Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries)
Author: Skopin, Nancy
Date: 2015-07-16
Publisher: CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the author

Murder Over Cocktails: The Second Nicoli Hunter Mystery

Copyright © 2015 by Nancy Skopin

All rights reserved.

First E-Book Edition: July 2015

Also available in paperback.

Cover and Formatting: Streetlight Graphics

This eBook is licensed for the personal enjoyment of the original purchaser only. This eBook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you are reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

This book is for Juliann, Nicoli, and Jessica (my real-life heroes) and for the dogs in my life who have taught me how to love unconditionally.

Prologue

Jack “The Cat” McGuire carefully examined the exterior of the sliding glass doors looking for sensors and wires, and concluded that the alarm decal was a sham, as was often the case. He cut a perfect circle in the glass, reached through the hole to unlock the patio door, and quietly drew it open, listening to the silence for a full minute before stepping inside. He had already rung the doorbell and knocked despite the late hour, and there had been no response. He hadn’t expected one. The owner was supposed to be out of town for the weekend, but Jack didn’t take chances.

He partially opened the drapes so the family room was softly lit by the outdoor flood lights which illuminated the side-yard and driveway, allowing him to conduct his search without the use of a flashlight, leaving both of his hands free.

Jack let his skilled eyes drift over the contents of the room. Considering the value of the house and expensive furnishings, a surprisingly old-fashioned VCR rested on a shelf below the television set, its display showing the correct time. Beneath the shelf was a locked cabinet. He took out his lock picks and went to work. Inside the cabinet were five videocassettes in boxes labeled only with dates. Jack left the cabinet open, closed the curtains, and padded silently up the stairs.

He found what he was looking for in the master bedroom. The heavy antique mirror over the fireplace swung out on hinges, revealing a wall safe. He had it open in less than a minute.

In the safe were securities and an unexpected hoard of cash in a shoebox. Jack estimated the cash to be in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars. He would count it later. Stuffing the securities and cash into his backpack, he returned the empty shoebox to the safe, closed the heavy door, rotating the dial to its original position, and gently swung the mirror back against the wall.

Jack looked through the dresser drawers, night tables, and walk-in closet, and then searched the upstairs office. The Notebook computer was expensive, but he wasn’t interested in anything he had to fence. He booted up the computer and tried guessing the password, but gave up after a few minutes.

Gliding down the stairs like a ghost, Jack returned to the family room. He made sure the drapes were completely closed so no light from the television would be visible outside the house. Jack removed one of the videotapes from the cabinet, turned on the TV, and hit the mute button on the remote. Only then did he insert the cassette into the machine and press the play button. The monitor erupted in a jumble of static and jerky motion as the unseen operator focused the camera. When the picture cleared he saw a naked woman bound spread-eagle on a king-size bed. A second woman stared into the lens. Her pupils were dilated and her face was a mask of determination. She moved away from the camera and approached the bed.

Jack felt an all too familiar chill run down his spine as he recognized the owner of the house. She too was naked. She knelt beside the woman tied to the bed, leaned an arm on her forehead, and held a knife to her throat. The bound woman struggled, but was unable to defend herself, and was dead in a matter of seconds. What the killer did next took longer.

Jack rewound the tape and replaced it in its box, putting it back in the cabinet precisely where he had found it. After a moment’s hesitation, he chose a second cassette and slipped it into the VCR.

Chapter 1

My name is Nicoli Hunter. I’m a private investigator licensed in the state of California. My office is in a marina complex in Redwood City, where I also live aboard a forty-six foot Cheoy Lee sailboat. When I was in my twenties I worked for a department store; first in cosmetics, and later in security management, but at the age of thirty-one I went looking for a career change. I chose to become a PI because I’m naturally inquisitive and analytical, because I have a compulsion to see that justice is done, and because I wanted to be my own boss.

Prior to obtaining my license I spent twenty-four grueling months as an apprentice to a crusty old PI named Sam Pettigrew. Sam was ornery as hell, but he had integrity and he was obsessive about details, which made him an excellent teacher. Also, he was local. I’d done an internet search and called all the PIs within a 25-mile radius. Sam was the only one who agreed to meet with me. After a lengthy conversation that amounted to an in-depth interview he said I could come to work for him on a trial basis. He never actually committed to taking me on as a trainee, but he paid me a fair wage, and two years later I’d put in enough hours to take the exam and apply for my license.

The majority of my work as a PI involves bar and restaurant surveys. I’m paid by the owners or managers of these establishments to observe employee behavior, sample and rate cuisine, watch for multiple types of theft, and participate in termination interviews when I catch someone in the act and they need to be let go. The work is regular and keeps the wheels turning, but doesn’t really address my desire for justice. I also accept an occasional domestic surveillance or insurance fraud investigation, and once in a great while I get a case that challenges me.

Tonight I was doing a bar survey in downtown Palo Alto, cozying up to an obnoxious bartender who was known to hit on attractive female customers, and suspected of occasionally assaulting his less willing victims after hours. The bartender in question was over six feet tall, lean but muscular, with dark hair and eyes, and sported a mustache and goatee. He was dressed in a nice pair of black wool gabardine slacks and a white silk short-sleeved shirt. His appearance did nothing to obscure his character, however, which was sleazy to the core.

I was wearing a low-cut red V-neck sweater, black stretchy jeans that fit like a second skin, and my black cowboy boots with the silver toe guards. I was, in effect, setting myself up as bait, and it was working exceptionally well. The letch in question had given me two free drinks and stroked my wrist when he served me the last one. I was totally creeped out by the guy, but this is part of my job.

I was covertly emptying the contents of my glass into the gallon-size zip lock bag tucked in my purse when I felt goose bumps erupt on my arms and the back of my neck in spite of the warm weather. I have a finely tuned internal alarm system. I glanced to my right and discovered a man seated on the stool next to mine. The stool had been empty a moment ago.

The man wasn’t tall, maybe five-ten, but there was an energy about him that gave him an undeniable presence and made him seem larger. He was about thirty, his compact muscular frame clothed in a neatly pressed pair of Dockers and a forest green polo shirt. He wore mirrored sunglasses over a slightly upturned nose. I’m always suspicious of people who wear sunglasses indoors, especially at night. They’re generally hiding something. His jaw was strong and clean-shaven, and the whole package was topped with wavy red hair sun-streaked with gold.

I reflexively sat up a little straighter. The goose bumps warned me that this guy might be dangerous. What type of danger he represented was yet to be determined.

The skanky bartender approached and nodded at my new companion. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“Guinness draft, please.”

His voice was mid-range tenor and there was a lilt to his diction. Maybe Irish? He took off his sunglasses and I leaned forward to get a better look. His eyes were green and slanted up at the corners. The bartender turned away to fill his drink order, and the newcomer met my gaze, a sad half-smile on his surprisingly feline face.

“My name is Jack,” he said, extending his hand.

“Nicoli Hunter.”

I clasped his hand, and offered a half-smile of my own. His grip was firm, but not aggressive, and his hand was warm and dry. I always shake hands with people I’m evaluating. Something about making physical contact causes my intuition to kick in. What I felt shaking this guy’s hand was akin to a mild electric shock that extended all the way from my palm to more private parts of my anatomy. I released his hand quickly.

“I hope you don’t mind me joining you,” Jack continued. “It’s been a hell of a week. I really need a drink, and perhaps someone objective who’ll listen to my troubles.”

“What’s the problem?” I asked, more than a little intrigued, in spite of the fact that I was supposed to be working.

“A friend of mine was someplace he shouldn’t have been,” he said, lowering his voice and leaning closer, “and the idiot stumbled on evidence of murder.”

“What?” I hissed quietly, scooting back on my stool. “Hold on a minute. Are we talking about a crime scene?”

“No. Nothing like that. Just evidence that murder had been committed at some time in the past.”

“What kind of evidence?” I asked. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

In spite of the ordinance against smoking in bars and restaurants in California, this establishment was willing to allow its patrons to indulge unless someone complained.

“No, go ahead. Videotapes,” he said, answering my question and taking a pack of Turkish Ovals from his breast pocket.

I held out my lighter and lit his cigarette and then mine.

“Videotapes that show what, exactly?”

“The murders,” he said, exhaling smoke.

“Holy shit,” I muttered. “Sorry.”

I reached into my purse and rested my hand on the Ruger nestled in a Velcro holster next to the baggie of booze.

“Is your friend sure about this? I mean, videotape can be altered. Did you say murders? As in, more than one?”

“Yes. There are five tapes. My friend watched two of them. And they were home movies. They didn’t appear to have been edited.”

I needed a minute to collect myself.

“Would you like another Guinness?” I asked.

“Please.”

I motioned to the bartender, who was more than happy to comply. He winked at me as he set fresh drinks in front of us. I placed a twenty on the bar and turned back to Jack.

I took a sip of my drink, watching him over the rim of the glass, and when he looked back at me I experienced the full impact of those cat’s eyes.

“Thank you,” he said.

Sitting this close to him I caught an almost imperceptible scent. Something citrusy and a little grassy, barely strong enough to be noticed.

“I like your cologne,” I said. “So what does your friend intend to do about these movies?”

“I don’t know exactly. I’m sure he’d be open to suggestions, if you have any.”

I thought about that for a moment. I’d only recently recovered from my first homicide investigation and, while I treasured my regular clients, bar and restaurant surveillance didn’t give me the rush, or the reward, of taking down a really bad guy. Should I offer to help Jack’s friend apprehend this killer? Do ducks copulate in the water?

“I might be able to help,” I said, and handed him one of my business cards below the level of the bar. “Tell your friend to meet me at my office in the morning.”

Jack glanced down at the card, apparently unsurprised to realize I was a PI. He locked eyes with me again, nodded, and finished his second Guinness in three large swallows.

“Thank you, Nicoli. It was lovely meeting you, but I’d best be on my way.”

He smiled slightly as he turned to leave. His eyes were still troubled, but perhaps with a glimmer of hope behind the worry now.

I spent the rest of the survey feigning moderate interest in the advances of the skeazy bartender. I stayed until closing, and allowed him to walk me to my car. Before I could get it unlocked he backed me up against the driver’s side door and made the expected pass, forcing his tongue into my mouth when I opened it to protest. Gross. I put a hand on his chest, pushing him away, and told him I wasn’t interested.

He smirked and shoved my hand aside, stepped back into my personal space, and grabbed me roughly around the waist. One hand slid down to my ass, and the other grabbed hold of my left breast. I closed my fist and punched him in the throat, not too hard, just enough to leave him immobilized and gasping for air long enough for me to flexi-cuff his hands behind his back. Then I called 911, reporting the assault and staying on the line until the uniforms arrived. This was the plan the bar owner and I had devised, and the only way I could keep my identity as a PI from being known by the other employees in the establishment. I’d had a taser in my back pocket just in case, but as it turned out I didn’t need it.

I went down to the station to file a formal complaint, and then headed back to my office where I typed up a full report for my client. I emailed him at home, attaching both the report and an invoice, then shuffled down to my boat feeling satisfied with a good night’s work, and more than a little keyed up about tomorrow’s appointment with Jack’s friend.

Chapter 2

The next morning I was sitting at my desk, struggling with my phone bill, when I heard a soft click from the front of the office. I glanced up and discovered Jack standing just inside my doors. I hadn’t heard him enter, although I’d been pretty focused on the increase to my monthly internet charge. Once again he was sporting those mirrored sunglasses, but he promptly removed them, smiling sheepishly at me.

“May I come in?”

“You’re already in. Will your friend be joining us?”

“Not today,” he said. “He was hoping I could discuss the possibilities with you on his behalf.”

“I see.”

“I have a few questions.”

“Shoot,” I said, and motioned to one of my visitors’ chairs.

He took a seat opposite my desk and I eased back in my ergonomic swivel chair, never taking my eyes off his.

“What are the parameters of confidentiality between a licensed PI and her clients?” he began.

I raised an eyebrow. “They’re not the same as with an attorney or a priest,” I said. “It depends on what you want kept confidential. If you want someone watched and you don’t want anyone to know about it, no problem. If you want to confess to the commission of a felony, then there might be a problem. My records can be subpoenaed, but I don’t have to document everything and I have a conveniently selective memory. Apart from the identity of your friend, what kind of secrets would you like me to keep?”

Jack shifted in his chair. “Suppose I offer you a hypothetical situation,” he said, “in which there lies the possibility that the law has been broken. Are you obligated to inform the authorities?”

“Not necessarily,” I hedged. “It depends on the details.”

“Of course,” he sighed. “It’s about those tapes I mentioned last night. My friend had gained illegal entry to the killer’s property when he found them, so, you see, he can’t possibly go to the police.”

“What is your friend’s objective, exactly?”

“I guess he wants to know if you could arrange to bring the tapes to the attention of the authorities, without implicating him in the process.”

I blinked. “You want me to break in somewhere, then confess to the police that I broke in somewhere and stumbled across evidence of multiple homicides?”

He said nothing.

“Would you like some coffee?” I asked.

“Please.”

“Cream and sugar?”

“Black,” he said.

I went into my kitchenette and poured two cups of high octane Kona, adding lactose-free milk to mine, and took a couple of sips before returning to my desk.

“Where are these tapes? Is it a house, an office, a storage locker?”

“A house.”

“Okay. Are they just sitting out where anyone can see them?”

“No. They’re inside a locked cabinet.”

“And why was your friend in this house, Jack, illegally exploring the contents of a locked cabinet?”

“Can we establish some kind of agreement indicating that I’m your client and that barring the disclosure of any future felonious activity you will keep what we discuss in confidence?”

“Sure,” I said. I was hooked. This would be way more exciting than busting a sexually aggressive bartender.

I turned to my computer and restructured my standard contract to fit the parameters of confidentially he’d requested and then printed two copies. After Jack read the fine print and was satisfied, we each signed both copies. His last name was McGuire. I gave him one copy and slipped the other into an empty file folder.

“So?” I asked.

“He was robbing the house. I can give you the address, but I doubt the break-in was reported.”

“And your friend thinks the owner of the house is the killer?”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

“He’s seen the owner on more than one occasion.”

“I see. Is there a reason why you’re not mentioning the name or gender of this killer?”

Jack hesitated a moment. “I guess I was hoping for some assurance that you can help my friend before I give you those details. What can you do without putting yourself at risk?”

“I have friends too. One of them is a police detective. With your permission I’ll speak with him about the case and find out what he thinks. I won’t mention your name of course, or your friend’s, should you disclose it to me.”

Jack looked into his coffee cup. “I hate cops,” he muttered.

I could understand that. “More coffee?”

“No thanks. What do you think he’ll say?”

“He’ll ask me where I got the information. I can tell him it was an anonymous phone call. He’ll want the name of the homeowner and their address. I imagine he’ll check that individual for priors. After that, I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he said. “It’s a start. Her name is Margaret Sectio.” He spelled the last name and gave me an address on Woodside Road. “It’s up in the hills. There are three houses on the property. Two small, one large. The tapes are in the family room of the main house, in a cabinet under the television set. The tapes my friend watched show Margaret killing her lovers after having sex. Do I need to give you a retainer?”

“What the hell kind of name is Sectio?” I asked, looking at my notepad. “A thousand will be enough to start.” I glanced up. “Does she know someone’s been in her house?”

Jack pulled a money clip out of his back pocket and peeled off ten hundred dollar bills.

“My friend cut a hole in a sliding glass door,” he said, “but the cabinet containing the videos appears undisturbed. He rewound the two tapes he watched, and relocked the cabinet before leaving.”

“I’ll need a phone number where I can reach you,” I said.

“I’ll call you tomorrow morning.” He took one of my business cards from the ceramic dish I keep on my desk.

I wrote out a receipt for the thousand dollars and reached for the card he had taken. I added my home and cell phone numbers and gave it back to him, along with a copy of the receipt.

“I’m usually here by nine,” I said.

“Thanks. I feel better just knowing you’re on the job.”

I searched his eyes for any hint of sarcasm, but his relief seemed genuine.

We shook hands again, with the same electrifying results, and I watched him walk away, resisting the urge to sneak out to the parking lot and copy down his license plate number. He moved gracefully, almost gliding, and I had the feeling that if Jack were to approach from out of my line of sight at some point in the future, I wouldn’t hear a sound.

Chapter 3

Maggie Sectio returned from her business trip to Atlanta late Monday morning. She drove directly home from San Francisco International Airport, entering the house through the front door. She was feeling edgy, having been unable to complete her customary ritual after dispatching her latest lover. The roommate had come home unexpectedly. It was careless of her not to have asked if the woman lived alone. She was getting sloppy. The roommate had smelled the carnage and knocked on the bedroom door. Maggie had been forced to deal with her as well, and then left the premises as quickly as possible, barely taking enough time to clean up. The whole experience had left her feeling empty, irritable, and restless.

She unpacked her suitcase in the upstairs bedroom and went down to the kitchen to make a sandwich. She wasn’t hungry, but it was something to do to distract herself. Maggie went into the family room to eat, opening the drapes to let the sun in. When she saw the hole in her sliding glass door the sandwich plate slipped out of her grasp and shattered on the tile floor.

“Shit,” she growled, automatically turning to the cabinet under the television. She ran to the front hall for her keys. Her hands were trembling as she unlocked and opened the cabinet. All five tape boxes were still there in the proper order. She took each one out of its box, checking to make sure they were still rewound, then closed and re-locked the cabinet door.

She cleaned up the broken plate and sandwich before going upstairs to check her safe.

Before pulling the elaborate mirror away from the bedroom wall Maggie stopped to admire her reflection. She was thirty-eight years old, but you couldn’t tell it by looking at her. The skin around her gray eyes was unlined, and there was no gray in her hair yet. Good genes, she mused. Her lustrous dark hair was the perfect compliment to her fine ivory complexion. None of her features were outstanding by themselves, but the overall effect was striking. She was five-five in her stocking feet and her figure was trim, with the exception of her breasts. The implants were too large for her frame and she was considering having them reduced.

Maggie was relieved to see that the dial on the safe was still set at thirty-six, where she had left it. She dialed the combination and opened the heavy door. The securities were gone.

“Shit!” She grabbed the shoebox and knew instantly that it was empty. “Fuck!” She flung the box against the wall and sagged into a nearby chair, her face hot with rage, fear forming a knot in her belly.

Chapter 4

After Jack left my office I drained my coffee mug and picked up the phone to call Detective Bill Anderson at the Redwood City Police Department. Bill and I met earlier this summer, when I was conducting my first murder investigation. At one point during the course of that investigation I had considered the possibility that he might be a homicidal maniac. It’s a long story. When the case was resolved, because the actual killer attempted to take my life, Bill and I started dating.

Bill is Lakota Sioux on his mother’s side, and Irish on his father’s. He has lightning-sharp brown eyes bordering on hazel and a naturally dark complexion that deepens quickly with time spent in the sun. He’s almost six feet tall, slim but muscular, and his jet-black hair is just beginning to show a little gray around the temples. What first drew my attention to him was his smile. Bill’s whole face lights up when he smiles, completely destroying his tough guy image.

When he isn’t actively working a case and I’m not taking care of my clients, we occasionally get together in the evenings, and we’ve spent a couple of weekends on my boat. Bill is a thoroughly stimulating companion. He’s smart and funny, plus the chemistry is great. I don’t believe in happily ever after, but for the moment I’m not seeing anyone else.

I’ve been married three times and have come to the conclusion that marriage is about ownership and security. I’ve never changed my last name, so I was always Nikki Hunter, even when I was married.

My first husband, Gary, was twenty years old when we got married. I was seventeen, and a senior in high school. We had been good friends prior to tying the knot, but afterwards we just didn’t relate to each other in the same way. It was as if we became different people after taking those vows. Of course the marriage was ill fated from the start, since I had accepted Gary’s proposal only to get out of my parents’ house. I discovered that being married is not the same as being on your own, and seventeen is too young to understand commitment. At least it was for me. The divorce was final before my eighteenth birthday.

My second husband, Hugh, was a charming Englishman who was anxious to live in the States. I had an affair with him while he was here on vacation, and impulsively agreed to marry him to ease the process of immigration. I was twenty-four at the time. INS laws have since changed, but then we were only required to live together for six months before filing for divorce, after which Hugh would be allowed to remain in the country. Even though we were only going through the motions, I noticed a shift in the relationship after the wedding. I started looking at him more like a science project and less like a human being and I started picking at his flaws. Hugh is now a successful antiques dealer in San Francisco. I hear from him occasionally, but we’re not close.

Husband number three was Drew. Drew was a romantic, which was a new experience for me. He brought me flowers every week. Once he pulled the petals off a dozen red roses and scattered them over the sheets on our bed, then made love to me on top of the petals. They permanently stained the sheets, but I didn’t care. Drew also used to go to the gym with me. It was great having a workout buddy. His mother was a terrible bitch, so when I got cranky and critical after the wedding he took it in stride. The part that didn’t work had to do with his desire to be a father. I’d known since my teen years that motherhood was not in the cards for me. It’s something we should have discussed during our courtship, but didn’t get around to until it was too late to turn back. We divorced after four years. I’m just now regaining some of the self-esteem I lost when that chapter of my life ended. I’m happy for him and his new wife. They have triplets.

My point is that marriage often ruins a perfectly good relationship. If everything is going well and you’re happy with each other, why risk screwing it up just so you can feel secure about the future? I’m sure there must be some good reason to get married, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what it is.

Bill answered on the third ring. I got in the habit of counting the number of times a phone rings when I was interning with Sam Pettigrew, my old mentor. Details like that go in every report.

“Detective Anderson.”

“PI Hunter,” I said.

“Hey, Nikki. What’s up?”

“I’ve got a new case I’d like to discuss with you. Do you have time for a lunch break?”

“No,” he said. “When and where?”

“How about The Diving Pelican? My treat.”

“One-thirty?”

“Great. And, Bill, I had a wonderful time last weekend.”

“Me too.” I could feel him smiling through the phone.

Bill showed up at 1:45. I locked the office and we walked across the marina to the restaurant. It was late summer, sunny, and warm with a light breeze coming off the water. We ordered at the counter and went back outside to find a table.

The Diving Pelican is the only restaurant in the marina. Bennett, who owns and runs it with his wife, is a cranky old curmudgeon who has become a friend. He always makes sure I’m well taken care of.

“You want to hear about my case now or after we eat?” I asked Bill.

“That depends. Are you going to ruin my appetite?”

“Maybe a little.” I smiled.

“Let’s get it over with then,” he said.

“Okay. I got a call this morning from someone who says he was burglarizing a house in the Woodside Hills and happened across some videotapes. He said the tapes appear to be home movies of the owner of the house committing multiple murders.”

I let that sink in. Bill said nothing, but he didn’t look happy.

“The guy wants to do something about it, but he doesn’t want to confess to the commission of a felony, so he called me instead of the police. He gave me the name and address of the alleged killer. Can you check this person out for me? I’d like to know if they have any criminal record and if they reported the burglary.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Bill asked casually, taking a sip of his water.

“Nope.”

“Did he give you his name?”

“Of course not.” I hate lying, mostly because I’m not very good at it.

“So you got an anonymous call from some guy, and you expect me to take action based on information you can’t even verify?”

“Um, yeah, pretty much.”

He gave me a look of disbelief, then said, “It’s out of my jurisdiction. A crime committed in the Woodside Hills would be investigated by the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department.”

Bennett chose that moment to personally deliver our lunch. I looked at my chicken salad and then redirected my gaze to Bill’s meatloaf, wondering if it was too late to change my order. Bennett’s salads are great, but I love his meatloaf. I picked up my fork and snuck a bite off Bill’s plate.

“Suppose this is real and you don’t do anything about it?” I mumbled around the deliciously spicy meatloaf. “How are you going to feel if more people are killed?”

“Terrible,” he said. “But even if I believed your caller was legitimate, legally my hands are tied.”

“Oh, come on. You could check the homeowner for priors. You have to admit you’re a little bit curious.”

“Of course I am,” he said, “Okay, give me the name and address and I’ll see if the guy’s got a record.”

“It’s a woman.” I handed Bill a slip of paper with Margaret Sectio’s name and address on it.

He looked at the information and then raised his eyes to mine. “Do you know how rare female multiple murderers are, Nikki?”

“I know they aren’t as common as the male variety. Or maybe they just don’t get caught as often.” I grinned to diminish the sarcasm of my comment.

Bill is not a chauvinist by nature, but he is the product of his small-town upbringing. He was raised in Tillamook, on the Oregon coast. He started playing guitar when he was twelve and when he was in high school he and his buddies formed a band that did well enough to go on tour during summer vacation. They were performing in Los Angeles when they were offered a recording contract by a producer who turned out to be disreputable. The guy attempted to bilk them out of their modest savings. When the police got involved, Bill met up with the detective who inspired him to become a cadet.

Bill is the kind of guy who sees things as white or black, with no gray areas in between, and he believes in concrete realities. This is often a bone of contention between us, since I base most of my important decisions on instinct and intuition. He was right that most multiple murderers are male, but wrong to disregard the possibility of a female with the same proclivities.

After lunch he walked me back to my office and kissed me goodbye. The heat of that kiss was a good indication that Bill wasn’t too pissed off about being asked to help me with something he considered a wild-goose chase.

Chapter 5

The morning after her eighth birthday Margaret Kathleen Sullivan greeted the day with a smile. She stretched, climbed out of bed, and drew back the curtains, gazing out at the sun–drenched hillside. She was looking forward to school today, to telling her classmates about her birthday weekend and the extravagant presents she had received. She enjoyed watching their faces cloud with envy.

Margaret dressed in her school uniform and joined her parents downstairs at the breakfast table. Her mother looked even more pale than usual, her fair skin a dramatic contrast to her vivid red hair. She was a beautiful woman, but she was frail, and Margaret had little respect for her.

Margaret’s father was drinking coffee and reading the Wall Street Journal. He always read the newspaper over breakfast, but this morning his neck was red and his dark eyebrows were drawn into a scowl as though he’d read something that angered him.

Her parents said nothing as the cook served breakfast, and Margaret wondered if it was because of what had happened the day before. It had been her birthday, so of course she’d expected certain things. When she didn’t get the tablet PC that had been near the top of her list, naturally she’d thrown a tantrum. Her mother had tried to calm her, but Margaret had pushed her away and she’d fallen down the shallow steps into the living room conversation pit. The floor was carpeted and she hadn’t hit her head or broken any bones, so what was the big deal?

Margaret loved her parents, but she thought of them as tools. She had learned to manipulate them early in life. The only topic on which they would not budge was religion. Her mother was obsessed with Catholicism, and her father adored her mother and would do anything to make her happy. Margaret really didn’t mind. The church and parochial school were the only structure in her life, and she treasured the feeling of security the catechism gave her. She was frequently disciplined by the sisters, but in spite of her rebellion against the strict rules of conduct, Margaret found herself absorbing the Catholic doctrine drilled into her by the nuns.

Later that morning, during English class, Sister Mary-Joseph came into the classroom and whispered something to the teacher, Sister Elizabeth, who turned and looked at Margaret. She thought they might be planning a birthday surprise for her, except they weren’t smiling. Sister Elizabeth called Margaret to the front of the classroom and turned her over to Sister Mary-Joseph, who led her out into the hall.

“Father Tomas has asked to see you in his office,” said the nun, after closing the classroom door behind them.

“Why, Sister?”

Mary-Joseph did not respond. She silently walked Margaret to Father’s office, knocked on his door, and ushered Margaret inside. A woman dressed in a police uniform was seated opposite Father Tomas.

“Margaret,” Father said, looking over his glasses and down his long nose at her, “I understand your behavior at home has gotten out of control. Your parents have arranged for you be placed in a juvenile detention facility for a short period of time, so that you can learn some discipline. Officer Perez is here to escort you.”

Margaret felt a hollow place begin to open in her belly. “Is this a joke?” she asked.

“No, Margaret. This is not a joke. If you behave yourself you’ll be allowed to return home in two weeks. See that you learn from this experience.”

As if from a distance, Margaret observed what was happening to her with stunned disbelief as a firm hand clamped onto her shoulder and she was marched outside to a waiting police cruiser.

Chapter 6

Bill called at 6:30 to tell me that Margaret Sectio had not reported a break-in at her home in the Woodside Hills. He also informed me that she had no criminal record and no traffic citations. That alone was enough to make me suspicious. Nobody can get through life without a traffic ticket, unless they don’t drive or are obsessively cautious. Guilty people are often obsessively cautious.

I decided to have a look at Margaret’s house from a discreet distance. I waited until dusk and then drove south on Highway 101, taking the Woodside Road exit. When I crossed Alameda I started looking for street numbers, but I made it all the way to Highway 280 without spotting even one. The estates in the Woodside Hills have private driveways, many of which are, apparently, unmarked.

I drove back to the marina feeling frustrated and wondering what I would say to Jack when he called the next morning. I needed more information before I could even begin an investigation. I needed to know where Margaret Sectio had grown up, what her financial situation was, and where she worked, if she had a job. I needed a social security number or a driver’s license number, something I could use to run a background check.

I parked in the boat owners’ lot and walked down to the docks, visiting with my neighbors and their dogs on the way to my slip.

Once aboard the Cheoy Lee I fixed myself a vegetable salad and topped it with canned tuna and low fat Italian dressing. I ate my dinner and drank two bottles of Guinness Stout while watching the evening news on the galley TV. No local murders were being reported. I thought about the videotapes and wondered if they were real… if Jack was real.

That night I had disturbing dreams that I couldn’t remember when my alarm went off. I crawled out of bed, started a pot of coffee, and climbed into the little onboard shower.

When I was clean and dry I looked at myself in the mirror. I’m five-seven, and I weigh a hundred and thirty-three pounds. I wear my curly chestnut brown hair in a graduated layer cut. Bill says my eyes are the color of the ocean after a storm. I have a good face, apart from the gunpowder stippling on my left temple from a recent near miss, and a hairline scar from the same memorable evening. I have a mixed heritage. On my father’s side I’m three-quarters Russian and one quarter Greek. On my mom’s side I’m Irish, English, Scottish, and Danish. If you think about it, those are all countries whose natives are prone to alcoholism. Maybe it’s best not to think about it.

I guzzled the whole pot of coffee while I watched the morning news, then I dragged on a pair of shorts, a tee shirt, and my New Balance cross trainers, and drove around the corner to the gym. I work out almost every day. Aside from keeping my body toned, exercise bolsters my self-esteem, and I’m addicted to the endorphin rush. I spent thirty minutes on the treadmill then moved on to the Nautilus equipment and the free weights. When I was finished I felt rejuvenated.

I was in the office waiting for Jack’s call by 8:30. He called at precisely 9:00 o’clock. The display on my phone told me the number was unavailable. Of course.

“Hunter Investigations,” I intoned in my most professional voice.

“Good morning, Nicoli.”

“Hi, Jack. I wish I had some news for you, but I don’t really have anything yet. I need more information. I need your phone number, and is there any way you can get me Margaret’s driver’s license or social security number?”

There was a moment of silence and then he said, “I know where she works. Will that help?”

“Possibly.”

“Millennium Real Estate in Menlo Park. She’s a multinational listings agent.”

I scribbled down the info.

“Millennium huh? Prestigious. I’d like to see those videos. What are the odds they’re still in the cabinet where you left them?”

I’d decided it was time to dispense with Jack’s fictional house-burgling friend.

He hesitated only a beat. “Why do you need to see them?”

“Because anonymous tips don’t interest the Sheriff’s Department.”

“She may have taken some kind of security measures. It’d be risky going back in.”

“Risk is my business,” I said. “I drove up Woodside Road last night, but I couldn’t find the address. How about you come to my office and we’ll drive up there together?”

“What are you thinking? Are you planning to break into the house yourself?”

That was exactly what I was thinking. I was also thinking it would be useful to have a professional burglar along, in case my lock-picking skills were rusty.

“I just want to see the place,” I said. “Get a feel for the subject.”

“Okay.” He sounded skeptical. “I can be there in an hour.”

“Great. Oh, and your phone number?” It was too late. He’d already hung up.

Jack arrived at my office at 10:02, the air around him crackling with energy.

“I picked this up on my way over,” he said, patting a shiny new pager clipped to his belt. “Here’s the number.” He handed me a slip of paper. “I’ll be sure to keep it with me at all times.”

