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  It was a rhetorical question and Bill didn’t respond.

  “Any witnesses?” I asked.

  “Not that we know of. Lawrence was found by his admin assistant this morning. She went to his house when he didn’t show up at the office, and found his body in the garage. When I arrived at the scene the blood had already dried, but I could still smell the garlic, so I put a rush on the autopsy. Coroner says he was killed between four and nine p.m. yesterday.”

  “You think I need to worry?”

  “You mean do I think Nina will come after you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That wouldn’t be her style. You caught her in the act, and because of you she had to leave the country, but you’re not a sex offender, so no, I don’t think you need to worry. Besides she had the chance to kill you that night in Los Altos, and didn’t.”

  “That’s not very reassuring. Scott’s mom wasn’t a sex offender either, and Nina killed her.”

  “I gotta go. I’ll be working late tonight.”

  I found myself struggling with the same jumble of emotions I’d experienced during the investigation that had led me to Nina Jezek in the first place. She was a stone-cold killer and had to be stopped, but her victims preyed on innocent children and the world was better off without them.

  Nina’s only non-sex offender victim had been Gloria Freedman. She had verbally abused and beaten her young son, but he had loved her anyway. When she was murdered he’d hired me to find her killer. Scott was now living in Seattle with his great uncle, J.V. Trusty. A fellow PI as well as a musician, J.V. is wonderful with Scott. They’re lucky to have each other. I would have to let him know that Nina was back in the U.S., and ask if he and Scott wanted to hire me again to apprehend her.

  My cell phone vibrated and I answered, feeling distracted by the past.

  “We’re here,” said Jim. “Any action?”

  “No, but Nina’s back in town.”

  Jim had helped me with Scott’s case, so he knew all about Nina Jezek.

  “Shit,” he said. “I thought she was gone for good.”

  “No such luck.”

  Chapter 17

  Nina Jezek’s flight from Tijuana had touched down at SFO right on schedule. She’d made her way through customs without a hitch, and caught a cab outside the international terminal. The cabbie dropped her off at the Hyatt House in Belmont near Redwood Shores, where she had booked a suite for the week under her current alias, Sandra Ellis. She’d also been able to rent a car at the hotel, but, in fact, she could have walked to her first target’s home.

  Her appearance had changed since she’d last been in the United States. Her hair was longer and now a warm shade of honey-blonde. Her fingerprints had been permanently removed with acid, and she wore brown contact lenses to conceal the intense blue of her eyes. She’d also had her nose and cheekbones widened.

  Nina had spent a few days observing her next target before taking action. She’d become familiar with his schedule, the routes he normally drove to and from his office, and the restaurants he favored. She knew gaining access to his home would be problematic. Since he preferred the company of little girls, she would be unable to charm her way into his confidence. The house also had a state-of-the-art alarm system, which was beyond her breaking and entering capabilities.

  The only chink in Nick Lawrence’s armor was that he didn’t like cleaning his own home, and allowed a housekeeping service access to the first and second floors once a week. She’d sat in her rental car watching as the van approached his residence on Tuesday morning. Lawrence had opened the garage door and was leaving for the office just as the cleaning crew finished unloading their supplies. He acknowledged the crew supervisor with a nod, and left the overhead door open after pulling his car out onto the street.

  The uniformed maintenance crew entered the house through the garage. Nina smiled. This could work. All she had to do was slip into the garage and conceal herself until the cleaning service employees were gone.

  She waited until all the supplies had been carried into the house, then left the safety of her car and casually strolled up the driveway.

  Chapter 18

  Thirty seconds after Jim and I disconnected Brooke and Robbyn came through the door carrying Neiman Marcus shopping bags, which Buddy nuzzled hoping for a treat.

  “What did you buy?” I asked, unable to resist.

  Robbyn had purchased only clothes she could wear in the classroom, but they were elegant. A lime green cashmere shell and matching cardigan, a pair of taupe Capri pants, and enough lacy pastel lingerie to last a lifetime.

  Brooke had bought herself a new Dooney & Bourke clutch. I’ve never been able to fit everything I need into a clutch, which is why I favor oversized crossbody bags.

  “You mind if I hang on to this for a few days?” I asked, holding up the journal.

  “I guess not, if you think it will help.”

  “I’ll carry it around with me and hope the orchid thief is watching. Maybe he’ll come after me instead of you. Are you two up for a visit to Stanley’s house?”

  Brooke looked at me and blinked a couple of times, then said, “I’d totally forgotten you wanted to do that today. Just let me change clothes. I’d like to tidy up the house while you’re searching.” She turned to Robbyn. “You don’t have to come if you’re too tired from all the shopping.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it. Besides, I can help you clean.”

  They went into the bedroom to change clothes.

  I called Jim and told him he could go home.

  “You want me back here tonight?”

  “Yes, please. Or one of your agents.”

  “I don’t have anything more urgent going on. What time?”

  “Nine would be good. Thank you, Jim.”

