Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) (13 page)

Chapter 25

E
lizabeth opened the door before I could knock. She’d been waiting up for me, listening for my footsteps on the ramp.

“Come in sweetie,” she said. “You look awful. Want something to drink? I have wine, vodka, Kahlua…”

“Vodka and Kahlua, please.” I sank onto the settee and leaned my elbows on the galley counter. “Did you get ahold of Jack?”

“Yes.”

She filled a rocks glass with ice and poured me a double shot of Skyy, then added about an ounce of Kahlua.

“What did he say?” I asked.

She handed me the drink and I savored a generous mouthful. The chocolate was just what I needed.

“He said he hasn’t seen a man on the property, apart from himself. He also said to tell you to watch your back.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Jack doesn’t trust the police.”

I almost laughed. “Neither do I. I need another favor. They’ll be coming to the office tomorrow to get the videotapes. I’m guessing they’ll also have search warrants for my office and the boat. Probably for my car too. I want you to take all my guns so they can’t seize them as evidence and hold them for the next six months.”

“Sure. How many do you have?”

“They’ve already got the Ruger. That leaves the Beretta, the Sig, and the Remington. The Glock is up in the office.” I counted on my fingers as I spoke. “Maybe you should take the ammo too.”

“You want to do this
tonight
?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind.” I stood slowly, feeling the vodka.

“Just let me get dressed,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

I shuffled past D’Artagnon’s boat, wishing he was outside to comfort me with sloppy kisses.

Once I was home it was difficult to imagine going back out again. I wanted to burrow into my bunk and pull the covers over my head until all the bad stuff went away. Instead I put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and boat shoes. Then I poured myself a shot of whiskey and took it into the main salon.

I keep the guns I’m not using wrapped in old socks in the bottom drawer of a cabinet attached to the bulkhead. My old Remington Pump Action I keep in a canvas carrying case, which is stowed under the settee. I took each gun out and gently placed the handguns in a large canvas bag. I drank some whiskey and packed up all the spare mags, speed loaders, and boxes of ammunition.

My dad taught me about gun safety as soon as I was old enough to understand. When I was six he showed me how to disassemble and clean his rifle. My mom went shopping whenever Dad took out his rifle. I realize now that she objected to having a gun in the house, but chose not to interfere with one of the few activities my father shared with me.

I was seven the first time he took me for a ride in his motorboat. We bundled up in flannel shirts, down jackets, and rubber boots, and went out at dawn to avoid other boaters. He made me wear a life vest, although he insisted he was a strong enough swimmer that he didn’t need one. We brought along a number of empty plastic water bottles, which we used as targets because they would float.

The only conversation allowed on this and subsequent target shooting expeditions was about gun safety and how to position the gun and sight the shot more accurately. When we were done for the day we’d pick up what was left of the targets and putt to shore. Back at home we would set to work cleaning the gun over piles of newspaper on the kitchen table. I find the smell of gun oil and solvent soothing to this day.

I don’t have a lot of good memories from my childhood, but the shooting expeditions with my father are among them. The gun cleaning sessions were punctuated by matter-of-fact comments from my dad like, “You missed a spot,” or, “Use some elbow grease.” I didn’t mind, because I enjoyed spending time with him.

On my tenth birthday Dad presented me with my own Remington, a youth model-seven rifle that fit my size perfectly. I was thrilled. My mother went into the bedroom, shut the door, and cried for an hour. Apparently Dad had not consulted her before making the purchase. Later that day he asked me if I wanted to go hunting with him. I was stunned, flattered, and appalled all at the same time. I loved animals more than anything and I couldn’t imagine shooting one unless my life depended on it. I felt torn between wanting to please my dad, needing his approval, and knowing somewhere deep in my gut that what he was suggesting was morally wrong. Finally I told him that I’d rather shoot at targets. He looked disappointed, but I think he understood.

I had finished packing up my guns and ammo by the time Elizabeth knocked on the pilothouse door. I met her at the hatch holding the canvas tote, the Remington, and my key ring.

