by Joanne Pence
How ironic was it that she was with that fiancée's scoundrel of a cousin?
They were soon out of range of the violinist, and neared a children’s choir singing about city sidewalks dressed in holiday style. Suddenly, she found herself glad to be out of Homicide and here, surrounded by the warmth of the holiday—even if she was with a whack job a few trucks short of a convoy and searching for old coots who sounded like Santa’s elves on speed.
"There they are!" Richie grabbed her hand and pointed toward the big, main entrance to Macy’s a block away. "Come on!"
He plunged into the street, pulling her with him, jaywalking between cars and busses. She was glad the traffic was all but stopped due to the crowds. She couldn’t believe he’d spotted the Santas. She could scarcely make them out in the chaos, and she’d been trained in crowd surveillance.
He ran up to them, approaching from behind them. "Wait!" he yelled, as soon as he was close enough for them to hear.
The Santas turned to face him. Each carried a Salvation Army kettle.
"Are you kidding me?" Richie’s face went through a series of contortions: anger, disbelief, mulishness. He reached out and tugged at one of the Santa’s beards. The elastic stretched and revealed a frowning but youthful mouth. "Uh ... sorry." Richie let go and the beard snapped back into place.
One Santa, bigger and more muscular than the others, stepped up to Richie, then shoved his donation kettle in Richie's stomach. Richie dropped a ten dollar bill in it, and then hurried away.
"It was a good try," Rebecca said.
"Yeah." He smoothed his shirt then the jacket, and ran his palm, diamond-pinky ring flashing, against the sides of his hair to smooth it. The whole time his back was to the Salvation Army Santas as if he couldn’t care less about them.
They walked down to Market Street, heads swiveling from side to side, up and down a time or two. The streets swarmed with jaunty red caps and white beards mixed among the throngs of shoppers. "I’ve never seen so many goddamned Santa Clauses in my goddamned life!" Richie exclaimed.
Rebecca spotted a group of Santa hats marching toward the Ferry Building. "Are your Santas short?" she asked.
"Yeah! Where?" He looked where she pointed, then frowned. "What the hell. It’s worth a try."
They hurried after the group, but slowed down as they neared. The Santas all carried boxes of Girl Scout cookies.
Richie kicked a mailbox, leaving a smudge from the sole of his shoe on it, and uttered a string of Italian curses. She ignored him, except to tick another violation: mutilating Federal property.
"This is dumb," he complained. "Let’s get back to the van and wait."
"Why don’t you tell me why you want to find the Santas?" she asked.
"Why don’t you tell me why you care?" He shot back.
"Hey, you asked for help." She sidestepped the question.
"And aren't you supposed to be investigating murders?" he asked. "Nobody’s dead. Just some old guys missing, yet you’ve glommed onto me like Crazy Glue. It doesn’t fit, Inspector."
She wasn’t ready to tell him about her dead Santa. Not with the way he'd been behaving.
They were in the parking elevator before she said, "Tell me why you need to find the Santas, and I'll tell you why I'm interested."
His eyebrows rose. "So you're saying you'll show me yours if I show you mine?"
"Fat chance!" she said with a glare.
He smirked—a smirk that quickly vanished when they got off the elevator.
The van was gone.
Chapter 3
WHERE TO NOW, BOYS?" Joe Zumbaglio, otherwise known as Joey Zoom, asked as he slowly drove the van up and down the city streets. Skinny, with sagging cheeks and gnarled hands, he was seventy-five and the only one who still had a valid California driver’s license—sort of. In case they got stopped, they didn’t want to take any chances. The driver’s license gave his name as Hiram Bernstein.
"I think we should’a stayed downtown." Lorenzo the Slug scratched his fake beard. He used to be called the Slug because he was so good with his fists—a slugger. Now, though, it was because he had to stop at a bathroom every thirty minutes so it took him forever, slug-like, to get from one place to another. That was also why the others let him ride shotgun next to Joey Zoom. He could get in and out of the van easily and no one had to sit next to him if they didn't find a john in time. Nobody told Lorenzo that, but let him think he was the same strong pugilist as ever. That was the thing about the crazy names the guys gave each other, they were for fun, honor, and at times, a surprising amount of affection.
