could see the 4Runner, and pulled up a Jinx Schwartz mystery on my iPhone.

  I was just getting to the part of the story where Hetta Coffey rescues herself right before the cavalry arrives, when I caught movement in my rearview mirror. Damned if Cammie hadn’t ditched work early. I switched my phone from the e-book to the tracking app and started the car. The 4Runner was on the move.

  I drove slowly out of the parking lot, checking the tracking app at stop lights. It was working perfectly. I focused on staying far enough behind Cammie that I wouldn’t be conspicuous, but close enough to catch any turns she made. She drove north on El Camino Real until she reached Sand Hill Road, where she made a left, heading up into the hills of Menlo Park. She stayed on Sandhill for almost five miles, then made a right on Portola Road. About a mile up Portola she made a sharp left onto La Honda Road. We were deep into the Woodside Hills now, a wilderness where neighbors rarely if ever saw each other because homes were separated by several acres of dense growth. There was little traffic on La Honda Road, so I pulled into a turnout and waited for another car to pass before continuing the chase.

  The GPS tracker indicated that Cammie was still on La Honda, close to Echo Lane, when she made another right turn. I was following slowly, watching for driveways on my right, when I caught sight of the 4Runner pulling through the open gate in a chain link fence topped with razor wire. When she’d passed through the gate it automatically rolled shut behind her. I had no choice but to drive past, but I snapped a quick photo of the property with my phone. It was possible that Cammie was some kind of survivalist, but that ten percent of her income going to a religious organization sounded like a tithe to me. In many denominations a tenth of an individual's income is pledged to the church.

  I pulled over to the shoulder of the road and made a note of the GPS coordinates from the tracker on Cammie’s truck, then I made a U-turn and drove slowly by the fenced property again, snapping another shot with my cell phone. This time I spotted what appeared to be a surveillance camera mounted on a pole adjacent to the gate. Time to move on.

  I drove back
to the marina, collected Buddy from Kirk’s boat, and after a quick walk, returned to my office. Once my boy was settled with fresh water, I turned on my laptop and logged onto Google Earth. I entered the GPS longitude and latitude coordinates I’d noted and got a view of the Woodside Hills from space. I slowly enlarged the view until I was able to make out what appeared to be a concrete building between the trees. I zoomed closer until I saw the surrounding chain link fence topped with razor wire and the gate where Cammie had entered. The lane from the gate to the building wound through the trees within the compound. The fence was probably electrified, though I hadn’t noticed any warning signs from the road.

  I needed to get inside and search for Sky, but this was beyond my area of expertise. I’d normally ask Jack for help, but he and Elizabeth were eloping in less than a week and having their formal wedding cruise the following weekend. If I involved him in this I might lose my best friend. I needed help. I needed Nina Jezek’s crazy ninja skills, but I had no way of contacting my elusive frenemy. The last time I’d seen Nina she’d just rescued a little girl from the home of a predator. She’d left the child with me and gone back into the mansion, which exploded moments later.

  Everyone assumed that Nina had died in the explosion and subsequent inferno, but not long afterwards I’d found a little boy sitting outside my office. He’d been wearing a new pair of Nikes, which I commented on. His response had been that the “tall lady” said he could keep the shoes if he waited for me to arrive. I’d asked him if the tall lady had a name. “Yeah,” he’d said, looking up at me with sad eyes. “Her name was Nina.”