“We need to go up to the office,” I said.

My voice sounded off to my own ears, like it was coming from inside a tunnel. Elizabeth took the bag and slung it over her shoulder, which was impressive since it weighed almost as much as she does. I carried the Remington as discreetly as possible. Even in its case it’s obviously a long gun.

We left everything on Elizabeth’s boat, locked it, and walked up to the office complex. I fumbled with my keys, finally found the right one, and then dropped the key ring on the ground. I stooped down to pick them up, dropped them again, and started crying. Elizabeth squatted next to me. She picked up the keys, put her arms around me, and held me tight.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” she murmured. “I promise.”

It really helps to have someone tell you that, even when you know it isn’t true. After a minute I got hold of myself, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and took back the keys. I inserted the correct one in the lock and opened the door. I turned on the lights and looked around my office. Maggie was dead, but I still didn’t feel safe.

I pulled the Glock out of its holster under my lap drawer, pressed the mag release, and jacked the slide to eject the chambered round onto the desk blotter. I went to the kitchenette and got a couple of dishtowels, wrapped the Glock carefully in the towels, and placed it, the magazine, and the loose bullet in a plastic bag, which I gave to Elizabeth.

I decided to check the safe before locking up for the night, just to make sure the tapes were still in there. They were.

I walked Elizabeth back to her trawler and told her I’d call her tomorrow.

Back on board my own boat I locked both the pilot house door and the hatch, even though I was expecting Bill. No telling when he’d show up, and I felt defenseless having just given Elizabeth all of my guns.

I took off my jeans and shoes, but left the sweatshirt and sox on. I couldn’t seem to get warm. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Images of Maggie in the pool, both before and after death, assaulted me. After a while I gave up trying to sleep and got up.

I took a long hot shower, dried my hair, and pulled on my thermal underwear, then I got back into bed and picked up a John Sanford novel.

Chapter 26

B
y the time Bill knocked on my door the sun was coming up and I was surprised to discover that I’d fallen asleep with the book open on my chest. I dragged myself out of bed to let him in, then crawled right back under the covers. My head was pounding.

“What time is it?” I asked, closing my eyes against the light.

“It’s early.” He sat on the edge of the bunk and looked at his watch. “Six-twenty.”

“What time is the Gestapo coming?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Did they find the knife?” I opened one eye just a crack to look at his face. I didn’t like what I saw.

“No knife,” he said.

I sat up. “What do you mean, no knife? You mean they didn’t find it last night. The sun’s barely up, they’ll find it in the daylight.”

“They brought in a bunch of flood lights last night, Nikki. And they went over the yard very thoroughly.”

“The pool?”

“Empty. Nothing on the bottom.”

“What are you telling me, exactly?”

“I think you need to hire an attorney.”

“Oh shit.”

I decided to lie back down. I put my arm over my eyes and bit my lip to keep myself from crying.

Bill took off his clothes and got into bed with me. He wrapped his arms around me and I clung to him as if he were a life preserver. We didn’t talk for a long time. Finally I disengaged myself and looked at him. He’d been up all night and it showed.

“I can call my cousin,” I said. “He’s probably too busy to represent me, but I’m sure he can recommend someone. Are they going to arrest me?”

“They’ll look at the videotape copies first, but yeah, I think they are.”

“Bill, she came at me with that knife. What could have happened to it?”

“I don’t know. Get some sleep. I’ll set the alarm for eight.”

I couldn’t go back to sleep. When Bill started snoring I slipped out of bed. I tiptoed into the main salon, sat cross-legged on the settee, and called my cousin Aaron.

Aaron is the closest thing I have to a sibling, and along with that relationship comes the typical baggage. When we were kids I took a lot of punishment for things he had done. It still pisses me off that he always got away with it. My obsession with justice rose out of my relationship with Aaron, and my distrust of authority figures probably developed while I was receiving regular spankings for his crimes. Those early experiences contribute substantially to who I am today, and to my skill in my chosen profession. Aaron is a criminal defense attorney. No need to wonder where he developed the skills necessary to excel in that field.

