by Nancy Skopin
I took a deep breath and dialed.
“Thanks for calling me back,” she said. “I want you to find out who did this to Stanley.”
My stomach clenched. I’d handled homicide investigations before and while I enjoy a challenge I do not enjoy putting myself in the line of fire. But how could I turn her down?
“Who’s the detective in charge of the case?” I asked.
“Hang on, he gave me his card.” She set the phone down and moments later came back on the line. “Detective Faulkner.”
“Did he seem incompetent to you?”
“No. Quite the opposite. He seemed very bright and kind of intense.”
“So why do you need me?”
“Well, I know you, sort of, and I know you’ll tell me anything you find out. Plus this isn’t Faulkner’s only case.”
“I have other clients, Brooke.”
“Please, Nikki. I need a friend right now.”
She had me cornered. “Okay, I’ll look into it,” I sighed. “Next time you talk to Faulkner tell him I’m conducting an independent investigation and you’d appreciate it if he would speak with me.”
“I can do that.”
“And call me as soon as they ID the body.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” That was the voice of my mentor, Sam Pettigrew. Sam was a retired police detective gone private, and the crusty old PI who’d trained me. At some point during the two years I’d spent working with him his voice had gotten stuck in my head and now it pops out during times of stress, whether I like it or not.
I called Bill and told him Detective Faulkner had caught Stanley’s case. He called me back five minutes later and said he’d put in a call to the SCPD and left a message asking Faulkner to get back to him.
After a long soapy shower, during which I shampooed twice, I dressed in stretchy black jeans, a black halter top, and black boots. I gelled and scrunched my curls and applied mascara and lip gloss. I moved my Ruger from the fanny pack holster to my black pistol purse, which I draped over my shoulder.
When I stepped into the galley where Bill was working on his laptop, his look of appreciation made all the effort worthwhile.
“Are you sure you have to work tonight?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.
“Sorry, but yes. Brooke’s case will occupy my days, and my regular clients deserve some attention too.”
I gave him a kiss, scooped some kibble into Buddy’s dish, and grabbed a light jacket.
Elizabeth’s trawler door was open when I approached her dock steps, and I could hear the theme song for Entertainment Tonight coming from the TV mounted in her galley. For a woman with an IQ in the ‘extremely gifted’ range, Elizabeth is inexplicably drawn to movie and TV star gossip.
I knocked on the open door, and she popped in from the stateroom. Dressed in a lime green mini dress, my diminutive thirty-four-year-old friend looked like a feisty high school cheerleader. Elizabeth has strawberry blond hair, hazel eyes, dimples, freckles, and weighs about a hundred pounds. Since she’s just over five feet tall, the weight is perfect for her.
“Hi, honey. You look great!”
“So do you! Ready to go?”
“Just let me set up the DVR. I don’t want to miss what’s happening with Ryan Gosling. Did you know he and Eva Mendes have a little girl?”
“Um… no?”
I waited patiently while she programmed her DVR, then locked up the trawler. As we walked up the companionway to shore she chattered on about what was happening with her favorite stars. I listened, sort of, and unlocked my BMW. During a lull in the conversation, or rather monologue, I jumped in.
“I have a new case that’s kind of bugging me,” I said.
“Ooh. Tell me everything.”
“Yesterday I met with a woman who was concerned that her boyfriend was having her followed. She said that after dating for eleven months he’d proposed, and when she asked for some time to think about it he went a little OCD. He started fussing about how clean her condo was, or wasn’t, and how much she weighed, and he’d get upset if she was even a minute late for anything. Anyway, she asked me to keep an eye on him, and this morning he got blown up.”
“What? Holy shit! Back up a minute. What did this guy do for a living?”
“Well that’s the thing. He was a CPA. Who would want to kill an accountant?”
“Do you think he was into something illegal, or was maybe blackmailing a client who was into something illegal?”
“Anything is possible. Brooke, that’s my client, wants me to investigate the murder.”
“Oh no. No, no, no. Not again. Nikki, every time you get involved in a murder investigation someone tries to kill you. It’s enough already.”
“Nina Jezek didn’t try to kill me.”
“No, she just stun gunned you and left you on the ground, then slashed Lily’s tire. Why can’t you be happy with restaurant and bar surveillance?”
“Okay, what’s wrong? You’re always the first one onboard when I have a dangerous case and need help.”
“There’s nothing wrong. I just don’t want anything to happen to you. Especially now.”
“Why especially now?”
My question was met with silence.
“Elizabeth… why especially now?”
She brushed a tear from her cheek and turned to face me. “I need you, Nikki. I didn’t realize how much until I started planning the wedding and realized that when I move to Hillsborough we won’t be neighbors anymore.” She sniffled and dug in her purse for a tissue. “It’s over a year away, and I already miss you.” She quietly blew her nose. “And I want you to be my kids’ godmother. So you need to be more careful.” This last sentence was said with a stomp of her size four platform heel on the floorboard of my car.
“Okay. Well, for what it’s worth I already miss you too. And I have every intention of being around to watch your kids grow up.”
