by Nancy Skopin
I considered that for a moment, flashing back in my mind to the shooting.
“I don’t see how. She was only a few feet away.”
“Did you close your eyes when you pulled the trigger? You know, like a reflex?”
“I might have blinked, but I couldn’t have missed her from that distance. She was right in front of me.”
“Have the police done the autopsy yet? They can check for things like the trajectory of the bullet and what kind of gun fired it.”
“Okay, add that to Bill’s list.”
“What kind of ammunition were you using?” she asked.
“Thirty-eight special,” I said. “Plus-P load.”
Elizabeth set the pen down and picked up her wineglass. “I guess we could call Jack again, but I hate to bother him. He seemed to be in a hurry to leave. When was the last time you tried to unlock a deadbolt with your lock picks?” she asked.
“It’s been a while,” I said.
“How many deadbolts have you worked on?” she continued.
“A couple of different kinds. Why?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “Let’s go shopping.” She bounced up and grabbed her purse.
We started hitting hardware stores at 1:00, and purchased three different types of deadbolt locks. We took them back to the marina and disassembled them on Elizabeth’s galley counter. One of the three did not respond to my lock picks, but the other two did.
At 3:30, fueled by adrenaline and curiosity, we drove back to Woodside.
Chapter 33
Elizabeth stood with her back to me, facing the driveway, as I fiddled with the deadbolt on the front door of the cottage. I worked at it for twenty minutes without success. My lower back was starting to ache from hunching over and my nerves were on edge. I turned and stretched, noticing that Elizabeth was no longer hovering behind me. I spotted her standing under a tree, and she had something in her hand.
“Can’t get it open?” she asked, moving toward me.
“It’s hopeless. Let’s get out of here.”
As she approached I saw what she was carrying. It was a large rock.
“Is there an alarm system?” she asked.
“I didn’t see one, but we can’t break a window. I can’t afford to get in any more trouble right now.” That sounded weak even to me, considering what we’d been doing for the past two days.
“You and Jack wore gloves, didn’t you?”
She knew we had. Before I could stop her Elizabeth heaved the rock through the glass panel to the left of the door. Then she lifted her skirt, wrapped the hem around her hand, and knocked away a few jagged edges. When there was a large enough hole, she reached through and turned the interior latch on the deadbolt, then opened the door.
“Come on,” she whispered.
She stepped carefully over the broken glass and turned to look back at me.
“I can’t believe you did that,” I said.
“Where’s the kitchen?”
I pointed to the right and followed her inside. I was in no mood for another confrontation with the police, so we would have to make this fast. I entered the kitchen and threw open the cabinets under the sink. There was nothing there. Not even a garbage container. We looked at each other.
I grabbed a paper towel from a roll hanging over the sink, dampened it, and wiped the faucet and cabinet handles. I took the paper towel with me and headed for the front door. I wiped the deadbolt latch and the doorknob where Elizabeth had touched them, grabbed the rock, and closed the door behind us using the paper towel as a mitt.
We ran back to the 2002 and roared up to Woodside Road. I didn’t stop checking my rearview mirror until we were back at the marina.
“Jesus,” I said, as I parked the car.
“Yeah,” she said. “I bet if the police check that cottage for prints they won’t find any.”
Back aboard the trawler Elizabeth picked up her pen and added an item to Bill’s list. “Check cottage for prints,” she said.
We decided to try calling Bill on his cell. When he didn’t answer I left him a voicemail message giving him Elizabeth’s land line and asking him to call as soon as possible. Elizabeth’s phone rang fifteen minutes later. I checked the caller ID and picked up.
“Hey, babe.”
“Hi, Nikki. Whose number is this?”
“It’s Elizabeth’s. I need some information. Do you have a pen?”
“Yeah.”
I picked up the list and read it to him. When I finished he was silent for a moment and I thought maybe I’d asked for too much.
“You’re thinking maybe the brother was at the house in Atherton the night Maggie was killed?”
“It’s a possibility. Have you found out anything about the uniforms who were at the scene?”
“I know someone who used to work in Atherton. He still has a few friends over there. I asked him to look into it.”
“Thanks. Will you call me back?”
“I don’t know if anyone is working in forensics today. I might be able to get the school records though.”
“Okay. If I’m not home I’ll be here.”
Elizabeth and I decided to wait it out together. She flipped on the TV and turned to a channel that didn’t have local news reports.
“Are you hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.”
“I have some left-over chicken. How about a chicken salad?”
“That sounds great.”
While Elizabeth fussed around in the galley, I reread our lists. There was something about the bleach in the bathroom that didn’t make sense to me, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.
Bill called while we were eating.
“The Sullivan’s were the original owners of the Woodside estate,” he began, “and both kids were raised there. They went to St. Theresa’s Parochial School. By the way, Margaret had a juvenile record. I had to dig a little to find it. She was at Hillcrest for two weeks when she was eight. Evidently her parents couldn’t control her and decided locking her up might improve her behavior.”
