by Nancy Skopin
Table of Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
About the author
Murder A La Carte
The Fourth Nikki Hunter Mystery
Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Skopin
All rights reserved.
First Edition: December 2015
Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
In memory of Jack V. Trusty
Prologue
Hugo Zogg loved children. He’d devoted eleven years of his life to becoming a pediatrician so he could spend his days with them. He’d also spent countless hours molesting and abusing them. He had lost his own innocence to his alcoholic father when he was three.
Not a picky man, Zogg molested both boys and girls, up to the age of four. He’d discovered early in his career that children over four tended to ask questions, like, “Mommy, why did the doctor touch me like that?” He’d almost lost his license because of one precocious little boy who didn’t like the way Zogg had “touched” him. The North Carolina Medical Review Board eventually ruled in his favor, determining that handling the child’s genitals had been part of a routine examination. The boy’s parents had unsuccessfully petitioned the DA to pursue the matter. Failing that, they had then filed a civil suit, but the case was dismissed by the judge for lack of evidence. Children make lousy witnesses. Still, the review process had taken almost a year and the local newspaper had ruined Zogg’s reputation. He had eventually moved to a new state to start over again. Now he was more careful.
Zogg reestablished himself in San Mateo, California. He liked California. The weather suited him and he relished the feeling of a fresh start on a different coast. He’d purchased a condo near the medical arts building where he rented an office suite. Most days he walked to work. There was a grade school along the way and he would stop to watch the kindergarteners on the playground.
He was doing just that one bright November morning when Nina Jezek walked up behind him and slipped a razor-sharp stiletto into his back. She inserted the blade below Zogg’s ribcage and leaned into it, pushing it up into his heart. All he felt at first was the pressure, then he felt a stinging pain and an overwhelming chill before he sank into darkness. His lifeless body fell against the fence, his fingers still clinging to the chain link, unwilling to let go, his blind eyes fixed on the children only a few yards away.
After an hour the principal called the police, unaware that Zogg was dead, but concerned about how long he’d been standing at the playground fence.
By the time Zogg’s body was discovered Nina was at home enjoying a cup of herbal tea and watching the news. She waited patiently for the breaking story about the murder of a local pediatrician. Channel 36 had sent a camera crew, which arrived while the crime scene investigation was still taking place. They hadn’t moved the body yet.
Nina drank it in, knowing that if she didn’t tell anyone, they would never know why he had been killed. But it didn’t matter. She knew why. Zogg had been a monster. They were everywhere. One out of three little girls and one out of five little boys were reported to have been molested before the age of seven. Reported! She knew firsthand that most children who were molested never spoke with an adult about it, but carried the guilty secret inside them. No one had to tell her these crimes were usually committed by someone the child knew well—a relative, a neighbor, a babysitter, or a family friend—and that threats were often used to ensure silence.
Sometimes, as with Zogg, the predator took advantage of his position to prey on children. She’d read about him, even gone to his office to get a look at him. His eyes glowed when he gazed at the children in his waiting room. Nina had honed her instincts until they were like radar. She could spot a pedophile from ten yards away now. When she got closer, she could smell them. She could smell Zogg.
Once she’d seen him she knew he was out of control. He was a doctor. Children were entrusted to his care. Zogg was a pro at managing his obsession. Even if a parent was in the room while he was “examining” his innocent victims, they might not see what was happening or understand it if they did. Nina thought of her own mother. When the memories of what her father had done to her began to surface in her late twenties she’d considered discussing it with her mother, but she knew it would be useless. The woman lived in a world of religious denial. Nina spent as little time with her as possible, and decided it wouldn’t do any good to bring it up. What would she say after so much time had passed? “Mom, why didn’t you protect me?” There was no point.
Nina had followed Zogg for a week before striking. Now she sat back, feeling satisfied. When the news report was over she turned off the TV and went to bed. She wanted to be fresh for work tonight. She had more research to do.
Chapter 1
My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a private investigator working out of a marina complex in Redwood City, California. I became a PI because I need to be in control of my own destiny, because I’m compelled to see that justice is done, and because I’m very good at spotting dishonesty in others. I developed this skill early in life.
