by Nancy Skopin
“So, who are you with?” Wallace asked.
Yep. He definitely had control issues.
Sam reached in his pocket and handed Wallace his business card. This was a risky move. If Wallace chose to dig deeper, Sam could be in a lot of trouble. On the other hand, I knew Paul would back us up if push came to shove.
Wallace took the proffered card and stared at it for a moment. A hint of a smile played over his face and then vanished. “What would you like to know?” he asked.
Sam repeated the questions he’d asked Boscalo, including the one about why his wife and children were traveling on the day of the accident. I recorded Wallace’s answers in my notebook. He spoke with no emotion whatsoever, but as Sam continued to question him a sheen of perspiration appeared on his face. He occasionally looked my way, but seemed to concentrate primarily on Sam. That suited me fine because this guy was creeping me out.
When Sam was finished he thanked Wallace for his time and said he was sorry for his loss. It was the only time Wallace’s expression changed. He pursed his lips as though he was trying to stop something from bursting out of his mouth. His face flushed and his hands clenched into fists. For an instant I thought he was going to hit Sam. It was pretty intense. Then he straightened his tie and said, “Thank you.”
We left the office as casually as we had entered. Neither of us said a word as we walked to the Range Rover. Sam beeped the locks open and we got in. He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.
When we were about a block away I let out the breath I’d been holding and said, “What the hell was that?”
“You noticed it too?”
“He’s on the edge.”
“Just lost his wife and two kids. Makes sense he’d be upset. What doesn’t make sense is that he would control it so completely until someone says they’re sorry for his loss. That man’s an assault looking for a place to happen.”
“No history of violence,” I said.
“No history of any arrests for violence,” Sam corrected me. “Doesn’t mean he has no history of violence. Just means he never got arrested for it.”
“He’s an attorney,” I said.
“So he’s probably used to being careful about his image. I’d like to take a closer look.”
We moved on to interview number three, Charles aka Chuck Fragoso. Fragoso was a department manager at Best Buy in San Carlos. He’d been arrested fifteen years earlier for grand theft auto, had served two years, and then was on parole for another eighteen months. I knew why Sam had saved Fragoso for last. He had the lowest level of education of the three. Although that didn’t necessarily mean he was the least intelligent, the odds were against him being our killer. The person who was targeting air traffic controllers had done some research, planning, stalking, and calculated risk taking. We were looking for a psycho with a high IQ.
Sam parked the Range Rover in the Best Buy lot and said, “You’re buying me lunch after this.”
“Great. I’m starved. How about The Diving Pelican at the marina?”
“Fine with me.”
We entered the store and looked around for home entertainment, Fragoso’s department. We located a customer service kiosk and an elderly woman dressed in a royal blue smock gave us directions.
Chuck Fragoso was thirty-eight, six-one, lean, and wiry. He had dark hair and eyes, a mustache and goatee, and a small silver hoop in his left earlobe. He was wearing brown slacks with a white short-sleeve shirt and a purple paisley tie.
As we approached, he was discussing the merits of a plasma screen TV with a young couple. I wondered how anyone who wasn’t at work on a Wednesday afternoon could afford a plasma screen. Maybe they were on their lunch break. The couple decided to think about the purchase and wandered off, whispering to each other.
I hung back as I had with the other two subjects while Sam approached Fragoso, introduced himself, and asked if there was some place we could speak privately.
“I guess I could take a break,” Fragoso said.
He excused himself and walked over to an adjacent department, apparently asking someone to cover for him while he was gone. Then we all trooped outside to the parking lot. Fragoso led us around the side of the building to a picnic table. He lit a cigarette and sat down.
“So you’re still investigating the crash?” he asked. “How long does it usually take to sort these things out?”
“Depends on the circumstances,” Sam answered equitably.
“How can I help?” Fragoso asked.
Sam began the same litany of questions, but I noticed he was making more eye contact with Fragoso than he had with the other two men. When he asked about why Mindy and their daughter, Samantha, had been traveling on that fateful day, I saw Fragoso flinch.
After a moment, he quietly said, “They were coming back to me.”
“Coming back?” Sam pressed.
“Mindy took Samantha and left me nine months ago. She moved to Seattle to stay with her folks. We were talking a couple of times a week and we were working things out. They were coming back to me.” His face flushed and his eyes filled with tears.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said.
Fragoso rested his forehead in his hands for a minute and then swiped at the tears. “What else do you need to know?” he asked.
“I think we’ve taken enough of your time for today,” Sam said. “Can we call you if we think of any other questions?”
“Sure.” Fragoso produced his business card and Sam accepted it.
We left the Best Buy lot and Sam drove to the marina without asking for directions. I raised a mental eyebrow. I wondered if he’d been there before, maybe checking up on me.
“You come here often?” I asked.
“Been out this way once or twice,” he said.
