Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (3 page)

Chapter 3

B
ill and I had arrived back at the Marina and were walking down the companionway to the dock when I had an impulse to stop and knock on the door of Elizabeth’s trawler. I needed a reality check, but it was late and her lights were off. I decided I could wait until morning to bend her ear about my reunion experience.

Elizabeth is my sounding board when I can’t figure out what’s right in front of me. She’s a strawberry blonde pixie about five feet tall with a genius level IQ, and my closest female friend. I wanted to share everything that had happened tonight with her. I needed to decompress by telling her about the people I hadn’t seen for so long, but wished I’d stayed in touch with, and the people who had been assholes in high school and apparently still were. I wanted to hear what she would say about my lusting after Steve, even though I was in a ‘relationship’ with Bill. I knew Elizabeth would be able to put everything in perspective. I’d have to invite myself over tomorrow for an early morning chat.

We continued down the dock to my boat, where we shucked off our clothes and crawled into the queen-size bunk with a minimum of conversation. Once we were in bed Bill rolled onto his side and pulled me close, copping a feel and nuzzling my neck, then promptly began snoring. This is one of his gifts. No matter what’s going on in his life, no matter how disconcerting the cases he’s working on may be, he can always sleep.

I am of the opposite variety, an almost chronic insomniac. I only sleep soundly when everything in my life is running smoothly. If anything is amiss, I’m awake. I don’t know how to disconnect. I’ve tried herbs and vitamins and the usual over-the-counter remedies, but nothing seems to work. I even went to a therapist once. Her name was Loretta Dario, and Bill had suggested I talk with her about my reaction to taking a life. He had been right. Even though I’d killed in self-defense, the psychological impact was devastating, and I’d had a
lot
of sleepless nights.

What I really wanted as I lay in bed next to my snoring lover, replaying every minute of the evening, was a cigarette. Because quitting had been such a difficult process for me, as long as I remembered how hard it was I probably wouldn’t smoke again. The trouble would begin when I reached the point where I no longer recalled the ordeal of quitting. Then the temptation might get the best of me.

I picked up Michael Connelly’s last Harry Bosch novel and read until my eyes would no longer focus. I finally drifted off, and dreamt that something was burning. The smell was so strong in my dream that it woke me. I sat up in bed sniffing the air like a hound who’s lost the scent of her prey. The clock said it was 5:13, and Bill was still snoring softly by my side.

A couple of my neighbors have wood stoves onboard their boats, but now that I was awake, the smell was no longer evident. Still, the dream had alarmed me enough that I didn’t trust my senses, so I climbed out of bed, careful not to wake Bill, and walked through each of my rooms, sniffing and checking electrical outlets. When I was satisfied that nothing onboard was burning, I pulled on a robe and climbed up into the pilothouse, opened the outer door, and breathed in the cool morning air. Nothing was burning outside either. I was too agitated to attempt sleep again, so I sat down in the pilothouse and waited for sunrise.

I must have fallen asleep, because around 8:00 I was awakened by the scent of coffee, fried eggs, and bacon. Bill can eat whatever he wants without any negative consequences. If I eat anything fried I have to add an hour to my workout. This doesn’t stop me from sneaking an occasional strip of bacon off of his plate, however. I stood, stretched, and backed down the companionway into the galley.

Bill gave me a lopsided smile. “You’re sleeping in the pilothouse now?”

“Don’t look so amused. I thought I smelled smoke and got up to check all the outlets. Then I was too nervous to sleep, so I stayed up to watch the sunrise. Can I have some of your bacon?”

“Help yourself. Just don’t blame me when you get on the scale.”

Bill isn’t insensitive, but he is candid. I actually appreciate that because it means I don’t have to waste time wondering about the hidden meaning behind his words. He’s got his flaws, of course. He can be critical when it comes to my work. We spend a lot of time arguing about the risks I take, the gray area of the law I tread into when I feel it’s necessary, and the fact that he’s a little too by-the-book for my taste. Luckily I’m not looking for the perfect man. I’m happy to have Bill in my life whenever we both have time to spend together, and I know he’ll be there for me in a pinch. He’s had my back on more than one occasion.

After breakfast and a shower I left him onboard noodling on his acoustic guitar, and walked to Elizabeth’s trawler. I knocked on the closed door, but there was no response. The fact that the door was closed should have tipped me off. When Elizabeth is at home and awake, her door is usually open, even in cold weather. She’d probably spent the night with Jack at his estate in Hillsborough.

Jack McGuire, retired cat burglar and current inamorata of my best friend, is a former client of mine. I took his case because he was too interesting to turn away. Jack is a red-headed Irishman with the face of a feline. He’s playful, witty, charismatic, and gorgeous. I’d inadvertently introduced him to Elizabeth last August when I was working on his investigation.

