Dinner And A Murder: The 3rd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (10 page)

I raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

“Oh come on. You’re not investigating the victims of a plane crash. You’re looking at Wallace for some other reason and whatever it is, I’m in.”

I wondered if she was volunteering to lie on the witness stand to get rid of a nasty neighbor.

“We really are conducting background investigations on the victims of the crash,” I said. “What we need from you is information about the relationship between Wallace and his wife and kids. Anything you observed first-hand, or overheard.”

She sighed. “If you say so. I’m naturally skeptical. Probably got it from my dad. He was a cop, killed in the line of duty. If he was still alive all I’d have to do is ask him to talk to Wallace. Dad had a way of talking to people so they understood it was in their best interest to do the right thing.

“What I observed about Wallace’s relationship with his wife and kids was that he didn’t respect them. He treated them like property. He talked down to his wife. Told her what to do, and she did it. I never heard his kids speak in his presence, but they were pretty chatty with their mom when he wasn’t around. Sometimes I would be out in the front yard gardening when they got home from school, and I’d hear them telling her all about their day.

“On the few occasions when they’d all go out together the kids were like zombies—silent and obedient. I saw him slap his wife’s face once, in the driveway. And I saw him punch her in the face one time, in the front room. I was getting into my car to go to class and I heard him shouting, so I looked across the street. I never saw him hit the kids, but he probably knocked them around too.”

“Has his behavior changed since the accident?” I asked. “Have you noticed him leaving the house late at night or very early in the morning?” I knew I was tipping my hand, but it was information I needed.

Rebecca stared at me for a moment. “No,” she finally said, “but I usually go to bed around ten and I’m a sound sleeper, so if he went out late I wouldn’t know.”

I rose to leave and Rebecca held up a hand. “Wait,” she said. “You’re a PI, right?” I nodded, wondering where this was going. “Could I hire you to install some video surveillance equipment?”

“I suppose so. What do you want to keep an eye on?”

“Wallace,” she said. “I want evidence that he’s a pervert. I want to get him on film watching me with his nasty little camera. He probably jacks off while he’s doing it.” She shuddered.

“I can’t install the equipment on his property, but if it’s okay with your employer, I can install it in one of the rooms facing Wallace’s house. Will that work?”

“I think so,” she said, smiling now. “How much will it cost?”

“I can get the equipment for about fifteen hundred. I’ll throw in the labor for free if you let me watch the videos.”

“Deal,” she said, and reached out to shake my hand.

I took her hand and she wrapped her other arm around me and hugged me. It took me by surprise. I guess she was grateful to have an ally in the battle against Wallace. So was I.

“I can’t do it today,” I said into her shoulder, “but maybe I can come by on Monday while Wallace is at work.”

“Monday’s good,” she said. “That’ll give me time to explain the situation to David.”

Before Elizabeth and I left, I gave Rebecca my home and cell phone numbers and asked her to call if anything unusual happened. I didn’t know what that might be, but I had a feeling she would call. I asked for her phone number and entered it in my cell.

Elizabeth and I knocked on a couple more doors, but didn’t gather any new intel. I was satisfied that Wallace was a monster. I just didn’t know yet what level of monster he was.

We drove back to the marina in silence, probably because we were both contemplating what Rebecca had shared with us about Wallace and his perversions. I parked in the boat owner’s lot and turned to Elizabeth. “Thanks for helping with the interviews,” I said.

“It was fun. What time are we leaving for the Humane Society in the morning?”

“I’m not sure when they open, but I’d like to get there early.”

“Okay,” she said. “Come over for breakfast.”

She headed for the docks and her trawler, and I went back to the office.

I started a pot of coffee and cleared everything off my desk. I didn’t want anything to distract me. I even closed the blinds so the view of the marina wouldn’t divert my attention. I stacked the accident reports in the middle of my desk, poured a mugful of coffee, and sat down. I wished briefly for a cigarette, remembering how the nicotine used to help me focus, but caffeine would have to be enough for now.

