by Joanne Pence
Rebecca was having some difficulty with all the ins, outs, and innuendos, but she followed the gist of what Joey was telling her. She nodded.
Joey Zoom continued. "Punk Leo probably figured out a way to get ridda the body. But with all the security guards at the mall, he got cold feet and stuffed the body someplace hoping to get it later. But he didn't hide it so good, and it got found."
"Or," Guido said, "since a lotta things Punk Leo handles, he gets 'cause they fall outta a truck, maybe Cockeyed really fell outta a truck, and that's how he ended up where he did."
The old Santa all chuckled at that observation.
"Isn't that sweet?" Serefina said, clasping her hands to her ample breasts. "Punk Leo saved il cap—, I mean, Big Somebody from Cockeyed and only disturbed the accident scene because he wanted to help. Madonna mia, what a dear boy!"
Rebecca gawked at her.
Twelve Santa heads bobbed up and down in agreement.
Paavo looked at Rebecca and shrugged as if to say, "Could be."
Rebecca took a deep breath. Punk Leo did a lot he shouldn’t have … moving the body from the scene of an accident to start with, and then having that body tumble off his transportation to land in the middle of a parking lot. But if Cockeyed was actually killed in an automobile accident, murder wasn't one of Punk Leo's multitude of sins.
And that meant, it wasn't a homicide, and therefore not Rebecca's problem. Whatever Leo was charged with, if anything, would be up to D.A. and Leo’s lawyers to sort out.
As for the old Santas, she probably could haul all of them down to City Jail on some pretext—reckless driving, if nothing else—and see if any outstanding warrants turned up.
Her eyes strayed to the beautiful Christmas tree in one corner of the living room as her mind replayed the scene of Richie and her in Union Square earlier that day, watching the shoppers and tourists, listening to Christmas carols ...
And something loosened in her heart. She looked at Paavo who was regarding her steadily, trusting her judgment, and then at Serefina's anxious face.
"One more question," she said to the group. "One thing I don't understand. Since Richie Amalfi was your driver, why did you run off and leave him?"
"Why not?" Lorenzo the Slug wrinkled his mouth in disgust. "He was a pain in the ass, thinking he had to baby us, watch out for us, tell us to do this, do that. We’ve taken care of ourselves for eighty years and don’t need some young punk doing it now! Besides, we wanted to get a present for a dear friend who's celebrating his birthday today. Something that money can’t buy, and I think we’ve got it."
Angie took that opportunity to carry from the kitchen a big Italian hand-painted pasta bowl filled with just-from-the-oven biscotti, amaretti and honey-dipped cookies. The whole thing was wrapped in green cellophane, gathered at the top to form a flowery design and tied with an enormous green ribbon. "Here it is!" she cried.
The old men who were still awake cheered. The others woke from the noise and cheered as well, eventually.
Rebecca knew what she had to do.
Chapter 8
REBECCA WAITED FOR what seemed like a century on the doorstep after speaking with an immaculate butler.
The door reopened and Richie appeared, his gaze questioning. She noticed that he now wore a tuxedo with a black bowtie instead of the probably ruined suit he had been wearing earlier. That must have been the reason for his quick trip up Twin Peaks.
"I have a Christmas present for you," she said with a smile, and then stepped aside.
His expression was indescribable as his gaze traveled from the twelve Santas, to the cookies, and then to Rebecca. His face spread into a wide smile. "Come on in, guys. Everybody's waiting for you." He stood back, and the Santas entered, single-file, to loud greetings and cheers.
He and Rebecca remained alone in the doorway. The smile he wore was now for her alone, and she couldn't help but notice that he had a very nice smile, one that reached his eyes. "Where’d you find them?"
She grinned. "They were baking cookies."
Dark eyes met hers. "You’ve saved my life! Do you realize what the reaction would have been if I told the birthday boy I’d lost his twelve best friends?" He shuddered. "I kept saying they were on their way … and then said three Hail Mary's for it to come true. This is, like, a miracle."
