Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries)

by Nancy Skopin

  We arrived back at the marina at half past ten and even before we got out of the car we heard D’Artagnon barking. If he sees, hears, or smells anyone he doesn’t recognize, he sounds an alarm that can be heard throughout the marina. Thinking of Ralph Hearn’s death, I wondered who was on the docks that didn’t belong there. I was glad I’d locked my pilothouse before going out. I don’t normally lock the boat, but I’d been feeling paranoid since the attempted mugging.

  I walked with Elizabeth to her trawler and thanked her for coming out with me. On the way to my boat I stopped to scratch behind D’Artagnon’s ears and asked him what he’d been barking at. He responded by leaning his forehead up against mine. D’Artagnon does this a lot. It’s an expression of affection, like a canine hug, and it always touches my heart.

  Chapter 26

  D’Artagnon started barking again at 2:40 Thursday morning. His tone was so outraged that I briefly considered going outside to see what was bothering him, but I was too tired to get out of bed and after a few minutes he stopped. I drifted back to sleep and dreamed I was being stalked by a faceless man with a hatchet.

  I slept until 7:00 and woke up feeling anxious, still caught in the nightmare. I rolled out of bed, showered on board, and lingered over coffee and low fat lactose free yogurt while I watched the morning news. The murder of Ralph Hearn was a featured story.

  At 9:00 I walked up to the office to check my e-mail and phone messages before going to the Mane Line to show Kurt the pictures of Charles and Fred. As I inserted my key in the lock the door swung open. I sucked in a breath and drew the Glock from my purse holster, dropping my bag on the ground.

  All my senses went on high alert. I felt goose bumps erupt on my arms and neck. I knew I’d locked the office last night. My heart beat like a jackhammer as I stepped over the threshold, and my vision seemed to expand, taking in everything at once. The notepad on my desk was slightly askew. My swivel chair had been moved away from the desk. I always push the chair up against the desk before leaving to conceal the Ruger holstered under the lap drawer. The color printer near my wall safe had been moved a few inches to the left and the framed photo that covers the safe was slightly crooked.

  I checked under the desk for my Ruger. It was still there.

  At first glance nothing appeared to be missing. I walked slowly through the office. The computer, the printers, the fax machine, the microwave, the TV, and the VCR/DVD player were all in place. I reached the hallway and saw that the bathroom door was closed. I never close the bathroom door. It’s a tiny room and I get a little claustrophobic in there, so I lock my front door to insure privacy, rather than closing the door when I’m in the bathroom. Fortunately, the bathroom door faces the hallway and is not visible from the front of my office. My claustrophobia stems from childhood punishments; being locked in my bedroom.

  I held the Glock in my right hand, took a deep breath, and flung the bathroom door open, crouching to make less of a target. The door slammed back against the wall and I could see in an instant that the room was empty, but there was no doubt someone had been in my space. The marina complex employs a janitorial service, but they only clean the public restrooms and the hallways. They don’t even have keys to the offices.

  I walked back to the front door, retrieved my purse, and locked the door.

  There was a message on my machine from Bill, asking me to give him a call when I got in. He’d called at 2:20 a.m. That was odd. I knew I’d given him my home number.

  I booted up the computer and checked the file on Laura. All my files are password protected, but I checked the properties anyway. It hadn’t been opened since I’d saved it the day before. I unlocked the Pendaflex drawer and took out the folder on Laura’s case. It was just a bunch of notes, some pictures, Laura’s AMEX statements, the phone bill, the printed pages I’d photographed of the murder book, and the CIS reports.

  Something felt funny to me. Handling the folder, I got goose bumps on my arms again. It’s easy to pick the lock on a desk drawer. Maybe the intruder had left his scent on the paper. Pheromones are subtle, yet they influence our every response to each other.

  I picked up the phone, put it down again, and took out my cell. I called Bill Anderson and told him the office had been broken into.

  “Have you got your door locked now?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Keep it locked. I’ll be right over.”

