by Nancy Skopin
I took off my jeans and shoes, but left the sweatshirt and sox on. I couldn’t seem to get warm. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Images of Maggie in the pool, both before and after death, assaulted me. After a while I gave up trying to sleep and got up.
I took a long hot shower, dried my hair, and pulled on my thermal underwear, then I got back into bed and picked up a John Sanford novel.
Chapter 26
By the time Bill knocked on my door the sun was coming up and I was surprised to discover that I’d fallen asleep with the book open on my chest. I dragged myself out of bed to let him in, then crawled right back under the covers. My head was pounding.
“What time is it?” I asked, closing my eyes against the light.
“It’s early.” He sat on the edge of the bunk and looked at his watch. “Six-twenty.”
“What time is the Gestapo coming?”
“Nine o’clock.”
“Did they find the knife?” I opened one eye just a crack to look at his face. I didn’t like what I saw.
“No knife,” he said.
I sat up. “What do you mean, no knife? You mean they didn’t find it last night. The sun’s barely up, they’ll find it in the daylight.”
“They brought in a bunch of flood lights last night, Nikki. And they went over the yard very thoroughly.”
“The pool?”
“Empty. Nothing on the bottom.”
“What are you telling me, exactly?”
“I think you need to hire an attorney.”
“Oh shit.”
I decided to lie back down. I put my arm over my eyes and bit my lip to keep myself from crying.
Bill took off his clothes and got into bed with me. He wrapped his arms around me and I clung to him as if he were a life preserver. We didn’t talk for a long time. Finally I disengaged myself and looked at him. He’d been up all night and it showed.
“I can call my cousin,” I said. “He’s probably too busy to represent me, but I’m sure he can recommend someone. Are they going to arrest me?”
“They’ll look at the videotape copies first, but yeah, I think they are.”
“Bill, she came at me with that knife. What could have happened to it?”
“I don’t know. Get some sleep. I’ll set the alarm for eight.”
I couldn’t go back to sleep. When Bill started snoring I slipped out of bed. I tiptoed into the main salon, sat cross-legged on the settee, and called my cousin Aaron.
Aaron is the closest thing I have to a sibling, and along with that relationship comes the typical baggage. When we were kids I took a lot of punishment for things he had done. It still pisses me off that he always got away with it. My obsession with justice rose out of my relationship with Aaron, and my distrust of authority figures probably developed while I was receiving regular spankings for his crimes. Those early experiences contribute substantially to who I am today, and to my skill in my chosen profession. Aaron is a criminal defense attorney. No need to wonder where he developed the skills necessary to excel in that field.
Aaron answered the phone, sounding groggy, on the fourth ring. He listened to my story, expressing no surprise. He said he would be in court all week, but promised he would be there for me if my case went to trial. I’d never seen him in action, but I had heard from mutual friends that he was impressive. He put me on hold and called an associate, Peter Treski, who agreed to meet me at my office at 8:45. I thanked Aaron and hung up the phone feeling moderately reassured.
I took another long hot shower, trying to wash away the memory of Maggie’s touch from the intimate parts of my body. But no amount of soap and water could scrub away the horror, so I sat down in the shower stall and cried for a couple of unguarded minutes, feeling sorry for myself and resentful that life wasn’t any more fair now than it had been when I was a kid.
I dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, quietly said goodbye to Bill, who was still asleep, and walked up to the office.
While I was waiting for Peter to arrive, I called Jim Sutherland, my friend and fellow PI. We met shortly after my first murder investigation. Jim had been hired to follow me by the killer I was hunting, and after the takedown we got to know each other during the long days of the trial while we were both waiting to testify. He’s an honorable guy, with a self-deprecating sense of humor. It’s fun to hang out with another PI, and we sometimes toss business each other’s way when one of us has too much to manage.
Jim was born in England, the only child of a Scottish father and an English mother. His father designed early warning systems for the military, so they moved around a lot. Before he was fifteen Jim had resided in England, Spain, Iran, Manila, and Turkey. Not long after his fifteenth birthday his family moved to Los Altos, California. It was Jim’s first visit to the United States. He finished high school and attended college here. After college, he had a series of short-term jobs, and finally ended up with a security firm in Belmont.
Jim was on a routine sales call in Oakland one day and witnessed a hit-and-run accident. He followed the driver, memorized his license plate, and went to the police, who were able to apprehend the suspect. Jim felt good about that. He was already fed-up with his current employer, so he went online and started contacting private investigators, just as I had done. His fourth call was to a retired cop, now working as a PI, in Mountain View, who liked what Jim had to say about wanting to catch bad guys.
Jim is thirty-four now and he’s been licensed for about five years. Having first-hand knowledge of so many cultures and belief systems makes him an excellent investigator, and an uncommon resource for me. I hoped he would have some ideas about where the missing knife might have gone.
“Who have you pissed off recently?” he began, after listening to me describe the encounter with Maggie.