“What about college?” I asked.
“Three and a half years at Stanford. She dropped out when her parents died.”
“And the brother?”
“No record of him since St. Theresa’s.”
“Huh. Any information from forensics?”
“Yeah, I got a copy of the preliminary report. No one took any prints at the estate in Woodside. I’ll let you know about the ballistics tomorrow.”
“Okay. Thanks, Bill. You’re a sport.”
“Yes I am. Get some sleep tonight.”
“I’ll try,” I said. “Hey, Bill? If you’re going to suggest dusting the cottage for prints, which I assume you are, how about having the hair and fiber people check it out too?”
“You know, Nikki, this is not even my case.”
“I know,” I said apologetically. But I knew he would do it.
When we hung up, Elizabeth grabbed the notepad away from me. “I can’t read your handwriting,” she complained. “What did he say?”
“Both kids went to Saint Theresa’s, which is a local Catholic school. After that Maggie went to Stanford, but there’s no record of any college for Patrick. Maggie also did two weeks at Hillcrest when she was eight, for being incorrigible.”
“So, what do we do now?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think we’re done for the day. I’ll go to Saint Theresa’s in the morning.”
We finished dinner and said goodnight, and I walked up to my office clutching the pages of notes we’d made. I needed to go over my master schedule so I would at least know which of my remaining clients I was neglecting.
Twenty feet from my office I froze. Even in the di
m exterior lights I could see that one of the doors was slightly ajar. My heart moved up into my throat as I reached into my bag for the Ruger. Then I remembered the police had my Ruger and Elizabeth had my other guns. I dug around in my bag and came up with a my keychain canister of defense spray.
I crept forward, dropping my purse on the ground outside the office, and nudged the door open with my foot, holding the spray out in front of me at eye level. I edged my way inside and flipped the light switch, squinting in the sudden illumination.
What the cops had done to my office had been upsetting, but what I saw before me now was malicious. My leather swivel chair had been upended and the seat and back cushions slashed until the stuffing burst out. My new computer was on the floor next to the monitor, but both appeared to be intact. That was something anyway.
I skirted around the paperwork that was once again strewn across the floor and checked the kitchenette, where I found my coffee pot shattered on the floor. The TV cart with my DVD & VHS player was still tucked in the corner and appeared to be untouched.
I turned into the hallway, flipped on the bathroom light, and gasped when I saw the scrawled message on the medicine cabinet mirror. MURDERER! was written in what appeared to be red lipstick. I felt my knees buckle and grabbed hold of the sink to steady myself.
Was it possible that Maggie had an accomplice, a girlfriend who liked to watch, as Jim had suggested? The fact that lipstick had been used might suggest my intruder was a woman. I was relieved that whoever had left the message hadn’t waited around.
I went back to the front door, grabbed my purse off the ground, and locked myself inside. As I turned the lock, I gazed out into the night. I couldn’t see beyond the sparse overhead lights that shone around the office complex. Someone could be out there, watching me, waiting for me to go outside again.
I shuddered and turned back toward the desk. Dead center on my desk blotter was the file copy of the report I’d completed for Jack. I remembered it had been in one of my floor piles earlier in the day. Someone wanted me to know they had read it. I left the pages where they were, not wanting to smudge any fingerprints.
Who should I call? Bill? I looked at my watch. It was getting late and I was exhausted. If I called Bill he’d want to send over the crime scene techs and I’d be stuck waiting for them to finish up so I could lock the office behind them. I needed sleep and the evidence wasn’t going anywhere. I decided to call Bill in the morning.
I turned off the lights, slung the strap of my purse over my shoulder crossbody style so my hands would be free, and scanned what I could see of the marina. I didn’t spot anyone moving around, so I opened the door and stepped outside. I pulled the door closed and attempted to insert the key while looking over my shoulder. After a few tries I managed to get the key in the lock. I really needed to do something about security, but because two of my walls and both doors are glass, even the best locks wouldn’t keep out a determined predator.
I kept my finger on the defense spray trigger as I hurried toward the docks. Once I was through the locked gate I felt a little more secure. I stopped to tell Elizabeth what had happened and suggested she bolt her door tonight. She was outraged, confused, and full of questions, but I was too tired to think anymore.
I said, “Let’s talk about it tomorrow,” hugged her, and continued down the dock.
D’Artagnon was out on the deck of his owner’s boat, so I ruffled his ears and scratched under his chin. He rewarded me with a few sloppy kisses and the propeller-like wag of his crooked tail.
As I walked on to my own boat I tried to turn my mind away from the break-in and back to the real problem. Who had taken the knife? I climbed aboard the Cheoy Lee and moved cautiously from room to room. When I was convinced that I was alone I locked the pilothouse door and the hatch above the galley. I took a Guinness Stout out of the fridge and chugged half the bottle sitting at my galley counter.