  Both women changed into spandex shorts, cotton tank tops, and athletic shoes. They looked like they belonged on the cover of a fitness magazine. We all trooped down to the parking lot. Buddy watered a few bushes, then he and I climbed into the BMW and followed Brooke’s Jetta to Belmont.

  I parked on the street outside Stanley’s house and hooked Buddy to his leash. We walked him around the backyard so he could get a scent-related feel for the place, then I unlocked the back door and handed Brooke the key.

  We went in through the kitchen and I searched the cabinets for a bowl large enough to fill with water for the pup while Brooke assembled Stanley’s cleaning supplies on the kitchen counter. I found a large Tupper and filled it at the sink. Buddy drained the dish, so I refilled it and set it in the corner of the room.

  “I’m going to look around upstairs,” I said.

  Brooke was pulling on a pair of pink Playtex gloves. “Okay,” she said.

  As an afterthought, I walked to the back door and threw the deadbolt.

  Buddy followed me up to the second floor and into Stanley’s bedroom. I stood in the middle of the room taking in my surroundings, wondering where I would hide something if I had OCD. I thought about what Brooke had said about Stanley—that he documented everything. If he’d had reason to believe that Archer, or someone at his firm, was involved in criminal activity, would he have kept the evidence at the office, or might he have brought a copy home?

  As I searched Stanley’s bedroom I tried to think like Adrian Monk, my favorite OCD TV detective. Monk’s character had a lot in common with Stanley Godard. Everything had its place. Probably the ‘place’ for client information was at his office.

  All of Stanley’s jacket and pants pockets were empty, as were his shoes. Nothing had been sewn into the lining of his clothes or his drapes. There was nothing under any of his bedroom furniture, not even dust bunnies.

  There were a couple of watercolor landscapes on the bedroom walls, but nothing was hidden behind them. The wooden floor panels we
re all secure and the closet walls were stucco; nothing hidden there. The closet ceiling had an access panel leading up to the crawl space between the ceiling and the roof, so I pulled a straight backed chair into the closet and stood on it, pushed up the panel, and turned on my cell phone flashlight. There was a thin layer of dust, but nothing was stored up there.

  I replaced the panel and the chair, and moved into the guest bedroom, with the same lack of results.

  Stanley’s bathroom was spotless. His medicine cabinet contained only toothpaste, a toothbrush, dental floss, a comb, a single wrapped bar of unscented Dial soap, and a bottle of generic buffered aspirin. The cabinet under the sink held cleaning supplies, a six-pack of Angel Soft toilet tissue, and a roll of Bounty paper towels. The shower yielded only shampoo and soap. I was getting nowhere.

  Buddy and I went downstairs and looked in on Brooke and Robbyn before moving on to Stanley’s home office. They were still busy scouring the kitchen.

  Brooke looked up as I stepped into the doorway. “Find anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing yet. Did Stanley ever mention having a safe in the house?”

  She thought for a moment. “No, but I think he had one at the office.”

  I pulled out my cell and called Faulkner. When he picked up, I said, “Did you find a safe in the remains of Stanley’s office?”

  “And hello to you too,” he said. “I haven’t been back to the office since Sunday, and I didn’t see a safe, but there was so much charred rubble it might have been buried.”

  “Brooke thinks there was a safe.”

  “I’ll go take a look.”

  “Call me back?”

  “Sure.”

  I resumed my search, wondering what secrets the safe might hold. Maybe evidence enough to get an arrest warrant for Archer, if not for homicide at least for embezzling.

  There wasn’t much of interest in Stanley’s home office. I found his personal tax returns and banking records, a copy of his will, the deed to his house, and a copy of his life insurance policy. Brooke had been listed as the beneficiary on an addendum filed only a month ago. She would be receiving a payout of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars. I looked through the books on Stanley’s shelves and checked under the desk, under the desk chair, and under all the drawers.

  When Buddy and I came out of the office, Brooke and Robbyn were in the living room shelving books and straightening couch cushions. Brooke had brought out Stanley’s vacuum cleaner. Buddy sniffed at the Hoover suspiciously. Buddy hates vacuum cleaners. On the boat I use a compact little Dirt Devil, and he barks nonstop until I turn the thing off again.

  We went through the living room together, tidying up as we searched, but there was no secret stash of incriminating documents. When Brooke plugged the vacuum into a wall socket I decided Buddy and I should go outside for a smoke.

  Since the yard was fenced I didn’t bother to hook the pup to his leash, but I did unzip the fanny pack holster so I would have easy access to my Ruger. Buddy sniffed around the border of the greenhouse as I lit up. He watered a few shrubs, then went back to the greenhouse door and sniffed at the ground. I noticed his hackles were raised and stepped closer.

  “What’s wrong, Buddy?” He looked up at me and wagged uncertainly. “Do you smell something bad?”

  I wondered if he could pick up the scent of the orchid thief and if insanity had an odor that was discernable to dogs. I decided to take another look around the greenhouse, even though the crime scene guys had already been in there. There was probably still glass on the interior floor from the broken pane in the door, so I told Buddy to sit and stay. I crushed out my cigarette on the brick walkway, reached through the hole, and opened the door. I glanced back at Buddy, making sure he wasn’t planning to follow me, then stepped inside, closing the door behind me.