“Thanks,” I said, and tucked the number in my pocket. I don’t think I’d seen a pager in ten years, though I knew they were still in use. The fact that he’d gone to the trouble to get one underscored his obsession with privacy. He’d probably used a false name when he rented it, but I’d check anyway.

I unlocked the drawer in which I keep some of my guns and transferred my little Glock twenty-six to my purse holster below the top of the desk, so Jack couldn’t see what I was doing. I own four handguns, but the Glock is very light, so it’s easy to carry.

“Let’s go,” I said. “My car or yours?”

“Yours.”

I drive a 1972 British racing green BMW model 2002. It may be old, but it’s a classic and I love it. I’ve had it nine years. The man I bought it from had it completely restored when he bought it 12 years before, and only gave it up because of his deteriorating health. It was like buying a new car. I wash it weekly, wax it every three months, and take it to Bimmers in San Carlos for regular maintenance and pampering.

We drove up into the Woodside Hills, just as I had the day before, and Jack pointed to a driveway just beyond, and across the street from, Woodside High School. The unpaved road sloped sharply downward, so that most of the estate was in a little valley, hidden from the street by trees and by the incline. Jack asked me to pull over before we’d gone twenty yards down the drive.

The first of three houses on the property sat off to our left on a sunny knoll. Perhaps originally built for the groundskeeper and his family, it was a sweet little one-story whitewashed cottage. The front door faced the main house, which was about a hundred yards farther down the hill. At the end of the drive, just the other side of the main house, I could see a smaller cottage, made of stone.

“Are all three houses occupied?” I asked.

“No,” Jack said. “Only the large one.”

I wondered why the original owners had never had the road paved. I could guess why the current owner hadn’t. She liked her privacy.

“Why don’t we take a look around? If she’s home we can say we’re having car trouble and ask to use the phone.”

Jack grabbed my wrist to stop me from getting out of the car.

“This woman is a killer, Nicoli, and her house has just been burglarized. She’s not about to let a couple of total strangers in to use her telephone.”

“So we’ll ask where the nearest pay phone is. What’s the problem?”

“The problem is that she’ll know what we look like.”

He had a point. If I was going to conduct any kind of surveillance on the subject, it would be better if she didn’t recognize me.

“It’s Tuesday morning,” I said. “She’s probably not even home. Come on, Jack, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“It’s too dangerous.”

He wasn’t going to budge, but my natural curiosity wouldn’t let me leave without at least a quick look around.

“Okay. You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

I slipped out of the car before he could stop me, and headed for the whitewashed cottage. The front door was locked. I quickly circled the small building, looking in the windows. It was elegantly furnished, but didn’t look lived in, although someone was evidently taking care of it. I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a cleaning staff who came in once a week to keep the guest house tidy, just in case company arrived unexpectedly.

I strolled down the long driveway past the main house, noting that no car was in evidence. There was no garage, so the fact that the driveway was unoccupied increased the likelihood that no one was home. It didn’t make sense to me that a house in this neighborhood wouldn’t have a garage or at least an overhang where you could park if it was raining, but I don’t know much about real estate. Maybe the property value increased if you didn’t alter the original design, like with antiques.

The door of the small stone cottage was painted red, and it, too, was locked. The windows had no drapes or blinds. The front room was empty and had a dark hardwood floor that looked dusty. I circled the little house, fighting my way through low-hanging tree branches behind the structure. Apart from the dust and a few spider webs, the place appeared to be empty. No one had bothered to clean this cottage in some time. Maybe it was too humble to serve as a guest house.

My heart beat faster as I approached the main house. It was a 1950’s Cape Cod-style home, two stories, painted white, with terracotta roofing tiles. All the drapes were drawn and the sliding glass patio door was intact. If Jack was telling the truth, the owner had acted quickly to have the glass replaced.

I approached the front door and rang the bell, waited for a response, and then tested the knob. It was locked, of course. I walked around the house checking windows, and finally ending up back at the patio door. Everything was locked up tight. I scanned the eaves looking for security cameras and didn’t see anything obvious, although I noticed an ADT decal on one of the windows, indicating there was some type of alarm system within. Jack must be very good at slipping past such things.

I could only see bits and pieces of furniture through narrow cracks between the drapes. Because of what Jack had told me this place gave me the creeps, and I was feeling exposed. I decided that if I was going to break in to get a look at the videotapes, I would have to do it at night. It’s much easier to sneak around in the dark.

Feeling slightly frustrated, I hiked back up the driveway. As I approached the 2002 I couldn’t see Jack at all, but when I got closer I realized that he was scrunched down in the passenger seat. He sat up as I climbed into the car.

“Let’s get out of here,” he hissed.

“Relax. There’s nobody home.”

I started the car, made a U-turn, and drove up to Woodside Road.

Jack was silent until we were back on the street. Then he said, “That was stupid. You have no idea what this woman is capable of. What if she had caught you on her property? You didn’t even take your gun, for Christ’s sake.”

I looked down at my purse, then up at Jack. “How did you know I had a gun?”

“I saw you put it in your purse at the office.”

“No you didn’t. I held it below your line of sight. You couldn’t have seen it.”

“Okay, maybe I didn’t see it, but I smelled the gun oil and you made a point of holding your purse below the top of the desk, so I assumed you were transferring a gun from one of the drawers to your bag.” He picked up my purse and pulled the Glock out of the holster compartment. “And look,” he said. “I was right.”

“Put that down!”

I waited until he’d replaced the gun in my purse and then rested my hand on top of the bag. I get edgy when people I don’t know are handling loaded firearms in my presence. I’m even tense at the firing range, looking over my shoulder and checking out the other shooters when we go out to change our targets.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable, Jack. I just wanted to take a quick look around. Does Margaret own all three houses?”

“Yes. She owns all the property from the street to the crest of the hill.”

“Why do you suppose she keeps that little white cottage clean and furnished?”

“I have no idea.”

“I’d like to meet this woman, and I need to see those videotapes. Maybe she’ll invite me over for cocktails.”

“That’s not funny,” he said. “You don’t want to be alone with her. Trust me. I’ve seen the videos.”

“You only looked at two of them, right?”

“So?”

“So aren’t you curious about the other three?”

“Yes, but I’m not crazy.”

“I was thinking maybe I’d ask her to show me some houses.”

Jack thought about it for a moment. “That’s not a bad idea,” he said. “You can get the current listings at Millennium. Her name will be on the flyers for houses she’s showing.”

“Want to come along?”

“No, thanks. You can drop me at your office.”

“Okay. I should probably change before I go house hunting anyway.”

I drove Jack back to the marina. He offered to walk me to my office, but I told him I was going down to my boat, so he walked me to the security gate, probably to keep me from following him to wherever he was parked.

I unlocked the gate and turned to tell him I’d page him if I had anything to report. He was standing very close. I seldom back away when someone steps into my personal space. It’s something I picked up from my father. Dad was born a Cossack and he never backed down from anyone, except my mother. She was a former nun and could intimidate him with nothing more than a look.

“Be careful, Nicoli,” he said. “I’d feel terrible if anything happened to you.”

He put a hand on my shoulder and reached behind me to hold the gate open.

“I’ll page you,” I said, my voice husky.

Jack gave me a Cheshire cat smile as I pivoted away from him, moving toward the companionway. A few steps down the ramp I glanced over my shoulder. He was gone. I walked back up to the gate and looked around. He was really gone. I went outside and scanned the office complex and the parking lot. No sign of him in any direction. Goose bumps erupted on my arms and the back of my neck. He seemed to have a habit of causing them. I shook my head in wonder as I ambled down to the dock.

Chapter 7

Regardless of how precocious she was, Margaret Sullivan was still only eight, and easy prey for the older girls at the Juvenile Hall. A pair of teen-age lesbians took a particular interest in her. The girls, who were extremely well behaved in front of authority figures, successfully petitioned to have Margaret transferred to their room, where they forced their attentions on her with some regularity. Margaret was terrified of being held captive and repulsed by the hungry way they looked at and touched her, but the real hell began when she recovered from the initial shock of the assaults and realized that she enjoyed them.

Being raised by Irish Catholic parents, coupled with the teachings of the holy sisters at St. Theresa’s, had a predictable impact on Margaret’s psyche. The pleasure she took from being caressed by other girls was impossible for her to reconcile.

By the time her two weeks at juvenile hall were up and she returned home, she had become quiet and withdrawn. Although she no longer argued with her parents, she would never forgive them for what they had done to her, and she loathed herself for her own weakness.

When Margaret stopped acting out, her parents assumed their tough love approach to discipline had been a success, but they felt guilty for sending her away. The more she withdrew and suppressed her anger, the more money they spent rewarding her behavior. The message was clear—if she wanted to be valued she had to hide her feelings. Unfortunately, Margaret soon discovered that her rage could only be repressed for limited periods of time before she was forced to find an outlet.

After her time in juvenile hall Margaret no longer sought the company of her childhood friends, instead channeling all of her energy into her studies.

When she was twenty-one her parents were killed in a plane crash on their way to visit family in Ireland. Margaret experienced a flood of emotional relief at their death, which amplified the guilt she already felt, plunging her further into darkness.

A few months after her parents’ passing Margaret received a check for their life insurance benefits, and was informed by their attorney that she was the sole beneficiary of their estate. Shortly thereafter she made an appointment with a prominent plastic surgeon and acquired a pair of double D-cup breasts. After the surgery, she had her name changed from Sullivan to Sectio. She dropped out of college, put her old life behind her, and went looking for a career.

Maggie, as she now called herself, chose real estate because of the freedom and mobility it allowed. She took the necessary classes, passed the exam, and obtained her license, having isolated the firms in Northern California which handled multinational listings. She targeted the largest of these, Millennium Real Estate, and quickly became their most successful agent.

Maggie roamed the world, always toting an old-fashioned camcorder which recorded onto VHS cassettes, as well as a high definition digital video camera with which she could film each property for potential buyers to view without the inconvenience of travel. She preferred the VHS tapes for personal use because there was less likelihood someone else would have the equipment required to view them.

In addition to her impressive sales record, Maggie also left behind a litter of unsolved homicides. Each victim was found in her own home, missing a few body parts, most of which Maggie destroyed using the garbage disposals in the houses she was showing.

By the time her videotapes were discovered by Jack McGuire she had killed and dismembered sixteen women. The FBI and Interpol had lengthy files on her victims and a character profile of the killer that couldn’t have been further from the truth. They were hunting for a white male between the ages of twenty-five and forty-five who hated his mother and was impotent.

Now someone had broken into her home. She was unconcerned about what had been stolen. Money wasn’t an issue for Maggie, but privacy was crucial. She felt exposed and vulnerable. The rage was building up again, and she knew she was running out of time.

Chapter 8

It took me less than five minutes to realize that I didn’t own an outfit suitable for touring multi-million dollar properties. Not only am I self employed, but I live on a sailboat. When I moved aboard I gave a ton of business suits and dresses to Goodwill, along with most of my high-heeled shoes. Not that you couldn’t go real estate shopping in something casual, but it had to be expensive causal. My clothes were mid-range casual.

I mentally scanned the marina for a neighbor about my size who would also be home on a weekday. My friend Lily came to mind. She’s a little taller than I am and broader in the shoulders, but she has great taste in clothes. I walked to her slip, one dock over from mine. Lily is a hardware engineer. She used to be a man, but after years of living with the incongruity of a body that didn’t match her internal gender, she finally had the surgery.

I knocked on a porthole and heard some shuffling below deck. In a moment the hatch slid open and Lily’s head popped out.

“Hey, Nikki. What’s up?”

“I need something to wear to a fancy real estate office. Do you have anything that looks expensive that might fit me?”

“Come aboard and see for yourself.”

Lily lives on a forty-foot Cascade with an aft cockpit. I was greeted at the hatch by Diego and Gloria, her two Siamese cats. I stepped over them and followed her into the stateroom.

After looking through most of Lily’s wardrobe, which is extensive for a boat dweller, I found myself attracted to a black Chanel knit suit. I held it up in front of me and looked in the mirror.

“What did this cost you?” I asked.

“It’s vintage, from their 1965 collection. I bought it on eBay, and it still cost me two week’s pay,” she said, with a shrug. “Try it on.”

The suit might be vintage, but it looked brand new to me. I self-consciously shucked off my shorts, tennis shoes, and tank top, and shimmied into the skirt and jacket. The luxurious knit slid over my skin like a caress.

“Are you supposed to wear a blouse with this?”

“No,” Lily said. “The buttons are just for show.”

“What’s it made of?”

“It’s silk”

I checked the mirror. I looked incredible, even with my white gym socks still on.

“Do you mind lending it to me?”

“Of course not. Just don’t spill anything on it. You look great.”

I put my own clothes back on and draped the Chanel over my arm.

“Thanks, Lily. I’ll bring it back tonight.”

“No problem,” she said. “So what’s the new case about? You want something to drink?”

“What have you got?” I asked, glancing at my watch.

Lily rattled off an assortment of beverages, and I chose a Canfield’s Diet Chocolate Soda.

“Thanks,” I said, holding the can against my neck to counteract the heat of the day. “I can’t go into too much detail. You know, client confidentiality. But let me ask you something. What would motivate a woman to kill someone she just had sex with?”

Lily’s eyebrows shot up. “Any number of things could contribute to that scenario,” she said. “The first thing that comes to mind is the classic victim/predator syndrome.”

I’d read about this stuff, but I wanted Lily’s take on it. She was intelligent and well read, and we’d spent many pleasurable hours talking about our shared interest in psychology. Lily spent two years in therapy before having the gender change surgery, so she has a perspective that is totally different from mine. I’ve been studying psychology on my own since I was a teenager, but I’ve never been to a shrink.

“Maybe,” I said. “But in that situation the predator attacks because they believe their survival depends on it. Kill or be killed. Why would anyone believe they have to kill their lover in order to survive?”

“It might have something to do with a childhood trauma involving one or both parents, a teacher, or even a sibling. Hard to say without knowing the individual in question. But that kind of violent response to intimacy usually comes from a profound conviction that the lover is a threat. We haven’t evolved that far from cavemen, you know, so when we feel threatened emotionally we still react as though our lives are literally in danger.” She finished her soda and tossed the can in a recycling bin. “Sadly, the person with the psychosis is usually the only one who perceives the danger.”

I thought about what she had said as I walked back to my boat, a number of possible scenarios involving a younger Margaret Sectio playing out in my head.

I put on Lily’s suit, and rummaged through my shoes. I had athletic shoes, boat shoes, boots, a pair of burgundy ankle-strap sandals, and my Ecco Track IIs. I hadn’t been to the bank, so I still had Jack’s cash retainer in my purse. I headed for the mall, wearing the suit with my sneakers.

At Nordstrom I picked out a pair of black Stuart Weitzman low-heeled pumps that I thought I could run in, if I had to. It took me another hour to find a Prada crossbody shoulder bag in the same shade of black as the shoes that was large enough to hold the Ruger without showing a bulge. It’s not safe to carry the Glock in a regular purse because it has no external safety.

The sales people helping me were patient, which may have had something to do with Lily’s suit, but this had been a lengthy shopping trip for me, and I was exhausted. I can usually make it in and out of any store in fifteen minutes. Not that I don’t like shopping. In fact, I love spending money. I just don’t enjoy drawing it out.

Between the shoes and the purse I’d spent almost all of Jack’s retainer. I toyed with the idea of covering the soles of the shoes with masking tape so I could return them later, but decided to bill Jack for everything instead. After all, my new look was essential to the job he’d hired me to do.

Chapter 9

By the time I pulled up outside Millennium Real Estate it was 1:00, and I realized that I was starving. I decided to get the listings from the receptionist and go over them at the nearest fast food joint.

I entered the elegant lobby sporting Lily’s suit and my new pumps, the expensive bag draped over my shoulder. I looked and felt like a million bucks. I approached the marble horseshoe-shaped reception counter with absolute confidence. An attractive blonde woman was seated behind the desk. She was in her late twenties, about thirty pounds overweight, very nicely dressed and coifed, and had a smile glued to her face. She was speaking into a Bluetooth headset. When she looked up, indicating she was finished with the call, I asked if I could have copies of some of the local listings.

“Do you have something specific in mind?” she asked.

Uh-oh. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. “Something upscale,” was all I could think to say.

“Any particular area?”

“Los Altos, Woodside Hills, and Atherton.” That should cover the more expensive neighborhoods.

“How many bedrooms?”

My stomach growled. “At least three.”

Her smile became condescending, or maybe I imagined it. I was on unfamiliar turf here. While we were talking she had been arranging glossy color photos in a stack, which she now handed to me. It was substantial. I glanced at the one on top. The agent’s name was listed under the Millennium logo. Perfect.

“Thank you,” I said, smiling. “When I find one I want to see, should I call you to make an appointment?”

“Absolutely.”

She handed me her card. Her name was Courtney Nash.

I left the real estate office feeling optimistic, found a Taco Bell two blocks away, and ordered a low-fat Fresco Burrito Supreme. I sat in my car looking through the listings and dripping hot sauce on the pictures, but not on the suit.

Halfway through the pile I found one with Maggie Sectio noted as the listing agent. It was a two-story Mediterranean villa in Los Altos Hills with a long winding driveway, a footbridge spanning a brook in the front yard, and a pond in the side yard in which two swans were swimming. The asking price was just under six million. I set that one aside and continued leafing through the pile. I found three more with Maggie’s name on them, one in Hillsborough and two in Atherton. I’d start with the one in Los Altos. Gotta love those swans.

I dug my smartphone out of my new purse and dialed the number on Courtney’s business card.

“Millennium Properties.”

“Courtney, this is Nicoli Sinclair. I was in a little while ago?”

“Oh yes, Ms. Sinclair,” she cooed. “The Chanel suit, right?”

“You’re very observant. I’ve found a house I’d like to see in Los Altos Hills. The agent’s name is Maggie Sectio. Any chance she’s available to show the property today?”

“Maggie’s in this afternoon. Let me see if I can get her on the line. Can you hold a moment?”

“Of course.”

I held for about thirty seconds.

“This is Maggie Sectio, Ms. Sinclair. I understand you’re interested in the Los Altos Hills property.”

Margaret’s voice was deep, almost husky. I imagined she sold a lot of houses to men.

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied. “Any chance of seeing it today?”

“I think I can rearrange some things. Can you meet me here at four?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

It was only 2:30, so I drove back to the office. I slipped off my new shoes and started a report of what little I knew about Margaret so far and everything I had done. Then I entered the shoes and handbag on an expense spreadsheet and tucked the receipts in Jack’s file. That took me all of ten minutes.

I decided to let Jack know what I was doing and remembered I’d left his pager number on the boat. I stepped back into my chic new shoes and strode down to the dock, stopping along the way to scratch behind D’Artagnon’s ears. D’Artagnon is a black Lab who lives with two humans aboard a Blue Water forty-six. He’s a very good watchdog. In fact he recently saved me from a crazed psycho-killer I’d been hired to apprehend.

Aboard my boat I found the crumpled slip of paper in the pocket of my shorts. I walked back up to the office and dialed Jack’s pager. After entering my office phone number and hearing the requisite beeps, I hung up. Less than a minute later my phone rang.

“Hunter Investigations.”

“You rang?”

“Hi, Jack. I’m meeting with Margaret today at four. She’s going to show me a house in Los Altos.”

“Are you bringing anyone along?” he asked.

“Are you volunteering?”

“Not a chance. Please be careful, Nicoli.”

“I will. But I don’t think there’s much likelihood she’ll want to bump off a potential client.”

“You never know. Page me when you get back to the office?”

“Sure.”

It was nice to know he cared, but disquieting that he thought there was reason for concern.

Next I called Bill and told him what I was doing. I didn’t really need the subsequent lecture. I just wanted him to know where I was, in case something went wrong. I told him I’d call him by 6:00, and gave him the address of the property in Los Altos.

To pass the time until my meeting with Maggie, I looked over the bar and restaurant surveys on my schedule. I hoped I would be able to squeeze a few in tonight. Some of my regular clients expect weekly reports, and I hate to let them down.

At 3:40 I drove back to Menlo Park. I left the 2002 on a side street and walked the rest of the way. When I entered the Millennium offices, Courtney remembered me, and Lily’s suit, instantly. She made a call on the intercom and then offered me coffee, tea, or spring water. I passed on all three.

After a few minutes Margaret, aka Maggie, stepped into the lobby. I was immediately struck by her presence. There were noticeable undercurrents of strength and sexuality. Her dark hair fell a few inches below her shoulders, perfectly framing her oval face and delicate features. Her nose was aquiline, her mouth a little wide, and her gray eyes were framed by dark lashes but no visible make-up. She was a trim five-foot-six in low-heeled sandals, and her bust was generous. She wore a navy blue business suit with a cream-colored blouse, all very understated, with a single strand of pearls around her neck. She smiled at me without showing any teeth, and her eye contact was riveting. When she shook my hand her grip was forceful, warm, and dry.

“I’m Maggie Sectio,” she purred. She turned to Courtney and passed her a folder. “This is the Parker file. Will you give it to Claude when he comes in?”

“Of course,” said Courtney.

Maggie turned back to me and I caught the fleeting look of adoration on Courtney’s face. She saw me watching and quickly returned her attention to the folder.

“I’m parked right out front,” Maggie said to me. “Why don’t we take my car.” It was not a question.

Maggie was driving a dark blue Lincoln Town Car. She opened the passenger door for me and the new car smell wafted out.

“How long have you been house hunting?” she asked as she started the engine.

“Just today,” I said. Since I’m a terrible liar, whenever possible I tell the truth.

She pulled out of the parking lot onto the street.

“You live alone?” she asked.

“I do now,” I said. “I’m a widow.”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

That got her attention. She glanced at me briefly and raised an eyebrow.

“That was tactless, wasn’t it?” I said. “But I married Bernie for his money. He knew that, and it was fine with him. Besides, it was an even trade. He was a son of a bitch and I had to put up with his libido for four years before he finally kicked off.” I had rehearsed this little speech in my head so many times it actually came out sounding natural.

Maggie’s lips curled into a half smile. “So you’ve decided to move.”

“Yes. I’m selling the condo. I hate condos. I’m looking for something secluded, where the neighbors are far enough away not to bother me or care what I’m up to.”

“I think you’ll like the Los Altos property,” Maggie said. “The house is a hundred yards from the street and it sits on seven acres.”

“That sounds wonderful,” I sighed.

We made the rest of the drive in silence. Maggie took Sand Hill Road up to Highway 280 south, exited on El Monte, and made a left on Davis Court.

When we pulled off the road onto the private drive the first thing I noticed was the footbridge. Like something out of a fairy tale, it spanned a twinkling brook which was shaded by a willow tree. It was enchanting.

The driveway ended in front of a four-car garage connected to the house by a breezeway. Above the garage was a loft apartment, which could be approached from the outside by external stairs. The manmade pond was set back to the right of the house. No swans were in residence today, and I was disappointed, but the overall effect was still charming. The house itself was a slightly modern version of traditional Mediterranean style architecture.

As we got out of the car Maggie removed a set of keys from her purse. “What do you think?” she asked.

“It’s lovely,” I said, trying not to sound awestruck. The estate reminded me of a European villa, which appealed to my romantic nature.

Maggie unlocked the front door and pushed it open, allowing me to enter first. The foyer had quarter-sawn white oak flooring polished to a high gloss. The walls were painted ecru with a glaze that created the illusion of antiquing. The vaulted ceiling was about thirty feet overhead. In the center hung a wrought iron and crystal chandelier. A broad spiral staircase wound up from the foyer to the second floor, and the steps appeared to be made of marble.

To the left of the entryway was a library with built-in floor-to-ceiling walnut bookshelves. There was even a rolling library ladder. A pair of French doors faced the front yard and the little brook with the footbridge. I could probably stand to live here.

To our right was a sunken living room. We started our tour there. Light streamed in through the expansive windows. There was a huge flagstone fireplace on the far wall and the carpet was spotless cream-colored Berber. I appreciated the low pile, since I tend to trip over my own feet easily enough without the assistance of more dense carpeting.

As we moved from room to room I could feel the tension radiating from Maggie, but couldn’t for the life of me figure out what she had to be nervous about. I was sure there was no reason for her to suspect I was anything other than a potential client.

We strolled through the living room and into the kitchen, which featured a seafoam-green granite center island equipped with two sinks and a dishwasher. A doublewide stainless steel subzero refrigerator was discreetly inset into the wall. The overhead lighting was recessed, casting a golden glow over the exquisite room. There were two additional sinks under a bay window facing the pond. Directly off the kitchen was a dining alcove surrounded by windows on three sides. If I had a kitchen like this, I might even learn to cook.

The house I grew up in was a modest two-bedroom one-bath in South San Francisco. My parents considered themselves lucky to be able to own a home, and, for the most part, I’m happy with my simple lifestyle. If you live aboard, you just haul the boat out of the water every couple of years and have the bottom scraped, painted, and repaired if necessary, keep your through-hulls clean, maintain the engine, deck, and brightwork, and you’re in business. If you decide it’s time to move, you just untie the lines and shove off. This knowledge allows me a treasured sense of freedom.

After touring the first floor we climbed the marble stairs and entered the enormous master suite. Across the expansive room sliding glass doors opened onto a wide deck overlooking the side yard and the pond. To their left was a fireplace surrounded by emerald green tile and crowned by a huge ornate mirror. There were two, count them, two walk-in closets. On board my boat I make do with a single hanging locker in the stateroom.

The master bath was mind-boggling. The Jacuzzi tub was large enough for a party of six. The glass-enclosed shower had four showerheads directed at the center of the stall. Beside an elegant rose-colored porcelain toilet was an equally elegant rose-colored bidet. I suddenly found myself wishing I had the six million to buy this place. There’s no room for a bidet on my boat.

Throughout our tour Maggie said very little. She pointed out a feature here and there, but primarily just escorted me from one room to the next. After we’d walked through two smaller bedrooms, each with its own bath, she led me across the breezeway into the loft above the garage.

The apartment had a small bathroom with a stall shower and a kitchenette, but there were no windows. I never feel claustrophobic onboard my sailboat, but being in this enclosed space with Maggie made me more than a little anxious. She was, after all, murderously insane, according to Jack.

After touring the loft we exited down a flight of stairs that led to the interior of the four-car garage, and came out through a side door under the breezeway where we had parked.

“Any questions?” Maggie asked.

“No questions,” I said, in a noncommittal tone. “I like it.”

“But you don’t want to make a decision after viewing only one property. I have some other listings I’d like you to see. I’m done for the day. Why don’t I buy you a drink and we can look at some pictures?”

“That sounds like a fine idea,” I said, smiling demurely.

I could hardly believe she was buying my act. It had to be the Chanel suit.

“There’s a quaint little pub on Main Street,” she went on. “It’s quiet and relatively private.”

“Perfect.”

Maggie locked up the house and we got back into her car. As we were driving down El Monte Road I asked if she thought the price of the property was firm.

“In real estate nothing is ever firm.” She said. “They’ll probably take a reasonable offer. The builders invested more than expected in construction and landscaping. The pond is man-made, of course, and all the land around the house had to be cleared. They have to make a profit, but you could probably pick it up for five million five hundred thousand.”

“The house has never been lived in? It’s brand new?”

“Positively virginal,” she said, with a sly smile.

We were delayed at an intersection on San Antonio Road by an elderly crossing guard wearing a fluorescent orange vest and carrying a stop sign. Two preteen girls in Catholic school uniforms crossed in front of Maggie’s car, holding hands. They reached the other side of the intersection and the crossing guard returned to her corner. Maggie sat frozen behind the wheel, watching the girls as they skipped away down a side street. Her lips were compressed into a hard line, but I couldn’t see her eyes behind her sunglasses. Eventually the car behind us honked. Maggie jerked her gaze to the rearview mirror and proceeded down San Antonio to Main Street.

Oh great, I mused to myself. The goose bumps are back again.

We parked in front of the pub and Maggie popped the trunk and retrieved a black Gucci briefcase. I peered through the plate glass windows of the establishment. From what I could see, it was beautifully decorated, a classic Irish pub. Lots of gleaming dark wood, a scattering of little round tables, and half a dozen booths with leather upholstery. There were two unoccupied patio tables out in front.

“Do you mind if we sit out here so I can smoke?” I asked.

“Of course not. I quit two years ago and I still miss it.”

A barmaid came outside and placed cocktail napkins on our table. I ordered a Guinness Stout and Maggie ordered a Stoli on the rocks with a twist. I lit a cigarette and inhaled hungrily. Maggie set her briefcase on her lap and took out a small stack of pictures which she placed in front of me.

“See if there’s anything here that you like,” she said. “If not, I have more at the office.”

The waitress brought our drinks and I glanced at my watch. It was 5:40, and I had told Bill I would call him by 6:00.

I stubbed out my cigarette and looked up at the waitress. “Where’s the ladies room?”

She pointed through the window to a hallway beyond the bar and said, “I’ll show you.”

“Be right back,” I said to Maggie.

As soon as I was locked safely in a stall, I took out my cell phone and dialed.

“Detective Anderson,” he answered after a partial ring.

“You know if you sit on the phone like that you’re going to hatch a litter of something that wants to reach out and touch someone.”

“Very funny. Where are you?”

“I’m at a bar on Main Street in Los Altos. I can’t talk, but I wanted you to know I’m okay.”

“Are you still with Sectio?” he asked.

“Yes. We’re looking at pictures of houses.”

“Call me when you get home,” he commanded.

“Yes sir.” I saluted the phone.

Dating a cop is great if you don’t mind being ordered around some of the time. Bill is sensitive, creative, and has a great sense of humor, but he’s seen what the underbelly of humanity is capable of, and he takes that knowledge very seriously. Even though he wasn’t convinced the videotapes actually existed, he was concerned. So was I.

I came out of the stall, washed my hands, and scrunched up my curls. I looked at Lily’s suit in the mirror. After more than four hours of wear there wasn’t a single wrinkle. Amazing.

I arrived back at the table just as Maggie was ordering a second drink. I took a sip of my Guinness and picked up the stack of photos. After slowly looking through the pictures I set the stack on the table and looked up. Our eyes locked and my heart stuttered in my chest. This lady was disturbingly intense.

“If you were in the market,” I said casually, “which one of these would you select?”

She lifted the pictures and fanned them out in her hands, withdrew one, and placed it in front of me.

“This one,” she said.

The picture she’d chosen was of a two-story Spanish style home in Atherton. I noticed another agent’s name at the bottom of the page. The house was pale peach stucco with a terracotta roof. The photo only showed the front view, and the grounds were in shadow. It was a nice enough house, but there was nothing special about it that I could see.

“Why?” I asked.

“I know it doesn’t look like much in the photo, but you have to see the interior and the grounds. It’s an absolute steal for a million two. You could flip it in a year and double your investment.”

“Wow. When can we look at it?”

“How about tomorrow?”

I wondered if Lily had any more Chanels up her sleeve.

“That works for me,” I said. “What time?”

Maggie opened her briefcase and took out her iPhone. “I’m free at noon,” she said. “We can tour the house and then discuss it over lunch.”

After we finished our drinks Maggie drove me back to Millennium and we shook hands again before parting. Her grip was even more aggressive that it had been earlier in the day, and she showed me some teeth when she smiled. She leaned in a little, still holding onto my hand, and said she was looking forward to seeing me tomorrow. Maybe she was feeling the vodka.

I ducked around the corner and watched her cross the parking lot to the office. Then I went back and checked her license plate. It was personalized. S CROW. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t noticed it before.

I hiked the block to my BMW, locked myself in the car, and breathed a deep sigh of relief. I wasn’t used to dealing with killers one-on-one. In fact I’d only had one prior investigation that compared, when I’d unmasked a multiple murderer while interviewing the victim’s friends and family members. I was almost a statistic before I even knew what was happening.

When I arrived home I slipped out of Lily’s suit and carefully hung it in the stateroom locker. Then I grabbed a Guinness Stout from the fridge and called Bill. I caught him still at work. I told him I had an appointment to look at another house and have lunch with Maggie the next day. Although he didn’t approve, as a concession he said it sounded harmless enough. We talked about getting together over the weekend, unless he caught a case. That meant I’d need to get more of my regular restaurant and bar surveys done during the week.