"Three women handed me money," Lorenzo continued, his brows thick with tangled white strands. "I was just standin’ there, too. Wish I’da known how easy it was to make a buck wearin’ a Santa suit. Woulda saved me a lotta trouble."
"What? You gotta pot 'a rubble?" Frankie Vines shouted. "What you gonna do wit' rubble?" Frankie didn't have a nickname. They tried to call him Frankie the Ear because of his obvious difficulties, but he thought they said Frankie the Beer and went on a toot that lasted three years.
As usual, everyone ignored him.
"How was we supposed to know everything’s changed so much?" Lorenzo asked. "Who woulda thought Big Leo retired? I was countin' on him to help!"
"I told you I heard he died," Peewee Carducci whined in a high voice. He had a long narrow face and oversized ears that jutted out like wings under his Santa hat.
"Naw, Big Leo didn't die," Lorenzo said confidently, his scrawny Santa suit-clad chest puffed out. "We’ll find him and get him to help. He knows everything, and if he don’t wanna help, we’ll make sure he remembers who he’s dealing with."
"He don’t remember nothing if he’s dead," Peewee muttered.
"Who's Fred?" Frankie, formerly "the Ear," shouted.
"Maybe he’s got alkaselzer," Guido Cucumber piped up. He was called that because of his love for antipasti, but he liked to brag that it was for another reason. Guido was round with a big belly, a jowly face and thick ankles that seemed to ooze over his shoes. "You know, that memory thing. Like Ronald Reagan had."
"Yeah, and maybe he thinks he’s president, too," Joey Zoom remarked with a sneer. "Time’s wasting. We gotta find him and take care of business. After that, maybe we should call Richie. Who’s got his number?"
All were silent, but then two of the Santas were asleep, four had turned off their hearing aids, and two were too busy looking out the window to pay any attention to the conversation.
"Well, somebody’s gotta have it," Joey Zoom muttered.
"At least we got ridda him," the Cucumber said, tugging on the Santa suit around his thick thighs where the material was cutting into his circulation. "And Joey Zoom still has his stuff." He high-fived the Santa next to him so hard that poor old Joey Aces, former card shark, fell off the seat. Six of the Santas were named Joe, which made things confusing sometime.
"Try North Beach," Lorenzo the Slug said. "That’s where all the paisans hang out. And I gotta use a bathroom. Somebody there'll know how to find Big Leo." Everyone agreed.
As they drove by St. Francis of Assisi, they saw an elderly woman dressed in black step out of the church. She appeared confused, as if she wasn’t sure which way to go.
Joey Zoom slowed way down, concerned about her, when two young men walked by. One of them grabbed her purse. She hung on tight and fell to the ground, but he yanked it hard and ran off with his buddy.
The van roared to life. Joey bore down on the thieves.
The young men angled right and so did the van. Pedestrians jumped out of the way; city trash bins flew. The guys turned down a narrow side street only to discover it dead-ended. High-pitched girly screams mixed with the squeal of brakes. The van stopped just in time. Six more inches and the assailants would have been spending Christmas in purgatory … or worse.
Lorenzo jumped out, snatched the purse from the dumbfounded muggers who gawked in disbelief at the van of ancient Santas.
"Don’t m
ess with little old ladies," Lorenzo yelled from the passenger seat as Joey Zoom backed the van out of the alley. "Or, with Santa Claus!"
Chapter 4
AS RICHIE DROVE in circles, speeding, swerving and swearing, around the downtown and Mission Street areas, Rebecca wondered once more if her guess that her dead Santa was connected to the missing Santas wasn't a bad mistake. Maybe she had had a sudden glucose attack from her failure to get a Snickers earlier that day. Maybe she'd let the lure of figuring out just what Richie Amalfi was up to, seduce her. Not, of course, that she would ever want to be seduced by Richie Amalfi!
She glanced at his dark, dangerous looks. Definitely not her type at all…although, he did kind of remind her of a younger, taller Al Pacino. She drew in her breath.