I dug through the pages and eventually found the accident that had caused Wallace, Fragoso, and Boscalo to lose their wives and children. I copied the individual pages and reinserted the originals back into the stack so I’d have a complete set in sequence. I spent the rest of my afternoon reading through the accident report to get a better handle on what had caused the plane crash that had taken the lives of our subjects’ families. I’m a visual person. I needed to picture the tragedy in order to understand how each individual might be reacting to his loss.

The plane crash had occurred on August 16th at 3:05 a.m. Pacific Standard time. The air traffic controller had radioed the pilot at 2:58 a.m., instructing him to correct his trajectory. The angle was too steep and the aircraft was coming in slightly off course. The pilot had not responded to the ATC’s warning, and the aircraft had subsequently crashed into a field near SFO, killing everyone onboard.

The team investigating the incident suspected that the pilot and co-pilot were unconscious at the time of the crash. Carbon monoxide poisoning was suggested as one possible cause. The investigation was ongoing, but there was no indication of incompetence or neglect on the part of the pilot or the controller.

I highlighted the relevant passages and then summarized them in a Word document, which I printed and stowed in the file I was building for Paul. A quick look at my watch told me I could catch him at home if I called now. He needed to know what was happening with the investigation, and I needed to know that he was okay. It had been five days since the last controller, Gordon Mayes, had been killed.

Paul answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Nikki.”

He sounded defeated, or maybe just exhausted. It must be hard enough to sleep during the day without worrying about whether or not a homicidal maniac was waiting to pick you off.

“Hi, Paul. I wanted to give you an update on what Sam and I have been doing.”

I filled him in on the background data we’d collected so far on Wallace, Fragoso, and Boscalo. I explained why we’d chosen to focus on these three individuals, and told him about interviewing each of them this morning and Wallace’s neighbors this afternoon. Paul silently took it all in. I could almost feel his desperation through the phone line.

“How are you doing, Paul?”

“I’ve been better. So you think the killer was related to someone onboard the August 16th flight?”

“That’s our supposition, since it was the only recent accident with fatalities. Have you said anything to the other controllers who report to you?”

“There are only two left at SFO who were working the morning of that crash. Besides me, I mean. Arthur Mann and Kim List. They know about what happened to James, Shirley, and Gordon. There’s a lot of speculation going on over coffee in the break room. I’m not the only one convinced these deaths weren’t accidental.”

What neither of us said was that Paul
was
the only one who would feel responsible if another member of his staff was killed.

“Maybe you should all hire body guards,” I said, “speaking of which, have you called Quinn yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“You know, Paul, the time to hire a bodyguard is
before
you need one.”

Paul promised he would think about it, and we ended the call.

I was starting to have trouble focusing, so I poured another mug of coffee. I cracked the blinds and looked down at Kirk and D’Artagnon’s boat. Then I remembered that I was adopting Buddy in the morning. Even if I only kept him until I found him a better home, at least he’d be mine for a while. The thought made me smile.

Chapter 15

A
s Paul Marks drove to work that night he was unaware that he was being shadowed. The killer followed him from his home in San Mateo all the way to SFO, mentally recording his route, and noting where he parked his BMW Z4 in the gated lot. He used binoculars to watch as Marks locked his car and scanned the area nervously, then crossed to the secure tower building.

The killer pulled back onto the frontage road and drove to his own ‘secure building’, relishing the anticipation of his next objective.

Chapter 16

W
hen my Dream Machine woke me on Thursday morning the first thing I thought of was Buddy. It was a surprisingly happy thought, considering how I’d avoided having a pet since the loss of my English Mastiff three years ago.

