Murder On The Menu: The 1st Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (7 page)

Chapter 9

I
arrived at InSight Software a few minutes early and cruised around the parking lot. The cars that occupied the lot looked expensive and almost half of them were SUVs. Considering the price of gas, the company must be doing well.

In the lobby I was greeted by a lovely black woman seated behind a U-shaped reception counter. She was wearing a headset and a form-fitting business suit. Her nametag read
Tanya
.

“May I help you?” she asked.

I handed her my card and said, “I have a ten o’clock appointment with Derrick Howard.”

She pressed a few keys on her console, spoke softly into the headset, listened to the response, and said, “Mister Howard will be with you in a few minutes.”

Tanya made me one of those visitor’s badges that you stick to your lapel and that never stay put.

I seated myself on a couch near a huge rubber plant. While I was waiting I reviewed the notes I’d prepared for the interview and girded myself for the encounter.

Derrick Howard strode into the lobby at 10:07. He was at least six-two, slender but solid, and wore a pinstriped white shirt, a red power tie, and gray wool gabardine slacks. His hair was brown with some white around the temples and his features resembled a bird of prey – dark intense eyes and a beaky nose. He radiated a fierce intelligence. Many people feel intimidated when confronted by someone wealthy and powerful, but most people don’t have a father who’s a Cossack.

Derrick shook my hand as I introduced myself. His grip was firm and his hand was warm and dry. He smiled and apologized for keeping me waiting. Was this was the same asshole I’d spoken with on the phone? Some individuals behave differently in person. They think they can get away with anything on the telephone because you can’t see them. It’s like the way people drive, but don’t get me started on that.

Derrick escorted me down a series of hallways and up one flight of stairs to his office. When we were inside and he’d closed the door, his demeanor became frosty. Apparently the friendly act had been for the benefit of his employees.

His office was a corner suite with expansive windows. He seated himself behind an oversized mahogany desk. I took a seat on the other side of the desk and observed that my visitor’s chair was about five inches lower than the executive swivel on which Derrick was perched. It’s amazing the lengths to which some people will go to make others feel insignificant. I believe this is a holdover from childhood when we have no control over what happens to us. People have a fundamental need to believe they have command of their lives, and that often translates to control over others. In reality, all any of us can control is our own response to what happens.

I took out my notebook. “I understand Laura seldom brought friends home.”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“Did she talk about her friends, or any men she was dating?”

“No.”

“Were you
aware
of any particular man she might have been seeing?”

“No.”

“Did you know Laura enjoyed skydiving?”

He lifted an eyebrow. “What?”

“There was a videotape in her bedroom of Laura and a male companion skydiving.”

“Really? I’d like to see that.”

“I’ll be sure to get it back to you. I was wondering if you have any idea who the man might be. He was tall, athletic, brown hair.”

“No.”

“Mr. Howard, were you close to your daughter?” Even taking what Sylvia had told me into account, I didn’t want to assume anything.

“No, Ms. Hunter, I was not close to Laura. My business takes up most of my time. When she was a little girl things were different. We haven’t been close since she was eleven or twelve. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help to you.”

Eleven or twelve. Puberty. Maybe Sylvia was onto something.

“Did you know Laura got three speeding tickets in the last year?”

The eyebrow popped up again. “No, I wasn’t made aware of that,” he said.

This was getting me nowhere. I chose not to bring up the solicitation arrest, the strip club, or the fiancé until I’d made a decision about taking the case.

“I may need to speak with you again,” I said, handing him my card. “But I won’t take any more of your time today.”

He tucked my card in his breast pocket and said, “I’ll walk you down.”

We took a different staircase on the way out and passed a glass-walled computer lab full of men and women hovering over keyboards with large flat panel monitors. My eye was caught by a movie-star-handsome guy in his mid-thirties. Tall, wavy brown hair, nice build.

He must have felt me watching him, because he looked up and met my gaze. His eyes were dark and penetrating and as he stared at me I felt exposed, almost violated. There’s no other way to describe it.

Derrick and I continued down the hall and he ushered me out a side door. I thanked him for seeing me and told him I’d be in touch.

Once I was outside I still couldn’t shake off the visual encounter with the guy in the computer lab.

