by Nancy Skopin
I was in the office by 7:45. I opened my e-mail first thing, and was surprised to find the report from CIS on Scott’s family tree. I read the soft copy as the report was printing.
Scott’s father, Don Freedman, had died in a car accident six years ago. Don’s father had passed away two years ago, and his mother just last year. I wondered if Scott had spent any time with his paternal grandparents before they’d passed. Don’s father had only one sibling, a sister named Roselyn, who was also deceased, but she had been married to a man named Jack Verne Trusty, now sixty-two, who lived in Seattle. Jack and Roselyn had no children. I wondered if that was by choice.
I Googled Jack V. Trusty in Seattle, and clicked on the white pages link, took a deep breath, and dialed.
“Trusty and Associates,” said a sultry female voice.
“This is Nicoli Hunter calling for Jack Trusty.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Hunter. Mister Trusty is in the field today. Would you like his voicemail?”
“I would, but first can you tell me what kind of firm Trusty and Associates is?”
There was a momentary hesitation before she said, “We’re a private investigation firm. We specialize in criminal background checks, security surveys, and executive protection. If you didn’t know that, why are you calling?”
Scott’s great uncle was a PI? What are the odds?
“I’m not calling to hire Jack,” I said. “I’m calling because his great nephew, Scott, has been orphaned.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll transfer you to his voicemail.”
I left Jack a brief message saying I wanted to talk to him about Scott, and left my office and home phone numbers. They had probably never met, but there was no time like the present. Seattle wasn’t that far away. He could hop on a commuter flight and be here in a couple of hours.
I looked through the remaining pages of the report and found that Gloria Freedman’s maiden name had been Kimball. Her sister’s name was Leah Mohr, and she was divorced. Gloria’s parents, Michael and Anna Kimball, were living in Florida. I thought about the fact that both of their daughters had a penchant for child beating. I’d wait to hear back from Jack before I even considered approaching them.
I Googled Trusty and Associates and located the website. There was a picture of Jack on the home page. His face was round and he had a bushy mustache that covered his upper lip. He was built like a fireplug and looked every one of his sixty-two years, but there was a twinkle in his eyes and he had a kind smile. In the photo he was wearing a trench coat and a fedora cocked at an angle reminiscent of Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. He had a sense of humor. Also in the photo was a bull terrier seated at his feet. A sense of humor, and he liked dogs. Excellent!
I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon doing restaurant surveys and feeding Buddy my leftovers. When we got back to the office I had a voicemail message from Scott.
“Hi, Nikki. I’m okay. I’ll call you later. Say hi to Buddy for me.”
I thought about calling him back, but if he was in school or in a social services office somewhere, I didn’t want him to get in trouble for carrying the cell phone.
I typed up the surveys I’d done and sent them off, then decided to take a look at the Department of Justice website that Bill had told me about. It was apparent that someone out there intended to eliminate as many child abusers as possible. If I could locate the worst registered sex offenders in the Bay Area, maybe I could stake them out and catch the killer in the act. Of course, I had no idea how many serious offenders there might be on the Peninsula, but I didn’t think there could be that many.
I searched online for the DOJ and found a web page entitled Megan’s Law – Information on Registered Sex Offenders. After agreeing to the stipulations for accessing the information I was allowed to do a search for registered sex offenders. I entered Redwood City and selected the registrants page. There were six pages containing one hundred and fifteen sex offenders, their photographs, their addresses, and lists of the crimes they had committed. I was stunned by the number, and by how available the information was. Of the one hundred and fifteen, four were women. That didn’t really surprise me, but it made me think.
I started reading, printing out any file listing habitual sexual abuse of children. According to Bill, the predators shown on this website were the serious and high-risk sex offenders. The lower level offenders’ records were not accessible to the public. The age range of these criminals was wide, and all ethnic groups were represented, but as I looked at each photograph I noticed that many of them had something in common. There was no conscience behind their eyes. Some even looked proud or were smiling in their mug shots. These were people who didn’t believe cultural boundaries and laws applied to them, with no regard for the consequences of their actions and a complete lack of empathy for the suffering of the children they victimized. There might be pedophiles out there who felt remorse for the disturbing things they were compelled to do, but I saw no evidence of that in these website photos.
It took me almost two hours to read all the files and by the time I was finished I had a headache and felt like I needed a shower. Twenty of the registrants in Redwood City were child molesters and five of those had habitual sexual abuse of children in their files. All five were men. Jonathan Franklin Lewis, Gabriel Adamson, Timothy Vasey, Nicholas Edward Tooker, and Pablo Fabian Morales.
I spread the printed registry pages across my desk and was looking at the five faces when my phone rang. I picked up the receiver, distracted by all that I had read that afternoon.
“Hunter Investigations.”
“Hi, Nikki.” It was Scott.
“Hi, Scott. How are you? Where are you?”
“I’m at a foster home in Burlingame. There’s six kids here.”
