Murder A La Carte

by Nancy Skopin

  “Exactly. Contact with people we don’t know is threatening. And what if the person you’re looking at is unbalanced? With the increase in population, dementia is on the rise. Plus, with all the recent terrorist activity, people feel more defensive than ever.”

  He was right about the population thing. I’d read about a study done with rats that allowed them to reproduce until their cage became crowded. When it got so crowded that movement was restricted the adult males began sexually assaulting the young, and killing and eating them along with the weaker adults. Of course human beings are not rodents, most of the time.

  “Any similar homicides in other jurisdictions?” I asked.

  “I’m still working on that sex offender case from last month. Remember I told you about the pedophile who was murdered near the daycare center on Middlefield?” I nodded. “He was killed with the same type of weapon. Long, narrow, very sharp, also coated with garlic.” He looked at me. “You’re not going to bother any other police departments with this case are you?”

  “Why would I do that when I can get all the information I need from you?” I gave him an innocent smile and batted my eyelashes.

  He chuckled. “I mean it, Nikki. I’ll tell you what I know if you promise not to bother anyone else.”

  “I promise.” I saluted.

  “There are two other homicides that might be related. A pediatrician named Hugo Zogg was stabbed outside a schoolyard in San Mateo, and a known sex offender named Juan Fernandez was killed in Sunnyvale two days after he was released from Lompoc. In both cases the weapon was a knife with a long narrow blade and there was garlic in the wound.”

  I felt my mouth drop open. “Oh my God,” I said. I grabbed a pad and started taking notes.

  “Don’t jump to conclusions.”

  I looked at him. “Did you do a background check on the pediatrician?”

  “It’s not my case,” he said.

  “Did the San Mateo PD run a background on the pediatrician?”

  He nodded. “There were charges filed against him two years ago by the parents of a boy in North Carolina. The medical review board found in the doctor’s favor. The parents filed a civil suit and went to the local newspaper, and eventually the doctor moved to California.”

  “Molestation charges?” I asked.

  “Yeah.”

  I remembered what Giselle had told me about Scott’s mother. “Did you talk to the cashiers at Mervyn’s?”

  “Of course.”

  “So did I.”

  “There’s no evidence that Scottie’s mother abused him.”

  “That depends on your definition of abuse. If the killer is some kind of vigilante avenging abused children it might not matter what kind of abuse we’re talking about. Sexual, emotional, or psychological. Did you interview Scott?”

  “Yes, but he was pretty shaken up at the time.”

  “And you didn’t know about the weapon yet.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “So you probably didn’t ask him about the way his mother yelled at him, or if she ever hit him when she was angry.”

  “Nope.”

  Bill looked like he was getting a little pissed off, so I didn’t bother to tell him I would have that conversation with Scott.

  We didn’t talk any more about the case that night, but I was still thinking about it as I dressed for my dinner with Elizabeth.

  Chapter 6

  It was 60 degrees in Redwood City, but I knew San Francisco would be cooler so I pulled on a pair of knee-high black leather boots and a snug black knit dress with a sexy little cutout across the chest. After scrunching my curls with gel and applying lip gloss, I tucked the Glock into my black pistol purse, and threw on an emerald-green wool coat with a faux fur collar: a little color to break up all the black. When I’d spotted the coat on sale at Nordstrom, I’d loved it so much that I broke my own rule about keeping my wardrobe to a minimum to conserve space.

  Elizabeth was waiting aboard her trawler with her door wide open, as is her custom when it’s not freezing or rainy. Elizabeth is a pixie; just over five feet tall and about a hundred pounds. She’s thirty-four years old, has strawberry blonde hair, a dusting of freckles, hazel eyes, and dimples. Tonight she was dressed in an off white turtleneck sweater dress with a wide black belt, black tights, and black ankle boots. After giving me a quick hug she wrapped herself in a hooded charcoal-colored cape and picked up her shoulder bag.

  “You look stunning,” I said.

  “So do you sweetie. You mentioned San Francisco. Are we going where I hope we’re going?”

  “Yep. Your favorite restaurant. Just try not to stare too much if you see any celebrities.”

  “I’ll try, but I’m not making any promises.”

  On the way to the city I told her about Scott, and, because I knew she could keep a secret, I told her what Bill had shared with me about his mother’s murder, the wound trajectory and type of knife, the three similar killings in the area and, finally, the garlic.

  “Yikes!”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “So you’re thinking maybe Scott’s mom was abusing him?”

  “It’s possible. But it could also be that the killer heard Gloria yelling at Scott and the verbal abuse just pushed him, or her, over the edge.”

  When we arrived at the restaurant on Montgomery Street there were no parking spaces available, so I cruised around the block and parked in an underground lot. It was chilly, but the short walk would do us both good, especially after dinner.

  We entered the lobby of the famous eatery and I was pleased to see that there was a new hostess at the podium. I’d had a part in that, since the former hostess had been a first-class bitch. The somewhat matronly, but impeccably dressed, woman greeted us warmly and offered to check our coats before asking if we had a reservation. She was a welcome addition to the restaurant’s staff. Her predecessor had made me feel like I was imposing by asking to be seated.

