by Joanne Pence
He’s a peach all right, Rebecca thought, convinced that Richie’s supposedly outlandish suspicions had a basis in fact. Now, all she needed was proof of something illegal, like murder, going on.
Marta faced Richie. “Can I invite you to one of our séances, Mr. Amalfi? I’m sure you’ll be amazed by all you’ll witness and learn.”
“No doubt about that.” He turned towards Rebecca. “I think it’s time we get going. Don’t we have more stops to make?”
She thanked the Highfields for their assistance and left. Even as they got into Richie’s Porsche, she was still inwardly laughing at his expression over being invited to a séance.
o0o
Richie was glad to learn the next Sandorista on Rebecca’s list was also the last. He didn’t know how much more of this hocus-pocus stuff he could take.
Donald Luff lived in an expensive apartment at the foot of Van Ness Avenue. Richie hoped he was more normal than the other Sandoristas had been.
He didn’t care for the way Luff grabbed Rebecca’s hands and kissed her cheek as if they were long lost friends when they’d known each other less than 24-hours. Nor did he like the way Luff frowned at him, and then proceeded to ignore completely ignore him as he led them into his living room. The apartment had a great view of Alcatraz Island and the Golden Gate.
“I know you’re here about Candace, but I’m sorry to say, Rebecca,” Luff said, emphasizing his familiar use of her first name, as he snuck a peek in Richie’s direction, “that I paid no attention at all to the woman. She was too old for me.” At that, he chortled.
As if, Richie thought.
“Can you think of anything at all—or if anyone seemed particularly interested in her, or disliked her?” Rebecca asked. “Did you notice anything that might have seemed a bit off?”
“The only thing off to me was that she was always talking about missing her sister. Her sister was a nice lady, I’m sure, but shouldn’t Candace have been missing a man?” His eyebrows waggled at Rebecca, making Richie want to smash his face in. “That’s more normal.”
“You never know.” Rebecca looked disgusted, and quickly turned to Richie. “I think it’s time—”
“No kidding!” Richie jumped to his feet.
“You know, Rebecca,” Luff said, taking her arm as he walked her to the door. The little twerp barely reached her nose. “I often think better later in the day. In the evening, in fact. Maybe after a cocktail or two. And some dancing. You know, there’s a great new nightclub in town. Lots of people talk about it. They play some old favorites from my day. New stuff, too, but I like a Gershwin tune. How about you? How about tonight, in fact?” He let her go to do a little cha-cha-cha step. “Let’s face the music and dance, Rebecca! I can’t remember the name of the place, but I’ll find it. Once there, my memories of Candace Carter might take a turn for the better.”
“It’s called Big Caesar’s,” Richie said as he opened the door and whisked Rebecca into the hallway. “And she’s already been there.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“I may need to change my club’s image if aging Casanovas like Donald Luff think it’s the place to go.” Richie held the car door open for Rebecca.
“Big Caesar’s image is just fine,” Rebecca said as she got into the passenger seat. “Better than fine.”
He could see the turmoil she felt over him using old-fashioned manners with her, as if a part of her thought she should pull her own damn door shut, but another enjoyed the lady-like treatment. She’d once confessed that it was tiring to always have to act like a ball-busting cop, but that it was necessary in her position.
She let him shut the door.
“Where to now?” he said as he got into the driver’s seat.
She met his gaze a moment, then looked away. “Somewhere we can talk.”
“Sounds serious.”
She faced forward. “Hard to know.”
He headed to Union Street where the bars and eateries were less touristy and crowded than in the better known parts of the city. He stopped at a bistro where they found a table in a dimly lit corner. He ordered a beer, Rebecca a glass of chardonnay. Neither was hungry.
“So,” Richie said when the drinks were delivered. “What’s up?”
She took a sip of her wine, then kept her fingers on the stem of the glass. “You mentioned that you and Shay learned something about Geller’s finances.”