I paged Jack, and finished my Guinness while I waited for him to call me back. I was just dozing off on the settee when the phone rang.

“Hunter Investigations,” I answered automatically.

“How’d it go? Did she sell you anything?”

“Hi, Jack.” I pulled myself into a sitting position. “Not yet, but we’re looking at a property in Atherton tomorrow, then we’re having lunch. Is there any chance you could sneak those videotapes out of the house and copy them while I keep her occupied?”

He was quiet for a moment. “Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” he said. “What time are you meeting her?”

“At noon.”

“So you’ll be through with lunch no earlier than what, two? That should give me enough time. Her cleaning woman comes in on Wednesday mornings, but she’s usually gone by twelve.”

“You really do your homework don’t you?”

“Let’s not talk about this on the phone. Have you had dinner?”

“No. But I need to take care of some of my regular clients tonight,” I sighed.

“I’ll get take-out. Do you like pizza?”

“Sausage and mushrooms. But I can’t. I have to work.”

“See you in an hour.”

“Wait. When you get here you’ll have to call me to come let you in. The gates are locked.”

Jack chuckled and hung up without saying goodbye. I wondered what was so funny, and then I remembered that he was a professional burglar. It probably wouldn’t take him more than a minute to figure out that the marina gates are accessed with magnetic key cards. He wouldn’t be able to pick that lock. I smiled.

I grabbed a towel, my shower bag, and the Chanel suit.

Chapter 10

Maggie had avoided taking a lover close to home since Holly, the first woman she had seduced, when she was in college. Holly had never been with a woman before. Destroying someone else’s innocence, as hers had been destroyed, was incredibly arousing for Maggie. She had reveled in Holly’s astonishment at being taken forcefully by another woman.

Afterwards the rage had taken hold of her and she had grabbed the first weapon she could find, a pair of scissors. She hadn’t been prepared for her reaction, or for the bloodbath, but she had gotten herself under control and cleaned up the mess. The difficult part was remembering everything she’d touched.

She had placed Holly’s body in a bathtub filled with hot water and added bleach, which she also used to clean every surface in the apartment, not finishing until after 4:00 a.m. The cleaning had calmed her. It was like doing penance. The police never even questioned her. She hadn’t been a friend of Holly’s, only a classmate.

Maggie found herself fiercely attracted to Nicoli Sinclair. The botched liaison in Atlanta had left her feeling unfulfilled, and eager for relief. She wondered if Nicoli had resented her late husband’s ‘libido’ because she preferred the touch of a woman. She had definitely felt a spark between them. She hoped it hadn’t been her imagination, her own desperation transmitting a message to her brain.

Tomorrow they would tour the Atherton property and Maggie would suggest lunch at her home in Woodside. A bottle of wine later, she would know more.

Chapter 11

D’Artagnon was out on deck when I passed his boat on my way to Lily’s. I stopped to scratch behind his ears and reminded him what a good dog he was. Though I was fond of all the marina dogs and considered them my personal friends, D’Artagnon had a special place in my heart, even before he saved my life. He’d recently developed a limp, and although he was only six years old I suspected arthritis. At least that’s what I told myself. It worried me some. Hip dysplasia is also common in large dogs, but I knew Kirk, his owner, was conscientious about taking care of the boy. I ruffled his ears one last time and moved on.

When Lily answered my knock, I held the suit aloft with a smile and she invited me aboard.

“You want me to have this dry cleaned?”

“Did you sweat a lot?” she asked.

“I don’t know, I was pretty nervous.” I sniffed the suit and handed it to her. “Could I possibly borrow something else for tomorrow?”

Lily replaced the Chanel in its garment bag, and we looked over the contents of her closet together. We decided on a sleeveless, red Jil Sander dress with simple lines. I tried it on. It fit well enough and I could probably wear the black Stuart Weitzman pumps with it.

After showering I dressed in a clean pair of cargo shorts and a white short-sleeved shirt. I know white doesn’t go well with pizza, but for some reason, after spending time with Maggie, I needed to wear something that made me feel virtuous. The white shirt was the closest I could come to that objective.

I tidied up the boat, opened a few portholes to air the place out, and sat back to wait for Jack. After a few minutes I felt the boat rock gently and there was a knock on the pilothouse door.

“How did you get in the gate?” I asked, as I pushed the door open. “How did you know which boat was mine, and why didn’t D’Artagnon bark at you?”

Jack smiled behind his sunglasses and handed me the pizza box before walking past me and backing down the steps into the galley.

“I asked a red-headed pixie which boat was yours,” he said. “And the answers to your other two questions are trade secrets.”

“You met Elizabeth?”

“Is that her name? She’s charming.”

“The trawler on the right at the bottom of the companionway?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Elizabeth.” I’d be getting a call later. “Sit down,” I said, gesturing toward the galley settee. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Absolutely.”

Jack took off his sunglasses and surveyed the interior of my home while I checked the fridge.

“I have Guinness Stout, spring water, diet root beer, and I think I’ve got some Irish whiskey around here somewhere.”

“What was that last thing you said?”

“Irish whiskey?”

“Ah,” he sighed.

I located the bottle of Jameson under the sink and poured Jack a double shot. Then I grabbed myself a Stout and set out some paper plates. I sat across from him at the galley table and inhaled the aroma of the pizza. I love pizza, but salty greasy foods are not on my diet, so I require an excuse to eat them.

“Nice boat,” Jack said, downing the whiskey.

“Thanks. You want another?”

“No, thank you. So what did you learn today?”

I took a bite of pizza before answering, chewed, savored, and swallowed.

“I learned that Maggie Sectio is a very intense individual, she has an extremely firm dry handshake, and she’s a low pressure salesperson, in spite of her forceful personality.”

“You judge people by their handshakes?”

“I pay attention to the handshake.” Handshake, eye contact, body language, all the subtle nuances of nonverbal communication.

“What makes you think she’s low pressure?”

“I told her I liked the Los Altos house and she still insisted on showing me the one in Atherton tomorrow.”

I got up to grab some more paper towels.

“She insisted?”

The alarm in Jack’s voice stopped me in my tracks. “Yeah, kind of. She said I shouldn’t make a decision after seeing only one property. We stopped for drinks and she showed me pictures of some other houses. I asked her which one she would choose, and she said the one in Atherton. It wasn’t much to look at, so I asked her why. She said the grounds and the interior were outstanding and that the price was ridiculously low. It’s only a million two.” I snorted. I couldn’t help it. “I guess that’s a good price for any property in Atherton. I agreed to look at it tomorrow and she suggested we have lunch afterward.”

“Where?”

“Where what?” I asked. “Where lunch?”

Jack nodded.

“I don’t know. What’s the problem?”

“Maybe nothing,” he said.

“You sure you don’t want anything else to drink?”

He shook his head. “So you said you liked the house in Los Altos. Did you talk price?”

“I asked her what she thought the owners would accept.”

“And?”

“And she said they’d gotten themselves in the hole building it, and they’d probably take five million five hundred thousand.”

“But she steered you toward another property, for a lot less money.”

“I told you she was low pressure. Maybe this is part of her strategy. Maybe the house in Atherton is a dog and she thinks after looking at it I’ll be thrilled to pay five and a half million for the one in Los Altos. I don’t know.”

Even I wasn’t convinced by my explanation, but I pushed the anxiety aside.

Jack was silent. I drank some Guinness and returned my attention to the pizza.

“You don’t want to be alone with her, Nicoli. Maybe I should follow you, just to be safe.”

“Please call me Nikki,” I said. I actually reserve that privilege for friends, but I was growing fond of Jack, in spite of his profession.

“You can’t be in two places at once,” I said. “I need you to copy those tapes. There’s a high speed dubbing service on Middlefield.”

I wiped my hands on a paper towel and fished the card for the dubbing service out of my Rolodex. I have an old fashioned Rolodex on board the boat, an address book on my smartphone, an application on my computer with the same address book and calendar features as the smartphone, and yes, I have control issues. I wrote the dubbing service address and phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Jack.

“If you call them in advance they can probably schedule the job and copy the tapes while you wait.”

“Fine,” he said grudgingly. “Will you let your friend the cop know what you’re doing?”

I nodded. “I’ll take my own car tomorrow, and when I know where we’re going for lunch I’ll give Bill a call and tell him. Will that make you feel better?”

“It will,” he said. “When you see the videos you’ll understand why this makes me nervous. Page me when you get to the restaurant tomorrow, so I’ll know how much time I have.”

“Sure, no problem.”

We ate more pizza, but the conversation lagged and finally Jack set his napkin on top of his plate and said, “I should go.”

As he walked toward the steps I caught a glimpse of the logo on his pager. I followed him up on deck and when we were outside he turned and put his hands on my shoulders.

“Please be careful, Nikki,” he said softly, looking into my eyes, and then he stepped off the boat.

My heart fluttered in my chest. I thought of Bill and how well we were getting along. I almost never date more than one guy at a time. Besides, I didn’t want to get involved with a professional criminal, but holy cow this guy had sex appeal. I went back inside and bit into another slice of pizza. While I was pondering what I was getting myself into with Maggie, the phone rang. I swallowed before answering.

“His name is Jack McGuire and he’s a client,” I said, without preamble.

“What?” said Bill.

Shit. “Sorry. I was expecting a call from Elizabeth.”

“So who’s Jack McGuire and why are you telling Elizabeth about him?”

“He’s just a client she saw me with today. You know how nosy she is.”

“Uh-huh,” he said.

“What’s up?”

“I’m just getting off work and I thought you might want to have dinner. I could pick up a pizza.”

“Pizza sounds great,” I said, casting a guilty glance at the half empty box on my galley counter. “But I have to work. Sorry.”

“Sausage and mushroom?”

“You know that’s my favorite, but seriously, I need to do a couple of restaurant and bar surveys.”

“Okay. Maybe I’ll see you this weekend.”

We disconnected moments later, and as I dressed to go out I thought about my relationship with Bill. I haven’t had the best of luck with men—just ask my three ex-husbands—but Bill was intelligent, funny, kindhearted, and easy on the eyes, plus I really enjoyed spending time with him. Who was I trying to convince, anyway?

I snatched up the pizza box and stuffed it in a garbage bag along with my empty Guinness bottle, grabbed my shoulder bag and made a dash for the dumpster. The phone started ringing again as I was sprinting away from my boat. I stopped to give D’Artagnon a few bites of sausage and cheese, and then continued toward the gate. I heard Elizabeth calling my name before I made it halfway up the ramp.

Elizabeth and I met not long after I moved aboard my boat. I was doing laundry one night and saw her sitting out on her dock steps with her cat, K.C., which is short for “Killer Cat.” He’s a beautiful big ball of orange fluff. I was immediately enchanted with the kitty and introduced myself to Elizabeth, because it would have been rude to ignore her while I was mooning over her cat. Elizabeth is just over five feet tall and weighs about a hundred pounds. She’s thirty-three years old, but looks closer to twenty-three, with strawberry blonde hair, a dusting of freckles over her nose, hazel eyes, and dimples. She’s divorced and childless, as am I. We’d bonded quickly, which was uncommon for both of us.

“Hey, I was just calling you!” she shouted at my retreating posterior.

“Be right back,” I yelled, holding up an index finger in the universal one minute sign.

I slammed out the gate and power-walked to the dumpster. When I came back down the companionway, Elizabeth was perched on her dock steps, sipping her customary Kahlua, vodka, and milk through a straw. She twinkled at me.

“What?” I asked, sitting down next to her.

“Who’s the hunk?” she said.

“Which one?” I asked, knowing perfectly well who she meant.

“Red hair, mirrored sunglasses, muscular physique, pizza box. Who is he? Spill!”

“Oh, you mean Jack. He’s a client.”

“Since when do you entertain clients on your boat?”

She had me there.

“He wanted to talk over the case and neither of us had eaten.”

“What’s the case about? Lily told me you borrowed her black Chanel and her red Jil Sander.”

Elizabeth and Lily have been friends since high school. They’re so close, in fact, that when Elizabeth decided to move from Louisiana to California for college, Lily followed.

“There are no secrets in this marina,” I complained half-heartedly. “You know I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation.”

Elizabeth made a face that translated to who do you think you’re kidding? In truth, I discuss all my interesting cases with her. She’s my sounding board.

“Okay,” I said. “But you can’t say anything to anybody.”

“No problem.” She held up her right hand in a pseudo pledge.

“Jack has stumbled onto some tapes of a woman killing her lovers,” I whispered.

Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open. “Oh my God. What does he expect you to do?”

“Find a way to get the evidence to the police, so she can be stopped before she kills again.”

“Wait a minute,” she said. “How did Jack stumble onto these tapes? Videotapes, I assume?”

“Yes. He was in her house without her knowledge.”

“I see. And how are you supposed to arrange for the police to find them?”

“That’s kind of the problem.”

Elizabeth took a sip of her drink and tilted her head to one side. “What if the police pursued a criminal onto her property? Would that constitute probable cause for a search of the house?”

This is why I discuss my cases with Elizabeth.

“A search of the premises maybe, but not of the locked cabinet that contains the videotapes, unless the criminal they were pursuing was two feet tall.”

“What if she was accused of stealing something? Where does she work?”

“She’s a real estate agent. Not a popular profession for embezzlers, as far as I know.”

“I’ll give it some thought.”

“You do that. I’ve gotta go do a couple of surveys.”

“Okay, sweetie. How’s Bill, by the way?”

“Bill is excellent,” I said, giving her a peck on the cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

I stopped at the office to pick up some blank survey forms, which I sometimes use when I’m working. I like to make note of any significant details while they’re still fresh in my mind.

Chapter 12

My first stop was a seafood restaurant on University Avenue in Palo Alto. Since it was a weeknight, the place wasn’t quite as packed as it might have been. Still, there was a short line at the hostess desk, so after leaving my name I said I’d wait in the bar. This would give me a chance to complete the bar survey before dining. I found an empty stool and cast my glance around at the other patrons before checking out the two bartenders on duty.

My heart skipped a beat when I spotted the man just two stools down on my right. His name was Blake Curtis, and I’d been instrumental in his termination from one of my clients’ restaurants, plus I’d been paid to participate in the termination interview. Even though the authorities hadn’t been involved, it had only been a few weeks ago, and I have a memorable face, especially with the gunshot stippling on my temple.

Since I was working, and my work requires a high degree of anonymity, now would not be a good time for a confrontation. I turned away from Blake, which caused me to face the man sitting on my left instead. He was a decent looking guy in his fifties, dressed in what I like to call gangster chic. He wore a black sharkskin suit, a red shirt unbuttoned halfway down his somewhat hairy chest, and two heavy gold chains. His shoes were highly-shined black leather loafers. As he noticed my attention to his wardrobe a smarmy smile spread over his face. Luckily one of the bartenders chose that moment to intervene.

“What can I get you?” he asked, placing a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“I’d like a Campari and soda and a menu, please.”

“Coming right up.”

The guy on my left leaned a little closer and whispered, “On the wagon?” his Scotch-infused breath making my eyes water.

“Nope,” I said, “On a diet.” I gave him a dim version of my fuck off smile, and glanced in the mirror behind the bar. The hostess was standing behind Blake, her hand resting on his shoulder. She said something, and he turned to face her, then hopped off his stool. She placed his drink on a tray and escorted him to a table in the back of the restaurant. I breathed a sigh of relief. I could do the dinner survey at the bar and be out the door before Blake finished his entrée.

The bartender returned and served my drink, then handed me a dinner menu.

“Can I order from you?” I asked, glancing at the salads listed. I’d need something that didn’t take long to prepare.

“Absolutely.”

“Excellent. I’ll have the spinach and oyster salad. Dressing on the side.”

“Good choice.” He smiled, collected the menu, and walked to the end of the bar, where a waitress was loading her drink tray. Leaning over the bar he got her attention, pointed at me, and then at the selection I’d made on the menu. She nodded and sped away with her loaded tray.

The hostess approached the man seated on my left, and he spun on his stool, giving me a head-to-toe once over. “Why don’t you join me at my table, honey?”

I cringed inwardly, smiled outwardly, and said, “That’s awfully sweet of you, but I think I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.” He shrugged and sauntered away.

As he followed the hostess out of the bar I muttered, “Enjoy your dinner, asshole.”

The guy directly to my right, who I’d failed to notice before, burst out laughing. I blushed, realizing he’d overheard my snide comment.

“Sorry,” I said.

“Don’t worry about it. He did seem like kind of a prick.” He held out his hand. “I’m Aaron.”

I shook his hand and found myself looking into an amused pair of gorgeous brown eyes. “Nicoli,” I said.

His handshake was firm, and slightly damp from the beer bottle he’d been holding.

Aaron was not what you’d call classically handsome. His nose appeared to have been broken at some time in the past, his hair was dark, well cut, and artfully tousled. He was about five-ten and maybe a hundred and seventy pounds. Not muscular, but not soft either. He was dressed in khakis and a Hawaiian shirt with a design of toucans on the front.

“Nice shirt,” I said.

“Thanks. I got it at Hilo Hattie’s on Maui.”

The bartender delivered my salad with a proper place setting and put a small pitcher of dressing on the bar. I settled in to enjoy the sautéed oysters before even tasting the greens. They were just hot enough, and melted in my mouth. I groaned softly with the first bite and Aaron turned to watch me. I sensed the motion, even though my eyes were closed with pleasure.

“That must be some salad,” he commented, his voice slightly husky.

I opened my eyes and smiled. “Oysters,” I said. “I love oysters.”

The salad was divine, the bartender professional, and Aaron’s flirtations innocuous. As surveys went, this was a pretty good one. The customers were a jovial bunch, for the most part, and the employees were both competent and friendly.

After paying my tab and leaving a tip for both the bartender and the waitress, I slipped off my stool and glanced around, making sure Blake wasn’t in the immediate vicinity. I didn’t see him anywhere, so I slung my bag over my shoulder and moved toward the door.

Aaron hopped off his stool and reached for my arm, stopping just before making physical contact. “Walk you to your car?”

“No thanks, but it was nice meeting you, Aaron.”

“Likewise, Nicoli. I hope I see you here again sometime. Next oyster salad is on me.” And he winked. What a charmer.

I was walking to my car, planning to jot down some notes before moving down the block to my next survey, when I heard someone running up behind me. As I turned I felt a large hand grip my shoulder, and then I was face to face with Blake Curtis.

“You bitch!” he hissed, spraying my head and chest with saliva. His face was red and his breathing was heavy from the run. He increased the pressure on my shoulder, and I winced.

“Let go, Blake. You’re hurting me.”

“I’m hurting you? You fucking got me fired!” he raged.

Clearly more than a little drunk, Blake must have seen me leaving the restaurant and decided there was no time like the present for revenge. I lifted my keychain canister of defense spray to get his attention, then grabbed his right thumb with my other hand, and twisted it backwards toward his wrist, effectively releasing his grip from my shoulder.

“You were stealing from your employer,” I said. “You got yourself fired.”

“Everything okay here?” Blake and I spun around simultaneously and found Aaron a few yards away, approaching rapidly. “You all right, Nicoli?”

“I’m fine,” I said, watching Blake to see how he would respond to the interruption.

Blake shrugged his shoulders, took two steps back, still cradling his wounded thumb, and said, “My mistake. Thought she was someone else.” He nodded at Aaron and shuffled away.

Aaron and I both watched until he’d returned to the restaurant. Obviously he’d been in such a hurry to catch up with me that he’d neglected to pay his tab. The hostess was waiting outside the restaurant, watching the three of us suspiciously, but seemed satisfied with Blake’s return, because she followed him back inside.

As Aaron turned to face me, I pulled out a pack of American Spirit Organics and lit up. He raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. I waited him out.

“I saw that guy charge out the door right after you left,” he said. “Seemed kind of odd, so I decided to follow him to see what he was up to. Do you know him?”

“Not really.” It’s best to keep your explanations to yourself when you make your living doing covert surveillance. “I appreciate your concern, Aaron, but I really am fine.”

“You certainly are,” he said, giving me an appraising look. He backed up a few steps, an amused half-smile on his face. “Take care of yourself, Nicoli.”

I made it the rest of the way to my car without incident, locked myself inside, and summarized the bar and dinner survey on one of my short forms. I’d type the full report for my client in the morning.

By the time I’d finished my last survey of the night it was almost eleven. I was exhausted when I got home, but I decided to give Bill a call. I knew he’d still be up. The man is a night-owl.

I dialed his home number and turned on the speaker so I could talk and wash dishes at the same time. I was washing Jack’s whiskey glass when Bill picked up. Too late I realized that I’d just removed any fingerprints he might have left behind. Jack wasn’t the person I was investigating, but I was curious about him.

“Shit,” I said, setting the glass in the dish drainer.

“Hello to you too,” said Bill.

“Sorry about that. Paper cut.”

“Uh-huh. How’s the new case going?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “If the videotapes turn out to be real, how am I going to arrange for the Sheriff’s Department to find them without causing the evidence to be inadmissible?”

“Technically we shouldn’t even be discussing it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t bust my chops, Nikki. I’m a cop. If I don’t follow the rules the case gets thrown out of court and the bad guy goes free.”

“Bad girl,” I reminded him.

“Whatever,” he grumbled.

“So I can’t even talk to you about it?”

“Only in terms of what you’re doing. We can’t discuss the alleged videotapes.”

“Fine. I’m going to look at a house in Atherton tomorrow and then I’m having lunch with the real estate agent. I’ll call you when I know where we’re going to eat. Can you check a license plate number for me?”

He groaned.

I told him the letters of Maggie’s personalized plates, and he silently copied them down.

“Hey, Bill?”

“Yeah?”

“I really appreciate your help.”

“Be careful, Nikki,” he said brusquely, and disconnected without another word.

I knew Bill was pissed about the license plate thing, but I needed Maggie’s drivers license or social security number. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked, but the DMV was the shortest route to that data. It seemed like my work was always coming between us one way or another.

Chapter 13

On Wednesday morning I was up before the alarm went off. I made coffee and filled a 20-ounce thermal mug, then headed for the gym. I’ve been a member of the Redwood City Athletic Club since I moved aboard the boat. It’s right around the corner from the marina. They open at 5:00 a.m. and close at 9:00 p.m. I’d rather belong to a gym that’s open twenty-four hours, but I’m hooked by the location. Besides, I like the people who workout there.

I hit the treadmill for thirty minutes, used all the Nautilus equipment, and finally the free weights. When I was done most of the previous night’s indulgence had been exorcised, but I spent an additional thirty minutes on the StairMaster anyway, as atonement for the pizza. I showered at the gym and drove home, where I changed into Lily’s red Jil Sander.

I was at the office by 8:30. I called the local PageNet store and asked if they had a pager registered to a Jack McGuire. The receptionist put me on hold, then came back on the line and said she had twelve McGuires listed, but no Jack. I told her the pager had been rented yesterday morning between 9:00 and 10:00, and asked who would have handled the transaction.

“That would be me,” she said.

I described Jack to her and she recalled him at once.

“He is hot. But his name isn’t McGuire. Hold on a minute, I’ve still got the paperwork. Here it is. His name is Mel Overton.”

I made a note. “Can you give me the mailing address on the form?”

“No, I can’t,” she said. “Client confidentiality and all that, but I can tell you it’s a P.O. box.”

I thanked her and hung up. Mel Overton. I looked at the name for a minute and wondered if the initials were significant. M.O. He had probably known I’d check with the pager company. I wrote Jack McGuire on the same page, and then Margaret Sectio. There was something odd about Maggie’s last name. What nationality would that be? She looked English, or maybe Irish with her creamy white skin, gray eyes, and dark hair.

I turned on my new laptop and navigated the Windows program, which I had equipped with a multilingual dictionary and thesaurus. I typed Sectio and selected tools and thesaurus. It was Latin. Sectio: the action of cutting or severing as in surgery; dissection; division; separation; castration. Yikes!

I spent the rest of the morning typing restaurant and bar surveys for my regular clients. I printed the reports along with invoices and envelopes, and walked across the street to the mailbox. While I was doing all this my mind kept returning to the Maggie Sectio dilemma. I was apprehensive about spending time alone with her in a deserted house again, but equally anxious to see the tapes Jack would have copied for me by the end of the day.

Bill called just as I was leaving for Millennium. He’d run Maggie’s plates, and the real estate office was listed as the owner of her Lincoln. Not surprising. I already knew that Maggie had no criminal history, but I still wanted to run a full background on her. Maybe her financial history would tell me something useful. I could just ask Bill for her driver’s license number. I knew he’d have it after checking her for priors, but I felt that would be pushing the boundaries of our friendship too far. I didn’t want him to feel used. I thanked Bill for the info and reminded him I’d be calling when I knew where Maggie and I were having lunch.

I took El Camino Real through Atherton into Menlo Park. It was about eighty degrees outside, and the sky was dappled with fluffy white clouds. There was a hint that fall was on its way in the changing color of the leaves.

I parked in the Millennium lot, and Maggie met me in the lobby. Today she looked elegant in a sleeveless Saint John Colorblock dress in navy, pearl gray, white, and black. I’d priced them on a recent visit to Neiman Marcus. They were a little out of my range.

I told Maggie I’d be following her in my own car today because I had a hair appointment in the afternoon. We drove north on El Camino and made a left turn just past Menlo College.

The neighborhood wasn’t what I’d expected, considering Atherton’s reputation. For one thing it seemed dark. There were massive oak trees lining the street on both sides, effectively blocking out the sun, and there were no sidewalks. Almost all of the houses had gated fences or walls shielding them from the public.

Halfway down the block Maggie slowed, and I recognized the house in the photo. It was set back from the street and protected only by a four-foot-high chain link fence. The gate across the driveway was open. This property clearly did not afford the privacy I had told Maggie I was looking for in a home, which seemed to confirm that she had an ulterior motive for bringing me here. I went on alert, reaching into my bag to make sure the Ruger was easily accessible.

I followed her down the driveway and we parked in front of the two-car garage. She had been right about the grounds. They were beautifully landscaped. The path from the driveway to the front porch was bordered by tree roses, and the side yard contained a vast bed of irises and peonies that had probably been grown in a hothouse and recently transplanted. Still, it was a nice touch.

Maggie opened the lockbox, secured the key, and pushed the front door open. The foyer was unremarkable, but you could see straight through to the back of the house where sliding glass doors offered a view of the backyard and an Olympic-size swimming pool. I walked directly back.

The yard was mid-sized, simply but tastefully landscaped, and enclosed by a solid wall of cypress at least ten feet tall. Absolute privacy. I had mixed feelings about that.

Maggie showed me around the interior of the house. It was devoid of furniture, although in the living room and library the hardwood floors were covered with what appeared to be authentic Persian rugs. I wondered if they were included in the asking price. Probably not.

The kitchen floor was blond ceramic tile and the room looked like it had been designed for a professional chef. It had every modern convenience and a lot of preparation space, but it lacked the warmth of the kitchen in the Los Altos house. Upstairs we explored three bedrooms and three bathrooms, including the master suite. We ended our tour in the backyard, poolside. Overall it didn’t hold a candle to the Los Altos property, unless you liked to swim, which I don’t.

“It’s nice,” I began, “and I’m sure it’s a bargain, but I’m still leaning toward the house in Los Altos.”

“I can understand that,” she said. “I just couldn’t let you make a decision without seeing this place. Do you swim?”

“Not often.”

I lit a cigarette and looked around for an ashtray. Maggie went back into the house, returning with a lead crystal ashtray that looked more like a piece of art than a nicotine repository.

“Thank you,” I said. “It’s almost too pretty to soil.”

“It’s just an ashtray.” She shrugged. “I have more pictures to show you at home. I was thinking I’d make us lunch and you can look over the other listings while I’m cooking.”

I tried to ignore the clenching sensation in my gut. Always a mistake.

“Sounds great,” I said. “Where do you live?”

“Woodside. It’s not far.”

I remembered Jack’s warning about being alone with Maggie, but I’d been alone with her yesterday, and I was alone with her now. I stubbed out my cigarette and reached into my purse for my keys, brushing my fingers over the Ruger again to reassure myself.

On the way to Woodside I called Bill and got his voicemail. As I was leaving a message an alarm went off in my head as I remembered Jack was going back for the tapes. Crap! I glanced at my watch. It was 1:30. He was probably at the dubbing service by now. I’d have to think of a way to get Maggie back out of the house after lunch. I disconnected after leaving Bill a message, and my phone immediately rang.

“Sorry. I was reaching for the receiver when you bounced into my voicemail,” said Bill.

“I’m having lunch with Maggie at her home in Woodside. We’re on our way there now, so it’s too late to give me a lecture about taking unnecessary risks. Do you still have the address?”

“Yes. Are you armed?”

“I’ve got the Ruger and my defense spray.”

“Call me when you leave. If I’m not at my desk, call my cell.”

He sounded worried, and I wasn’t exactly thrilled myself. Maggie could just as easily have put the pictures she wanted to show me in her briefcase and brought them to a restaurant. I wondered what she had in mind. I felt my stomach clench again and thought about paging Jack, but I couldn’t risk having him call me while I was with Maggie.

When we arrived at the Woodside estate I followed her down the dirt road and parked behind her Lincoln, making sure my car was visible from the driveway. I hoped Jack hadn’t left any evidence that he’d been here.

As we approached the front of the house, I casually commented on the lack of a garage. I couldn’t help being curious.

“When the house was originally built, it had a detached garage,” she said, pointing over her shoulder at the smaller of the two cottages. “The original owners decided to convert it into a guest cottage.”

We entered through the front door and Maggie escorted me into the living room. She placed a pile of photo listings on the coffee table in front of me. There was already an ashtray on the table.

“Would you like a glass of wine?” she asked. “Or maybe a cocktail?”

“No thanks.”

Her face registered disappointment, but she recovered quickly. “I won’t be long,” she said. “Feel free to smoke if you want to.”

She was doing her best to make me feel relaxed. Instead I felt like I might end up as the main course. I lit a cigarette and picked up the stack of listings. Maybe I could rush lunch in order to check out another property, but it would have to be something comparable to the house in Los Altos. Toward the bottom of the pile I found an estate occupying 2.6 acres in Hillsborough. My eyes dropped to the price: $8,200,000.00. That oughta do it.

I put out my cigarette and went looking for Maggie. I found the kitchen by way of the family room. On my way through I spotted the cabinet under the entertainment center. It was closed and appeared to be locked.

When I entered the kitchen, Maggie was arranging jumbo prawns on beds of butter lettuce. She looked up and smiled. “Find something you like?”

“This estate in Hillsborough looks heavenly,” I said, holding up the picture. “And I’ve always wanted to live in Hillsborough. Any chance we can look at it after lunch?”

“I have another appointment at four,” she said.

“Just a quick look. Please.”

Maggie’s expression transformed to that of an indulgent parent. “Okay,” she said. “Just a quick tour. You want wine with lunch?”

I asked for water and saw the look of disappointment cross her face again. Was she hoping to get me drunk?

We ate at the kitchen island. The greens were crisp and the salad dressing was delicious. She’s placed a crystal dish of spicy cocktail sauce in the center of each plate. I finished mine off in no time, but Maggie ate slowly and deliberately. I watched her lick the sauce off one of her prawns, her eyes fixed on mine. I’d seen that look before, but usually on a more masculine face. I fumbled my water glass, accidentally splashing some onto my lap.

“Oops,” I said, jumping up.

Maggie grabbed a dishtowel and started dabbing at the area where I’d spilled the water. I stepped back. I didn’t want to offend her, but I was unprepared for the experience of having a homicidal maniac pat at my crotch with a towel.

“Have you got a hair dryer?” I asked.

“Upstairs in the master bath. I’ll show you.” Her cheeks were flushed.

“That’s okay. You finish your lunch. I’ll be right back.”

“Top of the stairs and straight ahead,” she murmured, sounding a little breathless.

I grabbed my purse and found my way back to the front hall, where the stairs led up to the second story. I took the steps two at a time, located the master suite, proceeded into the bathroom, and locked the door behind me. The hair dryer was in a cabinet under the sink. I turned it on and directed it at the wet spot on Lily’s Jil Sander while I riffled the medicine cabinet and the drawers. There was nothing surprising anywhere in the bathroom, but I did note the absence of anything related to birth control. When my dress was dry I rejoined Maggie in the kitchen.

