by Nancy Skopin
Kate’s face was expressionless as she sat before me. Maybe that was how she avoided getting character wrinkles – no expression, no wrinkles. I waited silently. After looking around my office, she took a deep breath and volunteered a summary of her deceased daughter’s life.
“Laura was luminous child,” she began. “When she smiled it was like the sun coming out. She was intelligent and affectionate, and she did well in school. She was the center of our universe, Ms. Hunter. But when she turned twelve something changed. Suddenly she was drifting away from us. She stopped studying, and her grades fell…she became defiant.
“Laura didn’t finish college,” she continued, in an apologetic tone. “She went to Stanford and got her BA, but then she just dropped out.”
In what cosmos, I wondered, does getting only a Bachelor’s degree mean you’re dropping out?
“She still lived at home, but we didn’t see much of her. Derrick has his company to run, and I do a lot of charity work.”
I took notes while Kate spoke, but I was already having some doubts about taking the case.
“Laura was our only child,” she said wistfully. “I loved my daughter, Ms. Hunter, but I haven’t been able to reach her for years.”
Kate stopped talking and looked at me expectantly.
“How did you hear about me?” I asked.
“I looked in the yellow pages. I wanted someone local and I wanted a woman. I thought a woman would be more sensitive.”
She had me there.
“And what do you hope I’ll accomplish?”
“I want to know why…” She finally broke down. Her perfect face seemed to collapse in on itself, her eyes and lips squeezed shut as if to contain her emotions. She opened her purse, desperately searching for a Kleenex. I pushed the box I keep on my desk toward her and she gratefully accepted two tissues, which she applied underneath her eyes to keep her mascara from running, and to her nose, which she delicately blew.
I had been wrong about Kate. She was using every ounce of strength she possessed to stay in control. After a minute, she continued. “I want to know why my daughter was killed. And I want to know that someone is dedicated to finding the person who did this to her. I want him to pay for taking her life.”
“Do you have any ideas about that?”
“No, but I didn’t really know her anymore. I don’t know any of her friends.” Her eyes grew distant.
“Have you already had the funeral?”
“Three days ago.”
Damn. I had always envisioned handling a murder case where I’d catch my first glimpse of the killer at the victim’s funeral. I read a lot of mystery novels.
“I’ve had our attorney request that you be shown the police file on the investigation,” Kate said. “When you’re ready to look at it you can call Detective Bill Anderson at the Redwood City Police Department.”
A look at the case notes would be a tremendous help. It’s next to impossible to get your hands on an open homicide file. I know this from watching television. Kate’s attorney must have some serious clout.
I made a note of Anderson’s name and asked Kate for her home address and phone number, her husband’s work number, a picture of Laura, and the names and phone numbers of any family members with whom Laura might recently have been in touch. As an afterthought, I asked if she knew Laura’s social security number. This would allow me to do additional research through Criminal Investigative Services, a.k.a. CIS, the service I use for background checks.
She gave me a wallet-size picture of Laura, and wrote down her address and phone number. She took out her BlackBerry Smartphone and read me the home number of Derrick’s sister Sylvia, who lived in Los Angeles. She also had to look up her husband’s number at InSight Software.
“New number?” I asked.
“No. I just don’t call him very often.”
I raised an eyebrow.
While I waited, Kate made a call, asking the person who answered for Laura’s social security number. She jotted down the number and handed it to me, slipping the phone back into her bag.
“I’m willing to do a preliminary investigation,” I said, “after which I’ll let you know if I’m going to take the case.”
Kate nodded.
I told her my hourly rate, adding ten percent for hazard pay. This would be my first murder investigation and I had no idea what kind of risk might be involved. Before I could ask for a retainer, Kate took out her wallet and wrote me a check for two thousand dollars. More than adequate. I entered her name and the amount of the retainer on a standard contract, dated, and printed it. We both signed, and I gave her a copy of the agreement.
“I’d like to look at Laura’s room this afternoon, if that’s all right with you.”
“That should be fine,” she said. “I plan to be home all day.”
After Kate left I looked at the photo she’d given me. It was Laura’s high school graduation picture. She had been a lovely young woman with long blonde hair, her mother’s perfect complexion, and unnaturally bright blue eyes.
I called the Redwood City Police Department and asked for Detective Anderson. After I held for almost three minutes he came on the line.
“Anderson.”
“Hello, Detective. My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a PI working for…”
“I know who you are,” he interrupted me. “You can come by and look at the binder anytime in the next hour. I may not be available after that.”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Fine.” He hung up without another word.
Of course he wasn’t happy about showing me the binder. I couldn’t blame him, but he didn’t have to be snarky about it.
