by Nancy Skopin
“Okay. What time are you calling Maggie?”
“Two o’clock.”
“Let me know what happens with the house.”
“Elizabeth, the house is a fantasy. Even if the owners accept my offer, I don’t have eight million dollars.”
“I know. I’m just curious.”
“Have fun tonight.”
“Count on it!” she chirped.
I walked out to my car and pointed it toward the gym. At the intersection of Veteran’s Boulevard and Convention Way I pulled up behind a young man driving a beige Toyota Camry. It was eighty degrees outside, but he wore a knit cap pulled down over his ears and was slumped low in the driver’s seat. I could feel the bass beat of his stereo. I would have laughed at his choice of vehicles combined with the rap music if it weren’t for his personalized license plate, which read ‘WN2KLLU’. That didn’t strike me as funny. I was relieved when he drove on past the athletic center parking lot.
While I was on the treadmill I imagined various scenarios which might allow me to survive a liaison with Maggie. I could rifle her purse when she wasn’t looking and bag the knife, make an excuse, and escape without having a sexual encounter of the deadly kind. Then I could have the knife tested for traces of dried blood. But how would I prove where I’d gotten it? Maggie’s prints might be on the knife, and then again, they might not. In the videos she had been very thorough about cleaning up.
I could ask Bill to follow us wherever we went, and when the crucial moment arrived he could arrest her, minimizing the risk to me. But how would he explain to the court why he had been there? He could say he was passing by and heard a scream. Of course every time Bill and I were together after that he’d have to deal with the image of me having sex with a woman. Could be worse, but for this scenario to work I would have to scream before Bill appeared on camera so we could use the tape as evidence. I wondered if Maggie had more tapes hidden somewhere, if there were more than five victims. My mind was spinning, and I had a headache from the truckload of carbohydrates I’d consumed the night before.
After using the Nautilus machines and the free weights, I felt better. I showered and drove back to the marina, making a quick stop at The Diving Pelican for a turkey sandwich. I virtuously asked them to use a lettuce leaf on top instead of a second slice of bread and had them leave off the mayo. I took the sandwich to my office, where I ate while going over my notes on the Sectio investigation.
When I finished eating I lit a cigarette and watched the clock. At 2:01 I picked up the photo of the Hillsborough estate, found the phone number at the bottom, and called Millennium. Courtney, the receptionist, answered on the second ring.
“Millennium Properties.” Her voice was almost musical.
“Hi, Courtney. It’s Nicoli Sinclair calling for Maggie.”
“Hi, Nicoli. I’ll put you right through.”
After a moment Maggie picked up. “I have good news and bad news,” she said. “Which do you want first?”
“Give me the bad news first,” I said.
“The bad news is that the owners have another offer, for eight million even. The good news is that I think if we offer to pay the asking price of eight million two, we might have a deal.”
Great. Now I had an ethical dilemma. If someone else was interested in buying the property and I counter-offered, they might withdraw their offer. Meanwhile, I back out of the deal, not actually having the eight million two hundred thousand dollars required, and the owners of the estate are left high and dry. I remembered Maggie saying they weren’t in a hurry to sell, and then I remembered what I had seen on the videotapes.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”
“Fantastic. I’ll need you to fill out a few forms.”
“Can we do that tomorrow?” I asked.
“Absolutely. I’ll see if I can get a response from them by tomorrow night. Then we can have dinner, fill out the paperwork together, and celebrate. Say around seven?”
“Seven is good. Where shall I meet you?”
“I’ll have Courtney reserve a table at the 4290 Bistro,” she said.
The 4290 Bistro is a charming little restaurant, which happens to be part of the Crowne Plaza Hotel complex in Palo Alto.
“I’ll be there,” I said.
I wondered how she planned to register for a room at the Crowne Plaza without later being identified by the desk clerk when my body was found. She could wear a disguise, pay cash, and give false information on the registration card, get the room key, set up the camera, then take off the disguise and meet me for dinner. My imagination was in hyper-drive. I called Bill and asked him to meet me at the marina after 10:00 p.m.
“I need your help,” I said. “I’ll give you the details in person.”
He readily agreed, and I felt guilty because I knew I was seriously complicating his life.
I stumbled down to my boat and took a turkey induced nap.
I got up at 6:00, pulled on a pair of jeans and a periwinkle V-neck sweater, and drove to San Mateo.
Chapter 22
Michelino’s is busy every night of the week. The food is fabulous, the prices are reasonable, the service is prompt, and the atmosphere is friendly. I found a seat at the right hand section of the bar and ordered a Guinness. The bartender I was supposed to watch was Al. He was in his sixties and had a full head of white hair and a lazy, Dean Martin smile. His drink was Gordon’s vodka with fresh squeezed orange juice. I was relieved to be able to focus on something other than Maggie Sectio for the evening, grateful to be doing something normal.
Between 6:45 and 7:45 Al drank two screwdrivers and mixed a third. He flirted with me, but remained attentive to the waitstaff and to the other customers at his end of the bar. At one point he told me he’d been married for forty years. I asked him what his secret was and he said, “We never talk to each other.”
