by Nancy Skopin
I dressed in slacks and a silk blouse, and drove back to Atherton.
During the short drive I thought about why I wasn’t calling Sam Pettigrew for help. He’d been a challenging mentor, but I believed that under the gruff exterior he cared about me. I remembered the week I’d spent doing a domestic surveillance job for a musician client of Sam’s who thought his wife was having an affair. Every evening I watched her from the time he went to his gig until he arrived home, which was usually after 3:00 a.m. I slept until noon and then went to the office to type up the previous night’s surveillance report.
One afternoon I noticed that Sam had changed the angle of the coffee table in the front office. I didn’t think much about it until the next day when I noticed that the metal desk he kept in the outer office had been removed. I looked around and found it in the kitchen.
The day after that I needed a Palo Alto phone book, so I went to the closet where Sam kept his collection of telephone directories and discovered that they were no longer there. I eventually found the phone books neatly stacked in the cabinet under the bathroom sink.
The following day the little loveseat that normally occupied the foyer had been moved into Sam’s private office. That was all I could stand. I sashayed into Sam’s office, draped myself dramatically across the loveseat, and asked him what the hell was going on.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
I proceeded to recount each of the changes I’d observed throughout the week. His seldom used smile grew wider with each item I listed.
When I was finished with my recital he said, “You missed one.” He had moved his ashtray from one side of his desk to the other.
“Nobody’s perfect,” I said.
My time with Sam was invaluable in ways I’m still discovering, but I still couldn’t bring myself to admit I needed his help now that I was a grown-up PI out on my own.
When I arrived in Atherton I parked near El Camino and surveyed the neighborhood where I had taken Maggie’s life. I had brought along a clipboard and half a dozen of my cousin Aaron’s business cards. I knew I was treading into a legal gray area just by being there, but I was desperate for information and it seemed like a good place to begin.
Atherton is one of the wealthiest cities in California. It ranks right up there with Beverly Hills and Hillsborough, but the houses in this neighborhood didn’t look all that remarkable to me. Maybe this was Atherton’s low-rent district.
I buzzed the intercom outside the first house and waited patiently for someone to respond. The wall around the estate was about six feet tall, made of pink adobe and covered with ivy. After a minute I buzzed again, then I stepped back and stood on my tiptoes peering over the wall. I caught the movement of a curtain in one of the second story windows. Someone was home, but they weren’t going to let me in. I looked down at my clothes. Maybe I was underdressed by Atherton standards.
I moved on to the next house. This one was surrounded by a black wrought iron fence, so I could actually see the house and property from the street. It was an old two-story brick with a vast lawn and a bed of roses between the driveway and the front door. I’ve always liked brick houses. They look solid to me, like they’re going to last. I approached the intercom box and buzzed politely, not too long, not too short. This time the intercom was answered after a few moments.
“Yes?” said a female voice.
“Hi,” I said, relieved that someone was willing to speak to me. “My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a private investigator and I was hoping to ask you a few questions about the shooting.”
The disembodied voice said nothing further, but the gate slowly eased open. I approached the house, my clipboard held firmly in front of me. Standing in the open doorway was a dark-haired woman who appeared to be in her fifties, about five-four, and slightly plump. She wore a white apron over a navy blue shirtdress, and white athletic shoes. She was wearing red lipstick, but no other make-up. Based on the outfit, I guessed she was a domestic. I introduced myself again and held out one of Aaron’s cards.
“I’m working in association with VanHorton and Raymond out of San Francisco, doing a preliminary investigation of the shooting that took place last night.”
Pretending I worked for Aaron’s law firm wasn’t strictly kosher, but I thought he’d back me up if it came to that.
“Oh yes,” she whispered. “A real estate lady was killed.”
She looked at Aaron’s card, tucked it in her apron pocket, and shook my hand. Hers was warm and dry, callused but soft, like someone who worked hard but used a good hand cream.
“Were you home last night between eight and ten?” I asked.
“You mean did I hear the shot?”
I nodded.
“Yes, I heard it. I was upstairs on my balcony. I thought it was a car backfiring. My name is Rosa, by the way.”
“Can you show me your balcony, Rosa?”
“Of course,” she said, and ushered me into the foyer.
As we climbed the stairs Rosa chattered happily, pointing out pictures of the couple she worked for and their adorable baby girl.
“I’ve been here four years now,” she said. “What was your name again?”
“Nicoli.”
“Nicoli. That’s a pretty name. The O’Malleys are good people. He’s a doctor, you know. A surgeon at Stanford. Maybe you’ve heard of him? Doctor Ian O’Malley?”
“I don’t think so.”
“The missus does a lot of fund raising for local charities. My room is next door to the nursery, so I can hear the little one if she wakes up in the night.”
Rosa spoke with so much pride that I almost envied her.
