Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (6 page)

Chapter 7

I
unlocked the office door, turned on the computer, and resisted the urge to brew yet another pot of coffee. I plugged my digital camera into one of my USB drives and waited for the new photos to download. The pictures I’d taken weren’t great. I’d been in too much of a hurry. But I could make out most of the words if I enlarged the view.

The crime scene report stated in cold clinical factoids that the body of a female Caucasian had been found behind a dumpster in a parking lot on Bay Road. The report listed the names of the patrol officers who had discovered the body and the address of the parking lot.

The victim had three stab wounds to the chest and there was a clear plastic bag secured over her head by a large blue rubber band imprinted with the word ORGANIC and the numbers 94060.
A zip code?
The victim had been wearing only a black leather miniskirt, which had been pushed up around her waist, and a pair of black ankle boots.

The victim’s vehicle, a canary yellow Dodge Viper, was parked in the lot. It had been examined for physical evidence before being impounded. The only identifiable fingerprints in the Viper were those of the victim, who had been printed at the scene for the purpose of elimination. It was noted that the car was immaculate, as though it had recently been detailed.

Based on the condition of Laura’s bedroom, this didn’t strike me as out of character.

There were no weapons found at the scene.

As Detective Anderson had told me, the report mentioned that only a few unidentified partial prints and some smudges had been found on the plastic bag, and another partial print had been taken from the zipper pull of a black leather halter-top, which had been recovered from the dumpster.

I moved on to the pathology report.

No foreign hair or unusual fibers were found on the body. There was nothing under the fingernails, no defensive wounds on the hands or arms, and there was no indication that the victim had been restrained. Her genitalia had been pierced with two gold hoops sometime prior to the night of her death.

The rape kit swabs revealed traces of a spermicidal lubricant, which had been identified by the lab as particular to Trojan brand Supra condoms.

The three stab wounds to the chest were described in detail, and it was noted that they were inflicted postmortem and were not related to the cause of death. The cause of death had been suffocation – the plastic bag.

No wonder the police were restricting the information they shared with Laura’s mother.

In addition to the three stab wounds, Laura had pre-mortem signs of bruising on the left side of her face.

I scanned back to the first page of the pathology report. No foreign pubic hair had been found. I wondered how that was possible. I was envisioning a hairless male when I thought of something that made me forget about pubic hair altogether. Laura was into risk. Some people find being deprived of oxygen erotic. I’d read about a few cases of accidental death due to auto-erotic asphyxiation. Often the victim is so intent on increasing the intensity of an orgasm with the use of some type of breath-stopping technique, that they lose consciousness before they can release whatever it is that’s choking them. Maybe Laura
had
willingly allowed the killer to place the bag over her head. Maybe she had even asked him to do it. That would explain why Laura’s prints weren’t on the plastic bag. Her partner might simply have left it in place too long.

I’ve never studied medicine, but I understood enough of the report to know that Laura had not been drugged before she was murdered. Might she have had a moment of comprehension just prior to losing consciousness? Could it all have been a horrible accident? Maybe in the throes of passion her lover had mistaken Laura’s jerks of asphyxiation for the spasms of orgasm. Perhaps the stab wounds had been an afterthought, to throw the police off track. Of course that wouldn’t explain the bruise on her face or the fact that the same knife might have been used to kill a local librarian.

Laura had apparently driven herself to Bay Road and parked near a drugstore that was closed for the night. It seemed she had met or followed her lover to this rendezvous with one thing in mind, an assignation in a public place. Someone had brought along the plastic bag and the rubber band. Presumably these had been provided by Laura’s partner, since her prints weren’t on them. This raised another question. If the boyfriend had brought the bag, why weren’t there any complete fingerprints on it? Had he tried to wipe them away after stabbing Laura, thus causing the smudges?

I wondered what was so appealing to a young woman with Laura’s education and background about the sordid side of life. Maybe she was bored and wanted to experience something wild and out of control.