I laughed when he said it, but I’m pretty sure he was serious. He also said he had two sons he wanted me to meet. I told him I was flattered, but involved with someone at the moment. He said I should let him know if that changed, and I promised I would.
By 8:00, Al was working on his fourth screwdriver. He was still enunciating clearly and he was still charming, but his movements were a little slower and he had to think for a moment before recording drink orders on the register. The crowd at the bar was thinning and I was about to head out when I caught a flash of color out of the corner of my eye.
“Excuse me,” said Elizabeth to the man seated on my left. “Would you mind moving down two stools?”
The man grinned as he looked my friend up and down and complied without hesitation. Jack was standing behind Elizabeth, also looking delectable. She sat down next to me.
“Did you talk to your realtor today?”
I nodded. “Someone made a counter offer.”
“Uh-oh. What happens now?”
“We’re offering the asking price,” I said.
“Oh,” said Elizabeth.
“I know,” I said. “Hi, Jack. Where did you two have dinner?”
“We went back to Toscana’s. Elizabeth wanted to try the scaloppini.”
“How was it?” I asked.
“It was unbelievable,” Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes.
Elizabeth is a very sensual person and one of the erotic pleasures she allows herself is eating, which she does with noticeable ardor.
“So, what happens now?” she asked.
“We’re having dinner at the 4290 Bistro tomorrow.”
“At the hotel?”
“Yes,” I said.
Jack’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.
“Don’t worry, Jack,” I whispered, leaning across Elizabeth. “I’ll be careful.”
He stared back at me, his face a mask of foreb
oding.
“Does Bill know?” Elizabeth asked.
“I’ll tell him tonight. He’s coming over later.”
After watching Al mix and consume his fifth screwdriver, I paid our tab, collected the receipt, which was accurate, and left a healthy tip. Jack and Elizabeth walked me to my car.
As I drove to SFO to conduct a dinner survey at my least favorite restaurant I considered what I would say to Bill about my upcoming tryst with Maggie. I was worried about how he would react and how it might affect our budding relationship. He’d already seen the videos and he knew what I had in mind, so there was no point in trying to downplay the risk. Best to go with the direct approach.
I parked in the short term lot at the airport and made my way to the concourse leading to what my friend and co-PI Jim Sutherland and I referred to as “The Ptomaine Palace.” I was seated at the counter by a hostess who appeared to be in her late teens and was popping her bubblegum with no concern about unprofessional behavior. Her name tag read “Becky,” and she wore the restaurant’s uniform of a lilac shift and white apron which she’d combined with a pair of neon green and silver Converse high tops.
She handed me the menu and sauntered off to the cashier’s desk, checking her manicure along the way. When my waitress approached the other side of the counter, I requested half a Chef’s Salad with Ranch dressing on the side and a bottled water. She nodded while scribbling on her order pad, then snatched my menu and turned away, having said not one word to me. Charming.
The problem with the Ptomaine Palace, as you’ve probably ascertained from the moniker, was not the wait staff, though they certainly could use some improvement, it was with the expiration date of the cuisine being prepared in the kitchen. Or possibly with the cleanliness of said kitchen. All I can say with any certainty is that both Jim and I had suffered bouts of food poisoning when we’d made menu selections which included anything that could possibly turn. The owner suspected that the chef had been cutting corners by purchasing items past their sell-by date and was doctoring the invoices and skimming the difference.
When my salad arrived, I nibbled at the croutons, ate a couple of lettuce leaves, and picked at a clump of shredded cheddar. I sniffed the ham, turkey, and bacon, and noted the foul odor of meat I wouldn’t serve to my worst enemy’s dog. I downed the bottle of water, and glanced around the establishment to see if anything interesting was going on.
Apart from myself and the kitchen staff, the restaurant was presently deserted. The bubble gum-popping hostess was no longer at her station. I didn’t see her anywhere in the kitchen area, which was visible behind the back counter, and thought perhaps she was on a break. Still, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check it out. I placed a twenty on the counter next to my napkin, and headed down the short hallway to the restroom.
Before reaching for the knob, I pressed my ear against the door and heard a distinct thumping sound. The restroom was unisex and a one-seater, so assuming the hostess was taking her break with her beau du jour, the door should be locked. Unless, of course, the young couple was into exhibitionism. I turned the handle, and eased the door open far enough to see two pairs of shoes, one pair of shocking pink panties, and a pair of dropped Levis below the only stall door. I recognized the neon sneakers of the hostess. As the rhythm of the thumping against the wall of the stall increased, I reached inside and turned the locking mechanism on the knob and pulled the door closed. I didn’t want any of my client’s patrons walking in on Becky’s little display of affection.
My next stop was a wine bar and restaurant in Redwood City, close to home. I found parking in the shopping center lot, and checked my watch as I hustled inside. I really didn’t want to shortchange my clients, but Bill was going to be at the boat around 10:00, and it was almost 9:00.
I was promptly seated by the hostess, even though I didn’t have a reservation. She asked for my beverage order and left me with a menu. The cuisine in this establishment was never an issue. The food was always perfectly prepared, and the service was flawless. My client was simply one of those rare individuals who wanted to be sure the quality of cuisine and service remained consistent. If I hadn’t needed the regular income, I would have told him to cut my surveys back to once a month.