Aaron answered the phone, sounding groggy, on the fourth ring. He listened to my story, expressing no surprise. He said he would be in court all week, but promised he would be there for me if my case went to trial. I’d never seen him in action, but I had heard from mutual friends that he was impressive. He put me on hold and called an associate, Peter Treski, who agreed to meet me at my office at 8:45. I thanked Aaron and hung up the phone feeling moderately reassured.

I took another long hot shower, trying to wash away the memory of Maggie’s touch from the intimate parts of my body. But no amount of soap and water could scrub away the horror, so I sat down in the shower stall and cried for a couple of unguarded minutes, feeling sorry for myself and resentful that life wasn’t any more fair now than it had been when I was a kid.

I dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, quietly said goodbye to Bill, who was still asleep, and walked up to the office.

While I was waiting for Peter to arrive, I called Jim Sutherland, my friend and fellow PI. We met shortly after my first murder investigation. Jim had been hired to follow me by the killer I was hunting, and after the takedown we got to know each other during the long days of the trial while we were both waiting to testify. He’s an honorable guy, with a self-deprecating sense of humor. It’s fun to hang out with another PI, and we sometimes toss business each other’s way when one of us has too much to manage.

Jim was born in England, the only child of a Scottish father and an English mother. His father designed early warning systems for the military, so they moved around a lot. Before he was fifteen Jim had resided in England, Spain, Iran, Manila, and Turkey. Not long after his fifteenth birthday his family moved to Los Altos, California. It was Jim’s first visit to the United States. He finished high school and attended college here. After college, he had a series of short-term jobs, and finally ended up with a security firm in Belmont.

Jim was on a routine sales call in Oakland one day and witnessed a hit-and-run accident. He followed the driver, memorized his license plate, and went to the police, who were able to apprehend the suspect. Jim felt good about that. He was already fed-up with his current employer, so he went online and started contacting private investigators, just as I had done. His fourth call was to a retired cop, now working as a PI, in Mountain View, who liked what Jim had to say about wanting to catch bad guys.

Jim is thirty-four now and he’s been licensed for about five years. Having first-hand knowledge of so many cultures and belief systems makes him an excellent investigator, and an uncommon resource for me. I hoped he would have some ideas about where the missing knife might have gone.

“Who have you pissed off recently?” he began, after listening to me describe the encounter with Maggie.

I could think of at least a dozen people. There was a retail cashier, a restaurant hostess, five bartenders, two cocktail waitresses, and a doorman, all of whom had lost their jobs because I was doing mine. There was the killer Jim and I had put behind bars recently, and there was a hooker in Lake Tahoe who wasn’t going to marry a millionaire any time soon because I’d reported to her fiancé, my client, detailed descriptions of what she was doing while he was out of town. It seemed like a lot of people, when you looked at them all at once. Oh yeah, and there was Blake Curtis; the hothead food server I’d run into just the other night.

“Is Bill the jealous type? You said he was following you. Could he have arrived while you were still in the pool?”

“Bill would never do anything to hurt me.”

In spite of my conviction, I began to consider the possibility.

“Did you know any of the officers who took the call? Was there anyone at the scene you had met before, besides Bill?”

“Not that I noticed. I’m not being very helpful, am I?”

“Don’t worry about it. Is it possible Maggie had a lover whom she chose
not
to kill and mutilate? Maybe someone who liked to watch?”

“Jesus, I hope not. That’s disgusting.”

We talked for another ten minutes, Jim bouncing ideas off me. By the end of the conversation he seemed convinced that someone with a grudge against me had been there last night. Someone I hadn’t seen. He suggested I hire a colleague to canvass the neighborhood to find out if one of the residents might have seen someone leaving immediately after the shooting. It was a good idea, but I didn’t know anyone besides Jim who I would trust with a job like that, and he was too busy. I could call my old mentor, Sam Pettigrew. He’d be there for me in a heartbeat, but asking Sam for help would feel like admitting I was incompetent.