  The inside of the greenhouse was like a furnace. There was black fingerprint dust on the surface of the table near where the hybrid orchid had been, but everything else looked pretty much as it had on Sunday.

  I let my eyes roam over the tables arrayed with what were no doubt prize-winning orchids. Maybe I should water them. I looked around and found a large watering can in the corner. It was full, so I made the rounds of the tables, giving each orchid a little drink. When I reached the end of the center table my eye was caught by a ray of sunlight shining through the glass ceiling and spotlighting a long, wavy, light brown hair that was trapped between two planks. I leaned closer and saw that the hair had a split end.

  I hurried outside, securing the door behind me again, and ran into the house. I rifled through the kitchen drawers, found a small zip-lock bag, and rushed back out to the greenhouse.

  “Good dog,” I said, as I slipped past Buddy.

  I carefully freed the hair from the table, placing it inside the baggie and zipping it shut. There was a tiny tear-shaped bulb at the root end. Even if the thief had worn gloves, now we would have his, or her, DNA.

  I stepped back outside and called Faulkner on my cell.

  “I found the safe,” he said, having recognized my number on his display. “We’ll move it to the station and get someone to open it for us. I’ll let you know if we find anything interesting.”

  “That’s great, but it’s not why I called. I’m at Stanley’s house. I was searching the greenhouse and I found a long, wavy, light brown hair. The root appears to be intact. I watch CSI. That means we have DNA, right?”

  “Yeah, but we’d have to have someone in custody to match the DNA, and even if we get a match it only proves he was in the greenhouse and probably took the orchid. Doesn’t prove he’s the killer.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s too much of a coincidence. I’m sure this hair belongs to the crazy-eyed VW van guy. He was there when Stanley was shot!”

  “So was Archer.”

  “You know, you can be a real buzzkill. I have to stay with Brooke. Can you come pick this up after you transport the safe?”

  “I guess I can do that. How long are you going to be at Godard’s house?”

  “I don’t know. Call me on my cell before you leave.”

  When we disconnected I felt let-down. I’d expected Faulkner to be excited about my discovery. Buddy and I went inside and I presented the bagged hair to Brooke and Robbyn, who were much more appreciative. They watched CSI too.

  “What I don’t understand,” said Robbyn, “is why an entire crew of trained crime scene investigators didn’t find that hair.”

  Good question. I thought about it for a moment. “Maybe it wasn’t there on Sunday. Maybe the orchid thief came back looking for the journal.” I felt a chill as I said the words, instinctively knowing they were true, remembering Buddy’s raised hackles as he sniffed around the greenhouse door.

  I dashed into the kitchen and threw the deadbolt on the back door again.

  The only room that remained to be searched was the kitchen. I didn’t expect to find anything there, but I went through the motions anyway. I opened the refrigerator and bagged up anything that would spoil, leaving the contents of the freezer in place after examining them. I dug through all the cabinets and drawers and looked under the table and chairs. I even opened the curtains to make sure nothing had been concealed behind them.

  When I returned to the living room Brooke and Robbyn had collapsed on the couch with Buddy between them.

  “Had enough for today?” I asked.

  “Absolutely,” said Robbyn. “I’m ready for a cocktail.”

  “I’ll follow you back to the condo,” I said, handing Brooke the bag of groceries. “I took these out of the fridge so they wouldn’t go bad.”

  She looked inside the bag and a tear slid down her cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Chapter 19

  We caravanned back to Redwood Shores and Buddy and I escorted the two wom
en up to Brooke’s apartment. Once we were inside with the door locked I handed Buddy’s leash to Robbyn and asked them to wait by the door while I took a quick look around. There were no culprits lurking in any of the closets, under the beds, or in the shower.

  I’d missed lunch, so Brooke made me a tuna salad sandwich, which I shared with Buddy.

  Robbyn blended a pitcher of margaritas and she and Brooke sipped daintily from oversized crystal martini glasses rimmed with salt.

  At 3:30 Faulkner called.

  “We’re at Brooke’s condo,” I said.

  “On my way.”

  Faulkner arrived about ten minutes later. Robbyn offered him a margarita, which he declined, and Brooke offered him coffee, which he accepted. I presented him with the bagged hair. As he studied it I told him what Brooke had said about the stolen orchid, that it would be priceless to a hybridizer, but worthless without the journal.

  Faulkner asked for the journal and I said, “You can read it, but you can’t keep it. I have a plan.”

  He cocked an eyebrow at me. “It’s evidence,” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going to take it with me to a meeting of the Orchid Society.”

  I’d come up with the idea while driving back from Stanley’s house. I would go to a meeting of the local chapter, make an announcement about Stanley’s death and the theft of his hybrid, announce that I had his notes on the process, and show the identikit picture of the crazy-eyed guy in the van. I didn’t think Faulkner needed to know all the details, but I hadn’t counted on his keen deductive reasoning.

  “You’re going to set yourself up using the journal as bait,” he said.