by Nancy Skopin
After stopping at a couple of other tables, Martina returned the leather folder to me, said, “Thank you,” and sashayed off. I opened the folder and discovered my change and a carbon copy of the hand written, itemized tab. Very inventive. Only someone who knew the routine at Michelino’s would know something was amiss. I left a miserly fifteen percent gratuity and pocketed the hand-written receipt.
As we were walking out of the restaurant I said, “I’ll need to involve someone else in this case, Paul. It sounds urgent to me.”
“Is it someone you trust?” Paul asked. “I can’t risk having anything leak to the press.”
“I trust him with my life and, believe me, he won’t talk to the press or to anyone else about the investigation.”
“Okay. Who is it?”
“The PI who trained me,” I said. “Sam Pettigrew.”
Chapter 5
Samson Pettigrew is a grizzled old coot, but he was the best teacher I could have hoped for. He taught me to question everything, never take anything for granted, and never assume that appearances translate to reality. We’d had some pretty heated arguments about this during my internship because of my tendency to be literal.
I adore Sam, but he’s a pain in the ass, so most of the time I love him from a distance. It’s easier that way. In the two-plus years since I earned my PI license I’ve called Sam only a handful of times, to ask him questions I couldn’t find the answers to online, but I’ve never called because I really needed help. If Paul was right, and the three recent deaths were not accidental, then he was almost certainly on the killer’s short list. If I didn’t act fast enough he could lose his life. Because I wasn’t willing to take that chance, and because Sam has more than thirty years of experience, I needed him now.
These thoughts were swirling around in my head as I drove to Sunnyvale on Saturday afternoon. I knew Sam would be working. Sam always works on Saturdays. He claims it’s the only time he can get his reports written, because he can lock the door and ignore the phone.
I parked behind the Round Table Pizza a couple of doors down from Pettigrew Investigations, locked my car, and took a deep breath before approaching my old training ground. I still had a key to the office. Sam hadn’t asked me to return it when I left, and I hadn’t volunteered to part with it.
I knocked briskly on the outer office door and peered through the glass down the hall to where I knew Sam was contemplating whether or not to respond. I gave him a full minute before knocking a second time. This time I followed the knock with a shout. “Hey, Sam, it’s Nikki!”
Another ten seconds passed while I pictured him hauling himself up from his leather swivel chair, squeezing between his desk and the wall, and walking to the door of his private office. I’d gotten really pissed off at Sam one day when I was working for him, and had moved his desk an inch closer to the wall while he was in the bathroom. You should have heard the language.
Suddenly there he was, peering down the hallway to the glass-paned door where I stood gazing back at him. I waved. He stood, staring at me for a moment. I almost missed the smile, it was on his lips so briefly. Then he ambled slowly toward me.
Sam Pettigrew is a big man and his dusky brown complexion is accented by a pair of keen dark eyes that could snap your neck from thirty paces.
“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, from the other side of the door. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.” He squinted at me through his bifocals. “What the hell happened to your face, girl?”
I’ve become so accustomed to the specks of embedded gunpowder in my temple that I hardly notice them anymore, unless someone points them out. My hand automatically went to my face and I flushed at the memory.
“There was this psycho killer. You probably read about it in the paper,” I said. “Open the damn door!”
Sam let me in and looked me up and down like a parent examining a wayward child. I fought the urge to hug him and lost. I threw my arms around his burly shoulders and he squirmed with discomfort. When I released him he turned away from me to lock the door. I thought I saw him dash at his eyes under his glasses, but I might have imagined it.
The office smelled of cigar smoke and coffee, like it always had.
Sam turned back toward his inner sanctum and shouted over his shoulder, “What do you need, Nicoli? Must be important, to get you all the way down here to Sunnyvale. What is it, fifteen miles from home for you?”
I felt the sting, as he had intended me to. At the same time I couldn’t help feeling amused at the strange way Sam has of expressing affection.
“I missed you too, you old goat. I’m sorry I haven’t come for a visit. And yes, I need your help on a case, and it’s important.”
Over coffee, I explained the situation with Paul and his coworkers. Sam listened silently until I was finished, then he took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief.
“The first question you need to ask in a situation like this,” he said, “is what’s the motive. You find the motive, you can find the person behind these killings. You need to look into any accidents in the last year or so that took place while the dead controllers were on duty. You said they all worked the same shift, right?”
“Yes.” I started taking notes.
“That’s a break. If it was random, or just some nut with a grudge against air traffic controllers, or even someone who wanted to increase the likelihood of air traffic disasters, they wouldn’t care what shift these people worked. If all the victims worked the same shift, odds are something happened during that shift. You find out what that was, you can generate a list of suspects.”
“You don’t think we should look at disgruntled employees?” I asked.
“Disgruntled employees usually kill their boss first.”
