Six O'Clock Silence

by Joanne Pence

  “It’s a war zone out there, that’s what’s wrong. Why?” Bo asked. “You get too many one-fingered salutes or something?”

  “Let them try it,” she said with a huff is she smoothed her hair and sat. “A truck, a big one, nearly ran into me. Luckily, the car in front of me had turned the corner, so I was able to hit the gas and get out of its way. If that car hadn’t turned, I wouldn’t have had any room to maneuver!”

  Bo looked askance at the implication of her description. “You’d have been broadsided. That’s not good.”

  “No. You’d be peeling me and my car off his grill.”

  At this point, Inspector Paavo Smith was also listening. Paavo was married to Richie’s cousin, Angie. Rebecca once had a “thing” for Paavo, but he had eyes only for Angie. “Were you able to see his license plate or if there was a company name on the truck?” Paavo asked.

  “I didn’t even notice him until I was in the intersection, and then, all of a sudden, he was on top of me. If he missed me by more than two inches, I’d be surprised.”

  “Strange,” Bo said. “I wonder if he’d been parked, and then pulled onto the street just as you started to drive by. Maybe I’ll see if your bad driver showed up on a traffic cam. Such a jerk might merit a message of concern about his driving.”

  “Maybe,” Rebecca said thoughtfully. “At least no harm was done, but that is not the way to start one’s day. Is Sutter here yet?” Paavo and Bo shook their heads. “Okay, tell him I’m downstairs. I’ve got to see if I can push the ME to move a little faster on our skeleton. While I’m there, I might stop in at the morgue and pretend that maniac truck driver is on one of the slabs.”

  Bo chuckled. “Sounds like the milk of human kindness just curdled.”

  o0o

  Shay wasn’t surprised that Richie was phoning him before noon. Richie wanted the investigation into Superior Savings Bank over with as soon as possible, saying “other things” had come up that he’d like Shay to handle, but not until the bank investigation was completed.

  It wasn’t as if Shay had been purposely procrastinating, but he wanted all the data and facts nailed down before he told Richie anything more about what had happened. This situation was too important for him to rush, despite Richie’s anxiety about what might be discovered.

  Shay also wondered how long it would be before Rebecca phoned to ask what was going on with Richie. Shay couldn’t help but hope Richie would get a nice big situation to “fix” for one of his wealthy clients. Those were the cases Shay liked to research. Not these with so much emotion attached to them.

  Years ago, Shay had learned to put aside his emotions. He had learned he had few needs in life. Housing, food, and something to occupy his mind. And he also learned that with enough money he could set up a barrier between himself and others—that he would never again have to subject himself to the wayward or inane emotions of other people, or even himself. He set out, nine years earlier, to amass enough money to live on as he wanted. And he had met that goal.

  He found life a lot easier this way. No attachments, no feelings. Just simple, smooth sailing.

  He tossed aside the research he had been doing. The bank’s handling of the real estate holding company, per se, wasn’t the problem. It was legal. The problem was that the company had been used fraudulently.

  Since all the bank’s records of the now deceased Audrey Poole’s company had been wiped off its database, Shay was certain someone at Superior Savings was involved in the illegal enterprise. He needed to discover who.

  But, he reminded himself, despite that, he saw nothing to implicate anyone at the bank in Isabella Russo’s death.

  He got up from his desk. Playing with the bank’s database held zero interest for him today. He’d go back to it eventually, as he’d promised ...

  Not that he’d made the promise because he liked Richie. Or Vito. Or that they were the only people he ever talked to or met outside his home. They provided stimulation and interest for him, that’s all. And he definitely didn’t need Richie’s money.

  He didn’t need anything from anyone.

  Life, he told himself, was good.

  He walked to the window and gazed at a quiet street near Julius Kahn Park along the southern edge of the Presidio, a former army base turned recreation area. It was in one of the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods, and his home had once been a mansion. He had converted its top floor into a large, beautiful two-bedroom apartment with a library, den, formal dining room, and maid’s quarters. He never used the dining room, but he enjoyed having it, nonetheless.