  I gave her my name, and she quickly checked the reservation ledger and then collected two menus and escorted us to a table. She informed us that our server tonight would be Sean, and that he would be right with us. No sooner had she returned to the podium than a lovely young man of mixed-race approached our table. He was over six feet tall, in his mid-twenties, and had a mocha-latte complexion, dark wavy hair, brown bedroom eyes, and a smile that was accentuated by a single dimple.

  “My name is Sean,” he said as he filled our water goblets. “Would you ladies like anything from the bar?”

  Elizabeth fanned herself with her menu and practically vibrated as she said, “A tall mudslide, please, Sean.”

  Although she was engaged, Sean was a looker, and Elizabeth appreciates beauty wherever she finds it.

  “Very good,” he bowed slightly and turned to me.

  “I’m tonight’s designated driver,” I demurred, “so how about an Irish coffee with half a shot of Jameson’s?”

  Sean showed me his dimple and said he’d be right back.

  “Yowza,” Elizabeth said as soon as he was out of earshot.

  “Seriously hot,” I replied.

  Once she was no longer distracted by our waiter, Elizabeth turned her attention to the other patrons in the crowded restaurant. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is that Zac Efron?”

  “Um, probably?”

  “And is that Sami with him? She is so adorable.”

  “Elizabeth. You’re staring.”

  “Right. Sorry. Would you mind if I just took a quick photo with your smartphone?” Elizabeth refuses to own a cell phone.

  “Yes, I would mind, and I think Zac and Sami would too.”

  Elizabeth pouted for only a moment before Sean returned and served our drinks. Then she refocused her att
ention on him, enjoying the view.

  Sean recited the evening’s specials, and asked if we’d like time to consider the menu. We both already knew what we wanted, and ordered the Caesar salad for two. I requested the Coulotte steak with a Bordeaux reduction sauce and morel mushrooms, and Elizabeth ordered the stuffed lamb chops.

  Less than ten minutes later we were being entertained by Sean as he blended the Caesar dressing ingredients together at the table, asking if we wanted anchovies or ground pepper, and then expertly tossing the salad before serving us. This was one of my favorite restaurants, and not because of their celebrity clientele. In spite of constant dieting, I’m a bit of a foodie, and the chef and saucier at this establishment were outstanding.

  Sean proved to be a very professional, attentive, charming, and as far as I could tell, honest server. His other tables never seemed to be neglected, but when my water glass was half empty, he was immediately at my side with the pitcher. Not only would this guy receive high praise in my report, but I’d tip more than usual for this kind of service.

  Elizabeth and I talked about her upcoming wedding to my former client, Jack McGuire. I’d introduced them when I was working a case for Jack last August, and the two had hit it off like a house-a-fire. They were still discussing potential dates and venues, but hadn’t settled on anything yet. Jack had suggested a June wedding and Elizabeth said that wouldn’t give her enough time to plan, unless it was a year from next June, 18 months from now. Fine with me. I was in no hurry to see my best friend move away from the marina.

  Overall it was a totally enjoyable evening and an exceptionally good survey.

  When we arrived back at the marina I walked Elizabeth down to her trawler and gave her a quick squeeze.

  “Thanks for coming with me tonight.”

  “Thanks for bringing me. Sweet dreams, honey.”

  I ambled down the dock, stopping briefly to scratch behind D’Artagnon’s ears before continuing on to my boat. D’Artagnon is a loveable black Lab who lives aboard a Bluewater 42 powerboat with one of my neighbors. He’s an excellent watchdog. In fact, he saved my life not long ago; but even before that D’Artagnon was one of my favorite canines.

  As I let myself in through the pilothouse door I heard whining. I opened the hatch and looked down at Bill who had a tight grip on Buddy’s collar.

  “Let me get down the companionway before you release the hound,” I said.

  Bill smiled and nodded. Buddy squirmed and whined some more. As soon as my feet hit the galley floor Buddy slipped out of his collar and jumped up to greet me. Hard to believe I’d resisted having a dog for three years because I didn’t want to endure another loss. I knew Buddy would only be with me for twelve to fifteen years, and it would destroy me when his time was up, but it was so worth it.

  Chapter 7

  On Tuesday morning I woke up feeling guilty about last night’s high calorie dinner. I needed to work out to get rid of the guilt, so I climbed into my sweats, ran my fingers through my curls, and trudged up to the parking lot with Buddy. We stopped along the way to say good morning to D’Artagnon. I scratched under his chin and behind his ears, and told him what a good boy he was. Buddy stretched up to his full height, front paws on the deck of the Bluewater, so he and D’Artagnon could touch noses.

  After Buddy’s morning walk, we drove to the Redwood City Athletic Center. The gym is less than a mile from the marina, so we were there in a few minutes. Buddy waited in the car. He’d be bored, but it was better than leaving him alone on the boat, and Bill had left early for work.

  I did a hundred sit-ups and used the nautilus lower body equipment, then ran on the treadmill and climbed on the StairMaster. I showered in the locker room and appraised myself in the mirror while I was dressing. I’m in pretty good shape, in spite of a minor weight gain caused by the lack of nicotine in my system.

