One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1)

by Pence, Joanne

  The furniture had been slashed, and its stuffing pulled out. The huge, wide-screen plasma television set lay smashed on the floor, its back pried off and tossed aside.

  “My God,” she murmured. “How could they have done this with the police watching the house? Unless”—she faced him—“they did it before you escaped from Bill Sutter. Before you became a suspect.”

  He didn't answer but walked down the hall. There was a small guest bedroom, a den, and a large master bedroom. They had all been ransacked the way the living room had been. In the bedroom, three TV sets had been aligned on stands facing the bed—a king. Now, all had been destroyed as if someone searched inside them. But for what? she wondered. Exactly what was Richie not telling her?

  Richie no longer seemed sad, and no longer swore. He no longer said anything, but in a fierce, all-consuming fury marched through the house, alternately kicking some broken pieces and sadly glowering at others as he absorbed the destruction.

  She wasn't sure if his silence or his cursing was worse.

  He stopped suddenly and picked up a small, framed black-and-white picture of a young man. He was thin, wearing jeans, a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smoking a cigarette and leaning against an old Plymouth sedan. He was good-looking, with fairly long, thick black hair and heavy-lidded dark eyes much like Richie's. The whole photo had the look of something out of the sixties or seventies.

  The glass covering the photo had been smashed. “Why'd they do this?” Richie muttered. She knew he expected no answer from her.

  “Who was he?” Rebecca asked.

  “My father. It's my favorite picture of him, taken when he was young, hopeful, and maybe a little reckless, before everything went to hell for him. He died when I was only five, but I kind of remember him. Or, at least, I tell myself I do.” He stood the photo with the broken glass up on a shelf, and Rebecca could sense his sorrow as he did so.

  Richie opened more windows throughout the house and then led her out the back door off the kitchen to clear their heads and wait for the smell of gas to dissipate.

  “Want to sit?” Richie asked, pointing at the stairs. It was warm outdoors, which was a good thing since they had discovered earlier as they left her apartment that being stuck together with handcuffs made it impossible for them to put their jackets on.

  “Sure.”

  They sat side-by-side, facing his garden. Richie's feet were wide spread, his free arm flung casually across one thigh. She sat with her knees together, her free arm wrapped around them. Their cuffed hands were between them, palms resting on the step they sat on.

  She tried to imagine what was going through his head after all that had happened since last night. More than anything, he looked deflated, and every bit his age, which Paavo once told her was around thirty-nine or forty. Crow's feet lined the outer corners of his eyes, and curved lines—laugh lines they were usually called but not, she thought, in his case—creased the edges of his mouth. His face was fairly thin, and his nose high and long—a very Italian face, to her Nordic eye.

  In the sunlight, his hair was so black it had no trace of brown, and only the temples held a few gray strands. His eyes often appeared as black as his hair, yet in the sunlight she could see flecks of brown and even green in them.

  He wasn't buff, but not soft and flabby either. He no longer had the lithe, slim body of a young man, but had the solid build of someone mature and strong. And while he wasn't movie-star handsome, something about him, especially around the eyes, and the nose, and the mouth, and definitely the somewhat long, rakish way he wore his hair, reminded her of Al Pacino back when she was young and he was a heartthrob, until she learned he was only about five feet seven inches tall, which meant he would barely reach her nose. At least Richie was taller than that. In all, there was nothing she disliked about his looks. Not that it mattered one way or the other.

  She swallowed hard and forced her gaze down to the handcuffs, trying to rekindle her anger and suspicion.

  Beside his, her hand was white and pale, the color of someone who did most of her work indoors or at night. His skin was olive and deeply tanned, and half-again as broad as hers. It made her wonder once more how he spent his days.

  She averted her eyes from him altogether. Any good detective had a duty to notice details about people, places, and things. That was all she was doing.

  She turned her attention to the simple but well-tended yard. The sun felt good on her face, and the smell of the lawn, flowers and shrubs a reminder that life offered more than dead bodies and finding murderers. In a corner she noticed a small vegetable garden. “Did you plant that?”

  “Sure. You can't buy tomatoes that taste good anymore. Same with peppers and zucchini. Even artichokes. They grow easily here, except the artichoke, but I'm working on it. I like to grow my own herbs as well. Over there, to the right, you'll see basil, oregano, garlic, onions, and fennel.”

