Murder Served Hot

by Nancy Skopin

  I was contemplating what it must be like to live with compulsions you had no control over, and considering my own desire for cigarettes, when a brand new silver Mercedes sedan pulled into Stanley’s parking lot. I took out my mini binoculars and tried to get a look at the license plate, but the driver parked the car with its side to me. A tall, well-built man in his forties, dressed in business casual, got out of the car carrying a small suitcase. Financial records? He beeped the car locked and entered the office.

  I noted the time and a description of the man and his car, and settled in for what promised to be a long day of watching Stanley’s clients come and go. Maybe he was open on Saturdays so they could visit his office without missing work.

  It was already warm outside so I started the engine, turned on the air conditioning, and rolled up the windows.

  After about five minutes I heard a faint popping sound. I supposed it could have been a car backfire, but the automatic clench in my gut told me otherwise. I knew that sound. I looked around, but there were no cars driving by at the moment. I was scanning the neighborhood for any signs of a threat when Stanley’s client burst out of the office, unlocking the Benz with his remote as he ran. I grabbed the binoculars, hoping to get the plate number as he exited the lot. As I raised them to my eyes I caught a glimpse of his face. It was a mask of terror. An instant later he was in his car. I held the binoculars with one hand and reached for my notepad with the other, but as the Mercedes turned to pull out of the lot an old rusted-out orange VW van slowly rolled by, sputtering and coughing, and blocked my view of the Benz, which shot off in the other direction.

  I kept the binoculars up until the van had passed, hoping the Benz would still be close enough for me to get at least a partial plate number, but I was out of luck. I cursed under my breath, wondering why Stanley’s client was in such a hurry, and concerned about what might have caused that popping sound. I quickly checked my watch and logged the time on my notepad, then turned my attention back to Stanley’s office.

  The look on the guy’s face as he’d run outside was really bugging me. I thought about going inside to make sure everything was okay, but the timing of the events told me to be cautious. Besides, if I went inside Stanley would know what I looked like and I’d have to get Jim to follow him in the future.

  The next four minutes passed like molasses and then KABOOM! The small building exploded with a deafening roar and enough force to blow the roof off, sending a shock wave through the Corolla. Car alarms sounded throughout the neighborhood as the roof plummeted back down and crashed on top of Stanley’s Volvo. I scrambled for my cell phone and dialed 911 as I lunged out of the car and ran across the street. The dispatcher answered and I quickly shouted the address, telling her there had been someone inside the building when it blew up. She took my name and cell number and instructed me not to approach the building.

  I disconnected and stood on the sidewalk looking at the destruction and breathing in the acrid, smoke-filled air. All the windows had blown out and there was glass, smoldering wood, and shingles strewn across the parking lot. Black smoke billowed thickly into the sky. There was no wind so the adjacent buildings would probably be spared. Still, I felt obligated to run around knocking on doors to make sure everyone near Stanley’s office was aware of the fire. Even though they couldn’t have missed the explosion, I wanted them to know it had already been called in.

  The San Carlos Fire Department was on Elm Street, maybe six blocks from Stanley’s office. I hoped they had an engine available and were on their way.

  I called Bill. I was shaking from the adrenaline rush and needed to hear the voice of someone who loved me. After telling Bill what had happened and assuring him that I was okay and there was no reason for him to come to my rescue, I called Jim.

  “I think our job has been cancelled,” I said. “The client’s boyfriend just got blown up.”

  Chapter 6

  “Tell me everything,” Jim said calmly.

  “I followed Stanley to his office this morning. He met with a client at nine-oh-five, then the client left and the office exploded.”

  I heard sirens approaching and covered my ear so I could hear Jim.

  “Tell me about the client,” he said.

  “He was driving a new silver Mercedes sedan. Nice looking guy, tall, in his forties, carrying a small suitcase.”

  “I assume he left before the explosion. Did he have the suitcase when he came outside?”

  I thought back. “No, he didn’t. You think there was a bomb in the suitcase?”

  “Maybe. Did you get his plate number?”

  “No.”

  “Did anything else happen before the explosion?”

  “I heard a popping sound. I had the air conditioning on and the windows rolled up, so it wasn’t clear. Might have been a car backfiring, but my gut reacted like it was a gunshot.”

  The police, fire department, and EMTs had arrived in force and the street was now crowded with onlookers, as well as smoke and debris. There was a lot of commotion, and I needed to talk to the cops.

  “I’ll have to call you back, Jim,” I said, and disconnected.

  My eyes were burning and my nose was running from the smoke as I approached a uniformed officer who was attempting to control the crowd and told him my name. “I’m the one who called this in,” I said.

