by Joanne Pence
She nodded. “It makes sense. Crazy, but it makes sense … except for one thing. Why did El Grande show up? How could he have known about the meeting?”
She watched a strange play of emotions on his face. “It seems someone called him with a tip—told him he’d hear a confession and have a chance to take revenge on Bosque’s killer.”
“But no one knew …” She stopped talking. No one but her, the FBI, Shay, and Richie. And Shay would never call in such a tip unless told to.
“So, you and Shay,” she swallowed hard as the full extent of his plan sunk in, “you two figured out how to get rid of El Grande, one of the most dangerous drug lords in the area.”
“Maybe so,” he admitted.
Who is this man? “My God! Are you crazy?”
“Don’t think of it that way,” he said. “Think of it as avenging some friends and making sure that I—and you—are safe from El Grande and his goons. For sure, I would have been next on his list, and you, too, might have been in danger.”
She knew he was right. “The fire burned up most of the evidence of what actually happened, so I suspect the surviving gang members won’t come after you. And especially not after they hear Seymour’s story that all you did was to hide under the table while the two groups killed each other.” She couldn’t help but smile. “I’m sure he’ll love telling that to anyone who’ll listen.”
“God, but I hate that stuffed shirt,” Richie admitted.
“Still, you took a hell of a chance. It was crazy dangerous. So many things could have gone wrong.”
“But they didn’t. Not this time, at least.”
His last words were like a knife to the chest. Not this time … Worry, amazement, and misgivings mixed in a maddening cacophony, even as every iota of her being cheered at what he and Shay had managed to pull off. “Right now,” she said, “all I know is that I thank God you survived.”
He put his arms around her. “And all I know is I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as you waiting for me when I got out of that hell hole.”
His sweet words made her throat feel thick. As she looked into his eyes, she couldn’t help but think of how close she’d come to losing him that night. It was the sort of thing that focused one’s mind, that made a person realize what—and who—was truly important. He was far more important to her than she had allowed herself to admit. But she admitted it now to herself and—thinking of the public way she’d kissed him—to everyone who knew her, as a matter of fact.
“What am I going to do with you?” she whispered, scarcely able to speak so much emotion coursed through her.
He drew her closer and kissed her lightly. “I’ve got an idea.”
Her arms went around him as her heart filled with joy and desire. “I thought you were exhausted.”
He stretched out on the sofa, shifting so that she lay beside him. Then, to her surprise, he propped himself up and watched her face, her eyes, as he gently ran his hand along her cheek, her neck, her collarbone, down along her side to her hip. There, he stopped for only a moment as he leaned forward and whispered, “Not anymore.”
The End
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o0o
Rebecca and Richie met and shared their first mystery/adventure in the novella The Thirteenth Santa. Their first full novel adventure took place in One O'Clock Hustle. They also make a brief appearance together in the Angie Amalfi mystery, Cook’s Big Day.
If you missed it, here's the beginning of The Thirteenth Santa:
THE THIRTEENTH SANTA
It was Christmas Eve, and Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield was on a case.
Garlands of silver tinsel and strings of cheery lights decorated the outdoor parking lot of San Francisco's largest mall. In the center of it, while curious shoppers gawked and impatient drivers raged over the loss of parking spaces, yellow crime scene tape surrounded a black body bag. Homicide detectives were put in charge when a suspicious death occurred, and as soon as Rebecca arrived the concerned merchants of Stonestown descended on her, screaming their outrage over the distasteful police presence. A corpse could dampen tidings of good cheer under the best of circumstances, they protested, but to see one at high noon on the day before Christmas would cause shoppers to flee to the competition.
Frankly, surveying the crowd, it didn't appear as if anyone much cared.
Earlier, as she drove to the mall in answer to the SFPD dispatcher’s call, she'd worried about the crime scene because of both the day and the location. She hoped the death would have a simple and obvious explanation—bad health, for example. Joggers, in particular, were big on dropping like flies in the damnedest locations.
Given the strange smirks on the faces of the patrol cops who guarded the body, though, she had the bad feeling that there’d be nothing at all normal about this case.
Officer Mike Hennessy was a friend from the Taraval Station. Like her, he was single and therefore a prime candidate for holiday duty. They’d dated a couple of times until both realized it wasn’t going to work. Maybe it was because as a homicide inspector, she was superior to him. Or maybe something else. She didn’t know, and preferred not to analyze it.
"What’s so funny, Mike?" She pushed back the sides of her black wool blazer, her hands on the hips of her black slacks as she surveyed the area. The air was crisp, the sky pale blue. Gulls swarmed overhead awaiting discarded food from overfed, harried shoppers. "You guys look ready to split your guts about something."
Officer Hennessy’s eyes darted toward his partner. His mustache twitched in his effort to keep a straight face. "There’s nothing funny, Rebecca. A man’s death is never amusing."
His partner sputtered and clamped a hand over his mouth. Rebecca glared. The more he tried not to laugh, the more his shoulders shook.
"You’re right, Mike." Rebecca flipped open her pocket notebook. "A man’s death is a grave matter."
Hennessy’s partner stomped his foot, and doubled over from his struggles.