  “Can you bring a fingerprinting kit with you?”

  “Sure, but stay put, and don’t open the door for anyone until I get there.”

  While I was waiting for him to arrive I paced behind my desk, smoked a cigarette, and tried not to touch anything. I let my mind drift over the events of the past few days, trying to remember everything that had happened; lunch with Betsy from the library, my visit with Kurt at the Mane Line, the second trip to Derrick’s office, the phone call with Fred Wulf, the confrontation with Charles Spencer, Ralph Hearn’s death, my interview with Detective Dietrich, and my growing attraction to Bill.

  I decided it was probably safe to handle the coffee pot.

  When Bill arrived I noticed dark circles under his eyes and offered him a cup.

  “Please,” he said, glancing dubiously at the Glock positioned on my desk blotter.

  “Black?”

  “Yeah, black is good.”

  I poured us both coffee and as he tasted his a vague smile crossed his face. I buy good coffee. It’s one of my indulgences. I sat down behind my desk.

  “Nikki, there’s been another murder,” Bill said.

  My heart started pounding again. I tried to set down my cup, but my hand was shaking badly and I splashed some coffee on the desk blotter.

  “Oh God,” I croaked. “Please tell me it wasn’t Kurt.”

  Bill stared at me. I felt my eyes heat up and tried not to cry.

  “You knew him?” he asked.

  I sat there fighting the tears, unable to speak. The guilt was overwhelming. Eventually I collected myself enough to respond. “I told you he cut my hair yesterday,” I said, absentmindedly touching my head. “I was going back today to show him pictures of Fred Wulf and Charles Spencer. He said Andrew McConnell had been dating a man, and he could identify him. Someone must still be tailing me, but I swear I haven’t noticed anyone since Sunday night.” I took a breath. “How was he killed?”

  “You don’t want to know. Is there more coffee?”

  “You’re going to tell me. I have a right to know. And you’d better get someone over to the library to keep an eye on Betsy at the reference desk.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I talked to her too. Weren’t you listening yesterday? She worked with Barbara Herbert. I took her to lunch. I was going to see her later today with the same pictures. She probably won’t be able to ID the guy Barbara was with. She only saw him once, across a dark parking lot. But if I’m being followed, anyone I’ve questioned is at risk.”

  He handed me his empty cup and took out his cell phone.

  I refilled his cup while he called the precinct and arranged for someone to keep an eye on Betsy. When he hung up I looked at him expectantly.

  “It’s ugly,” he said.

  I sat back down, lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. “Okay. I’m ready.”

  “Apparently Kurt was drinking at the I-Ching bar last night. Toxicology says someone slipped him some triazolam. It’s a tranquillizer, also known as Halcion.”

  “I know what Halcion is. They’ve already done the autopsy?”

  “Yeah.”

  I remembered the Guinness I’d spilled on Fred at The Wall and got a queasy feeling in my stomach.

  “He was drinking Jack Daniel’s, according to the bartender,” Bill continued. His voice was dispassionate, and he was watching my face, gauging my reaction. “His body wa
s found in the alley behind the bar by a homeless couple. It’s the same alley where Barbara Herbert was killed. Something had been driven through his left eye and into his brain. Probably an ice pick. He’d also been raped, uh, sodomized.”

  I was wrong. I wasn’t ready to hear this at all. I got up and ran for the bathroom. When I finished vomiting coffee and yogurt into the toilet, I brushed my teeth and rinsed with Listerine. I returned to my desk and lit a fresh cigarette.

  “You said he’d been raped. How do they know it was forced?”

  “Trauma to the surrounding tissue. Trojan Supra condom, again.”

  “Kurt was a big guy.”

  “He apparently had enough of the drug in him to make him passive, plus his blood alcohol level was extremely high.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening. It’s all my fault.”

  “We don’t know for sure that there’s a connection.”