“Ready to go?” I asked.

Maggie was standing at the sink with both the water and the garbage disposal running. Her head was bowed, her chin resting on her chest. She didn’t respond. Maybe she hadn’t heard me. She almost looked like she was dozing.

“Maggie?”

When she didn’t respond I walked to the counter. As I was reaching out to touch her shoulder her head jerked up, and I almost jumped out of my shoes.

“I’ll just be a minute,” she said.

Okay, now I was in a Hitchcock movie. I remembered reading in one of my psych magazines that people with dissociative identity disorder sometimes experience fugue states. It’s a coping mechanism. The mind takes a vacation and the body sort of goes along, leaving gaps of minutes or even hours where the subject can’t remember what took place. I took a deep, calming breath.

Maggie put the plates in the dishwasher and turned to face me.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wait until tomorrow to see the estate, when we can take our time?”

“Let’s just take a quick look around,” I said. “If I like it, we can go back tomorrow.”

When we were on the road again, in our separate cars, I called Jack’s pager, hoping he would call me back before we got to Hillsborough. We took the Highway 92 exit off 280 and drove down to Alameda de las Pulgas, where we made a left. At the end of Alameda we took a right on Crystal Springs Road. After a couple of blocks we turned left again. Just as we were pulling up to a private driveway my smartphone rang.

“Great timing,” I answered.

Maggie was entering a combination on a digital panel at the security gates.

“Where are you?” Jack sounded agitated.

“We’re at a house in Hillsborough. Did you get the tapes?” I whispered. Even though Maggie was two car-lengths away with her back to me, I was afraid she’d hear me.

“Yes, but when I came back…”

“I know,” I interrupted. “There wasn’t time to warn you. Did you have them copied?”

“Yes.”

“Great. We’ll be here at least thirty minutes. Does that give you enough time to return the originals?”

“Plenty.”

“I’ll be back at the office by four. Meet me there and bring the copies.”

I disconnected and tossed the phone into my purse. The gates slid open and we continued down the private driveway. My infatuation with the property in Los Altos dimmed as I took in the vision before me. The house was a two-story brick Tudor with a dome-shaped stained-glass window above the front door and keystone arches over the windows. It made me think of a cathedral, except that it was welcoming rather than imposing. Flowerbeds lined the driveway and continued around the house, and a one-story cottage appeared to be attached to the main structure on the right.

Maggie and I made a quick circuit of the house and grounds, just enough to whet my appetite, and I fell in love. When I’d told Maggie I had always wanted to live in Hillsborough I hadn’t been lying. It had been one of my childhood fantasies.

At 3:40 we walked back to the driveway.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“I love it. I want to know everything about it. Do you have any information about its history? When it was built and by whom? Details about previous owners? Can you get your hands on the original blueprints?”

“I can probably dig up some information if you’re interested. Why don’t you meet me here tomorrow at one.”

“Great,” I said, without thinking. “I’ll see you then.”

Back in my car I followed Maggie out to the street. I waved as I drove away, and she stopped to key in the sequence to close the gates.

I speed dialed Bill on my cell.

“Anderson.”

“You need to get out more,” I said.

“How’d it go?”

“Lunch was scary, but I found a darling little estate in Hillsborough you can pick up for a song.”

“What do you mean, scary?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m letting my imagination get the better of me.”

“That’s not much of a stretch.”

“Bite me.”

“Are you working late again tonight?”

“Probably. I’ll talk to you later.”

Chapter 14

I raced back to the marina, arriving a few minutes after 4:00, and found Jack loitering outside my office, holding a large brown paper shopping bag in his right hand.

“Have you looked at them?” I asked.

“No. I thought I’d wait for you.”

I unlocked the door and when we were inside locked it again behind us, then closed all the blinds. I rolled my TV cart out from the kitchen, plugged everything in, and turned the console so it was facing away from the front doors, which have glass panes and no blinds. While I was doing all this I babbled excitedly about the house in Hillsborough and told Jack that I was meeting Maggie there tomorrow.

He placed a stack of five videocassette boxes on my desk.

“Are these in any kind of order?” I asked, looking them over. I felt my enthusiasm draining away. I was almost afraid to touch them.

“The originals were dated,” he said, “so I had the guys at the dubbing service label them with the dates. I waited while they did the job. There’s no way they can view what they’re copying. It’s strictly VCR-to-VCR. No monitors.”

“Well, pick a date and let’s see what we’ve got here.”

Jack looked at the tapes and selected the third video in the stack. He handed it to me, and I inserted it in the VCR, turned on the TV, and sat down behind my desk. There was a long leader on the tape, and then suddenly we were watching two women having sex. One of the women was Maggie and the other woman was dark-haired, fair-skinned, and petite. She looked like a slightly younger version of Maggie, without the oversized breasts.

I lit a cigarette. Nicotine is a first-rate drug if you’re interested in bottling-up your emotions. Jack glanced over at me and withdrew the Turkish Ovals from his shirt pocket.

The air in the office was dense with smoke by the time we got to the portion of the video we were waiting for. After both women appeared to have climaxed, Maggie reached over the edge of the bed beyond the range of the camera and came back with a knife clutched in her hand. It had a curved blade about four inches long and what looked like a trigger guard. I’d never seen anything like it. She rolled back to her lover, took hold of the woman’s hair, holding her in place, and swiftly cut her throat.

I sucked in some air and Jack nodded without turning away from the screen. “It gets worse,” he said.

The woman convulsed as life abandoned her body. When she was still, Maggie put on a pair of surgical gloves and crouched over her face. Using the same weapon, she methodically removed several parts of her lover, the knife now oddly converted into a bloody pair of scissors. Then she leaned over the side of the bed again and came back with a large zip-lock-bag into which she deposited the various pieces of the dead woman.

I grabbed the remote control and hit the pause button, ran into the bathroom, and heaved shrimp salad into the toilet. When I’d emptied my stomach, I brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face before returning to the front office.

“Are you okay?” Jack asked.

“Oh hell no.”

I guess I hadn’t believed it was real until I’d seen it for myself. Maggie Sectio was a monster. One minute she was caressing her companion and the next she was dissecting her. I had not been conditioned by years of watching movies and television. The real thing, even on tape, was horrifying beyond comprehension.

I lit another cigarette and clicked the pause button again.

As the tape resumed, Maggie produced a dust-buster and thoroughly vacuumed the sheets and the victim’s body. After vacuuming she left the room and we heard water running. When she returned, her hair was wet and the blood spatter that had covered her hands and torso was gone. She was carrying a tub of Clorox wipes. After putting on a fresh pair of surgical gloves, she went through the ritual of wiping every surface she had touched, both in the room and on the body. She was very thorough. When she was finished she got dressed and approached the camera, and the screen went blank.

I pressed the stop button on the remote and rewound the tape.

“I don’t know how much more of this I can take,” I said. “Were the tapes you already watched this bad?”

“The first one only showed the murder, none of the preliminaries. The second was similar to this one.”

“And on both of those she did the same thing … after?”

“Yes.”

“Jesus,” I whispered.

I unlocked my Pendaflex drawer and extracted a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. “You want a drink?”

“Please.”

Jack rubbed his eyes as though he wanted to disengage himself from the memory of what we had just seen.

I shuffled numbly into the kitchenette and came back with two clean coffee mugs, poured us each a shot, and handed one to Jack. I don’t drink a lot of hard liquor, but I keep a bottle in the office for times when I find reality too hard to handle. This was definitely one of those times.

Jack and I watched the other four videos together. I needed to see them all. I kept hoping there would be some indication that the whole thing was a hoax, but there wasn’t.

By 7:30 my eyes were burning from the smoke in the office and I was a little tipsy. I rewound the last tape and placed it in its box. I silently unplugged the power strip and rolled the TV cart back into the kitchenette.

I made a fresh pot of coffee, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts.

While the coffee was brewing I put the five video boxes back in the paper bag and set the bag underneath my desk. Leaving the blinds closed, I slid open a couple of the windows, to let some of the smoke out.

“You want coffee?” I asked.

“No thanks. I should go.”

“Okay if I keep the tapes?”

“Absolutely,” he said. “I never want to see them again. Do what you think is best.” His voice was flat.

Jack looked defeated and completely unlike his usual self as he walked out of the office. I relocked the door behind him, poured a cup of coffee, and sat down at my desk. No way was I doing any bar or restaurant surveys tonight.

The open windows made me feel vulnerable and the smoke was clearing, so I got up and closed them again. Then I sat drinking coffee and trying to think. I was probably in shock, but somewhere between the first and the fifth videotapes I had made a silent pledge to the murdered women. I drank the whole pot of coffee, and a plan began to form.

Chapter 15

I decided to show a couple of the tapes to Bill. I knew there was nothing he could do because of how they had been obtained, and I remembered him saying we shouldn’t even discuss the tapes, but I needed him to be fully aware of what, and who, I was up against. Then I would have to get Maggie to reveal herself. There was only one way I could think of to do that, and thinking about it brought on another wave of nausea. I swallowed hard, trying not to let the fear get the best of me.

I rinsed out the cups and the coffeepot, picked up the sack of tapes and my purse, turned off the lights, and looked around outside to make sure I was alone before unlocking the door.

As I was walking down the companionway I saw that Elizabeth’s lights were on. I knocked on the deck of her trawler and waited, my heart pounding in my throat. There was a chance she’d have the good sense to refuse to assist me in my quest to stop Maggie. The door slid open and Elizabeth appeared, dressed in gray leggings and an oversized tee shirt.

“Hi, sweetie! Come on in,” she said. “What’s in the bag? Is that Lily’s Jil Sander?”

“Videotapes,” I said, “and yes, it is.” I climbed the dock steps and went inside, closing the door behind me.

“What’s wrong?”

Elizabeth doesn’t miss a thing.

“I need a favor,” I said. “A big one.”

“Okay. You want wine?”

“No thanks.”

“Sit down.”

I sat and K.C. climbed onto my lap. I stroked his long orange fur and found the warmth of his body and his muffled purr comforting. Elizabeth poured herself a glass of white wine and curled her feet underneath her on the settee, looking at me expectantly.

“You know that case I told you about?” I began.

“Yes.” There was apprehension in her voice. She wrinkled her nose and said, “You reek of cigarette smoke.”

“I know. Sorry. These are tapes of the killings.” I set the bag on the settee between us.

Elizabeth leaned over, peering into the bag. “Do I get to see?”

“If you really want to. But not right now. I just watched all of them and I couldn’t stand to go though that again just yet.”

“So what’s the favor?” she asked.

“I’m going to look at a house in Hillsborough tomorrow with the woman on the tapes. She’s a real estate agent.”

“That sounds dangerous.”

“It is. I want you to come with me.”

“Okay. I’ve got tons of vacation time coming.”

“That’s not all,” I continued. “You and I need to pretend we’re lovers.”

Elizabeth smiled hesitantly. She thought I was kidding. “What?” she said.

“She’s a lesbian. She has sex with women and then she kills and dismembers them. Bill can’t tell the Sheriff’s Department about what’s on the tapes because they were obtained illegally. I’ll have to catch her in the act, so I need to convince her that I’m also a lesbian, or at least bisexual. That’s where you come in. I’ll introduce you as my friend, and while we’re looking at the house we can give her a few subtle hints that we’re, um … intimate.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Holding hands, maybe a kiss.”

Elizabeth sipped her wine. “I don’t know, Nikki. What if you like it? This could permanently change the nature of our relationship. What should I wear?”

Relief washed over me. “I don’t even know what I’m going to wear. I’m afraid to impose any further on Lily. Maybe we should just go casual.”

“What time?”

“We’re meeting her in Hillsborough at one.”

“So we have time to go shopping.”

Elizabeth loves to shop.

“Call me when you get up,” I said.

I left the videotapes with Elizabeth, instructing her to lock the door behind me so no one could inadvertently interrupt her while she was watching them, and stumbled the rest of the way to my boat.

My answering machine was blinking when I got home. I pressed the play button and Bill’s deep voice resonated through the speaker.

“It’s seven-fifteen and I’m off duty. I thought if you weren’t working tonight, you might want to get together.”

I looked at the time. It was only 8:33. It felt much later. I picked up the phone and dialed his home number.

“Anderson,” he answered.

“It’s me. I just got your message. You still want to get together?”

He did, and God knows I needed the company. I showered and slipped into jeans and a tee shirt, then walked back to Elizabeth’s trawler and knocked on her door.

After several seconds, she said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Nikki.”

She opened the door a crack. “You almost gave me a heart attack,” she said. “ I was just watching the first tape. What’s up?”

“I need to borrow a couple of those to show Bill.”

“Okay.” She pushed the door the rest of the way open. “Which ones do you want?”

All five tapes were out on the galley counter. The box with the earliest date was empty. I chose the two most recent videos.

Walking back to my boat I realized I hadn’t eaten since lunch, which I had tossed in the office toilet. I inventoried the contents of my small galley fridge: salad ingredients, cottage cheese, a three-ounce can of tuna, applesauce, and a jar of organic almond butter. I mixed the tuna, some applesauce, and a teaspoon of the almond butter together on a paper plate and wolfed it down. A perfect Zone meal. I could make Bill a salad if he was hungry. After flossing and brushing my teeth I tidied up the boat a little, hung up Lily’s dress, and reclined on the settee to wait for Bill. He had his own gate key, so I wouldn’t need to let him in.

At 9:25 I heard a knock and jerked awake. I staggered aft and opened the hatch, barely giving Bill a chance to get down the steps before I threw my arms around him.

“Hey,” he muttered into my hair. “I’m glad to see you too. Rough day?”

“Yes. Have you had dinner?” I asked.

“I had a burger and fries at my desk.”

“That stuff will kill you, you know.”

We walked into the main salon and sat down, still intertwined. I wondered if I should seduce him before I showed him the tapes.

“What are these?” he asked, picking up one of the boxes.

Too late.

“Copies of two of the videotapes of the alleged homicides,” I said. “You want something to drink? How ‘bout a beer?”

I stepped into the galley and opened two bottles of Guinness.

“Are you going to play these for me, or do I have to get rough with you?”

“Both,” I said, and sat down on his lap.

The beer was warm when we came out of the stateroom half an hour later.

“So what about these tapes,” Bill said.

I plugged one of the cassettes into my VCR/DVD player and said, “I hope you’ve digested that burger. This is pretty gruesome.”

“You’ve watched them already?”

“All five of them,” I said.

“I won’t even ask how you got them. Where are the other three?”

“Elizabeth has them. She’s helping me with the case and I want her to know what she’s getting herself into.”

I pushed the play button.

When the first tape was finished, Bill drained his Guinness bottle and asked if I had anything stronger. I fished the Irish whiskey out from under the sink and poured him a shot.

After the second tape he turned off the TV and just sat there staring at the blank screen.

“You can’t get involved in this, Nikki,” he said.

“I already am. We have to catch her in the act.”

“And just how are we going to do that?” he asked pointedly.

“I’m glad you asked that question. One of us is going to have sex with her.”

“What?” he shouted. “Are you out of your fucking mind? This woman is a cold-blooded killer.”

“I don’t see any other way to stop her.”

“You haven’t thought this through. You’re straight. How do you expect to have sex with a woman, especially this woman, and not freak out when she touches you?”

“I did some acting in high school. I was pretty good, in fact,” I said defensively. “Besides, everybody’s bisexual to some extent.”

“Okay, suppose you make it through the sex and she pulls that knife on you. What’s your brilliant plan at that point?”

“My plan is to reach into my purse and take out the Ruger,” I snapped.

“And what if she’s faster than you are?”

“I’m going to do this, Bill. We know she tapes these killings, so there’ll be a camera somewhere in the room. When you arrest her for attempting to butcher me, you can get a warrant to search her house and find the original videotapes. It’s the only way to stop her before she kills again. She’s a multinational listings agent. She sells homes all over the world. There’s no way to follow her wherever she goes just in case she takes another lover. If you’re concerned about my safety, I’ll let you know when and where it’s going to happen, and you can plant a listening device in my purse or something.”

“I can’t let you risk your life trying to stop this maniac.”

“I don’t want to fight,” I said quietly. “Life is too short.”

“Maybe shorter than you think,” he said. “Please, Nikki. I’ve gotten used to you.”

Clearly not a romantic man, but the sentiment was there just the same.

“I’ll be careful. I promise.”

Chapter 16

I finally drifted off around 6:00 a.m., and was rudely awakened by the ringing phone at 8:00. I picked up the extension by the bed, expecting Elizabeth.

“Morning,” I said.

“Did I wake you?” It was Jack.

“No,” I grumbled, “I had to get up to answer the phone anyway.”

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, unperturbed by my snarky attitude. “I’m not sure you should be alone with her today.”

“I won’t be. Elizabeth is coming with me.”

“The pixie with the red hair?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Does she know?”

“What?”

“You need coffee.”

“I do,” I said.

“You’re meeting her at noon?”

“One o’clock, in Hillsborough.”

“Can I buy you and Elizabeth dinner tonight?”

“Sure. I’ll page you this afternoon to discuss logistics. And bring money, I’ve used up your advance.”

I hung up the phone, washed my face, and made coffee, squinting at the sunlight streaming through the portholes while I waited for it to brew. I was drinking my first cup when the phone rang again.

“Good morning,” Elizabeth said cheerfully. “Interesting movies you loaned me last night. Are you ready to go shopping?”

“The stores don’t open until ten and I need to shower. Where are we going?” I asked.

“Nordstrom is having a sale,” she said. “When will you be ready?”

“Nine forty-five.”

“Okay, honey. I’ll see you then.”

I finished my coffee, showered, and dressed in my usual summer uniform of cargo shorts and a short-sleeved cotton shirt. I tucked the two videotapes and my Stuart Weitzman pumps into a shopping bag and filled my pockets with dog biscuits. On my way down the dock I inhaled the pungent fragrance of low tide. Some people think low tide smells like dead barnacles and seaweed. To me it smells like home.

After communing with D’Artagnon and feeding him some of the biscuits, for which I received multiple kisses, I walked the rest of the way to Elizabeth’s trawler. She was sitting on her dock steps. As I approached, she reached inside the boat and brought out the bag of videotapes. I added my two tapes to the bag and we walked up to my office, where I locked them in the wall safe.

I glanced at the schedule on my desktop and grimaced. I was getting behind on my bar and restaurant surveys. I needed more hours in the day, or maybe a quantum formula for expanding time.

Nordstrom was indeed having a sale. I purchased a pair of rust-colored wool gabardine slacks and a cream-colored silk tank. I also bought a pair of Amalfi sandals and a matching briefcase tote. All of this would be on Jack’s tab, of course.

Elizabeth selected a yellow and lavender sundress and a pair of size four-and-a-half plum-colored espadrilles. She insisted on paying for these items herself. Sometimes her ethics confound me. I explained to her that because we were buying the clothes for a job, the client should pay. She insisted that since she intended to keep the outfit after the job was finished, and she would have bought them even if we weren’t doing this particular job together, then she should pay. She did, however, agree to let me pay her for her time that afternoon.

We went to the cosmetics department and I used the testers to put on eye shadow, mascara, blush, and lip gloss. I know it isn’t sanitary, but after a sleepless night I really needed some color. Elizabeth doesn’t wear make-up, so she just watched.

We were finished shopping by 12:40 and made the drive to Hillsborough in plenty of time for our appointment. When we arrived I realized I’d found the estate without even thinking about how to get there. In my early twenties, I’d rented an apartment in San Mateo and worked in Millbrae. Hillsborough was the shortest route between the two locations. I’d probably driven past this address hundreds of times without ever noticing it.

The gates were already open and Maggie’s Lincoln was parked in front of the house. Elizabeth’s jaw dropped as we cruised down the long driveway.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

“I know,” I said.

We parked behind Maggie’s car and sat for a moment.

“Are you ready to do this?” I asked.

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We got out of the car and approached the threshold. I knocked on the door, waited a few moments, and tried the knob. It was unlocked. We went inside and heard a grinding noise coming from the direction of the kitchen, so we followed the sound. When we entered the room Maggie was standing over one of the sinks. She flipped a switch and the grinding stopped.

“Hi, Maggie,” I said.

Her head snapped up and for an instant she looked like a trapped animal, positively feral. Then her face resumed its normal composure. It reminded me of the day before, in Maggie’s kitchen, when I’d witnessed a similar psycho moment.

“Hello, Nicoli. I was just checking the garbage disposal. Everything seems to be working.” She turned off the running water.

“This is my friend Elizabeth,” I said, “I wanted to get her opinion before making a decision about the property.”

They looked each other over and shook hands.

Elizabeth said, “Hi.”

“A pleasure,” said Maggie, and returned her attention to me. “I’ve got some of the information you requested.”

She moved to the massive granite center island and unrolled a set of blueprints.

“The house was built in 1955. The original owners lived here until ten years ago, when the husband passed away. The wife died three months later in an assisted living facility. They left the house to their children, both of whom live out of state with their families. They just put it on the market last month.”

As she spoke she removed cooking utensils from a drawer and weighed down the corners of the documents, so they wouldn’t curl.

“The children retained the couple who took care of the house and grounds for their parents. They live in the little cottage attached to the south wing, and they’re prepared for visitors, so we can look that over today as well.”

I studied the blueprints. Seven thousand square feet of luxurious living space. I counted nine rooms on the second floor and seven on the first. There was also a finished basement and a wine cellar, a pool in the backyard, an outdoor spa, and a three-car garage. The previous day we had walked quickly through the kitchen, living room, and master suite. Today we would take our time.

The kitchen was extravagant, and had obviously been remodeled since the house was built. It was a chef’s dream, but the varnished natural wood cabinets and the mahogany-colored tile floor added an inviting warmth. Above the center island, where the blueprints were currently displayed, was a hanging rack filled with an array of copper-bottom pots and pans. Two walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets. I love glass-fronted cabinets. Near the windows facing the front yard was a maple breakfast bar with four matching high-backed stools. I wanted to have my morning coffee sitting on one of those stools, gazing out at the lush grounds. I wanted to open the windows and listen to the birds singing outside. God help me, I wanted to live in this house.

After touring the first floor we took the stairs to the second and entered the master suite. Elizabeth reached for my hand. Maggie was looking through a pair of French doors that opened onto a deck, her back to us.

“Do you like it?” I asked Elizabeth.

“Honey, I love it.” She stood on tiptoe and gave me a quick kiss on the lips just as Maggie turned to face us. The timing was perfect. I blushed and released Elizabeth’s hand, and Maggie smiled benevolently.

“Wait till you see the master bath,” Maggie said.

Like the house we’d toured in Los Altos, the master bathroom was enormous, and, yes, it also had a bidet. We gathered around the oversized green marble tub, with jets of course, which was mounted in a lustrous teak frame nestled in a bay window alcove overlooking the backyard. You could take a leisurely bubble bath while sipping a glass of wine and admiring the spectacular grounds. I couldn’t help envisioning myself in that fantasy. There was a spacious shower stall on the other side of the room, a skylight overhead, and the requisite two sinks. You get the picture… undisguised yet comfortable opulence.

Elizabeth bent over to examine something. “Heated towel bars?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Maggie. “The tile flooring is also heated.”

We walked back through the bedroom and out onto the deck. Elizabeth leaned up against me and I slid my arm around her waist as we stood facing the yard. I caught sight of a tree fort that had been built in one of the majestic old oaks and pointed it out to her. She gasped and clapped her hands in delight.

“This is the most amazing house I’ve ever seen,” she said, turning to face me, her eyes twinkling. “I think you should buy it, Nikki,” she whispered, and rested her head on my shoulder. I stifled a nervous laugh.

We toured the other upstairs rooms, and then the attached three-car garage, the basement, and the wine cellar. We strolled outside and circled the house, walking clockwise through the front, side, and back yards and spent some time in the pool area, before continuing around to the front of the house.

According to the blueprints, the caretakers’ cottage was joined to the main house by a door located in the kitchen, but we approached from the outside and knocked.

The door was answered by a round, rosy-cheeked, white-haired woman with a ready smile. She greeted us like family, ushering us into her home, which was filled with the aroma of baking bread.

Maggie introduced us. The woman’s name was Ilsa Richter. Her husband, Joachim, was seated at the kitchen table. He stood as we entered. He was not as robust as his wife, but he looked sturdy enough, and his posture was perfect.

Maggie explained to the Richters that I might be interested in acquiring the property.

“You would love it here,” Ilsa burbled happily, as she checked her oven. “Would you like some coffee?”

Maggie smiled thinly and shook her head, saying we just wanted a quick look at the cottage, and Ilsa’s face fell.

“I’d love a cup,” I said, turning to Elizabeth who normally doesn’t drink coffee.

“Just half a cup for me,” Elizabeth said, seating herself next to Joachim. “Did you build that tree fort in the backyard?” she asked him.

He nodded proudly. “For the children. When they were young.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

Joachim nodded again and gave her a soft smile, and Ilsa beamed.

Maggie grudgingly joined Elizabeth at the table. I couldn’t resist going over to the oven and peaking in at the bread Ilsa was baking. The aroma was intoxicating.

“It’s almost done,” she said, handing me a cup. “Would you like a slice?”

I hadn’t had breakfast, but it was obvious Maggie was impatient with this little ritual, so I compromised. “I’d really appreciate a piece to take with me, if that’s all right.”

Ilsa had automatically added heavy cream and sugar to everyone’s coffee. It was rich and wonderfully strong with just a hint of nutmeg. Coffee with cream and sugar always reminds me of my dad. When I was a kid he’d advised me to learn to drink my coffee black. When he made this suggestion I was too young to drink coffee, but he told me a time would come when I wouldn’t be able to afford cream and sugar. It was his way of preparing me for life’s disappointments. Comments like that instilled a profound fear of poverty in me, which I haven’t quite outgrown. I think it’s one of the reasons I take restaurant and bar employee surveillance jobs that bore me most of the time, but pay the rent. When I was old enough to begin drinking coffee, I loaded it with sugar and half & half. More recently I’ve begun using lactose-free reduced-fat milk and no sweetener.

After we finished our coffee, Ilsa took us through each immaculate room of her home. It was a lovely cottage, surrounded, like the rest of the structure, with flowerbeds. Before we left, she sliced and wrapped half of the fresh loaf of bread, squeezing my hand affectionately as she gave it to me.

“I hope you do buy the estate,” she whispered. “You are a good person.”

It made me feel warm all over and guilty at the same time. “Thank you, Ilsa,” I said. “You’re a wonderful hostess.”

Outside in the driveway I asked Elizabeth to wait in the car, saying I wanted a minute to talk business. I stood a little closer to Maggie than was comfortable for me and asked, “What’s the bottom line on this property?”

“They’re asking eight million two and they’re in no hurry to sell,” she said. “Why don’t we offer seven nine and see what they say? They probably won’t go that low, but it gives us a starting point. You don’t want to seem too anxious.”

“Okay. Let’s do it,” I said. “When should I check back with you?” Even though this was all a charade, I felt the thrill of anticipation.

“Tomorrow afternoon,” she said.

We shook hands and, once again, I was impressed by Maggie’s strength. She held onto my hand for a moment, and I didn’t pull away.

Chapter 17

Elizabeth and I were silent until we’d made the turn onto Crystal Springs Road. I think we were both afraid that from a lesser distance Maggie might overhear us.

“Wow,” said Elizabeth. “She’s intense. What happens now?”

“We call Jack and find out where we’re having dinner. Did I tell you Jack’s taking us to dinner tonight? I hope you’re free. I got the feeling the invitation was intended more for you than for me.”

“Really?” She bounced in her seat. “He’s single, right?”

“I haven’t asked. No ring, though. No jewelry of any kind, unless you count the money clip.”

“Money clips aren’t jewelry. I’d love to have dinner with you and Jack. How old is he, do you think?”

“I don’t know. Early thirties?”

“As long as he’s a consenting adult.”

Elizabeth doesn’t date much, not because she doesn’t get offers, but because she’s extremely discriminating. Even though she found Jack attractive, I knew from past observation that he would have to jump through a number of hoops before being allowed near her bed.

“Has Maggie asked you for any credit information?”

“Not yet. I was wondering about that.”

“Have you given her any of your phone numbers, an address, your driver’s license number, anything she could use to run a credit report?”

“No.”

“Maybe her judgment is clouded by your overwhelming sexual magnetism.”

“That’s probably it,” I said, but my gut told me Elizabeth was right. How could Maggie take me seriously as a client if she didn’t even bother to validate my qualifications?

I rolled down my window and lit a cigarette, hoping the smoke wouldn’t bother Elizabeth.

When we arrived back at the office I paged Jack while Elizabeth used the bathroom. My phone rang almost as soon as I’d replaced the hand set. The display told me the number was unknown.

“Hunter Investigations,” I answered.

“It’s Jack.”

“Hi. What time is dinner? I’m starving already.”

“You like Italian?”

I looked over at Elizabeth, who had just come out of the bathroom. “Italian okay?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she said.

“Italian’s good. What time?”

“Six. I’ll pick you up at your office.”

Holy shit, he was going to let me see his car. I wondered if he’d rent one just for tonight so I wouldn’t be able to trace his plates.

“We’ll be ready,” I said.

“Are you going to tell me how it went today?”

“I’ll tell you over dinner.” I hung up the phone and looked at Elizabeth, who was grinning impishly. “Six o’clock,” I said. “He’ll pick us up here.”

She looked at her watch. “That gives me almost three hours to get ready. Perfect. What are you going to do?”

“I have to type up a report for Jack, then I’m going to take a nap. I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Good idea. You look tired. I’ll meet you back here a little before six.”

I turned on the computer and gathered up all my receipts. When I’d finished detailing the expense report, I printed two copies, photocopied the receipts, and stapled everything together, then began the task of chronicling my recent activities and conclusions. Of course the only actual evidence against Maggie had been supplied by Jack himself.

I wondered idly as I was typing, just what he had to gain from this. Professional burglars are seldom altruistic. There had to be something. The possibility remained that the videotapes had been altered. Having sex with Maggie was still the only way I could think of to find out, with any level of certainty, if she was a killer. I shuddered and finished the report. I printed two copies, locked one in my Pendaflex drawer, and shut down the computer.

After locking the office I ambled down to my boat, stripped off my new clothes, and collapsed. As an afterthought, I set my alarm for 5:00 p.m.

Chapter 18

In my nightmare Maggie and I were making out in the windowless chauffeur’s quarters of the Los Altos house. There was no color in the dream. Everything was in black, white, or shades of gray. When Maggie rolled away from me on the bed I reached for my purse and the Ruger, but they weren’t where I’d left them. She rolled back toward me with the scissor-knife thing in her hand, already raising the weapon. I woke up gasping and flailing at an unseen attacker. The Dream Machine on my headboard whirred and acoustic guitar music began playing softly. I shut it off with a trembling hand. It was 5:00 p.m., and I was having dinner with Jack and Elizabeth at 6:00.

“Shit,” I whispered.

I put on shorts, a tee shirt, and my boat shoes, stuffed a towel into my shower bag, and trudged up to the marina facilities, which are a hundred and twenty-five yards from my slip. It’s a bit of a walk, but the water pressure onboard my boat leaves something to be desired and after that horrific dream, I felt like I needed a thorough cleansing. I stopped along the way to visit with D’Artagnon. As I stroked his ears I wondered why people couldn’t be more like dogs, loyal, trusting, and forgiving.

After my shower I felt better, although the shadow of the dream was still with me. I dressed in the same outfit I’d worn earlier, scrunched some gel into my damp hair, and put on fresh mascara and lip gloss.

I met Elizabeth at her boat and we walked up to the office together. It was 5:50. I sat down at my desk and stuffed the report and the invoice I’d printed for Jack into an envelope. The glossy photo of the Hillsborough house caught my eye and I picked it up.

“I wish I could afford to buy it,” Elizabeth said wistfully, looking over my shoulder. “Isn’t it just dreamy?”

Elizabeth was wearing a floral print dress that showed off her figure while remaining virtuous in its overall effect. Her strawberry blonde hair was worn down and she’d done something with a curling iron to make it look wavy.