I started thinking about Maggie being a lesbian and spending her childhood in parochial school. It reminded me of something my mom had told me, about when she was a nun. She was barely more than a novice when she was transferred from Minnesota to a diocese in San Francisco, and developed friendships with some of the gay men and women in her community. She’d never met any gay people in Minnesota, so she had not questioned the Catholic doctrine condemning them. During her time in San Francisco she became convinced that the Church was wrong, at least about this particular issue.
Late one night she’d gone into the sanctuary to pray. As she knelt in the darkened church she’d heard a thumping sound coming from one of the confessionals. Shortly thereafter the Archbishop and a young man Mom knew to be gay stepped out of the confessional, both adjusting their clothing. Neither man noticed her as they beat a hasty retreat in opposite directions. There was no indication the Church would reverse its stand on the gay issue any time soon, and the hypocrisy began to eat away at her faith.
I wondered what sort of damage had been done to Maggie’s psyche, being raised Catholic and being a lesbian. I almost felt sorry for her.
Chapter 34
I slept poorly that night, waking every couple of hours until I finally got up feeling a little less exhausted, but no less anxious. Loretta’s list of suggestions for insomnia had done little good. My mind just wouldn’t shut up. Maybe today I would be able to put all the pieces together.
I showered and washed my hair, dressed in shorts and a tank top, stuffed the two notebook pages into my purse, and headed for the parking lot.
I needed to work out. Exercise clears my mind, plus I could use the endorphin rush. I’d call Bill about the office break-in when I got back from the gym.
As I walked along the dock I looked up at the shore and noticed a small cluster of people in the boat owners’ lot. With a start, I realized they were standing around my BMW. Oh God, not my car!
I felt the adrenaline rush as I jogged over to my sweet little 2002. My neighbors parted to allow me through, and I gasped when I saw the BMW. Someone had used red spray paint to write the words DIE SCREAMING, BITCH across the hood.
“Motherfucking shit!” I yelled.
When I’d managed to calm down a little, I wondered why anyone would add a comma to a spray-painted death threat on the hood of a car. Must be pretty compulsive about punctuation.
So much for my workout.
One of my neighbors put an arm around my shoulder and said, “Who’d you piss off this time, Nikki?”
“I wish I knew.”
I took my smartphone out of my bag and called Bill.
“Anderson.”
“Hunter.”
“Hey, babe.”
“I need help.”
“Now what?”
“My office was broken into and vandalized last night and whoever did it left a message on the medicine cabinet mirror and another one spray painted on my car,” I said, all in one breath. “Bill, they hurt my car.” I was whining. I hate whining.
“What did the message say?”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“The one in the office bathroom says ‘murderer’ and the one on the hood of my car says ‘die screaming, bitch’.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“Yeah. Can you send some crime scene techs over?”
“I’ll come myself as soon as I notify the forensics guys.”
“Thanks. Sorry, Bill.”
“Don’t worry about it. Maybe you should wait in the office with the door locked. Make yourself less of a target.”
“I guess I can do that.”
Before going to my office I went back down to the dock and knocked on Elizabeth’s door. I didn’t want her to be taken by surprise when she saw my car.
She responded to my knock by pulling aside the curtain to see who was there before unlocking and
opening the door. I was relieved to know she’d taken my warning seriously.
“Hi, honey. What’s up? You want some coffee?”
Since Elizabeth was wearing nothing but an oversized tee shirt I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. She looked at me quizzically.
“Someone spray painted my car,” I began.
Elizabeth gasped. “Oh no. Nikki, I’m so sorry. I know that car is your baby.”
I felt a tear slide down my cheek and brushed it away.
“I just didn’t want you to be surprised when you saw it. I’m sure it was the same person who broke into the office last night and trashed the place. They even broke my coffee pot,” I sniffled.
Elizabeth wrapped her arms around me, and I had to fight the urge to fall apart.
“I have to go wait for Bill in the office,” I mumbled into her shoulder.
“Okay, honey. I’ll see you tonight.”
It took Bill less than ten minutes to get to the marina. While we were waiting for the techs, I showed him the message on the mirror and what had been done to my car. He roped off the parking area with crime scene tape and we went back to the office.
I desperately wanted coffee, but my coffee pot was broken, so I lit a cigarette and resisted the compulsion to clean up.
At 7:45 Bill got a call on his cell. The forensics team had arrived. We locked up the office and walked around the building as a dark blue van rolled into the parking lot and stopped near my BMW. Bill introduced me to the crew of three men: Francis, Cruise, and Landez. Cruise and Landez were in their mid-twenties and Francis was in his fifties; clearly the senior technician. He barked out orders, and the two younger men swung into action.
A couple hours later the team had collected trace evidence from my office and around my car and multiple fingerprints from both the car and the office. They’d also found a drop of blood on the floor of my kitchenette. Perhaps when the vandal had thrown my beloved coffee pot to the ground they had been cut by a flying shard of glass. The technicians said it was enough blood for typing, which would help identify the culprit, providing a suspect was ever apprehended.
