by Nancy Skopin
Derrick said nothing.
“Were you aware that Laura got herself arrested intentionally?”
“No,” he said. “I knew she was angry, but …” he let the thought go unfinished.
“That’s why she took the job at the Fanny Pack, isn’t it? Because she was angry with you, and with Kate.”
“I suppose so, yes.” Hardly a confession, but as close as I was likely to get.
“Why didn’t you talk to her? You could have gone into family therapy.”
“Do you have children, Ms. Hunter?”
“I don’t even have a dog,” I said, though why I’d volunteered that information was beyond me.
He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I have a meeting to get to.”
I decided to leave quietly. I followed him to the door and he held it open for me.
“Can you show yourself out?” he asked.
“Of course. Thank you for your time.”
He nodded and closed the door behind me. I took the back stairs and stopped by Research and Development. Fred was there, but he was concentrating on what he was doing. What he was doing was bending over the shoulder of a twenty-something redhead who was seated at a computer. He was leaning on her desk with one hand, and the other hand was resting on her shoulder. I smiled to myself and kept walking.
Chapter 21
When I got back to the office I called Bill Anderson on his cell, knowing incoming calls to the PD were automatically recorded.
“It’s Nikki,” I said, when he answered. “I need a DL number.” I read him Charles Spencer’s license plate number.
He didn’t comment one way or the other, but he did ask if I was free for lunch.
“What time?” I asked.
“One o’clock? I’ve got some things to tie up here.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you at your office.”
“That’ll work. I’ll pick something up. You have any menu preferences?”
“Surprise me,” he said.
I could tell from his voice that he was smiling, and so was I. I called Bennett, the owner of The Diving Pelican, and ordered roast turkey and top sirloin sandwiches to go. Then I called Sylvia. She answered on the second ring.
“Sylvia, it’s Nicoli. How are you doing?”
“Oh hello, dear. I’m all right. How’s the investigation coming along?”
“I need your help again. I keep hearing from third parties about Kate and Derrick’s attorney, Gerald Kuhlman. Can you tell me anything about him?”
“Oh, yes. I know Gerry. He and Derrick went to Harvard together. I even went out with him a couple of times. I think one of the reasons he moved his practice to San Francisco was so he could be closer to Derrick. They’ve grown apart over the years, though, both being so busy. I understand Gerry has himself quite an empire now. Derrick tells me some of his clients are politically significant.”
“Wow,” I said, half to myself. Her description of Kuhlman jibed with what Bill Anderson had told me. “Sounds like a good person to know.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
“Thanks for the info, Sylvia. I’d be lost without you.”
“No, you wouldn’t, but it’s nice to hear anyway. Call me if you need anything else.”
I liked Sylvia and she was a great source of information. I’d have to send her a thank you card when the investigation was concluded.
I started updating Laura’s file and while I was typing I remembered that I had yet to examine her most recent phone bill. I located the statement Kate had given me and scanned it quickly, then began highlighting the numbers she’d called more than once. I recognized Sylvia’s number, having just called her. There was a number in San Francisco that Laura had called three times. I checked my notes and found it was Rod’s. There was one in Menlo Park that she’d called four times. I checked the consent form from The Sky Ranch. It was Fred’s number. No big surprise there. The calls to Fred were short, each less than three minutes. The last one was at 6:00 p.m. on the night she was killed. Maybe making plans to meet up later in the drugstore parking lot. The calls to Rod were longer. I wondered what they had talked about.
I glanced at my e-mail and saw that I‘d received one with attachments from CIS. It was the background I’d requested on Rod Howard. The first attachment showed me that he had two parking tickets in San Francisco in the current year, and that two years ago he’d been convicted of possession of an illegal substance. He’d been fined and placed on probation for six months. The report didn’t list what the substance was, but it was a safe bet that Rod had at least one expensive habit.
I opened the next attachment - his financial background. A very expensive habit. Apparently Rod had burned through his inheritance and piled up some vicious debts. His car wasn’t paid for, he owed back taxes, and his house was mortgaged. I wrote a check to CIS and put it with my outgoing mail. Money well spent.
I decided to give Gerald Kuhlman a call and see if he was willing to meet with me. I found the paper on which Kate had written his number, and dialed. The phone rang twice before being answered by a receptionist who sounded mechanically poised.
“Kuhlman, Ross, and Bassett. How may I direct your call?”
I gave her my name and asked for Gerry Kuhlman. She requested that I hold. A moment later I was transferred to another woman.
“Mr. Kuhlman’s office,” said a silky alto voice.
“My name is Nicoli Hunter. I was referred by Derrick Howard. I wonder if I might speak with Mr. Kuhlman.”
“What is this regarding?”
“I’m a private investigator. I was hired by the Howards to look into their daughter’s murder.”