I walked to my car feeling unsettled. Laura’s father showed no emotional response to the death of his daughter. Maybe he’d viewed her as an embarrassment or an inconvenience and was glad to be rid of her. Of course, he might just be a very private person. Maybe he was a seething cauldron of repressed emotion, ready to explode with the slightest additional pressure, and was just hiding it really well.

I wasn’t sure what to do next, so I decided to take another look at my photos of Detective Anderson’s binder. I drove back to the office and read the whole thing this time, start to finish. Then I lit a cigarette, picked up the phone, and called the
Fanny Pack
.

The phone rang seven times before someone picked up.

“
Fanny Pack
,” said a male voice.

“Frank?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Nikki Hunter. The PI, remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, without enthusiasm.

“Can you talk?”

“Why? Did you catch the guy?”

“Not yet, but I have another question about your relationship with Laura. You can answer yes or no.”

“Okay.”

“Did Laura ever ask you to choke her during sex, or to put anything around her neck?”

For about ten seconds I heard only music on the other end of the line. Then he whispered, “Are you
kidding
me? That’s
sick
. Why would you
ask
me that?”

“I’m sorry, Frank. I’ll talk to you later.”

I hung up knowing I’d left him with an image that would haunt him. So what had I learned? That maybe it wasn’t Laura’s idea to put her head in a plastic bag. Maybe.

I took out the file folder of American Express bills and started going through them. The only items Laura routinely charged were expensive lingerie and garments from a shop called Bad Girls on Polk Street in San Francisco. Those were charges her mother had to have seen, and again I had the impression she was trying to antagonize her parents. When I got to the April statement there was only one item on it for a Motel 6 in Lompoc on the eighteenth. I kept that one out and got the phone number from information.

The man who answered had a Middle Eastern accent and was difficult to understand. I asked if he kept records of his guests and what information was required before a room could be rented. He said everyone filled out a registration card with the usual information. I assumed that would include a name, address, telephone number, make and model of car, and vehicle license plate number. I asked him very politely to check his file for April 18, saying I’d gotten a bill from American Express for my daughter’s Platinum card, with a charge for his motel on that date. I insisted that she had not been out of town that weekend. He was uncooperative.

It was beginning to look like I’d have to drive to Lompoc after all. I called the Sky Ranch again and asked for Big Al. He came on the line after a minute and told me he’d found three photos dated April 18. He hadn’t mailed them yet, so I told him to hold onto them and asked for directions.

I stopped at the bank and deposited Kate’s retainer, then I gassed up the 2002. I noted the mileage on the odometer so I could bill Kate for the trip, and hit the road.

As a rule I don’t like long drives, but it was a clear day and the coast highway is scenic. While I was driving it occurred to me what a convoluted path I’d followed to get to where I was today. I grew up in South San Francisco and spent my formative years in the company of my cousin Aaron, an unruly kid with a talent for making mischief. Aaron was two years older than I was, and apparently this gave him a certain credibility with adults because he always convinced my parents that I was responsible for his crimes. I was often the recipient of punishments that should have been his, usually a spanking or being locked in my room without TV privileges.

Everyone’s family is dysfunctional to some extent, but I like to think mine is unique. There was no physical expression of affection in our house. My parents did not hold hands, kiss each other, or embrace in my presence. They also didn’t kiss or hug me. I would watch my friends interact with their families and wonder what was wrong with me. Everyone else was getting hugs and kisses. The only physical contact I remember is the regular spankings I received when I took the blame for Aaron’s transgressions.

Although my dad spent time teaching me about guns and how to shoot, he did not play with me. He played, instead, with my cousin. He and Aaron used to run foot races in the back yard, but I was never invited to participate. I resented Aaron for this, but on some level I thought it was my fault, that because I was a girl I was unworthy.

Mom had been playing the piano since childhood, so when she was excommunicated and married my dad, she hung out her shingle and started taking in students. This allowed her to be at home so she could care for me while earning an income. Both of Aaron’s parents worked, so Mom allowed her brother and his wife to park their devil child at our house.