I hiked up the companionway from Elizabeth’s boat, and unlocked my office. The voicemail light was blinking, telling me I had two messages. I started a pot of coffee and turned on my laptop before pushing the play button. The first message was from Paul. It had been left at 1:00 a.m. this morning.

“Hi, Nikki. It was great seeing you tonight and I’m looking forward to lunch. I’m free whenever you are. Call me back?”

In spite of the cheerful words, his voice radiated tension. He left his home number and I made a note of it.

The second message was from the owner of Michelino’s in San Mateo, who suspected one of his waitresses was till-tapping. He wanted me to conduct a lunchtime surveillance as soon as possible. The waitress in question worked on Saturdays, so she’d be there today. I don’t believe in coincidence, nor do I object when the universe conspires to buy me and a friend lunch. I called Paul’s number and the phone rang only once before he answered.

“This is Paul.”

“Hey, Paul, it’s Nikki. I just got your voicemail. I have to do an employee surveillance job at Michelino’s this afternoon, and I was hoping we could meet there for lunch. Will that work for you?”

“Absolutely.”

We agreed to meet at 1:00. I made sure Paul knew how to find the restaurant, and ended the call.

For the remainder of the morning I drank coffee, answered e-mails, and read pre-employment backgrounds I’d requested for one of my clients. I finished up at the office around 12:00 and walked down to the boat to change clothes before meeting Paul. On my way past Elizabeth’s trawler I noticed her door was still closed. I wondered if she and Jack were nearing the next level in their relationship, which might mean she’d be moving in with him. For selfish reasons I hoped they weren’t. I’d really miss having her so close. Jack’s estate is only a fifteen-minute drive from the marina, and there’s always the telephone, but it’s not the same. It’s so much more intimate when you can just drop in and talk with someone in person. I didn’t want to lose that.

D’Artagnon, a black Labrador Retriever and self-appointed marina watchdog, was out on the deck of his human’s Bluewater 42, so I stopped to scratch behind his ears. D’Artagnon risked his life saving mine a few months ago. We take long walks in the wildlife refuge across the street when weather permits, and he frequently pays me late night visits looking for affection and leftovers. He’s only six years old but recently started showing signs of arthritis in his hips and knees. In spite of that, he always enjoys a good romp.

I continued down the dock. As I approached my boat I heard the resonant tones of Bill’s guitar. He was sitting in the main salon with a couple of portholes open, playing one of his original compositions. I stopped for a moment, absorbing the music. Bill has been playing since he was twelve, and he’s developed the rare ability to express emotion through his instrument. I could feel each note and the music warmed my heart as it always does when I listen to him play. Eventually I climbed aboard.

“Hey, babe,” he called out.

“Hey,” I responded. Sometimes you don’t need a lot of words.

I stripped out of my jeans and sweatshirt, and selected a pair of rust-colored slacks and a black silk blouse. The guitar music suddenly stopped. I swear the man has radar. I was stepping into the slacks when Bill appeared in the stateroom doorway. He looked me over and grinned wolfishly.

I had time to shower again and still make it to my lunch date, only now I had a smile on my face.

Chapter 4

I
arrived at Michelino’s five minutes early, hoping I’d have a chance to observe the suspect waitress from a distance before being seated at a table and becoming distracted by my conversation with Paul.

The server’s name was Martina. She was in her late-twenties, blonde with brown roots, slender, very pretty, and tastefully made-up. She wore the same uniform all the waitstaff wore at Michelino’s: a white shirt, black slacks, and a white apron. The only noticeable difference was her shoes, a pair of black Ferragamo pumps that cost at least six hundred dollars. Not very practical for someone who spent eight hours a day on her feet, but they looked fabulous. Apart from the fact that she needed her roots touched-up, Martina’s hair was expertly cut and styled. She moved with grace and confidence and smiled often. I could smell the deceit, even from a distance. I owe this ability to a larcenous period in my own life, of which I am not particularly proud, but for which I am often grateful.

I had a rough childhood, partially because of my cousin Aaron, who convinced my parents that I was responsible for many of his crimes, and partly because my mom is a former nun and my dad was born a Cossack. Aware of the injustice of being punished for offenses that Aaron had committed, I began shoplifting at the age of six. If my parents believed I was bad, I might as well be bad. I graduated to till-tapping excellence during my retail career in my late teens and early twenties. When I accepted a security management position with a chain of department stores, I decided it was time to stop and, over time, I anonymously repaid all that I had stolen. After a few years in management I realized I wasn’t happy working for someone else, and decided to put my crime-solving talent to better use. So I gave two months notice, trained my replacement, and went looking for a private investigator who would teach me the craft.