By the time we reached San Francisco and Bos, Elizabeth’s tears had dried and we’d promised to see each other at least twice a week after the wedding. She planned to keep her trawler docked at the marina, and she and Jack would be spending some weekends onboard. That made me feel a little better about the future. The wedding was planned for a year from next June, so it was still a long way off, but I’d gotten used to having her just one dock away. In spite of the fact that I was happy she and Jack had found each other, the selfish side of me sometimes regretted making that introduction. Sue me. I’m human.
Bos is located on New Montgomery Street, between Mission & Howard, in the SOMA district of San Francisco. I parked in the Priority Parking lot on 2nd Street and we hoofed it the two blocks to the restaurant.
My mouth started watering as soon as we walked in the door. The wonderful aroma of grilled pork and beef permeated the air. The only thing that might keep me from eating my own bodyweight at this amazing restaurant was the huge painting of a somewhat zaftig nude woman that hung on the wall behind the bar. She was a reminder of what could easily happen to my figure if I indulged myself.
We were seated in a window booth. Our waitress approached, dressed simply in jeans, a short sleeve white blouse, and an apron, and asked if we’d like anything to drink. Elizabeth and I both ordered Perrier, since it was going to be a long night of eating and drinking.
Looking over the menu, I was torn between the Grilled Pork Chops and the Mt. Lassen Trout. What I really wanted was the Sausage Plate, but I was afraid the butterball potato would put me in a carb-induced coma. Eventually the trout won out. When the server returned with our water, I placed my order and turned to Elizabeth.
“I’ll have the Roasted Beet Salad, please.”
“And for an entrée?” the server asked.
“
That is my entrée,” Elizabeth smiled. “I’m getting married soon, so I’m watching my weight.”
The server smiled sweetly, said, “Congratulations,” and collected our menus.
“So tell me more about this new case. Where will you begin?”
“The SCPD detective in charge of the case is named Faulkner. Bill knows him, so he left him a message earlier today. Brooke is also going to ask Faulkner if he’ll talk to me about the case. I won’t know where to begin until I know if it was the explosion that killed Stanley.”
“Hold on. Faulkner, as in William Cuthbert Faulkner, the Nobel laureate?”
“Same last name, different guy,” I said, and smiled at my well educated friend.
I told her about the sound I’d heard just before the explosion, which might have been a gunshot, and about the VW van that had blocked my view of the Mercedes license plate.
Our dinner was exquisite, the service very good, and the patrons enthusiastic. It would have been a fine survey, but our waitress made a fatal error. I had paid with plastic, and when she returned with the credit card slip for me to sign I saw that she had added an additional ten dollars to the tip I’d written on the tab. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the discrepancy, but I’m paid to notice. I collected the receipt and we moved on to Benedetto in Belmont.
Benedetto is a Northern Italian restaurant with an elegant but warm atmosphere. They have a menu to please almost any palate, with a number of entrées that are surprisingly low in both carbs and calories. They’re on Ralston Avenue, just a block from Alameda De Las Pulgas. There was no street parking available at this time of night on a Saturday, so I parked across the street in the Carlmont Shopping Center lot.
It was a good thing I’d made a reservation, because the place was packed. The hostess, a lovely blonde in her mid-thirties, greeted us warmly and escorted us to a booth with a mirrored wall panel, allowing me to watch the servers and customers without being obvious about it. Excellent. She placed menus on the table and asked if we’d like anything from the bar. This time Elizabeth succumbed to her desire for a tall Mudslide, and I ordered a Campari and soda. The hostess made a note, and said our server would be right with us.
We’d barely had time to glance at the menu when our waiter arrived to serve our drinks. He was in his late twenties with a thick head of dark wavy hair, and wore a white shirt with a black tie and black trousers. He actually looked Italian, which was a nice touch. The young man introduced himself as Anthony, visually if not verbally admired Elizabeth’s mini dress, and asked if we’d like to hear the specials. Since part of my job is evaluating waitstaff, of course I nodded.
Anthony extolled the virtues of Orecchiette, which is pasta with sausage, fennel, broccoli rabe, red pepper flakes, and pecorino; and then described the Pansotti all Fiorentina, a spinach and ricotta stuffed pasta served on a bed of tomato sauce and sage. The descriptions of these two specials included a lot of dramatic hand gestures. This guy was definitely Italian.
Even though we’d already consumed one meal, I was drooling again. We asked for a few minutes to look over the menu, and Anthony said, “Very good,” nodded once to Elizabeth’s shapely legs, and departed to check on his other tables. She giggled happily after he’d moved out of earshot.
I was sorely tempted by the pizza and pasta options the menu offered, but decided to stick to my diet and order the Atlantic Salmon entrée. Elizabeth said she was going to have the Bresaola; thinly sliced air-cured beef served with arugula, and low-fat Grana cheese. Apparently she was sticking to her diet as well. When Anthony returned we made our requests, and he winked at Elizabeth while collecting our menus.
“Are you sure you want to tie yourself down?” I asked, tongue in cheek. “Jack’s an amazing guy, but there are so many lovely men just clambering for a chance to go out with you.”