“Nothing is more important than children,” I mumbled.
“That’s right,” she said with certainty.
We arrived at her room and she walked directly to the French doors and opened them for me. The balcony faced west. Rosa had an unobstructed view of the street. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.
“You were sitting out here last night when you heard the shot?”
“Yes, only I had my back to the street because I was watching the television.”
“You said you thought it was a car backfiring. Did you turn around to see what the car looked like?”
“Oh yes, but there was no car driving by. Then a few minutes later I saw this nice-looking man get out of a red Mustang and run toward the back of the house. That’s where it happened, you know.”
“What else did you see?”
“About ten minutes after that I saw the police arrive. Four squad cars and an unmarked car with two men in it.”
“You’re very observant, Rosa. What about the time between the shot and when the man in the Mustang arrived?” I held my breath.
“I was mostly watching TV, I guess.” She looked embarrassed.
“Were the O’Malleys home last night?”
“Just me and the baby,” she said. “The doctor and missus didn’t get home till late. I did get a couple of phone calls though, from the other girls in the neighborhood. Everyone was pretty excited about what happened.”
“You’ve been very helpful, Rosa,” I said. “Thank you for taking the time to talk with me. I have to go now, but I wonder if you would do me a favor. Could you ask your friends and neighbors if they saw anyone lurking around the house where the shooting took place? I’d be happy to pay you for your time. I’m especially interested in what happened right before and immediately after the gunshot was heard.”
“Sure,” she said. “I could do that.”
I was so grateful I almost wept. “That would be wonderful,” I said. “Just keep track of the time you spend talking to people, and call me if you find anything out.”
I wrote my name and my home and office numbers on
the back of Aaron’s card, and returned it to her.
“I’ll pay you thirty dollars an hour,” I added. “Will that be all right?”
Rosa beamed. “Yes, Nicoli,” she said. “That will be fine.”
We shook hands before I left. I felt confident that she would begin making phone calls to her neighbors immediately and that I could go home. Maybe now I would be able to sleep.
On my way to the car I checked my watch. It was almost time for my appointment with Loretta. I mentally grimaced, wondering what it would be like forcing myself to confide in someone I didn’t know. I pulled her business card from my purse and memorized the address on Jefferson.
As I drove back to Redwood City I thought about what I was going to say to this woman. I’d have to tell her what happened, and that I’d had trouble with insomnia since first seeing Maggie’s videos. Maybe she could help me with that.
I pulled to the curb and double-checked the address on the business card. I’d expected a medical facility of some kind, but instead what I saw was a mint green gingerbread cottage with a small front yard surrounded by a white picket fence and flowers. Lots of flowers.
I got out of the car and let myself in through the gate. Though it was a warm afternoon, a slight breeze rustled a set of wind chimes above the door. To the right was an old-fashioned porch swing. The only suggestion that this was a professional facility and not someone’s home was a small brass plaque on the door that read Loretta Dario, Clinical Psychologist.
I overruled the tightening in my solar plexus and rang the doorbell. I could hear footsteps coming toward the front of the house. When the door opened I was greeted by a woman in her mid-fifties with short salt and pepper hair framing a heart-shaped face. She stood about five-nine and weighed maybe a hundred and forty pounds. She wore a calf length denim skirt with sandals and a short-sleeved peach colored blouse. Her eyes were a soft brown and her smile made me feel welcome.
“Hello, Nicoli,” she said. “You’re right on time. Come inside.”
Chapter 30
I crossed the threshold and inhaled the aroma of cinnamon and apples.
“Would you like some tea? I just made a pot,” she said, ushering me into the living room.
“I’m not usually much of a tea drinker, but that smells really good.”
I glanced at my surroundings and wondered if this was Loretta’s home as well as her place of business. The living room was simply decorated. A seascape above the fireplace, a loveseat covered in brown and gold plaid, two easy chairs, and a glass-topped coffee table. In the corner near the front window a portable fan hummed from a mahogany end table. There was a small dining room with a pass-through opening, beyond which I glimpsed a homey kitchen.
Loretta set two cups and a ceramic teapot on the coffee table next to a sugar bowl and a small pitcher of milk. She poured for both of us.
“Sit down, dear. Make yourself comfortable.”
I chose an arm chair, not wanting to be a cliché and recline on the loveseat while unburdening myself. Loretta smiled thoughtfully at my seating selection before planting herself on the loveseat. She handed me a cup.
“Thank you,” I said.
I added a splash of milk and took a sip. It actually tasted as good as it smelled.
She tucked her feet up underneath her and looked at me over her teacup. “I understand you’ve been through quite an ordeal.”
I took another sip of the tea, not knowing where to begin.
“I’ve never been in therapy,” I finally said. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Why don’t you tell me about what happened. Bill mentioned you were working on a very dangerous investigation.”