“It really is,” I said.

“What are you two looking at?”

Elizabeth and I spun toward the voice, startled. Jack stood halfway between the doorway and my desk. He’d entered the office and closed the door behind him, never making a sound. I hadn’t even felt a change in the air pressure. How the hell did he do that? I handed him the picture of the estate.

“This is the place we looked at today.”

Jack took the photo and removed his sunglasses. I watched Elizabeth take in his eyes. There was something undeniably feline about this guy. Elizabeth glanced at his features briefly, then moved in beside him to get a better look at the picture and to insinuate herself into his space.

“Isn’t it gorgeous?” she sighed. “You should see the kitchen. Oh, and there’s a tree fort in the backyard.”

Jack allowed his gaze to drift from the picture to Elizabeth. A slow, deliberate grin spread across his face. Elizabeth saw the look, blushed, and took a step back.

“It’s lovely,” said Jack, still looking at Elizabeth.

I cleared my throat so they wouldn’t forget I was there. “Dinner?”

After a moment’s hesitation, they both turned to look at me.

“Right,” said Jack, handing back the photo of the house. “Our reservations are for six-thirty.”

I gave him the envelope containing the report and the invoice, and he glanced inside. He removed the expense sheet, reached into his pocket, and brought out his money clip. He peeled off several hundred-dollar bills, causing Elizabeth’s eyes to widen slightly, and placed the money on my desk. I counted it, wrote out a receipt, and stuffed the cash in my wallet.

“Thank you,” I said.

We locked up the office and walked out to the parking lot together. I was anxious to memorize the plates on Jack’s vehicle. Imagine my surprise when he pointed his key fob at a brand new BMW 7 Series. It was black and shiny and still had the dealership logo instead of license plates. I gave him a look.

“What?” Jack said, feigning innocence.

“You are smooth,” I said. “I’ll give you that.”

“Wow,” Elizabeth exclaimed.

Jack opened the rear passenger door and I climbed inside. I assumed they would prefer to be alone in the front seat so they could explore the chemistry that was flowing unrestrained between them.

Chapter 19

Maggie savored the feeling of urgency as she planned her seduction of Nicoli Sinclair. She imagined touching and being touched by Nicoli. There was a connection between them. She was certain of it. She’d seen it in Nicoli’s eyes and she’d felt it when they shook hands. Maggie considered waiting until escrow closed on the Hillsborough property, giving them a reason to celebrate, but that could take weeks, even months, and she couldn’t wait that long. It would be enough if she got Nicoli a good price.

Maggie knew she was breaking her first rule of conquest: never soil your own nest. Not to mention her second rule: never allowing her identity to be known in association with one of her lovers. But she urgently needed gratification now, and Nicoli was intensely sexual. The added danger would make it more exciting, she thought, and this woman might even challenge her. She had yet to think of a way to finesse an invitation to Nicoli’s condo. If she couldn’t manage that, she’d also be breaking rule number three. She knew inadequate planning would increase the risk, but just this once she would indulge herself. Nicoli would be worth it.

She called the attorney who was handling the sale of the estate and offered seven million nine. He said he would communicate the offer to the owners and call her back.

Chapter 20

During the short drive to Palo Alto I listened to Jack questioning Elizabeth about her career and what it was like to live aboard a yacht. Her responses were animated and her personality captivating as always, but now I was seeing her through Jack’s eyes. It felt a little voyeuristic, observing this mating ritual from the back seat.

During a lull in the conversation, Elizabeth said, “What do you do for a living, Jack?”

There was a brief pause before he said, “I’m in acquisitions.”

Of course Elizabeth had already figured out what Jack did for a living, but she enjoyed the game.

“Anything specific?” she asked.

Jack glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Commodities,” he said.

We parked in a public lot on Emerson and walked the rest of the way to Toscana’s. Jack held the restaurant door open for Elizabeth and me, then stepped inside behind us. The host, a diminutive man of obvious Italian descent, greeted Jack warmly and escorted us to a table in a small private room. Jack held Elizabeth’s chair for her while the host seated me and placed napkins on our laps, rattling off the evening’s specials. When he had finished he took our drink orders and bowed slightly before departing.

“So,” Jack said, “what happened today?”

I buttered a slice of French bread. “Elizabeth and I pretended to be lovers,” I said, taking a bite. The bread was still warm from the oven and the butter was chilled. I moaned as it melted in my mouth.

Jack turned to Elizabeth. “Maybe you can fill me in.”

Elizabeth laughed. “She hasn’t eaten all day. We toured the house in Hillsborough. When we got to the master bedroom we held hands and kissed, for Maggie’s benefit of course. You really should see this estate, Jack. It’s amazing. The people who built the house passed away ten years ago and their children have just recently decided to sell. It’s maintained by the most adorable old German couple. The wife cooks and cleans and the husband takes care of the landscaping. Maggie’s going to offer seven million nine. She said she’d probably have an answer by tomorrow afternoon.”

A lovely dark-haired cocktail waitress arrived with our drinks. She looked intently at Jack as she served us, but his attention to Elizabeth did not waver. He sipped his Irish whiskey, she sipped her wine, and I ate half a loaf of sourdough French bread. I’d pay for it at the gym tomorrow.

By the time the waiter arrived to take our orders I had memorized the menu.

“I’ll have the Caesar salad and the chicken Parmesan,” I mumbled around a mouthful of bread.

Elizabeth ordered the linguine with clam sauce and the house salad, and Jack ordered the sole. The waiter collected our menus and asked if we wanted wine with dinner. Jack glanced at the wine list and ordered a bottle of Pinot Grigio.

The salads arrived just as I was finishing off the bread. The waiter smiled as he collected the empty basket, and returned moments later with a full one. There was little conversation while we ate, but Jack and Elizabeth frequently stole furtive glances at each other and the sexual tension was palpable.

After dinner Jack shifted back to business.

“What will you do now?” he asked.

“Dinner was great,” I said. “Thank you. I’m hoping Maggie takes the bait and attempts to seduce me and cut my throat on camera. That’s the plan anyway.”

Jack’s mouth dropped open. “Are you out of your mind?” His voice was quiet and controlled, but he looked alarmed.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, “what you’re proposing is suicide. I won’t allow it.”

I looked at Elizabeth. “Did the testosterone level in here just spike, or is it me?” I turned to Jack. “I know you’re the client, but I don’t take orders from my clients. That’s why I’m self-employed. You asked me to find a way to stop this woman and that’s what I’m doing. It’s the only way I can think of, apart from following her everywhere she goes until she kills again. You have the option of firing me if you don’t like the way I’m handling the investigation, but I’m not going to walk away from this no matter what you do.” I placed my napkin on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

I got up and walked away, leaving Jack and Elizabeth in stunned silence. When I came back from the restroom Jack was holding Elizabeth’s hand in both of his and her face was flushed. He looked over at me as I sat down.

“There’s only one way I’ll permit you to take this kind of risk,” he said. “I’ll be there when it happens. I assume you’ll be carrying a gun, but that’s still no guarantee.”

“And how will you know when to intrude?” I asked. “Are you planning to watch?”

“Of course. How else will I know if you’re in danger?”

“Out of the question. I may be able to pretend the camera isn’t there, but no way can I pretend you’re not hiding in the closet or wherever. Thanks for offering, but no.”

“Nikki, be reasonable,” he softened his tone, perhaps hoping I would respond to his considerable charm.

“I’m not known for being reasonable, Jack. I can take care of myself. Besides, my friend the police detective will be nearby. Maybe he’ll even lend me a pair of handcuffs so I don’t have to try to wrestle Maggie into flexi-cuffs or hold her at gunpoint until reinforcements arrive. But you are not going to be there.”

“If anything happens to you…”

“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I interrupted, holding up my hand like a stop sign. “Can we change the subject, please?”

He stared at me for a long moment and then motioned for the check. The waiter appeared and placed a leather folder on the table at Jack’s elbow.

We were all silent during the drive back to the marina. I had spoiled a lovely evening. I felt bad about that, but I knew in my heart that I was right. This was the only way to catch Maggie before she killed again.

Jack parked in the fire lane near our gate. I thanked him for dinner and said I’d page him when I heard from Maggie tomorrow. I left the two of them alone to say goodnight. Elizabeth would give me all the details later anyway.

I strolled down the companionway, thinking about Jack and Elizabeth hooking up. I liked Jack. He was fascinating and charismatic, and he was certainly attractive, but he made his living stealing other people’s property and I was uncomfortable with that. Maybe on the surface it was glamorous, but burglary always causes someone pain. Because of my own checkered past I’m unwilling to cast the first stone, but I still have an opinion.

I wondered if Elizabeth had considered this aspect of his persona, or if she was on autopilot, responding to the hormonal charge between them. Maybe she thought the love of a good woman would turn him around. Of course, the fact that they were attracted to each other didn’t mean they were getting married and starting a family. My mind instantly conjured up an image of red-haired, feline-eyed, elfin children and I smiled in spite of myself.

On board my boat I changed into a sleeveless cotton nightshirt, called Bill and left a voice-mail message saying I was home, then turned on the evening news. Aside from the weather, nothing good was being reported.

Bill called me back at 9:00 and complained some more about my lack of common sense. After a futile attempt to convince him I was a rational adult capable of making my own decisions, we hung up. I switched off the TV and climbed into bed.

Chapter 21

Thursday morning I drove to the bank and deposited most of the cash Jack had given me the night before.

At the office I reviewed my bar and restaurant survey schedule for my regular clients. I needed a few days off from the Sectio case to observe bartenders and food servers. The owner of Michelino’s in San Mateo wanted me to count how many cocktails one of the bartenders drank during his shift. The owner didn’t mind that he was drinking. He just wanted to know how much.

Restaurant and bar surveys are generally tedious work, but on occasion they lead to something more exciting. One night I was surveying a huge country western club in San Jose when I stumbled onto a sideline some of the bartenders had established. I had finished six of the ten cocktail stations, and was taking a much-needed potty break before going to station number seven, when two young women came into the restroom and entered the stall two down from mine. From the snorting sounds, I concluded that this was probably not a romantic liaison. I sat quietly for a few moments, contemplating what to do, and decided I had nothing to lose.

When they came out of their stall I was standing at the mirror applying lip gloss and smiling. They froze when they saw me. Apparently they had assumed they were alone. Neither of them could have been much over twenty-one. Both were slender, wearing jeans, tank tops, and high-heeled cowboy boots. One was blonde and the other a brunette with a dark complexion and a diamond stud in her nose.

I asked them if they knew where I could score. After a brief hesitation, the blonde said I should ask the doorman or the bartender at station nine. I thanked them and finished putting on my lip gloss. We all left the bathroom together. Station nine was right next to the restroom we’d been sharing. I pointed discreetly to one of the bartenders and the blonde nodded.

With very little effort I was able to purchase a dime bag of crank from the bartender. He slipped it to me in a folded cocktail napkin. I made a similar purchase from the doorman. I remember thinking it shouldn’t be this easy.

When I had completed my surveys of the remaining bars and cocktail stations I drove to the office and whipped out an eleven-page report, which I emailed to the owner, calling to confirm that he had received it.

As is often the case, he chose not to press charges. What we did instead was interview the two employees I had the goods on and convince them that if they would rat out their co-conspirators, we would simply fire the lot of them and no one would have to go to jail.

It worked out nicely, although after terminating eight employees the club had to close for almost a week while new bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and a doorman were prescreened, hired, and trained. I was brought in to help with the background checks and interviews in order to avoid a recurrence of the problem.

I’m not especially interested in busting people because they break the law. I’m motivated by my personal interpretation of justice. These drug-dealing employees were jeopardizing my client’s right to run a successful business. If the police had found out what was going on there would have been a full-scale investigation, shutting down the club for months, maybe permanently. That’s not okay with me. People have the right to choose their own path in life, but if their choices interfere with the well-being of one of my clients, then I have the right to stop them.

I called Michelino’s to confirm that the bartender I was supposed to watch would be on duty, and then I called Elizabeth to see if she wanted to come along. She answered on the first ring.

“Hi, sweetie. What’s up?” she asked, sounding even more cheerful than usual.

“I have to go to San Mateo tonight and watch a bartender for a couple of hours. Then I’m planning to squeeze in a couple of dinner surveys. I was wondering if you’d like to come along. Everything’s on the client, as usual.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I have a date.”

“With Jack?” I felt my stomach clench.

“Of course, with Jack.”

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Well, if you get bored with each other’s company, I’ll be at Michelino’s pretending not to watch one of the bartenders until around 8:00.”

“Okay. What time are you calling Maggie?”

“Two o’clock.”

“Let me know what happens with the house.”

“Elizabeth, the house is a fantasy. Even if the owners accept my offer, I don’t have eight million dollars.”

“I know. I’m just curious.”

“Have fun tonight.”

“Count on it!” she chirped.

I walked out to my car and pointed it toward the gym. At the intersection of Veteran’s Boulevard and Convention Way I pulled up behind a young man driving a beige Toyota Camry. It was eighty degrees outside, but he wore a knit cap pulled down over his ears and was slumped low in the driver’s seat. I could feel the bass beat of his stereo. I would have laughed at his choice of vehicles combined with the rap music if it weren’t for his personalized license plate, which read ‘WN2KLLU’. That didn’t strike me as funny. I was relieved when he drove on past the athletic center parking lot.

While I was on the treadmill I imagined various scenarios which might allow me to survive a liaison with Maggie. I could rifle her purse when she wasn’t looking and bag the knife, make an excuse, and escape without having a sexual encounter of the deadly kind. Then I could have the knife tested for traces of dried blood. But how would I prove where I’d gotten it? Maggie’s prints might be on the knife, and then again, they might not. In the videos she had been very thorough about cleaning up.

I could ask Bill to follow us wherever we went, and when the crucial moment arrived he could arrest her, minimizing the risk to me. But how would he explain to the court why he had been there? He could say he was passing by and heard a scream. Of course every time Bill and I were together after that he’d have to deal with the image of me having sex with a woman. Could be worse, but for this scenario to work I would have to scream before Bill appeared on camera so we could use the tape as evidence. I wondered if Maggie had more tapes hidden somewhere, if there were more than five victims. My mind was spinning, and I had a headache from the truckload of carbohydrates I’d consumed the night before.

After using the Nautilus machines and the free weights, I felt better. I showered and drove back to the marina, making a quick stop at The Diving Pelican for a turkey sandwich. I virtuously asked them to use a lettuce leaf on top instead of a second slice of bread and had them leave off the mayo. I took the sandwich to my office, where I ate while going over my notes on the Sectio investigation.

When I finished eating I lit a cigarette and watched the clock. At 2:01 I picked up the photo of the Hillsborough estate, found the phone number at the bottom, and called Millennium. Courtney, the receptionist, answered on the second ring.

“Millennium Properties.” Her voice was almost musical.

“Hi, Courtney. It’s Nicoli Sinclair calling for Maggie.”

“Hi, Nicoli. I’ll put you right through.”

After a moment Maggie picked up. “I have good news and bad news,” she said. “Which do you want first?”

“Give me the bad news first,” I said.

“The bad news is that the owners have another offer, for eight million even. The good news is that I think if we offer to pay the asking price of eight million two, we might have a deal.”

Great. Now I had an ethical dilemma. If someone else was interested in buying the property and I counter-offered, they might withdraw their offer. Meanwhile, I back out of the deal, not actually having the eight million two hundred thousand dollars required, and the owners of the estate are left high and dry. I remembered Maggie saying they weren’t in a hurry to sell, and then I remembered what I had seen on the videotapes.

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

“Fantastic. I’ll need you to fill out a few forms.”

“Can we do that tomorrow?” I asked.

“Absolutely. I’ll see if I can get a response from them by tomorrow night. Then we can have dinner, fill out the paperwork together, and celebrate. Say around seven?”

“Seven is good. Where shall I meet you?”

“I’ll have Courtney reserve a table at the 4290 Bistro,” she said.

The 4290 Bistro is a charming little restaurant, which happens to be part of the Crowne Plaza Hotel complex in Palo Alto.

“I’ll be there,” I said.

I wondered how she planned to register for a room at the Crowne Plaza without later being identified by the desk clerk when my body was found. She could wear a disguise, pay cash, and give false information on the registration card, get the room key, set up the camera, then take off the disguise and meet me for dinner. My imagination was in hyper-drive. I called Bill and asked him to meet me at the marina after 10:00 p.m.

“I need your help,” I said. “I’ll give you the details in person.”

He readily agreed, and I felt guilty because I knew I was seriously complicating his life.

I stumbled down to my boat and took a turkey induced nap.

I got up at 6:00, pulled on a pair of jeans and a periwinkle V-neck sweater, and drove to San Mateo.

Chapter 22

Michelino’s is busy every night of the week. The food is fabulous, the prices are reasonable, the service is prompt, and the atmosphere is friendly. I found a seat at the right hand section of the bar and ordered a Guinness. The bartender I was supposed to watch was Al. He was in his sixties and had a full head of white hair and a lazy, Dean Martin smile. His drink was Gordon’s vodka with fresh squeezed orange juice. I was relieved to be able to focus on something other than Maggie Sectio for the evening, grateful to be doing something normal.

Between 6:45 and 7:45 Al drank two screwdrivers and mixed a third. He flirted with me, but remained attentive to the waitstaff and to the other customers at his end of the bar. At one point he told me he’d been married for forty years. I asked him what his secret was and he said, “We never talk to each other.”

I laughed when he said it, but I’m pretty sure he was serious. He also said he had two sons he wanted me to meet. I told him I was flattered, but involved with someone at the moment. He said I should let him know if that changed, and I promised I would.

By 8:00, Al was working on his fourth screwdriver. He was still enunciating clearly and he was still charming, but his movements were a little slower and he had to think for a moment before recording drink orders on the register. The crowd at the bar was thinning and I was about to head out when I caught a flash of color out of the corner of my eye.

“Excuse me,” said Elizabeth to the man seated on my left. “Would you mind moving down two stools?”

The man grinned as he looked my friend up and down and complied without hesitation. Jack was standing behind Elizabeth, also looking delectable. She sat down next to me.

“Did you talk to your realtor today?”

I nodded. “Someone made a counter offer.”

“Uh-oh. What happens now?”

“We’re offering the asking price,” I said.

“Oh,” said Elizabeth.

“I know,” I said. “Hi, Jack. Where did you two have dinner?”

“We went back to Toscana’s. Elizabeth wanted to try the scaloppini.”

“How was it?” I asked.

“It was unbelievable,” Elizabeth said, rolling her eyes.

Elizabeth is a very sensual person and one of the erotic pleasures she allows herself is eating, which she does with noticeable ardor.

“So, what happens now?” she asked.

“We’re having dinner at the 4290 Bistro tomorrow.”

“At the hotel?”

“Yes,” I said.

Jack’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing.

“Don’t worry, Jack,” I whispered, leaning across Elizabeth. “I’ll be careful.”

He stared back at me, his face a mask of foreboding.

“Does Bill know?” Elizabeth asked.

“I’ll tell him tonight. He’s coming over later.”

After watching Al mix and consume his fifth screwdriver, I paid our tab, collected the receipt, which was accurate, and left a healthy tip. Jack and Elizabeth walked me to my car.

As I drove to SFO to conduct a dinner survey at my least favorite restaurant I considered what I would say to Bill about my upcoming tryst with Maggie. I was worried about how he would react and how it might affect our budding relationship. He’d already seen the videos and he knew what I had in mind, so there was no point in trying to downplay the risk. Best to go with the direct approach.

I parked in the short term lot at the airport and made my way to the concourse leading to what my friend and co-PI Jim Sutherland and I referred to as “The Ptomaine Palace.” I was seated at the counter by a hostess who appeared to be in her late teens and was popping her bubblegum with no concern about unprofessional behavior. Her name tag read “Becky,” and she wore the restaurant’s uniform of a lilac shift and white apron which she’d combined with a pair of neon green and silver Converse high tops.

She handed me the menu and sauntered off to the cashier’s desk, checking her manicure along the way. When my waitress approached the other side of the counter, I requested half a Chef’s Salad with Ranch dressing on the side and a bottled water. She nodded while scribbling on her order pad, then snatched my menu and turned away, having said not one word to me. Charming.

The problem with the Ptomaine Palace, as you’ve probably ascertained from the moniker, was not the wait staff, though they certainly could use some improvement, it was with the expiration date of the cuisine being prepared in the kitchen. Or possibly with the cleanliness of said kitchen. All I can say with any certainty is that both Jim and I had suffered bouts of food poisoning when we’d made menu selections which included anything that could possibly turn. The owner suspected that the chef had been cutting corners by purchasing items past their sell-by date and was doctoring the invoices and skimming the difference.

When my salad arrived, I nibbled at the croutons, ate a couple of lettuce leaves, and picked at a clump of shredded cheddar. I sniffed the ham, turkey, and bacon, and noted the foul odor of meat I wouldn’t serve to my worst enemy’s dog. I downed the bottle of water, and glanced around the establishment to see if anything interesting was going on.

Apart from myself and the kitchen staff, the restaurant was presently deserted. The bubble gum-popping hostess was no longer at her station. I didn’t see her anywhere in the kitchen area, which was visible behind the back counter, and thought perhaps she was on a break. Still, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t check it out. I placed a twenty on the counter next to my napkin, and headed down the short hallway to the restroom.

Before reaching for the knob, I pressed my ear against the door and heard a distinct thumping sound. The restroom was unisex and a one-seater, so assuming the hostess was taking her break with her beau du jour, the door should be locked. Unless, of course, the young couple was into exhibitionism. I turned the handle, and eased the door open far enough to see two pairs of shoes, one pair of shocking pink panties, and a pair of dropped Levis below the only stall door. I recognized the neon sneakers of the hostess. As the rhythm of the thumping against the wall of the stall increased, I reached inside and turned the locking mechanism on the knob and pulled the door closed. I didn’t want any of my client’s patrons walking in on Becky’s little display of affection.

My next stop was a wine bar and restaurant in Redwood City, close to home. I found parking in the shopping center lot, and checked my watch as I hustled inside. I really didn’t want to shortchange my clients, but Bill was going to be at the boat around 10:00, and it was almost 9:00.

I was promptly seated by the hostess, even though I didn’t have a reservation. She asked for my beverage order and left me with a menu. The cuisine in this establishment was never an issue. The food was always perfectly prepared, and the service was flawless. My client was simply one of those rare individuals who wanted to be sure the quality of cuisine and service remained consistent. If I hadn’t needed the regular income, I would have told him to cut my surveys back to once a month.

My server appeared with the iced tea I’d ordered and asked if I wanted to hear tonight’s specials. When she had finished reciting those, from memory I might add, I ordered the Roasted Asparagus Frittata. When she left to place my order, I checked out the other customers. Conversation was sparse, as most of the patrons were happily devouring their meals. I watched the servers, the hostess, and the bartender all performing their duties with smiles that appeared genuine. It was a good thing all my clients didn’t have such dedicated employees, or I’d be out of business.

When my entrée was served, I consumed enough to know it was as good as it looked, then asked for a doggie bag and the check.

Bill was already on board when I got home, sitting in the main salon with his shoes off and his feet up. I left the frittata bag on the galley counter and went in to join him, bending down to give him a kiss. I sensed his displeasure in his almost complete lack of responsiveness, so I pushed his feet off the settee and sat down beside him.

“I’m meeting Maggie for dinner tomorrow at seven,” I said. “At the 4290 Bistro. I was wondering if you could be there around eight, so you can follow us when we leave the restaurant.”

“And do what? You think she’ll take you to a hotel room?” he asked, looking skeptical.

“Maybe. I don’t know. I’d feel better if you were there.”

“I’d feel better if you dropped the case,” he said.

“I know, but that’s not going to happen. So, will you do it?”

“What if she takes you into a room?”

“You could listen at the door until I scream, then break the door down and arrest her.”

“This is insane,” he said, getting up. “This is reckless, and stupid, and dangerous!” He started pacing. There isn’t much room to pace on a sailboat. “What if I can’t break the door down?”

“Then I’ll have to unlock it for you.”

“Is that supposed to be funny? You think this is going to be straightforward, but killers are unpredictable, Nikki, especially when they’re backed into a corner. Most people who’ve committed murder assume that if they’re taken into custody they’ll be convicted. I know it’s a cliché, but no one is more dangerous than a person with nothing to lose. Even if you have your gun drawn she might decide to rush you.” He sat back down and took both of my hands in his. “Have you ever killed anyone?”

“Of course not.”

“Well it sucks. It changes you, Nikki. You’ll never be the same, and it’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. Are you prepared for that?”

“If I don’t see any other choice, I guess I’ll have to be.”

He pulled me close and buried his face in my hair. “Please don’t do this,” he murmured.

I pulled away. “I have to, Bill. You saw the tapes.”

He eventually, though reluctantly, agreed to wait in the lobby outside the restaurant and to follow us wherever we went after dinner.

We made love that night. Afterwards I felt an emptiness settle in the pit of my stomach as though it was there to stay. It felt like we were saying good-bye.

Chapter 23

After Bill left for work I dozed for a while, still too anxious to sleep deeply. The sun forcing its way through my stateroom portlights eventually got me up. I staggered into the galley and started a pot of coffee, extra thick. After two cups I still felt like crap. I put on sweat pants and a tee shirt, and slogged down the dock toward the showers.

Elizabeth and Lily were walking up the companionway together as I approached. I told Lily I was having her Jil Sander dry-cleaned and that I’d bring it back in a few days.

She said, “No hurry,” and continued up the ramp.

Elizabeth stopped, and said, “You look terrible, honey. Go back to bed.”

“I would, but I don’t think I’d be able to sleep.”

After showering I dressed in spandex shorts and a tank top and drove to the gym. I pushed myself to do my usual workout, forcing my muscles to perform when what they really needed was rest. I did an hour on the treadmill, used all the lower body Nautilus equipment, did a hundred abdominal crunches and fifty military pushups, then showered again and drove home to change clothes.

I unlocked the office around 11:00.

Realizing that I was entering into a life-or-death situation with Maggie, I wanted to put my affairs in order. I typed and printed letters to my mom, to Bill, to Elizabeth, to Lily, to my grade-school sweetheart and oldest friend Michael Burke, to my friend and fellow PI Jim Sutherland, and to my cousin Aaron. For good measure, I wrote one to my dad, who had disappeared when I was twenty-four.

In my letters I said all the things I hadn’t previously, but had wanted to, the good and the bad, and I told each of them how much they meant to me. It felt a little bit maudlin, but also surprisingly liberating. I carefully folded each letter, sealed them in addressed envelopes, except the one to my dad, and left them in my out-basket.

I called my insurance agent, Chuck Tewksbury, and asked if he could come by the office with life insurance forms. My mom has an IRA, but I wanted to make sure she would be comfortable when she was ready to retire.

While I was waiting for Chuck to arrive I typed up a will, indicating that Bill was to be my executor. I hadn’t known him that long, but I didn’t think Elizabeth would be up to the task if anything happened to me. I left what little jewelry I owned to my mom, left the boat to Bill, and the BMW to Elizabeth. I volunteered to donate my organs to whoever might need them at the time of my death. I requested that my body be cremated and the ashes scattered at sea. I mentioned the letters in the will, asking Bill to mail them and, should my dad ever surface, to hand-deliver his.

I printed a single copy of the will and took it to the advertising agency next door. After getting two of my neighbors to sign as witnesses, I marched back to my office and placed the will in an envelope with Bill’s name on it. I set it on top of the stack in my out-basket.

Chuck arrived at noon. I had met him years earlier at a Yes concert at the Shoreline Amphitheater, where he was selling tee shirts for the band. I’d asked him how he got into that line of work. He said it was just something he did just for fun, and gave me his business card. I bought two tee shirts and called him the following week to discuss my auto insurance. He’s been my agent ever since. He’s from Louisiana and has that Southern gentleman thing going for him.

Chuck and I decided on a $250,000.00 whole life policy. He asked me at least a hundred questions about my medical history, diet, and alcohol and cigarette consumption, then requested a check for $83.00. That was it. He said the policy would go into effect immediately. When he left I felt ten pounds lighter, just knowing Mom would be taken care of.

At 1:30 I started feeling nauseous. Panic does that to me. I walked over to The Diving Pelican and ordered a Swiss cheese omelet. I ate half and had the rest boxed up. I walked down to my boat, stopping along the way to give D’Artagnon a few bites. I told him how frightened I was about what I was planning to do that evening. He listened attentively, his gaze focused on the to-go box.

I napped fitfully, dreaming horrible things I didn’t want to remember when I woke up. My eyes felt like they had sand in them. I looked through my clothes and decided I would have to make another trip to the mall.

I put on make-up, scrunched up my curls, checked to make sure the Ruger was fully loaded, and tucked a speed loader into my purse, in case five rounds weren’t enough. I also confirmed that my smartphone battery was fully charged.

Macy’s had a nice selection of dresses, but dresses make me feel vulnerable, and I hate that feeling. I ended up at Nordstrom again and settled on a pair of black wool gabardine pleated shorts and a double-breasted bolero jacket with a Mandarin collar. The jacket was $350.00 and the shorts were $129.95 on sale. What did I care? Jack could afford it. Besides, I was risking my life so he could sleep better at night.

I decided to stick with the black Stuart Weitzman pumps. They were comfortable and I have a hard time finding shoes that don’t hurt my feet. The women in my family have big, wide feet. Good for balance, but tough for shoe shopping.

I arrived at the Crowne Plaza at 6:55 and parked in the front lot, so Bill wouldn’t have to search for my car. I didn’t see Maggie’s Lincoln anywhere. My chest felt tight and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. I really didn’t want to do this. I lit a cigarette with trembling hands and smoked it down to the filter.

As I sat there in my car, trying to summon the nerve to take the next step, I couldn’t help looking back over my life. I’d had a miserable childhood and an anguished adolescence. My parents did their best, but the truth is neither of them had what it took to raise an emotionally well adjusted child. Being the daughter of a Cossack and a former nun has its downside, believe me.

They frequently argued about religion. Mom was obsessed with God and Dad was afraid of the Devil. I did well enough in school, and worked my way through college by managing a sizeable cosmetics department. When my ability to spot shoplifting customers came to the attention of my employer I was moved into security, where I excelled and was quickly promoted. Not too long after that, I decided I didn’t want to work for someone else anymore and found my way to Sam Pettigrew, the PI who mentored me until I got my license.

In recent years my life has significantly improved. I enjoy my work and I make a comfortable living, I love my friends, and I think I might be falling for Bill, even though I’ve never told him that. It was as good a time as any to die, but I would not go willingly.

I put out my cigarette and got out of the car before too much thinking could weaken my resolve.

When I entered the restaurant I spotted Maggie seated in the lobby. She rose gracefully, smiled, and strolled over to greet me. She was dressed in navy slacks and a cream colored, translucent blouse. We shook hands. Hers was warm and slightly moist tonight, her grip solid, as always. Mine was a bit clammy.

The hostess seated us at a table near the window and took our drink orders. Once we were alone with our menus, Maggie reached across the table and draped her fingers over my wrist.

“The owners of the Hillsborough property have accepted our offer. The house is as good as yours. I’ll just need a deposit.”

She squeezed my wrist before letting go, and I forced a smile. I picked up my water glass and clinked it against hers.

“Thank you so much, Maggie,” I said. “You’ve made my dreams come true.” I was shooting for enthusiasm, but the words sounded hollow, even to me.

A waiter approached, delivered Maggie’s wine and my Calistoga water, and proceeded to tell us about the specials. Maggie ordered the braised chicken with asparagus and I requested the salad bar.

Over dinner, Maggie asked me about my life. She wanted to know what I had done before I married Bernie, my fictitious deceased husband. I told her I’d been a sculptor. It was something I had fooled around with in high school, so I knew enough about the topic to bullshit my way through casual conversation. I also told her that Bernie had been my third husband, but the only one I had buried.

I asked Maggie if she’d ever been married, and she laughed a little too loudly, then covered my hand with hers and said, “I’ve never met a man I could tolerate for that long.” A definitive statement.