“How are they treating you?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“Will you be going back to school tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but they haven’t decided where yet. I was going to Hoover in Redwood City until I moved in with my aunt. She said I had to go to Spring Valley, ’cause she wasn’t driving me to Redwood City every day. The kids who live here go to Franklin, so I think maybe I’ll go there too.”
“That’s good,” I said. “Then you won’t have to see your cousins.”
“I know. How’s Buddy?”
“Buddy’s good. Call me from school tomorrow and we’ll come see you on your lunch break.”
“That’d be cool. Any news about my mom?”
“I’ve been doing some background research. I’m also looking for other family members you could live with. Tell me about your mom’s parents. Did you ever spend any time with them?”
“Nope. Mom said she wouldn’t wish her parents on a dog. I guess that means she didn’t like ’em very much.”
“What about your Uncle Jack?”
“Who?”
“Your dad’s father had a sister who was married to a guy named Jack Trusty. Did you ever meet him?”
“I never even heard of him. I don’t remember my dad. He died when I was little.”
“Okay. Call me tomorrow?”
“I will. Hey, can you bring the charger for this phone? The battery is low.”
Smart kid. I hadn’t even thought of that. “I’ll stick it in my purse right now. See you tomorrow, Scott, and thanks for calling.”
“Say hi to Buddy for me?”
I promised that I would.
After we hung up I unplugged the cell phone charger and dropped it into my purse. When I got a chance, I’d have to visit Radio Shack and pick up a prepaid cell to trade Scott for my smartphone.
Chapter 12
At 6:00 p.m. Buddy and I closed the office and went for another walk. We eventually strolled down to the dock, and as we reached the bottom of the comp
anionway I looked over at Elizabeth’s trawler—lights out, door closed. Since becoming engaged to Jack McGuire, retired cat burglar and former client of mine, she was spending more evenings at his estate in Hillsborough. I was happy for them, but I missed having her at the marina all the time. Maybe I’d give her a call and see if we could get together again this weekend.
Buddy and I stopped to visit with D’Artagnon who was outside on the deck of his owner’s Bluewater 42. When I adopted Buddy I’d worried that there might be some jealousy issues, but the two dogs had bonded instantly.
We continued down the dock and boarded my boat. I grabbed a Guinness from the galley fridge before wandering into the main salon, which is like my living room. It’s also where I keep my telephone. The voicemail light was blinking, so I pressed play.
The message was from Jack Trusty. It was brief and to the point.
“This is J.V. Trusty. I got your message about Scott. I’ve never met the boy, but you can call me back anytime.” He left his cell number.
I liked the sound of his voice and the fact that he was willing to give his cell number to a total stranger. Of course he was a PI. He’d probably checked me out before returning my call. I picked up the phone and dialed. Jack answered on the second ring.
“Trusty and Associates.”
“This is Nicoli Hunter.”
“Oh yes, Scott’s friend. How is he?”
“Well, as I mentioned in my voicemail he’s an orphan now. His mother was murdered two weeks ago.”
“How do you know Scott, Miss Hunter?”
“Please, call me Nikki.”
“Okay, Nikki. How do you know Scott?”
“He hired me to find out who killed his mom.”
“I understand you’re a licensed PI.”
“That’s right.”
“Small world.”
“I know. After his mom was killed, Scott was taken in by his aunt, Gloria’s sister. But Gloria’s sister was beating him with a yardstick. In fact, she assaulted me when I drove him home from school. She’s in custody at the moment and Scott’s in foster care. I did some research and found out that you and Gloria’s parents are Scott’s only other family. According to Scott, Gloria wouldn’t let her parents near him. I think they were abusive when she was a kid. Anyway, I hate to see him go into the system. There’s no telling what kind of people he’d end up with. He’s a great kid and he’s already been through so much.” I took a breath. “So I was thinking maybe you could fly down and meet him. See if you hit it off.”
“Jesus Christ. I’m sixty-two.”
“I know how old you are. What’s your point?”
“Well Scott must be, what, eight or nine now?”
“He’s nine.”
“By the time he’s twenty I’ll be seventy-three.”
“He doesn’t need someone young to look after him, Mr. Trusty. He needs someone kind. Someone who won’t slap him around. Just meet him. That’s all I’m asking. Please?”
“Call me J.V. You’re pretty stubborn, aren’t you?”
“Does that mean you’ll come?”
“I’ll call you back with my flight information.”
“Great! Thank you.”
“I’m not making any promises.”
When we hung up I grabbed Buddy and gave him a hug. I had to hug someone and Bill was at work. With any luck J.V. would be here by the weekend, and if they liked each other he could file the adoption papers next week.
Bill called a little after seven and I couldn’t wait to tell him the news, so I invited him over. I showed him Scott’s family tree and we booted up his laptop so I could show him J.V.’s website. He was less enthusiastic than I’d hoped he would be.
“You’re treading on dangerous ground here, Nikki,” he said, always the cop. “When you get involved in other people’s lives you risk making a mess of them.”
“You get involved in other people’s lives every day. Besides, all I plan to do is introduce them. J.V. seems like a nice guy, and things can’t get any worse for Scott.”