But if, as he’d said, there really were twelve Santas out there, why? What were they planning? She’d seen enough of Richie Amalfi to believe that any plan he was involved in had nothing to do with holiday giving.
Holiday taking was a better possibility. And now, it was up to her to prevent it. Whatever "it" was. She needed a different approach. One to lull him.
"Do you spend Christmas with Angie and her family?" she asked casually.
His eyebrows jiggled with surprise before he said, "Naw. My mother cooks. We eat. Watch a little TV if we can find a game worth paying attention to. Tell old family stories. I'll take home a plate of food that’ll see me through the next couple of days." His gaze slid her way. "You?"
"I’m on call over the next thirty-six hours. So, I’ll spend the day tomorrow basically hoping nobody gets killed. I won't see my family until January."
"What's—"
His question was cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. It was Traffic, calling with an answer to her earlier query.
She listened, then hung up and studied Richie. It was time for answers. Her voice turned hard. "Who do you know at the Stonestown mall?"
His face registered confusion. "Nobody. Why are you asking about the mall?"
"There was an accident—an auto accident—near the airport this morning."
"Yeah?"
"You picked your friends up at the airport."
"So?" He waited, and when she said nothing he swung the car into a red zone and shut off the engine. She braced herself for another explosion of temper, ready to meet it head on. Instead, he shifted in his seat to face her, his voice low, and somehow even more deadly. "You think just because I lost some old guys I’m responsible for everything that goes wrong in this town?" He sounded almost indignant. "What’s with you, lady? Why are you here anyway? You can get the hell out of this car and go back to Homicide. It’s not as if I’d miss your help."
She weighed her options. It would be in the newspapers soon anyway, so it wasn’t exactly a state secret. "All right," she said. "Today, at ten-thirty or so, a car went off an overpass by the airport. It landed upside down and was pretty much flattened. By the time the cops and paramedics got there, though, the driver's body was gone. An hour later, a man dressed in a Santa suit was found at the mall. He was dead. His injuries made it look as if he’d fallen from a great height."
"A Santa suit?" Richie seemed dumbfounded by the story, but at the same time, his eyes darted. "What do you mean? Like he fell or jumped out of a building?"
"Maybe. The problem was, he was in the middle of the parking lot. There was nothing near he could have fallen from."
Richie blinked, and then slowly, a smile filled his face. "So ... it’s sort of like he fell out of—"
"Yeah," she said quickly, not wanting to hear the words she knew he was thinking.
Richie chuckled.
"It’s not funny!" Rebecca stated for the umpteenth time that day.
Something about her indignation made his chuckle develop into a belly laugh. "You’re wrong, Inspector. It is funny. Maybe you should do blood work and give Santa a posthumous DUI." But when he glanced at her frown and his humor died. "Okay, so what does it have to do with me? You were at a mall, for cryin’ out loud. They’re lousy with Santas."
He was right—it should have made sense, but it didn’t. "He wasn't wearing a mall-issued suit, for one thing. Wasn't recognized, had no I.D., and nobody seems to be missing any Santas but you. Are you sure you were expecting twelve Santas and not thirteen? Or maybe you only had eleven, and the dead guy is the twelfth?"
He looked startled at first, tense, then fell suspiciously quiet. "When I left the airport, I had twelve Santas," he replied, but then he asked, "What does he look like?"
"He’s older, late sixties, seventies. Gray hair. A small guy. The photographer has probably e-mailed me copies of the best digital photos from the scene by now. If we go back to Homicide I can show you. Maybe you’ll recognize him."
"I got a better idea." He reached behind the seat and pulled out an iPad mini. He turned it on, punched a few buttons, then held it toward her.
"Log onto your network," he said.
She shook her head. "Won’t work. It’s a closed, internal system, lots of security."
"Trust me."
Dubious, she took the device and did as told. In a matter of seconds, even faster than her supposedly secure terminal at work, she was into the system. She didn’t want to think about it.
The photographer's photos were there. She flipped through them, then put the clearest one on the screen. "Are you squeamish about looking at dead bodies?" she asked.
"What, you think they'll give me nightmares or something?" Richie reached for the photo, glanced at it and blanched. Before he turned white then an anemic green, she saw recognition in his face. He handed the iPad back to her. "Never saw the guy before."