I’m thirty-six years old, divorced three times, childless but not dogless, and living aboard a 46-foot Cheoy Lee Motorsailer. I lease a ground floor office in the marina where my boat is docked.
Most of my business comes from the restaurant and bar industry. I evaluate cuisine, ambiance and, above all, employee performance and honesty. I also participate in exit interviews when I catch an employee stealing from one of my clients and they need to be terminated. I do some insurance fraud investigation, occasionally monitor the activities of an unfaithful spouse, and in the last six months I’ve solved three cases of mul
tiple murder.
I recently located a missing cat for my neighbor, Sarah, but that was a one-time thing. Larry, her prize-winning Persian, had been relieving himself on a neighbor’s sailboat, and the boat owner had finally had enough. He’d put out several large rattraps and Larry had been snared in one of them, breaking his leg. The guy had felt guilty enough to take Larry to a local vet, but not guilty enough to tell Sarah or go back to pick him up. Once I’d scoured the marina and checked with the local shelters, I called around to the local vets until I found the right one. Animal control had a long talk with the perturbed boat owner about his traps, and he has since removed them, but I don’t think Larry will be visiting his boat again any time soon.
In the years since I got my PI license I’ve accepted only a handful of cases that made the hair on the back of my neck bristle. I could tell the boy standing in my office doorway was going to be one of them. He appeared to be seven or eight years old. His hair was mousy-brown and falling into his eyes. He was slim, but his face was round and had a scattering of freckles. He wore a pair of tired-looking blue jeans, dirty sneakers, and a blue and red striped sweatshirt.
As he stood staring at me, he looked frightened. Most people don’t find my appearance intimidating. I’m five-seven and a hundred and thirty-six pounds. I have long, curly, chestnut brown hair, and sea-blue eyes with black rims around the irises, which I inherited from my dad. Today I was dressed in jeans, a navy quarter zip sweatshirt, and New Balance cross trainers. Just like him. See, not intimidating.
I am not good with kids. I had a miserable childhood and I don’t like to be reminded of it. Spending time in the company of children takes me back, particularly if the child in question is unhappy. The boy in the doorway continued staring at me for about a minute, and I reluctantly returned his gaze. Eye contact of this type is almost preternatural. Eventually I felt something between the two of us clunk into place.
After the clunk thing happened, he said, “Are you Hunter?”
The sign on my office door, and in all my ads, reads ‘Hunter Investigations’.
“I am,” I said. “What can I do for you?”
I may be uncomfortable with kids, but I always try to treat them with respect. It’s been my experience that children behave in a more civilized manner when you treat them like adults.
“I want you to find out who killed my mom,” he said.
He stuck out his chin when he said this, as though daring me to turn him away. I rarely turn anyone away before at least having a conversation with them.
“You want to sit down?” I asked.
He remained in the doorway, surveying the office. I had the impression he was checking to make sure it was safe to come inside. When his eyes reached my desk they lowered, landing on Buddy, my dog, who was watching complacently from his spot on the floor next to my chair. Buddy is an eighty-five pound cross between a Rhodesian Ridgeback and a Golden Retriever. He’s about seven months old and is steadily gaining height, weight, and muscle.
As the boy approached my desk Buddy took more of an interest. This was a small intruder, but Buddy tends to put himself between me and any stranger who gets too close. He drew himself up from his resting place and stretched slowly, then moved around the side of the desk and inserted himself between me and my guest.
“I hope you’re not afraid of dogs,” I said. He looked at Buddy apprehensively. “He’s friendly,” I added.
He never took his eyes off Buddy, but appeared to have heard me, because he reached out a tentative hand. Buddy stepped closer, sniffed the proffered hand, licked it once, and allowed the boy to pet him. After this little ritual had been observed the boy sat down in one of my visitor’s chairs with Buddy at his feet. I opened a drawer to take out a legal pad and saw him flinch at the movement. He was exhibiting symptoms of hypervigilance. He’d probably either been beaten or verbally abused at some point in his life. I held up the legal pad so he could see it wasn’t a weapon, set it on my blotter, and picked up a ballpoint pen.
We looked at each other some more and eventually he spoke. “She was murdered.” I wrote that down, assuming he was still talking about his mom. “What are you writing?” he asked.
