Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (3 page)

Chapter 3

T
he RCPD is housed in a building worthy of a layout in
Architectural Digest.
The entrance is surrounded by a semicircle of steps leading gracefully up to a covered landing with an abstract metal sculpture reminiscent of the Madonna and Child. I think of it as good advertising.
We may be the law, but we care about nurturing the community
.

I entered the lobby and looked around. No employees were visible, in fact, the place seemed to be deserted. There were several doors leading into the heart of the building, each of them labeled and undoubtedly locked, but the foyer was so well appointed that I almost felt welcome. I approached the reception counter and waited a moment before a woman in the back noticed me and came forward. Her nametag read
L. Ketteridge.

L was a petite blonde in her early fifties and she was smiling. “What can I do for you?” she asked in a cheerful voice.

I had the impression that L either enjoyed her work or was the kind of person who would enjoy almost anything that came her way. I handed her my business card and told her Detective Anderson was expecting me. She tilted her head to one side and wiggled an eyebrow, said she’d be just a minute, and disappeared for maybe two. When she returned she told me Detective Anderson would be right out, and then she winked. I was a little nonplused by the wink. Did she think this was a date?

Detective Anderson was not right out, but when he entered the lobby four minutes later he looked like his wavy black hair had just been combed and his breath smelled of wintergreen. I had no idea what L had said to him, but I decided to be flattered.

I’m thirty-five years old, about five-seven, and a hundred and thirty-three pounds. My hair is long, curly, and chestnut brown with a few strands of white that look like highlights, but aren’t. My eyes are sea blue with black rims around the irises; a combination I’ve only seen on one other person, my father. It’s what discouraged me from challenging his paternity when I was a teenager and we were battling over things like curfew, dating, and make-up.

Detailed descriptions of each subject encountered during an investigation are automatically recorded in a good PI’s memory. This is something Sam Pettigrew, the crusty old PI who trained me, drilled into me during my internship.
What kind of shoes was the subject wearing, Nicoli? If you don’t notice the shoes, how can you accurately estimate height?

I checked out Detective Anderson. He was almost six feet tall, in his late thirties, lean but muscular, and clean-shaven. He had intelligent brown eyes that bordered on hazel with wicked long eyelashes, and his black hair was just beginning to gray. His complexion was dark, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors or maybe had some American Indian heritage. His lips were full. There was no ring on his left hand, but his shirt looked clean and wrinkle free. His shoes were Ecco Track IIs. I knew this because I owned a pair.

Now here was a handshake, firm, but not a bone-crusher, dry, and warm. After we introduced ourselves he led me into one of the interview rooms where suspects are detained. There was probably a surveillance camera concealed somewhere, but it wasn’t obvious at first glance.

When the door was closed and we were both seated, he asked to see my I.D. and my license. I showed him my private investigator’s license, wishing I’d been having a better hair day when the picture was taken, and also handed him my driver’s license and one of my business cards. He took a long look at my licenses, then handed them back to me and pocketed the card.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the room.

I took the opportunity to scan the ceiling for cameras. I didn’t see any, and there was no two way mirror like you see on TV crime dramas, but I remained convinced that there was a camera and there would be a viewing room somewhere nearby.

Less than a minute later Anderson was back, carrying a large black ring binder.

“You understand everything in the book needs to remain confidential,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.

“Of course,” I said.

He offered me the binder, holding it in both hands, and I noticed the thumbnail on his right hand was longer than the one on his left. That was a little weird. He continued staring at me after giving me the binder, as though he expected me to read the whole thing while he watched.

“We’ve managed to keep most of the details from the press,” he said.

I looked him in the eye. “I understand,” I said.

Did he think I was stupid or just a total sleaze?

I have to admit that up until now I had not made an effort to cultivate a relationship with the RCPD. I had only a few regular clients in Redwood City and since none of them had chosen to prosecute the employees I’d caught stealing from them, I’d had no need to do so. Most of the police departments I deal with are very cooperative and even refer clients to me. I had heard mixed evaluations of the Redwood City men and women in blue, but, as always, I would form my own opinion.

I opened the binder, glanced quickly at the autopsy report, and winced at the pictures of the crime scene. Laura was almost completely naked and her chest had been savaged. That, combined with the plastic bag over her head, caused my breath to catch in my throat. I closed the book and looked at Anderson.

“Can you give me ten minutes alone? I can’t concentrate with you watching me.”

He gave me an intense look, nodded once, and left the room. I whipped the camera out of my purse and snapped pictures of each page in the binder, front to back. There were fifteen in all. It took me about twenty seconds. I slipped the camera back into my bag and took a deep breath. I hoped I had finished before Anderson made it to the observation room. I doubted he would have asked any of his co-workers to watch me for him, so I was probably safe.

Now that I had photos of all the data, I could take my time reading through it. I looked over the crime scene report and the interviews with local merchants and business people who populated the neighborhood where Laura had been killed. I glanced quickly at the photos of the scene, noting how few there were in the binder, and that they had all been taken from a distance. Anderson was holding back, not showing me everything.

I started reading the autopsy report. Kate hadn’t told me the details of the murder and they hadn’t been publicized. According to the report, Laura had been suffocated, after which she had been stabbed in the chest three times. I looked more closely at the photos of her body and started feeling lightheaded. I pushed away from the table, dropping my head between my knees.

After a minute of deep breathing I heard the door open and saw a pair of Eccos approaching.

“Are you okay?”

So he
had
been watching.

I sat halfway up and leaned on my knees.

