by Nancy Skopin
I blinked. “You want me to break in somewhere, then confess to the police that I broke in somewhere and stumbled across evidence of multiple homicides?”
He said nothing.
“Would you like some coffee?” I asked.
“Please.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black,” he said.
I went into my kitchenette and poured two cups of high octane Kona, adding lactose-free milk to mine, and took a couple of sips before returning to my desk.
“Where are these tapes? Is it a house, an office, a storage locker?”
“A house.”
“Okay. Are they just sitting out where anyone can see them?”
“No. They’re inside a locked cabinet.”
“And why was your friend in this house, Jack, illegally exploring the contents of a locked cabinet?”
“Can we establish some kind of agreement indicating that I’m your client and that barring the disclosure of any future felonious activity you will keep what we discuss in confidence?”
“Sure,” I said. I was hooked. This would be way more exciting than busting a sexually aggressive bartender.
I turned to my computer and restructured my standard contract to fit the parameters of confidentially he’d requested and then printed two copies. After Jack read the fine print and was satisfied, we each signed both copies. His last name was McGuire. I gave him one copy and slipped the other into an empty file folder.
“So?” I asked.
“He was robbing the house. I can give you the address, but I doubt the break-in was reported.”
“And your friend thinks the owner of the house is the killer?”
“Yes.”
“Why is that?”
“He’s seen the owner on more than one occasion.”
“I see. Is there a reason why you’re not mentioning the name or gender of this killer?”
Jack hesitated a moment. “I guess I was hoping for some assurance that you can help my friend before I give you those details. What can you do without putting yourself at risk?”
“I have friends too. One of them is a police detective. With your permission I’ll speak with him about the case and find out what he thinks. I won’t mention your name of course, or your friend’s, should you disclose it to me.”
Jack looked into his coffee cup. “I hate cops,” he muttered.
I could understand that. “More coffee?”
“No thanks. What do you think he’ll say?”
“He’ll ask me where I got the information. I can tell him it was an anonymous phone call. He’ll want the name of the homeowner and their address. I imagine he’ll check that individual for priors. After that, I don’t know.”
“Okay,” he said. “It’s a start. Her name is Margaret Sectio.” He spelled the last name and gave me an address on Woodside Road. “It’s up in the hills. There are three houses on the property. Two small, one large. The tapes are in the family room of the main house, in a cabinet under the television set. The tapes my friend watched show Margaret killing her lovers after having sex. Do I need to give you a retainer?”
“What the hell kind of name is Sectio?” I asked, looking at my notepad. “A thousand will be enough to start.” I glanced up. “Does she know someone’s been in her house?”
Jack pulled a money clip out of his back pocket and peeled off ten hundred dollar bills.
“My friend cut a hole in a sliding glass door,” he said, “but the cabinet containing the videos appears undisturbed. He rewound the two tapes he watched, and relocked the cabinet before leaving.”
“I’ll need a phone number where I can reach you,” I said.
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” He took one of my business cards from the ceramic dish I keep on my desk.
I wrote out a receipt for the thousand dollars and reached for the card he had taken. I added my home and cell phone numbers and gave it back to him, along with a copy of the receipt.
“I’m usually here by nine,” I said.
“Thanks. I feel better just knowing you’re on the job.”
I searched his eyes for any hint of sarcasm, but his relief seemed genuine.
We shook hands again, with the same electrifying results, and I watched him walk away, resisting the urge to sneak out to the parking lot and copy down his license plate number. He moved gracefully, almost gliding, and I had the feeling that if Jack were to approach from out of my line of sight at some point in the future, I wouldn’t hear a sound.
Chapter 3
Maggie Sectio returned from her business trip to Atlanta late Monday morning. She drove directly home from San Francisco International Airport, entering the house through the front door. She was feeling edgy, having been unable to complete her customary ritual after dispatching her latest lover. The roommate had come home unexpectedly. It was careless of her not to have asked if the woman lived alone. She was getting sloppy. The roommate had smelled the carnage and knocked on the bedroom door. Maggie had been forced to deal with her as well, and then left the premises as quickly as possible, barely taking enough time to clean up. The whole experience had left her feeling empty, irritable, and restless.
She unpacked her suitcase in the upstairs bedroom and went down to the kitchen to make a sandwich. She wasn’t hungry, but it was something to do to distract herself. Maggie went into the family room to eat, opening the drapes to let the sun in. When she saw the hole in her sliding glass door the sandwich plate slipped out of her grasp and shattered on the tile floor.
“Shit,” she growled, automatically turning to the cabinet under the television. She ran to the front hall for her keys. Her hands were trembling as she unlocked and opened the cabinet. All five tape boxes were still there in the proper order. She took each one out of its box, checking to make sure they were still rewound, then closed and re-locked the cabinet door.
She cleaned up the broken plate and sandwich before going upstairs to check her safe.
