Murder Served Hot

by Nancy Skopin

  “Promise you’ll call your cousin?” I said, as I stepped outside. She nodded. “And bolt this behind me.”

  I stood outside her door until I heard the deadbolt slide home. As I turned to walk down the stairs I heard Brooke sobbing through the closed door. I sighed, hoping she would call her cousin and that the cousin would drop everything to come and stay with her. She seemed so alone. Maybe that was something she and Stanley had in common.

  I drove back to the marina and stopped in at my office long enough to tally up the hours Jim and I had put in on Brooke’s case. The total barely put a dent in her deposit. I wrote out a check for Jim and set it with the outgoing mail, then locked up the office and walked down to the dock.

  I stopped along the way, as I always do, to visit with D’Artagnon, a black Lab who is the marina’s self-appointed watch dog. D’Artagnon has always been one of my favorite canines, and not just because he saved me from a psycho-killer last July. He was currently sprawled on the bow of his human’s Bluewater 42, and wagged his crooked tail in a circle, like a propeller, as I approached. I leaned in for a canine hug, and he rested his forehead against mine as I scratched behind his ears. Dogs are so much easier than people. I sighed and continued down the dock.

  As I approached my boat I could hear Bill playing Greensleeves on his acoustic guitar. He’s a skilled musician, and the emotions he thinks he’s too manly to express are revealed through his music.

  I climbed aboard and barely made it inside the pilothouse before Buddy bounded up the companionway, nearly knocking me over.

  “Hello, big dog,” I said, ruffling his ears.

  I heard the music stop and Bill walked into the galley as I backed down the steps.

  “How’s Brooke doing?” he asked.

  “Not so good.” I wrapped my arms around him and hung on longer than usual, enjoying the warmth of his body, breathing in the scent of his Gray Flannel cologne, and feeling lucky that I wasn’t Brooke Evans.

  “I heard from Faulkner again,” he said into my hair.

  I pulled back and looked up at him. “What did he have to say?”

  “He said you nearly drew your gun before he could identify himself this morning.”

  “I was being cautious.”

  “He didn’t seem to mind. That’s not why he called, though. He’s had the tech-heads at the SCPD working on the computer that got blown up in Stanley’s office. Apparently some of the files on his hard drive were recoverable. Stanley used his Outlook address book and calendar to keep track of his clients. Faulkner wants you to drive around with him tomorrow to see if you can ID the guy in the Mercedes.”

  “And did it occur to Detective Faulkner to call me directly with this request?”

  “I think he was hoping I could convince you to go along.”

  “And how, exactly, are you planning to do that?”

  “I’m going to suggest that this would be an opportunity for you to pick his brain about Stanley’s murder.”

  “Well done, Detective. I’ll give him a call.”

  Chapter 10

  Detective Faulkner picked me up at the marina at 8:30 on Monday morning. I was dressed in my traditional spring and summer uniform of Eddie Bauer cargo shorts, a short-sleeved cotton shirt (this one was white), and New Balance Cross Trainers. I was ambivalent about driving around all day in a non-smoker’s car, even though I was trying to quit again, but as I settled into the passenger seat I noticed the lingering scent of cigar smoke. I located the ashtray in the console and popped it open. Sure enough, there was a cigar butt crammed into the ashtray.

  “You’re a smoker?” I asked.

  “I am. You?”

  “I’m trying to quit. Again.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  Our first stop was a family-run drycleaners on Arguello in Redwood City. The owner’s name was José Castillo. Didn’t sound like the guy I’d seen in Stanley’s parking lot, but no stone unturned. We pulled into a small lot to the right of the building. A candy apple red Cadillac was parked against the fence at the back of the lot. Unless I missed my guess the Caddie belonged to Castillo.

  We entered through the front door and were immediately struck by a wall of heat. A side door to the lot was open, and two fans set on high were pointed toward the front of the shop, but the temperature still had to be at least a hundred degrees.

  After a moment a blond man in his thirties, built like a linebacker, ventured forward.

  “Mr. Castillo?” Faulkner asked.

  The man nodded once and smiled. It was a very nice smile.

  “I’m Detective Faulkner with the San Carlos Police Department.” Faulkner flashed his badge. “This is Nicoli Hunter. We’re here about Stanley Godard. I assume you’ve heard about his death.”

  The smile disappeared.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I understand you were a client of Mr. Godard’s.”

  Another nod. “He handled our bookkeeping and our taxes.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “February first,” he said without hesitation. “I always brought him our receipts on the first of the month. On Monday, February first, I brought him all of our receipts for January.”

  I tried not to think about the fire destroying all of Castillo’s records. At least it would only be for one month.

  “Did anything seem to be bothering him?” Faulkner asked.

  “No. He seemed fine to me.”

  “Did you notice anyone hanging around outside the office when you were there?”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Okay. Thank you for your time.”

