Six O'Clock Silence

by Joanne Pence

  Contents

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Plus ...

  About the Author

  Copyright

  SIX O'CLOCK SILENCE

  Joanne Pence

  Quail Hill Publishing

  CHAPTER ONE

  As I drive through quiet, fog-laden streets of the city, I’m filled with memories of all you once meant to me and how it all turned out so wrong.

  I warned you. I taught you to fear. And ironically, it was me you came to fear. You couldn’t see the real me. All you saw was your idea of me. All you heard were my words of warning, but not what was in my heart.

  You were wrong. But I, too, was wrong to push you away. You and I never should have happened, but you sneaked up on me, wormed your way into my life, into my heart, with your goodness.

  Yet, you weren’t all that good, were you? If you were, you never would have cheated on the man you married. You didn’t love him, that was clear. You loved him once, or so you claimed, but as the years passed, you grew into a dull acceptance of life, of boredom.

  When we met, you said you had never known anyone like me. That I fascinated you with my silences, my strange life, and that I inflicted death on others with what you believed to be ease, and what I knew to be justice.

  You said you loved me, but more than that, you feared me—feared me not for what I was, but for all I had come to mean to you.

  I could not fight your fear.

  In the end, I sent you back to the life you despised. And you hated me for it.

  I vowed I would never contact you again, and made you promise me the same, even while knowing that together we were more than either of us is apart.

  I ignored your tears as I walked away, and I didn’t look back.

  I have always been a man of my word.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Four days earlier—

  San Francisco Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield and her partner, Homicide Inspector Bill Sutter, stood at the edge of a trench dug to lay sewer lines in the far western portion of Golden Gate Park. The area, up to this time untouched by most park users, consisted of pine and fir trees, shrubs, a rarely visited old Dutch windmill, and a small tulip garden. But as the city’s population grew, the Recreation and Park Commission decided to install public restrooms to prepare for future activity centers. The sewer lines would connect the restroom to the city system.

  The trench was the length of two football fields, and deep. Along it were mounds of dirt that had been excavated.

  As best Rebecca and Sutter could determine, none of the workmen had noticed anything unusual about the site until they arrived that morning. They found that something—most likely dogs or foxes—had dug through some of the dirt and scattered a number of small bones and one large one. The foreman believed the bones were human and called the police.

  “I’d say the foreman is right,” Rebecca said. Thirty-five years of age, she was tall, with large blue eyes in a triangular face ending in a pointed chin. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “The bones look as if they’re from a human hand, as in fingers. And the longer one could be a forearm.”

  The bones weren’t the clean white color seen in museums or medical schools, but were a deep, mottled brown. All had been gnawed on, their ends ragged. But until someone with medical and forensic knowledge studied them, no one currently at the crime scene could officially state what they were looking at.

  “I suspect,” Sutter said, pointing at the undisturbed land on either side of the trench, “the rest of the body must be in there somewhere.” Sutter was in his fifties, with short gray hair and a wiry build. He consistently spent more time planning for his retirement than thinking about his cases, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to turn in the “I’m-outta-here” paperwork.

  “If someone buried an entire body out here,” Rebecca said, “whoever did it picked one of the least busy areas of San Francisco. If those new sewer pipes weren’t being installed, the site might have gone on undisturbed for quite a few more years.”

  “I always thought only vagrants and people wanting to hide from prying eyes come to this part of the park,” Sutter said. “Seems like a waste of taxpayer money building restrooms way out here. No one, least of all me, ever expected this new construction.”

  Rebecca ignored most of the comment, but Sutter did have a point. “Which means, whoever buried the body—or parts of the body—here, must have assumed it would remain well hidden. That it would never be discovered. It also means it’s highly likely our corpse’s death was no accident.”

  She walked away from the trench, Sutter following. “Let’s get these bones packed up and to the lab, and shut this site down until we have a better idea of what’s going on out here.”

  o0o

  Richie Amalfi turned his Porsche northward, across the Golden Gate Bridge to the town of Terra Linda, a place filled with 1950’s Eichler homes that apparently were once the be-all and end-all of modern suburban living. These were now a bit of a curiosity, as in people being curious over what the public ever saw in them.

  He parked in front of the home of Brian Skarzer, shut off the engine, and wondered for the hundredth time if he was being very, very stupid. Skarzer was the branch manager of Superior Savings Bank where Richie’s fiancée, Isabella Russo, had been working at the time of her death, four years earlier.

  Richie still had a few questions about what had happened back then, and he expected Skarzer had some answers.

  He had tried for years to ignore his uneasiness over the accident that took Isabella’s life, telling himself he was being paranoid, and unwilling to accept that horrible things do happen to many good people. But then, a few weeks back, Richie became entangled in one of Rebecca’s cases that involved an old real estate friend of his, Audrey Poole.

