by Nancy Skopin
Later that morning, during English class, Sister Mary-Joseph came into the classroom and whispered something to the teacher, Sister Elizabeth, who turned and looked at Margaret. She thought they might be planning a birthday surprise for her, except they weren’t smiling. Sister Elizabeth called Margaret to the front of the classroom and turned her over to Sister Mary-Joseph, who led her out into the hall.
“Father Tomas has asked to see you in his office,” said the nun, after closing the classroom door behind them.
“Why, Sister?”
Mary-Joseph did not respond. She silently walked Margaret to Father’s office, knocked on his door, and ushered Margaret inside. A woman dressed in a police uniform was seated opposite Father Tomas.
“Margaret,” Father said, looking over his glasses and down his long nose at her, “I understand your behavior at home has gotten out of control. Your parents have arranged for you be placed in a juvenile detention facility for a short period of time, so that you can learn some discipline. Officer Perez is here to escort you.”
Margaret felt a hollow place begin to open in her belly. “Is this a joke?” she asked.
“No, Margaret. This is not a joke. If you behave yourself you’ll be allowed to return home in two weeks. See that you learn from this experience.”
As if from a distance, Margaret observed what was happening to her with stunned disbelief as a firm hand clamped onto her shoulder and she was marched outside to a waiting police cruiser.
Chapter 6
Bill called at 6:30 to tell me that Margaret Sectio had not reported a break-in at her home in the Woodside Hills. He also informed me that she had no criminal record and no traffic citations. That alone was enough to make me suspicious. Nobody can get through life without a traffic ticket, unless they don’t drive or are obsessively cautious. Guilty people are often obsessively cautious.
I decided to have a look at Margaret’s house from a discreet distance. I waited until dusk and then drove south on Highway 101, taking the Woodside Road exit. When I crossed Alameda I started looking for street numbers, but I made it all the way to Highway 280 without spotting even one. The estates in the Woodside Hills have private driveways, many of which are, apparently, unmarked.
I drove back to the marina feeling frustrated and wondering what I would say to Jack when he called the next morning. I needed more information before I could even begin an investigation. I needed to know where Margaret Sectio had grown up, what her financial situation was, and where she worked, if she had a job. I needed a social security number or a driver’s license number, something I could use to run a background check.
I parked in the boat owners’ lot and walked down to the docks, visiting with my neighbors and their dogs on the way to my slip.
Once aboard the Cheoy Lee I fixed myself a vegetable salad and topped it with canned tuna and low fat Italian dressing. I ate my dinner and drank two bottles of Guinness Stout while watching the evening news on the galley TV. No local murders were being reported. I thought about the videotapes and wondered if they were real… if Jack was real.
That night I had disturbing dreams that I couldn’t remember when my alarm went off. I crawled out of bed, started a pot of coffee, and climbed into the little onboard shower.
When I was clean and dry I looked at myself in the mirror. I’m five-seven, and I weigh a hundred and thirty-three pounds. I wear my curly chestnut brown hair in a graduated layer cut. Bill says my eyes are the color of the ocean after a storm. I have a good face, apart from the gunpowder stippling on my left temple from a recent near miss, and a hairline scar from the same memorable evening. I have a mixed heritage. On my father’s side I’m three-quarters Russian and one quarter Greek. On my mom’s side I’m Irish, English, Scottish, and Danish. If you think about it, those are all countries whose natives are prone to alcoholism. Maybe it’s best not to think about it.
I guzzled the whole pot of coffee while I watched the morning news, then I dragged on a pair of shorts, a tee shirt, and my New Balance cross trainers, and drove around the corner to the gym. I work out almost every day. Aside from keeping my body toned, exercise bolsters my self-esteem, and I’m addicted to the endorphin rush. I spent thirty minutes on the treadmill then moved on to the Nautilus equipment and the free weights. When I was finished I felt rejuvenated.
I was in the office waiting for Jack’s call by 8:30. He called at precisely 9:00 o’clock. The display on my phone told me the number was unavailable. Of course.
“Hunter Investigations,” I intoned in my most professional voice.
“Good morning, Nicoli.”
“Hi, Jack. I wish I had some news for you, but I don’t really have anything yet. I need more information. I need your phone number, and is there any way you can get me Margaret’s driver’s license or social security number?”
There was a moment of silence and then he said, “I know where she works. Will that help?”
“Possibly.”
“Millennium Real Estate in Menlo Park. She’s a multinational listings agent.”
I scribbled down the info.
“Millennium huh? Prestigious. I’d like to see those videos. What are the odds they’re still in the cabinet where you left them?”
I’d decided it was time to dispense with Jack’s fictional house-burgling friend.
He hesitated only a beat. “Why do you need to see them?”
“Because anonymous tips don’t interest the Sheriff’s Department.”
“She may have taken some kind of security measures. It’d be risky going back in.”