  When we were back in the car I asked, “Why can’t you run a DMV report on each of Stanley’s clients? See which one owns a new Benz?”

  “We’re doing that, but there are too many variables.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, since the Mercedes was new, it might not be registered yet. Or it could be a company car, not registered to the individual in question.”

  “How many clients did Stanley have?”

  Faulkner handed me a list and I scanned it quickly. There were at least thirty names and addresses, and more than half of them had been highlighted. I looked more closely and saw that the names which had not been highlighted were women.

  “Are you planning to visit all of these people today?”

  “Today and tomorrow.”

  “I have other work to do, you know.”

  He flashed me a satisfied grin. “I know. But if you want me to fill you in on any progress I make in the investigation, you’ll help me with this.”

  I realized I could justify charging Brooke for the time I spent driving around with Faulkner. That made me feel better, but I still had other clients who needed attention.

  Our second stop was a dental office on Veterans Boulevard. We spent twenty minutes in the waiting room while the doctor finished some unfortunate individual’s root canal. After the numb-faced patient had stumbled out the door we introduced ourselves and had a conversation similar to the one with Castillo.

  The dentist was five-foot-six, in his fifties, potbellied, and mostly bald. Not the guy I’d seen on Saturday.

  We moved on to a Real Estate office on Woodside Road, an Italian restaurant on El Camino Real, and a marketing company in Menlo Park before heading north. No one had any information that would help us, and none of the guys looked like the man I’d seen in Stanley’s parking lot.

  In Belmont we stopped to visit with the owner of a small circuit board assembly outfit, the owners of a retail boutique, and a Thai restaurant. Again, none of the individuals we interviewed bore any resemblance to the man who had visited Stanley Godard on the day of his death.

  It was almost 1:30 by the
time we finished talking with the Thai restaurant owner, and I was starving, so I suggested we get some lunch ‘to go’. Faulkner didn’t argue. We ordered at the counter and took our boxed meals out to the car.

  I opened a small box of Spring Rolls and asked, “Who’s next?”

  Faulkner stuffed a Crab Puff into his mouth and picked up his list.

  “Pharmaceutical research firm on Old County Road,” he mumbled.

  “How many more are we doing today?”

  “You getting tired of my company already?”

  I chose not to respond to that. Faulkner seemed like a good cop and, in spite of myself, I was starting to like him.

  We finished our lunch and he took a cigar out of his pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked, before lighting up.

  “No, go ahead.” I fished my American Spirit organic cigarettes out of my purse and joined him.

  It took us about ten minutes to locate the address on Old County Road. The lot was jammed with cars, but we managed to find a vacant space. It was a warm afternoon and I was sorry to leave the air-conditioned Chevy.

  We trudged into the lobby and discovered an unoccupied reception desk with a phone next to a plaque showing instructions on how to contact the employee of your choice. Faulkner lifted the receiver and punched in the extension of the CFO who was listed among Stanley’s clients. After a few moments he left a brief voicemail message including his cell number.

  Our next stop was an auto body shop, also on Old County Road. We caught one of the employees on the sidewalk taking a cigarette break, and asked him where we could find the owner.

  “He’s in the paint booth,” the man said. “Should be out in a few minutes.”

  We waited while he finished his smoke. It was another ten minutes before a heavy-set blond man in his late twenties stepped outside.

  “Scott Kopelin?” asked Faulkner.

  “That’s me. What can I do for you?”

  Faulkner showed Kopelin his badge and made the introductions, then asked when Kopelin had last seen Stanley and if he’d noticed anything unusual.

  “I saw him last week,” Kopelin said. “He seemed the same as always. Kind of uptight and nervous, but that wasn’t unusual for Stanley. He was a good accountant.”

  Another dead end, I thought.

  “There was one thing,” Kopelin continued. “There was this old VW van parked on the street when I went in. I mean old, needed bodywork and paint. I notice things like that. Anyway, the motor was running. I didn’t think anything about it at first, but it was still there when I came out twenty minutes later and the motor was still running. Engine sounded terrible, like it needed a valve job. I thought maybe the guy was having car trouble, but he was just sitting there in the driver’s seat.”

  Faulkner and I looked at each other. Could this be the same van I had seen before the explosion?

  “What color was the van?” I asked.

  “Kind of a faded pumpkin-orange, with rust spots,” Kopelin said.

  Faulkner and I exchanged looks again.

  “Did you get a look at the driver?” Faulkner asked.

  “Yeah. Mid-thirties, long brown hair, scruffy beard, crazy eyes. I thought about asking him if he needed help until I saw the look in his eyes.”

  “Did you notice his license plate?” Faulkner asked.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Absolutely.”

  That was something. I had no idea how the guy in the van fit into the puzzle, but it was too much of a coincidence to ignore. Maybe he was in cahoots with the guy in the Benz.