  “Oh, please. Kurt described the man Andrew was dating to me. He said he was very GQ and full of himself. That sounds like Fred Wulf. Have they found a file on me in Hearn’s computer?”

  “No, but he didn’t use his computer much. All of his current case files were handwritten.”

  “Can you post a surveillance team outside Wulf’s house, and one outside Charles Spencer’s? And Derrick Howard should be watched too.” Might as well cover all my suspects at the RCPD’s expense while I was at it. Rod Howard lived in San Francisco. I wondered if Bill could have someone watch him too. My head was spinning. I took a deep breath.

  “We’ve been watching Fred Wulf and both Derrick and Rod Howard,” Bill said. “Apparently Fred and Derrick stayed home last night.”

  “There’s a side entrance to Wulf’s garage.”

  He frowned at me and checked his notebook. “His lights were on until midnight, then they went out one room at a time. His Jag was parked in the driveway all night.”

  “He could be using automatic timers on the lights and maybe he rented or borrowed another car, or slipped out the side door and took a cab. Hell, he could have walked to Redwood City. It’s only a couple of miles. What about Derrick?”

  “He and his wife were visible through the front window until ten-fifteen, then the living room lights were turned off and lights in an upstairs bedroom toward the back of the house went on. The upstairs lights went out at ten-thirty.”

  “And his car was in the garage all night?”

  “The garage doors were closed all night. Rod Howard went out, but didn’t leave San Francisco.”

  “You’re probably going to be too busy for dinner tonight.”

  “I’ve gotta eat,” he said. “I just won’t have as much time as I would have liked.” He stood and walked around the desk. When I got up he wrapped his arms around me. “Don’t take it personally, Nikki. It’s not about you. I’ll see you at eight.” And he kissed me on the forehead.

  I was speechless. There was some profound chemistry here and it had been a long time since I’d experienced profound chemistry. Then I remembered Kurt and plopped back into my chair.

  “Lock the door behind me,” Bill said, as he exited. He stood outside the office until I got up and threw the deadbolt latch.

  After he left I sat at my desk for several minutes feeling dazed. Then I added Kurt’s death to the growing file on Laura Howard. It was obvious to me that all the murders, starting with Laura’s, had been committed by the same monster. I read through the file again, wondering about the people I’d met since taking this case. In reality, any one of them could be the killer.

  It struck me that Bill and I had both forgotten to do anything about the fingerprints in my office. Oh well. If it was the killer who broke in, there probably wouldn’t be any prints.

  After typing up the previous night’s reports, I secured the Glock in my purse holster and drove to the library.

  Chapter 27

  As I pulled into the library parking lot I remembered that Betsy didn’t start work until 12:00. It was barely 10:00. Since I was already there, I decided to go inside.

  To my surprise, I discovered Betsy working alone at the reference desk. There was a plainclothes officer seated at a nearby table; a clean-cut man in his early thirties, dressed in jeans and a polo shirt. He was reading a paperback novel and he looked up whenever someone approached. He glanced at me briefly, then went back to his book. I guess I didn’t appear threatening to him.

  “Hi, Betsy,” I said. “I thought you didn’t come in until noon.”

  “Normally I don’t, but Carlie is out sick today.”

  I decided not to waste words. I took the envelope out of my purse and placed the pictures of Fred Wulf and Charles Spencer on the desk in front of her. Betsy looked down and furrowed her brow.

  “I assume you want me to tell you if either of these men is the one I saw with Barb that night.”

  “Yes,” I said. “If you can.”

  She picked up each picture and studied it, then shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just not sure. It could be this one,” she pointed at one of the photos of Fred, “but it was dark. I’m really sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, tucking the pictures back into the envelope. “Thanks for trying.”

  The officer looked up again as I left, and checked out the next person in line. It appeared Betsy was in capable hands. If someone was following me, I hoped it was obvious that she hadn’t been of any help.