“Sam, will you work with me on this case?” I winced at the feeling of vulnerability, and held my breath waiting for his response.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment, then put his glasses back on. “I might have some time to help you,” he said. “But you’d have to handle a couple of jobs for me while I’m doing it. Can’t neglect my regular clients.”
“Sure, but we need to get started immediately, and we need to keep a low profile. Paul made it clear he can’t afford to have anything leak to the press. I’m amazed it hasn’t already.”
“That’s because there’s no evidence these deaths were homicides. Once we start digging around and uncover that evidence, all hell’s gonna break loose. There are leaks in every police department. Cops don’t make enough money to refuse bribes from the press. Can your friend get you a list of all the accidents that have taken place during his shift in the last year?”
“I’ll ask.” I made a note. “What else?”
“You just get me the list of accidents, and a list of all the passengers and employees who were injured or killed in those accidents. And then we’ll get started. We should also have the names and addresses of the other controllers on the shift, the ones who are still alive, because they’re potential victims.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he said, looking me square in the eye.
I understood the implication. Even if we did find out who the killer was, it might be too late. Someone else might die. Paul might die. I really didn’t want to think about that.
On my way back to Redwood City, I called Paul on my cell and asked him for the accident reports for the last year, and the passenger and employee lists.
He was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “You don’t need a year’s worth of records. You only need six months. Gordon was new on the graveyard shift. He just started in April.”
“Great. That will save time. When can you get me the records?”
“I’ll print them out for you tomorrow night, when I’
m back at work.”
“Thanks, and Paul, I’d like you to think about hiring a bodyguard.”
“How much would something like that cost?” he asked.
“I know a local cop who charges sixty an hour plus mileage. It sounds like a lot, until you consider the alternative.”
I still had Quinn’s contact info in my smartphone. I pulled over long enough to give her name and phone number to Paul. Bill had recommended Lieutenant Quinn to me a few months ago, when I was in need of protection. I’d never actually used her services, but I’d called her for a rate quote and had liked her instantly.
“Maybe I’ll give her a call,” he said. “What’s your fax number so I can send the information to you?”
“It’s on the business card I gave you last night.”
“Okay. Make sure your paper tray is full.”
Chapter 6
When I got back to the office I loaded the fax paper tray first thing. Then I typed up my report on the waitress, Martina. When I was satisfied that I’d covered every possible detail of the lunch surveillance, I printed the report and an invoice and photocopied the hand-written receipt Martina had substituted for a cash register receipt. I stuffed the whole thing in a FedEx envelope and walked to the drop box outside the marina management office. Some of my clients prefer having their reports e-mailed to them, but Michelino’s owner was old school, and only wanted hard copies.
Between the office buildings and the water are cobblestone walkways, a wide expanse of lawn, and an assortment of trees and well maintained flowering plants. I think of the docks and the yachts as the heart of the marina complex.
Back in my office I gazed out at the scenery. Two of my office walls are almost floor-to-ceiling windows that slide open, so from my desk I can see most of the marina: everything from the lawn to the inlet off the bay, my boat and my neighbors’ boats, weeping willow trees and azalea bushes, and the odd cluster of cattails. The view almost never fails to relax me, but today it did nothing to ease the knot of tension in my gut.
I spent half an hour going over my schedule for the week, looking to see what I could postpone until after Paul’s case was somehow resolved. I could do four bar and restaurant surveys a night if I started early and stayed out late. That would free up my days for Paul. I made a list of the places I thought had the greatest likelihood of employee theft, and threw in a couple that weren’t high risk but that I didn’t want to neglect, out of respect for the owners. I tucked the list in my purse, locked up the office, and walked down to my boat.
It was four o’clock. I’d hardly slept the night before and I needed a power nap if I was going to work late. The boat was silent as I stepped aboard, but that didn’t mean it was vacant. Bill was probably either reading or online. When he’s not working a case, he spends the occasional weekend onboard with me. He owns a two-bedroom house on Madison Avenue in Redwood City, but I think being on the water feels like a vacation to him.
“Hello?” I called out, as I climbed down the steps into the galley.
“In here,” he answered from the main salon.
On my way through the galley I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a Guinness Stout and a bottle opener. I gave Bill a kiss, opened the bottle, and looked over his shoulder at the computer. He takes his laptop everywhere with him. He was in a firearms chat room with a bunch of other law enforcement officers, or LEOs, discussing second amendment rights and gun control. He finished typing a response and sent it, then turned to look me over. He took the open bottle out of my hand.
“You need a nap,” he said, taking a sip.
“I know. Couldn’t sleep last night. Join me?”
Bill set the Stout bottle on top of the built-in bureau, took me by the hand, and led me back to the stateroom.
“If I join you, you won’t get any sleep,” he murmured.
“Sleep is highly overrated.”