“Risk is my business,” I said. “I drove up Woodside Road last night, but I couldn’t find the address. How about you come to my office and we’ll drive up there together?”
“What are you thinking? Are you planning to break into the house yourself?”
That was exactly what I was thinking. I was also thinking it would be useful to have a professional burglar along, in case my lock-picking skills were rusty.
“I just want to see the place,” I said. “Get a feel for the subject.”
“Okay.” He sounded skeptical. “I can be there in an hour.”
“Great. Oh, and your phone number?” It was too late. He’d already hung up.
Jack arrived at my office at 10:02, the air around him crackling with energy.
“I picked this up on my way over,” he said, patting a shiny new pager clipped to his belt. “Here’s the number.” He handed me a slip of paper. “I’ll be sure to keep it with me at all times.”
“Thanks,” I said, and tucked the number in my pocket. I don’t think I’d seen a pager in ten years, though I knew they were still in use. The fact that he’d gone to the trouble to get one underscored his obsession with privacy. He’d probably used a false name when he rented it, but I’d check anyway.
I unlocked the drawer in which I keep some of my guns and transferred my little Glock twenty-six to my purse holster below the top of the desk, so Jack couldn’t see what I was doing. I own four handguns, but the Glock is very light, so it’s easy to carry.
“Let’s go,” I said. “My car or yours?”
“Yours.”
I drive a 1972 British racing green BMW model 2002. It may be old, but it’s a classic and I love it. I’ve had it nine years. The man I bought it from had it completely restored when he bought it 12 years before, and only gave it up because of his deteriorating health. It was like buying a new car. I wash it weekly, wax it every three months, and take it to Bimmers in San Carlos for regular maintenance and pampering.
We drove up into the Woodside Hills, just as I had the day before, and Jack pointed to a driveway just beyond, and across the street from, Woodside High School. The unpaved road sloped sharply downward, so that most of the estate was in a little valley, hidden from the str
eet by trees and by the incline. Jack asked me to pull over before we’d gone twenty yards down the drive.
The first of three houses on the property sat off to our left on a sunny knoll. Perhaps originally built for the groundskeeper and his family, it was a sweet little one-story whitewashed cottage. The front door faced the main house, which was about a hundred yards farther down the hill. At the end of the drive, just the other side of the main house, I could see a smaller cottage, made of stone.
“Are all three houses occupied?” I asked.
“No,” Jack said. “Only the large one.”
I wondered why the original owners had never had the road paved. I could guess why the current owner hadn’t. She liked her privacy.
“Why don’t we take a look around? If she’s home we can say we’re having car trouble and ask to use the phone.”
Jack grabbed my wrist to stop me from getting out of the car.
“This woman is a killer, Nicoli, and her house has just been burglarized. She’s not about to let a couple of total strangers in to use her telephone.”
“So we’ll ask where the nearest pay phone is. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that she’ll know what we look like.”
He had a point. If I was going to conduct any kind of surveillance on the subject, it would be better if she didn’t recognize me.
“It’s Tuesday morning,” I said. “She’s probably not even home. Come on, Jack, where’s your sense of adventure?”
“It’s too dangerous.”
He wasn’t going to budge, but my natural curiosity wouldn’t let me leave without at least a quick look around.
“Okay. You wait here. I’ll be right back.”
I slipped out of the car before he could stop me, and headed for the whitewashed cottage. The front door was locked. I quickly circled the small building, looking in the windows. It was elegantly furnished, but didn’t look lived in, although someone was evidently taking care of it. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a cleaning staff who came in once a week to keep the guest house tidy, just in case company arrived unexpectedly.
I strolled down the long driveway past the main house, noting that no car was in evidence. There was no garage, so the fact that the driveway was unoccupied increased the likelihood that no one was home. It didn’t make sense to me that a house in this neighborhood wouldn’t have a garage or at least an overhang where you could park if it was raining, but I don’t know much about real estate. Maybe the property value increased if you didn’t alter the original design, like with antiques.
The door of the small stone cottage was painted red, and it, too, was locked. The windows had no drapes or blinds. The front room was empty and had a dark hardwood floor that looked dusty. I circled the little house, fighting my way through low-hanging tree branches behind the structure. Apart from the dust and a few spider webs, the place appeared to be empty. No one had bothered to clean this cottage in some time. Maybe it was too humble to serve as a guest house.
My heart beat faster as I approached the main house. It was a 1950’s Cape Cod-style home, two stories, painted white, with terracotta roofing tiles. All the drapes were drawn and the sliding glass patio door was intact. If Jack was telling the truth, the owner had acted quickly to have the glass replaced.
I approached the front door and rang the bell, waited for a response, and then tested the knob. It was locked, of course. I walked around the house checking windows, and finally ending up back at the patio door. Everything was locked up tight. I scanned the eaves looking for security cameras and didn’t see anything obvious, although I noticed an ADT decal on one of the windows, indicating there was some type of alarm system within. Jack must be very good at slipping past such things.