  In the course of running down a scheme involving phony international transactions, Audrey told Richie that Superior Savings Bank held the account for “Audrey Poole Investment Holdings,” aka “API Holdings.” Her words implied someone at the bank knew Audrey had been playing fast and loose with real estate laws.

  Not long after talking to Richie, Audrey had been murdered—a murder that Rebecca had solved.

  Since Isabella’s job was as a loan officer, Richie couldn’t help but think she might have looked closely at the way API Holdings handled the real estate transactions. If so, he wondered if she found something criminal which, given Audrey’s company, wouldn’t have been difficult to do. And what if someone involved had decided to silence Isabella?

  Richie had spent the past month looking into the bank with his friend, Henry Ian Tate III, aka “Shay.” They didn’t like what they saw. Four men had sufficient access to the bank’s records to know what actions taken by API Holdings were ill
egal, and to keep those activities hidden from bank auditors. The four were Brian Skarzer, the branch manager; Grant Yamada, the assistant branch manager; Ethan Nolan, the senior data operations manager; and Isabella’s assistant loan officer, Cory Egerton. Three of them still worked at the bank. Cory Egerton had left soon after Isabella’s death, and so far, neither Richie or Shay could track him down.

  Richie steeled himself. Time to act. He needed to talk to those men, to see how they reacted to him and to any hint that foul play had resulted in Isabella’s death. He got out of the car and rang the bell.

  A teenage boy came to the door. “Who are you?” The kid’s lips contorted with derision.

  “I’m looking for Brian Skarzer,” Richie replied.

  “If you’re selling something or want to convert him, he’s not interested.” The obnoxious teen started to shut the door in Richie’s face.

  He put his foot next to the door jamb. “Do many Jehovah’s Witnesses come to see you driving a Porsche?”

  The kid angled his head to check the street. “That’s yours?”

  Richie nodded.

  “Just a minute.”

  Richie saw a man, probably in his mid-fifties, medium height, pudgy, with a comb-over that didn’t succeed in hiding the glare from his bald spot approach the open door. “You’re here to see me?” he asked.

  “I want to talk to you about Isabella Russo,” Richie said.

  Skarzer looked momentarily puzzled. “Why? You with the police or something?”

  “Several questions have come up in the course of reviewing some insurance payments made at the time,” Richie said. “I’ve been asked to look into them. The name is Richard Doolittle. I’m with a private firm. We hope to resolve our issues quietly with no police involvement.”

  Skarzer turned skeptical. “Insurance questions? After how many years? Four? Five?” Since Richie remained impassively at the door staring at him, Skarzer scowled. “Well, I guess you may as well come in.”

  He led Richie into a small living room with a large TV. His wife came out of the kitchen. Skarzer introduced Lois to Richie, and made it clear this was a “work” visit and she needed to leave. She did.

  “Now,” Skarzer said when they were seated and alone in the room, “what can I do for you?”

  “We’re looking into some occurrences that took place around the time Ms. Russo was killed,” Richie said. “One of the things that stood out was that her assistant, Cory Egerton, left your employ just a few months after her death, and now, it seems no one knows where he’s located.”

  “What in the world does Cory Egerton have to do with an insurance claim on Isabella?” Skarzer asked.

  “Please, just answer the question.” It was all Richie could do not to wipe the sneer off the guy’s face.

  “Well, you said no one knows where he is, and I guess I’m among them.” Skarzer sounded annoyed. “It’s not as if I keep track of my former employees.”

  Richie gritted his teeth. “Maybe you can tell me something about Egerton. What was his relationship to Ms. Russo?”

  “He was her assistant. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

  “Think about it.” Richie’s eyes narrowed with a clear message not to even attempt to challenge him.

  “You look somewhat familiar to me,” Skarzer said, pushing back. “Why is that?”

  Richie shrugged. “I’ve been in your bank a few times.”

  A look of sudden recognition flashed across Skarzer’s face. “I remember now. You were engaged to her. You used to come by the bank all the time.” His gaze hardened. “You can get out of my house.”

  “I’ve just got a few questions, and then I’ll be on my way.” Richie’s tone was mild, reasonable, even as he made no attempt to move.

  Skarzer grimaced, staring hard at him. “Why are you really here?”

  “As I said, I’ve still got some questions about her death.”

  “After all this time?”

  “What the hell does time matter when there are too many unanswered questions, such as why Egerton left the bank so soon afterward.”

  Skarzer grimaced and strode to built-in shelves, where a small bar-like setup stood among books and knickknacks. He poured himself about three-fingers of bourbon. He drank down half of it, and didn’t offer any to Richie. “The guy was disappointed that he didn’t get Isabella’s position after she passed away. That’s all. He was clever, extremely clever, with the technical side of the work. He understood our computer programs inside and out, but he had no people skills. The last thing we wanted was him as a team leader.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might know where he’s gone?”

