Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (2 page)

Chapter 2

T
hursday morning arrived without fanfare. Sunny skies, with a light breeze, and only seventy-five degrees at 8:00 a.m. The air conditioning in the office complex was on the fritz again so I opened a couple of windows to create a cross draft.

The marina where I live and work is in Redwood City, California. I live aboard a forty-six foot Cheoy Lee motor sailor called
Turning Point
. Two years ago I qualified for my private investigator’s license, got divorced, and moved onto the sailboat. It was definitely a turning point in my life.

The complex consists of five office buildings, one exceptionally good restaurant, and six gates, or docks, within which are housed approximately five hundred yachts. About two hundred and fifty of the yachts are owned by individuals and families who live aboard, as I do.

Across the street from the marina is the Bair Island Nature Preserve. It’s a safe place for egrets and herons to roost, in spite of the fact that people come from all over the county to walk their dogs there.

Redwood City is a small town by California standards. The weather is generally mild, although in the summer the temperature occasionally climbs to over a hundred degrees, and the coast gets a lot of wind.

I’d heard on the news that Kate Howard and her husband lived in Atherton, an affluent community just south of Redwood City.

Since our appointment wasn’t until 10:00, I had time for a workout. I finished typing the reports from last night, then locked up the office and drove around the corner to the gym.

I work out regularly and I try to live on the Zone Diet, but sometimes I cheat. Coffee is not on the Zone Diet, it turns out, and neither is Guinness, but I make an effort. I don’t do these things because I’m obsessed with my appearance. I do them because my self-esteem is affected by my behavior. Being a trained observer, I’ve noted with some dismay that I exhibit guilt symptoms when I drink to excess, don’t work out often enough, or eat unhealthy food. The guilt undermines my self-confidence, which leads to additional self-destructive behavior. It’s a vicious circle.

After an exhaustive workout I drove back to the marina and showered aboard the boat, scrunched up my curls, applied mascara, lip gloss and my usual work clothes, and hiked back up to the office complex.

Kate Howard was punctual, dry-eyed, and one snappy dresser. She was probably in her late forties, but she didn’t look a day over thirty-five. Her hair was shoulder length, honey blonde with highlights, and expensively cut to frame her heart-shaped face. She was about five-eight, her eyes were blue, and her skin was like porcelain. She was dressed in a teal silk shell and form-fitting David Kahn jeans. Her shoes were Stuart Weitzman leopard print flats and they matched her belt and her microscopic shoulder bag. In spite of the compassion I wanted to feel for this woman, I thought there might be something wrong with anyone who looked this put-together while enduring such a monumental loss.

I was dressed in Eddie Bauer cargo shorts, a short sleeve white cotton shirt, and New Balance Cross Trainers. I had tidied up the office, but I rarely alter my dress code even for socialites from Atherton. I do my best thinking when I’m comfortable.

I stood up as Kate drifted toward my desk, and shook her hand. It was limp, cool, and felt as though it had recently been exfoliated. I always make a point of shaking hands with someone I’m meeting for the first time. I’ve found that my intuition kicks in when I make physical contact, as long as I have no preconceived opinion, and providing the individual in question doesn’t remind me in some way of my mother, my father, or my cousin Aaron – the three people most likely to push my buttons. Any similarity to one of them disables my objectivity.

I offered Kate coffee and she declined when she found out I didn’t have decaf. I don’t believe in decaf. Either it’s coffee or it’s not, and decaf isn’t coffee.

Kate carefully examined my visitor’s chairs before selecting the one on the right and sitting down. She heroically resisted the urge to dust it off. For the record, the chair wasn’t dirty, it was just old.

My little ground floor office isn’t elegant, but it’s not shabby either. Two of my four walls are almost floor-to-ceiling windows that slide open, and the double front doors have glass panes in them. The view from my desk encompasses a substantial portion of the marina, including my boat and those of my neighbors, as well as the lush grounds of the office complex. I can see the sky, the earth, and the water. The view satisfies a fundamental need I have to stay in touch with nature.

My carpet is only three years old and a rich shade of forest green. I have a safe concealed behind a framed photo of the Great Wall of China, three file cabinets, a fax machine, one black-and-white and one color printer, two straight-backed visitor’s chairs, and my own ergonomic swivel chair behind the desk. The desk itself is solid oak and it took four of Bekins’s burly movers to get it in from the truck.

On top of my desk is a Dell desktop computer, a three-line telephone, an in-tray, an out-tray, an ashtray, and a few stacks of file folders. The files I keep atop my desk are not of the confidential variety. Those I lock in my Pendaflex drawer.

I keep a Ruger revolver in a Velcro holster strapped to the bottom of my lap drawer. I haven’t needed it yet, but I grew up watching Mom’s Thin Man videos so I feel more secure knowing it’s there.

I have a kitchenette equipped with a toaster oven, a coffee maker, and a small refrigerator, as well as a sink and garbage disposal. I keep a portable cabinet with a TV and VCR/DVD player in the kitchen, so I can view surveillance tapes and discs. I store the TV in the kitchenette so my clients won’t think I spend my days watching
soaps
. I have a private bathroom, unlike most of the offices in the complex. This was a major selling point, along with the fact that the office is only a hundred and fifty yards from my boat.

Kate’s face was expressionless as she sat before me. Maybe that was how she avoided getting character wrinkles – no expression, no wrinkles. I waited silently. After looking around my office, she took a deep breath and volunteered a summary of her deceased daughter’s life.

“Laura was luminous child,” she began. “When she smiled it was like the sun coming out. She was intelligent and affectionate, and she did well in school. She was the center of our universe, Ms. Hunter. But when she turned twelve something changed. Suddenly she was drifting away from us. She stopped studying, and her grades fell…she became defiant.