“Sure they can. What if they get along great and Scott grows to depend on him, and then he gets sick or something?”
“You always look at the dark side,” I snapped. “J.V.’s only sixty-two. He appears to be in good health.” I pointed to his photo on the web page. “He’s family, and he has a dog. I think this could work.”
Buddy got up from his spot on the floor and lifted my elbow with his nose. His eyes were bright and his tail was wagging slowly. I could tell he was distressed by my tone of voice. I decided there was no point in arguing with Bill about this. I was just upset because he didn’t see things my way.
“I’ll make dinner,” I said.
I scooped kibble into Buddy’s dish, freshened up his water, and made a couple of steak salads for myself and Bill. We didn’t talk about Scott again that night, but I took the argument to bed with me and didn’t sleep well.
Friday morning I woke to the sound of rain hammering on the deck. I dragged myself out of bed, made a pot of Kona coffee, and took a thermal mug with me to the gym. I did my usual upper body workout and then jogged on the treadmill for thirty minutes.
When I got back to the boat at 7:30, Bill was holstering his Glock.
“You’re leaving early,” I said.
“I have a meeting.”
His expression was cloudy and I could guess what he was thinking. Bill and I rarely leave a disagreement unresolved. I just didn’t know how to fix this one. I felt in my gut that I was doing the right thing, and he wanted me to be cautious.
“How about this,” I said. “I’ll meet J.V. first, get to know him a little, and then if I still think it’s a good idea I’ll introduce him to Scott.”
“You are a pretty good judge of character.”
I smiled. It was as close to a concession as I was going to get.
“Thanks,” I said, and wrapped my arms around him.
Buddy and I unlocked the office at 8:00. I went over my schedule of bar and restaurant surveys. I needed to dine at Chez Jacques and Barron’s this weekend, and there were four bars that needed my attention between Burlingame and Mountain View. I decided to take Bill to Chez Jacques tomorrow night if he wasn’t working, and then we could survey a couple of the bars together. I could cover everything else on Sunday.
My phone rang at 9:15.
“Hunter Investigations.”
“Good morning, Nikki.”
“J.V.?”
“Good ear. I’m flying into SFO tomorrow at nine fifty-three a.m.” He told me the airline and flight number.
“I’ll meet you at baggage claim,” I said. “How long will you be here?”
“My return flight is on Sunday afternoon. Can you recommend a hotel?”
“I might be able to do better than that. Let me get back to you.”
Bill had been spending a lot of his weekends with me recently, and his two-bedroom house on Madison Avenue was just sitting there, empty. Since J.V. was doing me a favor by flying in to meet with Scott, I thought it would be nice if I could save him the cost of a hotel. I called Bill’s office number.
“Anderson.”
“Hey. Is your meeting over already?”
“A couple of people didn’t show, so we finished early. What’s up?”
“I just talked to J.V. Trusty. He’s flying in tomorrow morning and he’ll be here through Sunday afternoon. He asked if I could recommend a hotel and I was wondering if maybe he could stay at your house tomorrow night.”
“Have you run a background check on him yet?”
“I don’t have a driver’s license or social security number.”
“Call you back,” he said, and hung up.
Five minutes later my pho
ne rang again. I snatched it up and, before I could offer my usual greeting, Bill read me an eight-digit number, then said, “Call me after you check him out.”
Wow! Bill was really loosening up about department policy. I normally use CIS for background checks because they’re so thorough, but they take at least twenty-four hours to complete a background report including criminal and financial data. In the past I’ve gotten a faster response by offering more than the usual fee, and by begging. I checked my desktop address book and located their number.
“CIS, this is Leann.”
“Leann, it’s Nicoli Hunter.”
“Hey! How’s everything in California?”
“Cold and wet. I need a huge favor. I’ll pay extra.”
I gave Leann J.V.’s driver’s license number and told her what I needed. She said she’d do her best. Leann’s best is pretty amazing.
While I was waiting I tidied up the office. I needed to burn some nervous energy. I dusted, wiped out the refrigerator, ran the vacuum, cleaned the kitchen and bathroom sinks, and ran a brush around the toilet bowl.
Scott called me at 10:35 and said he’d be out in front of Franklin Elementary at 12:30. I told him Buddy and I would pick him up and we’d go to McDonald’s. He liked that idea, although I imagined he’d be willing to eat almost anything for lunch as long as Buddy came along for the ride.
At 11:20 I checked my e-mail for the hundredth time and found a new message from CIS. I hastily opened the attachment and scanned the document. As always, the date sequence was reversed with the most current activity at the beginning.
J.V. Trusty had owned his own PI firm since 1991. He’d been a licensed PI since 1987. He had made his living as a restaurant and bar owner and as a musician from 1976 through 1986. He was also a volunteer firefighter during those years. He’d been in the Marines from 1971 through 1975, and had received the Medal of Honor for ‘conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action at the risk of his life above and beyond the call of duty’. He was a decorated war hero! I printed the pages and speed-dialed Bill’s cell. I read him the highlights.