When I met Sam Pettigrew he was sixty. He’s just under six feet tall, black, about two hundred and fifty solid pounds, and as cantankerous a human being as I’ve ever known. Initially I found his lack of manners refreshing because, I thought, if he was allowed to be rude to me, I was allowed to be rude to him. That didn’t work out very well.

Paul showed up at Michelino’s at 12:59, looked around, and spotted me at the bar. He waved, giving me a strained smile, and I remembered once again how fond I was of him. Time apart doesn’t matter when you have a connection with someone.

I asked if he wanted a drink before lunch and he declined, so I flagged down the host and asked for a table, pointing to Martina’s section.

Once we were seated she approached promptly, handed us menus, and recited the specials of the day. Ignoring me, she focused her considerable charm on Paul, smiling and occasionally touching his shoulder. I had to admit she was good. What she didn’t anticipate was that I would be the one paying the check. It would be fun watching her change gears when she realized the size of her tip would not be influenced by male hormones.

Paul and I made small talk while we looked over our menus. As I observed my old friend I noticed, again, the tension just beneath the surface and the dark circles under his eyes. I hoped he wasn’t in financial trouble or suffering from some serious illness.

When Martina returned with my water and Paul’s beer, we were ready to order. I asked for the lobster cannelloni. I don’t normally eat pasta, but it was the most expensive item on the menu, and if I was going to tempt Martina I had to request a high-ticket entrée. Paul ordered a New York steak with a Caesar salad.

When we were alone again I said, “You’re going to have to let me pay for lunch, you know.”

“Why would you do that? I asked
you
.”

“Because I’m working,” I whispered, leaning forward. “I do covert employee surveillance at restaurants and bars. I’ll be reimbursed. It’s great to see you again, Paul. Now tell me what’s wrong. Are you in some kind of trouble? Are you sick?”

“No, nothing like that. It’s about my job.” He hesitated. “Look, I’m really freaking out over this, Nikki. I desperately need to confide in someone, but you can’t tell anybody.”

“Okay,” I said, feeling a chill. Considering he was an air traffic control supervisor, he now had my full attention.

“Three of the controllers reporting to me have been killed in the last two months,” he said, his voice low. “Their deaths were all ruled accidental, but the coincidence is unbelievable.”

“You think someone is targeting your co-workers, and making their deaths look like accidents?”

“I do.”

“If that’s the case, I think we can assume that your life, and those of the other controllers may also be in danger.”

“I know.” Paul took another sip of his beer and looked at me, a deep furrow between his brows. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think you need someone objective and discreet to look into this. And I think you need to warn your remaining employees, and maybe hire yourself a bodyguard.”

“You know how people react to anything that sounds like terrorism these days. For that reason, my bosses have vetoed any additional investigation.”

“Let’s take this one step at a time. Tell me what you know about the three controllers who were killed.” I took out my notepad. “I’ll need names, dates, locations, and the circumstances surrounding their deaths. Any details you can give me.”

“This could be dangerous. Are you sure you want to get involved?”

“I need more information before I can answer that question. But yeah, I’d like to help any way I can.” I smiled at my old friend and covered his hand with mine.

“Thank you, Nikki. I tried talking to the homicide investigators assigned to the latest death, but they just seem to want the case closed. No evidence of foul play, they said. How can they possibly believe that when three controllers who worked the same shift at the same airport have been killed?”

“Tell me everything,” I said.

The first to die had been James Flannery, age forty-seven, father of two, divorced, and living alone. James had died on September 19th when his house blew up at 4:45 a.m., shortly after he arrived home from work. The ATF investigator concluded that there must have been a pinhole rupture in the gas line. Because of the scope of the explosion there was no way to determine what had caused the leak, and there was no sign of arson.

We were interrupted when Martina served Paul’s salad. She picked up his napkin and placed it on his lap, making the maneuver look suggestive.

“Enjoy,” she purred, before walking away.

I looked forward to busting her if she was till-tapping. She was flirting with my friend just to get a bigger tip, and it was tactless to come on to a male customer who was seated with a female customer. She didn’t know we weren’t a couple.

Paul took a bite of his salad, and resumed his story. The second controller to die had been a woman named Shirley Jensen. Shirley had been in her thirties, single, and tough. That’s the way Paul described her. I imagined someone who took kickboxing classes for fun. Shirley had drowned while scuba diving off the Monterey coast on September 24th. Paul said she had been an expert diver, but there was no evidence recovered that would prove her death had been anything other than accidental. Apparently, her tank had run out of air and she was too deep to make it to the surface. By the time her body was found, both Shirley and her gear were pretty torn up, which impeded the investigation.

