Free Murder Over Cocktails: The 2nd Nikki Hunter Mystery (Nikki Hunter Mysteries) by Nancy Skopin Page A

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

    O n 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