Four O'Clock Sizzle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 4)

by Joanne Pence

  Rebecca explained who she was and that she would like to speak to the editor.

  She had hardly finished when a tall, thin Chinese woman, probably in her forties or so, left the back table and approached her. “I’m the editor,” she said. “Plus the owner, manager, and chief writer. Liv Wong.” She held out her hand.

  They shook, and then Rebecca explained why she was there. Liv Wong had heard of the arsons and the deaths, and she was concerned, but she found it far-fetched to imagine her article had anything to do with them.

  “The article has a by-line, Connor Gray,” Rebecca said. “Does he work here?”

  “No. He’s a free-lancer, as are all our writers except me. When I heard of the story idea, I decided to run with it. I’d used Connor before on an investigative piece, and called him. He jumped on it.”

  “Where did you get the photographs used? And where did you find out the names of former girlfriends and boyfriends to interview?”

  “Connor handled everything. My only requirement was that the story be current, not about scandals from years ago.”

  “So your involvement was …?” Rebecca asked.

  “To okay the story, have my lawyer go over it for anything we might be sued over, decide on which photos to use, and to do big-picture editing. I want my stories to be quick, exciting, and controversial reads.”

  “Have you had this job very long?” Rebecca asked.

  “Four years. I bought the magazine when it was struggling. I hoped to make it more hip, and very San Francisco. I think I’ve succeeded. We’ll see what this issue brings. So far, we’ve had so many calls for extra copies, we actually did a reprint.”

  “Does that happen often?”

  “Never. Although I must say the arson fires may have sparked that interest. To our surprise, in their news report, the Chronicle mentioned that the owners of the two businesses involved were subjects in this week’s SF Beat. They even gave the title of the article.”

  “I suspect you’ve had prior jobs with magazines?”

  “I did. My last job was with Sunset Magazine. I left when I was pregnant with my second child. That was a few years ago. My two girls are now in seventh and fourth grades, so I’ve come back to work, re-establishing old contacts and such.”

  “Nice,” Rebecca said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  “May I have the address and phone number of the writer?”

  “I’ve got a phone number.” She pulled out her phone and found the number and texted it to Rebecca’s phone.

  “And his address?”

  “That, I don’t have.”

  “Don’t you need it to send his check?”

  “What check? We use Paypal. Anyway, his email is connor-dot-gray at gmail, if that helps.”

  Rebecca had dealt with trying to get a physical address from Google mail in the past. Not only was it difficult, but an amazing number of people lie to free e-mail providers about both addresses and phone numbers. “Can you tell me what Gray looks like?”

  “Youngish, tall, thin, kind of geeky. To be honest, he’s not anyone who’d ever be competition for the ‘enticing bachelors’.”

  After Rebecca left the magazine, she called the number for Gray’s cell phone. There was no answer.

  o0o

  Back at Homicide, Rebecca saw that not one of the three other men in the magazine had returned her call. She tried once more, and again left messages.

  She had asked for assistance from police in the Silicon Valley towns where Diego Bosque had three more stores to see if anyone had any idea about his whereabouts. So far, no one who knew him would file a missing person’s report or do anything to declare him as a potential victim so that she could use all the power of the police department to find him. Everyone who knew him claimed Bosque kept to himself and they were not about to do anything that might upset him. Two days away from home, for Diego Bosque, who had condos in several states, was not a worry to them.

  She reached for her phone to call the Santa Clara police to see if they had learned anything yet, but before she picked up the handset, she saw Richie’s cousin, Angie, and Angie’s mother, who Richie called “Zia Serefina,” enter the bureau. Angie was a very attractive young woman with a stupendous wardrobe and killer shoes Rebecca envied. She was also so petite and feminine that when Rebecca stood beside her she felt as if she could try out as a female WWE wrestler—and would very likely get the job. Despite all that, Rebecca actually liked Angie, who was now married to Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith.

  It was, in fact, Angie’s connection to Paavo that caused Rebecca to meet Richie, which was the height of irony.