Elizabeth cheerfully nudged me with her elbow. “I’m done playing the field, Nikki,” she said. “This is it for me. Jack is the ONE.”
“Well, I’m happy for you. You know that, right?”
“Of course I do, honey. I just wish the same thing would happen for you.”
I raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean? I’m crazy about Bill.”
“I know you are, and I know you say you love him, but if he was really the ONE you wouldn’t be so hesitant to commit.”
“That’s not true. Bill’s great. I just don’t want to screw up a perfectly good relationship by promising to love him forever. Been there, done that.”
Elizabeth knows my history. I’ve been married and divorced three times, and each time I watched the relationship crumble rapidly after saying, “I do.” I was not going there again.
“Whatever you say. I just want everyone to be as happy as I am.”
I said nothing further on the subject, hoping she would let it drop, and she got the hint.
We were in the middle of our entrées when Bill called me on my cell.
“Can you talk?” he asked.
I gave Elizabeth a thumbs-up as I stepped away from the table, and moved quickly into the hallway leading to the restrooms.
“Okay. Go,” I said.
“There was enough of Stanley’s fingertips left for a positive ID. Faulkner wants to talk to you.”
“Of course he does. I’ll call him in the morning.”
I felt sad for Brooke. I thought about waiting until tomorrow to give her the news. Then I thought about how I would feel if it had been Bill in that explosion, and my eyes heated up.
“Did he say anything about a gunshot wound?” I asked.
“No, but they haven’t done the autopsy yet.”
We ended the call and I returned to our table.
“What’s up honey?” Elizabeth said. “You look like you just got some bad news.”
I leaned in close and told her about the prints proving it was Stanley who had died in the explosion.
“That’s not exactly a surprise, is it? It was his office that blew up, after all.”
“I know. But Brooke was hoping there was some mistake, or that Stanley had escaped out the back door before the explosion.”
“This isn’t your fault, Nikki. Brooke hired you to watch Stanley, not to be his body guard. You need to let it go.” She patted my hand, and resumed eating her low calorie dinner. I sighed and sipped my Campari and soda.
The remainder of our time at Benedetto was delicious, if uneventful. The other diners surrounding us all seemed to enjoy their meals, the atmosphere, and each other. Not that I was complaining, much, but I do like to find something wrong every once in a while, just to prove I’m earning my fees.
Around 10:30 we moved on to Palo Alto and the Caliente Bistro. This would be our last stop of the night, and I was only required to survey the bar area. Caliente served fresh oysters on the half shell, and I was planning to have some for dessert. Maybe that would cheer me up.
I found parking in a public lot on Emerson across the street from the restaurant. We locked the car and made our way to the nearest crosswalk. The evening was cooling off, and Elizabeth tucked her arm through mine and leaned against me, probably for warmth.
We entered Caliente and I steered my friend to the lushly appointed bar. Once we had persuaded a single man to move down one stool, we were able to perch together and observe the crowd and the two very busy bartenders, a man and a woman. Both were wearing black jeans and chartreuse short sleeve shirts.
After a few minutes the woman approached us and asked, “What can I get you tonight?”
“Can I get oysters on the half shell at the bar?” I asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Excellent. And I’ll have an Erdinger Alkoholfrei. In the bottle is fine.” As the name implies, Erdinger is a German non-alcoholic beer with a robust, slightly sweet, flavor.
She turned to Elizabeth, who was looking over the bar selection with wide eyes, never having been to Caliente before. “I’ll have the Flying Dog Raging Bitch Ale, please,” she said with a giggle, “and the Chocolate Budino.”
Ah, there was the Elizabeth I knew and loved. The wedding diet be damned. Chocolate Budino was a flourless chocolate torte. I’d have to sneak a bite.
On the way home I checked my watch, wondering if it was too late to call Brooke. It was almost midnight. She might be asleep. Did I really want to wake her up to tell her Stanley was definitely dead?
I turned to Elizabeth. “Do you think I should call Brooke?”
She cut her eyes to me and shrugged. “I don’t know, honey. It might be better to call her in the morning. If you tell her now she won’t sleep for the rest of the night.”
“I doubt she’s sleeping anyway.”
“But if she is, and you wake her up, she’ll never get back to sleep.”
“Crap.”
“Detective Faulkner may have called her already.”
Somehow that made me feel better. I hate giving people bad news and it didn’t get much worse than this. I decided to wait and talk to Brooke in the morning.
Chapter 8
I didn’t sleep much Saturday night, and used that as an excuse to skip my Sunday morning workout. After a light breakfast and three cups of caffeine, Bill followed me to the Alamo car rental place so I could return the Toyota.
When we got back to the marina, I unlocked my office and saw the voicemail light was blinking. I powered up the computer, then pressed the play button on the phone’s base unit and went into the kitchenette to make coffee. I stepped back out when I heard Brooke’s voice. She was crying and it was hard to understand all the words, but I caught enough to know that Faulkner had called her and told her that Stanley’s body had been positively identified. She also said something about an attorney and a will between sobs, but I missed most of that.