by Nancy Skopin
“Going out with him?”
Bill is not jealous by nature, but he sometimes pretends to be possessive, and Faulkner was good looking.
“Did you eat?” I asked, scooping kibble into Buddy’s dish.
“I grabbed a burger on the way home.”
“Is that all?”
“Fries, an apple pie, and a chocolate shake.”
Bill is one of those men who can eat anything and it magically converts to muscle. I’m not so lucky.
Buddy and I spent the evening cuddled together on the pilothouse settee watching television. Before bed, I took him across the street to the wildlife refuge for a long walk.
We were both completely worn out when we got home. Buddy draped himself across the foot of my bed, and was out like a light. I climbed under the covers and let the gentle sigh of the boat’s hull easing up against the fenders lull me to sleep.
Chapter 12
Faulkner knocked on my office door at 8:25 the next morning and Buddy gave a big dog woof as he stepped inside.
“I hope you like dogs,” I said. “This is Buddy. He’ll be coming with us today.”
Faulkner looked apprehensive, but he slowly squatted down and presented the back of his hand to Buddy, who sniffed and then licked it. After receiving Buddy’s seal of approval, Faulkner seated himself in one of my visitor’s chairs and handed me a large manila envelope.
“Autopsy report,” he said.
“Is this my copy?”
“You can read it, but you can’t keep it.”
So I read it, slowly and carefully. Stanley Godard’s cause of death was a .38 caliber bullet wound to the head. The ME had also determined that he had been close to the center of the explosion. I thought about that. Why blow up the office if Stanley was already dead? What might the killer have hoped to accomplish? All of Stanley’s hard copy records had been burned to a crisp and his computer seriously damaged. Maybe there was something incriminating in the records.
When I had read every word and taken copious notes, I slid the report back into the envelope, which I handed to Faulkner.
“Why do you think they blew up the office if Stanley was already dead?” I asked.
“I’ll ask the killer when I find him.” He took a smaller envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. “I need you to sign for this.”
I opened the envelope. Inside was the key to Stanley’s house. I signed the receipt form that Faulkner put in front of me and slipped the key envelope into my purse. We went out to Faulkner’s car, and Buddy jumped in the back seat without any prompting from me. What a good boy. Our first stop today was the pharmaceutical research firm on Old County Road where we had missed the CFO yesterday. Once again the parking lot was full. As we cruised slowly around looking for an empty space I spotted a shiny new silver Mercedes.
“Stop!” I shouted, alarming Faulkner, who slammed on the brakes causing Buddy to skid forward into the back of his seat.
“What?” Faulkner snapped at me.
“That Benz,” I said, pointing. “It’s just like the one I saw in Stanley’s parking lot.”
Faulkner and I stared at the dealership logo in the license plate holder. I got out of the car and took a closer look. It was a model C350 Plug-In Hybrid, and it was locked, but at least now we knew where it had been purchased.
I got back into the Chevy and turned to Faulkner. “Can you have it booted?”
“No probable cause,” he said.
“Don’t you ever bend the rules?”
“I try not to.”
Once we found a parking space, Buddy and I stood near the Benz while Faulkner went inside. The plan was that he would bring the CFO outside with him. Faulkner was back five minutes later, and he was alone.
“Let me guess. You got his voicemail again.”
“Yep.”
“Can you get a uniform to sit on this car until the owner comes out?”
“Inappropriate use of manpower. We don’t even know if it’s the same car.”
“Christ, Faulkner. What’s the CFO’s name?”
We were back in the Chevy and Faulkner started the engine and turned up the AC before handing me the list of names. I found the entry and read the name out loud. “Geoffrey Archer.” An easy name to remember.
We drove to one of the boutiques in San Carlos that we had visited the day before, and Faulkner left the engine running so Buddy and I wouldn’t roast. I pulled out my notebook and wrote down Geoffrey Archer. My plan was to Google the name and see if I could find a home address or a photo. If that didn’t work, I’d come back and wait in the parking lot until the guy came out at the end of the day.
I tucked the notebook back in my purse and looked up as Faulkner approached with a tall man in tow. I got out of the car and Faulkner introduced me to Albert Charles, the boutique owner. He was about the same height, weight, and age as the man I’d seen on Saturday, but his artfully layered hair was dyed an unnatural shade of red, and his features were soft, in fact his whole body looked soft. Not the same guy.
Faulkner asked the obligatory questions, but we didn’t learn anything new.
We met the last of Stanley’s male clients before noon, leaving only Archer the CFO. I was convinced he was the one. He hadn’t returned Faulkner’s calls, he wasn’t answering his phone, and the silver Mercedes cinched it.
Faulkner dropped me and Buddy off at the marina. He thanked me for my time and I thanked him for showing me the autopsy report. Neither of us mentioned Archer.
After walking Buddy, I unlocked the office, splashed some cold water on my face, tossed some ice cubes in Buddy’s water dish, and turned on the computer. I did a Google search for Geoffrey Archer in San Carlos, and got three hits linking him to the research firm. One was a newspaper article announcing his appointment to CFO, but there was no photograph.