Something told him that wasn’t the cause of her discomfort. He told her about Shay’s discovery that Geller had millions sitting in Swiss bank accounts, but also several million dollars in banks in this country. And, from one such accounts he was sending money each month to eight men and women who had once been customers but nearly bankrupted themselves going to his séances. Geller now allowed them to attend a séance free-of-charge every few months.
“Eight people?” Rebecca was speechless.
“At this very moment,” he said, “Shay is trying to find out more about the people now being paid, and also to track down all those who were paid in the past but are now dead.”
“What makes you think there are any?”
He cocked his head. “What makes you think there aren’t? We don’t know how long he’s been doing this.”
She nodded. “I don’t get it. If he’s in this for the money, how does giving away money help him?”
“I don’t get it either,” Richie admitted. “But if the answer is in his bank accounts, Shay will find out. We just need to be patient.”
“True.”
He reached for her hand and squeezed it gently. He never thought he’d find a cop’s hands to be so soft, or so touchable. “Now tell me why we’re really here,” he said, letting her go.
Big blue eyes lifted to meet his. She looked troubled. He stiffened, knowing he wasn’t going to like what was coming. “I heard something about you. About how you make your money.”
“Yeah? Who’d you hear it from?” he asked.
“I’m not saying. What’s important is what I heard—that you’re a ‘fixer.’” She shifted back from the table. “Is it true?”
He fidgeted with the black leather band on his Piaget watch, sliding it back and forth on his wrist. “I guess I should have explained, but I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“Try me.”
His jaw tightened. Before he said anything, before he told her anything more about his life, he had to ask—even though he suspected he wouldn’t like her answer whether it was a “yes” or a “no.” He asked, “Does it matter?”
She looked pained. “It shouldn’t. You know that as well as I do. And I wish it didn’t.” She held his gaze. “But I want to hear, from you, that what you’re doing doesn’t cross the line. I think I’ve made it clear that I don’t care what others speculate or say about you, but if I can’t trust you, I’ll walk away and not look back.”
His shoulders sagged. “How many times do I have to tell you the same thing?”
She looked stunned, but then nodded. “You’re right. It’s not fair. But if I didn’t care, I wouldn’t ask.”
“That’s honest,” he admitted, knowing what it cost her to admit feeling anything about him.
She leaned closer. “You’re like a bad penny—you keep coming back. And I keep letting you. Do you know how stupid you make me feel?”
“Yeah, I do.” He took her hands, both of them this time. “Because I’m the one who keeps coming up with reasons to see you.”
She shook her head and gave a half-smile. “What am I going to do with you?”
“Want a suggestion?” He grinned, and he found himself smugly pleased that, by her expression, she seemed to like the path his mind had traveled down.
But then she pulled her hands free. “What I want is simply to know what you’re all about.”
He had the waitress bring them refills, and after she did so, he began to explain.
“You know I grew up poor,” he said. Rebecca nodded. “No time or money for more than a couple classes at
San Francisco Junior College, which I hated. So I knocked around from one lousy job to another, including working for a bail bondsman, Abe Pollard of Pollard and Seider.”
“I know them,” Rebecca said. “They’ve been around forever.”
“Yeah, well, I did any shit thing Abe wanted—like watching some of his less trustworthy bails twenty-four seven to make sure they didn’t skip, seeing who they were hanging around with, taking photos of the collateral as well as the people who put it up. The whole nine yards.
“The good part was—and I didn’t even realize it for a few years—I met a lot of people doing that, important people. On one side were the supposed good guys: DAs, ADAs, judges, lawyers of all types, and a lot of cops. And then there was the other side, mainly, Abe’s clients. Most were scum—not worth the time of day, and guilty as sin. But other times, as Abe became one of the few people in the city who could afford to take a risk with a bail of a few hundred-thousand dollars, and eventually, bails that hit a million or more, the clients became more interesting than anything else going on. Do you follow?”