She considered that briefly and then said, “One moment, please.” When she came back on the line she told me that Mr. Kuhlman couldn’t be disturbed just now. I wondered how she’d found that out without disturbing him. She asked specifically what I wanted to speak with him about and I told her I wanted to discuss Laura’s criminal record and the disbursement of her inheritance. She took my phone number, asked me to spell my first and last names, and said she would give Mr. Kuhlman the message. I was sure she would. I was equally sure Kuhlman would speak with Derrick before calling me back.
I checked my watch and hurried down to the boat to freshen up before lunch. I was looking forward to seeing Detective Bill Anderson. I changed into a pair of cargo shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and put on fresh lip gloss, then walked across the marina to The Diving Pelican to pick up the sandwiches I’d ordered. I took a minute to chat with Bennett, the owner; a short, solidly built man I’ve known since moving aboard. He’s outwardly cantankerous, but always has a smile for me.
Anderson arrived at my office at 1:15. He knocked on the open door and I motioned him in.
“Another five minutes and I would have eaten both of these myself,” I said.
“Sorry. I got hung up.”
“Hungry?”
“Starved. What have we got?”
“We have roast turkey and top sirloin. Take your pick.”
“Wow, tough choice. Can we split ’em both?”
A man after my own heart. I set out paper plates and napkins, and got two bottles of mineral water and the jar of dill pickles out of the fridge. We ate and drank quietly for about ten minutes, and it was nice. If you’re comfortable being silent with someone it implies a degree of compatibility.
When we were finished eating, Bill wiped his mouth with a napkin, then dug in his pants pocket and pulled out a folded piece of white paper. He handed it to me. Typed on the page was the name Ralph Hearn, an address on San Mateo Drive, and a phone number. Underneath that was an eight-digit number.
Anderson said, “The guy who owns the jeep is a PI and he does not have a good reputation. He’s bee
n in trouble with the law more than once. Frankly, I’m surprised he still has his license.”
“What kind of trouble?”
“Breaking and entering. Aggravated assault.”
“So you’re saying someone hired another PI to assault me?”
“You don’t know for sure this is the guy.”
“You’re right, I don’t. Maybe I’ll pay Mr. Hearn a visit.”
“That could be dangerous. Besides, even if it is him, he won’t tell you who he’s working for.”
“It can’t hurt to ask.” I looked at the paper he’d given me. “What’s this?” I said, pointing to the number typed under Hearn’s address. “Is this the driver’s license number for Charles Spencer?”
He nodded.
“You married?”
“Nope.” He showed me the great smile with the crinkles around the eyes.
“Attached or involved?” I asked.
Another smile, wider this time. “Nope. You?”
“Nope. Why are the fingernails on your right hand longer than the ones on your left?” I’d been dying to know.
“I play the guitar,” he responded.
That I was not expecting, and it was a pleasant surprise. It’s not often you find someone creative in law enforcement, or any government position for that matter. Or maybe that’s just my prejudice talking.
“I used to play the piano,” I said. “How about dinner sometime?”
“I’d like that,” he said. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday works for me.”
“Meet you here at eight?”
“Okay,” I said. “And thanks for the info.” I waved the page he’d given me like a flag.
“Don’t mention it,” he muttered, “please.”
He got up and started toward the door, then turned back to me. “You aren’t flirting with me just to get DMV information are you?”
The look on my face must have spoken volumes.
“Sorry,” he said hastily. “See you Wednesday.” He waved over his shoulder as he went out the door.
I sat at my desk feeling perplexed for a few minutes before picking up the phone and calling Hearn’s number. It rang four times.
“Hearn Investigations,” said a gravelly male voice.
“Is this Mr. Hearn?”
“Who wants to know?”
Odd question.
“My name is Bernice Rhodes. I need someone to follow my husband.”
“Well, then, I’m your man.”
I was willing to bet he was. We made an appointment for 3:00 that afternoon.
Before leaving the office I sent an e-mail to CIS, requesting a background check including credit history on Charles Spencer.
Chapter 22
San Mateo is about ten miles north of Redwood City. It’s a conservative, middle-class town, primarily residential, but like all cities, it has a dark side. I parked around the corner from Hearn’s office, locked the car, and walked back, pepper spray in hand. A jeep like the one I’d seen the night before was parked on the street. I checked the license plate and felt my stomach clench. It was a match.
The office was a tacky storefront, the windows filmed with soot and streaked from the last rain. The front door was unlocked, so I opened it and stepped inside.
The outer office was furnished with a metal desk, a brown vinyl couch, and a glass coffee table covered with magazines and fingerprints. Cigar smoke hung in the air.
Ralph Hearn stepped out of a dark hallway. His salt and pepper hair was greasy. He was stocky and in his mid fifties. He looked shorter than the guy Elizabeth and I had encountered at the Fanny Pack, but holding a weapon makes everyone look bigger. There was an angry welt on his forehead.
It took a moment before recognition registered on his face, then his mouth opened, but no sound came out.