"Remove the sheet, please," she ordered.
Hennessy carefully lifted it away, reversing the direction he’d placed it over the body to cause minimal disruption to any evidence.
Even being a cop, the sight jarred her at first, then calmly, she studied the victim. He looked like a bloodied, broken rag doll.
His bones were twisted at unnatural angles and his body seemed oddly squished, as if he’d fallen from a great height. She looked up and then all around. They were in an open parking lot. No buildings were near. There was nothing for him to have fallen from.
That was when she realized what had amused the cops. Even before Hennessy spoke the words, she could predict what he was going to say. "It looks like"—he began before, like his partner, he sputtered and chuckled—"it looks like he fell off his sleigh."
"He hit the eject button by mistake," his partner blurted.
"Santa the sky-diver." Hennessy howled.
As the two rolled around with laughter, Rebecca made no reply. It was Christmas Eve, and Santa Claus—red suit, tasseled hat, black boots and all—lay at her feet, dead.
o0o
"What the hell! This is crazy!" Richie Amalfi stomped back and forth over an empty parking space, gesturing wildly. A short while ago the space was filled by a monstrous white Econoline passenger van. And the van was filled with twelve Very Important People. But now, it—and its passengers—were gone. "I don’t believe it!" he bellowed with rage.
Wasn’t it bad enough that he, a man who usually saw the light of dawn as he was going to bed, had to face it this morning when he got up? Now, the whole reason he had roused himself at such an ungodly h
our had all fallen apart. He should have stayed home. Bed, booze and broads—they were what made life worth living. And his life wasn't going to be worth squat if he didn't solve this present problem.
He ran both hands through his black hair. His eyeballs bulged; his scalp felt like it was being squeezed.
It was nearly Christmas. Filled with good cheer, he had agreed to handle this little task. Now, his Christmas spirit was going to get him a .45 through the brain.
That morning at the San Francisco airport he'd picked up his charges one-by-one as they arrived from different parts of the country. The first was there at seven, the last at ten. The four who had come in from the east coast had arrived the night before and stayed at an airport hotel.
Like some little Mary Sunshine googly-eyed social director he’d gathered them all together, waited while they put on their disguises—lifetimes of paranoia didn’t die easy—and squeezed them into the twelve-passenger Ford Econoline van he’d borrowed from a goomba for just this purpose.
He'd barely left the airport, on 101 North, when the piece of crap van started to cough and shimmy like a TB victim. He pulled off at the nearest freeway exit. It was just a block from a gas station, so he’d told the passengers to wait while he went for help. Nothing wrong with that, was there? At least he didn’t have to go far, dressed as he was in an Armani double-breasted pin-striped suit, white shirt with lots of starch in the collar the way he liked it, a red tie, and brand new wing-tipped shoes.
He’d had to wait about twenty minutes for the station’s mechanic to finish up with one customer, even though he'd tried to slip the guy a C-note to ditch the earlier job. It could have been a lot worse, though. The day before Christmas, every housewife, Sunday driver, and certifiable moron who should never be allowed behind the wheel of a moving vehicle got on the road to clog it up and call for help when they couldn’t figure out how to get the car out of "Park." Bah, humbug! When he saw he’d have to wait for the mechanic, he’d tried AAA, but the phone line was so jammed up he was left on hold and couldn’t even get through to an operator.
The day had not started out the way he’d expected, to put it mildly.
And it had just gotten worse.
"It’s a van!" he yelled at the bored mechanic. "A huge mother! It can’t just disappear."
The mechanic leaned against the tow truck and chewed on a toothpick. "Maybe this is the wrong street?" His manner was so lackadaisical, his tone so condescending that Richie was ready to take the toothpick and shove it down his throat.
But then he thought ... maybe the jerk-off was right.
Not that he forgot where he left the van, but that his passengers might have gotten it going again and test drove it a little way. Yeah, that was it. Hadn’t he heard that Joe Zumbaglio used to be called Joey Zoom because he was so good with cars? Although, if it was good at fixing them or at heisting them, Richie couldn’t remember.
He rubbed his forehead, then disgusted, flung himself into the truck and directed the mechanic which way to go. Then he directed him another way, and another, until they ended up driving all over the neighborhood, up and down side streets, checking out driveways, back alleys, even along the freeway.
Nothing. No van. No passengers. Only a snickering mechanic.
A small bead of perspiration broke out on Richie’s brow. This isn’t happening to me.
They returned to the gas station and he peeled a fifty off his roll of greenbacks for the driver, the whole time trying to figure out what the hell to do next. He checked the time on the platinum Rolex on his arm. It was a little after noon. He had plenty of time. All day, in fact. No reason to panic.
He paced. He would call a cab, go home and get his car. Yeah, that would work. And while he was at it, he’d make a few phone calls. Just call to say hello, right? And for sure, somebody would say to him, "'Ey, Richie, you won’t believe what I just saw."
It wasn’t as if he could actually tell anyone what had happened, not if he wanted to see Christmas Day. San Francisco Bay was too close by, and he was allergic to concrete overshoes.
o0o
Homicide was completely, painstakingly empty. Space-vacuum kind of empty. No telephone rang. No important memos waited to be read. Not even an impersonal interoffice e-mail arrived wishing her a "happy winter season."