  I went back to the office, locked myself in, and reread and printed my entire file on Laura Howard. I decided to hide a hard copy of the file in case something happened to me, the flash drive, and my computer. It was fifty-one pages long. I stuffed it into a large manila envelope, which I set by the door so I wouldn’t forget it when I was ready to leave.

  I glanced outside as I put the envelope down and noticed a man standing near one of the pillars, smoking a cigarette. I hadn’t seen him in the complex before. He was over six feet tall and had red hair and fair skin. He was heavy set, wearing a dress shirt with slacks, but no tie or jacket. He was turned so that my office was peripherally visible to him, but he wasn’t looking directly at me. I wondered if he was the link between me and the killer, or if maybe this was the killer himself. I decided to find out.

  I slung the pistol purse over my shoulder, and, turning my back to the door, compulsively press-checked the Glock to be sure it was loaded and had a round in the chamber. I snatched up the envelope, exited the office, and locked it behind me. After locking the door I tried the knob, just to be sure. When I turned around the red-haired man was gone.

  I walked casually to the parking lot, unlocked the 2002, and got in. I drove to the marina management office and parked. I checked the box where I receive my personal mail. Nothing but junk mail. As I was getting back into my car I noticed a midnight blue, late model Volvo with tinted windows pulling into a space nearby. The windows were too dark for me to see who was driving. When I pulled out of the lot the Volvo did not follow.

  I drove to the gym, just around the corner on Veterans Boulevard, and parked at the farthest corner of the lot near Whipple Avenue so I could watch the street where Bair Island Road exits onto Whipple. After about a minute the blue Volvo drove out, and sure enough, it made a left on Veterans, then a left on Convention Way. It didn’t enter the fitness center lot, but it was nearby. This led me to the conclusion that whoever was driving the car was not actually tailing me. They didn’t have to. They had attached a transmitter to my car.

  I drove straight to the Redwood City Police Department, parked in front of the main entrance, locked the car, jogged up the steps, and blew into the lobby.

  L Ketteridge was behind the front desk. I asked her if Detective Anderson was in. She grinned happily, said she would check, and winked at me.

  Three minutes later Bill entered the lobby, looking worried. How could so
meone this sensitive handle the job he had to do every day?

  “What’s up, Nikki?” he asked.

  “I think there’s a transmitter somewhere on my car,” I whispered. “Do you have one of those bug detector thingies?”

  “Yes,” he said, moving me toward the door. “But not here. I’ll bring it to dinner tonight. Can it wait that long?”

  “I guess. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ll see you later.”

  “It’s no bother,” he said, squeezing my arm. “Be careful.”

  He held the door for me and watched until I was safely inside my car.

  I scanned the small parking lot as I drove to the street. The Volvo was nowhere in sight. I felt like an idiot. I was supposed to be this big, tough detective, and I didn’t even have the hardware necessary to check for transmitters. I thought about taking a drive to Radio Shack to pick something up, but decided to play cat-and-mouse with my tail instead.

  I went to the Albertson’s market in San Carlos, parked in a side lot under a tree, and walked back to the street. I hid behind a fenced-in dumpster at the corner of the building and waited. Two minutes later the Volvo drove into the main lot. It made the rounds of the various parking areas, slowly cruising up and down each aisle and, eventually, rolled around the side of the building where my car was located. The driver returned to the main lot, and parked. No one got out of the car.

  I entered the store and purchased some lunch items to restock the office fridge, taking my time at it. I know from personal experience that the most maddening part of any surveillance is waiting for something to happen.

  Driving home I kept checking my rearview mirror, but he wouldn’t be close enough to spot. He didn’t have to be. I hadn’t gotten the license plate number and I was kicking myself for that as I unlocked the office door.

  I unpacked the groceries and decided to give the office a thorough cleaning. I needed to wash away the feeling of having my space violated. I dusted file cabinets, washed walls and baseboards, cleaned the toilet, wiped the bathroom shelves, and even cleaned the refrigerator. When I’d exhausted myself I locked up and walked down to my boat.