“Mr. Hearn?”
“What are you doing here?” he finally said.
“My name is Nicoli Hunter. I think you know why I’m here.”
He was silent, but I decided to wait him out. After a moment he said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m expecting a client. If you’d like to make an appointment …”
“I’m your three o’clock,” I said. “I wanted to make sure you were here when I dropped by.”
He looked cornered at first, and then resigned. “Come on back,” he sighed.
I followed him into a small office at the back of the suite. He removed some file folders from the visitor’s chair and I sat down.
The wall behind Hearn’s desk displayed his framed business license and some enlargements of him golfing, as well as a poster of what appeared to be a younger, trimmer Hearn in the boxing ring. There was an ashtray in the middle of his desk the size of a dinner plate, filled with cigar and cigarette butts. The desk was piled high with case files. The telephone receiver was coated with a yellowish film and the carpet hadn’t been vacuumed in decades. If he was expecting a client he certainly hadn’t made an effort to tidy up, or maybe he had.
I scanned the files on his desk, looking for a familiar name. He saw what I was doing and snatched a folder out of the pile, placing it in his lap drawer, which he locked.
He fished a cigar butt out of the ashtray, lit it, and said, “All right, Nikki. What do you want?”
“Call me Nicoli,” I said. “I want to know who hired you.” Nothing like putting your cards on the table.
He stared at me with hard eyes. “I can’t help you,” he said.
“Look, Ralph, we’re both professionals,” I stretched a point. “I understand client confidentiality, but I’m investigating a murder at the moment and apparently someone wants me to stop. If your client turns out to be the killer, you could be charged as an accessory.” I was making this up, of course, but it sounded like a plausible threat.
He shook his head. “I can’t help you,” he repeated.
“Your choice. Your cover’s blown either way. I’ll make a point of telling everyone involved in the investigation that I spotted you the first time you tailed me. Maybe I’ll even call some local TV stations and newspapers, and tell them about the attempted assault. It might make an amusing human interest story. Local PI turns thug. I promise I won’t make you look good.”
That got his attention. “Wait a minute,” he sputtered. “You wouldn’t really do that, would you?”
“If you tell me who hired you I promise not to confront them with that information, and you can even keep following me if you want to. Just don’t expect it to be easy.”
“I need time to think about this,” he said, stubbing out what was left of his cigar.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I said.
I got up and left. He didn’t bother walking me to the door.
Ralph Hearn was a sleaze, but I could understand his hesitation. A PI never reveals who the client is to the subject.
I drove back to my office, hoping the background on Charles had come in. He seemed emotionally unstable and that worried me.
I checked my e-mail, but there was nothing from CIS.
I updated my case notes, adding the interview with Ralph Hearn, and then reread the entire file again. As I read my notes about Fred, I realized I hadn’t returned his call. I looked up his work number and dialed. When we were connected I told him I’d be happy to have dinner with him on Friday night. My treat. I said I’d meet him at the Garden Grill at 8:00. He sounded pleased.
Chapter 23
The background reports on both Fred and Charles came in Tuesday morning. Charles had no criminal record and appeared to be doing quite well in the stock market. He’d joined Hubner and Ross the year he graduated from Stanford and had purchased his house later the same year. He’d married Ashley only six months ago – perhaps when he’d
finally given up hope of a reconciliation with Laura.
Fred, on the other hand, had an indecent exposure conviction from last year. Probably just a nude sunbathing thing, but it piqued my curiosity. I remembered him saying his father had died recently. I had an unbidden image of Fred pissing on his father’s grave. Too bad I couldn’t ask him about the arrest without tipping my hand.
I called Ralph Hearn a little after 10:00, got his answering machine, and left a message saying he had until noon, and then I planned to make good on my threat. Whenever possible, I do what I say I’m going to do.
I had reached a point in the investigation where I felt stalled. I pulled out some other case files and typed up reports and invoices, paid some bills, and then walked across the street to the mailbox, sending off the reports, the invoices, and the checks I’d written.
I walked back to the office and tidied up my desk, hoping that an organized environment would help me focus. I brewed a fresh pot of Kona and filled a mug, topping it with milk. I sipped the fragrant brew, and plodded back to my desk. Taking the flash drive containing Laura’s file out of my bag, I inserted it in the computer, and saved the updated version yet again, then dropped the drive back into my purse. I lit a cigarette and reread the file, hoping lightning would strike and I’d have some amazing new insight into the case.
When I was finished, I decided I needed to look into the lives of the other two victims, Barbara Herbert and Andrew McConnell. I dug through a stack of old newspapers until I located the stories. Good thing I’d put off recycling.
I read the articles and discovered that Barbara had been employed by the Redwood City Public Library on Middlefield Road, and Andrew had practiced his art at the Mane Line salon on Jefferson. I called the salon to schedule an appointment. When the receptionist asked which stylist I wanted, I asked which of them had been there the longest.