He parked in the side lot nearest the restaurant and we entered The Diving Pelican, both of us automatically turning toward the specials posted on a chalkboard. I decided on the Chinese chicken salad and approached the counter to place my order. Sam followed me and requested the meatloaf. Anyone who’s spent time at The Pelican knows the meatloaf is sublime.
After I’d paid for our meals, we poured ourselves ice water, grabbed napkins and flatware, and chose a table on the outdoor deck facing the water. Sam took an ashtray from one of the other tables, lit a cigar, and leaned back in his chair, looking out at the boats.
“This is where you live?” he asked, casually.
I suddenly felt guilty as hell that I’d never invited Sam to my home or even to my office. I pointed out my boat and said, “That one is mine. I’ll give you a tour after lunch.”
I was suddenly apprehensive. I was sure there were piles of clothes on the stateroom floor and I couldn’t remember if I’d washed the morning dishes. Shit!
“No need for that,” Sam said, shifting his gaze to the right, looking directly at my office.
“I’ll show you my office while we’re at it,” I said. “It’s on the way to the boat.”
I knew the office was a mess. The real question was, why did I care? Sam’s office was sloppy too. He probably wouldn’t even notice. Maybe on some level I wanted to impress him.
I was thoroughly confused about what I should be feeling by the time Bennett delivered our lunch.
“Well, Ms. Hunter,” he said. “I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“I’m here at least twice a week. I’ve just been missing you. Bennett, this is my friend and mentor Sam Pettigrew. Bennett is the owner of this fine establishment,” I said to Sam.
They shook hands and I thought I saw recognition in Bennett’s expression. Why would Sam come to the marina for lunch and not drop in to see me? Maybe he was waiting for an invitation. But that would mean he was insecure and vulnerable, like a normal person. Sam Pettigrew is not a n
ormal person.
We talked about the case over lunch. All three subjects had reason to seek revenge, having lost their wives and children. What we needed to figure out was if any of them had enough rage and was amoral enough to kill. We would have to interview their friends and neighbors as well as conducting surveillance on our three subjects. Not an easy task, considering there were only two of us and we both had other clients. Time was an issue. Sam suggested we each take one of the three, and share the third.
I drew the short straw and ended up with Wallace, the attorney. Of the three, he bothered me the most. Sam chose Fragoso, the manager at Best Buy, and we would work on Boscalo, the accountant, together.
“If we don’t get anything useful from watching these three and interviewing their friends and neighbors,” said Sam, “we’ll take a look at the other families of the deceased passengers and flight crew members.”
After lunch we crossed the marina to my office. I took a deep breath as I unlocked the door. There were stacks of file folders all over the desk. I knew what was in each of the piles but they looked disorderly and I didn’t like Sam seeing them. I proudly showed him my kitchenette, my closet, and my bathroom.
As we walked through each room Sam murmured, “Very nice.” He was being polite, which was totally out of character for him.
While Sam was using my restroom I took the Glock out of my purse and put it back in its holster under my desk.
The office tour had gone surprisingly well, but I didn’t know how Sam would react to the boat. It’s been my experience that a lot of people don’t understand the concept of living aboard. The quarters are cramped and the movement of the boat can feel unstable if you don’t have sea legs, but for me it’s all about freedom. Knowing I can untie the lines and take off anytime I want.
I locked up the office and we walked down to the dock. When we reached my slip I stopped and announced, “This is Turning Point.” The Cheoy Lee’s cockpit pilothouse doubles as my enclosed front porch up on deck. It’s where I enter and also where the steering console is housed. From the pilothouse you descend a companionway which takes you down into the galley, which, in turn, exits aft into the stateroom, and forward into the main salon where I spend most of my time—it’s my living room. The aft stateroom is my bedroom. It has built-in drawers surrounding the queen-size bunk, and a single hanging locker or closet. Like I said—close quarters.
Sam ran his hand almost affectionately over the Cheoy Lee’s mahogany brightwork, then climbed aboard without hesitation. When he entered the pilothouse, he rested his hand on the wheel, and I could tell he was imagining what it would be like to take her out.
“Have you ever been sailing?” I asked.
“Not in a long time,” he said wistfully.
“Jeez, Sam. I didn’t know you liked to sail. We should go out sometime. After we crack this case why don’t we take her out for a spin?”
He turned and looked at me quizzically. “I’m a little old for sailing,” he said.
“No you’re not. You’re healthy and your balance is good. Of course, if you don’t want to go.”
“I’d like to go sailing, Nicoli. But it’s been a while.”
“It’ll come back to you,” I said.
I felt myself mellowing toward Sam. If we went sailing together I’d probably never look at him the same way again. He would no longer be the great and powerful Oz. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing.
Sam backed down the companionway and his gaze fell on the miniature maple tree in the antique pot sitting on my galley counter. He had given it to me when I got my PI license and left his employ.
“I don’t know what possessed me to give you that plant,” he said. “I guess I thought it would do you good to have something to take care of. I never expected it to live this long.”