She took a little bow. "Glad to be of service."
Laughter from the party erupted, and the two of them laughed as well. In the background, Sinatra sang "Winter Wonderland."
"Rebecca," Richie said, pointedly not using Inspector Mayfield, "come on inside with me. It’s Christmas Eve. Join the party."
The air was cool and crisp, the night a velvet canvas filled with stars. Inside were warm lights and happy sounds of the party. It was tempting, she had to admit. Looking at him there dressed so nicely, he looked handsome and a bit too tempting as well. She found an excuse to say no. "I'm on call tonight."
"There are plenty of non-alcoholic drinks. And you might not get any call."
"I'm not exactly dressed for a party," she said, looking at her wrinkled and dirty outfit.
"It doesn't matter at all."
She met his eyes. "I'd rather not, for a number of reasons," she said. "You, on the other hand, look very nice." She reached out and straightened his bowtie. "Enjoy the party."
He took hold of her hand. "How can I convince you to stay?"
His hand was warm, hard and masculine. Thoughts of their crazy adventure filled her, running up and down the streets of Chinatown, him sitting on a curb as she ranted at him, him fighting with Punk Leo in the kitchen.
She pulled away her hand. "You can't." She turned and walked down the steps to the sidewalk.
"It's Christmas Eve," he said, hurrying down to her side. "It's not a time to be alone."
"You've got a party to go to."
"To watch a bunch of people who have spent years together share their memories?" he said wryly. He took her arm, stopping her. "Maybe I'd rather create some memories of my own, if you don't mind my company as you wait to see if any police dispatcher's call comes in tonight."
She looked at the long, dark sidewalk that led to her SUV. She could walk it alone, and then sit in an empty office, or go home alone to her apartment. He wasn't anyone she should ever get involved with. They were from two different worlds. Actually, more like two different universes. Still, a surprising stab of regret hit her as she shook her head and whispered, "Merry Christmas, Richie."
"You've got to admit," he said as he slid his hands in his pockets and continued to walk with her. "This day was pretty crazy."
"Yes, it was," she agreed.
"Poor Cockeyed Lanigan," he murmured. "And my old Santas getting lost."
"Lost?" She glanced at him. "They were never lost. They ditched you!"
His face fell. "They did what?"
"You heard me. They said you mother-henned them too much. They couldn't take it." She laughed.
He looked so stricken. "You think that's funny? All they put me through!"
She laughed harder.
"I'll tell them a thing or two!" He turned towards the house.
"No, no!" She grabbed his arm. "I shouldn't have told you."
He faced her, her hand still holding onto him, and as their eyes met, his anger and her laugher died. "Maybe I did kind of overdo watching them," he said with a shrug.
"Maybe, a little." She dropped her hand, but this time didn't turn away.
He watched her a moment, then said, "I was just thinking, Punk Leo interrupted the only food we had all day, and I'm starving. I have friends who own a restaurant in Chinatown that stays open all night. I think they're Buddhists, so they stay open on Christmas Eve. What do you say? Even on-call, you've got to eat."
She knew that tomorrow she would decide this was a big mistake, and would most likely never see him again, but for tonight … just tonight … he was right. She didn't want to be alone, and clearly, even though he had a party to go to, neither did he.<
br />
"Come to think of it," she said. "I am hungry."
"Great! And if no calls came in for you, I know a movie house that's playing old Christmas movies all night long."
"Really? I love old movies," she said.
"Me, too." Both looked surprised that they finally found something to agree on.
"It's a Wonderful Life is one of my favorites this time of year," she added.
His mouth wrinkled. "God, no! It's so syrupy! Santa Clause Conquers the Martians—now that's a fun movie to watch!"
"You've got to be joking," she said.
"Dead serious."
"You'll be dead, all right, if you expect me to spend Christmas Eve watching that dreck."