  The bottom floor of the home had been converted into two small but extremely nice apartments, one rented by a single man who worked in the city’s financial industry, the other by a single woman who worked for Google. Both stayed out of his way, allowing him to go about his days and nights with no contact whatsoever with either of them. That was the only type of tenant he would allow. Others who hadn’t met that standard soon found themselves moving out. Despite the city’s rent control and strong support of tenant’s rights, he hadn’t come across anyone willing to argue with him when he told them they had three days to leave the premises.

  Because his apartment was large, and Shay was more than a little fussy, he employed a full-time housekeeper. Mrs. Brannigan was a widow, in her sixties, who cooked the way he liked it, kept his clothes immaculate, and the house spotless. She also had a sense of humor, and when he fussed too much, she’d tell him he was lucky he wasn’t married because any wife would poison his food before she put up with such nonsense.

  That always took him aback. He didn’t see himself as being nonsensical at all. What most intrigued him was that where most people were afraid of him, Mrs. Brannigan wasn’t in the least bit intimidated. That, he realized, was a good reason to keep her around.

  He stepped out to a small balcony off the living room. As usual, the wind was up and a chill filled the air. He hoped it would clear his head because the only thing he found himself truly able to think about was the skeleton that Rebecca was trying to identify.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  That evening, just as Richie had done the night before, he made a detour before going to Big Caesars—actually more than a detour, a cross-city jaunt. He now found himself ringing the doorbell of a mid-century modern home in the exclusive Sea Cliff district. He had contacted his cousin Angie to be sure she and her husband, Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, would be home before he drove all the way out to the western edge of the city. It wasn’t really all that far, but to Richie, who spent most of his time in the chaotic hubbub surrounding Fisherman’s Wharf, North Beach, and the crowded Nob Hill-Tenderloin morass where Rebecca lived, this area was so quiet it could be a cemetery, the houses nothing but mausoleums. He wondered how Angie stood it. She was his favorite cousin, warm, funny, and always active, as well as a bit of a busy-body. But a warm-hearted busy-body, he had to admit. He also knew she probably spent a lot of time alone. As he had learned dating Rebecca, the life of a homicide detective wasn’t his or her own. It was a nightmare of phone calls that seemed to come in at the least opportune times.

  He hated to think of how many great evenings with Rebecca had been ruined because some jerk managed to get himself killed. Homicide’s dispatcher was the most reliable form of coitus interruptus he’d ever encountered.

  If he was smart, he’d dump Rebecca and her crummy job. But he wasn’t smart. Not where Rebecca was concerned. As much as he hadn’t wanted it to happen, she’d come to mean too much for him to even think about walking away. Somehow, she’d become a big part of his life.

  For that reason, he’d come up with a plan. A man with a plan—that was him, Richard Joseph Francis Amalfi. And he was working to put that plan into action.

  That was why he was here.

  Angie opened the front door. She looked pretty as ever, with her highlighted short brown hair, big brown eyes, and petite figure clad today in a green jumpsuit with a wide belt. “Richie, welcome!” she cried as
she wrapped her arms around him and kissed his cheek. He greeted her the same way.

  “I’m so glad you’ve come over. You haven’t seen the house, yet. Isn’t it pretty?”

  He walked into a nice size living room with a fireplace on one wall and sliding glass doors that gave a view of the Pacific. “Very nice,” he said, then caught Paavo’s eye. “Paavo, good to see you.”

  Paavo sat on a sofa, his laptop computer and a bottle of beer on the coffee table, papers all around him, and jazz playing in the background. “You, too. Like a beer?”

  “After the tour,” Angie said as she looped her arm in Richie’s and pulled him through the house. He had heard that Angie found the house for a very good price because it was supposedly haunted. Since he had no belief whatsoever in ghosts, if he’d heard that a place as nice as this one, in one of the city’s best neighborhoods, was for sale cheap, he’d have snapped it up in a heartbeat. As he looked around, he gained a whole new respect for his cousin’s financial smarts.