I hadn’t slept well the night before, in spite of exhausting myself reading and summarizing the accident report
.
I brewed a pot of Kona and sat at the galley counter wondering if my sailboat would be too confining for a big dog. Rocky seemed okay on Frank’s boat. Of course, I couldn’t leave Buddy alone while I was working. Dogs are pack animals, and he’d probably develop separation anxiety and eat the settee cushions or something. I wondered if he was still teething. The woman at the pound had said he was about six months old. I’d have to get him some chew toys.

I realized I was thinking of Buddy as mine—thinking long term. I’d posted the photos of him around the marina two days ago and no one had called yet. What if his family had already claimed him? I hadn’t been to the pound since Tuesday. The realization that he might be gone shocked me. I’d assumed that he would be waiting for me to come and get him. I glanced at my watch. It was 6:15.

Thirty minutes later I was showered and dressed and knocking on Elizabeth’s door. She slid it open and squinted out at the daylight. “It’s early,” she said.

“I know. Sorry. I want to be there when they open.”

Her jaw dropped. “Oh my
God
,” she said. “You’re afraid someone else is going to adopt him, aren’t you?”

“Shut up.”

She grinned at me. “Come inside while I get dressed.”

I climbed the dock steps, went inside, and closed the door behind me.

“I haven’t made breakfast yet,” Elizabeth called out from the stateroom. “Are you hungry?”

“A little. But we can eat after we pick him up.”

“You are so funny,” she said.

“Shut
up!
”

I heard soft chuckling coming from the stateroom as I paced around the galley. I was in a hurry to get to the Humane Society, which probably wouldn’t be open for at least another hour.

We arrived in Burlingame at 7:30. The sign on the locked door stated that adoption hours were from 11:00 a.m. to 7:00 p.m.

“
Crap!”
I shouted, apparently loud enough to start the dogs barking. I wondered if Buddy recognized my voice. I peered through the glass doors, hoping there might be a benevolent employee inside who would allow me to adopt outside of the posted hours. I didn’t see anyone, and the lights weren’t on.
Crap, crap, crap!

“What do you want to do?” Elizabeth asked.

“Let’s head over to Burlingame Avenue and grab some breakfast. They should be open by the time we get back. Maybe I can convince them to let me adopt Buddy before eleven. I have to meet Sam at twelve.”

We settled on Alana’s Café, which opened at 7:00. A window table was available, so we dropped our purses and jackets, then I snagged menus from the waitress behind the counter. I ordered scrambled eggs with shrimp, and coffee, of course. Elizabeth requested a Swiss cheese and mushroom omelet. The food at Alana’s was good, the prices reasonable, and the atmosphere friendly. I tried to relax and enjoy my breakfast, but I was anxious both about the adoption and about getting back to work on Paul’s case.

We pulled into the Humane Society lot at 8:45. The doors were now unlocked and the overhead lights were on. There was a petite blonde woman behind the counter. Her nametag read Karen
.
She wore her hair in a ponytail and was dressed in a pink polo shirt and tan jeans.

“I’m here to adopt Buddy,” I blurted out, as soon as I was inside. “My name is Nicoli Hunter. I called the day he was brought in and left my name and number in case his family didn’t claim him. Is he still here?”

Elizabeth put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Breathe.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” Karen said, smiling. “You need to fill out some paperwork. We can get the process started, but you’ll have to come back after eleven to pick him up.”

“I’d really appreciate it if you would let me complete the process and take him with me this morning. I have an appointment at 12:00 today.”

Karen gave me a clipboard with a short stack of forms and a pen, then said, “I’m sorry, but our policy is to only allow adoptions between eleven and seven. Maybe you can come back after your appointment.”

I stood at the counter to fill out the forms, not wanting anyone to get in line ahead of me. I rushed through the paperwork, slowing when I got to the section that asked about my living situation. I didn’t imagine many of the individuals adopting dogs lived aboard boats. I didn’t want to risk being turned down for the adoption, but I didn’t want to lie either. I listed the Cheoy Lee’s dimensions and included information about the wildlife refuge across the street and the park-like grounds of the marina. I also noted the many other dogs who lived aboard who would be Buddy’s friends, and my neighbors who would look after him when I was unable to be at home or to have him with me while I was working.