  He looked me over, then pulled his radio off his belt. “It’s Murphy, sir,” he said into the microphone clipped to his collar. “The woman who called dispatch is out here. Yes sir.” He clipped the radio back onto his belt and said, “Sergeant Aimes wants you to wait here. He needs to ask you some questions.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Any chance the guy in the office survived?” I knew the answer, but I also knew that I was going to have to tell Brooke that Stanley was dead, and I wanted corroboration before I made that phone call.

  The cop turned his head and looked at the smoldering remains of the building. “No way,” he said.

  I pointed at the rented Corolla and said, “I’ll be waiting in my car. I need to make a couple of phone calls.” His expression told me he didn’t like that idea, so I said, “I promise I’m not going to leave,” and turned away before he could respond.

  The fire department had cordoned off the street around Stanley’s office building, but luckily I’d parked far enough away that I’d be able to get out when the time came. I closed myself up in the car and dug out my cigarettes, grateful that I’d requested a rental in which I could smoke. I lit one and hit redial on the cell. Jim answered instantly.

  “I only have a minute,” I said, “I have to call Brooke and the cops want to talk to me. I need to reach her before they do.”

  “Because…”

  “Because I don’t want some stranger telling her that Stanley is dead.”

  “Okay. Call me back after you’re done there.”

  We disconnected and I found Brooke’s number on my smartphone. I pressed send, hoping she was home. I glanced out the window as the phone rang. The TV crews were arriving, and I was relieved to be in the car. I didn’t need my face on the six o’clock news again. I’d just gotten back some of the clients I lost after the last time my photo was publicized. Brooke’s answering machine picked up. Please don’t let her be watching television, I silently prayed.

  “Brooke, it’s Nikki. If you’re there…”

  “Nicoli?”

  “Yes. Thank God you’re home.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Something terrible has happened, Brooke. Are you sitting down?”

  “You’re scaring me.”

  “Sorry. Just sit, okay?”

  “All right, I’m sitting.”

  “Brooke, I’m so sorry, but Stanley’s office just blew up, and he was inside. He’s dead.”

  My annou
ncement was met with silence. I waited. Finally she said, “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not joking. I’m in San Carlos across the street from his office. I saw it happen.”

  “That’s impossible. I just talked to him.”

  “When?”

  “He called me this morning to apologize for his behavior last night. Said he was sorry for rushing me, and that he was willing to wait as long as it took for me to make a decision.”

  “What time did he call?”

  “I don’t know, around eighth-thirty I guess. I was having breakfast.”

  “The explosion was a little after nine.” I looked out the car window at the news vans crowding the street. “Turn on channel four.”

  I spotted an older cop approaching my car. “I’ve got to go, Brooke. I have to give a statement to the police, and I need your permission to tell them why I’m here.”

  “Of course,” she whispered. I could hear TV sounds on the other end of the phone. She was starting to believe me.

  “I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I’ll call you back in a little while.”

  I slipped the phone into my pocket, snagged my notebook, and got out of the car. Sergeant Aimes was a tall, gray-haired man, solidly built, maybe fifty. He looked like he worked out, but his once handsome face had been hardened by years of dealing with situations most people couldn’t imagine. I wondered if Bill would eventually become hard around the edges too.

  After we’d introduced ourselves, he said, “Are you the one who called this in to dispatch?”

  “Yes. I was watching the office for a client. I’m a PI.” I gave him my business card and told him Brooke’s name and phone number. He wrote them down.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did Ms. Evans want you to watch the office?”

  “The tenant, Stanley Godard, had proposed to her, and she wanted me to get some background info before accepting. I assume you’ll be contacting her. She can give you the details.”

  He didn’t like my answer, but apparently decided to accept it for the moment.

  “What time did you arrive here this morning?”

  I consulted my notebook. “Eight fifty-five.”

  “And then what happened?”

  I told him about Stanley’s client in the Benz, about the popping sound I’d heard, the noisy VW van, and, finally, the explosion.

  “I don’t suppose you got the plate number of the Mercedes,” he said.

  “The van blocked my view. The client had a small suitcase with him when he went inside,” I said, “but not when he came back out.”

  He looked at me. “You think there might have been a bomb in the suitcase?”

  “It’s possible. At the time I thought it might be financial records.”

  “Huh.”

  He wrote my home and cell phone numbers on the business card I’d given him and thanked me for my time. I got back in the Corolla. There was no point in hanging out here any longer. I started the engine, dialed Brooke’s number, and put the phone on speaker mode as I pulled away from the curb and made a U-turn, navigating around double parked news vans.

  This time Brooke picked up after one ring.

  “How are you doing?” I asked.

  “I can’t believe it’s true,” she said, sounding dazed. “I turned on the TV and I saw the office, or what’s left of it. Are you sure he was in there?”

