Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (8 page)

“Good evening,” he said. “My name is Glen and I’ll be your server tonight. May I get you something from the bar, or would you like to hear our specials?”

His voice was nasal, as one might expect if he had a cleft palate, but his eyes were gentle and his tone was soft. I kicked Bill’s shin under the table and when his eyes met mine I shook my head slightly, hoping he’d get the message. I wanted to handle this one myself.

“Could I have a single shot of Bombay Sapphire in a rocks glass, straight up and room temperature, please?” I said.

Glen nodded politely and turned to Bill who was trying to control a smirk.

“I’ll have a Corona,” Bill said. “In the bottle is fine.”

“Would you like a lime wedge?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be right back,” Glen said.

When he’d gone Bill bent over, rubbed his leg and grimaced. “
Ow
,” he said. “Cleft Palate?”

“Probably. It would explain his expression and the nasal quality of his voice. Might also explain a chip on his shoulder, but I haven’t seen any evidence of that yet.”

“So I can relax and enjoy the show?”

“Yep.”

Glen returned and served our drinks. He placed a rocks glass in front of me, and as he turned to set Bill’s beer on the table, I took a sip of the gin. I waited until Glen was facing me and then made a show of sniffing my drink. “Are you sure this is Bombay Sapphire?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I watched the bartender pour it.”

I took another sip. “I don’t think it is,” I said. “Maybe it’s regular Bombay.”

“Would you like me to replace the drink?” Glen asked.

I took a third sip, which almost emptied the glass. “I’m sure this isn’t Bombay Sapphire,” I said.

“I’d be happy to replace the drink,” Glen repeated, patiently.

“I don’t want to be any trouble, but do you think the bartender would let you bring the bottle to our table, so I could see for myself?”

Glen lifted an eyebrow and said, “I can ask.”

When he was gone I turned to Bill and said, “If he comes back with the bottle I’m giving him a thirty percent tip out of my own pocket.”

A couple of minutes went by and then, sure enough, Glen came back carrying a tray containing an empty rocks glass and a full,
sealed,
one liter bottle of Bombay Sapphire. He’d somehow convinced the bartender to let him have an unopened bottle so I could break the seal myself. This guy was
good
. He placed a fresh cocktail napkin on the table and put the glass on the napkin, then he set the bottle on the table with the label facing me. I got the point.

“Would you like me to pour?” he asked.

I searched his face for any trace of sarcasm and couldn’t find any. “That would be great. Thank you for going to so much trouble.”

After he’d poured me a generous shot of the gin, Glen asked, “Would you like to hear tonight’s specials?”

He was being so gracious that it almost embarrassed me.

“Yes, thank you,” Bill said, and he winked at Glen.

I saw Glen smile and realized they were doing the male bonding thing. Men bond so easily. Women, at least the women I’ve known, go through a very complex series of tests before deciding whether or not to trust each other. Even when you pass all the tests the bond often remains tentative. My theory is that this has something to do with the female biological urge to reproduce, and with competition for the strong, healthy males. Postmenopausal women are far more trusting.

Glen recited the specials from memory and took our order. He was professional and friendly throughout the evening, and by the time we were ready to leave I’d decided that if I surveyed Scoma’s again I’d ask for his section just for the pleasure of being served by him.

My report on Glen would detail all of my observations, including the physical challenges he’d apparently overcome. If I ever heard that he had been let go I would call my cousin Aaron and ask him to find an attorney to represent Glen in a wrongful termination suit. Then I’d call my friend, restaurant owner, and client, Jessica James, and suggest she hire him on the spot. I could do these things because the owner of Scoma’s was not my client, he was Sam’s, so, technically, assisting one of their former employees wouldn’t be a conflict of interest.

When the check came, I paid with a credit card and left a huge cash tip.

On the way back to the marina Bill made a few jokes about my performance with the Bombay Sapphire, but after that he was quiet until we reached Redwood City. He walked me to the gate and kissed me soundly, saying he’d see me soon. I gave him a hug and a smile before he turned away. I knew I’d hurt his feelings earlier, but I’d had no choice if I was going to be honest. I also really appreciated the fact that he was offering me my space, not even asking if I’d like overnight company. Or maybe he was he just pissed.

“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” I said to his retreating form.

He gave me a wave over his shoulder before climbing back into the Mustang.

I shuffled down the companionway and made the trek to my boat. After stripping off my clothes I climbed into bed and set my Dream Machine for 6:00 a.m., knowing there would be hell to pay if I showed up at Sam’s tomorrow without the completed surveys.

Chapter 13

I
slept soundly for a change, and when my Dream Machine went off the next morning I woke up feeling refreshed. I started the coffee going in the galley, then showered onboard and dressed in slacks and a light sweater.

I was in the office by 7:00 checking my e-mail and listening to my voicemail. I spent forty-five minutes typing up Sam’s reports on Lyon’s and Scoma’s, and when I was finished I had the usual feeling of satisfaction, knowing I’d done my job well. I printed two copies of each survey, saved them on a thumb drive, and slipped the drive and the printed copies into an envelope.