My server appeared with the iced tea I’d ordered and asked if I wanted to hear tonight’s specials. When she had finished reciting those, from memory I might add, I ordered the Roasted Asparagus Frittata. When she left to place my order, I checked out the other customers. Conversation was sparse, as most of the patrons were happily devouring their meals. I watched the servers, the hostess, and the bartender all performing their duties with smiles that appeared genuine. It was a good thing all my clients didn’t have such dedicated employees, or I’d be out of business.
When my entrée was served, I consumed enough to know it was as good as it looked, then asked for a doggie bag and the check.
Bill was already on board when I got home, sitting in the main salon with his shoes off and his feet up. I left the frittata bag on the galley counter and went in to join him, bending down to give him a kiss. I sensed his displeasure in his almost complete lack of responsiveness, so I pushed his feet off the settee and sat down beside him.
“I’m meeting Maggie for dinner tomorrow at seven,” I said. “At the 4290 Bistro. I was wondering if you could be there around eight, so you can follow us when we leave the restaurant.”
“And do what? You think she’ll take you to a hotel room?” he asked, looking skeptical.
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’d feel better if you were there.”
“I’d feel better if you dropped the case,” he said.
“I know, but that’s not going to happen. So, will you do it?”
“What if she takes you into a room?”
“You could listen at the door until I scream, then break the door down and arrest her.”
“This is insane,” he said, getting up. “This is reckless, and stupid, and dangerous!” He started pacing. There isn’t much room to pace on a sailboat. “What if I can’t break the door down?”
“Then I’ll have to unlock it for you.”
“Is that supposed to be funny? You think this is going to be straightforward, but killers are unpredictable, Nikki, especially when they’re backed into a corner. Most people who’ve committed murder assume that if they’re taken into custody they’ll be convicted. I know it’s a cliché, but no one is more dangerous than a person with nothing to lose. Even if you have your gun drawn she might decide to rush you.” He sat back down and took both of my hands in his. “Have you ever killed anyone?”
“Of course not.”
“Well it sucks. It changes you, Nikki. You’ll never be the same, and it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. Are you prepared for that?”
“If I don’t see any other choice, I guess I’ll have to be.”
He pulled me close and buried his face in my hair. “Please don’t do this,” he murmured.
I pulled away. “I have to, Bill. You saw the tapes.”
He eventually, though reluctantly, agreed to wait in the lobby outside the restaurant and to follow us wherever we went after dinner.
We made love that night. Afterwards I felt an emptiness settle in the pit of my stomach as though it was there to stay. It felt like we were saying good-bye.
Chapter 23
After Bill left for work I dozed for a while, still too anxious to sleep deeply. The sun forcing its way through my stateroom portlights eventually got me up. I staggered into the galley and started a pot of coffee, extra thick. After two cups I still felt like crap. I put on sweat pants and a tee shirt, and slogged down the dock toward the showers.
Elizabeth and Lily were walking up the companionway together as I approached. I told Lily I was having her Jil Sander dry-cleaned and that I’d bring it back in
a few days.
She said, “No hurry,” and continued up the ramp.
Elizabeth stopped, and said, “You look terrible, honey. Go back to bed.”
“I would, but I don’t think I’d be able to sleep.”
After showering I dressed in spandex shorts and a tank top and drove to the gym. I pushed myself to do my usual workout, forcing my muscles to perform when what they really needed was rest. I did an hour on the treadmill, used all the lower body Nautilus equipment, did a hundred abdominal crunches and fifty military pushups, then showered again and drove home to change clothes.
I unlocked the office around 11:00.
Realizing that I was entering into a life-or-death situation with Maggie, I wanted to put my affairs in order. I typed and printed letters to my mom, to Bill, to Elizabeth, to Lily, to my grade-school sweetheart and oldest friend Michael Burke, to my friend and fellow PI Jim Sutherland, and to my cousin Aaron. For good measure, I wrote one to my dad, who had disappeared when I was twenty-four.
In my letters I said all the things I hadn’t previously, but had wanted to, the good and the bad, and I told each of them how much they meant to me. It felt a little bit maudlin, but also surprisingly liberating. I carefully folded each letter, sealed them in addressed envelopes, except the one to my dad, and left them in my out-basket.
I called my insurance agent, Chuck Tewksbury, and asked if he could come by the office with life insurance forms. My mom has an IRA, but I wanted to make sure she would be comfortable when she was ready to retire.
While I was waiting for Chuck to arrive I typed up a will, indicating that Bill was to be my executor. I hadn’t known him that long, but I didn’t think Elizabeth would be up to the task if anything happened to me. I left what little jewelry I owned to my mom, left the boat to Bill, and the BMW to Elizabeth. I volunteered to donate my organs to whoever might need them at the time of my death. I requested that my body be cremated and the ashes scattered at sea. I mentioned the letters in the will, asking Bill to mail them and, should my dad ever surface, to hand-deliver his.