I typed up my notes of the evening’s discoveries and expenses, and added my opinion about the plastic bag, then locked up the office and walked down the companionway. Any ramp that connects a dock to shore is called a companionway. In fact, anything that gets you from land to a dock or from the dock to a vessel is referred to as a companionway. During high tide the marina ramp is almost parallel to the shore, but at low tide it’s so steep that if it wasn’t corrugated you’d have to slide down on your butt.

I passed Elizabeth’s trawler and continued down the dock, feeling a sense of warmth as I approached my home.

My Cheoy Lee is an ideal live-aboard vessel. It was built in 1980 and customized by the former owner, who passed away leaving it to his wife who, in turn, sold it to me for a song. Apparently he had died in the company of another woman. The wife was one of my first clients, but his infidelity was not why she hired me. She owned a local restaurant and was concerned about employee theft, so I installed some covert surveillance equipment for her. It was a coincidence that we neglected to tell her husband about the cameras, and that we happened to record his indiscretion with the hostess, and his subsequent heart attack. On the night of his death I sat with his wife as she watched that scene over and over again. Finally she said, “You wanna buy a boat?”

The Cheoy Lee’s center cockpit pilothouse doubles as an enclosed front porch up on deck. It’s also where the steering console is housed. From the pilothouse you descend into the galley, or kitchen, which is small enough that even I can keep it relatively clean. Forward of the galley is the main salon, where I spend most of my time. The aft stateroom, my bedroom, has a queen-size bunk set up against the bulkhead. The head, or bathroom, is equipped with a small tub and a stall shower.

I have only one plant on board, which I have tried numerous times to give away. When I got my license and was leaving the employ of Sam Pettigrew, the PI who trained me, he gave me the plant as a farewell gift. I’ve never seen another one like it. It resembles a miniature maple tree. The gift took me by surprise, since the closest thing to a display of affection from Sam prior to this had been a hundred-dollar bonus he’d slipped me when I completed twenty-two consecutive hours of surveillance. The plant is in a beautiful antique pot. I’ve tried to palm it off on my mom, my ex-husband, and a few of my friends. Boats are not a safe place for potted plants. When you’re underway they tend to get tossed around and damaged. I trim it once a month to keep the size manageable, and I water it weekly. I also turn it every day so it gets even sunlight from the portholes in the galley, and in spite of the affection I feel for Sam, I resent like hell the time I spend taking care of it. I don’t like being responsible for another living thing. Besides, if I kill the damned plant I’ll be heartbroken.

The Cheoy Lee’s Yanmar engine will run on anything from diesel fuel to bacon grease, an important feature if one intends to do any long distance cruising. The engine is housed under the pilothouse. There’s a trap door in the pilothouse floor that opens directly into the engine compartment. This is convenient in the event you have engine trouble at sea.

My ex-husband Drew taught me how to sail. I’m not much of a swimmer and at first I was freaked out by all that water, but as I gradually became more confident, my fear of drowning diminished. Now I love the freedom of having a sailboat. It’s ironic that my ex introduced me to a hobby that, after the divorce, became my lifestyle.

I showered on board again, made myself a green salad with canned tuna, and sat down to watch the evening news. For almost two weeks Laura Howard had been among the top local stories. The anchorperson stated that the police still had no one in custody. They showed pictures of the parking lot where Laura had been killed, then moved on to the murdered librarian who had been killed the week after Laura’s death.

I was just about to change the channel when the anchor announced the discovery of an unidentified male homicide victim found tonight in a bank parking lot in Menlo Park.

Menlo Park. Less that three miles away from the marina, and less than a mile from where Laura had died. I shivered in spite of the balmy temperatures.
Too many murders too close to home
, I thought.

I picked up the remote and began searching for a mindless sitcom.

Chapter 8

O
n Friday morning I went to the gym and took a yoga class. Then I did my upper body workout with free weights and jogged on the treadmill until I felt the endorphins kick in. I showered, blew my hair dry, and drove back to the office where I munched on a week-old bagel while I made a list of what I needed to do to get the investigation rolling.