Before leaving the office I brushed my teeth and put on fresh lip gloss. I photocopied the check from Kate so I’d have a record of the information it contained, then dropped my Cyber-shot mini-camera into my purse. I didn’t know if Anderson would leave me alone with the binder, but if he did, I didn’t want to waste time taking notes when I could just point and shoot.
Outside, the blue sky was reflected in the still water of the marina making it look almost clean. There was a slight breeze and the temperature was seventy-nine degrees according to the thermometer I keep on the wall outside my office.
I decided to walk. The Redwood City Police Department is located on Maple Street, which is just a footbridge, a second marina, and a boatyard away from my office. As I walked, I smoked an American Spirit organic cigarette. I’m ambivalent about fresh air.
Going over my conversation with Kate in my head, I automatically compared the family portrait she had painted to my own. She had said Laura was the center of their universe. I’m the only child of a Cossack and a former nun. My mother was a sister, a thirty-year-old virgin holy woman, when she met up with a haunted Russian soldier so in need of salvation that she devoted the rest of her life to his spiritual rescue.
The mingling of these two unlikely sweethearts explains to some extent my cynicism about organized religion, my compulsion to save people, and my predisposition to stand and fight when the wiser course of action might be a hasty retreat. I also have an overdeveloped sense of justice coupled with an inherent distrust of authority figures. It works for me. I am not, however, nor have I ever been the center of my parent’s universe. In spite of the fact that Laura was dead. I kind of envied her family’s devotion to her.
Chapter 3
The RCPD is housed in a building worthy of a layout in Architectural Digest. The entrance is surrounded by a semicircle of steps leading gracefully up to a covered landing with an abstract metal sculpture reminiscent of the Madonna and Child. I think of it as good advertising. We may be the law, but we care about nurturing the community.
I entered the lobby and looked around. No employees were visible,
in fact, the place seemed to be deserted. There were several doors leading into the heart of the building, each of them labeled and undoubtedly locked, but the foyer was so well appointed that I almost felt welcome. I approached the reception counter and waited a moment before a woman in the back noticed me and came forward. Her nametag read L. Ketteridge.
L was a petite blonde in her early fifties and she was smiling. “What can I do for you?” she asked in a cheerful voice.
I had the impression that L either enjoyed her work or was the kind of person who would enjoy almost anything that came her way. I handed her my business card and told her Detective Anderson was expecting me. She tilted her head to one side and wiggled an eyebrow, said she’d be just a minute, and disappeared for maybe two. When she returned she told me Detective Anderson would be right out, and then she winked. I was a little nonplused by the wink. Did she think this was a date?
Detective Anderson was not right out, but when he entered the lobby four minutes later he looked like his wavy black hair had just been combed and his breath smelled of wintergreen. I had no idea what L had said to him, but I decided to be flattered.
I’m thirty-five years old, about five-seven, and a hundred and thirty-three pounds. My hair is long, curly, and chestnut brown with a few strands of white that look like highlights, but aren’t. My eyes are sea blue with black rims around the irises; a combination I’ve only seen on one other person, my father. It’s what discouraged me from challenging his paternity when I was a teenager and we were battling over things like curfew, dating, and make-up.
Detailed descriptions of each subject encountered during an investigation are automatically recorded in a good PI’s memory. This is something Sam Pettigrew, the crusty old PI who trained me, drilled into me during my internship. What kind of shoes was the subject wearing, Nicoli? If you don’t notice the shoes, how can you accurately estimate height?
I checked out Detective Anderson. He was almost six feet tall, in his late thirties, lean but muscular, and clean-shaven. He had intelligent brown eyes that bordered on hazel with wicked long eyelashes, and his black hair was just beginning to gray. His complexion was dark, like someone who spent a lot of time outdoors or maybe had some American Indian heritage. His lips were full. There was no ring on his left hand, but his shirt looked clean and wrinkle free. His shoes were Ecco Track IIs. I knew this because I owned a pair.
Now here was a handshake, firm, but not a bone-crusher, dry, and warm. After we introduced ourselves he led me into one of the interview rooms where suspects are detained. There was probably a surveillance camera concealed somewhere, but it wasn’t obvious at first glance.
When the door was closed and we were both seated, he asked to see my I.D. and my license. I showed him my private investigator’s license, wishing I’d been having a better hair day when the picture was taken, and also handed him my driver’s license and one of my business cards. He took a long look at my licenses, then handed them back to me and pocketed the card.
“I’ll be right back,” he said, and left the room.
I took the opportunity to scan the ceiling for cameras. I didn’t see any, and there was no two way mirror like you see on TV crime dramas, but I remained convinced that there was a camera and there would be a viewing room somewhere nearby.
Less than a minute later Anderson was back, carrying a large black ring binder.
“You understand everything in the book needs to remain confidential,” he said. It was a statement, not a question.
“Of course,” I said.