Before pulling the elaborate mirror away from the bedroom wall Maggie stopped to admire her reflection. She was thirty-eight years old, but you couldn’t tell it by looking at her. The skin around her gray eyes was unlined, and there was no gray in her hair yet. Good genes, she mused. Her lustrous dark hair was the perfect compliment to her fine ivory complexion. None of her features were outstanding by themselves, but the overall effect was striking. She was five-five in her stocking feet and her figure was trim, with the exception of her breasts. The implants were too large for her frame and she was considering having them reduced.
Maggie was relieved to see that the dial on the safe was still set at thirty-six, where she had left it. She dialed the combination and opened the heavy door. The securities were gone.
“Shit!” She grabbed the shoebox and knew instantly that it was empty. “Fuck!” She flung the box against the wall and sagged into a nearby chair, her face hot with rage, fear forming a knot in her belly.
Chapter 4
After Jack left my office I drained my coffee mug and picked up the phone to call Detective Bill Anderson at the Redwood City Police Department. Bill and I met earlier this summer, when I was conducting my first murder investigation. At one point during the course of that investigation I had considered the possibility that he might be a homicidal maniac. It’s a long story. When the case was resolved, because the actual killer attempted to take my life, Bill and I started dating.
Bill is Lakota Sioux on his mother’s side, and Irish on his father’s. He has lightning-sharp brown eyes bordering on hazel and a naturally dark complexion that deepens quickly with time spent in the sun. He’s almost six feet tall, slim but muscular, and his jet-black hair is just beginning to show a little gray around the temples. What first drew my attention to him was his smile. Bill’s whole face light
s up when he smiles, completely destroying his tough guy image.
When he isn’t actively working a case and I’m not taking care of my clients, we occasionally get together in the evenings, and we’ve spent a couple of weekends on my boat. Bill is a thoroughly stimulating companion. He’s smart and funny, plus the chemistry is great. I don’t believe in happily ever after, but for the moment I’m not seeing anyone else.
I’ve been married three times and have come to the conclusion that marriage is about ownership and security. I’ve never changed my last name, so I was always Nikki Hunter, even when I was married.
My first husband, Gary, was twenty years old when we got married. I was seventeen, and a senior in high school. We had been good friends prior to tying the knot, but afterwards we just didn’t relate to each other in the same way. It was as if we became different people after taking those vows. Of course the marriage was ill fated from the start, since I had accepted Gary’s proposal only to get out of my parents’ house. I discovered that being married is not the same as being on your own, and seventeen is too young to understand commitment. At least it was for me. The divorce was final before my eighteenth birthday.
My second husband, Hugh, was a charming Englishman who was anxious to live in the States. I had an affair with him while he was here on vacation, and impulsively agreed to marry him to ease the process of immigration. I was twenty-four at the time. INS laws have since changed, but then we were only required to live together for six months before filing for divorce, after which Hugh would be allowed to remain in the country. Even though we were only going through the motions, I noticed a shift in the relationship after the wedding. I started looking at him more like a science project and less like a human being and I started picking at his flaws. Hugh is now a successful antiques dealer in San Francisco. I hear from him occasionally, but we’re not close.
Husband number three was Drew. Drew was a romantic, which was a new experience for me. He brought me flowers every week. Once he pulled the petals off a dozen red roses and scattered them over the sheets on our bed, then made love to me on top of the petals. They permanently stained the sheets, but I didn’t care. Drew also used to go to the gym with me. It was great having a workout buddy. His mother was a terrible bitch, so when I got cranky and critical after the wedding he took it in stride. The part that didn’t work had to do with his desire to be a father. I’d known since my teen years that motherhood was not in the cards for me. It’s something we should have discussed during our courtship, but didn’t get around to until it was too late to turn back. We divorced after four years. I’m just now regaining some of the self-esteem I lost when that chapter of my life ended. I’m happy for him and his new wife. They have triplets.
My point is that marriage often ruins a perfectly good relationship. If everything is going well and you’re happy with each other, why risk screwing it up just so you can feel secure about the future? I’m sure there must be some good reason to get married, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.
Bill answered on the third ring. I got in the habit of counting the number of times a phone rings when I was interning with Sam Pettigrew, my old mentor. Details like that go in every report.
“Detective Anderson.”
“PI Hunter,” I said.
“Hey, Nikki. What’s up?”
“I’ve got a new case I’d like to discuss with you. Do you have time for a lunch break?”
“No,” he said. “When and where?”
“How about The Diving Pelican? My treat.”
“One-thirty?”
“Great. And, Bill, I had a wonderful time last weekend.”
“Me too.” I could feel him smiling through the phone.
Bill showed up at 1:45. I locked the office and we walked across the marina to the restaurant. It was late summer, sunny, and warm with a light breeze coming off the water. We ordered at the counter and went back outside to find a table.