“I didn’t think it would either,” I said. “But I’m glad it did.”
That was a half-truth. I resented the time I spent trimming, watering, and turning the thing so it got even light. I’d tried to palm it off on my mom, my ex-husband, and a few of my friends and neighbors, but all my neighbors live aboard and plants get banged up when you’re underway.
After touring my boat, we drove back to Sam’s office and plotted out the afternoon. I’d start by interviewing Wallace’s neighbors. Sam would spend his afternoon canvassing the apartment complex where Fragoso lived. He’d speak with the building manager first and then move on to the neighbors nearest Fragoso’s unit, working his way around the complex. We would get together tomorrow at noon to discuss what we had learned and move on to Boscalo. Sam had regular customers he needed to take care of tomorrow, and first thing in the morning I was going for Buddy. I didn’t want the pup to be stuck in the car all day, so I’d have to arrange for someone at the marina to spend the afternoon with him.
Chapter 14
As I left Sam’s office I pulled out my cell and called Elizabeth. She answered after one ring, her voice cheerful.
“I need a huge favor,” I began.
“What’s up?”
“I’m adopting Buddy tomorrow morning and I have to work all afternoon. I don’t want to leave him alone in my car or on the boat after he’s been locked in a cage for three days, so I was wondering,” I took a breath and rushed on, “Could you possibly take tomorrow afternoon off and walk him around the marina, you know, introduce him to the place and make him feel welcome while I pursue the evil forces of the universe and try to save our fragile planet from harm?”
“Okay, that last part was over the top, but I’d be happy to help out. I’ll take a personal day. In fact I can leave work now if you want to pick him up this afternoon. I’d like to be there with you when you adopt him.”
“That would be great. But I can’t do it today. I have a bunch of interviews to conduct on Paul’s case.”
“What time are you leaving?”
“You mean what time am I starting the interviews? Um, now.”
“I’ll be at your office in fifteen minutes,” and she hung up.
I looked at my cell phone wondering what had just happened, but not unhappy about it.
I made it back to the office five minutes before Elizabeth breezed in at 1:15. I gave her a quick hug, grabbed my shoulder bag, and escorted her back outside and into my BMW.
Wallace lived in the Belmont Hills. Most of the lots there were large, so neighbors could potentially be separated by an acre or two, but you never knew what people might see or hear, and it was important to check everything.
“I’m glad you’re coming with me,” I said. “These interviews will go faster with you along.”
Elizabeth is an expert at wheedling information out of people.
As we drove to Wallace’s address I told her that Bill had suggested we try living together.
“How do you feel about that?”
“I think it’s a bad idea. I’m crazy about Bill, most of the time, but I’m not looking for a commitment. Not that big of a commitment anyway. Living together usually leads to marriage, and I don’t want to be married. I like things the way they are.”
“Did you tell him that?”
“Pretty much.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said he thinks he loves me.”
“Oh. Well, love is good. Do you love him?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Do you think this is a deal breaker for him?”
“I hope not. He really is a great guy. A little controlling sometimes, but he’s a cop, so I guess that’s to be expected. I’m afraid that moving in together would make him feel like he had a right to, I don’t know, dominate the relationship. Anyway, he asked, and I said no. I guess I’ll have to wait and see what happens next.”
We put our conversation on hold as I pulled to the
curb across the street from Wallace’s house. He lived in a peach-colored, two-story Mediterranean that looked freshly painted. The landscaping was pristine. I grabbed my Cyber-shot, and snapped a few quick pictures of the house. I checked to make sure the tape recorder in my purse was set on voice activate and pulled a clipboard out of the trunk, along with a short stack of generic forms which allow me to look official regardless of what I’m doing.
What I always hope for when I’m conducting neighbor interviews is a housekeeper who is home alone, bored, and nosey. Some of my best sources have been domestics.
Elizabeth and I stood on the sidewalk, scoping out the neighborhood. There was an old, faded yellow VW Bug parked in front of the house to the left of Wallace’s. Either it was an employee’s vehicle or someone’s teenager was home from school on a weekday. We spotted it at the same time, looked at each other, and headed down the long driveway.
Elizabeth rang the doorbell and then stepped back. I reached inside my purse and positioned the tape recorder with the microphone facing the top of the bag. After a few moments the door was opened by a woman in her late forties. Her dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was solid-looking, her posture was perfect, and her brown eyes were assessing. She wore a cream-colored sweat-suit, white Reeboks, and coral lipstick.
“Good afternoon,” I began. “Sorry to bother you. Are you the owner of the house?”
“No,” She replied. “She’s at work.”
“We were hoping to speak with someone who spends a lot of time here in the neighborhood.”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s this about?”
“We’re conducting an investigation,” I said. “We have some questions about the family next door.”
I didn’t mention the name, but she leaned out the door and glanced to her left, at Wallace’s house. “You’d better come inside,” she said.