She nodded. “I’m usually on the other side, working with the DA to get the bail as high as possible, but I’ve seen the risk the bondsmen have to take on some of these cases, and what goes into them deciding if it’s worth the risk or not. So did you become a bail bondsman yourself?”
“Hell no! No way I wanted the stress of that job. Especially with those big bail cases, they can go on for years before they go to trial. All that time, the bondsman’s money is at risk. Even with insurance, the collateral itself causes risks. Real estate can tank, the price of gold can nose dive, whatever. On top of that, if the client flies the coop, or even goes ‘missing’ for too long, it can cost. I’m not putting my money on a guy who’s already, in many cases, proven to be a thief, a killer, or a nice guy who’s gotten in over his head—and sometimes those ‘nice’ ones are the biggest flight risk because they’re so scared of what’s going to happen to them.”
“Makes sense,” she said.
He studied her, trying to gauge her reaction. If she looked like she didn’t understand, or worse, looked down her nose at his story, he would stop, pay for the drinks, and take her the hell back to work. But so far, those blue eyes weren’t judgmental. He continued. “One thing I learned from Abe, was a sense of who to trust—who he’d think would stick around, and who might run. Of course, things happened in life and someone he’d swear would show up for court was suddenly half way around the world. But a lot of the job was about reading people, and Abe was good at that.”
Richie took a quick swallow of some beer. “So anyway, I was making all kinds of connections doing this. And one day, one of them goes to Abe and says he’s got a big problem but doesn’t want anyone to know. He’s wondering if Abe could make a deal with the law outside the books. Abe was up to his eyeballs in cases, and asked me if I wanted to help the guy out. The guy was a big name in sports around here. With the 49ers, in fact. He’d gotten into a bar fight, broke another guy’s nose. The one with the broken nose threatened to press charges and sue. It could have gotten really ugly for the football player. I met with the 49er. All that was needed was for someone to talk to the other guy, calm him down, make him an offer to get him to go away. There was no need to involve the law at all. Two guys fighting. Big deal. It would have been nothing if one of the two didn’t have very deep pockets.
“I talked to the nose guy. He’d decided his broken nose was worth five million dollars. I convinced him it was worth two hundred thousand—which was about ten times what it was really worth. But the football player wanted it to all go away. It did. I took a cut; and that was that. I could not believe how much money I made just for talking.”
She grinned at that, and nodded as if to say, “Go on.” He did.
“It turns out ball players are forever getting themselves in jams, trust me on that. And they do not want cops involved.” With that, he sat back in his chair, his dark eyes never leaving hers.
She looked down at her wine. “And that’s what you do,” she said, slowly rotating the glass. “Help ball players make problems go away.”
“Baseball, football, basketball, college, pros—we’ve got a lot of teams in the area. Plus sportscasters, people on TV or movies, politicians, all people who can’t afford bad PR. Then there are those in charge of corporations, hospitals, non-profits—you name it. A lot of the high tech millionaires around here are kids, and they get into all kinds of garbage, usually involving sex or drugs. Mistresses who get bossy and want a wedding ring or money—basically, blackmailers—cause tremendous problems. So that’s what I do. I spend my time being helpful, making things better for people.” He shrugged. “I’m a nice guy. What can I say?”
She looked worried. “Yes, I’m sure you are, until the other party doesn’t want the problem fixed. Many of them, I suspect, want the publicity, or vengeance, and are happy to ruin your client’s life or career. That’s where it’s easy to go over the line. I’ve seen it, Richie, and I know you have as well.”
He scrapped at the beer bottle label with his thumbnail. But it was stubborn, and he pushed it aside. “I don’t do that. Never have. I know it’s a slippery slope, and I’ve seen people slide down it very, very quickly. Sure, I have to do some leaning on people, threaten counter suits, dig up dirt and swear I’ll use it. But if the other person won’t back down, I tell my client the truth. Leaning too hard would only make it worse. In those cases, I don’t charge a penny, no matter how much time I’ve spent, how much investigating I’ve done. I walk away as if I’ve never been involved.”