  Skarzer sat again, still gripping the bourbon-filled glass. “No. You might check with Personnel. They probably sent him paperwork. Also, many people who have worked for us keep their accounts open since we offer good rates to current and past employees.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Richie stood, as if to leave. “One last question. It appears Isabella was coming here—to your home—to see you the morning she was killed. Could you tell me the reason for such an early visit?”

  “That’s completely wrong. She wasn’t coming to see me.” Skarzer appeared sincerely shocked by the suggestion. “I have no idea where she was going. Frankly, we rarely spoke when she was at work, so I find it hard to imagine she’d be coming to my home at any hour of the day, let alone such an early one.”

  Richie nodded. He had to admit, he believed Skarzer—Isabella wouldn’t have wasted her time talking to such a schmuck.

  He wouldn’t waste any more time talking to the schmuck either.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That evening, Rebecca parked her older black Ford Explorer atop a red “no parking” zone in the dead-end street where her apartment was located. Richie’s nearly new Porsche 911 Turbo sat a couple of doors away, also in a red zone. Fortunately, meter maids giving out parking tickets never bothered to drive into tiny Mulford Alley.

  When Rebecca first moved to San Francisco, she received a sticker that allowed her to park for free in her own neighborhood. What it didn’t say was that very few such “free” parking spots existed. In fact, she almost never found one open. After a couple of weeks, she realized if she didn’t park illegally, her only option was a pay lot, and they were beyond expensive in the busy part of town—between Nob Hill and the Tenderloin—where Rebecca lived.

  She found Richie in her apartment. Just seeing him made her heart beat a little faster and her evening a little brighter. He was only a little taller than her five-feet ten-inches, with deep-set, dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a Roman, aquiline nose. His clothes were always expensive and stylish, and he wore his wavy black hair slightly long and expertly trimmed. He was, in a word, handsome.

  The TV was on, and delicious smells came from the tiny kitchen. Not only the kitchen was tiny, the entire apartment was. The building consisted of two large upper flats, and a garage that took up most of the ground floor. Her apartment, such as it was, had once been a storeroom in the back of that garage. Converted to a two-room living space that opened to the backyard, it now held a combination living-dining-kitchen, plus a bedroom with a bathroom so small it made airplane johns seem spacious. The furniture, like the apartment itself, was old and mismatched, but comfortable.

  Of course, the city’s building code considered such an apartment completely illegal. The irony of her being a cop and living and parking illegally was not lost on her.

  Her little residence was a far cry from Richie’s spacious home atop Twin Peaks with a beautiful view of the city and bay. Still, he seemed to enjoy visiting her and her little Chihuahua-Chinese Crested hairless mix named Spike, and she came to accept the fact that she didn’t mind him dropping in uninvited, and that she missed him when he wasn’t there.

  She especially didn’t mind the visits when he brought her something good to eat.

  She breathed in the aromatic scent. “What smells so good?” she asked as she took off her jacket.


  “Hello to you, too,” he said as he peeked in the oven. “And I’m happy to see you.”

  “Uh, oh, Spike,” she said, patting Spike’s head in greeting. “Now he’s insulted.” She faced Richie. “Hello. How ever are you? And what smells so delicious?”

  Richie grinned.

  She liked his smile, liked everything about him, truth be told.

  “It’s Carmela’s lasagna. She brought over a casserole for me. It’s more than enough for two, but I’d never tell her that.” He picked up an unlabeled wine bottle from the kitchen counter. “And here’s some of my Uncle Sil’s vino. The best.”

  “It sounds heavenly.” She took off her gun and holster, then kept her gaze glued to his as she walked toward him. He put down the wine bottle, one eyebrow raised, as she slid her arms around his neck. “And since Carmela brought the lasagna to you, I know it hasn’t been poisoned.”

  Despite the fact that Carmela’s only son was nearly forty years old and had never been married, Carmela watched over him like a mother bear guarding her cub. Rebecca had gotten between the two of them at her peril. Not only was Rebecca not Italian, and not Catholic, she was a cop, which meant—in Carmela’s mind—that she often put Richie in danger. Little did Carmela know how much danger Richie put himself into, danger that Rebecca usually had nothing to do with, and often warned him against.

  “Carmela loves you.” Richie smiled as his arms circled her, drawing her close.

  She kissed him. “Sure she does.”

  He kissed her back. “She told me so. How can I not believe my own mother?” Her heartbeat quickened at his touch, her arms tightened, wanting him closer, much closer, but then, abruptly, he pulled away. “Listen, I found this thumbtacked on your door.” Surprised, she let him go as he took a piece of paper from his pocket. “It’s got me worried.”

  He handed it to her. It was a picture of a skull and crossbones—a sign of poison or a pirate ship. “Do you know why it’s there?”