  “Pretty sure. I saw him go in the front door and I didn’t see him come out again. Did the office have a back door?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then there’s a remote possibility he went out the back before the building blew up.”

  “I guess a remote chance is better than none,” she said wistfully. “What should I do?”

  “The police will be in touch with you. When you talk to them, ask if they recovered a body from the scene. They’ll want to know why you hired me. Tell them as much as you’re comfortable with.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I said you wanted some background information on Stanley before you accepted his proposal.”

  “Thank you, Nicoli.”

  “Please, call me Nikki. Let me know what the police tell you about Stanley’s body.” I cringed at the way that sounded. “Sorry, Brooke.”

  We disconnected and I called Jim on my way to the marina. He asked me to go over the sequence of events again.

  “I followed Stanley from his house to his office. Watched him turn the lights on and off seven times. The guy in the Mercedes arrived with his suitcase and went inside. I heard the popping sound. The client ran out of the office and got in his car. He looked totally freaked. As he was driving away I tried to get his plate number, but an old VW rattle-trap van drove by and blocked my view. Four minutes later the office blew up. I called nine-one-one and reported the explosion. Then the police, EMTs, and fire department arrived, followed by the press.”

  “How long before the client ran out did you hear the popping sound?”

  “Only a few seconds.”

  “So if it was a gunshot, maybe the client shot Stanley, or he was in the office when someone else did.”

  “According to Brooke, there was a back door. I could only see the front door from where I was parked.”

  “Maybe the killer was inside waiting for Stanley, but then the client came in.”

  “If that’s the case, why wouldn’t he wait until the client was gone?”

  “I don’t know. Bomb was on a timer?”

  We tossed ideas back and forth until I pulled into the marina parking lot. I told Jim I’d let him know if I heard anything else. Maybe Bill could use his connections to get the autopsy results, providing Stanley’s body was in the building when it blew. As much as I wanted to believe he might have escaped the blast, I thought it extremely unlikely.

  I walked down to the boat rather than going to my office. I wanted some time with Buddy and Bill before I sat down at the computer to document the morning from hell.

  The marina where I live and work houses five gates, or docks, and about five hundred yachts, half of which are owned by individuals and families who live aboard as I do. The office complex that surrounds the marina is comprised of five two-story, wooden structures which are painted light gray with white trim. The first floor corner offices that face the water, like mine, have almost floor to ceiling windows that slide open. The grounds are lush and well maintained. Just across the street is the Bair Island Wildlife Refuge, which is an excellent place to wander around with your dog.

  As I walked down the companionway to the docks I inhaled the scent of the bay combined with the odors of sawdust and varnish from the many boat owners who choose to spend their weekends working on maintenance projects.

  I was halfway down the dock when Bill and Buddy came out to meet me.

  “Buddy saw you come in the gate,” Bill said, by way of explanation.

  “What a smart boy.”

  I gave each of them a hug and felt my pulse slow to normal again.

  We all sat in the main salon watching the local news report. Someone’s remains were being wheeled out of Stanley’s office in a black body bag, and loaded into the coroner’s van.

  I turned to Bill. “You know anyone with the SCPD?”

  “A few people. Who caught the case?”

  “I spoke with Sergeant Aimes.”

  “He’s good, but he’s not a detective. He’ll pass it off to either Abrahams or Faulkner.”

  “I need to know if Stanley was shot before he got blown up.”

  I told him about the sound I’d heard before the client ran out of the office.

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “Thanks.”

/>   After more human and canine hugs, I shuffled up to my office.

  Chapter 7

  I tried to appreciate the beautiful day as I walked along the dock, but I just couldn’t get the experience of the explosion out of my head. My clothes and hair reeked of the acrid smoke. I asked myself who would want to kill a CPA. Had Stanley uncovered something illegal that one of his clients wanted to keep hidden? I thought about the guy who had visited Stanley this morning and the look of panic on his face when he ran out of the office. He hadn’t looked like a killer to me, but I’d only seen him from a distance. Besides, maybe it was his first time. That could account for the horror. I remembered when I’d had to kill someone, and the shock that swallowed me up afterwards. But I hadn’t planned a murder. I had acted in self-defense.

  I unlocked the office and absently pressed the play button to access my messages. Brooke’s voice filled the room.

  “Hi, Nikki. The police just left. They said they found a body in the rubble and they think it was Stanley. They’re probably right. Who else could it be?” Her voice cracked slightly. “They asked me if I knew who his dentist was. I guess the body was badly burned,” she choked on the words. “Anyway, I told them I hired you because Stanley’s behavior had changed since he proposed. They wanted details. I felt like I was betraying Stanley, but I told them everything. The detective wrote it all down and said he’d contact me when they have a positive ID. Could you call me back when you get this message?” She left her home number.