I could think of at least a dozen people. There was a retail cashier, a restaurant hostess, five bartenders, two cocktail waitresses, and a doorman, all of whom had lost their jobs because I was doing mine. There was the killer Jim and I had put behind bars recently, and there was a hooker in Lake Tahoe who wasn’t going to marry a millionaire any time soon because I’d reported to her fiancé, my client, detailed descriptions of what she was doing while he was out of town. It seemed like a lot of people, when you looked at them all at once. Oh yeah, and there was Blake Curtis; the hothead food server I’d run into just the other night.
“Is Bill the jealous type? You said he was following you. Could he have arrived while you were still in the pool?”
“Bill would never do anything to hurt me.”
In spite of my conviction, I began to consider the possibility.
“Did you know any of the officers who took the call? Was there anyone at the scene you had met before, besides Bill?”
“Not that I noticed. I’m not being very helpful, am I?”
“Don’t worry about it. Is it possible Maggie had a lover whom she chose not to kill and mutilate? Maybe someone who liked to watch?”
“Jesus, I hope not. That’s disgusting.”
We talked for another ten minutes, Jim bouncing ideas off me. By the end of the conversation he seemed convinced that someone with a grudge against me had been there last night. Someone I hadn’t seen. He suggested I hire a colleague to canvass the neighborhood to find out if one of the residents might have seen someone leaving immediately after the shooting. It was a good idea, but I didn’t know anyone besides Jim who I would trust with a job like that, and he was too busy. I could call my old mentor, Sam Pettigrew. He’d be there for me in a heartbeat, but asking Sam for help would feel like admitting I was incompetent.
Chapter 27
Peter Treski arrived at 8:42. He was in his early forties, blond, blue-eyed, and sort of nerdy looking. He had tortoiseshell glasses and wore a pale yellow blazer over a white shirt, red tie, gr
ay slacks, and Gucci loafers. I told him the whole story, and he listened attentively, taking notes, but not interrupting even once. His attention was sharply focused, but his eyes looked compassionate. Either this guy was a decent human being or he had perfected his act. At the moment I didn’t care which.
The police arrived a few minutes after 9:00. There were four of them, two uniforms and a man and woman in plain clothes who introduced themselves as Detectives Stegbahn and Loftus. They were all with the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department. Evidently Maggie’s death had evolved over night from a self-defense case into a murder investigation.
Stegbahn was in his late-thirties, just over six feet tall, and spongy around the middle, wearing a brown polyester suit that matched his hair and a white shirt with no tie. Loftus was in her forties, about five-seven in low heels, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup. Her features were delicate, but her expression was hard. She wore a navy-blue pantsuit with a red blouse. I wondered if these two were partners or if they’d just been paired up for this assignment.
The uniforms were both male, and appeared to be in their early twenties. Both were clean-shaven. One was tall and slender with dark hair and the other was average height, blond, blue-eyed, and muscular. Neither of them made eye contact with me, even when I asked for their names and badge numbers. I wrote down their physical descriptions, just to have something to do. I was feeling helpless, angry, and bone-tired. I wanted desperately to escape.
As expected, they had a search warrant for the office, one for my car, and one for my boat. I was glad I’d given Elizabeth my guns. Peter read the warrants carefully and insisted we both be present during the search process at all three locations. Stegbahn and Loftus watched me open my office safe while the two uniforms began searching my desk. They bagged and labeled the videotapes, and then Loftus searched the kitchenette and Stegbahn took the bathroom.
I unlocked my Pendaflex drawer and the uniforms went through my files, emptying all my drawers and cabinets, but did nothing with my computer. I would ask Peter the reason for this blessed omission later. They noticed the empty Velcro holster fastened under my lap drawer and called Stegbahn over. He glanced under the desk and then approached me and Peter.
“Mind telling me where the gun is that you normally keep in that holster?” he asked.
“I’m having the sight replaced,” I said.
“Where?” He took a notebook from his jacket pocket.
“Heinz’s Gun Shop,” I said. “San Carlos.”
I’d have to call Heinz and feed him the story. He’s a good friend, and I buy all my guns and ammo from him. Heinz was a Hitler Youth during World War II and loves to tell stories about the Nazis. His family hated Hitler, but his parents persuaded him to enlist so they wouldn’t look suspicious. Sam Pettigrew took me to Heinz to purchase my first revolver. Since that time I’ve purchased three additional handguns from him and listened to countless stories about his life.
Maybe I’d get my Glock back from Elizabeth and drop it off at the gun shop. It could use a new sight. The old one is low profile and colorless. I prefer high profile sights with tritium inserts because they make it easier to hit what you’re shooting at, and tritium glows in the dark.
Stegbahn and Loftus made less of a mess than the two guys in uniform but, regardless of the method, a search of your private property is like an emotional assault. The uniforms were careless when looking through my file folders, leaving the contents scattered. It would take me hours to sort everything out, and I’d have to clean every surface in the office to reclaim my space when this was over.
Peter stayed close to me at all times, occasionally patting my back sympathetically. About halfway through the search of my office I went outside and lit a cigarette. I gazed numbly at the beauty around me. Although I was seeing it, I just couldn’t take it in. I couldn’t feel the joy that normally washes over me when I look at my home. I needed a good long cry, but for now I had to harden myself into an emotionless state. The cigarette helped, damned filthy habit.