The salad bar at the 4290 Bistro is exceptional, but I didn’t taste a thing that night. Maggie had two glasses of wine with dinner, but I stayed with bottled water. After dinner we both had coffee, and I gave her a check for nine hundred thousand dollars. This is what’s called earnest money. I would ask Jack to cover the check if it came to that, but I figured by the time the check was returned the case would be resolved, one way or the other. Maggie glanced at my check casually, saying nothing about the last name, and tucked it in her briefcase. She probably assumed Hunter had been Bernie’s name, and that I’d gone back to using my maiden name when he died.

“I have champagne chilling at my house,” she said. “I thought you might want to celebrate.”

No mention of the paperwork she had said we’d need to complete. That was a relief, but also disturbing. I didn’t think she could make a formal offer without a contract, and she still didn’t have any financial information about me. The chill down my spine was even colder this time. I could no longer avoid the obvious. She didn’t need the information because there wasn’t going to be a sale.

“I’d love to,” I said, with what I hoped would pass for anticipation. “I’m not sure I can find the turn-off by myself, so I’ll follow you.”

Maggie paid the check. We walked out to the parking lot together, and I stopped beside my Bimmer.

“Where are you parked?” I asked. “I didn’t see your car.”

“It’s over by the Hertz office.” She nodded at my 2002. “Is that your BMW?”

“It is,” I said, unlocking the Bimmer’s driver’s side door.

As soon as I was in my car, I called Bill’s cell. He answered before the second ring.

“Anderson.” He sounded tense.

“We’re going to Maggie’s house in Woodside. Do you still have the address? Where are you? I don’t see you.”

“You’re not supposed to. Yeah, I have the address.”

“If you lose us, it’s the second driveway on the right after you pass the high school. Go to the large house at the bottom of the hill. The master bedroom is on the second floor.”

“Jesus Christ. Be careful, Nikki.”

“I will.”

I spotted Bill’s Mustang pulling out of the lot not far behind me.

As I followed Maggie on El Camino, I stayed focused on the promise I’d made to the five murdered women on the videotapes.

At the intersection of Ravenswood and El Camino Maggie drove through a yellow light and I barely made it through behind her. Bill was two cars back and got stuck. Four blocks later Maggie caught me by surprise and made a left off of El Camino. We were in Atherton. I recognized the street. She pulled into the driveway of the two-story Mediterranean. I pulled in behind her and got out of my car.

“What are we doing here?” I asked as casually as I could manage.

“I left some paperwork here earlier today,” she said. “I just need to pick it up. Why don’t you come in with me? Take a last look at what you’re passing on.”

“Okay,” I said. “Just let me get my purse.” I wasn’t going anywhere without the Ruger.

I got my bag out of the 2002, while Maggie opened the lockbox on the front door and went into the house. When I stepped into the foyer she grabbed my wrist and pulled me inside. She gave the door a swift kick, and before it swung all the way shut she had me pinned against the wall in a lip-lock and was groping under my jacket. My reaction was reflexive. I pushed her away. She looked shocked, and then hurt.

“I’m sorry,” she said backing up. “I thought…”

“Wait,” I gasped. “You just took me by surprise. It’s not that I’m not interested.” I reached out and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “Why don’t we get your paperwork and go back to your place, have some of that champagne?” I made my voice sound seductive. I hoped the Academy was watching.

Maggie seemed to relax. She took my hand and walked toward the back of the house. “The champagne is here,” she said. “I thought it would be more romantic out by the pool. My house is so ordinary, and I want tonight to be memorable.” She gave my hand a squeeze, and my solar plexus convulsed.

Having lost us on El Camino, Bill would now go to the house in Woodside. I was on my own. Just me, the Ruger, and a shit-load of adrenaline. ‘More romantic by the pool.’ I wondered if she planned to dispose of my body in the backyard.

Maggie led me out to the poolside table. “I’ll get the champagne,” she said. “Sit.”

I lit a cigarette and scanned the area, looking for the camera. If it was there I couldn’t see it. Maggie returned with a bottle of Cristal in an ice bucket. She held two champagne flutes and had a pair of bath towels draped over one arm. She set everything on the table and uncorked the champagne. She filled both glasses, handed one to me, and we touched them together.

“To your new life,” she said.

That sounded ominous. I took a sip. It was the best champagne I had ever tasted.

“Champagne usually gives me a headache,” I confessed.

“Just have a little,” she urged. “Then we can take a swim. The pool is heated.”

“Okay,” I said, mentally cringing. I’m really not much of a swimmer.

If we were both in the pool I wouldn’t be able to get to my gun, but she wouldn’t be able to get to her knife either. I’d have to be the first one out. This was getting complicated.

“I need to use the bathroom,” I said, reaching for my purse.

“You remember where it is?” she asked.

“I always remember where the bathroom is.” I gave her a disarming smile and winked, but my legs felt weak as I walked into the house.

Inside the bathroom I locked the door behind me, whipped out my cell, and hit redial.

“Nikki?” Bill sounded frantic.

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“Where the hell are you?”

“We’re at the house in Atherton,” I whispered. “I don’t know the address. It’s on a side street just north of Menlo College. Look for my car in the driveway.”

“You should leave.”

“Just get here, damn it. We’ll be in the backyard by the pool. I’ll stall her as long as I can.”

I disconnected without saying good-bye and immediately regretted it. It might be the last time I ever spoke with Bill. I considered calling him back, but I was feeling anxious about leaving Maggie alone for too long. If I aroused her suspicions now it would all have been for nothing and more innocent women would die. I checked the position of the Ruger in my purse before returning to the backyard, where I found Maggie sitting at the table sipping champagne, in her underwear.

“You started without me,” I said.

I set my bag on the ground as near the pool as I could manage without being obvious, then picked up my champagne glass. I took a sip, set the glass back down, and took off my jacket. I wasn’t wearing a blouse. At the gym I always use the dressing rooms rather than disrobing in front of other women. Probably my upbringing. When I started kindergarten, Mom told me to never let anyone see my panties. Now here I was, taking off my clothes in front of a woman who not only wanted my body, she wanted to take my life. I was not psychologically prepared for this.

I slowly removed my shoes, shorts, panties, and bra, and stuck a tentative toe in the water. Maggie was right. It was warm. As I was about to jump in I felt a hand on my shoulder and forced myself not to flinch. Maggie was standing very close. Her spectacular breasts were bared, and she pressed them against me as she leaned in for a kiss. I closed my eyes and tried not to think. As our lips connected, she pushed me backwards into the water and followed me in.

I knew what Maggie liked from watching her videos, and I played my part with Oscar-winning aplomb, in spite of the fact that I was almost nauseous with fear. When it was over I swam to the side of the pool nearest my purse and pulled myself out.

“I need a cigarette,” I said. “You want your champagne?”

Maggie was coming up the steps at the shallow end, her face in shadow. She didn’t respond. I reached into my bag and repositioned the Ruger so I could easily slide my right hand around the grip. I took out my cigarettes and lighter, and set the purse on the table, leaving the top open. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Maggie silently walked toward me. I picked up one of the towels and wrapped it around my shoulders as Maggie stepped into the light. Her pupils were dilated and her lips were compressed into a scowl.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

I held the cigarette in my left hand, keeping my gun hand free. Maggie was silent. She approached the table and reached for her bag. I reached for the Ruger. As Maggie’s hand went into her purse, her lips pulled back exposing her teeth in a chilling grimace. She lifted out the knife I’d seen in the videos, clutching it in her fist, and moved around the table toward me. I had the Ruger out in a flash. I dropped my cigarette on the ground, raised the gun, and seized the grip with both hands. I shouted, “Stop!” But Maggie kept coming, oblivious to the weapon I was pointing at her chest. We were only two feet apart when I pulled the trigger. Her arms flew forward as she was blown back into the pool.

I stood, frozen, still holding the gun double handed, waiting for Maggie to climb out of the water and attack again. Eventually she floated to the surface. The look on her face is something I’ll never forget. It was serene, almost blissful. I gazed at the small hole in her perfect chest, and the shock hit me like a cement truck.

I lowered the gun, stepped back onto the lit cigarette, barely noticing the pain, and fell into a deck chair. I set the gun down on the table with trembling hands, still watching her lifeless body in the pool, and reached for my phone. The neighbors had probably heard the shot and called the police by now. I needed to get dressed.

As I hit redial, I heard the sound of running feet rounding the corner of the house. I pressed my knees together and held the towel protectively over my breasts. Bill leapt through the wall of cypress, gun drawn, and stopped dead in his tracks when he saw me. He looked me up and down, checking for injuries, then slowly turned his head and saw what was in the pool.

Chapter 24

“Oh shit,” Bill groaned.

He turned to face me and I saw the compassion in his eyes. He lowered his gun, sliding it into the holster, then crossed the distance between us and pulled me into his arms. I started crying and I couldn’t stop. Bill had to dress me. He didn’t bother with the panties and bra. He just got me covered and stuffed my undergarments in his jacket pocket.

He told me not to touch anything, then he called the Atherton police and told them who he was and what had happened. Bill sat down next to me and we waited in silence. The longer we sat there, the more chaotic my emotions became. I felt guilty because I had killed another human being. I felt proud that I had survived, and I was grateful to be alive. Also, I felt unclean after having sex with someone I wasn’t attracted to and didn’t care about. By the time the police arrived I was a basket case.

Bill talked to the officer in charge in hushed tones while I chain smoked. My hands were still shaking. My brain eventually began to function with the infusion of nicotine and I realized that I had saved countless innocent women from being brutally murdered and dismembered. I also realized that Bill had been right: I would never be the same, and this would probably haunt me for the rest of my life.

The evening was turning cool by the time the forensics team arrived and started cataloging evidence. Maggie’s body was fished out of the pool and placed on a gurney in a zippered bag. They took the Ruger, of course. They also went through my purse and bagged my speed loader. I managed to function well enough to request receipts for those items.

I waited anxiously for Bill and the Atherton PD to locate the video camera. They finally found it wedged discreetly behind a planter box.

I was eyeing the bottle of Cristal when Bill approached the table where I was huddled.

“You okay?” he asked, stooping down.

“No. I’m cold, I want a drink, and I want to go home. When can I go home?”

“There’s a problem.” He looked over his shoulder at the other detectives, and lowered his voice. “We can’t find the knife.”

I sat very still for a moment, letting what he’d said sink in. I couldn’t remember seeing the knife after I’d pulled the trigger. I had to grab hold of the table to keep myself from curling into a fetal position.

“Look in the pool,” I said. “Can I borrow your jacket?”

Bill took off his sport coat and wrapped it around my shoulders. I slid my arms into the sleeves.

“We’re going to drain the pool,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like there’s anything down there.”

“Well, it has to be somewhere. Jesus. Tell them to watch the fucking video.”

Bill gently took my hand. “When we finish up here we have to go down to the Atherton PD. We’ll watch the tape and you’ll have to answer some questions. Okay?”

“No, it’s not okay! What took you so long to get here anyway?”

I had no right to be angry with Bill, but I was scared and I needed to lash out at someone.

“I couldn’t find the house,” he said, quietly indignant. “Have you called Elizabeth to let her know you’re okay?”

“No. I’d better do that. Maybe I should page Jack, too.”

Bill’s eyebrows drew together, but he didn’t say anything. I picked up the phone and found I couldn’t remember Elizabeth’s number. I had to go through my contacts list and look it up. As I was dialing I remembered the tapes at Maggie’s house.

“Bill!” I said, my voice cracking. “They need to search Maggie’s house. The videotapes.”

“I gave them the address,” he said. “They’re waiting for the warrant.”

“The what?”

“The search warrant,” he said.

“Why do they need a warrant?”

“It seems there’s a brother listed at the same address.”

“Oh. Maybe he lives in the guest house. Tell them to look in the family room of the main house. The black cabinet under the TV.”

I finished dialing Elizabeth’s number, and it rang only once before she picked up.

“Nikki?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

“No, but I’m alive, which is more than I can say for Maggie.”

“Holy shit. What happened?”

“Bill lost us in traffic and Maggie took me to the house in Atherton. She pulled the knife before he could get here, and I had to shoot her.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, “Where are you, exactly? Give me the address. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Elizabeth to the rescue.

“That’s okay,” I said. “We won’t be here much longer. We have to go to the police station. They can’t find the knife.”

“You mean the scissor thing? What do you mean they can’t find it?”

“When I shot her I didn’t see where it went. It’s pretty dark out here. They’re draining the pool, but they may not find it until daylight.”

“I could meet you at the station.”

“No. Get some sleep. I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“Okay, sweetie. Call if you need me.”

“I will. Is Jack with you by any chance?”

“No. I haven’t seen him tonight. Why?”

“I need to let him know what happened. Do you have his pager number?”

“Yeah. You want me to call him?”

“Would you?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks. And ask him if he’s ever seen a man on Maggie’s property. Evidently she has a brother.”

Bill drove me to the Atherton PD and one of the uniformed officers took my BMW, so I would have it when we were done. We didn’t talk much in the car. Bill held onto me with his right hand and drove with his left, which isn’t easy when you’re driving a stick shift.

The Atherton Police Department doesn’t look the way you’d expect a government office to look. It’s quite urbane and has the smell of money about it. Bill parked around the back and silently ushered me inside.

For some reason I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d done something criminal. In my mind I knew that was silly, but I was having trouble persuading my emotions to follow reason. I was seriously afraid they were going to lock me up.

I was allowed to rest in the break room while Bill and the officers involved in the investigation viewed the video. The room was carpeted and contained a couch, two round tables with chairs, three coffee makers, and a soda machine. The couch was overstuffed and comfortable. I put my feet up and fell asleep. Bill woke me around 11:00 with a Styrofoam cup of something hot, black, and oily looking.

“Drink this,” he said.

“No thanks.”

“You’re gonna need it, Nikki.”

I sat up and took the cup from him. I felt a rush of adrenaline, followed by a sense of dread.

“Why?” I took a sip of the vile brew and managed to swallow, then I set the cup on the floor and fished out my cigarettes.

“Because of the angle of the camera you can see a flash of light reflected from whatever Margaret had in her hand, but you can’t actually see that it’s a knife.”

I stared at him with the unlit cigarette in my mouth, the lighter poised. I could not believe this was happening to me. I was the good guy. This kind of crap wasn’t supposed to happen to the good guys. Of course, this whole business of good guys and bad guys is complicated by the fact that everybody thinks they’re the good guy.

“I need to see the tape,” I said dully.

Bill escorted me into the conference room. There were six men in plain clothes seated at the table. They all looked up when I entered. They each looked me over, and then all but one of them looked away.

“Do all these people have to be here?” I whispered to Bill.

“Yes,” he said, pulling out a chair for me. “Ms. Hunter would like to view the videotape before answering any questions,” he said. “Anybody have a problem with that?”

There was some nervous fidgeting, but no one objected. Bill rewound the tape to the point where Maggie got out of the pool and approached the table. The camera in the planter box had been behind where I was standing and slightly to my left. My face burned with embarrassment. It wasn’t bad enough that I was in a room full of men I didn’t know who were looking at my naked body on television, but all those years of working out and my butt still had dimples.

On the screen Maggie was reaching into her bag. When she withdrew her hand there was a flash of light, perhaps the setting sun reflecting off the blade’s surface. She walked halfway around the patio table, drew back her arm, and lunged at me. On the tape Maggie’s right hand, the one holding the knife, was obscured by my head. I had the gun up, shouted “Stop,” and fired. Maggie flew back into the pool, but there was no indication of where the knife had gone.

I suddenly felt nauseous. “Is there a bathroom?” I asked, standing up.

“I’ll show you,” said the cop who hadn’t looked away when I’d entered the room.

He was dark, either Hispanic or Italian, and he took hold of my arm as he escorted me from the conference room. I jerked away from him.

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “Just tell me where it is.”

He directed me down the hall to the left of the break room.

“Thank you,” I hissed.

I managed to hold the salad, champagne, and coffee down until I reached the toilet. When my stomach was empty I sat down on the floor and put my head between my knees. I felt dizzy and clammy. This was a nightmare. I’d wake up in the morning and the knife would be there, on the tape. They would find it, and Maggie’s prints would be all over it. I took some slow, deep breaths and that seemed to help with the nausea.

After a while I stood up and looked in the mirror. My mascara had made dark circles around my eyes. Other than that there was no color in my face at all. I washed up and then put on blush and lip gloss. I looked better, but a good night’s sleep was what I really needed. A good night’s sleep, the comfort of my own bed, and maybe some chocolate chip cookies. That was what I needed. If that didn’t do the trick I’d have to go shopping. Spending money gives most women an endorphin rush twice as powerful as eating chocolate or having an orgasm. Okay, maybe not twice as powerful as an orgasm, but definitely better than chocolate.

When I re-entered the conference room all conversation stopped. Bill was standing at the head of the table, looking angry.

“Sit down, Nikki,” he said.

“What’s going on?” I asked wearily.

“The officers searching the Sectio house in Woodside have been unable to locate any videotapes. They found the cabinet, but it was empty.”

I sat down hard. “I don’t understand.”

“Margaret may have destroyed the tapes,” Bill said.

“Well, I still have copies of them at the office.”

Six heads turned in my direction. I looked to Bill for help, but it was too late. Over the next two hours I told the story of my anonymous client who had called about the killer in Woodside, lying just enough to keep Jack out of it. I said he’d paid me in cash by mail, and that he’d dropped the videotape copies off in my mail slot at night. I told them he had always been the one to contact me. I could have given them his pager number, but I didn’t like these guys, so I kept it to myself. They made me tell the whole story four times.

Finally Bill stood up. “If you’re not going to charge Ms. Hunter with anything tonight, I think she could use some sleep.”

They gave me the usual warning about not leaving town, and Bill walked me to my car. “I’m going to stay here a while longer,” he said. “Are you okay to drive?”

“Yeah, I think so. Come by the boat when you’re done?”

“It’ll be late,” he said, handing me my car keys.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I need to know what’s happening and I’d really appreciate the company.”

It’s hard for me to admit that I need anybody, but at the moment my pride was the least of my concerns.

Bill gave me a long hug and waited until I was on my way before turning back to the building. I was halfway home when I realized I was still wearing his jacket. I felt in the pockets and located my bra and panties. I tried to think, but my mind wouldn’t function beyond steering the car.

When I got to the marina I locked the 2002 and walked down the companionway on unsteady legs. It was after 1:00 a.m., but the lights in Elizabeth’s trawler were still on.

Chapter 25

Elizabeth opened the door before I could knock. She’d been waiting up for me, listening for my footsteps on the ramp.

“Come in sweetie,” she said. “You look awful. Want something to drink? I have wine, vodka, Kahlua…”

“Vodka and Kahlua, please.” I sank onto the settee and leaned my elbows on the galley counter. “Did you get ahold of Jack?”

“Yes.”

She filled a rocks glass with ice and poured me a double shot of Skyy, then added about an ounce of Kahlua.

“What did he say?” I asked.

She handed me the drink and I savored a generous mouthful. The chocolate was just what I needed.

“He said he hasn’t seen a man on the property, apart from himself. He also said to tell you to watch your back.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“I’m not sure. Maybe Jack doesn’t trust the police.”

I almost laughed. “Neither do I. I need another favor. They’ll be coming to the office tomorrow to get the videotapes. I’m guessing they’ll also have search warrants for my office and the boat. Probably for my car too. I want you to take all my guns so they can’t seize them as evidence and hold them for the next six months.”

“Sure. How many do you have?”

“They’ve already got the Ruger. That leaves the Beretta, the Sig, and the Remington. The Glock is up in the office.” I counted on my fingers as I spoke. “Maybe you should take the ammo too.”

“You want to do this tonight?” she asked.

“If you don’t mind.” I stood slowly, feeling the vodka.

“Just let me get dressed,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

I shuffled past D’Artagnon’s boat, wishing he was outside to comfort me with sloppy kisses.

Once I was home it was difficult to imagine going back out again. I wanted to burrow into my bunk and pull the covers over my head until all the bad stuff went away. Instead I put on jeans, a sweatshirt, and boat shoes. Then I poured myself a shot of whiskey and took it into the main salon.

I keep the guns I’m not using wrapped in old socks in the bottom drawer of a cabinet attached to the bulkhead. My old Remington Pump Action I keep in a canvas carrying case, which is stowed under the settee. I took each gun out and gently placed the handguns in a large canvas bag. I drank some whiskey and packed up all the spare mags, speed loaders, and boxes of ammunition.

My dad taught me about gun safety as soon as I was old enough to understand. When I was six he showed me how to disassemble and clean his rifle. My mom went shopping whenever Dad took out his rifle. I realize now that she objected to having a gun in the house, but chose not to interfere with one of the few activities my father shared with me.

I was seven the first time he took me for a ride in his motorboat. We bundled up in flannel shirts, down jackets, and rubber boots, and went out at dawn to avoid other boaters. He made me wear a life vest, although he insisted he was a strong enough swimmer that he didn’t need one. We brought along a number of empty plastic water bottles, which we used as targets because they would float.

The only conversation allowed on this and subsequent target shooting expeditions was about gun safety and how to position the gun and sight the shot more accurately. When we were done for the day we’d pick up what was left of the targets and putt to shore. Back at home we would set to work cleaning the gun over piles of newspaper on the kitchen table. I find the smell of gun oil and solvent soothing to this day.

I don’t have a lot of good memories from my childhood, but the shooting expeditions with my father are among them. The gun cleaning sessions were punctuated by matter-of-fact comments from my dad like, “You missed a spot,” or, “Use some elbow grease.” I didn’t mind, because I enjoyed spending time with him.

On my tenth birthday Dad presented me with my own Remington, a youth model-seven rifle that fit my size perfectly. I was thrilled. My mother went into the bedroom, shut the door, and cried for an hour. Apparently Dad had not consulted her before making the purchase. Later that day he asked me if I wanted to go hunting with him. I was stunned, flattered, and appalled all at the same time. I loved animals more than anything and I couldn’t imagine shooting one unless my life depended on it. I felt torn between wanting to please my dad, needing his approval, and knowing somewhere deep in my gut that what he was suggesting was morally wrong. Finally I told him that I’d rather shoot at targets. He looked disappointed, but I think he understood.

I had finished packing up my guns and ammo by the time Elizabeth knocked on the pilothouse door. I met her at the hatch holding the canvas tote, the Remington, and my key ring.

“We need to go up to the office,” I said.

My voice sounded off to my own ears, like it was coming from inside a tunnel. Elizabeth took the bag and slung it over her shoulder, which was impressive since it weighed almost as much as she does. I carried the Remington as discreetly as possible. Even in its case it’s obviously a long gun.

We left everything on Elizabeth’s boat, locked it, and walked up to the office complex. I fumbled with my keys, finally found the right one, and then dropped the key ring on the ground. I stooped down to pick them up, dropped them again, and started crying. Elizabeth squatted next to me. She picked up the keys, put her arms around me, and held me tight.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” she murmured. “I promise.”

It really helps to have someone tell you that, even when you know it isn’t true. After a minute I got hold of myself, wiped my nose on my sleeve, and took back the keys. I inserted the correct one in the lock and opened the door. I turned on the lights and looked around my office. Maggie was dead, but I still didn’t feel safe.

I pulled the Glock out of its holster under my lap drawer, pressed the mag release, and jacked the slide to eject the chambered round onto the desk blotter. I went to the kitchenette and got a couple of dishtowels, wrapped the Glock carefully in the towels, and placed it, the magazine, and the loose bullet in a plastic bag, which I gave to Elizabeth.

I decided to check the safe before locking up for the night, just to make sure the tapes were still in there. They were.

I walked Elizabeth back to her trawler and told her I’d call her tomorrow.

Back on board my own boat I locked both the pilot house door and the hatch, even though I was expecting Bill. No telling when he’d show up, and I felt defenseless having just given Elizabeth all of my guns.

I took off my jeans and shoes, but left the sweatshirt and sox on. I couldn’t seem to get warm. I climbed into bed and closed my eyes. Images of Maggie in the pool, both before and after death, assaulted me. After a while I gave up trying to sleep and got up.

I took a long hot shower, dried my hair, and pulled on my thermal underwear, then I got back into bed and picked up a John Sanford novel.

Chapter 26

By the time Bill knocked on my door the sun was coming up and I was surprised to discover that I’d fallen asleep with the book open on my chest. I dragged myself out of bed to let him in, then crawled right back under the covers. My head was pounding.

“What time is it?” I asked, closing my eyes against the light.

“It’s early.” He sat on the edge of the bunk and looked at his watch. “Six-twenty.”

“What time is the Gestapo coming?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“Did they find the knife?” I opened one eye just a crack to look at his face. I didn’t like what I saw.

“No knife,” he said.

I sat up. “What do you mean, no knife? You mean they didn’t find it last night. The sun’s barely up, they’ll find it in the daylight.”

“They brought in a bunch of flood lights last night, Nikki. And they went over the yard very thoroughly.”

“The pool?”

“Empty. Nothing on the bottom.”

“What are you telling me, exactly?”

“I think you need to hire an attorney.”

“Oh shit.”

I decided to lie back down. I put my arm over my eyes and bit my lip to keep myself from crying.

Bill took off his clothes and got into bed with me. He wrapped his arms around me and I clung to him as if he were a life preserver. We didn’t talk for a long time. Finally I disengaged myself and looked at him. He’d been up all night and it showed.

“I can call my cousin,” I said. “He’s probably too busy to represent me, but I’m sure he can recommend someone. Are they going to arrest me?”

“They’ll look at the videotape copies first, but yeah, I think they are.”

“Bill, she came at me with that knife. What could have happened to it?”

“I don’t know. Get some sleep. I’ll set the alarm for eight.”

I couldn’t go back to sleep. When Bill started snoring I slipped out of bed. I tiptoed into the main salon, sat cross-legged on the settee, and called my cousin Aaron.

Aaron is the closest thing I have to a sibling, and along with that relationship comes the typical baggage. When we were kids I took a lot of punishment for things he had done. It still pisses me off that he always got away with it. My obsession with justice rose out of my relationship with Aaron, and my distrust of authority figures probably developed while I was receiving regular spankings for his crimes. Those early experiences contribute substantially to who I am today, and to my skill in my chosen profession. Aaron is a criminal defense attorney. No need to wonder where he developed the skills necessary to excel in that field.

Aaron answered the phone, sounding groggy, on the fourth ring. He listened to my story, expressing no surprise. He said he would be in court all week, but promised he would be there for me if my case went to trial. I’d never seen him in action, but I had heard from mutual friends that he was impressive. He put me on hold and called an associate, Peter Treski, who agreed to meet me at my office at 8:45. I thanked Aaron and hung up the phone feeling moderately reassured.

I took another long hot shower, trying to wash away the memory of Maggie’s touch from the intimate parts of my body. But no amount of soap and water could scrub away the horror, so I sat down in the shower stall and cried for a couple of unguarded minutes, feeling sorry for myself and resentful that life wasn’t any more fair now than it had been when I was a kid.

I dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, quietly said goodbye to Bill, who was still asleep, and walked up to the office.

While I was waiting for Peter to arrive, I called Jim Sutherland, my friend and fellow PI. We met shortly after my first murder investigation. Jim had been hired to follow me by the killer I was hunting, and after the takedown we got to know each other during the long days of the trial while we were both waiting to testify. He’s an honorable guy, with a self-deprecating sense of humor. It’s fun to hang out with another PI, and we sometimes toss business each other’s way when one of us has too much to manage.

Jim was born in England, the only child of a Scottish father and an English mother. His father designed early warning systems for the military, so they moved around a lot. Before he was fifteen Jim had resided in England, Spain, Iran, Manila, and Turkey. Not long after his fifteenth birthday his family moved to Los Altos, California. It was Jim’s first visit to the United States. He finished high school and attended college here. After college, he had a series of short-term jobs, and finally ended up with a security firm in Belmont.

Jim was on a routine sales call in Oakland one day and witnessed a hit-and-run accident. He followed the driver, memorized his license plate, and went to the police, who were able to apprehend the suspect. Jim felt good about that. He was already fed-up with his current employer, so he went online and started contacting private investigators, just as I had done. His fourth call was to a retired cop, now working as a PI, in Mountain View, who liked what Jim had to say about wanting to catch bad guys.

Jim is thirty-four now and he’s been licensed for about five years. Having first-hand knowledge of so many cultures and belief systems makes him an excellent investigator, and an uncommon resource for me. I hoped he would have some ideas about where the missing knife might have gone.

“Who have you pissed off recently?” he began, after listening to me describe the encounter with Maggie.

I could think of at least a dozen people. There was a retail cashier, a restaurant hostess, five bartenders, two cocktail waitresses, and a doorman, all of whom had lost their jobs because I was doing mine. There was the killer Jim and I had put behind bars recently, and there was a hooker in Lake Tahoe who wasn’t going to marry a millionaire any time soon because I’d reported to her fiancé, my client, detailed descriptions of what she was doing while he was out of town. It seemed like a lot of people, when you looked at them all at once. Oh yeah, and there was Blake Curtis; the hothead food server I’d run into just the other night.

“Is Bill the jealous type? You said he was following you. Could he have arrived while you were still in the pool?”

“Bill would never do anything to hurt me.”

In spite of my conviction, I began to consider the possibility.

“Did you know any of the officers who took the call? Was there anyone at the scene you had met before, besides Bill?”

“Not that I noticed. I’m not being very helpful, am I?”

“Don’t worry about it. Is it possible Maggie had a lover whom she chose not to kill and mutilate? Maybe someone who liked to watch?”

“Jesus, I hope not. That’s disgusting.”

We talked for another ten minutes, Jim bouncing ideas off me. By the end of the conversation he seemed convinced that someone with a grudge against me had been there last night. Someone I hadn’t seen. He suggested I hire a colleague to canvass the neighborhood to find out if one of the residents might have seen someone leaving immediately after the shooting. It was a good idea, but I didn’t know anyone besides Jim who I would trust with a job like that, and he was too busy. I could call my old mentor, Sam Pettigrew. He’d be there for me in a heartbeat, but asking Sam for help would feel like admitting I was incompetent.

Chapter 27

Peter Treski arrived at 8:42. He was in his early forties, blond, blue-eyed, and sort of nerdy looking. He had tortoiseshell glasses and wore a pale yellow blazer over a white shirt, red tie, gray slacks, and Gucci loafers. I told him the whole story, and he listened attentively, taking notes, but not interrupting even once. His attention was sharply focused, but his eyes looked compassionate. Either this guy was a decent human being or he had perfected his act. At the moment I didn’t care which.

The police arrived a few minutes after 9:00. There were four of them, two uniforms and a man and woman in plain clothes who introduced themselves as Detectives Stegbahn and Loftus. They were all with the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department. Evidently Maggie’s death had evolved over night from a self-defense case into a murder investigation.

Stegbahn was in his late-thirties, just over six feet tall, and spongy around the middle, wearing a brown polyester suit that matched his hair and a white shirt with no tie. Loftus was in her forties, about five-seven in low heels, with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and no makeup. Her features were delicate, but her expression was hard. She wore a navy-blue pantsuit with a red blouse. I wondered if these two were partners or if they’d just been paired up for this assignment.

The uniforms were both male, and appeared to be in their early twenties. Both were clean-shaven. One was tall and slender with dark hair and the other was average height, blond, blue-eyed, and muscular. Neither of them made eye contact with me, even when I asked for their names and badge numbers. I wrote down their physical descriptions, just to have something to do. I was feeling helpless, angry, and bone-tired. I wanted desperately to escape.

As expected, they had a search warrant for the office, one for my car, and one for my boat. I was glad I’d given Elizabeth my guns. Peter read the warrants carefully and insisted we both be present during the search process at all three locations. Stegbahn and Loftus watched me open my office safe while the two uniforms began searching my desk. They bagged and labeled the videotapes, and then Loftus searched the kitchenette and Stegbahn took the bathroom.

I unlocked my Pendaflex drawer and the uniforms went through my files, emptying all my drawers and cabinets, but did nothing with my computer. I would ask Peter the reason for this blessed omission later. They noticed the empty Velcro holster fastened under my lap drawer and called Stegbahn over. He glanced under the desk and then approached me and Peter.

“Mind telling me where the gun is that you normally keep in that holster?” he asked.

“I’m having the sight replaced,” I said.