I didn’t have to be at Sam’s for an hour yet, so I returned a few calls and checked my e-mail again. This time I discovered that CIS has sent me the background reports I’d requested on the accident victims’ next of kin. I scanned the electronic copies while they were printing. One of the three men had a criminal record—grand theft auto from fifteen years ago—but no assault charges and nothing recent. One had a spousal abuse charge, which had later been dropped, and the third had a clean record. This was good information to have. I checked the addresses and they matched Paul’s data. These were my three suspects. I forwarded the e-mail and attachments to Sam. Then I made copies of all the reports and stuffed them in Paul’s case file, which I locked in my Pendaflex drawer.

I stopped on my way out the door, walked back to my desk, and removed the Glock twenty-six from its Velcro holster beneath my lap drawer. I used to keep my Ruger under the drawer, but the Glock only weighs twenty ounces. I thought the Velcro would last longer this way. I checked the mag to make sure it was fully loaded and tucked the gun in the holster compartment of my purse.

I let myself into Sam’s outer office at 9:02 and was greeted with a booming, “You’re late!”

Have I mentioned that Sam is always cranky in the morning?

“Like hell I am!” I shouted in response. “You said nine o’clock. It’s nine o’clock!”

“It’s nine oh three,” he bellowed from his office.

“It’s nine oh
two.
Your watch is fast.”

I walked into Sam’s private office and tossed the envelope with the completed reports and the thumb drive onto his desk.

“Here are your surveys,” I said. “The guy at Scoma’s doesn’t have an attitude problem. He’s actually an excellent waiter. He’s probably got a cleft palate that alters his facial expression. If they let him go I’ll encourage him to sue for wrongful termination. By the way, anytime you need Scoma’s done I’d be happy to help out.”

Sam glanced at the envelope, then set it aside and focused on the next of kin background reports he’d been studying when I walked in.

“We’re going to visit these three subjects today,” he said, “and I want you to follow my lead. Don’t interject any of your personality. If the shit hits the fan, it would be better if they didn’t remember you.”

“Why do you think that? This is my case. You’re just helping me out, for which I am extremely grateful, by the way.”

“Based on the names, I’m guessing the subjects are all Caucasian. If they focus on the old black man they won’t be able to pick me out of a group of old black men, but if they focus on you, you might get yourself killed and that would upset me. Good enough reason for you?”

“My first choice would be Gary Boscalo,” I commented. “He used to beat his wife.”

Sam said nothing as he reread one of the reports. When he’d finished he picked up his coffee, took a sip, set the cup down again, and said, “All right. We’ll start with him.”

Gary Boscalo was an accountant at Siebel in San Mateo. He’d been there for five years and lived two miles from his work address in a lower middle-class residential neighborhood. Once we were on the road I distracted myself from Sam’s driving by reading about Gary. We made it to Siebel in about twenty-five minutes and parked in the visitors’ section of the lot. As we entered the lobby Sam took his PI license out of his wallet. He flashed it quickly at the young woman seated behind the reception desk.

“I’m Sam Pettigrew,” he said. “I’d appreciate it if you would call Gary Boscalo to the lobby. We’re investigating the accident in which his wife and child were killed.”

The young woman blanched. Her mouth hung open for a moment, and then she dialed an extension.

“Yeah, Gary?” she said. “Could you come down to the lobby, please? There are some people here investigating your wife’s accident. Yeah, from the airline.”

It’s surprisingly easy to manipulate most people’s assumptions.

“He’ll be right out,” she said to Sam.

He thanked her and we turned away from the reception desk, moving toward the other side of the room. We weren’t pretending we were with the airline, but we hadn’t corrected her, which might later get us in trouble.

Gary Boscalo barreled into the lobby like a man living on caffeine and adrenaline. He was about five foot nine with thinning brown hair, clean-shaven, and wearing a short-sleeve white shirt, gray slacks, and a red tie. He looked soft around the middle, but his arms were muscular, and his face was grim. I quickly formed the impression that he was a man with a temper.

Sam stepped between us and held out his hand. “Mr. Boscalo?”

Boscalo shook his hand and nodded. “What’s this about?”

“We’re conducting a follow-up investigation,” Sam said. “Just need to ask you a few more questions.”

Boscalo let out a sigh and his face relaxed some. “I hope this is the last time,” he said. “It’s hard reliving the death of your family over and over again. What did you say your name was?”

“Pettigrew,” Sam said. “I’m sorry we keep bothering you like this.”

“What do you need to know?”

“Would you like to sit down?” Sam asked.

“Is this going to take long? I’m in the middle of a project.”

“Only a few minutes,” Sam assured him.

We took seats around a coffee table in the lobby. 

“I apologize if these are questions you’ve already answered,” Sam began, “We need to know why your wife and daughter were traveling on the date of the accident.”

“Why they were traveling? Why the hell do you need to know that?”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Boscalo. I truly am. We’re just trying to be thorough.”