  From the time Rebecca had first met Paavo when she was a “trainee” homicide detective, she had developed a secret (or not so secret) crush on him. Later, when he met Angie, Rebecca kept thinking he’d come to his senses and date her instead, that she was much better suited to him. And now, Paavo and Angie were married, and she was seeing Richie.

  But then, she reminded herself of the way Richie had walked out of the restaurant after they’d argued. She guessed their suitability or lack thereof was no longer an issue.

  Paavo wasn’t at his desk, but instead of Angie and Serefina seeing that and leaving, they walked straight over to her. Rebecca stood. “Angie, Serefina, how nice to see you. I think Paavo may be in court today.”

  “We know,” Angie said. “We’re actually here to see you. Do you have a minute?”

  Uh oh. Rebecca had a good idea where this was going. “Please sit down.” Rebecca pulled chairs together for them. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s about Richie,” Angie said.

  Of course.

  “We’re worried about him,” her mother chimed in. In looks, Serefina was a much rounder, older version of Angie—except that her shoes were chunky with low, stubby heels. “We need you to do something.”

  Rebecca’s teeth clenched. “I see.”

  “Don’t get Paavo in trouble,” Angie said. “It really isn’t his fault that he’s terrible at hiding things from me. But I know Shig Tanaka was one of Richie’s friends. In fact, I was the one who first brought him to Shig’s restaurant after I discovered it. It was a marvelous place, and Shig was a fabulous chef.”

  Rebecca knew that Angie was also an excellent cook. That she’d never been able to find the right job to display her skill and knowledge of gourmet cooking was one of the banes of Angie’s—and consequently Paavo’s—existence.

  Before Rebecca could reply, Serefina spoke up. “And he got his head cut off!”

  “Shh! Mamma, it’s not nice to say that in public!”

  Rebecca’s shoulders sagged. “So it’s already out then, is it?”

  “It’s all over the news,” Angie said, waving her arms as if to indicate it was truly everywhere.

  “And we know,” Serefina continued, “that someone set Richie’s nightclub on fire!”

  “Right after they tried to burn down Diego Bosque’s store,” Angie said.

  “And we saw that horrible story in the magazine that talked about Richie along with those playboys! Santa Maria, madre di Dio,” Serefina lifted her gaze to the ceiling, hands reaching upward.

  “It was all lies, too.” Angie assured Rebecca.

  “He should sue them!” Serefina shouted, hands now in fists and eyes glowering.

  “Richie doesn’t deserve this!” Angie cried.

  “So what are you doing about it?” Serefina demanded.

  Two sets of dark brown eyes stared at her, waiting for an answer.

  She swallowed. “We’re trying to find any link—”

  “Phone records?” Angie asked.

  “Customers and suppliers?” Serefina asked.

  “And their neighbors?” Angie suggested. “Do they go to the same clubs? Same bars? Interest in the same woman?” Angie gasped and looked at Serefina. “Maybe, Mamma, the whole thing is a love triangle gone wrong and the article drove some woman right over the edge!”

  “Mado
nna mia!” Serefina cried, eyes wide, as she crossed herself.

  “Please!” Rebecca got to her feet. “Both of you. I appreciate your concern, but we’re looking into all this. And lots more. I understand that you’re worried about Richie and—”

  “Well, aren’t you?” Serefina asked as she and Angie also stood up. “From what I’ve heard, you two are close, no?”

  “Mamma!” Angie cried. “That’s not anything you should be talking about. At least, not here at Rebecca’s work. Although”—she faced Rebecca—“we do hear that the two of you seem to be growing closer all the time. I’m so glad.”

  “We’re just friends,” Rebecca announced.

  “Sure you are.” Angie nudged her mother with her elbow. They smiled conspiratorially and gave each other a firm nod, then faced Rebecca again. “We completely understand.”

  After her last meeting with Richie, Rebecca had no business letting his relatives think there was anything more going on than there was. “There really is nothing between us. And if there ever was, it’s over.”

  Angie’s mouth dropped open. “Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Although there are some who might be relieved,” Serefina said, sotto voce, to Angie before turning to Rebecca again. “I’m sorry, too, but that’s between you and Richie. We know it won’t affect how you handle this case, and how you make sure he stays safe.”