“Laura didn’t finish college,” she continued, in an apologetic tone. “She went to Stanford and got her BA, but then she just dropped out.”

In what cosmos
, I wondered,
does getting only a Bachelor’s degree mean you’re dropping out?

“She still lived at home, but we didn’t see much of her. Derrick has his company to run, and I do a lot of charity work.”

I took notes while Kate spoke, but I was already having some doubts about taking the case.

“Laura was our only child,” she said wistfully. “I loved my daughter, Ms. Hunter, but I haven’t been able to reach her for years.”

Kate stopped talking and looked at me expectantly.

“How did you hear about me?” I asked.

“I looked in the yellow pages. I wanted someone local and I wanted a woman. I thought a woman would be more sensitive.”

She had me there.

“And what do you hope I’ll accomplish?”

“I want to know why…” She finally broke down. Her perfect face seemed to collapse in on itself, her eyes and lips squeezed shut as if to contain her emotions. She opened her purse, desperately searching for a Kleenex. I pushed the box I keep on my desk toward her and she gratefully accepted two tissues, which she applied underneath her eyes to keep her mascara from running, and to her nose, which she delicately blew.

I had been wrong about Kate. She was using every ounce of strength she possessed to stay in control. After a minute, she continued. “I want to know why my daughter was killed. And I want to know that someone is dedicated to finding the person who did this to her. I want him to pay for taking her life.”

“Do you have any ideas about that?”

“No, but I didn’t really know her anymore. I don’t know any of her friends.” Her eyes grew distant.

“Have you already had the funeral?”

“Three days ago.”

Damn.
I had always envisioned handling a murder case where I’d catch my first glimpse of the killer at the victim’s funeral. I read a lot of mystery novels.

“I’ve had our attorney request that you be shown the police file on the investigation,” Kate said. “When you’re ready to look at it you can call Detective Bill Anderson at the Redwood City Police Department.”

A look at the case notes would be a tremendous help. It’s next to impossible to get your hands on an open homicide file. I know this from watching television. Kate’s attorney must have some serious clout.

I made a note of Anderson’s name and asked Kate for her home address and phone number, her husband’s work number, a picture of Laura, and the names and phone numbers of any family members with whom Laura might recently have been in touch. As an afterthought, I asked if she knew Laura’s social security number. This would allow me to do additional research through Criminal Investigative Services, a.k.a. CIS, the service I use for background checks.

She gave me a wallet-size picture of Laura, and wrote down her address and phone number. She took out her BlackBerry Smartphone and read me the home number of Derrick’s sister Sylvia, who lived in Los Angeles. She also had to look up her husband’s number at InSight Software.

“New number?” I asked.

“No. I just don’t call him very often.”

I raised an eyebrow.

While I waited, Kate made a call, asking the person who answered for Laura’s social security number. She jotted down the number and handed it to me, slipping the phone back into her bag.

“I’m willing to do a preliminary investigation,” I said, “after which I’ll let you know if I’m going to take the case.” 

Kate nodded.

I told her my hourly rate, adding ten percent for hazard pay. This would be my first murder investigation and I had no idea what kind of risk might be involved. Before I could ask for a retainer, Kate took out her wallet and wrote me a check for two thousand dollars. More than adequate. I entered her name and the amount of the retainer on a standard contract, dated, and printed it. We both signed, and I gave her a copy of the agreement.

“I’d like to look at Laura’s room this afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”

“That should be fine,” she said. “I plan to be home all day.”

After Kate left I looked at the photo she’d given me. It was Laura’s high school graduation picture. She had been a lovely young woman with long blonde hair, her mother’s perfect complexion, and unnaturally bright blue eyes.

I called the Redwood City Police Department and asked for Detective Anderson. After I held for almost three minutes he came on the line.

“Anderson.”

“Hello, Detective. My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a PI working for…”

“I know who you are,” he interrupted me. “You can come by and look at the binder anytime in the next hour. I may not be available after that.”

“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Fine.” He hung up without another word.

Of course he wasn’t happy about showing me
the binder
. I couldn’t blame him, but he didn’t have to be snarky about it.

Before leaving the office I brushed my teeth and put on fresh lip gloss. I photocopied the check from Kate so I’d have a record of the information it contained, then dropped my Cyber-shot mini-camera into my purse. I didn’t know if Anderson would leave me alone with the binder, but if he did, I didn’t want to waste time taking notes when I could just point and shoot.

Outside, the blue sky was reflected in the still water of the marina making it look almost clean. There was a slight breeze and the temperature was seventy-nine degrees according to the thermometer I keep on the wall outside my office.

I decided to walk. The Redwood City Police Department is located on Maple Street, which is just a footbridge, a second marina, and a boatyard away from my office. As I walked, I smoked an American Spirit organic cigarette. I’m ambivalent about fresh air.

Going over my conversation with Kate in my head, I automatically compared the family portrait she had painted to my own. She had said Laura was the center of their universe. I’m the only child of a Cossack and a former nun. My mother was a sister, a thirty-year-old virgin holy woman, when she met up with a haunted Russian soldier so in need of salvation that she devoted the rest of her life to his spiritual rescue.

The mingling of these two unlikely sweethearts explains to some extent my cynicism about organized religion, my compulsion to save people, and my predisposition to stand and fight when the wiser course of action might be a hasty retreat. I also have an overdeveloped sense of justice coupled with an inherent distrust of authority figures. It works for me. I am not, however, nor have I ever been the center of my parent’s universe. In spite of the fact that Laura was dead. I kind of envied her family’s devotion to her.