“I’m taking notes,” I said. “Sometimes I forget things, so I write everything down.” I tried a smile, but he wasn’t having any.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Why do you need to know that?”
“If you want me to work for you I need to know your name.”
“So, you’ll take the case?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet. I need more information about what happened, and you have to be completely honest with me. No hiding stuff because you don’t think I need to know.”
He appeared to be mulling that over. “I’ll tell you what happened,” he said.
It was a short story. He and his mother had been shopping at Mervyn’s in Redwood City on a Saturday, two weeks ago. He’d outgrown his jeans. His mom was in the fitting room with him, which he found totally embarrassing. He didn’t actually say that. I guessed it by the way his face colored when he told that part of the story. His mom had gone to get him another size and she’d never come back. He’d waited a long time, then put his own clothes back on and went looking for her.
When he came out of the fitting room several people were gathered by the wall of boys’ jeans. He’d pushed his way through, knowing something was wrong. When he reached the center of the crowd he saw his mom lying on the floor. She was on her back, he said, and her eyes were open. He could tell she was dead. He’d knelt beside her and felt for a pulse like he’d seen people do on TV. One of the adults had tried to pull him away and he’d punched the guy in the chest and shouted, “Get off me. She’s my mom.”
Interesting choice of words, I thought. “Then what happened?” I asked.
“The paramedics came and tried to help her, but it was too late. They covered her up and the police made everybody move back. Some people wearing uniforms came and did things to her, and took some pictures. Then they took her away. The police said I had to go with them. They took me to the station and put me in a room. A man came in and asked me what happened. He was nice, so I told him. Then a lady came and talked to me about my family. She wanted to know about my dad. I told her I didn’t have a dad and she left me alone for a long time. Then my aunt came and got me. I live with her now, but she doesn’t like me. My mom and her didn’t get along.”
The whole time he was talking to me he was petting Buddy. Dogs are first-rate tranquilizers.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in school today?” I asked. He looked startled, like I might be trying to trap him. “It’s okay,” I said, holding up my hands in a gesture of surrender. “I used to cut school all the time. I was just wondering.”
“Yeah, I’m supposed to be in school. The thing is, the police won’t tell me what happened to my mom, and it’s not right. It’s just not right,” he whispered.
I wondered what wasn’t right. That the police wouldn’t talk to a child about his mother’s murder, that she had been murdered in the first place, or the fact that he had to live with his aunt who didn’t like him. I was feeling sorry for the kid and that usually spells trouble for me.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“I want you to find out who did it,” he said. “I can pay you. At least I think I can. My mom had life insurance. I’m supposed to get some money.”
He was too young to know how life insurance worked. If the aunt was his legal guardian, she would probably have control of any inheritance.
I put down my pen and folded my hands over the legal pad. “If you want me to investigate your mom’s death, you have to answer a few more questions for me. You and I will sign a contract, and then I’ll talk to the police and see what I can find out. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Let’s start with your name and date of birth.”
Date of birth would probably be easier for him to respond to than age. Age might imply that he was too young to be doing what he was doing. Of course he was too young to be doing this, but I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him that.
“Scott Freedman,” he said. “October twenty-first.” He hesitated a moment and then told me the year.
I wrote down the information. My new client was nine years old. That meant he was in the third grade. He was small for his age.
“What was your mom’s name?” I asked.
“Gloria Freedman,” he said.
“What’s not right?” I asked, looking him in the eye.
“Huh?”
“Before, you said ‘it’s just not right.’ What did you mean?”
His eyes fogged over for an instant and then cleared as he evidently remembered what he had said. “What happened to my mom. It’s not right for people to kill each other like animals.”
I wondered where he’d heard that phrase.
“How do you know your mom was killed? Maybe she had a heart attack or something.”
“I saw the blood,” he said.
“What’s your phone number, Scott?” I asked.
He thought about that some and then picked up a business card from the dish on my desk. “Can I call you?”
“Sure. You can do that. But what if I have more questions?”
“My aunt’s weird about the telephone,” he said.
“Okay. No problem. You can call me collect if you want.”
I turned to my computer and pulled up my standard contract, entered Scott’s name and the date, and the sum of $5.00 as a deposit against services to be rendered. Of course, as a legal technicality contracts with minors are invalid, but I’d honor it just the same.