  As much as he appreciated the tour, as much as he enjoyed looking out at the expansive view of the Pacific, he'd come here for a reason, and was glad to get back to the living room. Paavo handed him a beer as Richie took a seat.

  “I’m trying to get our finances under some kind of order,” Paavo said by way of explanation of all the paperwork. “Buying a house is bad enough, but then remodeling and furnishing it is even worse.”

  Richie nodded and smiled, but didn’t say a word. Angie’s father was loaded, and he made sure all five of his daughters had their own trusts. Not to worry, Paavo.

  Angie soon appeared with a tray of taquitos and quesadillas, along with guacamole, salsa, and tortilla chips. She sat down on the sofa beside Paavo. Richie bit into a homemade quesadilla, one of Angie's always delicious concoctions. Paavo was one lucky guy to have married such a great cook.

  After some inconsequential chit-chat, it became clear that both Paavo and Angie were wondering what brought him to their home.

  He got to it. “I’m here to talk to you about Rebecca,” he said to Paavo.

  Paavo nodded. “I suspected as much. You two see a lot of each other, I hear.”

  “Yes. And I care about her a lot.”

  Angie beamed at him. “I knew it,” she cried, clasping her hands. “Have you proposed yet?”

  “No. That’s not it at all.” Richie’s voice was stern.

  Angie’s face fell. “Sorry.”

  Richie turned to Paavo. “I’d appreciate it if you don’t tell Rebecca I’ve talked to you about this, but she thinks Eastwood wants her out of Homicide.”

  Paavo looked taken aback. “They have their differences, but I didn’t think it had gone that far.”

  “She’s wondering if her career is over,” Richie said. “And if so, I don’t know if she should be encouraged to stick it out, or if she should leave? Or, since I know Eastwood doesn’t care for me, is her seeing me why her boss’s nose is out of joint?”

  “It’s not the latter,” Paavo’s brow furrowed. “But why does she think her career is over? She’s a good cop and has a terrific closure rate on her investigations. That’s what tends to be important.”

  “It has to do with the mayor’s chief-of-staff’s suicide. Apparently, the mayor blames Rebecca. And she doesn’t believe it was suicide, but Eastwood closed the investigation.”

  Paavo shook his head. “I know Eastwood’s ambitious, but he’s got a reputation as a good investigator. I can’t imagine he’d go along with the mayor if he didn’t believe he was right.”

  “You can’t, or you don’t want to ‘imagine’ it?” Richie asked, his tone hard.

  “Richie, relax,” Angie said, reaching over to put her hand on his arm. “Paavo wants to help you both.”

  “You make a good point,” Paavo said. “None of us knows Eastwood that well. All I can say is, I’ll try to find out what’s going on there.”

  Richie visibly relaxed. “Good. I appreciate it.”

  “Frankly,” Paavo continued, “I thought you were worried about her nearly being killed. It was a weird situation.”

  Richie stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

  “This morning. On the way to work. Didn’t she tell you? She was furious, but if that truck had broadsided her…”

  “What truck?”

  Paavo quickly told him what little he knew.

  “Damn! That’s proof she’s in danger,” Richie said. “We’ve gone from the mayor wanting her fired, to somebody putting warnings on her car and front door, to her being nearly killed. What the hell is going on?”

  “That’s terrible,” Angie cried. “Paavo can’t you do something?”

  “This is the first I’ve heard about any of it,” Paavo said. “What worries me are the threats—and her not telling anyone.”

  “I wouldn’t know either if I hadn’t found one myself on her front door. Damn it, Paavo, she blew it off, said I was making a big deal out of nothing.”

  “She’s in denial,” Paavo said.

  “She’d kill me if she knew I told you.”

  “I’ll be keeping an eye on her.”

  “Yeah, well,” Richie rubbed his temples, “good because that partner of hers is worthless. I wish he would just retire.”