“How embarrassing is this? I guess the pictures kind of got to me. Do you have time to go out for coffee?”

That’s when I got the smile. Detective Bill Anderson has a great smile. It extends from one side of his face to the other and includes some very white teeth and those little laugh lines around the eyes that look so good on men.

“Let’s take my car,” he said. “You’re not gonna pass out are you?”

“God, I hope not.”

We walked through a maze of cubicles to Anderson’s desk, where he locked up the binder. Then he escorted me through an atrium in the center of the building and out a back door to the secure parking lot. He unlocked the passenger door of a fire engine red classic Ford Mustang. I wanted to smoke, but I couldn’t bring myself to defile such a well-maintained vehicle.

“Is this your personal car?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. “I can’t use it when I’m undercover. Too conspicuous.“

We drove out through a security gate and made a right on Maple. Anderson drove to a restaurant called Otto’s on El Camino Real. I knew this place well, and I knew the coffee would be terrible. Otto is one of my regular clients.

We seated ourselves in a booth in a corner of the restaurant where we could have some privacy, ordered coffee, and waited until it had been served.

When we had our coffee and the waitress was out of earshot, I asked Anderson if he’d seen anything similar to Laura’s murder before.

“No.”

A man of few words.

“Have you developed a profile?” I asked.

“Based on this case, I’d say the killer has a lot of anger toward women. Probably Caucasian. The knife wounds suggest the killer may have known the victim.”

“What do you mean based on this case?” I asked.

“Well, I assume you watch the news.”

I nodded. There had been another murder in Redwood City the week after Laura’s. A librarian had been killed in an alley behind the I-Ching bar.

“Are you talking about the librarian?” I asked. “Is there a connection?”

He took a sip of coffee and looked into the cup as though he thought there might be a cockroach swimming in it, then set it down on the table.

“Both victims were female and they were both killed in Redwood City. No relationship between them that we can find. Not yet anyway.” He started to raise his cup again, thought better of it, and pushed it aside. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’ll have to keep it to yourself.”

“No problem.”

He looked at me, probably trying to decide if I was trustworthy.

“I took some pages out of the binder before I showed it to you,” he said. “There was something unusual about the weapon.”

He paused and I held my breath.

“There were two puncture wounds on either side of each stab wound to Laura’s chest.” He was watching my face intently. “Can you handle hearing this?”

“I’m fine,” I said, blushing. I am
such
a wimp.

“We think the knife had a sharp spike on each side of the hilt,” he said. “The librarian who was killed had her throat cut, and there was a second, more shallow cut, just below the one that killed her.”

I thought about that for a minute, trying to picture it.

“It was the same
knife!
” I said, a little too loudly.

We both looked around to see if anyone was paying attention.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “But Laura was suffocated before being stabbed.”

I had read that much of the autopsy report before I got woozy. To me, this meant that after she was dead the killer still had enough rage left over to need the additional release of stabbing her.

“Any prints on the plastic bag?” I asked.

“Just a few unidentifiable partials, some smears and smudges. Probably wore gloves.”

“Laura’s prints weren’t on the bag?

“No.”

If someone put a plastic bag over my head I’d reach up and touch it, and, given the opportunity, I’d yank it off or tear holes in the plastic so I could breathe.

“Any indication she was restrained?”

“No ligature marks.”

“He could have used something soft that wouldn’t leave marks.”

Anderson looked at me with interest. He nodded, but said nothing.

“Were her clothes removed from the scene?”

“We found a leather halter top in the dumpster. No panties, but she may not have been wearing any. We got a partial print from the zipper pull on the halter top.”

“Wait a minute. If the killer wore gloves, how could you get a partial print?”

“We couldn’t if he’d been wearing gloves the whole time. Or, if there was more than one assailant, one could have been wearing gloves and one not. The print on the zipper pull may not even be related to the murder. All we know for sure is that it’s not Laura’s print.”

He looked upset.

“How long have you been a homicide detective?”

“I handle crimes against persons,” he said. “We call them body crimes. That includes homicides, assaults, sex crimes, and robberies. I’ve been a detective for seven years. Local homicides are usually a lot more straightforward than this. Gunshots, rival gangs killing each other over colors, domestic violence, that kind of thing.” He paused. “She was so young.”

Detective Anderson was opening up to me, which was not standard operating procedure. Most cops of my acquaintance are extremely formal and reserved. With any luck he’d care enough to keep me posted on new developments in the investigation. That could save me a lot of time.

“Does the mother think you’re more likely to find the killer than we are?” he asked.

“She wants someone dedicated to the investigation reporting directly to her. And yes, she hopes I’ll find the killer and ask him why he murdered her daughter.”

“You think you can do that?”

I like a man who’s not afraid to ask straightforward questions. I searched his face for any sign of sarcasm, and saw none.

“I don’t know. I’ll talk to the family and any friends I can locate, and then see how I feel about going further.”

“Well, be careful.”

I asked Anderson for his direct-dial number at the station and he gave me his card after writing his cell number on the back.

“I don’t normally give this out,” he said. “I keep my cell on twenty-four hours a day. I hope you’ll let me know if you discover anything useful.”

There
it was
.
He thought I might find something he had missed. I could appreciate that. I took back the business card I’d given him earlier, and wrote my home and cell numbers on the back while he pulled a ten from his wallet and left it on the table. I thanked him for the coffee. It was bad, but he had paid.

Anderson drove me back to the station and before leaving I shook his hand again, just for fun. Then I walked to the marina, got in my own car – a vintage 1972 British racing green BMW model 2002 – and headed for Atherton.