"You’re lying."
"I never lie." He cranked the ignition and pointed at the computer. "Keep it close. Let’s get going."
She put it in her handbag. "Where to?"
"I don’t know. It’s a small city, a big van. Something’s got to show up."
"You’re lying again! You’ve got someplace in mind." Any minute now, she was going to pull her Glock on him, no doubt about it. "Now, tell me where we’re going."
Richie ran long fingers through blue-black hair that flopped in waves when he was through, almost but not quite thick enough to hide the small, thinning spot at the back of his head. She noticed a hint of gray at the temples, a slight cragginess to the skin, and lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Normally, she liked such signs of maturity in a man. She might need to rethink that.
Richie’s next comment brought her back to earth. "I said I didn’t recognize the guy in the photo. But I know someone who might."
o0o
The building was shaped like a triangle. The pointed nose, on the corner of Columbus Avenue, held the front door. In the early days of the last century, LaRocca’s Corner was one of the most popular mob hangouts. These days, it was mostly filled with yuppies who liked its post-Prohibition décor and its wise guy wannabe customers. Rebecca never doubted, however, that a few of the real thing continued to frequent it as well.
Richie's mouth scrunched as he perused Rebecca head to toe. "I better go in alone. You wait."
She said firmly, "No."
"They’ll wonder who you are. What you’re doing with me."
"Tell them I’m a friend."
He tugged an earlobe, and looked uncomfortable. "Well ..."
She glanced down at her black jacket, slacks, boots, and white blouse buttoned to the collar. She’d pulled her hair back in a barrette as they’d left Homicide. He was right. She didn’t look like someone a guy like him would hang around with. Which was, in her opinion, not a bad thing.
"Just wait a minute." She dug some lipstick out of her purse and put it on, then unfastened the barrette and shook her hair loose. Taking off the jacket, she removed her gun from her back-of-the-waist holster and put it in a zippered compartment in her Galco holster handbag. Next she cinched her belt tight, and rolled the sleeves of her blouse to the elbows and unbuttoned the top two ... no, the top three ... bu
ttons and spread the collar wide.
"Now?" She expected the scrunched-mouth look again. Instead, she noticed his Adam's apple move as if he swallowed hard as his gaze slowly drifted down her long frame, and then back up again. He reached up and gently pushed a couple of strands of hair back from her eye. To her surprise, his expression softened as he gazed at her. Then he nodded. For some reason, her pulse began to beat a bit faster at his touch.
They walked inside with his arm around her waist. He kept her close as they approached the bar, waving to people, calling out greetings in Italian and English, and using the kinds of nicknames she thought had been made up for shows like The Sopranos.
He ordered bourbon and water and quietly asked her what she wanted. She hesitated a fraction of a second then said, "Gin and tonic."
The understanding in his eyes was even more unsettling than the fact that she had ordered alcohol on duty. Well, she could order it, but it didn't mean she had to drink it.
As he talked to the bartender and others, she pretended to sip her drink, listening carefully, even though little of what they said made sense. Most of it was almost in code, and sounded suspiciously like the kinds of conversations one might have with a bookie. The only difference was that this time of year they talked football, not horses. Christmas and college bowl games seemed to go better than mistletoe and holly in this little establishment.
A very drunk man staggered over and put his arm around Richie. "How’s it goin’ pal?" he slurred.
"Fine, Pinky. Looks like you’ve got a heat on. You got cab fare to get home?"
"Naw. I’m not ready to go home anyway." He eyed Rebecca suspiciously. "Say, where’s Sheila?"
"She’s home with the kids. Let’s get you a cab."
"No need, Richie, really."
Richie sweet-talked him to the door.
Home with the kids? Rebecca hadn't thought of Richie as being married. He didn’t seem settled, and hadn't mentioned a wife and kids earlier when he talked about Christmas at his mother's. He might be divorced, but then, a lot of these "wise guy" types didn't talk about their wives. The women kept the house, raised the kids, and prayed in church for the ever-deteriorating souls of their husbands, but nothing more.