"Or," he said, "maybe we'll find something more interesting to do."
As her eyebrows rose, he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and walked her to his Porsche, and soon they drove off to what would surely be a most interesting Christmas.
The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries
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Here is a look at ONE O'CLOCK HUSTLE, the first full-length mystery featuring Rebecca and Richie…
One O'Clock Hustle
AT 1:05 A.M. ON Sunday morning, after working twenty-four hours straight on the capture of an armed suspect in the murder of a liquor store clerk, Inspector Rebecca Mayfield sat alone at her desk in Homicide.
She was exhausted. But just as she finished writing up her notes on the tension-filled arrest, ready to head home for some much-needed sleep, the police dispatcher called: a shooting, one fatality, reported at Big Caesar's Nightclub.
Rebecca had heard of the club, located in San Francisco's touristy North Beach area. She was the first investigator to arrive at the scene, and flashed her badge at the uniformed police officer at the door. "Mayfield. Homicide."
"Good news," Officer Danzig said, all but beaming. "We're holding the killer. The bouncers caught him. He clammed up right away, but you'll find him in the manager's office."
Rebecca's eyebrows rose. She had never had witnesses capture the suspect before. "Interesting. And good; very good." Maybe she would get some sleep tonight after all.
"His name is …" the officer pulled out his notepad and read from it, "Richard Amalfi."
Rebecca was suddenly jolted wide awake. "What did you say?"
"Richard Amalfi. He's well known at the club, apparently comes here frequently. Everyone calls him Richie."
It can't be. Her mouth went dry. "I see." There are a lot of Amalfis in this city, she told herself. "Did you see him?"
"I did. Not quite six feet, medium build, black hair, late thirties or early forties."
Damn. That sounded like the Richie Amalfi she knew. He was quite a character to be sure, but a murderer? The thought jarred her. She shook her head, needing to focus on the crime, on doing her job. "What do we know about the victim?"
"No name yet. Female, in her thirties, I'd say. We only know she was a customer. Apparently she came in with the man who killed her."
"Allegedly killed her," Rebecca automatically added.
"Allegedly," Danzig repeated. "Although they said he was caught in the act. The body's in the bookkeeper's office."
Caught in the act … The words reverberated round and round in her head as she tried to listen to a run-down of the club's layout—the ballroom straight ahead, the coat closet and restrooms to the left, and beyond them, cordoned off with yellow tape, the corridor with the manager's office where Richie was being held, and the bookkeeper's office where the murder took place.
"Was the victim connected to the bookkeeper in some way?" she asked.
"No one has said. The bookkeeper isn't here this time of night."
Rebecca would have been shocked if he was. Nine-to-fivers liked their beauty sleep.
Danzig went on to assure her that he and his partner had immediately shut down the club and no one had been allowed to enter or leave.
She thanked the officer and stepped away from him, drawing a deep breath as she thought of all that was to come.
If Homicide were a family, Richie Amalfi would be a close relative. Rebecca's favorite co-worker, Inspector Paavo Smith, was engaged to Richie's cousin, Angelina Amalfi.
From Paavo, she knew Richie could come up with just about anything that anyone might want. Need something big, small, expensive, cheap, common, or rare? It didn't matter. Cousin Richie could provide. Many people seemed to "know a guy who knows a guy." Well, Richie was that guy—the one people went to when they needed something. She didn't want to get into what that "something" might be, or the legality of how he got it. But that didn't make him a killer ... she hoped.
She entered the elegant ballroom with white cloth-covered tables forming a semi-circle around an empty dance floor. She had never been there before—beer and pizza were her speed; jeans, turtleneck sweaters, black leather jackets, and boots her style.
The popular nightspot had been designed to look like a glamorous nightclub from the forties, the sort of place where Sinatra, Tony Bennett or Dean Martin might have sung, where women dressed in glittery gowns, men wore black or white jackets with bow ties, and "dancing cheek-to-cheek" referred to the couple's faces, not other parts of the anatomy. No hip-hop, rap or, God-forbid, country-western would ever be performed at Big Caesar's.