He offered me the binder, holding it in both hands, and I noticed the thumbnail on his right hand was longer than the one on his left. That was a little weird. He continued staring at me after giving me the binder, as though he expected me to read the whole thing while he watched.
“We’ve managed to keep most of the details from the press,” he said.
I looked him in the eye. “I understand,” I said.
Did he think I was stupid or just a total sleaze?
I have to admit that up until now I had not made an effort to cultivate a relationship with the RCPD. I had only a few regular clients in Redwood City and since none of them had chosen to prosecute the employees I’d caught stealing from them, I’d had no need to do so. Most of the police departments I deal with are very cooperative and even refer clients to me. I had heard mixed evaluations of the Redwood City men and women in blue, but, as always, I would form my own opinion.
I opened the binder, glanced quickly at the autopsy report, and winced at the pictures of the crime scene. Laura was almost completely naked and her chest had been savaged. That, combined with the plastic bag over her head, caused my breath to catch in my throat. I closed the book and looked at Anderson.
“Can you give me ten minutes alone? I can’t concentrate with you watching me.”
He gave me an intense look, nodded once, and left the room. I whipped the camera out of my purse and snapped pictures of each page in the binder, front to back. There were fifteen in all. It took me about twenty seconds. I slipped the camera back into my bag and took a deep breath. I hoped I had finished before Anderson made it to the observation room. I doubted he would have asked any of his co-workers to watch me for him, so I was probably safe.
Now that I had photos of all the data, I could take my time reading through it. I looked over the crime scene report and the interviews with local merchants and business people who populated the neighborhood where Laura had been killed. I glanced quickly at the photos of the scene, noting how few there were in the binder, and that they had all been taken from a distance. Anderson was holding back, not showing me everything.
I started reading the autopsy report. Kate hadn’t told me the details of the murder and they hadn’t been publicized. According to the report, Laura had been suffocated, after which she had been stabbed in the chest three times. I looked more closely at the photos of her body and started feeling lightheaded. I pushed away from the table, dropping my head between my knees.
After a minute of deep breathing I heard the door open and saw a pair of Eccos approaching.
“Are you okay?”
So he had been watching.
I sat halfway up and leaned on my knees.
“How embarrassing is this? I guess the pictures kind of got to me. Do you have time to go out for coffee?”
That’s when I got the smile. Detective Bill Anderson has a great smile. It extends from one side of his face to the other and includes some very white teeth and those little laugh lines around the eyes that look so good on men.
“Let’s take my car,” he said. “You’re not gonna pass out are you?”
“God, I hope not.”
We walked through a maze of cubicles to Anderson’s desk, where he locked up the binder. Then he escorted me through an atrium in the center of the building and out a back door to the secure parking lot. He unlocked the passenger door of a fire engine red classic Ford Mustang. I wanted to smoke, but I couldn’t bring myself to defile such a well-maintained vehicle.
“Is this your personal car?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I can’t use it when I’m undercover. Too conspicuous.“
We drove out through a security gate and made a right on Maple. Anderson drove to a restaurant called Otto’s on El Camino Real. I knew this place well, and I knew the coffee would be terrible. Otto is one of my regular clients.
We seated ourselves in a booth in a corner of the restaurant where we could have some privacy, ordered coffee, and waited until it had been served.
When we had our coffee and the waitress was out of earshot, I asked Anderson if he’d seen anything similar to Laura’s murder before.
“No.”
A man of few words.
“Have you developed a profile?” I asked.
“Based on this case, I’d say the killer has a lot of anger toward women. Probably Caucasian. The knife wounds suggest the killer may have known the victim.”
“What do you mean based on this case?” I asked.
“Well, I assume you watch the news.”
I nodded. There had been another murder in Redwood City the week after Laura’s. A librarian had been killed in an alley behind the I-Ching bar.
“Are you talking about the librarian?” I asked. “Is there a connection?”
He took a sip of coffee and looked into the cup as though he thought there might be a cockroach swimming in it, then set it down on the table.
“Both victims were female and they were both killed in Redwood City. No relationship between them that we can find. Not yet anyway.” He started to raise his cup again, thought better of it, and pushed it aside. “I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’ll have to keep it to yourself.”
“No problem.”
He looked at me, probably trying to decide if I was trustworthy.
“I took some pages out of the binder before I showed it to you,” he said. “There was something unusual about the weapon.”
He paused and I held my breath.
“There were two puncture wounds on either side of each stab wound to Laura’s chest.” He was watching my face intently. “Can you handle hearing this?”
“I’m fine,” I said, blushing. I am such a wimp.
“We think the knife had a sharp spike on each side of the hilt,” he said. “The librarian who was killed had her throat cut, and there was a second, more shallow cut, just below the one that killed her.”
I thought about that for a minute, trying to picture it.
“It was the same knife!” I said, a little too loudly.
We both looked around to see if anyone was paying attention.