Sam was trying to gauge just how flammable Boscalo’s temper was. He was intentionally poking at the wound.

Boscalo just sat there for a moment, and then his face collapsed and he started to cry. He covered his eyes with the heels of his hands and his chest heaved with each sob. We waited it out.

When he had pulled himself together he said, “They were coming back from a visit with my sister-in-law.”

Sam asked a series of mundane questions about Boscalo’s family life: how often they traveled together, where they went on vacation, things like that. I took notes to justify my presence. When Sam was satisfied with his impression of Boscalo he thanked him politely, apologized again, and we left.

Outside the building I filled my lungs with the cool, fresh air and silently counted my blessings. It’s difficult for me to spend time around people who are grieving. I tend to attach myself to their feelings, taking them on as my own.

Our next subject was Martin Wallace, an attorney who worked in Belmont. He had lost his wife and two kids, a boy and a girl. He had no criminal record, but that didn’t prove anything. Wallace had a private practice, so he had no partners or associates. That could mean he was independent or it might mean he didn’t work and play well with others. I couldn’t fault him for that since it’s one of the reasons I became a PI.

His office was on El Camino, in an older one-story building. The gold lettering on the glass door read
Martin Wallace, Attorney at Law.
The door was unlocked, so we went inside. A chime sounded softly as the door opened and closed.

There was a small reception area, which was vacant at the moment. Sam approached the desk and was just opening his mouth to speak when a disembodied voice said, “I’ll be right with you folks. Just have a seat.”

I quickly scanned the ceiling and spotted a surveillance camera. There was an intercom speaker inserted into the wall behind the reception desk. Sam and I exchanged a glance and sat down on a loveseat facing away from the camera.

Wallace left us there for a full five minutes. I timed it. Unless I missed my guess, this guy had control issues. That could be a valuable quality in an attorney, but taken to extremes it could also be dangerous.

When Martin Wallace finally came out to greet us I was surprised by his appearance. He was around five-seven, in his mid-forties, clean-shaven with light brown hair, and about a hundred and eighty-five pounds, with a potbelly. When I think of control freaks I think of self-discipline, and when I think of self-discipline I think of exercise and some degree of self-control at the dinner table. Maybe Wallace had been on a comfort-food binge since losing his wife and kids.

Sam stood up and introduced himself the same way he had with Boscalo, only Wallace didn’t take the introduction at face value.

“Are you with the airline?” he asked.

“No,” said Sam, with no perceptible hesitation. “We’ve been asked by the Association of Air Traffic Controllers to conduct an independent investigation.” An impressive adlib.

“So, who are you with?” Wallace asked.

Yep. He definitely had control issues.

Sam reached in his pocket and handed Wallace his business card. This was a risky move. If Wallace chose to dig deeper, Sam could be in a lot of trouble. On the other hand, I knew Paul would back us up if push came to shove.

Wallace took the proffered card and stared at it for a moment. A hint of a smile played over his face and then vanished. “What would you like to know?” he asked.

Sam repeated the questions he’d asked Boscalo, including the one about why his wife and children were traveling on the day of the accident. I recorded Wallace’s answers in my notebook. He spoke with no emotion whatsoever, but as Sam continued to question him a sheen of perspiration appeared on his face. He occasionally looked my way, but seemed to concentrate primarily on Sam. That suited me fine because this guy was creeping me out.

When Sam was finished he thanked Wallace for his time and said he was sorry for his loss. It was the only time Wallace’s expression changed. He pursed his lips as though he was trying to stop something from bursting out of his mouth. His face flushed and his hands clenched into fists. For an instant I thought he was going to hit Sam. It was pretty intense. Then he straightened his tie and said, “Thank you.”

We left the office as casually as we had entered. Neither of us said a word as we walked to the Range Rover. Sam beeped the locks open and we got in. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

When we were about a block away I let out the breath I’d been holding and said, “What the hell was that?”

“You noticed it too?”

“He’s on the edge.”

“Just lost his wife and two kids. Makes sense he’d be upset. What doesn’t make sense is that he would control it so completely until someone says they’re sorry for his loss. That man’s an assault looking for a place to happen.”

“No history of violence,” I said.

“No history of any
arrests
for violence,” Sam corrected me. “Doesn’t mean he has no history of violence. Just means he never got arrested for it.”

“He’s an attorney,” I said.

“So he’s probably used to being careful about his image. I’d like to take a closer look.”

We moved on to interview number three, Charles aka Chuck Fragoso. Fragoso was a department manager at Best Buy in San Carlos. He’d been arrested fifteen years earlier for grand theft auto, had served two years, and then was on parole for another eighteen months. I knew why Sam had saved Fragoso for last. He had the lowest level of education of the three. Although that didn’t necessarily mean he was the least intelligent, the odds were against him being our killer. The person who was targeting air traffic controllers had done some research, planning, stalking, and calculated risk taking. We were looking for a psycho with a high IQ.