I pulled up the online white pages and found several Archers listed in the San Francisco Bay area, but no Geoffreys.
I called Brooke and asked if we could search Stanley’s house tomorrow. I didn’t want to risk missing something because I was in a hurry, and I needed to be back in San Carlos before Archer left his office for the day. Brooke said that would be fine. She’d taken the week off from work, and her cousin Robbyn was flying in this afternoon. I was happy to hear that. She needed to be around someone who cared about her right now.
Buddy and I did three lunch surveys. It took me longer to find shady parking spots than it took to do the actual reports. Of course I was rushing, not wanting to leave him in the car when it was this hot outside.
At 4:25 we drove back to San Carlos and I parked under a tree at the edge of the research company lot. I cranked up the air conditioning for a few minutes, then lowered the windows halfway and shut off the engine. Buddy gave me a mournful look as I got out of the car.
“I’ll be back soon,” I assured him.
I zigzagged between parked cars, making my way to the Benz. Halfway across the lot I spotted Faulkner standing next to an SUV a few spaces away from the Mercedes, puffing on a stogie. He smiled when he saw me approaching.
“Thought I might see you here,” he said.
“It’s my civic duty.” I grinned back at him. “How long have you been waiting?”
“Half an hour.”
By 5:30 the lot was more than half empty, and still no sign of Archer. I walked back to my car and hooked Buddy to his leash, got him out of the car, and let him water some trees and bushes at the periphery of the lot, all the while keeping an eye on the Mercedes.
I took a water bottle out of my purse and gave Buddy a long drink, then asked him to get back into the car. He just stared at me. I was thinking about moving my car closer to the Benz so I could leave the windows all the way down for Buddy when I turned back toward the buildi
ng and saw Archer coming out a side door. Adrenaline shot through my system. I slammed the car door and Buddy and I took off running. Faulkner had seen Archer too, but more importantly Archer had seen Faulkner who, even in plain clothes, looked like a cop.
Archer stopped in his tracks. He looked panicky. Then his expression changed, as though he had come to a decision. He was going to run. I could feel it. He turned back toward the door, but it had closed and locked behind him. He fished in his pocket for the keys, glancing over his shoulder at Faulkner, trying to act casual.
“Mr. Archer?” Faulkner called out.
Archer ignored him. He was trying to get the key into the lock. Buddy and I raced past Faulkner who was moving more slowly toward the building. We were only a few yards away when Archer pushed the door open and stepped inside.
“Stop!” I shouted, and launched myself through the entryway to keep the door from closing, accidentally tackling Archer in the process. He was a big man, but I had momentum on my side and I knocked him to his knees. I scrambled up and planted my size ten shoe against the door so Faulkner could get in behind us. I drew the Ruger from my fanny pack holster, pointed the muzzle at Archer, and said, “Don’t move a muscle.”
Buddy growled deep in his throat as Faulkner came through the door.
“What the hell to you think you’re doing?” Faulkner asked.
“This is him!” I said, trying to catch my breath. “This is the guy I saw in the parking lot before the explosion.”
“You wanna holster that thing before somebody gets hurt?”
I stepped away from Archer, who struggled to his feet. Buddy’s growl increased in volume and Archer huddled against the wall.
I stroked Buddy’s head and said, “Good dog.”
“Are you Geoffrey Archer?” Faulkner asked.
Archer nodded.
“I’m Detective Faulkner.” He showed Archer his badge. “And this is Ms. Hunter. We’d like to ask you some questions about your association with Stanley Godard.”
Archer flinched at the name.
“Can we do this someplace else?” he whimpered.
There were tears in his eyes. I thought it might be guilt or remorse, but maybe he’d banged his knees on the concrete when I’d knocked him down. Hard to tell.
Faulkner took hold of Archer’s arm just above the elbow and said, “You can ride with me to the police department.”
Once Archer was locked in the backseat of the Chevy, Faulkner turned to me, a grim look on his face. “Are you fucking nuts?” he hissed. “He could file assault charges.”
“He could have gotten away too, and you’re welcome. I’ll meet you at the station.” As I turned on my heel I caught the shadow of a grin on Faulkner’s face.
Chapter 13
I broke the speed limit getting to the San Carlos PD. I wanted to arrive before Faulkner did, find a shady spot to park Buddy, and catch Faulkner before he entered the building, so he’d have to let me sit in on the interview. I had a feeling he’d try to ditch me now that I’d served my purpose by identifying his suspect.
The SCPD is located on Elm Street and is flanked on one side by the library and on the other by a public park. I drove into the underground lot, lowered the windows part way, and locked my fanny pack with the Ruger in the trunk. I jogged up to the street just as the Chevy made the turn into the Police Department complex. I waved frantically, trying to get Faulkner’s attention. He spotted me, stopped the car, and waited. I jumped into the front passenger seat and Faulkner pulled the car into a reserved space near the back of the building. He turned to me before getting out of the car.