First I would e-mail CIS and request Laura’s DMV records and any criminal records in San Mateo County. For sixty-five dollars any licensed PI can access DMV records and do a one-county search for arrests and convictions, plus a financial background. More than one county costs more than sixty-five dollars. It helps if you have the subject’s driver’s license or social security number. Otherwise you might get the wrong person’s data.

I would call Laura’s father at his office and schedule a time to speak with him in person, and I would call Kate and ask if she had Laura’s private phone bills. Those hadn’t been in her desk. If there was time, I would call Laura’s Aunt Sylvia in L.A.

I set the list aside and took out Laura’s bank statements. I started with the most recent statement and moved backward in time. Laura had thirty-three thousand dollars in her checking account. I considered how much of that income might have been from dancing and again wondered why she had lived with her parents. She could easily have afforded a rental house or an apartment.

Laura had been willing to pay the extra fee to have the bank return her cancelled checks each month, so I read the front and back of each one. When I got to April, I found what I was looking for. There was a check for twelve hundred dollars made out to the Sky Ranch on April eighteenth. On the back was a stamp indicating that it had been deposited at a Wells Fargo bank in Lompoc, California. I called information, wrote down the number, and dialed.

“Sky Ranch, Big Al speaking.”

I assumed there must be a Little Al somewhere on the premises.

“Hi, Al,” I said. “My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a PI in Redwood City and I’m doing background research for a woman whose daughter was recently killed. Can you tell me if you ever take snapshots of your skydiving clients before or after they make a jump?”

“Yeah, sometimes. We keep ’em here on the bulletin board.”

“Are the pictures dated?”

“Usually.”

I promised Al I’d mail him a check for fifty dollars if he’d send me any photos dated April 18th. Lompoc was over two hundred miles away and I didn’t want to have to make the drive. To my relief, he agreed. As I set the receiver back in its cradle, I stared at the check. Why hadn’t Laura used a credit card?

I called Derrick Howard at his office. Eventually I was connected with his assistant who seemed very professional in spite of her high-pitched, breathy voice. She asked my name and why I was calling.

“My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a private investigator and I’ve been retained by Mrs. Howard to look into the death of their daughter.”

She put me on hold for a full minute, and then came back on the line and said that Mr. Howard was in a meeting. I asked how long she thought he would be, and she told me she
really couldn’t say. I left my office number.

Thirty minutes later Derrick Howard called me back. His tone was clipped and he sounded impatient.

“I’d like to come by and meet with you,” I said. “It shouldn’t take more than fifteen or twenty minutes. Is this morning convenient?”

“No, Ms. Hunter, it is not. I have a company to run, and frankly I don’t understand why my wife insisted on hiring you.”

I bristled. “Your wife hired me because she isn’t satisfied with the results of the police investigation. I promise I’ll take as little of your time as possible.”

“All right,” he huffed. “I’ll give you a few minutes if you can be here by ten.”

“Thank you.” I hung up without saying good-bye.

I know some people convert grief into anger, but I reserve the kind of petulance Derrick Howard was exhibiting for close personal friends and relatives, and I think others should do the same. I dislike people who are rude. I make snap judgments about everyone I encounter, and based on my brief conversation with Derrick Howard, I determined that he was an asshole.

I’ve spent years studying psychology as a hobby. I’ve read everything from Freud to Jung, as well as the more recent schools of thought, and I pay close attention to other people’s behavior as well as my own. When I feel threatened I become aggressive. I have an addictive personality and a penchant for self-doubt, consequently, I smoke in spite of the fact that I’m kind of a health nut. I’ve been married three times; once when I was still in high school, to get away from my parents, once when I was twenty-four, to do a favor for a friend who wanted to immigrate, and once for love. The most recent episode lasted four years. They were four good years, but Drew, my ex, wanted children, and I did not. When we decided to get a divorce I cried nonstop for two days. Then I realized I was better off. Drew and I loved each other, but we had very little in common. My self-esteem still took a beating, however. Drew has triplets now, which goes to show you should be careful what you wish for.