He sat me down on the bunk, took off my shoes, and pushed me back onto the pillows. He pulled the comforter over me, kissed me on the forehead, and left the room. I closed my eyes for a moment, and the next thing I knew it was dark outside.
“Shit,” I said, struggling into a sitting position. “God damn it, I have to work tonight! Why’d you let me sleep so long?”
“Relax,” came Bill’s unconcerned response from the direction of the galley. “You were tired, and it’s only six-thirty. I’ll make coffee.”
Bill is often the voice of sanity in my otherwise hectic life. While I’m rushing around having anxiety attacks, he’s moving steadily toward the resolution of whatever situation he’s in. I wish I could relax in the face of the unknown. Hell, I wish I could relax period. Ever since I quit smoking I’ve been crawling with nervous energy. Before I quit, whenever I felt like my head was going to explode, I’d just have a cigarette and that would take the tension down a notch. Now I have to deal with what I’m feeling. I don’t mind the good feelings, but anxiety sucks.
I groped for the bedside lamp and took a couple of slow deep breaths. Bill appeared in the doorway.
“Sorry I snapped,” I said. “I have to get as many surveys out of the way as possible before things start moving on this air traffic controller thing.”
“I forgive you. What air traffic controller thing?”
“My friend Paul, the one you met at the reunion, is an ATC supervisor. Three graveyard shift controllers reporting to him have died mysteriously in the last two months and Paul doesn’t believe their deaths were accidental. I’m looking into it.”
”Is this the same Paul that was kneeling at your feet and begged you to have lunch with him?”
“Yep. Jealous?”
“You wish. Why didn’t you say anything last night?”
“I didn’t find out about it until lunch today, and I shouldn’t even be telling you now. Paul swore me to secrecy, so you can’t mention this investigation to anyone. His bosses are totally paranoid about the press catching wind of it.”
“Not a problem.”
“Anyway, I have to do a few surveys tonight. You want to come out with me? I could use a beard.”
A beard is what we PIs call someone who accompanies us on a surveillance so we don’t look out of place. A couple makes more sense when you’re doing restaurant and bar surveys. People eating or drinking alone tend to stand out.
“I could eat,” he said. “Where are we going?”
I dug in my purse and handed him the list.
“Wow,” he said. “Good thing I skipped lunch.”
I drank two cups of coffee and started perking up. I dressed in black slacks and a turquoise cashmere sweater, scrunched my curls into submission, touched up my mascara, and slathered on some plum-colored lip-gloss.
“Ready to go?” Bill asked.
I looked up from the mirror and took in the vision before me. Wearing a white shirt open at the neck, a pair of black jeans that hugged his butt, and a luminous smile, Bill Anderson was a beautiful man. Not a pretty boy, but ruggedly-handsome-with-a-twinkle-in-his-hazel-eyes-take-your-breath-away beautiful. Of course knowing how he feels about me adds something to what I see when I look at him.
“You’re going to distract me,” I said.
Chapter 7
We started the evening at Chez Jacques, which is located on the southern-most tip of Redwood City, where it borders Atherton. One of the few French restaurants on the Peninsula, Chez Jacques rates a full five stars in the Silicon Valley Restaurant Guide. Luckily the portions are typically French, which means tiny. We ordered entrées, but no appetizers, no salad, and no wine. When you’re going to have three dinners in one night you need to eat light and stay sober.
Our waiter, Francois, sounded authentically French and looked disdainfully down his aquiline nose as he took our orders. That would go in my report. Many French restaurants en
courage their serving staff to be aloof with patrons, but Chez Jacques is not among them. The owner, Jessica James, maintains a very high standard of customer service. Jessica and I got to know each other when I was working department store security. She managed the restaurant in the Millbrae store. Now she owns Chez Jacques in Atherton and the Garden Grill in Menlo Park. I’ve been doing one survey a week at each of her restaurants since I got my license. The food is so good I almost feel guilty charging for my services.
Francois was new. I hadn’t seen him before at either of Jessica’s restaurants. I was surprised she had hired a new food server without having me do a pre-employment background check. He might be a relative of one of the cooks or one of the other food servers. Maybe he was temporarily filling in for someone who was out sick.
The conversation among the diners was subdued, as was the lighting, but the scents wafting from passing trays were not and made my mouth water.
I kept an eye on Francois as he served other tables and attempted to make eye contact when he delivered our entrées. He never met my gaze. He set the plates on the table, serving first me and then Bill, nodded curtly, and muttered, “Bon appétit,” before sauntering away.
The food was exquisite, as always. The cuisine is never an issue at Jessica’s restaurants. I had ordered the Loup de Mer, a lightly grilled Mediterranean seabass filet, which was nestled atop a pool of buttery lemon sauce, crème fraiche, and steamed spinach, and crowned with a single sprig of rosemary. It was a struggle for me not to lick the plate clean, but I managed.