The Diving Pelican is the only restaurant in the marina. Bennett, who owns and runs it with his wife, is a cranky old curmudgeon who has become a friend. He always makes sure I’m well taken care of.
“You want to hear about my case now or after we eat?” I asked Bill.
“That depends. Are you going to ruin my appetite?”
“Maybe a little.” I smiled.
“Let’s get it over with then,” he said.
“Okay. I got a call this morning from someone who says he was burglarizing a house in the Woodside Hills and happened across some videotapes. He said the tapes appear to be home movies of the owner of the house committing multiple murders.”
I let that sink in. Bill said nothing, but he didn’t look happy.
“The guy wants to do something about it, but he doesn’t want to confess to the commission of a felony, so he called me instead of the police. He gave me the name and address of the alleged killer. Can you check this person out for me? I’d like to know if they have any criminal record and if they reported the burglary.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Bill asked casually, taking a sip of his water.
“Nope.”
“Did he give you his name?”
“Of course not.” I hate lying, mostly because I’m not very good at it.
“So you got an anonymous call from some guy, and you expect me to take action based on information you can’t even verify?”
“Um, yeah, pretty much.”
He gave me a look of disbelief, then said, “It’s out of my jurisdiction. A crime committed in the Woodside Hills would be investigated by the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department.”
Bennett chose that moment to personally deliver our lunch. I looked at my chicken salad and then redirected my gaze to Bill’s meatloaf, wondering if it was too late to change my order. Bennett’s salads are great, but I love his meatloaf. I picked up my fork and snuck a bite off Bill’s plate.
“Suppose this is real and you don’t do anything about it?” I mumbled around the deliciously spicy meatloaf. “How are you going to feel if more people are killed?”
“Terrible,” he said. “But even if I believed your caller was legitimate, legally my hands are tied.”
“Oh, come on. You could check the homeowner for priors. You have to admit you’re a little bit curious.”
“Of course I am,” he said, “Okay, give me the name and address and I’ll see if the guy’s got a record.”
“It’s a woman.” I handed Bill a slip of paper with Margaret Sectio’s name and address on it.
He looked at the information and then raised his eyes to mine. “Do you know how rare female multiple murderers are, Nikki?”
“I know they aren’t as common as the male variety. Or maybe they just don’t get caught as often.” I grinned to diminish the sarcasm of my comment.
Bill is not a chauvinist by nature, but he is the product of his small-town upbringing. He was raised in Tillamook, on the Oregon coast. He started playing guitar when he was twelve and when he was in high school he and his buddies formed a band that did well enough to go on tour during summer vacation. They were performing in Los Angeles when they were offered a recording contract by a producer who turned out to be disreputable. The guy attempted to bilk them out of their modest savings. When the police got involved, Bill met up with the detective who inspired him to become a cadet.
Bill is the kind of guy who sees things as white or black, with no gray areas in between, and he believes in concrete realities. This is often a bone of contention between us, since I base most of my important decisions on instinct and intuition. He was right that most multiple murderers are male, but wrong to disregard the possibility of a female with the same proclivities.
After lunch he walked me back to my office and kissed me goodbye. The heat of that kiss was a good ind
ication that Bill wasn’t too pissed off about being asked to help me with something he considered a wild-goose chase.
Chapter 5
The morning after her eighth birthday Margaret Kathleen Sullivan greeted the day with a smile. She stretched, climbed out of bed, and drew back the curtains, gazing out at the sun–drenched hillside. She was looking forward to school today, to telling her classmates about her birthday weekend and the extravagant presents she had received. She enjoyed watching their faces cloud with envy.
Margaret dressed in her school uniform and joined her parents downstairs at the breakfast table. Her mother looked even more pale than usual, her fair skin a dramatic contrast to her vivid red hair. She was a beautiful woman, but she was frail, and Margaret had little respect for her.
Margaret’s father was drinking coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. He always read the newspaper over breakfast, but this morning his neck was red and his dark eyebrows were drawn into a scowl as though he’d read something that angered him.
Her parents said nothing as the cook served breakfast, and Margaret wondered if it was because of what had happened the day before. It had been her birthday, so of course she’d expected certain things. When she didn’t get the tablet PC that had been near the top of her list, naturally she’d thrown a tantrum. Her mother had tried to calm her, but Margaret had pushed her away and she’d fallen down the shallow steps into the living room conversation pit. The floor was carpeted and she hadn’t hit her head or broken any bones, so what was the big deal?
Margaret loved her parents, but she thought of them as tools. She had learned to manipulate them early in life. The only topic on which they would not budge was religion. Her mother was obsessed with Catholicism, and her father adored her mother and would do anything to make her happy. Margaret really didn’t mind. The church and parochial school were the only structure in her life, and she treasured the feeling of security the catechism gave her. She was frequently disciplined by the sisters, but in spite of her rebellion against the strict rules of conduct, Margaret found herself absorbing the Catholic doctrine drilled into her by the nuns.