She could absolutely see Richie in a place like this—as absolutely as she couldn't see him killing anyone. Yet he was "caught in the act," the police officer had said.
As much as she didn't want to believe it, she needed to put aside her personal feelings. She had no more reason to believe he was innocent than she did anyone else accused of a crime. And yet …
And yet, she couldn't help but remember the day, last Christmas Eve, when she worked alone in Homicide and he came in looking for Paavo for help with a problem. Paavo was off duty, so she ended up helping, and had spent the day and well into the night with him, finally heading home in the early hours of Christmas morning. Their time together hadn't been long, but it had been intense, including chases and shootouts, and the kind of life and death struggles—crazy though they were—that left emotions raw and defenses down. To her amazement, she had enjoyed being with him.
She then used the next several days wondering if she'd been stupid to have spent so much time with him.
Not that anything had "happened" between them. Heaven forbid! After all, from the moment she first met him, she knew he wasn't her type, and he clearly realized the same about her. Still, from time to time, she couldn't help but wonder …
In any case, he never contacted her again—which told her that the only thing stupid was to have wasted any time whatsoever thinking about him. Of course, if he had called and asked her out, she would have refused to go. She wondered if he hadn't realized that. He was, she had discovered, curiously perceptive.
The band now jauntily played "The Best is Yet to Come," but a sullen, wary mood blanketed the room.
When she left the ballroom, she found that her partner, Bill Sutter, had arrived. He was taking statements from the bouncers. Rebecca walked around to get a quick feel for the nightclub's layout and exits, both doors and windows.
Despite wanting to see and question Richie, she would save him for last.
From her several years of experience in Homicide, she knew that the more she learned about a situation the better her first questions would be, and the better she could judge the veracity of a suspect's answers. Since she knew the alleged "perp," she was going to have to be even more by-the-book in this case than she normally was.
She ducked under the yellow crime scene tape. A cop stood at the door of one of the offices.
"Homicide," Rebecca said as she put on latex gloves and entered the office. The victim lay face up in the center of the room.
She ap
peared to be in her early thirties and to Rebecca's eye the sort of blonde—beautiful, slim, and expensively dressed—that fit easily in a classy place like Big Caesar's; the sort of woman she could imagine Richie going out with.
A gunshot had struck her heart. Death was most likely instantaneous or close to it. Blood soaked the carpet beneath her.
Rebecca surveyed the rest of the room. The window was open wide, bringing in blustery, cold air. Piles of papers lay in a wind-tossed jumble across the desk where a brass nameplate read "Daniel Pasternak." Behind it hung a sappy Thomas Kincaid painting of little sparkling pastel-colored cottages ready-made for Disney's seven dwarfs. On the floor near the body lay a small satin handbag.
Rebecca picked it up and opened it. The bag was empty except for two twenties and a lipstick. No cell phone; no credit cards. That was surprising, and odd.
Just then, the medical examiner, Evelyn Ramirez, arrived. She wore a red sequined blouse, black silk slacks, and diamonds. Her black hair was pulled back tight and pinned up in a sleek chignon. She had obviously been called away from some big shindig and intended to return to it soon.
The ME quickly took in the body and its surroundings. "Well, this'll be fast."
Rebecca watched Ramirez do the preliminary examination to make sure no big surprises turned up—such as the corpse had actually been dead for twelve hours before someone found her, not twenty seconds like everyone said. The entry wound indicated the shot had been fired at close range, a few feet away, which was consistent with the killer and victim being together in the room.
With the exam concluded, the time had come for Rebecca to face Richie.
She took a deep breath and opened the door to the office of the nightclub manager.
Richie stood at the window, his back to her, looking into the night. His wrists were handcuffed behind him.