After Drew and I called it quits, I decided that was it for me. Who can honestly say they’ll be with you until death, let alone love, honor, and cherish you that long? Most people don’t know from one moment
to the next what they want, so how can anyone claim to know what they’ll want forty or fifty years in the future?

I’m happily single now, but I have to admit I sometimes yearn for male companionship, especially at night. I’m not opposed to having a relationship, I just don’t want to make or accept any promises about living happily ever after.

My pet peeve is people who maneuver themselves into positions of power and then abuse that power. I’ve never been content, and I don’t know how to relax. That’s me in a nutshell.

I e-mailed CIS requesting the records search on Laura Howard, and then I checked my list and placed a call to Los Angeles.

Laura’s Aunt Sylvia answered on the third ring, sounding like she’d been crying. It was nice to know someone in Laura’s family was openly grieving.

“Hello?” she sniffled.

“Mrs. Davis?”

“Yes.”

“This is Nicoli Hunter. Has Kate spoken with you about me?”

“Oh, yes. The detective, right? She said you might be calling. What can I do for you, dear?”

“I have a couple of questions about Laura. Is this a good time?”

“As good a time as any,” she said, and blew her nose loudly near the receiver.

“When was the last time you spoke with her?” I began.

“About three weeks ago, I guess.” She sniffled and sighed.

“Do you remember what you talked about?”

“About me, mostly. Laura was a good listener. Always interested in what was going on in my life. I’d told her I was signing up for salsa dance classes and she called to see if I’d gone through with it.”

“Wow. So did you?”

“Oh, yes. The classes are wonderful. I’ve missed a couple since…you know.”

“Of course. Did Laura happen to mention anyone she was dating?”

“Not that I recall, no.”

“How did she seem to you?”

“You mean was she acting differently?”

“Yes. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary in her tone of voice? Did she seem unhappy, angry, depressed?”

“Actually she seemed a little more subdued than usual, but I couldn’t tell you why.”

“Okay. What can you tell me about the family?”

“Kate said I should tell you anything you wanted to know. You want to talk about Laura’s relationship with her parents?”

“If you have the time.”

“I have almost nothing
but
time,” she said. “I recently retired.”

“Oh really? What did you retire from?”

“I’m a clinical psychologist. Didn’t Kate tell you? No, of course not. Why would she? I just assumed that was why you were asking me about the family.”

“Kate didn’t mention it, but I would like to hear your thoughts.”

“You’re very observant aren’t you, dear? I suppose that’s why you’re an investigator. Laura was a very confused young woman. They spoiled her when she was little. Not enough discipline. No structure. They gave her anything she wanted without thinking about how that might affect her later in life. When Laura was twelve Derrick started his software company. Kate became involved with a couple of charities around that same time. So there was a change in the amount of attention they gave Laura. I think she may have felt abandoned…started acting out.

“When Laura was in high school Kate finally realized that she and Derrick had inadequate parenting skills. They took her to a psychiatrist, but that only made matters worse. She ran away from home when she was fourteen. The police brought her back three months later. She’d been living in a commune somewhere in Marin County. After that Laura’s behavior deteriorated until she took that job dancing. It was the last straw for Kate. She seemed to give up on Laura after that.”

“Wait. They
knew
Laura was an exotic dancer?”

“Oh yes. She made no effort to hide her occupation from Kate and Derrick.”

However, Kate had hidden it from me. I wondered why.

“Derrick checked out when Laura was twelve,” Sylvia continued. “I think he may have had a hard time dealing with her sexuality. Although, it’s interesting to note that our father seemed to withdraw from Derrick when he was around that same age.

“Anyway, I tried to tell them Laura needed discipline when she was a toddler, but nobody listens to the aunt. So few people are qualified to be parents. The point is, Laura wasn’t a bad
person. She just needed guidance and structure. I’m probably telling you more than you need to know.”