  “It's nice,” she said, then added, “We used to have a farm in Idaho. My father grew potatoes and corn. That's how he supported us. At harvest time, everyone in the family helped. We also had a vegetable garden.”

  He faced her. “You were a farm girl?”

  She gave a small smile. “I left because it was too much work. I wanted something easier, like being a cop in San Francisco.”

  He smiled at her attempt at a joke. “Do your parents still farm?”

  “No. My dad passed away when I was twenty-three, and my mom sold the business to my uncle, my father's brother. She lives in Boise, my sister in Los Angeles, and I'm here.”

  “Do you ever miss it?” he asked.

  She thought a moment. “I loved it as a kid, loved the way my dad would strut around, so proud of how tall his corn grew.” She smiled at a memory. “My sister and I would sometimes hide in the cornfield and then jump out when we thought our parents couldn't find us. Thinking back now, I'm pretty sure they knew exactly where we hid, and went along with our game.”

  “Don't get me started on ways to torment a parent.” Richie said with a laugh.

  She liked his laugh, liked the way expression filled his whole face, especially his eyes, as he spoke, and laughed, and smiled. She found it hard to look away from him. “I guess you did a bit more than hide,” she said.

  “My mom would have been on her knees thanking God if that was all,” he said, then his face fell, and she imagined his thoughts turned to the police contacting his mother last night, and to his father's picture on the floor, the glass cracked.

  Despite herself, she sympathized with what had happened to him, and his loss. “Your home looked like it was lovely.”

  “Yeah. It was. You got that right.”

  “At least it wasn't destroyed. Furniture is easily replaced.”

  “Thank God.” He reached over to the box hedge beside him and rubbed a leaf. “I surprised my friends and relatives when I bought this place, it being outside of the old neighborhood and all. But sometimes a guy likes to have a little peace and quiet, you know. Nobody living upstairs or down, a little garden. I thought I'd found a refuge. No more, though.”

  “You'll fix it up. It'll be fine,” she said.

  “Maybe.” Brooding, he stared out at the lawn. “I'm going to find whoever's behind this, Rebecca. They'll be sorry they decided to mess with me.”

  “What were you hiding in the house?” she asked. At his sudden harsh stare, she added, “Don't tell me nothing. It's time to come clean about everything that's going on. It's the only way I can help you.”

  “Damn!” he murmured, then louder. “You're way off base.”

  “I told you, don't say that!”

  “What do you want me to say?” He scarcely moved, and his voice had turned so cold, so hard, it hit deep in her gut. All in all, she preferred her fidgeting, emotional Richie to this icy one. “Do you think I want somebody to blow up my home? It's bad enough they trashed the place. I don't know what they're looking for. I don't have anything ... much.”

&nbs
p; “You're lying to me!” she insisted.

  “I'm hiding nothing! Okay? Nothing.” He all but snarled at her, then turned away with a shake of his head. “You're so damn suspicious!” He went back to brooding.

  “You came back here for a reason. What was it?”

  He rubbed his forehead. “That's not important anymore. It's all changed.”

  Just then, his phone rang.

  He mostly listened, only saying a word or two. When he hung up, he stood and faced Rebecca. “Nobody seems to know where Danny Pasternak is.”

  She stared up at him, not moving. “How do you know that?”

  “Vito tried to find him, and couldn't. I'm not surprised the cops couldn't find him, but Vito should have been able to. Something's wrong, Rebecca. I wonder if something happened to Danny.”

  She stood facing him, the handcuffs keeping them much too close together. “We'll have to find out.”

  “Shay found a place on Telegraph Hill that might have some answers,” he said. “Let's get out of here.”

  “One minute while I call the Crime Scene techs,” she said. “I want them to dust your house for prints or any indication of who might have broken in here.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “The guys who do this sort of thing are pros. They don't leave prints. All you'll get are a bunch of prints from people who the law might have some interest in for a variety of reasons, but don't want to harm me. I won't allow it.”

  She wanted to argue with him, but even more important was to find out those “answers” he referred to on Telegraph Hill.

  “What if I just take the bowl that had the rice in it,” she said. “Testing it will tell us a lot, or nothing.”

  He nodded. “You're wasting your time, but I don't care. Fine, do it.”