  Their words, the way they looked at her, made Rebecca wish things had worked out differently with Richie. But all she said was, “I’ll do my best. I assure you.”

  “Bene.” With that, they said their good-byes and left.

  Rebecca plopped herself back down in the seat. She wondered how many seconds would pass by before Serefina put in a call that would make Carmela Amalfi’s day. Carmela, Richie’s mother, had pretty much disliked Rebecca from the moment they first met. In Carmela’s eyes, it was bad enough that she wasn’t Italian or Catholic, worse that she was a cop, but then she became a complete persona non grata in Carmela’s eyes after Richie was grazed in the arm by a gunshot while on a case with her.

  The worst part of it was that Carmela had been right that he could have been killed. And Rebecca had played over and over in her mind what went wrong that had caused him to be in that kind of danger.

  In a sense, she couldn’t blame Carmela for hoping the two of them would break up. Now, the woman got her wish.

  Rebecca decided to forget about all the Amalfis and went to the desk of Jamie Mills, a technical whizbang who worked in the Crime Scene Unit. She asked him to attempt to locate Diego Bosque via his phone, the GPS on his car, or his credit card use, but despite his “mad skillz” Jamie had no luck. It was as if Bosque, or someone, had gone to great lengths to see that he couldn’t be found. Rebecca suspected Richie’s friend, Shay, would have much better luck, but she was pretty sure that resource was as closed to her as Richie’s friendship.

  Sutter marched up to her as soon as she returned to her desk. “I’m on TV,” he announced smugly.

  “You are?”

  “The beheading. Eastwood told me to talk to the reporters. I think I did pretty good, too.”

  Rebecca nodded. Eastwood liked using Sutter with the media because he could use more words to say absolutely nothing of any importance than anyone else in the department.

  She told him she’d learned Tanaka and Bosque might have some business dealings with each other. When she heard Tanaka left the restaurant with Bosque the night before he died, she had reviewed security and traffic camera videos, but all it showed was both men driving away from Kyoto Dreams in their own vehicles, one a black Lexus, the other a black BMW. The cars soon disappeared from view, and while she picked them up a couple of times, both eventually disappeared from subsequent cameras.

  She and Sutter had been doing extensive research on the backgrounds of the two men, looking for any kind of connection, any former trouble with the law, talking to people who knew them, searching for anything at all that could lead to someone wanting to brutally kill Tanaka and potentially to have kidnapped Bosque—or worse.

  But so far, nothing had turned up.

  She was again puzzling over Tanaka and Bosque’s phone records when the autopsy, if you could call it that, on Tanaka’s head hit her desk. She was stunned to find it showed a considerable amount of cocaine and alcohol in the bloodstream at the time of death. So much, in fact, that Tanaka was likely passed out or close to it when he was killed.

  The report also showed that whatever caused death had only happened to the torso, very likely a gunshot or stabbing. Given Tanaka’s state, it could have been inflicted by either a man or—and here she thought of Tanaka’s odd love life—a woman.

  Rebecca was pondering that when a call came in from Officer Lottie Hernandez in the city’s Central Station.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  If Rebecca were still a patrol officer, she’d want to work at Central Station. It had nothing to do with the physical space, which looked like Hollywood’s version of an old, grubby precinct with a high front desk to meet the public, and a cluttered open room for the officers with mismatched, ancient desks. To make matters worse, it was at street level below a multi-storied parking garage. But as in real estate, it was all about the location. Central Station was on Vallejo Street between Grant and Stockton, an area where Chinatown blended with North Beach. Of the city’s nine police stations, Central patrolled seven of the top ten San Francisco tourist attractions, including Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower, Union Square, Nob Hill, and Russian Hill, as well as the city’s major hotels.

  Rebecca once went up to the top level of the parking structure. The view of the city skyline with the bay, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Coit Tower, was breath-taking.

  She always had a spring in her step as she entered Central. As the desk clerk directed her to Lottie Hernandez’s desk, she saw the officer smiling broadly while speaking to a man whose back was to Rebecca.