When I was finished I handed the forms back to Karen and she called someone to bring Buddy inside. She asked us to wait in a small room just off the lobby, saying she wanted to ask me a few questions and observe my interaction with the dog. I’d had no idea the Humane Society was so thorough. It was reassuring to know that they wouldn’t give a dog to just anyone who walked in off the street.

The room in which we were seated was equipped with three white plastic chairs, two tennis balls, a rope chew toy, and a blue beanbag chair. We waited a couple of minutes before Karen brought Buddy in on a green nylon leash. I noticed immediately that his demeanor had changed since I’d first met him. His tail was between his legs and his head was held low, as though he was afraid of being hit. It broke my heart to see him like this. Then he raised his eyes and saw me, or maybe he smelled me. His head came up and his tail started wagging frantically. A sound I can only describe as a moan escaped his lips as he strained against the leash. Karen let go and Buddy launched himself into my lap. I started laughing but there were tears in my eyes. I couldn’t help it. I hugged him and he licked my hands and face and then burrowed under my arm with a sigh.

Elizabeth pulled a tissue out of her purse and handed it to me.

Karen asked me questions about my job and my living situation, how often I would walk Buddy, and what I planned to feed him. She gave me tags for his collar, and I let her install one of those electronic chips between his shoulder blades, so if the license on his collar came off any vet could scan him like a grocery item and access my name, address, and phone number. I looked over Buddy’s paperwork while Karen was injecting the chip. Apparently the Humane Society vet had decided he was a mixture of Golden Retriever and Rhodesian Ridgeback.

After I’d paid the fee Elizabeth and I walked Buddy into the pet store at the front of the building. I bought him a leather collar and matching leash, a pinch collar, food and water dishes, organic kibble, and medicated shampoo. I also let him pick out his own toys and tennis balls. He selected a stuffed orange dragon that squeaked when you squeezed it, and a hedgehog that honked.

By the time we’d finished shopping it was 10:45. Once again I appealed to Karen, asking her to break policy by only fifteen minutes, and this time she relented. We all scampered out to the parking lot where Buddy watered a couple of bushes and then happily climbed into the back seat of the BMW.

We drove back to the marina and walked Buddy around the grounds. My original plan had been to leave the pup with Elizabeth, but now that I had him, I didn’t want to leave him behind. I made a quick call to Sam, informing him that I’d be arriving with my new four-legged friend in tow. I warned him that Buddy might be a little shy at first. Sam grunted in response.

Buddy and I arrived at Sam’s office a few minutes before noon. I knocked on the door and shortened Buddy’s leash. Sam is a big man with a powerful presence, so I didn’t know how Buddy might react to him.

“It’s open,” he called out.

I pushed open the door and let Buddy drag me inside. He pulled me into every corner of the front office before aiming his nose down the hall toward Sam’s private domain.

Sam was seated in the visitor’s chair in front of his desk when we entered. He had his hands on his knees, knuckles out, and he didn’t move when Buddy entered the room.

“Hello, boy,” he said softly.

Buddy stopped in his tracks and his hackles went up. He sniffed the air between himself and Sam, then lowered his head and leaned in, sniffing Sam’s shoes. He wagged his tail one time and took a single step forward. He sniffed Sam’s left hand, then his right, and wagged some more. Finally he turned around and sat down on Sam’s feet.

Sam grinned and rubbed the top of Buddy’s head.

“Hi, Sam,” I said. “I didn’t know you spoke doglish.”

He chuckled, looking down at Buddy. “He’s a good dog,” he said.

Eventually Sam stood up, dislodging Buddy, who turned and licked his hand. Sam shuffled around behind his desk.

“So, Nicoli. What have you learned?”

I felt like the aspiring pupil I had once been.