“Where?” He took a notebook from his jacket pocket.

“Heinz’s Gun Shop,” I said. “San Carlos.”

I’d have to call Heinz and feed him the story. He’s a good friend, and I buy all my guns and ammo from him. Heinz was a Hitler Youth during World War II and loves to tell stories about the Nazis. His family hated Hitler, but his parents persuaded him to enlist so they wouldn’t look suspicious. Sam Pettigrew took me to Heinz to purchase my first revolver. Since that time I’ve purchased three additional handguns from him and listened to countless stories about his life.

Maybe I’d get my Glock back from Elizabeth and drop it off at the gun shop. It could use a new sight. The old one is low profile and colorless. I prefer high profile sights with tritium inserts because they make it easier to hit what you’re shooting at, and tritium glows in the dark.

Stegbahn and Loftus made less of a mess than the two guys in uniform but, regardless of the method, a search of your private property is like an emotional assault. The uniforms were careless when looking through my file folders, leaving the contents scattered. It would take me hours to sort everything out, and I’d have to clean every surface in the office to reclaim my space when this was over.

Peter stayed close to me at all times, occasionally patting my back sympathetically. About halfway through the search of my office I went outside and lit a cigarette. I gazed numbly at the beauty around me. Although I was seeing it, I just couldn’t take it in. I couldn’t feel the joy that normally washes over me when I look at my home. I needed a good long cry, but for now I had to harden myself into an emotionless state. The cigarette helped, damned filthy habit.

By the time they were finished with my office it looked like they had taken all my drawers, turned them upside-down, and dumped everything out. I locked the door, trying not to look at the mess as I did so. We moved to the parking lot and my little 2002.

I love my car. It’s almost like a pet, and is the most reliable transportation I’ve ever had. I couldn’t stand the idea of these jerks pawing through it.

I unlocked the doors and the trunk and stepped back. I wanted to issue some kind of a warning or a plea for mercy, but I kept my mouth shut and lit another cigarette.

The detectives examined each item in my glove compartment. There was a medium sized Mag-Lite, my Thomas Guide, the car registration and proof of insurance, a couple of Jeff Beck CDs, a box of fuses, a pair of black leather gloves, a lint brush, and my owner’s manual. They reached under the front and back seats and felt under the console. I hoped none of the wires got disconnected.

While all this was going on, Bill came up from the boat and had a word with Stegbahn and Loftus. I kept my distance, not wanting to interfere with Bill when he was in cop mode. I saw Loftus shake her head, apparently disagreeing with something Bill had said, but then both Sheriff’s department detectives shook his hand and did some nodding, and Bill took off in his Mustang without saying a word to me. Huh.

The two uniforms were taking everything out of my trunk. All my tools were displayed on the ground. My jack was sitting in a puddle created by the marina sprinklers. I walked over, picked it up, shook it briskly, and set in down in a dry area. The shorter of the two uniformed officers promptly replaced the jack with a beach towel I keep in the car to cover the upholstery on hot days. I snatched it up before it could absorb the muddy water. Asshole.

The taller uniform was going through my gym bag. He examined my shampoo and conditioner and looked suspiciously at my heart monitor. The shorter guy took a flashlight off his belt and looked up my exhaust pipe. Was he kidding? When they were done they left everything from the trunk on the ground. I made them wait while I replaced the contents myself. Then I locked the car and patted it affectionately before escorting the group down to my boat.

D’Artagnon started barking as soon as we came through the gate. He continued to bark, spit, slobber, and snap at the officers as they walked past his boat. I smothered a smile and watched over my shoulder to make sure they didn’t lay a hand on him. When we arrived at the Cheoy Lee I went aboard first, offering no advice about how to back down the companionway to avoid banging your head on the hatch. I figured these thugs were on their own and only hoped that Peter would follow my example.

The boat was a mess, as usual. There were piles of clothes in the stateroom and dirty dishes in the sink. Loftus started in the stateroom, Stegbahn took the galley, and the two goons went to work in the main salon. I went with Loftus and asked Peter to keep an eye on the uniforms. I watched as each article of my clothing was examined and special attention was given to my dirty laundry. Loftus dug through all my drawers, but didn’t feel compelled to dump my clean clothes on the floor, for which I was grateful.

She removed the bedspread, blanket, and sheets from my queen size bunk and lifted the mattress. She felt inside the pillowcases and squeezed each pillow to make sure the feathers didn’t conceal anything lethal. When she was finished I remade the bed.

She checked my shower and medicine cabinet, but didn’t bother to unscrew the drain cover in the tub. When she was done with the head and the stateroom she aimed her flashlight into the lazarette, a small storage space under the companionway where I keep empty boxes, extension cords, old athletic shoes, and my vacuum cleaner. She poked around in the dusty mess but didn’t take the boxes out to see if anything was hidden in them. I had the impression Loftus was just going through the motions. I wasn’t sure how I should feel about that. She might be expressing confidence in my innocence, or she could simply be bored with her job.

The search of the boat took less than forty-five minutes, and when they were finished it was not noticeably changed. I didn’t point out the storage areas, which are built into each settee, so all they had to search were the visible cabinets and shelves, the hanging locker, and the refrigerator. I was actually proud of how few possessions I had for them to paw through. On the way out Loftus did a quick search of the pilothouse and picked up the machete I keep by the door. I felt compelled to explain its presence.

“If there’s an earthquake the concrete docks could collapse, taking the boats down with them. I would use the machete to cut the dock lines, so I could get my boat out of the slip before the docks go under.”

Loftus responded with a noncommittal, “Uh-huh,” as she tagged the machete and handed it to one of the uniforms. It was the only thing they took from the boat, and, once again, I had to ask for a receipt. Unbelievable.

At noon we all drove to the San Mateo County Sheriff’s Department. Peter and I went together in his car. As soon as we were alone I asked him why they hadn’t bothered with my computer. He explained that the search warrants had only allowed them to look for weapons. I thought about all my file folders being emptied and the resentment started to boil up again.

When we arrived at the Sheriff’s Department we were escorted into an interview room where Stegbahn and Loftus asked me a number of very personal questions, some of which had to do with my sex life. Peter listened as I responded. It made me feel safer having him there, but the whole experience was still humiliating. When I had answered all their questions the detectives asked us to wait in the windowless room. Fifty minutes later they trooped back in and I was informed that the DA intended to charge me with the murder of Margaret Sectio.

I opened my mouth but no sound came out. Peter put a hand on my arm and asked when the preliminary hearing would be and if I was being placed under arrest. That’s when I spotted Bill through the open door. He was standing in the hallway, talking heatedly with a gray-haired woman in a business suit. Loftus said the preliminary hearing had been scheduled for the following Tuesday, and that I was free to go.

Bill followed us out to the parking lot, saying he’d meet us at the marina. Peter drove me home and parked in the boat owners’ lot nearest my gate, shut off the engine, and turned to face me.

“Do you have any criminal history?” he asked.

“I got busted for shoplifting when I was fourteen.” I squirmed. “And when I was twenty-three I drank too much tequila one night and made the mistake of driving.”

“So you have a DUI on your record?”

“Yes.” Why did I feel so guilty?

When Bill pulled into the lot, Peter and I got out of his car and I introduced them. They shook hands. Peter gave me his card and said he’d meet me at my office Tuesday morning so we could drive to the hearing together.

I impulsively hugged him, muttering, “Thank you,” into his shoulder.

I didn’t have the strength to face the office in its current condition, so Bill walked with me down to my boat. Once we were on board I looked up at him, hoping he would volunteer some explanation for what was happening. He returned my gaze, but said nothing.

I started the ball rolling. “Am I released into your custody?”

“Yes,” he said. “That means I’m responsible for you showing up in court on Tuesday. Try not to break any laws between now and then.”

“I’ll do my best, but I still don’t understand what could have happened to that knife. Did they check the drains in the pool?”

“They checked the drains. They shook the bushes. I even had one guy climb a tree to make sure it didn’t get stuck in some low hanging branches.”

“It doesn’t make sense. What about Maggie’s purse? She must have kept the knife in a sheath.”

“They found a leather sheath and they found a large, empty zip-lock bag, but that doesn’t prove she attacked you. There are currently two theories on the table. One is that you had sex with Maggie, and it was your first lesbian affair, so you freaked out and went a little nuts. The other is that you’re telling the truth about your client dropping off those videotapes at your office and that after you watched them you decided to take matters into your own hands and kill the bitch.”

Unfortunately, theory number two wasn’t that far from the truth.

“So what happens now?”

“A judge decides if the DA has a case against you. If so, then you go to trial.”

“I can’t believe this is happening,” I said, shaking my head.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “After all you’ve been through the last couple of days, you should talk to someone. There’s this shrink the department uses when there’s an officer-involved shooting. She specializes in post-traumatic stress disorder. Supposed to be pretty good. If you want, I can schedule an appointment for you.”

My mouth dropped open. “You think I need to see a shrink?”

“I think you need to talk to someone, yes.”

For some reason I felt betrayed. Was Bill suggesting that I was unbalanced? Did he think I’d planned to kill Maggie? I couldn’t have been more disappointed if he’d suggested I confess to murder.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because killing another human being is traumatic,” he said. “And because I know you. You feel guilty. You need someone to help you get past this so you can defend yourself against the charges, if it comes to that.”

“Oh. I guess that makes sense.” I was so relieved that he didn’t think I was a crazed killer that I was ready to sign up for whatever he believed was necessary. “What’s her name?”

“Loretta Dario. She has an office on Jefferson.” He took a business card from his wallet and handed it to me. “Get some rest, Nikki. I have to go.”

Bill held me close for a moment, kissed me on the forehead, and left. He was stretching himself pretty thin in an effort to help me get through this ordeal unscathed, and he hadn’t even said I told you so. What a guy.

Chapter 28

Bill had been gone about two minutes when I heard a knock on the pilothouse door.

“What?” I hollered.

“It’s me,” Elizabeth called out. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.”

She let herself in, sat down next to me at the galley counter, and put her hands in her lap.

“I saw Bill leave. What’s going on?”

“I’m being charged with murder.”

I watched Elizabeth’s expression shift from amazement, to horror, and, finally, to anger, all in about two seconds.

“Why?” she squealed. Now she was doing outrage.

“They couldn’t find the knife and it doesn’t show up on the video. Maggie’s original tapes are missing and the sheriff’s department doesn’t put much stock in the authenticity of the copies I had in my safe.”

“I see. Why don’t we go take a look at the crime scene.” Beyond outrage and into hero mode.

“They probably have patrol officers posted to keep the press out.”

“If that’s the case, we’ll just drive on by.”

I looked at her. It was risky, but how much more trouble could I be in? Maybe, while we were at it, we should take a look around Maggie’s house. It made more sense than sitting at home feeling sorry for myself.

“Okay,” I said. “I need to get the Glock back from you.”

Elizabeth picked up the business card Bill had left behind. “What’s this,” she asked.

“She’s a therapist the department uses for cops with PTSD,” I said. “Bill thinks I should talk to her.”

“That’s a good idea. Have you called for an appointment?”

“Not yet. I can do it later.”

“Do it now. If you wait you’ll probably talk yourself out of it.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake. Give me the damn card.”

I dialed the phone and a woman answered on the second ring. Her voice sounded maternal.

“This is Loretta,” she said.

“Hi,” I began, suddenly not knowing what to say. “My name is Nicoli Hunter.”

“Oh yes, Detective Anderson’s friend. He told me you might be calling.”

“He did?”

“Yes, dear. He’s very concerned about what happened to you. When would you like to come in?”

“Maybe sometime next week?” I hedged, already having doubts about allowing someone to analyze my psyche.

“I’ve had a cancellation for this afternoon at four-thirty,” she said. “Will that work for you?”

I looked at Elizabeth, who could overhear the whole conversation, and was nodding enthusiastically.

“I’ll see you then,” I said.

I hung up the phone feeling apprehensive. I’d never been to a shrink before, and I had my doubts about trusting a stranger with what I was feeling, but Bill had a high opinion of this woman. How bad could it be? I tucked the card into my purse and gave Elizabeth a hug.

“Thanks for making me do that,” I sighed.

“No problem. Shall we go?”

It was good to be with someone who believed in me, even if she was slightly prejudiced in my favor. I pocketed my lock picks and was halfway up the steps when I remembered I hadn’t eaten since dinner the previous night. I ducked back inside and grabbed an apple from the fridge.

We stopped at Elizabeth’s boat and retrieved the Glock, which I locked in the trunk of my car.

Our first stop was Heinz’s Gun Shop. I took the Glock out of the trunk and put it in my shoulder bag. Once inside we waited until there were no other customers present, then approached Heinz at the counter. I explained my situation and handed him the gun. He took out a work order and pre-dated it by a week. He listed my request for a new sight with a tritium insert, and gave me a receipt for the gun.

“It will be ready whenever you want to pick it up,” he said, a twinkle in his eyes. “I’ll replace the sight today.”

“Thank you, Heinz.” I reached over the counter to give him a quick hug, and my eyes filled. Funny how you find out who your real friends are when circumstances turn against you, I thought.

Our next stop was Atherton. We parked half a block from our destination. There was yellow crime scene tape across the front door of the house, but no squad cars in sight. We jogged around to the side yard and forced our way through the dense cypress. Not an easy task.

There was crime scene tape everywhere in the backyard. I walked directly to the pool. Despite what Bill had told me, I remained convinced that the knife was in there somewhere, and I would be able to find it.

Elizabeth hung back, taking everything in. The pool had been drained, so I stepped over the tape and climbed down the ladder at the deep end, dropping the last few feet. I walked the periphery of the empty pool and checked all the drains. Other than a few leaves, it was pristine.

“Hey, Nikki,” Elizabeth shouted. “Come look at this!”

I trotted to the shallow end of the pool and took the steps up, just as Maggie had the night before. Elizabeth was standing on the lawn between the hedge and the pool, near the back of the house.

“Did you wear pumps last night?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Did you walk around over here at all?”

I looked at the ground. There were two small indentations in the grass.

“No,” I said. “We came in through the house. I only walked around by the pool.”

“Don’t these look like they could have been made by high-heeled shoes?”

I leaned down to get a closer look. She was right. If a woman wearing high heels had stepped through the hedge as we had, it might account for the two indentations in the sod. The grass flattened under the toe of the shoe would have sprung back by now. Elizabeth and I were both wearing athletic shoes and the tracks we’d made on the lawn a few minutes earlier were barely noticeable now.

“Were there any female cops here last night?” Elizabeth asked.

“There were a couple in uniform, but no lady detectives that I noticed.”

We looked at each other.

“I’ll mention it to Bill,” I said. “Come on. We may not have much time.”

We searched the yard, looked up into the trees, and checked all the planter boxes. We even acted out the whole gruesome event. I played Maggie and Elizabeth played me. I lunged at her, pretending my smartphone was a knife, and she pointed her finger at me and said, “Bang!” I flung my arms forward as Maggie had done, releasing the phone, which flew in a spiral to my right landing on the lawn near the house, behind the planter box where the camera had been hidden, and not far from the indentations Elizabeth had noticed in the grass. If the knife had followed a similar trajectory it was conceivable that someone could have picked it up without me seeing them. If they moved fast they could have been gone by the time Bill arrived. Unfortunately, knowing this didn’t give us a clue as to who it might have been. We were assuming it was a woman, but that really didn’t narrow things down much.

We pushed our way back out through the cypress and hustled to the Bimmer. As we were pulling away from the curb a patrol car made the turn off El Camino. The driver glanced at us, but continued on down the street.

From Atherton we took El Camino north to Woodside Road. I turned down Maggie’s private driveway, parked under a tree at the top of the hill, and we walked the rest of the way to the main house. There was a single strip of crime scene tape across the front door. We crept around the side of the house to the family room entrance.

I selected a tension wrench from my set of lock picks and went to work. A tension wrench is a very thin, flexible piece of steel. The one I was using was two inches wide and thirteen inches long, with a handle on one end. We were inside in about a minute.

The small cabinet under the VCR had been left open, and it was empty. It gave me a chill just looking at it. We walked through each room on the first floor. All the bookshelves had been emptied by the search team. The place was a mess.

I started going through the kitchen while Elizabeth went upstairs. I had my head in the oven when she called out, “Nikki, I think I found something!”

I raced up the steps. “Where are you?”

“Master bedroom,” she shouted.

I found her standing in front of the fireplace. The framed mirror over the mantel had swung away from the wall on hinges, revealing a safe.

“How did you find that?” I asked.

“Easy,” she said grinning. “There had to be a safe somewhere. It wasn’t in any of the closets. So I started checking picture frames and ended up here. I think it’s elegant.” She was very pleased with herself.

“We need Jack,” I said. “I don’t do safes.”

Elizabeth had Jack’s pager number memorized, so we used my smartphone to page him and hoped he would respond quickly. Both of us were nervous about being in Maggie’s house. It was partly the fear that the police would arrive and catch us, and partly the creep-out factor of knowing we were in the home of a recently deceased serial killer. After twenty minutes we had gone through all of Maggie’s closets and drawers, and Jack still hadn’t called. The pressure was building. We’d have to come back later.

We left the way we had come in, and I relocked the sliding glass door with my tension wrench. As we rounded the side of the main house I stopped and stared at the small stone cottage. Elizabeth continued up the hill. I knew she would distract any police who showed up long enough for me to disappear.

The front door lock on the stone structure took a while, but eventually I got it open. The place was full of cobwebs and I didn’t see any footprints in the dust on the floor, so this was probably a waste of time. I looked up the chimney and found that the flue was closed, so I opened it, then jumped back before the soot could envelop me. When the ashes had settled, I reached up into the chimney. All I came back with was a hand full of greasy, black gunk. I shook my hand vigorously and tiptoed into the kitchen. I scrubbed my blackened hand and wrist with a dried up bar of Ivory soap, using my shorts as a towel. I looked in the kitchen cabinets, but apart from assorted bug carcasses and webs, they were empty.

There wasn’t any furniture in the cottage at all. The bathroom sink had rust stains indicating that the dripping faucet had been allowed to persist over a prolonged period of time.

I closed the door behind me, not bothering to lock it, and hiked up the road to Elizabeth. Along the way I glanced at the whitewashed bungalow positioned on the crest of the hill. I remembered it was furnished and wondered if Maggie’s brother might live there when he was in town. Bill had said he was listed at this address, but Jack hadn’t seen him.

Elizabeth noted the direction of my gaze and nodded. Together we marched up to the front door and knocked. When there was no answer, I took out my lock picks for the third time. After a few moments I had the doorknob unlocked, but the door still wouldn’t budge. The deadbolt was engaged. Deadbolts are complicated and time consuming to pick. We had already been there too long and I could hear Bill’s voice in my head, warning me to stay out of trouble. Maybe Jack could open it for us later. It was time to go.

Chapter 29

We drove back to the marina and Elizabeth made coffee for me, adding a generous splash of Kahlua. It was heavenly. She had a glass of Kahlua and milk, without the coffee. We sat outside in the sun on her dock steps and drank our chocolatey beverages in companionable silence.

We were both feeling pretty relaxed when my phone rang. It was Jack. I asked him if he could meet us at the Woodside estate to disengage the cottage deadbolt and open the safe in Maggie’s bedroom. He said he wasn’t available today, but that he could do it tomorrow morning around 10:00. Then he asked to speak with Elizabeth. I handed her the phone and she went inside for privacy. When they’d finished talking she came back out.

“How are things going with Jack?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“Fine,” she said. “Good, in fact. Nikki, I’ve been thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Seriously. If the knife isn’t there, someone has to have taken it.”

“Well duh.”

“Who could it be?” Elizabeth furrowed her brow. “Who hates you that much?”

“Jim asked me the same question. I can think of several people.”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember the Laura Howard case?” I asked.

“Yeah, but he’s in prison now.”

“He had friends, and money.”

“Okay. Who else?”

“Bartenders, cocktail waitresses, and food servers. The eight employees from that club in San Jose.”

“You think it could have been one of them?”

“Not really. I’m tired. I need a nap.”

“Don’t forget your appointment with the shrink.”

Elizabeth hugged me tightly before letting me leave. I shuffled back to my boat, locked the pilothouse door and the hatch, took off my clothes, and slid between the sheets. I tried to sleep. Stress is exhausting and sleep is one of my favorite escapes, but it only comes when I’ve done everything I can to resolve the situation causing the stress in the first place. I have an anxious mind and it will not shut down when there’s work to do. After about an hour I gave up. I needed to take action.

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?”

“Everything about you practically screams it. I imagine it’s easy for you to determine someone’s intentions just by looking at them, perhaps making eye contact or shaking hands, am I right?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Well, that’s something we can explore when you come back.” She smiled that sweet encouraging smile at me again. “Good luck on Tuesday.”

She handed me a printed page of things to try if the insomnia persisted.

I said, “Thank you,” and tucked the list into my bag. I couldn’t remember telling Loretta that my preliminary hearing was on Tuesday, and wondered if Bill had mentioned it, or if she had somehow divined the information.

At the door she wrapped her arms around me and gave me a hug. It should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. I felt accepted, almost absolved. I walked outside thinking maybe everything would work out after all.

I climbed into the BMW, lowered the windows, lit a cigarette, and took out the list Loretta had given me.

1. Get plenty of fresh air and exercise

2. Don’t drink any coffee after noon, and no beverages at all after 5:00 p.m.

3. Eat only carbohydrates for dinner

4. Go to bed at the same time every night

5. Never look at the clock when you’re trying to sleep

6. If you can’t go to sleep, or wake up in the night, get out of bed and go into a different room

7. Slow, deep breathing

8. Read a romance novel, or any book you know will have a happy ending

9. Watch a movie you’ve seen before that makes you feel safe and secure

10. Make a list of everything that’s bothering you and decide to deal with it tomorrow

I shoved the list back into my purse and started the car.

When I arrived home I locked myself inside the boat, stripped down to my underwear, and climbed into bed. I was unconscious a few seconds after my head hit the pillow.

Chapter 31

Bill called and woke me a little after 7:00 p.m. He said he had some information I might find interesting, but he didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. I told him I would love to see him. I just blurted it out without thinking. Near death experiences do that to you.

I took a quick shower and called Rainbow Pizza. I wanted comfort food. I ordered an extra large, half Hawaiian and half sausage and mushroom. At 7:45 my phone rang again. It was the pizza delivery guy and he was waiting at the gate. I jogged up to meet him and gave him an extra ten for the speedy delivery.

I was halfway down the companionway when I heard the gate open behind me. I turned sharply, ready to defend myself with the pizza box if necessary, but it was only Bill.

“Relax,” he said, draping an arm around my shoulders as we walked down to the dock.

The physical contact made me feel better. I hadn’t even realized I was worried about him acting normally with me now that I was a homicide suspect.

When we were on board I set the pizza box on the galley counter and turned to him expectantly.

“So?”

“Can we eat while we talk? I’m starved and I have a lot to tell you.”

“No,” I said, placing a hand on top of the pizza box. “Talk first.”

“Fine.”

He sank down onto the galley settee and took out the small notebook he always carries.

“Margaret Sectio’s given name was Margaret Kathleen Sullivan. Born to James and Kathleen Sullivan, both deceased. They left everything to her, including the property in Woodside. Margaret had one sibling, Patrick James Sullivan, who is her sole heir. Besides the property, she had a substantial stock portfolio and over five million in a money market account, apparently left to her by the parents. Her life insurance policy will pay her brother another million. No one has been able to locate him yet. Margaret had a safe deposit box under Sullivan. As soon as the Sheriff’s department gets to the bank on Monday morning we’ll find out what’s inside.” He closed the notebook.

“Is there a way to find out if any of the officers or detectives at the scene last night knew Maggie… you know… personally?”

“I’ll ask around. Pizza?”

“You’ve earned it.”

I gave him a quick kiss before getting out the plates.

“You want a beer?” I asked, as I set the table.

He opened the fridge and took out two bottles of Guinness. While we ate most of the pizza, and polished off the six-pack, I tried to wrap my mind around the new information Bill had given me. Why would Maggie’s parents have left everything to her and nothing to her brother? Maybe our search of the estate tomorrow would give us a clue to his whereabouts.

After dinner we curled up on the settee in the main salon and I turned on the TV. Channel 4 News was on and I was stunned to see a reproduction of my driver’s license photo staring back at me. The story had been leaked to the press. I momentarily lost the ability to breathe. I didn’t even want to think about what this could do to my credibility with my clients, not to mention any future business. While the viewing public was informed that I was a PI, at least the anchor didn’t mention my area of specialization.

I called my mom first and explained what was going on. She wanted to discuss my chosen profession, again, but I explained that I had a lot of other calls to make and promised we’d have lunch soon.

I spent the next forty-five minutes trying to reach my regular clients, assuring the ones I connected with that it was all a misunderstanding, that it had been self-defense, and the dead woman’s weapon had simply been misplaced. I thought that sounded plausible. The police misplace evidence all the time, right? Those I spoke with agreed it would be a good idea for me to take a few days (or a few weeks) off to let the publicity die down before resuming my regular survey schedule.

Bill sat patiently while I made my calls. Having him there with me, after all that had happened, reassured me to some extent. I can be pretty hardheaded at times, and I know I’m not easy to live with, but Bill seemed to be up to the challenge.

Chapter 32

On Sunday morning I let Bill sleep in while I went to the gym. I did my usual workout, but I was looking over my shoulder the whole time. I remembered what Jack had said about watching my back, and felt the paranoia taking hold.

Bill was gone when I got back to the boat, but he had left me a note saying he would call me later. I had a protein shake and a handful of vitamins, showered, put on clean shorts and a tee shirt, and walked up to the office. It was time to clean up the mess.

I braced myself before opening the doors, but I still felt devastated when I saw all those case files and reports scattered on the floor. I stepped inside and locked the double doors behind me.

There was one message on my answering machine. Otto Kleinhurst, the owner of Otto’s Eatery and one of my regular clients, was canning my ass because, as he put it, “I can’t use a spotter my employees will recognize from the TV news.” Otto had three restaurants in the Bay Area that I surveyed weekly. I wondered if I could sue anyone for damages.

I started a pot of coffee and sat down on the floor amidst the chaos. While the coffee was dripping I lined up the empty file folders in alphabetical order, then I began gathering up the surveillance reports, expense reports, and miscellaneous paperwork. I stacked everything up in one huge pile and started at the top, placing each item in front of the folder in which it belonged.

After about twenty minutes I stopped for coffee. I sat at my desk considering my situation, drinking Mocha Java and smoking. Things could be worse. I had a home I loved, great neighbors, and a business I enjoyed, most of the time. I had Bill and Elizabeth, my childhood friend Michael Burke, my new friend Jim Sutherland, and I had my health. This was just a temporary setback. I finished my coffee and sat back down on the floor.

At 9:45 I remembered that Jack was meeting us at 10:00. I stuffed all the smaller piles I’d been making into their respective folders and placed a glass paperweight on top of my yet-to-be-sorted floor pile. I turned off the coffee maker and rinsed my cup, then locked the office and hurried down to Elizabeth’s boat.

Jack was already there when I arrived. Most men look ridiculous in shorts, but Jack was an exception. His contoured quadriceps and calves demanded attention and the black tee shirt he wore revealed an equally well-defined upper body. Elizabeth’s cat, K.C., was sitting on Jack’s feet, nuzzling his knees and purring loudly. Elizabeth was all smiles in an off-white mini dress. They looked like a couple. Actually they looked like they could be brother and sister, but that was too creepy to contemplate.

Jack was still driving the new BMW, so we took that to Woodside. As we drove I filled them both in on what Bill had told me about Maggie’s family and how much money her brother now stood to inherit.

Elizabeth whistled softly. “That’s a nice chunk of change,” she said.

Jack didn’t comment.

We parked halfway down the dirt road to Maggie’s house and Jack and I got out. Elizabeth waited in the car to act as lookout. She would honk if the police arrived, and then distract them by asking for directions to an address a couple of miles down the road that I’d noted along the way.

Jack wore a black leather fanny pack strapped around his waist. As we approached the cottage he took out two pairs of latex gloves and handed one to me. I told him I’d unlocked the knob the previous day, but hadn’t even tried to work the bolt. He removed a small computerized lock pick from his pack, inserted a wire into the deadbolt key slot, and pressed a button. I heard a soft whirring sound and then a loud metallic clack. He turned the knob and opened the door.

“How much did that thing cost you?” I asked.

“Sixty dollars. I bought it on-line.”

I made a mental note to pick one up, as we stepped inside and closed the door behind us. I went into a room that looked like an office or maybe a library, and Jack started in the living room.

The office held a beautiful antique roll-top desk, but it was empty apart from a blank pad of notepaper and two ballpoint pens. The bookshelves contained mostly hardbound classics. Moby Dick, Pride and Prejudice, War and Peace, and a few texts on chess.

I was turning to leave the room when I spotted a paperback Latin/English dictionary. I took it off the shelf and examined the spine of the book. There was a single crease, as though it had been used only once. I held it loosely in my hand, allowing it to fall open. It opened to the S’s. I scanned the page and my eyes were drawn to an underlined passage that read, ‘Sectio—(verb) the action of cutting or severing as in surgery; castration; dissection; division; separation.’ I felt the same chill I’d experienced when I looked the word up in my Windows thesaurus. I placed the book back on the shelf and went looking for Jack. He was in the kitchen going through drawers.

“I’ll check the bedroom,” I said.

“Okay. But it doesn’t look like anyone is living here.”

The bedroom was in the back of the house. I opened bedside drawers, checked under the bed, and went through the dresser. Everything was clean and empty. In the corner, facing the window that looked out onto the driveway, was a StairMaster. I stood looking at the view from that window and then walked to the other side of the room and looked out the window that faced up the hill. From this window I could see birch and willow trees climbing the lush, green hillside. I walked back to the StairMaster again. I could see the dirt driveway where it exited off of Woodside Road. I thought about why someone might prefer that view to the more scenic one of the trees and hillside. Only one reason I could think of. They wanted to know who was coming and going, and did not wish to be taken by surprise.

There were no clothes in the bedroom closet and the bathroom cabinets were empty, except for the one under the sink, where I found a bottle of bleach with the cap left off. The pungent odor assaulted my nostrils and made my eyes burn. There was no soap or shampoo in the tub. Clean towels had been hung out, perfectly folded into thirds and draped over the rack.

Jack leaned in the doorway and said he’d found nothing in the kitchen. We agreed to move on to Maggie’s safe. We locked up the cottage and walked down the hill, waving at Elizabeth as we passed the car.

We entered the main house through the sliding glass door, which Jack jimmied open in less time than it took me to scan the area, again, for surveillance cameras. I didn’t see any cameras, but the good ones are hard to spot. We walked up the stairs together.

Jack went directly to the mirror over the fireplace and pulled it away from the wall. He glanced at the combination lock, then fished a stethoscope out of his fanny pack and put it on. He listened to the tumblers as he spun the dial on the safe, and had it open in a few seconds. Impressive. The safe was completely empty.

We exited the way we’d come in and Jack locked the door behind us. Back in the car I filled Elizabeth in on the disappointments of our search while Jack drove us to the marina. He dropped us off at the gate, saying he was late for an appointment. As he pulled away from the curb something that had been nagging at my subconscious hit the surface.

“Hey, Jack,” I shouted. He stopped the car and lowered the driver’s side window. “Why did you tell Elizabeth that I should watch my back?”

“Just a gut feeling,” he said. “Elizabeth told me what the police did to your office. I’d be glad to help you get things sorted out later this afternoon.”

The generosity of his offer took me by surprise. “I can handle it,” I said. “Thanks though.”

There are some things I need to do myself. Also, I wasn’t sure how I felt about someone else having access to my case files. There was the confidentiality issue to be considered. Besides, if I accepted help I’d have to stop feeling sorry for myself. Sometimes I like to wallow.

“Let me know if you change your mind.”

He waved and drove away before I could probe any deeper into this feeling of his. I had the same feeling, and I didn’t like it. The only danger I was in, that I knew of, was from the District Attorney.