By the time they were finished with my office it looked like they had taken all my drawers, turned them upside-down, and dumped everything out. I locked the door, trying not to look at the mess as I did so. We moved to the parking lot and my little 2002.
I love my car. It’s almost like a pet, and is the most reliable transportation I’ve ever had. I couldn’t stand the idea of these jerks pawing through it.
I unlocked the doors and the trunk and stepped back. I wanted to issue some kind of a warning or a plea for mercy, but I kept my mouth shut and lit another cigarette.
The detectives examined each item in my glove compartment. There was a medium sized Mag-Lite, my Thomas Guide, the car registration and proof of insurance, a couple of Jeff Beck CDs, a box of fuses, a pair of black leather gloves, a lint brush, and my owner’s manual. They reached under the front and back seats and felt under the console. I hoped none of the wires got disconnected.
While all this was going on, Bill came up from the boat and had a word with Stegbahn and Loftus. I kept my distance, not wanting to interfere with Bill when he was in cop mode. I saw Loftus shake her head, apparently disagreeing with something Bill had said, but then both Sheriff’s department detectives shook his hand and did some nodding, and Bill took off in his Mustang without saying a word to me. Huh.
The two uniforms were taking everything out of my trunk. All my tools were displayed on the ground. My jack was sitting in a puddle created by the marina sprinklers. I walked over, picked it up, shook it briskly, and set in down in a dry area. The shorter of the two uniformed officers promptly replaced the jack with a beach towel I keep in the car to cover the upholstery on hot days. I snatched it up before it could absorb the muddy water. Asshole.
The taller uniform was going through my gym bag. He examined my shampoo and conditioner and looked suspiciously at my heart monitor. The shorter guy took a flashlight off his belt and looked up my exhaust pipe. Was he kidding? When they were done they left everything from the trunk on the ground. I made them wait while I replaced the contents myself. Then I locked the car and patted it affectionately before escorting the group down to my boat.
D’Artagnon started barking as soon as we came through the gate. He continued to bark, spit, slobber, and snap at the officers as they walked past his boat. I smothered a smile and watched over my shoulder to make sure they didn’t lay a hand on him. When we arrived at the Cheoy Lee I went aboard first, offering no advice about how to back down the companionway to avoid banging your head on the hatch. I figured these thugs were on their own and only hoped that Peter would follow my example.
The boat was a mess, as usual. There were piles of clothes in the stateroom and dirty dishes in the sink. Loftus started in the stateroom, Stegbahn took the galley, and the two goons went to work in the main salon. I went with Loftus and asked Peter to keep an eye on the uniforms. I watched as each article of my clothing was examined and special attention was given to my dirty laundry. Loftus dug through all my drawers, but didn’t feel compelled to dump my clean clothes on the floor, for which I was grateful.
She removed the bedspread, blanket, and sheets from my queen size bunk and lifted the mattress. She felt inside the pillowcases and squeezed each pillow to make sure the feathers didn’t conceal anything lethal. When she was finished I remade the bed.
She checked my shower and medicine cabinet, but didn’t bother to unscrew the drain cover in the tub. When she was done with the head and the stateroom she aimed her flashlight into the lazarette, a small storage space under the companionway where I keep empty boxes, extension cords, old athletic shoes, and my vacuum cleaner. She poked around in the dusty mess but didn’t take the boxes out to see if anything was hidden in them. I had the impression Loftus was just going through the motions. I wasn’t sure how I should feel about that. She might be expressing confide
nce in my innocence, or she could simply be bored with her job.
The search of the boat took less than forty-five minutes, and when they were finished it was not noticeably changed. I didn’t point out the storage areas, which are built into each settee, so all they had to search were the visible cabinets and shelves, the hanging locker, and the refrigerator. I was actually proud of how few possessions I had for them to paw through. On the way out Loftus did a quick search of the pilothouse and picked up the machete I keep by the door. I felt compelled to explain its presence.
“If there’s an earthquake the concrete docks could collapse, taking the boats down with them. I would use the machete to cut the dock lines, so I could get my boat out of the slip before the docks go under.”
Loftus responded with a noncommittal, “Uh-huh,” as she tagged the machete and handed it to one of the uniforms. It was the only thing they took from the boat, and, once again, I had to ask for a receipt. Unbelievable.
At noon we all drove to the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department. Peter and I went together in his car. As soon as we were alone I asked him why they hadn’t bothered with my computer. He explained that the search warrants had only allowed them to look for weapons. I thought about all my file folders being emptied and the resentment started to boil up again.
When we arrived at the Sheriff’s Department we were escorted into an interview room where Stegbahn and Loftus asked me a number of very personal questions, some of which had to do with my sex life. Peter listened as I responded. It made me feel safer having him there, but the whole experience was still humiliating. When I had answered all their questions the detectives asked us to wait in the windowless room. Fifty minutes later they trooped back in and I was informed that the DA intended to charge me with the murder of Margaret Sectio.