“I have learned, Sensei, that Martin Wallace is a control freak, a voyeur, and an asshole. Have you eaten?”

“I grabbed a burger. Let’s go talk to Boscalo’s neighbors.”

Gary Boscalo lived on Vanessa Drive in San Mateo. Sam and I took separate cars because I didn’t want Buddy to shed all over Sam’s interior and because I thought being in an unfamiliar car might make him insecure. Although he’d adapted to my little Bimmer pretty quickly.

Vanessa Drive is a middleclass residential neighborhood between Delaware Street and Highway 101. Sam got there before I did, but just barely. When I pulled up he was standing on the sidewalk across from Boscalo’s house. I parked the 2002, hooked Buddy’s leash to his collar, and walked over to Sam.

As I approached, he turned to face me. “You’re not planning on bringing the dog along are you?”

“Yes, I am. I don’t want to lock him up in the car. He’ll be good.”

“I’m not disputing that, Nicoli. But some people don’t like dogs.”

“I’m bringing him.”

“Fine.” Sam turned away from me and it looked like his shoulders were shaking. Was he laughing at me?

I followed him to the house directly across the street from Boscalo’s. As we approached the front door we could hear the blare of a TV coming from inside the house, blasting out cartoons. I knocked on the door. A minute passed and no one answered, so I rang the bell. It was another minute before a woman in her late twenties opened the door. She was dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt. Behind her were two toddlers of indeterminate gender, both of whom immediately began squealing,
“Gawgie!”
at the sight of Buddy.

I shortened the leash and the woman tried to grab hold of her kids, but they were too fast for her. In that instant I could foresee an endless stream of lawsuits that would drain my bank account for the rest of my life. Then Buddy began licking their grimy little faces and my fears vanished. The kids ran their hands over his head and back as Buddy washed any exposed flesh he could find.

“Can I help you?” the mother asked, keeping an eye on her kids.

I was caught up in the joy of children with a dog. I didn’t want to spoil the moment by telling her why we were there, but I did anyway.

“My name is Nicoli Hunter and this is Sam Pettigrew. We’re conducting an investigation.”

She looked at me for a moment and then a light snapped on in her eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Is this about Gary’s wife and daughter? I heard about it from Janice.” She nodded toward the house adjacent to Boscalo’s. “Terrible,” she murmured, shaking her head.

“May we come in?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”

She stepped back and allowed me to enter, towing Buddy and her two children. Sam brought up the rear.

“The house is a mess,” she said apologetically. “The house is always a mess.”

We all trooped into the living room and she lowered the volume on the TV. It’s possible she was afraid she might have a riot on her hands if she turned it off completely. I sat down on the couch and Sam settled into an armchair.

“I didn’t catch your name,” I said.

“Arleen Thomas.”

She stood up briefly and shook my hand and then Sam’s. Her hand was warm and dry, and her grip was firm.

“What were your names again?” she asked.

“I’m Nicoli Hunter,” I said.

“Sam Pettigrew,” said Sam, smiling benevolently at the harried young mother.

Arleen looked from one of us to the other and her gaze settled on me.

“We need to know anything you can tell us about Gary’s relationships with his wife and daughter.” I glanced down at the printout I’d brought along. “Jennifer and Melanie?”

That went over like a lead balloon. Arleen looked down at the coffee table, then she looked at the TV, and at her two toddlers who were still enthusiastically petting Buddy. “Kids, why don’t you go to your room and see if you can find a toy for the nice doggy to play with.”

Getting her kids out of earshot. This might be promising. When they were gone she said, “Is this going to get Gary in some kind of trouble? Because God knows that man has enough problems already.”

“It’s just background information,” I said. “No one wants to get Gary in trouble.”

She stared at me for a moment and then said, “He kind of has a temper. He was arrested for beating Jennifer up once. I used to worry about little Melanie. You know, kids can’t defend themselves. But I never heard anything about him hitting Melanie.”