  Faulkner asked Kopelin if he’d be willing to work with a sketch artist and he readily agreed.

  After leaving Kopelin’s body shop we visited a couple more of Stanley’s retail boutique clients, but the owners weren’t in. Faulkner left business cards behind, asking that the owners be notified that we would return tomorrow to speak with them.

  There were only six men left on the list, including the three we had missed, so we decided to call it a day. Faulkner dropped me off at the marina and I grudgingly agreed to meet him at my office the next morning.

  Chapter 11

  I hurried down to the boat and hooked a brooding Buddy to his leash. After watering a couple of bushes he stopped sulking and wanted to play. I retrieved one of his tennis balls from my office and noticed that the voicemail light was blinking, but chose to ignore it for the moment. I have my priorities.

  Buddy and I played catch on the lawn until he was worn out, then we went into the office where he slurped up half a bowl of water and happily collapsed on the floor.

  I turned on the computer and documented the details of my time with Faulkner for the report I would eventually submit to Brooke. When that was done, I pressed the play button on my phone console. The first message was from Jim Sutherland, asking what was happening with the investigation. The second was from Brooke.

  “Hi, Nikki. I just got back from my meeting with Stanley’s attorney. He’s a horrible little man. He all but accused me of being a gold digger. Said it was highly unusual for an acquaintance to be the sole beneficiary of an estate such as Stanley’s. An acquaintance. Can you believe that? I didn’t even know Stanley had a will! Anyway, call me, please.”

  As I dialed Brooke’s number, I mentally cursed Stanley’s attorney for being so tactless. She picked up on the second ring and repeated her story about the “horrible little man.” I offered sympathy for her ordeal, and then told her about my day with Faulkner. I described the driver of the van that Kopelin had told us about.

  “Have you ever seen anyone like that around Stanley’s office?” I asked.

  “No, but I’ve only been to his office three or four times. What are you going to do now?”

  “I have to go out with Faulkner again tomorrow morning. We’re still hoping to find the client who was with Stanley right before the explosion. After that I’d like to take another look around Stanley’s house. You want to come with me? Maybe we can find whatever they were looking for.” Whoever they were.

  “Okay. But doesn’t Detective Faulkner still have the key?”

  “I guess he does. Maybe you could call him and ask him to give it to me tomorrow.”

  “I’ll call him right now. Are you in your office?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call you back.” And she hung up.

  While I was waiting to hear back from Brooke, I called Jim and filled him in on the day’s activities.

  “You think it’s the same van?” he asked.

  “Of course I do. What I can’t figure out is the connection between the guy in the van and the guy driving the Benz.”

  “Maybe there isn’t one.”

  “You’re probably right. Unless the guy in the van is a hit man working for the guy with the Mercedes.”

  “You read too many mystery novels. Why would a hit man drive such a noticeable car?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe so people would focus on the car instead of on him.”

  “Uh huh. And why would this so called hit man’s client be in the vicinity right before the murder, do you think?”

  “Maybe he didn’t know when it was going to happen.”

  “You’re really reaching.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “But I’ve got nothing, and when I’ve got nothing, I reach.”

  My other line rang and I said, “Gotta go.”

  I answered the incoming call. It was Brooke.

  “Detective Faulkner says the crime scene has been released and we can have the house key, but he wants to know if we find anything.”

  “Of course he does. I’ll call you when we finish interviewing Stanley’s clients tomorrow.”

 
I ended the call with Brooke and opened my e-mail. I had one from CIS with attachments. I had completely forgotten about the background reports I’d requested on Brooke.

  I opened each of the attachments and sent them to the printer. The first one was an invoice. I wrote out a check and addressed an envelope while I waited for everything to finish printing, then I gathered up the pages and began reading.

  Brooke had no criminal record in any of the counties I had specified, unless you count the parking ticket she’d received in Palo Alto last year. She had, as she’d told me, grown up and gone to school in North Carolina, and had earned a Bachelor’s degree in marketing from the University of North Carolina. She had moved to California two years ago, after her parents were killed in a car accident. Fresh start, I thought.

  The financial profile showed a little more than two million in a money market account, and over thirty thousand in checking. She owned her condo and had paid cash for a new VW Jetta. I wondered if Stanley had any idea how well off she was when he’d written his will naming Brooke as the sole beneficiary. Probably not.

  Brooke would be relieved to know that there was nothing in any of the reports about her former relationships.

  Buddy and I went out and did a couple of early dinner surveys at local restaurants that had patio seating and would allow patrons to bring along well-mannered pets. After leaving him alone on the boat for most of the day I didn’t have the heart to lock him in the car.

  After completing the surveys we drove back to the marina and I took him for a walk before opening up the office and typing my reports.

  We were just boarding the boat when Bill called. He asked how my day with Faulkner had gone.

  “We didn’t find the guy, if that’s what you mean. I’m going out with him again tomorrow.”