“We need to talk. But first I need to get Mr. Archer secured in an interview room. You can wait for me in the lobby.” His tone didn’t leave any room for discussion.
Faulkner had a firm grip on Archer as he marched him into the building, but I followed close behind, just in case Archer tried to make another run for it. Faulkner escorted him through a door that had to be buzzed open, and I perched on the edge of a chair in the lobby. I was dying for a cigarette, but the possibility of missing out on the interview outweighed my craving for nicotine.
Faulkner came back to the lobby and stood holding the security door open while I grabbed my purse and hustled inside. When the door had closed behind us he said, “I’m going to let you observe, but you can’t be in the room with me.”
“Wait a minute. You wouldn’t even have known about this guy if it weren’t for me. I have a right to ask him some questions.”
“No, you don’t. I can put you in the observation room, but that’s the best I can do. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine,” I huffed. “I’ll take it.”
He walked me down the hall and showed me into a tiny room with four monitors mounted above a table. He fiddled with a remote and one of the monitors came to life. I saw Archer seated in a small room, his head in his hands. Faulkner did something else with the remote and I heard a scraping sound as Archer pushed back his chair and stood up. He began pacing, looked out the window, turned unhappily toward the locked door, and then sat down again.
“Stay here,” Faulkner said. “I’ll come and get you when I’m done.”
The small room smelled of Lysol and made me feel mildly claustrophobic, but I quickly forgot about the confining space when Faulkner entered the interview room. He seated himself across from Archer, took a notebook out of his pocket, and asked, “How long were you a client of Stanley Godard’s?”
“Not long,” said Archer. “Maybe two weeks. He was conducting an audit for my firm.”
“Why did you go to see him on Saturday morning?”
“He’d asked for some invoice and check copies. I was bringing them to him.”
“What happened while you were in his office?”
“I gave him the copies. He was looking them over when someone knocked on the back door. He looked surprised, but he got up and went to answer the door. He was only gone for a few seconds when I heard a shot.”
“A gunshot?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know it was a gunshot?”
“I’ve done some hunting. I know what a gun sounds like, and I smelled the cordite.”
“Do you own a thirty-eight caliber handgun Mr. Archer?”
“No.”
“Okay. You heard a gunshot. Then what happened?”
“I ran out the front door.”
“Did you see anyone else in the office?”
“No. I didn’t hang around to see who had fired the gun. I just ran.”
I didn’t know if I believed Archer or not, but his story made sense in terms of the timing of what I had observed. Of course the timing also worked if he’d been the one who shot Stanley.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Faulkner asked.
“I didn’t want to get involved. Then I saw on the news that Godard was dead, and I was afraid if I came forward the killer would come after me too. I hadn’t seen anything anyway. I knew I couldn’t help.”
“What was in the suitcase you brought into the office with you?” Faulkner asked.
“Suitcase?” Archer said, adjusting the knot of his tie.
“You were seen carrying a small suitcase into the office, Mr. Archer. When you ran back outside, you no longer had the suitcase with you. What was in it?”
“Maybe I should call my attorney.”
“You have that right,” Faulkner said. He pushed a telephone across the table toward Archer. “Would you like some privacy?”
“Yes, please.”
Faulkner got up and left the room. Moments later he came into the room where I was seated and turned off the monitor.
“What are you doing?” I asked. “I want to hear what he says to his attorney.”
“He’s legally entitled to a private conversation with his lawyer.”
“Jesus, Faulkner! What are you, a boy scout?”
Faulkner seemed unperturbed by my verbal assault. “You might as well go home. Now that he’s asked for his attorney, we probably won’t get anything more out of him. He’s not under arrest, so he doesn’t have to talk to me. His attorney will know that. He may have something to hide, but I don’t think he killed your client’s fiancé.”
“Why not?”
“Instinct. He doesn’t strike me as the type. For one thing, I don’t think he’s got the balls.”
“Cowards sometimes kill to protect themselves. You said yourself he’s hiding something. I’ll stick around if it’s all the same to you.”
“What about your dog? This could take a while.”
He had me there. I didn’t like leaving Buddy in the car.
“I’ll take him home and then come back. What’s your cell number?”
“Look, I’ve already stretched the rules by allowing you to listen in on the interview. Go home. I’ll call you later.”
I reluctantly allowed Faulkner to escort me to the lobby. As I crossed to the door he said, “Thanks for your help with this.”
I waved at him over my shoulder, not bothering to turn around, and pushed my way outside.
Buddy was sulking, again, when I unlocked the car, so I took him for a long walk around the park before driving back to the marina.
Chapter 14
I was washing my dinner dishes when the cell phone in my pocket started vibrating. I’d been hoping for a call from Faulkner.
“Hunter Investigations,” I answered.
“He didn’t do it,” Faulkner said without preamble.
“And you know this because…”
“According to Archer’s attorney, he had nothing but invoice and check copies in the suitcase. He said Godard needed them before he would sign off on the audit. Apparently he was being a real hard-ass about it.”