I could only see bits and pieces of furniture through narrow cracks between the drapes. Because of what Jack had told me this place gave me the creeps, and I was feeling exposed. I decided that if I was going to break in to get a look at the videotapes, I would have to do it at night. It’s much easier to sneak around in the dark.
Feeling slightly frustrated, I hiked back up the driveway. As I approached the 2002 I couldn’t see Jack at all, but when I got closer I realized that he was scrunched down in the passenger seat. He sat up as I climbed into the car.
“Let’s get out of here,” he hissed.
“Relax. There’s nobody home.”
I started the car, made a U-turn, and drove up to Woodside Road.
Jack was silent until we were back on the street. Then he said, “That was stupid. You have no idea what this woman is capable of. What if she had caught you on her property? You didn’t even take your gun, for Christ’s sake.”
I looked down at my purse, then up at Jack. “How did you know I had a gun?”
“I saw you put it in your purse at the office.”
“No you didn’t. I held it below your line of sight. You couldn’t have seen it.”
“Okay, maybe I didn’t see it, but I smelled the gun oil and you made a point of holding your purse below the top of the desk, so I assumed you were transferring a gun from one of the drawers to your bag.” He picked up my purse and pulled the Glock out of the holster compartment. “And look,” he said. “I was right.”
“Put that down!”
I waited until he’d replaced the gun in my purse and then rested my hand on top of the bag. I get edgy when people I don’t know are handling loaded firearms in my presence. I’m even tense at the firing range, looking over my shoulder and checking out the other shooters when we go out to change our targets.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jack. I just wanted to take a quick look around. Does Margaret own all three houses?”
“Yes. She owns all the property from the street to the crest of the hill.”
“Why do you suppose she keeps that little white cottage clean and furnished?”
“I have no idea.”
“I’d like to meet this woman, and I need to see those videotapes. Maybe she’ll invite me over for cocktails.”
“That’s not funny,” he said. “You don’t want to be alone with her. Trust me. I’ve seen the videos.”
“You only looked at two of them, right?”
“So?”
“So aren’t you curious about the other three?”
“Yes, but I’m not crazy.”
“I was thinking maybe I’d ask her to show me some houses.”
Jack thought about it for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “You can get the current listings at Millennium. Her name will be on the flyers for houses she’s showing.”
“Want to come along?”
“No, thanks. You can drop me at your office.”
“Okay. I should probably change before I go house hunting anyway.”
I drove Jack back to the marina. He offered to walk me to my office, but I told him I was going down to my boat, so he walked me to the security gate, probably to keep me from following him to wherever he was parked.
I unlocked the gate and turned to tell him I’d page him if I had anything to report. He was standing very close. I seldom back away when someone steps into my personal space. It’s something I picked up from my father. Dad was born a Cossack and he never backed down from anyone, except my mother. She was a former nun and could intimidate him with nothing more than a look.
“Be careful, Nicoli,” he said. “I’d feel terrible if anything happened to you.”
He put a hand on my shoulder and reached behind me to hold the gate open.
“I’ll page you,” I said, my voice husky.
Jack gave me a Cheshire cat smile as I pivoted away from him, moving toward the companionway. A few steps down the ramp I glanced over my shoulder. He was gone. I walked back up to the gat
e and looked around. He was really gone. I went outside and scanned the office complex and the parking lot. No sign of him in any direction. Goose bumps erupted on my arms and the back of my neck. He seemed to have a habit of causing them. I shook my head in wonder as I ambled down to the dock.
Chapter 7
Regardless of how precocious she was, Margaret Sullivan was still only eight, and easy prey for the older girls at the Juvenile Hall. A pair of teen-age lesbians took a particular interest in her. The girls, who were extremely well behaved in front of authority figures, successfully petitioned to have Margaret transferred to their room, where they forced their attentions on her with some regularity. Margaret was terrified of being held captive and repulsed by the hungry way they looked at and touched her, but the real hell began when she recovered from the initial shock of the assaults and realized that she enjoyed them.
Being raised by Irish Catholic parents, coupled with the teachings of the holy sisters at St. Theresa’s, had a predictable impact on Margaret’s psyche. The pleasure she took from being caressed by other girls was impossible for her to reconcile.
By the time her two weeks at juvenile hall were up and she returned home, she had become quiet and withdrawn. Although she no longer argued with her parents, she would never forgive them for what they had done to her, and she loathed herself for her own weakness.
When Margaret stopped acting out, her parents assumed their tough love approach to discipline had been a success, but they felt guilty for sending her away. The more she withdrew and suppressed her anger, the more money they spent rewarding her behavior. The message was clear—if she wanted to be valued she had to hide her feelings. Unfortunately, Margaret soon discovered that her rage could only be repressed for limited periods of time before she was forced to find an outlet.