  “He’s an okay guy,” Paavo said. “And he really does try to watch out for her. All of us do our best to watch out for each other.”

  “I’d feel better if I didn’t think he’d have to move his walker out of the way before he could draw his gun,” Richie said with a sneer.

  “Ouch,” Angie said.

  “He’s not that bad,” Paavo insisted. “Still, if there is a problem, I don’t think it’s with Eastwood but with someone a lot higher up. You’re the one with the connections in City Hall, Richie.”

  “I’m covering that angle,” Richie said. “But I can’t watch Homicide and the SFPD brass. I need to be sure you’ve got her back.”

  Paavo nodded. “I do; you can be sure of it.”

  Angie leaned over and put her hand on Richie’s shoulder. “Rebecca has you looking out for her, and she’s got Paavo. She couldn’t do better.”

  “Thanks, Angie,” Richie said, then grimaced. “Now, if I could only convince Rebecca of that, maybe we’d all be happy.”

  o0o

  Shay drove through the fog-filled streets as memories flooded over him, memories of how it had all turned out so wrong, of how he had walked away and never looked back…

  He couldn’t believe he was doing this now. But here he was.

  He knew better than to drive to a certain street, but he couldn’t stop himself. Not after learning that what he’d feared all these years had come to pass.

  The irony of it was, he couldn’t decide if he did or didn’t want to be there.

  If he was smart, he’d make a U-turn and head for home as fast as his Maserati could travel. What kind of jerk was he?

  Perhaps the kind who wanted to make sure a woman he had once loved was fine, and that her life was a happy one now.

  He saw a parking space a couple of houses before hers on the opposite side of the street. He took it. Maybe if he just sat here a while, contemplating what “normal” looked like—as in the normal life she was living now—he could convince himself to never come back here again. It had all happened long ago. The damned corpse was a skeleton now. No one, not even Rebecca Mayfield could figure out who he was. Or why he had been placed in that lonely, unmarked grave.

  The home was small, as were all these in the Oceanview neighborhood. No car was parked in the driveway, and the drapes were drawn on its front rooms. That was the way homes looked during the day when the couple living there worked outside the home, and when the children, if any, were in school or daycare.

  For some inexplicable reason, the knowledge comforted him and also made him realize he should leave. Earlier, as he drove here, he had considered ringing the doorbell and giving her a warning that her life might suddenly change. That long held dangers and se
crets might be revealed.

  But now, he couldn’t do that to her. If she was lucky, nothing would come of the discovery. But luck had never been her strong suit. Perhaps, as always, the solution would be up to him.

  He was about to start his car to head back home when he saw a Buick sedan turn onto the street heading towards him. He decided to wait; to let it pass. No sense drawing attention to himself. His Maserati drew enough attention from people who knew cars.

  But the car he saw didn’t continue along the street. Instead, it slowed and pulled into the driveway of her house. A man was at the wheel, she sat in the passenger seat, and a child—perhaps more than one—sat in the back.

  The garage door automatically opened, and the car disappeared into its maw. Slowly, the door lowered, closing off the family from his view.

  His breathing came hard and fast. He hadn’t been able to see her all that well. Only in profile. But he knew that profile. He would never forget it.

  Nice car, nice home, a family. What else did he expect?

  He sat there a while longer, and then drove back to his empty apartment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Vito, there’s something going on with the Inspector,” Richie said into his phone the next morning. For some reason, Vito Grazioso, Richie’s friend and “muscle,” always referred to Rebecca as “the Inspector” instead of by name. He even had Richie doing it when they spoke.

  “What do you want me to do, boss?” Vito asked.

  Good question. Richie had spent most of last evening while at Big Caesar’s mulling over Paavo’s story of a truck nearly crashing into Rebecca. Then, that morning, Paavo called with the news that the traffic cam showed a truck with no visible markings or license plate. The driver not only wore oversized sunglasses and a baseball cap, but kept his head bent in a way that caused the brim of the cap to cover most of his face.