I wondered how much she already knew. Working with cops who had killed in the line of duty meant she would be accustomed to hearing gruesome details, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to talk about all of them.
“I killed a woman,” I said, and winced at the way that sounded. “She was a multiple murderer. I watched some videos of what she did to her lovers. My client …” I stopped, realizing I was about to breach confidentiality. In a murder investigation, even a therapist’s records can be subpoenaed. “My client dropped off some videotapes he found in this woman’s house. She’d taped herself killing her lovers. She was a lesbian. She would have sex with a woman and then cut her throat and dismember the body. There were five that I know of. I watched the tapes.”
The horror of the past week began to clog my throat, and I drank some more tea before going on.
“I was hired to find a way to stop her. At first I thought I’d be able to collect enough evidence to point the police in the right direction, but it quickly became apparent that wasn’t going to happen, so I decided to let her seduce me.” I took a deep breath and shuddered at the memory. “The idea was that afterwards she would attempt to kill me, you see, and the whole thing would be on videotape, because she taped the murders, but it didn’t work out the way I’d planned. She came at me so fast with that knife.” I swallowed hard. “I had no choice. I had to shoot her.”
Loretta nodded sympathetically, but said nothing.
“I’ve had trouble sleeping since I took the case,” I continued. “When I do sleep, I have horrific nightmares.”
She nodded again, and said, “Why do you think the woman you killed deserved to live and you do not?”
What the hell? “I don’t think that!” I said, a little too loud.
“Then why do you have anxiety about killing her in order to save your own life, and perhaps the lives of many others?”
“I’m just having some trouble sleeping. Isn’t that normal in a situation like this?”
“You’re not here to talk about what’s normal, Nicoli. You’re here to talk about what you’re feeling.”
I wondered if she was trying to piss me off. Maybe that was part of the therapy. Let’s find out, I thought. “What I’m feeling right now is angry,” I said.
“And what are you angry about?”
“I’m angry about the way you’re talking down to me.”
She raised an amused eyebrow and smiled benevolently. “Good for you, dear.” She set her tea cup on the coffee table and refilled it. “Insomnia is about not feeling safe. Since you were putting your own life at risk in order to stop this woman from killing again, it makes sense that you wouldn’t feel safe. But now that she’s dead, I imagine it’s something else that’s keeping you awake. What do you think that might be?”
“The police can’t find the knife,” I said.
She looked a question at me.
“She came at me with a knife. When I shot her it must have flown out of her hand, but the police haven’t been able to find it. I can only assume that someone else was there that night who saw what happened and took the knife, though I have no idea why anyone would do that.”
“So the truth is, you are not safe.”
“I guess not.”
“I’d say you have a perfectly good reason to stay awake.”
“Well that’s reassuring.” I hadn’t meant to sound quite so sarcastic. But she smiled again, so I guess that was okay with her. “Now what?”
“Now we talk about the details of what happened. I don’t need to hear them, but it’s important for you to share everything with someone, so you can let go of what’s tying you up inside. Are you game?”
“I suppose.”
“Good. Whatever makes you the most uncomfortable is probably the most important thing to share.”
“Great.”
“Therapy isn’t easy, Nicoli. It takes work. For someone like you, letting go of what’s hurting you will probably feel like letting go of control. But you’re safe here, and letting go of something painful is ultimately much easier than carrying it around for the rest of your life.”
/> I thought back to my childhood and my cousin Aaron, the many beatings I’d endured when my parents simply took his word for it that I’d committed his crimes. Maybe I should have begun therapy years ago.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll give it a shot.”
Over the next forty-five minutes I talked my way through everything that had happened from the time I viewed the videotapes until I’d been charged with Maggie’s murder, leaving out only the details about Jack. I even told Loretta about having sex with Maggie in the swimming pool and how that made me feel about myself. She said little during my discourse, but frequently nodded, encouraging me to continue.
When I had finished she refilled my cup and said, “That must have been horrible for you.”
I wasn’t sure if she was referring to the act of killing another human being, or reliving the whole thing today. Both were horrible, but she was right. I felt lighter having told someone all the details I’d been keeping inside.
By the end of our session I found myself liking Loretta. Even if I didn’t continue with the therapy, I felt I might have found a new friend.
As I rose to leave she said, “Would you like to schedule another appointment?”
I wanted to come back, but at this point I didn’t know if I’d be free to do so. I might find myself in jail after the arraignment.
“Can I call you?”
“Of course, dear. I’ll look forward to hearing from you. Perhaps when things settle down a bit we can work on enhancing that intuition of yours. Build the muscle, so to speak.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You have a gift, Nicoli. Have you never considered learning how to cultivate your ability?”
“How do you know I have a gift?”