  Hernandez spotted her and waved her forward. The man turned and stood. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Seagram’s advertisement. He had seemed handsome enough in the magazine article, but it was nothing compared to the raw sexuality he exuded in real life. The thought crossed her mind that this was the kind of power and attraction that the tabloid had described.

  “Mr. Brannigan, Inspector Mayfield,” Rebecca said, shaking his hand as she reached the desk.

  “Call me Moss.” His blue eyes twinkled outrageously.

  She smiled and then greeted Officer Hernandez and thanked her for calling. Hernandez showed the two of them to an interview room, and then she joined them. Looking at Brannigan—Moss—Rebecca didn’t blame her. Talk about eye candy.

  “I understand something happened that has worried you,” Rebecca said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me all about it.”

  “I know Lottie, I mean Officer Hernandez, has already heard all this …” He flashed “Lottie” a megawatt smile. Rebecca couldn’t help but stare. The man actually had deep dimples. She usually didn’t care for dimples on a man, but on him they looked seriously sexy.

  “No problem,” Lottie said, beaming back at him. She was clearly not going anywhere. “You tell the Inspector all about it.”

  His piercing blue eyes met Rebecca’s. “I probably wouldn’t have thought too much about it if it weren’t for the arson attacks and that terrible beheading. What a horror story! I can’t even listen to the news anymore.”

  “Were you close to the men involved?” she asked.

  “Not really. I met Pierre Fontaine through business connections. We put together a package deal for tourists. But I only met the others once.”

  “When was that?”

  “Pierre asked me if I’d take part in a magazine article about bachelors who made it big in the city. Sounded like some great free publicity, so I said yes. Well, then, instead of what I was expecting, I learned San Francisco Beat was going to publish a hit piece on us. One of the guys involved, Richie Amalfi, got
us together at Tanaka’s restaurant to discuss it. We thought about suing—defamation, slander, libel, whatever. Lots of threats and terms were tossed around, but the more we talked, the more we realized the piece probably wouldn’t hurt us for long. All of our businesses thrive on publicity. And you know what they say about publicity—it’s all good. Well, not good if people get food poisoning at a restaurant, or drown on my tour boat, or get bed bugs in Fontaine’s hotel. You know what I mean. But this—that a bunch of single guys are rich and interesting, and women (or in Travis’s case, men) like to hang out around us—what’s the problem? Finally, we decided to let the article get printed. If, as a result, our businesses suffered, then we’d revisit suing the tabloid. And we’d have proof that financial harm was done.”

  “In the course of the meeting,” Rebecca asked, “did you get any sense of danger? That any of them were worried about their personal safety if the article was printed?”

  “Not at all,” Moss said. “That’s why it came as such a shock to hear about the arsons and Shig’s murder.”

  “Tell me, did the writer interview you?”

  “He tried, but I wasn’t about to talk to anyone from that rag.”

  “Did you ever see him?”

  “No. He called. I never returned the calls.”

  “Okay.” Rebecca drew in her breath. “Tell me what happened to you. Why are you afraid you’re in danger?”

  “I’ve got my tour boat but I also own a cabin cruiser. I use it for my own pleasure, up and down the coast mainly, although I have sailed all the way to Panama a couple of times. Fortunately, I’ve learned with my tour boat not to rely on any instruments but to always have back-up data. I headed out early this morning and planned to spend a couple of days cruising up around Mendocino when I saw a discrepancy in the fuel level. The shipboard instrument said the tank was full, which is where it was supposed to be. But my back-up gauge—the one that was supposed to be simply redundant, showed the tank down to only a quarter full. That made no sense, so I turned the cruiser around. It was all but empty by the time I docked. Once docked, I checked it over. I haven’t found anything yet, but I know the fuel line and gas gauge were tampered with. That’s the only explanation. I wanted to get to the police and report this before anything else happened. I also want to make sure if anything happens to me, it’s not thought of as an accident. There’s clearly some sort of maniac out there going after those of us in the magazine article. And I don’t like it one bit!”