Elizabeth and I walked down to her trawler and she poured two glasses of Shiraz. She was quiet, which meant her wheels were turning. I took my glass and moved over to the open door so I could smoke. She set her glass on the galley counter and took a legal size notepad from the shelf above the settee.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s make a list of things we don’t know. One, where the hell is Maggie’s brother?” She wrote that down as she spoke. “Two, who else was at the house in Atherton Friday night, and why on earth would they take that knife?” She looked up at me.

I shrugged. “I have no idea who might have been there that night. Who could have known where we were going? Maggie wouldn’t have told anyone, would she? So whoever it was would have had to follow us. I was watching my rear-view mirror for Bill, and I didn’t see any familiar cars.”

Jack might have a car that wasn’t familiar to me. I was sure he was driving the new BMW so I couldn’t trace his plates. I wondered if I should say anything to Elizabeth about that.

“Tell me again what you found in the cottage.” She interrupted my train of thought.

“Hmm? Oh, you mean the Latin/English dictionary? And there were two books about chess, a StairMaster in the bedroom…”

“What was in the bathroom?”

“Nothing. Just an open bottle of bleach and some clean towels.”

“Why bleach?”

“I assume for cleaning and disinfecting surfaces,” I said.

“Did you find any cleaning supplies in the kitchen?” she asked.

“Jack did the kitchen.”

“So you don’t know.”

“No. Why does it matter?”

“If you were going to clean a bathroom, what would you use?” she asked.

“Windex for the glass. Comet for the sink and the tub.”

“Was there a toilet brush?”

“I didn’t see one. Why?”

“It depends on what’s under the kitchen sink,” she said.

“I need an ashtray. Why does it depend on what’s under the kitchen sink?”

“Because if there are no cleaning supplies under the kitchen sink maybe there’s another reason for the bleach in the bathroom,” she said. “Is there any way we can get back in?”

She got up and took a coffee mug from the rack by the sink, handed it to me, and sat back down. I flicked an ash into the cup.

“I don’t have the equipment,” I said. “What other reason could there be for the bleach in the bathroom?”

“Bleach attacks the olfactory nerves,” she said, “leaving you temporarily unable to perceive other scents.”

“You mean like perfume or scented soap?”

“Soap, shower gel, shampoo, cologne, aftershave…”

“But why?”

“That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. Or in this case, the six million dollar question, plus various stocks and bonds. Who could afford to walk away from that kind of inheritance anyway? Does the brother have to be present to collect?”

“I have no idea. Maybe not. Start a new list, please. Questions for Bill. How long did Maggie’s parents own the estate? Are there any records of where Maggie and Patrick went to school? Can Patrick collect his inheritance from out of State, or from another country?”

“Slow down,” Elizabeth said, turning to a blank page. She scribbled down the first two questions, and then looked up at me, her eyes wide. “Is there any chance it wasn’t your shot that killed Maggie?”

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 dim 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.

Bill and I walked out to the parking lot and watched the guys pack up their van and drive away.

“So what are your plans for the day?” he asked.

“I’m going to the gym, and then I’m going to St. Theresa’s.”

“Are you okay?”

“No. I love this car.”

“Someone’s pretty pissed off at you.”

“You think?”

“Please be careful, Nikki.”

He brushed a kiss across my lips, and for a moment I forgot all about the horror of the last week.

“I’ll try,” I sighed.

While I was on the treadmill I was sure the other people working out were whispering behind my back. They must have seen the news reports about my arrest, and some of them had seen my damaged Bimmer in the parking lot.

I rushed my workout and avoided talking to anyone, nor did anyone approach me. I showered hastily and got the hell out of there.

I was developing a new respect for celebrities. Being a public figure is nerve-racking.

I needed groceries, so I drove to Whole Foods and left my sunglasses on inside the store, hoping they would help conceal my identity. I stocked up on the basics: dog biscuits, lettuce, tomatoes, cottage cheese, tuna, salad dressing, avocados, mineral water, and Guinness Stout. I loaded my purchases in the trunk of the 2002 and drove back to the marina.

After lugging my groceries down to the boat and unpacking them, I noticed my answering machine was blinking. I pressed the play button. The machine informed me that I had one new message and stated the time of the call.

“Nikki, it’s me,” said Bill’s voice. “I’m at the office. Call me.”

I checked my watch. I’d just missed him. I returned his call and caught him at his desk.

“I just called you,” he said.

“I know, you idiot. I’m calling you back. What did you find out?”

“Well, I took your suggestion, and the Sheriff’s Department’s hair and fiber people turned up two short red hairs in the cottage, but no prints. Also, ballistics says the bullet that killed Maggie most likely came from your gun.”

Short red hairs?

“What was that? Did you say most likely came from my gun? What does that mean?”

“It means the bullet went right through her. They found a thirty-eight special slug in the pool when they drained it. Nothing else turned up, so they say it’s almost certain the bullet that killed her came from your Ruger.”

“Okay. That’s what I thought,” I mumbled.

“Hey, Nikki. You and Elizabeth weren’t fooling around at the cottage yesterday were you?”

“What? Why?”

“Someone broke in. The glass panel next to the front door was broken.”

“Have you ever known me to break glass when I can pick a lock?”

“I guess not. I was just thinking, you know, Elizabeth is a red-head.”

“You said short red hairs. How short?”

“I haven’t seen them, but the report says they were about an inch long.”

Not Elizabeth, I thought, but maybe Jack. He’d been in there with me yesterday.

“Thanks, Bill. I’ve got Guinness if you want to come by later.”

“You know it’s against the law to bribe a public official?”

After we hung up I ate some cottage cheese and then changed into jeans and a button-down shirt. Formal wear.

I drove to the car wash, just in case my stalker had used water soluble paint. No such luck. A quick stop at an auto parts store netted me a paint protection hood kit that was tinted black. It was like a second skin that fit over the hood of the car. You could still see the graffiti through the translucent shield, but it was harder to read.

I found St. Theresa’s right where Google Maps said it would be. The structure was imposing, or maybe intimidating is a better word, probably because of the towering cathedral with which it shared the grounds.

Organized religion scares the crap out of me, and because of my mom’s excommunication and the resultant emotional trauma she suffered, Catholicism is at the top of my list of religions to be feared and avoided.

I parked in the farthest corner of the lot. Even though the hood cover hid the worst of the graffiti, I was reluctant to park where someone might see it. When I located the administration office, I took a deep breath before opening the door.

The nun behind the counter looked at me over a pair of half-glasses, her expression neutral.

“May I help you?” she asked.

She was in her mid-fifties with light brown hair turning to white. She wore a dark pantsuit. Her features were delicate and her face was round, maybe German or Danish, and there was a fierce intelligence in her blue eyes.

“I hope so,” I said, taking out my PI license. I was too nervous to make up a story, so I told her a partial truth. “I’m trying to locate a man named Patrick James Sullivan. He went to school here with his sister, Margaret Kathleen Sullivan. I’m not sure what year he graduated, but I was hoping you would have some record of him, maybe an old yearbook photo.”

After she’d scrutinized it, I put my license away and handed her one of my cards.

She studied my face for a long moment. “Do you have a range of years I can use as a starting point?”

“Well, Margaret would have graduated—just a minute.” I took out my phone and tapped on the calculator app. Maggie had looked like she was in her thirties; she’d probably graduated at seventeen or eighteen. I did the math and gave her a four-year range.

She made a quick note on a scratch pad and went into another room. She was back in eleven minutes. I timed her. She carried a bundle of file folders and two yearbooks.

“We had two Margaret Kathleen Sullivans during those years,” she said.

She plunked down the yearbooks and started going through one of them. I grabbed the other, flipped to the back and began scanning the senior class photos. They were alphabetized, so it was easy to find Maggie. She’d stood out even then. A very intense-looking young woman, challenging and seducing the photographer at the same time.

“Here,” I said, putting my finger on the photo. “This is Margaret.”

The nun glanced at the picture, then chose one of the overstuffed file folders and removed a rubber band. She started leafing through the forms until she located the one she wanted.

“Patrick James Sullivan, only sibling.” She looked up at me and waited a moment, as though she expected me to either confirm or deny this information.

“Yes,” I said, “that’s correct.”

She went into the back room, returning with two additional yearbooks. Again she took one and I opened the other. I found three Patrick Sullivans in mine, but the middle names were wrong.

The sister had better luck. “Is this who you’re looking for?” she asked, turning the open book so I could see it, her index finger resting on the page above the picture of a red-haired boy. My heart skipped a beat as I stared at the photograph. There was no mistaking those cat’s eyes. Patrick James Sullivan was my client, Jack McGuire.

Chapter 35

The sister was kind enough to photocopy the yearbook page with Jack’s picture for me. As she handed it to me she said, “Good luck, young lady. For my money, I think you’re innocent.”

She had known who I was all along.

All I could think to say was, “Thank you.”

Tears burned the backs of my eyes as I stumbled out the door. Anyone believing in my innocence was a welcome relief right now, and this woman had spent only about ten minutes in my presence. I was touched by her kindness; however, by the time I got to the car my whole body was vibrating with anger.

That son-of-a-bitch had set me up for a measly six million dollars! There was no other possible explanation. Who else could have known I was having dinner with Maggie that night? Who else could have slipped into the yard unseen, snatched up the knife, and slipped away again like a thief. Like a thief!

I broke the speed limit getting back to the office in spite of Bill’s plea that I avoid breaking the law. I couldn’t help myself. I’d left Jack’s pager number at the office. I unlocked the door and felt my gut clench all over again at the damage that had been done to my space. I left the door open behind me, found Jack’s file still on the desk, and located his pager number. I dialed, entered my office phone number, pressed the pound key, and slammed the receiver down.

I lit a cigarette and started pacing around the debris. I was wearing a crater in the carpet by the time Jack returned my call thirteen minutes later.

“Hunter Investigations,” I said, in my professional voice.

“It’s Jack. You called?”

“I did. Can we get together? I want to give you my final report and we need to settle up.” I tried not to let the anger creep into my voice, and it wasn’t easy.

“I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“Great.”

I righted my ruined desk chair and pushed some of the stuffing back inside so I could sit down. I lifted my computer and gently set it on the desk, placing the monitor behind it. I turned on the computer and spent some time updating my notes on Jack’s case and compiling my remaining expenses. I printed the report and the invoice, and made an extra copy of the whole file for Bill.

Jack arrived at 12:35. I sat watching the door so he couldn’t sneak up on me this time. He stepped into the office carrying a large Crate & Barrel shopping bag. He surveyed the damage and stepped over the scattered files, moving toward my desk.

“Hello, Jack,” I said. “Have a seat.”

“Elizabeth told me about your car,” he said, sitting down opposite me, “and your coffee pot.” He pulled a new Krups combination espresso-coffee maker out of the shopping bag and set it on the desk. “Of course I’ll pay for any damage. You should take your car to a BMW dealership to be sure they match the original color.”

“I’ll do that. Thanks,” I said, nodding toward the coffee maker. I was moved by the gesture, and that pissed me off even more. I didn’t want to be moved. This guy had set me up. I wanted to be angry.

I handed Jack the completed report, which came to thirty-one pages, on top of which I had placed the invoice, on top of which I had placed the photocopy of the yearbook page displaying his picture. I’d made a few extra copies of that as well.

Jack took off his sunglasses and looked down at his childhood photo. His cheeks reddened slightly and I saw his jaw clench, but he said nothing. He set the stack of papers on my desk and looked at me. I looked back. We did that for about a minute. Then Jack blinked and looked down at the picture again.

“What happens now?” he asked.

I got up and locked the office door. Elizabeth had all my guns, but I still had my defense spray, and it didn’t appear that Jack was armed.

“I thought you might like to tell me your story before I call the police.”

I removed the front door key from the ring and placed it in my lap drawer, which I locked. Jack watched me go through this little ritual without objecting. He looked guilty as hell.

“I don’t know where to begin,” he said.

“Let’s start with your name. How’d you come up with Jack McGuire?”

“That’s my name now. I changed it when I was twenty-one, when my grandfather died. It was his name. I went to live with my mother’s parents in Ireland after Mom and Dad were killed. I just moved back to the states a few years ago.”

“You don’t have much of an accent.”

“I didn’t move to Ireland until I was eleven.”

“Why did you choose me, Jack? And don’t try to tell me that it was a coincidence we met in that bar.”

“I’d read about you in the paper. That murder case you solved. The picture didn’t do you justice, by the way.”

Seriously?

“We are way past the point where flattery might have made a difference, Jack.”

He shifted in his chair. “That’s why I chose you,” he continued, “because you had experience dealing with dangerous criminals. Most PIs do a lot of surveillance, but never handle anything risky.”

“So you assumed that when the time came I‘d be capable of killing your sister?”

He winced. “I never thought it would come to that,” he said.

“Oh, please. That’s exactly what you hoped would happen. Why else would you have been there that night? Why else would you have taken the knife?”

Jack froze, his eyes locked on mine. “Is that what you think?” He almost sounded hurt. “I didn’t take that knife, Nikki. And I hired you to stop Maggie, not to kill her. Remember, I tried to talk you out of that harebrained scheme of yours. She was my sister and I loved her, but she was always secretive. Maggie was ten when I was born, so we were never close. Our parents didn’t think they could have any more children after Maggie. I was a surprise.

“When they were killed, Maggie shipped me off to Ireland to live with our grandparents, and after they both passed away I moved back and persuaded her to let me stay in the carriage house. I hoped we would become friends. Anyway, I could tell something wasn’t right with her, and lately it seemed to be getting worse, so when she was out of town on business I decided to search her house. Then I found those videotapes, and I didn’t know what else to do.”

It sounded plausible and, in spite of myself, I realized I wanted to believe him.

“I’m being accused of murder and you’re walking away with over six million dollars,” I said, reaching for my cigarettes.

“I don’t want the money,” Jack said. “God knows I don’t need it.”

“Why did your parents leave everything to Maggie?”

“They wrote the will before I was born,” he said, “and never bothered to change it. I guess they thought they had all the time in the world.”

“Just how much money do you have?”

I couldn’t help asking. I didn’t know anyone who would turn down six million or even six thousand dollars.

“I’m very good at what I do,” he said.

“Which is?” I asked. “Just for the record.”

“Tell me you’re not taping this.”

“I didn’t think of it, but that’s a good idea. You mind waiting while I get out my recorder?”

I normally keep a mini-cassette recorder in my purse, because the sound quality is superior to the recording app on my phone, but I hadn’t transferred it to my new handbag. I dug around in the purse just to make him squirm, then feigned surprise. “Guess I left it on the boat.”

He sat perfectly still, but I could sense the energy surging through his well-toned body.

“Tell me what you do for a living, Jack. I want to hear you say it.”

After a moment he softly said, “I’m a thief, Nikki. A burglar. I only take cash and securities and only from people who can afford the loss.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“Can we get back to the real issue here?” He stood up and put his hands on my blotter, leaning over my desk, his face close to mine. “I did not take that knife.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“I can’t think of a single reason why you should,” he said, shaking his head. “I didn’t tell you Maggie was my sister because I thought you would refuse to take the case.”

“Well, you were right about that.”

“I don’t know what else I can say to convince you. I was shocked when I found those tapes. I’d only intended to take a look around to see if I could find any clues about what was going on with her, but Maggie was obsessive about order. If a speck of dust had been disturbed on the banister she would have noticed. So I had to make it look like a break-in.

“I cut a hole in the sliding glass door, and I took some cash and some bonds to make it look good, I decided to check out the videotapes because she kept them locked up. I thought they might be porn. I had no idea.” He sighed and sank back into the chair. “I had to stop her, but I couldn’t go to the police, for obvious reasons. Then I remembered that article about you in the newspaper.”

He took out his Turkish Ovals and lit one, inhaled deeply and leaned back. He looked exhausted, as though thinking about Maggie and what she’d become had drained him completely.

“Suppose I believe you, just for the sake of argument. Who do you think could have taken the knife?”

“I assumed it was one of the cops at the crime scene. Maybe someone who collects macabre souvenirs.”

“When did you move out of the cottage?”

“After I found the tapes. Maggie was unpredictable. I had no idea what she would do if she realized I’d been in her house.”

“Why did you leave an open bottle of bleach in the cottage bathroom?”

The shadow of a smile moved quickly across his face and then disappeared.

“The first time we met you commented on my cologne. I was afraid you’d recognize it, so I splashed some bleach around and left the bottle open.”

The phone rang. It was Bill. He started telling me what he’d found out about the personnel at the crime scene. I listened for a moment, then unlocked my lap drawer and tossed Jack the key. He unlocked the office door and then walked back to the desk, set the key on the blotter, and picked up the invoice. He pulled a wad of cash out of his pocket and peeled off several hundred-dollar bills, nodded to me, and left. When he was out of sight I picked up the pile of money and counted it. He’d left me five thousand dollars. The invoice was only for thirty-three hundred. I wondered what he thought he was buying.

Bill didn’t have anything helpful to share with me. Apparently no one on the Atherton force had a relationship with Maggie, and none of them could afford the houses she sold.

I thought back to the indentations in the sod and mentioned them to Bill.

“Those could have been made at any time,” he responded. “And you need to stay the hell away from that crime scene.”

“You’re a big help.”

“You’d be lost without me,” he said. “By the way, the Sheriff’s department finally got into Sectio’s safe deposit box. There were sixteen videotapes in it, including the five you had copies of. She must have moved them after the break in. Also, she kept trophies. There were sixteen tiny plastic bags of hair, all labeled with dates that matched the videos.”

We ended the conversation and I hung up the phone feeling unsettled. What if Jack was telling the truth? I needed to analyze the situation objectively. I needed Elizabeth. I called her at work.

“Are you free for dinner?” I asked. “I need help.”

“I’ll be home by six,” she said.

“Great. What kind of food do you feel like?”

“Greek,” she said without hesitation. “I haven’t had Greek food in ages.”

“Okay. See you at six.”

I logged onto the Internet and started looking for a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant. I was hoping to maintain a low profile. I found what I was looking for, and called to make a reservation. The man who answered the phone told me they didn’t take reservations, but assured me there would be tables available.

Chapter 36

I spent the rest of the day cleaning and reorganizing my office. At 5:45 I locked up and walked down to my boat. I checked my reflection in the bathroom mirror, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and applied some under-eye concealer, a little blush, mascara, and some lip gloss. At 6:00 I walked over to Elizabeth’s boat, arriving just as she was coming in the gate.

“Hi, sweetie,” she called out. “I just got home. I need a few minutes to get ready.”

She invited me aboard while she changed clothes and listened to her messages. There was one from Jack. His voice sounded subdued as he said, simply, that he would call her later. Now I felt guilty. I hate feeling guilty. Elizabeth stopped what she was doing and listened to the message a second time.

“I wonder what’s bothering him,” she said.

When she had changed and freshened up we walked up to the parking lot. I drove. In spite of the red message already decorating my car, I wasn’t comfortable leaving it in the marina lot where more damage could potentially be done.

I’d gotten directions to Zorba’s when I’d called the restaurant. They were off Ralston Avenue in the Belmont Hills and were located below street level, under a shopping center. The man I’d spoken with had suggested that I drive to the back of the parking lot and listen for the music. We both heard it as soon as I shut off the engine.

There were no lights in this part of the lot, which was definitely in keeping with my desire not to be noticed, but it was also a little disconcerting. The sun wasn’t down yet, but it would be by the time we came outside again.

“This is going to be fun!” Elizabeth said, prancing toward the nearest building.

I locked up the 2002 and followed. We found the restaurant, though the sign above the door was obscure at best. We walked down a dimly lit flight of stairs into a large room full of wonderful smells. The live Greek music was just short of deafening.

The maitre d’ grinned appreciatively at both of us and seated us directly in front of the dance floor. I grabbed his sleeve and pointed to a corner table. He looked puzzled, but shrugged, picked up the menus, and escorted us to the table I’d pointed out. Once we were seated he took our drink orders.

Elizabeth was in her element, fascinated as she is by other cultures. I scanned the menu and discovered that they had pizza. This improved my outlook considerably. I’d go back on my diet as soon as I was exonerated. When the waiter brought our drinks I pointed to the Meat Lover’s pizza on the menu, and shouted, “Small.”

Elizabeth smiled widely. She crooked her finger at the waiter and he leaned close to her. She said something I couldn’t hear. He nodded, collected our menus, and left. We were both drinking Retsina, which tastes like gasoline, but is so distinctly Greek that the atmosphere demanded it. Two Greek salads arrived just as the band went on a break. I hoped they took long breaks.

“I didn’t order a salad,” I said.

“The beautiful lady ordered it for you,” said the waiter, gesturing toward Elizabeth.

“Thank you,” she said to him. “You need your vegetables,” she said to me. “Besides, you love Feta cheese and the house salad has Feta. Eat.”

I ate. The salad was wonderful, and I was half full by the time my pizza arrived. I grabbed a slice and cast a glance at the bandstand. Still empty. Now was my chance.

“You’re probably wondering why I asked you out tonight.”

“I figured you’d get around to it when you were ready,” she said, looking at me between bites.

“It’s about Jack.”

Elizabeth put down her fork and picked up her Retsina.

“What about him? This is bad news isn’t it? I knew something was wrong when I heard his voice on my machine. What happened? Is he okay? Is he married?”

“He’s fine. I don’t know if he’s married, but I seriously doubt it. It’s just that, well, he’s not exactly who I thought he was.” There was no delicate way to approach this. “Elizabeth, Jack is Patrick. He’s Maggie’s brother.”

Her mouth dropped open. I took a copied yearbook page out of my purse and handed it to her. She quickly identified his picture, read the name below it, and took another swig of Retsina.

“I don’t believe it,” she said, shaking her head.

“Wait. Are you seriously saying you don’t believe it, or are you saying you don’t believe how pissed off you are?”

She considered that for a moment. “Both,” she said. “I never, never would have guessed this. I did wonder why he was willing to pay you to stop her, but it never occurred to me he had anything to gain. Shit.” She handed the page back to me and signaled the attentive waiter with her empty wine glass.

“I need your opinion about the story he told me.”

Elizabeth nodded, and I launched into an abbreviated version of Jack’s tale. When I had finished, she looked pensive.

“I really like Jack,” she said. “I haven’t slept with him yet, you know.” She was telling me that what she was about to say wasn’t influenced by hormones. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

“How can you be sure?” I asked around a mouth full of sausage and bacon.

“Well, I can’t. This is one of those times when I have to go with my gut. What do you think?” she asked.

I swallowed the pizza and took a sip of the foul tasting wine.

“At first I thought he was playing me,” I said, “but now I think you might be right. So who took the knife?”

Elizabeth shrugged, and the band started up again, terminating our conversation for the moment.

When we had both eaten too much we asked for doggy bags. I paid the check, and we slowly climbed the stairs to street level.

We were crossing the lot when I heard the restaurant door open and close behind us. I turned to look over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of someone with blonde hair slipping into the bushes. That got my attention.

I gave Elizabeth a nudge. “There’s someone following us,” I whispered. “Don’t turn around.”

I took out my defense spray, and shook it to activate it. As I turned back toward the bushes a heavyset blonde woman suddenly came charging out of the shadows. It was Courtney, the receptionist from Millennium. She was wild-eyed, screaming like a banshee, and she was running straight at me, holding the missing scissor-knife over her head.

“Elizabeth, run!” I shouted, giving her a shove to get her away from me.

I turned my side to Courtney, making myself less of a target. I raised my left arm defensively, prepared to block her first thrust, and fisted my right hand hoping I could get in a throat-shot before the knife struck. I braced myself for the blow, silently cursing myself for not having the common sense to retrieve one of my guns from Elizabeth’s boat. Too late now. Courtney was only three yards away when I heard a gunshot. I dropped to the ground, instinctively flattening my body against the asphalt and covering my head with my arms.

I peeked out from beneath an elbow, and saw Elizabeth crouched in a shooter’s stance, holding my Beretta in a two-handed death grip. Courtney had taken a round to the shoulder. It spun her around, but she got her bearings and kept coming. Elizabeth fired again, missed, then dropped to one knee and fired three shots in rapid succession. Two of the bullets struck Courtney in the chest and throat. She dropped on the pavement only a few feet from me. I knew she was a goner, but I scrambled away just the same. The knife had slipped from her hand and lay by her side. When she didn’t get up and come after me again, I approached cautiously and checked her wrist for a pulse. There was none.

I turned to Elizabeth. She was still pointing the gun at the corpse, just as I had done after shooting Maggie. I walked over and took it out of her hands. She started shaking. I set the Beretta on the ground and put my arms around her.

“Well,” she said, after a few moments. “Now we know who took the knife. Who the hell is she?”

“She was the receptionist at Millennium,” I said, turning to look at the body.

“Where Maggie worked?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” she said. “Jesus, I just killed somebody. I think I’d better sit down. Don’t take your eyes off that knife.” She pointed at the weapon, making sure I knew where it was this time, and seated herself primly on the asphalt.

I recovered my purse from where I’d dropped it, took out my smartphone, and called 911 and then Bill. Bill got there first.

Elizabeth and I told our story twice that night, first to Bill and then to the Belmont police. Bill was right when he said I’d be lost without him. His position with the Redwood City PD gave him some clout. He arranged for us to give formal statements in the morning, so we wouldn’t have to spend the night at the police station. We hung around until forensics showed up and watched as they bagged the knife and my Beretta, for which they gave me a receipt, without being asked.

Chapter 37

When we got back to the marina that night I had a voicemail message from Rosa, my domestic detective in Atherton. Two of her friends in the neighborhood had spotted Courtney the night of the murder. One of them had even gotten part of her license plate number. I called Bill and gave him Rosa’s phone number, so the appropriate branch of law enforcement could get all the details firsthand. I would call her myself tomorrow to thank her.

I spent the night on Elizabeth’s galley settee in case she needed company. Surprisingly, we both slept.

Early Tuesday morning I called Peter, my attorney, and explained why I might be a little late for the hearing. He said he didn’t think it would be a problem under the circumstances, and told me he would speak with the bailiff about the delay.

I dressed in my best pair of black slacks, the Stuart Weitzman pumps, and a white blouse. Elizabeth and I drove to the Belmont Police Department together and Bill met us there. During the drive, Elizabeth told me that she had been carrying my Beretta in her purse since the break-in at my office. She said she’d chosen it because it was the only one of my guns that was already loaded.

We were placed in separate interview rooms and, after an hour and a half of intense questioning, we were allowed to go, but asked not to leave town without letting them know. Some things never change.

Elizabeth took the 2002 back to the marina and Bill drove me to court. On the way, he told me he’d called Claude Wolfe, the owner of Millennium, last night. Evidently Courtney had a fatal attraction-type crush on Maggie, although, according to Wolfe, her affections were not reciprocated. He said this had been going on for some time. He’d often seen Courtney’s car following Maggie’s out of the parking lot at the end of the day. That explained a lot. I’d also remembered Maggie saying she would have Courtney make the reservation at the 4290 Bistro, and following us from there to Atherton would have been easy.

My preliminary hearing was being held at the San Mateo County Courthouse in Redwood City. It’s an anonymous beige building located at the intersection of Middlefield and Marshall. Employees enter through the front and civilians enter through the rear, where a security station is set up to scan for anything that might be used as a weapon. I turned over my defense spray. The guards were friendly and professional. I noticed only one female among them, but who’s counting.

The floors were linoleum and I could hear our footsteps echo off the high ceilings as we searched the long hallway. The building smelled of disinfectant, or maybe Pine Sol. The courtroom doors were labeled with brass plaques and the walls were lined with framed photos of Superior Court Judges.

I was still feeling a little apprehensive and I was glad Bill was there with me.

When we entered the appropriate courtroom, I stood in back while Bill went forward and spoke to the bailiff. The room became silent as the bailiff stepped up to the judge’s platform and whispered in her ear. She turned to look at me, and so did everyone else. I felt the blood rush to my face. Even though I was certain I would eventually be cleared, these people had no way of knowing that. Some of them must have recognized me from the news. I hate caring what other people think of me, but I can’t seem to stop.

Peter appeared by my side, and when Bill joined us we all took seats in the back row. The judge finished hearing the case that was before her and then invited me, Peter, Bill, and the District Attorney, into her chambers.

I’d never been in a judge’s chambers before. The room was small and the walls were lined with books. The desk was utilitarian, its surface covered with file folders. The judge herself was about five-ten, in her late forties, with sandy blonde hair, fair skin, and penetrating gray eyes.

Her focus was unwavering as Bill outlined the events of the last three days. He was precise, thorough, and eloquent. The sixteen videotapes found in Maggie’s safe deposit box were evidence that I had dispatched a multiple murderer. The knife was clearly displayed on each of those tapes. Sixteen unsolved murder cases could now be closed. DNA from the hair in the little plastic bags also found in Maggie’s safe deposit box would be used to identify the sixteen victims displayed on the tapes.

While Bill was talking, I thought about the closure this would provide the families of Maggie’s victims. I felt good about that, but I was still pretty overwhelmed about taking a life.

I was impressed with the effort Bill was making on my behalf. I never expect people to come through for me. That way I’m seldom disappointed.

After a brief question and answer period, the District Attorney elected to drop the charges against me. He could always file again later if he changed his mind. I felt my eyes heat with relief, but I managed to hold back the tears.

Bill drove me home, and we talked about getting together on the upcoming weekend. Suddenly I had a future again. It’s amazing how much we take for granted. For three days I hadn’t known if I was going to spend the rest of my life in prison, and now I was free. I imagined some damage had been done to my reputation by all the publicity, and my picture being circulated certainly wouldn’t help when I was attempting to conduct a covert surveillance, but right at the moment I didn’t care about any of that.

When we arrived at the marina, Bill got out of the car and held me for a long time before kissing me soundly.

“You never doubted me for a moment, did you?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“Thank you, Bill. Thank you for believing in me.” Tears filled my eyes, so I put on my sunglasses and turned toward the gate. “I’ll see you this weekend,” I said over my shoulder.

He got back in his car and slowly pulled away.

I headed straight for Elizabeth’s boat to give her the good news. She had taken the day off from work, and because I had an idea what she was going through I didn’t want her to be alone. I knocked on the closed door of the trawler and heard laughter coming from the stateroom. What the hell?

After an interminable thirty seconds, Elizabeth peered out at me through the drapes and then slid the door open. Her hair was a mess and her face was flushed.

“How’d the hearing go?” she asked.

“It went great. They dropped the charges.”

I craned my neck to see behind her.

She slid the door the rest of the way open and I saw Jack coming up the steps from her stateroom into the galley. His hair was messy too.

“Come on in,” Elizabeth said. “We were finished anyway.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about this. Jack hadn’t taken the knife, but what about his profession? And he had lied to me.

I sat down on the settee and K.C. nestled into my lap, comforting me in a way that only a four legged creature could.

“Guess what,” Elizabeth said slipping an arm around Jack’s waist. She smiled up at him. “No, you tell her,” she said.

Jack was grinning like the cat who’d swallowed the canary, or maybe the cat who’d just had his way with my best friend.

“I’m buying that charming little estate in Hillsborough,” he said.

I looked at Jack, stunned, then turned to Elizabeth who was glowing.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Isn’t it amazing?” she purred. “That beautiful house is going to be Jack’s, and I might visit, occasionally.” She kissed him noisily and his grin widened. “And the Richters have agreed to stay!” she added.

Elizabeth was clearly overjoyed. She had made a remarkably swift recovery from last night’s trauma. What could I do? Despite my misgivings, I love happy endings. I nudged K.C. off my lap, got up, and shook Jack’s hand. “Congratulations,” I said. That felt banal, so I grabbed him and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you,” I whispered, and I started crying again.

Elizabeth wrapped her arms around me from behind and Jack held the hug from the other side. Cradled between the two of them, I realized that Bill and Elizabeth had both been right. Having taken a life I would never be the same, but, eventually, everything was going to be okay.

~THE END~

About the author

Nancy Skopin is a native of California, and currently lives on the Oregon coast with her husband and their two dogs.

While researching her mystery series she spent two years working for a private investigator learning the intricacies of the business. She also worked closely with a police detective who became both a consultant and a friend. She lived aboard her yacht in the San Francisco Bay Area for thirteen years, as does her central character, Nicoli Hunter.

If you’d like to be notified when new Nikki Hunter mysteries come out, please email me at: NikkiMaxineHunter@gmail.com and I’ll add you to my mailing list.