I could understand why Paul was suspicious. My friend, Jim Sutherland, enjoys scuba diving and always checks his tank personally before going in the water. He knows exactly how much air he has and how long he can stay down, and he takes no chances. I couldn’t imagine an air traffic controller would be any less cautious.

Hearing about a drowning always reminds me of my dad. When I was in my early twenties he went on a solo fishing trip and allegedly drowned, but I never believed it. He was a strong swimmer and an old hand at boating. I’m pretty sure he decided to embark on a new adventure without the emotional entanglements of his family.

Paul had another bite of salad and a sip of his beer. He looked thoughtful. “Of all the people I’ve worked with since I became a controller,” he said, “Shirley is the last one I would have expected to, you know, die. She worked out every day, only ate healthy food, and she wouldn’t take crap from anyone.” He started to take another swig of beer and seemed surprised to discover his bottle was empty.

I waved at Martina and raised the bottle. She nodded.

“What about the third one?” I asked.

“Gordon Mayes,” he said. “A really nice guy. I mean, genuinely nice.”

Martina delivered Paul’s beer, retrieved the empty, and asked, “How’s your salad?”

“It’s fine,” Paul responded, without looking at her.

She pouted prettily and sauntered away, leaving us alone again.

“How was Gordon killed?” I asked.

Paul looked at me for a moment, his eyes locked on mine. “Thank you,” he said, “for asking how he was killed instead of how he died. Gordon was killed in a single car accident. He was driving home from work yesterday morning, a little after four. That was the call I got at the reunion last night. He was on the Highway Ninety-Two overpass near Delaware Street. They think he fell asleep at the wheel and rolled over the retaining wall. Gordon drove an Explorer and he always kept the windows open to help him stay awake. I talked to the detectives this morning, and they said the only unusual thing they found in his car was a charred rubber snake. They asked me if he had any kids. He didn’t.”

Rubber snake?

“I know that overpass,” I said. What I didn’t say was that I knew it was treacherous. I didn’t want to imply that it might have been an accident. “You’ve obviously been thinking a lot about this. Do you have any theories?”

“Not really. I suppose it could be some kind of terrorist organization, but there’s one thing I’m certain of. These deaths are connected and none of them were accidental. I feel it in my bones, Nikki.”

Martina approached and served our entrées. I was grateful for the interruption because I needed a moment to think. I’d worked a couple of homicide cases, but I had no experience with multi-jurisdictional crimes of this nature. I wasn’t even sure where to begin. Plus, being as fond as I am of Paul might be a disadvantage. I’d be worried about him and that would distract me. On the other hand, because I cared about him, I would probably be more aware of the danger to him than some stranger he might turn to.

We ate our lunch in silence, both of us lost in thought, although regardless of my concern about Paul’s situation, it was impossible to ignore the creamy texture and rich garlic and basil piquancy of my lobster cannelloni. Every bite melted in my mouth. It was a delicious distraction from the horrific story Paul had shared with me.

When Martina collected the plates and offered coffee and desert, I asked for the check. She froze for an instant, then graced me with her magnetic smile. I smiled back.

She returned three minutes later with a black leather folder containing a hand-written list of the food and beverages we had ordered. The prices were correct and so was the total, but I had seen this ploy before. Rather than paying with a credit card, I gave Martina a little more rope and paid with cash, sliding four twenties into the folder and handing it back to her.

I kept an eye on her as she went behind the bar where the food servers record their orders. There are only two registers at Michelino’s, and both are behind the bar. I was able to see the register Martina used from where we were sitting, but just barely. It looked to me like the display showed 0.00, which would indicate a no-sale. I noted the time. It would be easy enough to check later. Besides, if she had recorded the sale properly she would bring me a cash register receipt.

After stopping at a couple of other tables, Martina returned the leather folder to me, said, “Thank you,” and sashayed off. I opened the folder and discovered my change and a carbon copy of the hand written, itemized tab. Very inventive. Only someone who knew the routine at Michelino’s would know something was amiss. I left a miserly fifteen percent gratuity and pocketed the hand-written receipt.

As we were walking out of the restaurant I said, “I’ll need to involve someone else in this case, Paul. It sounds urgent to me.”

“Is it someone you trust?” Paul asked. “I can’t risk having anything leak to the press.”

“I trust him with my life and, believe me, he won’t talk to the press or to anyone else about the investigation.”

“Okay. Who is it?”

“The PI who trained me,” I said. “Sam Pettigrew.”