I now understand that children are slaves to their survival instincts. When we feel threatened, we do whatever we think is necessary to protect ourselves. For Aaron, that meant blaming me for anything he’d done that turned out to be a punishable offense. At the age of four I received a particularly severe beating for one of Aaron’s peccadilloes. I remember thinking at the time that I would never forgive him, or my parents.

Because of this ongoing torment, I developed a profound need to see that justice is done – a hunger for the bad guys to get what they have coming to them. On the other hand, as a distorted consequence of my obsession with justice, I began shoplifting when I was six. If my parents thought I was bad, I might as well be bad. My life is full of this kind of paradox.

Later, when I sold cosmetics, I graduated to stealing from my employer, till-tapping and taking merchandise home that I hadn’t paid for. After a few years, my retail career segued into security. I was surprisingly good at spotting shoplifters and till tappers, and management decided that talent was more valuable to them than making a sales quota. Eventually I was promoted to a security management position for the chain of department stores.

When I accepted the management position I decided it was time to turn my life around. The fact that I’d had a miserable childhood didn’t mean the world owed me anything. I mailed in anonymous cashier’s checks until everything I’d stolen was paid for, or paid back. This took a while. I liked the security job, but I didn’t find my true calling until I became a PI.

I believe the larcenous phase of my life contributes substantially to my ability to identify dishonest individuals today. It really does take a thief to catch a thief. In spite of the fact that I no longer rob anyone to satisfy my inner child, I have continued to live my life as though there is always something wrong and it’s my job to fix it. Knowing this allows me to use the compulsion rather than allowing it to use me, most of the time, and it makes me very good at what I do.

Aaron became a criminal defense attorney. No doubt his childhood experiences also contribute to his success. We have an ambivalent relationship at best. I can’t forget what a little shit he was as a child, and all he can remember of our time together is that when I was old enough to defend myself I started kicking his ass.

Almost three hours after leaving Redwood City I was on a dirt road leading to a vast field encircling two hangers and a number of small airplanes. I pulled into the unpaved parking area and looked around for signs of life. There were a few people smoking outside the hanger on my left, so I headed in that direction.

Inside, the hanger was partitioned into room-sized spaces. To the left of the entrance was an open dressing area where jumpsuits, helmets, and goggles were hung. Beyond this was a counter with a cash register and a few skydiving brochures scattered in asymmetrical piles. To the right was a seating area where several young people had gathered on hassocks and couches.

Behind the seating area was a small retail shop that appeared to stock all the paraphernalia associated with skydiving, and an office.

I spoke to a young woman positioned behind the cash register and she pointed out Big Al, who was giving a class to beginners. He was indeed big. I’d say about six-five and three hundred pounds, in his early thirties, Caucasian, brown hair, mustache and beard, brown eyes.

When Al inserted a disk into a DVD player and instructed his pupils to, “Pay attention and take notes,” I approached and introduced myself.

Al gave me a warm, if slightly distracted smile, and shook my hand. His was calloused, warm, and dry. He asked me to wait a minute and went into the office, returning almost immediately with three Polaroid snapshots. I took a fifty-dollar bill out of my wallet and he gave me the photos. I fanned them out in my hands like playing cards and looked closely at each one.

The third picture took my breath away. Standing next to Laura, dressed in a brown jumpsuit similar to hers, was the man I’d seen in the glass-walled computer lab at InSight. I flipped the picture over. Only the date was on the back.

I looked up at Al, who said, “You okay? You look a little pale.”

“This is really important. Do you have any records that would have this man’s name?” I held up the photo.

Al scratched the back of his head and said, “There’s the consent forms.”

“Consent forms?”

“Yeah. Anybody goes up in a plane has to sign a waiver, you know, in case something happens, saying we’re not responsible.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Come on, I’ll show you.”

The office was a disaster, with stacks of paperwork and file folders covering two desks, but Al knew right where to look. He approached one of two large file cabinets against the rear wall and opened the bottom drawer. Consent forms were grouped according to month and year. Finding April was a breeze. I decided to photocopy all the forms from the eighteenth, just to be safe. Al went back to his class, leaving me alone in the office while I did this. I tucked the copies and the photographs into my purse, and discreetly passed Al another fifty on my way out.