A little sad, a little lonely, maybe a little sorry for herself for being stuck here at work instead of with her family for Christmas, Rebecca leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She had always wanted to do that. She tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her desk, and watched it bounce. Even the new man in her life, Greg Horning from Vice, had gone back to Cleveland to spend the week with his family.
She sighed. "Jingle Bell Rock" went through her head although she didn't like the song. Then a Snickers bar called her name, and she made her third trip to the candy machine. She slid in a dollar bill.
The machine burped, and the bill slithered out again. She shoved it in; the device up-chucked and spit it back. The junky contraption looked like it was sticking its tongue out at her, daring her to try once more.
She did; same result.
Grabbing the dollar, she returned to Homicide to check her e-mail yet again to see if CSI or anyone else had contacted her. They hadn’t.
Not only was Homicide a barren wind tunnel, so was the entire fourth floor of the Hall of Justice. Even the women’s bathroom. Heck, she could have used the men’s room if she’d wanted. No thank you.
Lieutenant Eastwood, head of the division, had given everyone the day off except for Rebecca and her partner. It wasn’t that Eastwood was being generous; he knew nothing got done on Christmas Eve. Past years, when the staff came in, they fretted about last minute shopping yet unfinished, then went down to the third floor to drown their sorrows with Christmas cheer in the district attorney’s office. The punch was so strong, Rebecca was sure the only fruit in it was an orange dipped twice then discarded. Christmas wasn’t the time of year a lot of homicides occurred anyway. That was New Year’s. All of Homicide would be on duty next week.
She glanced over at her partner’s empty desk. Good ol’ Bill Never-Take-A-Chance Sutter. He was a snail on the slow road to retirement. With enough time in to collect a pension, he was merely hanging around until he felt "ready" to officially leave. He’d probably show up around three o’clock today, leave at three-thirty. Or sooner. Rebecca wondered if he ever would retire. Generally, a person needed something to retire from.
Frankly, it didn’t matter if Sutter was here or not. Except for the weird death this morning, all was quiet. Too quiet. She tried to rouse someone from the Coroner’s office to do the autopsy on Santa Claus right away, before they went home or visited the DAs, but so far her calls went unanswered. If no one was willing to do the autopsy today, she’d have to wait until December 26th for the results. Not even the coroner was ghoulish enough to do such a procedure and then go home and carve up a Christmas goose.
She rifled through the reports of the few eyewitnesses at the mall. Everyone denied seeing or hearing anything. No one even knew how long the body lay in the parking lot before a harried shopper bothered to report it. The security camera covering that part of the lot had been awaiting repair for the past six weeks.
All she could do now was wait.
Wait for the fingerprints to run through the system, wait for photos of the victim, wait to use them to scan criminal records for digitized matches. She was tired of waiting, and couldn't help but wonder if the dead Santa had a family who was also waiting—waiting for him to return home.
He looked old, like he could be someone's grandpa. What kind of Christmas would his family have once they learned he was dead?
She'd never forget the first time she had to inform a family on Christmas that the husband and father wasn't coming home again. It was horrible. She shook off the memory. She was a cop; she knew death didn't stop for holy days.
The multi-volume California Penal Code lined the bookshelves
behind the secretary's desk in the reception area, kept there both because it was huge and also so it wouldn’t get lost in the piles of papers around the inspectors’ desks. The way the mall's management had pushed her to shut down the crime scene as quickly as possible had rankled badly. She hurried, and didn't believe she had compromised the investigation by doing so, but she wanted to be able to quote back chapter and verse of the Code if she ever again found herself in a similar situation.
Somehow, she didn’t think the managers would have been so bossy if the inspector-in-charge had been one of the guys—Paavo Smith or Luis Calderon, in particular. Nobody told either of them what to do. Then there was Bo Benson, who would have worked out a give-and-take deal, or "Yosh" Yoshiwara, who would have found a way to get what he wanted and had the managers think it was their idea. Bill Sutter would have been a no-show. Only she could be pushed around. It was because she was a woman, she was sure—the only female homicide inspector in San Francisco.
She’d often been told that she was tough enough for the job. Well, boys, she was about to get even tougher.
Citing the Penal Code was one way to do it.
She sat scouring the complicated index at the empty secretary’s desk when a guy she’d never seen before swaggered in. He was an inch or two shy of six feet, a hundred ninety or so pounds, and probably in his late thirties or very early forties. His hair was jet black, a little long and wavy on top, and his brown eyes heavy-lidded, down-turned and intense.
She pegged him right away. He was actually fairly good-looking, and could have been appealing, except for one thing. It wasn't the designer threads, the way he carried himself as if he had no fear, or the expensive hardware like the watch that probably cost half her yearly salary. It was those eyes—dark with a certain knowledge and experience—that told her which side of the law this smooth operator walked on. Her instincts twitched and her back stiffened.
"Hey, there," he said. His hands were in his pockets, and he looked over his shoulder a couple of times. "How you doing?" His voice was as mellow and buttery as soft, well-tanned leather.