“But things can still go south quickly,” she said.
“Things can go south when you’re running a candy store. That’s why I don’t work with anyone unless I feel that my client, at least, can be trusted.”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve got cases going on now?” she asked.
“I’ve always got cases going on.” His voice was flat.
She sat, staring at the table top a moment, then finished her wine. “Okay. We should get going. I’ve got things to do in Homicide.”
He left money on the table as they stood, put their jackets on, and left the bistro.
They said nothing until they reached his car. He couldn’t take the silence. He turned her to face him, and kept his hands on her arms. “I told you what you wanted to know. So, where do I stand?”
“I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s a lot to take in.”
“You knew I wasn’t out there selling Amway products.”
She smiled at that, and he imagined she must be thinking of him going to door-to-door with a suitcase stuffed with cleaning aids. But then she lifted eyes that made his heart do funny things and surprised him by asking, “What I don’t get is, why do you care what I think?”
Good question. He stepped even closer. He was expecting her to push him away, at minimum. More likely, deck him with a karate chop. But instead she swayed towards him, and that was more than he could resist. He kissed her. And she let him.
Big mistake. The scent of her, the feel of her body against his … he remembered what it was like months ago at his house, how he hadn’t wanted to let her go then, and didn’t want to now. But they were standing on a sidewalk near Union Street. He let her go and held the car door open for her to get in.
He darted around his car and jumped into the driver’s seat, ready to drive as fast as traffic laws and his Porsche would allow back to his house, not even bothering with his seat belt.
“Take me to Homicide,” she said.
His hand paused over the Start button. “Now?”
“I’ve got work to do. The more I think about it, an autopsy should be done on Candace Carter. I’ve got to talk to the M.E.”
She didn’t look at him, but stared straight ahead.
For some reason, he understood. He did as she asked.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rebecca had no sooner sat dow
n at her desk than Agent Brandon Seymour showed up.
“It’s Saturday,” she said. “I thought the federal government shut down on weekends.”
“Not me. Let’s talk in private.”
She rolled her eyes and led him to the conference room they had used last time.
“What did you find out?” he asked before she even sat.
She folded her arms. “I take it you’re asking about Amalfi?”
“I saw him come here earlier, and then the two of you left together.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t learn anything you don’t already know,” she said.
“Did you ask about Claire Baxter?”
“Of course not.” She gave a slight shake of the head, wondering how she’d gotten into this mess with Seymour. “He’d wonder how in the world I knew her name, let alone anything else. And I don’t appreciate being spied on. And I know Richie would hate it.”
“No one is spying on you. We’re worried about Amalfi. National security can be involved.”
“Bull shit.”
He smiled. He actually looked almost human when he smiled. “You’re right. But saying that often works with people. Still, if you hear anything at all about Claire Baxter, Middle Eastern artwork, art smuggling, and so on, be sure to let me know.”
“I still think you’re wasting your time,” she said.
“But Claire Baxter is with him a lot. Maybe it’s personal between them.”
She didn’t like the way he was staring at her, and couldn’t help but wonder if Richie’s surprising kiss—very sweet, very chaste, but filled with a pulse-quickening promise—hadn’t now found its way into some national database. She did her best not to show any expression as she said, “Maybe so.”
Agent Seymour left to return to snooping on people, and she went back to work.
Seymour’s visit irritated her on a number of levels, and she was too keyed up to do desk work. She decided to go to Sandy Geller’s office and see what he had to say about Candace Carter’s death. She was also curious about the other women—Neda Fourman and Betty Faroni—but she knew that asking Geller any more questions about Neda, and particularly if she also mentioned Betty, would definitely put him on high alert. Besides, she had a good deal of confidence in Shay’s ability to find out what was going on—much more than any other computer technician, aka hacker, she knew of.