  I was in my office sipping coffee with Buddy at my side by 7:30. My office is like a sanctuary to me. I rented it when I moved aboard the sailboat, right after I got my PI license and my most recent divorce. It’s a corner office, so I have two walls of windows which afford me a view of the water, the picturesque grounds, and the sky. My desk is turned toward a wall without windows, so the scenery doesn’t distract me when I’m trying to work.

  The phone rang at 7:42, and I took a deep breath before answering. “Hunter Investigations.”

  A computer-generated voice said, “If you will accept a collect call from Scott, say yes now.”

  I said, “Yes,” and then heard nothing. I waited a beat before saying, “Scott, are you there?”

  “Hi, Hunter.”

  “Are you at school?”

  “Why?”

  “No reason. I was wondering if you could come see me this afternoon. I need to ask you some more questions.”

  “I can come now.”

  “No, that’s okay. Go to school and come see me after. Or I can pick you up if you want.”

  There was a brief pause, and then I heard him sigh. “That won’t work. My aunt found out I cut yesterday, so she’s picking me and my cousins up after school.”

  “Why don’t I come and meet you at lunch time?”

  “Can you bring your dog?”

  I smiled. “He goes everywhere with me. What school and what time?”

  “Spring Valley Elementary in Millbrae. Lunch is at twelve. You can pick me up out front.”

  I hung up the phone and logged onto the internet. Spring Valley Elementary was on Murchison Drive, about twenty minutes from the marina.

  I typed up reports until 11:30, and then Buddy and I took a walk before driving to Millbrae.

  We arrived at the school at 11:53. With time to spare, I parked on the street and hooked Buddy to his leash. We wandered around the neighborhood for a few minutes, then I put him back in the car and leaned against the Bimmer to wait. Since Scott hadn’t seen my car before, I thought it wise to make myself visible.

  At 12:05 Scott exited the front doors of the school and ran down the steps. He spotted me instantly and, even from a distance, I could see he was upset.

  “Get in the car,” he shouted as he drew closer.

  I was puzzled, but I got in the car anyway. He pulled open the passenger door, jumped in, slammed the door, and slid low in the seat. I looked down at him and then up at the front of the building, where I saw two kids who had apparently followed him outside.

  “Are those your cousins?” I asked.

  “Can we go, please?”

  I started the car and pulled away from the curb. When we were a few blocks from the school I pulled over.

  “You can sit up now. What’s going on?”

  “They saw me leaving,” he said. “They called my name just as I was going out the door. It was too late to stop, so I ran. We’re not supposed to leave the school grounds at lunchtime. They’ll tell my aunt and I’ll get in trouble again.” There was a film of tears in his eyes.

  “What happens when you get in trouble?” I asked gently.

  He looked up at me and I saw the dread. If Scott’s mother had been abusive with him, the odds were good her sister would exhibit the same behavior.

  “Does your aunt hit you?” I asked.

  Scott didn’t answer immediately. He looked out the side window for a moment, then turned to the back seat and reached out a hand, which Buddy licked.

  I wanted to turn on my tape recorder so I could play back the conversation for Bill later, but I remembered how paranoid Scott had been in my office.

  “You want some gum?” I asked. “I’m gonna have some gum.”

  “Okay.”

  I picked up my purse, set it on my lap, and turned on the recorder before reaching into the zipper compartment where I keep the sugarless gum.

  “Cinnamon okay?”

 
“Cinnamon’s good.”

  “Where should we go for lunch?”

  “MacDonald’s?”

  “Of course. What was I thinking?”

  I put the car in gear and headed for El Camino Real.

  “Scott,” I said quietly, “you promised to answer all my questions, remember? If you want me to find out what happened to your mom, I need to know some things about your family.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can understand the motive.” I hoped he watched enough TV crime drama to grasp what I was saying.

  He chewed his gum, looking out the passenger side window, and softly said, “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes your aunt hits you?”

  He nodded. Not much good for the tape, but if I tried to pry a verbal response out of him he might clam up.

  “Where does she hit you?” I asked.

  “In the garage.”

  I stifled a laugh.

  “So your aunt takes you out to the garage, and then what does she do?”

  He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat. I could tell I was losing him.

  “It’s important, Scott,” I said. “Your aunt’s behavior will tell me things about your mom, and the better I understand your mom the easier it will be for me to find the person who hurt her.”

  He swung around in his seat and glared at me. “They didn’t hurt her,” he shouted. “They fucking killed her!” He covered his face with his hands and unleashed a torrent of gut-wrenching sobs.

  Buddy poked at Scott’s shoulder with his nose, wanting to make it better. The poor kid had suffered so much already, and now, on top of everything else, his aunt was beating him.

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured.

  We arrived at MacDonald’s and I pulled into the drive-through lane. I ordered three Big Macs with cheese, jumbo fries, a diet soda, and a chocolate shake. I turned to Scott, who had stopped crying and was wiping his nose on his jacket sleeve.