I couldn’t write fast enough to keep up with Sylvia’s commentary, so it took me a moment to realize she’d stopped talking.

“What? Oh no, this is exactly the kind of information I need. What happened when Laura was in high school?”

“She discovered boys. Started sneaking out at night. Coming home at dawn. Her grades suffered. Derrick caught her coming in early one morning. Kate told me about it later. She said that Derrick had called Laura a whore. The look on Laura’s face when he said that just broke Kate’s heart.”

“Did you ever meet any of Laura’s college boyfriends?”

“No, I ever met him. Saw pictures of him though. Nice looking boy.”

“She only dated one guy in college?”

“Yes. They were engaged.”

“Do you remember his name?”

She thought for a moment before saying, “I’m sorry, I’m drawing a blank. I’m sure Kate and Derrick will remember though.”

“So what happened? Why didn’t they get married?”

“She broke it off. All she said to me about it was that he turned out not to be the one.”

“What about female friends?” I asked.

“Laura didn’t have many friends, male or female, because she didn’t like herself very much. She thought there must be something wrong with anyone who wanted to spend time with her, poor child.”

Sylvia and I talked for almost thirty minutes, then I thanked her for her time and her insights, and gave her my office number in case she thought of anything else that might help.

I shook the cramps out of my fingers and entered the notes I’d taken into Laura’s case file. I needed to buy a telephone headset so I could type while I was listening.

I called Kate and, before I had a chance to say anything, she asked if I had decided to take the case. I realized that in my mind I was already committed.

“I still have a few things to check out before making that decision,” I hedged.

Sometimes I need to say no before I can even think about saying yes. I asked if she’d be home for a while and she said she was on her way out, but that she’d be happy to wait for me, so I locked up the office and drove to Atherton.

Once again Kate answered the door herself. She was wearing white today. White slacks, an elegant white blouse, and a pair of taupe Ferragamo sandals. She looked flawless. Why should that annoy me? She invited me in and we sat facing each other in oversized armchairs in the living room.

“When I was going through Laura’s desk,” I began, “I didn’t find any telephone bills. Is the phone in her room a private line?”

“Yes. I took care of the bills for her.”

“Do you have the statements?”

She looked puzzled, but said nothing and left the room briefly. She came back with a single white envelope.

“I only have the latest one,” she said. “After I pay them I throw them away. This just came yesterday.”

I accepted the bill, minus the pay stub and envelope.

“What about her credit cards?”

“She had an American Express Platinum, but she almost never used it.”

“Did you take care of those bills for her as well?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Again she left the room, returning with a file folder of statements, which she handed to me. Now I knew why Laura had written a check to the Sky Ranch. For some reason she wanted to keep that part of her life private.

“There’s one more thing I need to know, Kate. Why didn’t you tell me that Laura was an exotic dancer?”

Kate flushed with embarrassment, and looked down at her feet before responding. “I was afraid if you knew…that you wouldn’t respect her enough to take the case.” She looked me in the eye and I saw the unspoken plea.

I nodded. “I’ll call you tomorrow with my decision.”

She silently ushered me to the door.

I drove back to the office and locked Laura’s AMEX and phone bills in my growing file on the investigation. I was on my way back out when I thought to check my e-mail. Sure enough, among a few messages from my regular clients, I had a response from CIS. I scanned it quickly while it was printing. Laura had received three speeding tickets in the last twelve months. If her license had been suspended it wasn’t mentioned in the report. I read further and discovered that she’d been arrested for solicitation in March, and that the charges had subsequently been dropped.
What the hell?

I picked up the phone and called Kate, but I got the machine.

“Kate, it’s Nicoli,” I said. “I need you to call your attorney and ask him to request copies of Laura’s criminal record from the Redwood City Police Department. I need to know more about her activities over the last year.”

I left my office number, in case she’d misplaced it, then shut down the computer and locked up the office. It was time to meet Laura’s father. I was
so
not looking forward to this.