  They returned to the kitchen. She placed the bowl in a zip-lock bag, then they left the house.

  Never in her life had she associated with anyone who seemed so much like he should be guilty, yet still caused her to believe in his innocence.

  She wasn't sure why she believed him, but she would stake her life on it. And considering that she had let him drag her into a house that could have been blown to kingdom come, she already had.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Richie gripped Rebecca's hand and then draped over their joined hands and handcuffs a dark blue pullover sweater he had picked up at his house. “That works,” he said.

  “That looks dumb. Nobody carries a sweater that way,” she protested.

  “Yeah, it's weird, but it's better than letting anyone see the cuffs. It looks less strange if we stand close together.”

  “Terrific.” The word was a sneer.

  He kept her close as they walked up to the doorman of a high-rise apartment on the east side of Telegraph Hill near the waterfront. Richie's friends had found Danny's goomar's apartment, and they were there to talk to her.

  “We're here to see Miss Fontana,” Richie said. “Vito Grazioso and friend.”

  “I'll let her know some guests have arrived.” The doorman picked up the phone and spoke softly, then faced them. “Twentieth floor, apartment twenty-o-one.”

  Richie paled. His mouth opened then closed, and finally he whisked her over to a corner and said quietly, “Let's forget it.”

  Why? she wondered. Then she smirked. “You're afraid of heights.”

  His gaze shifted from the doorman, to the elevator, to her. “Of course I'm not! But what's wrong with Danny's woman? She think she's an eagle up there?” He stuck his free hand in his pocket and pouted. “Hell, I might get a nose bleed.”

  She couldn't help but smile. If she hadn't seen it, she wouldn't have believed it. “I'll hold your nostrils shut if that happens,” she said. On occasion, this morning, she would have been tempted to hold his mouth shut at the same time, but not now. Actually, the supposed tough guy's fear of heights was kind of cute. As soon as she thought that, she shuddered, and told herself to forget it. “Cute” was the last thing she wanted to think about Richie!

  She steered him towards the elevator where he waited, nervously rocking from heel to toe and jiggling the coins in his pocket. Rebecca moved closer to him to better hide the handcuffs from the doorman. If he spotted them, he'd most likely call 911. Then she would have to arrest Richie. And more than ever, she didn't want to.

  The elevator doors opened and she shoved Richie on ahead of her so he wouldn't bolt and let the handcuffs be seen. As it began to move, his hand under the sweater tightened on hers. The higher they rose, the harder he squeezed until she feared she'd have crushed knuckles before the fifteenth floor, let alone the twentieth.

  When it stopped, he leaped off faster than if fired from a slingshot. She tumbled out against him, her arm going around him, clutching him, to stop from falling. She quickly jumped back, but he seemed too busy deep breathing to even notice.

  He quickly found 2001 and knocked on the door. A blond woman opened it and then stared at them with seriously curled eyelashes covered with gobs of mascara and eyebrows waxed and penciled into high, thin arches. The combination made her appear perpetually astonished.

  “Richie? Where's Vito?” She stepped out of the apartment and glanced towards the elevator after giving Rebecca a quick once-over. Her features were pinched, her eyes small despite her tricks to make them seem larger, and even her teeth looked tiny and thin.

  “I didn't feel like giving the doorman my name.”

  “That's okay, Richie. You know how much I like seeing you.” Richie followed her into the apartment, half-dragging Rebecca with him.

  Carolina Fontana wore a tight scoop-necked black knit top that showed off enormous round balls of silicone where her breasts ought to be, skin-tight black Capri pants that left nothing to the imagination, and sky-high black stiletto sandals. “Vito told me you might come by to see me, Richie. I tried to fix my face for you,” she said in a breathless voice as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thanks for coming. I'm worried about Danny! I'll do whatever I can to help you.”

  “I know, sweetheart,” he said, holding her close with his one free arm. Her waist was tiny, and her behind so round and protruding Rebecca wondered if a little surgery hadn't been performed there as well. She stood beside them—unseen, unnoticed, and obviously unwelcomed.

  Carolina took a half-step back, clutching the front of Richie's shirt. “I heard what they been saying about you, Richie,” she emoted, “but I didn't believe it. Not for a minute. Not Richie, I said to myself. That Richie, he's one of the good guys.”

  “Thanks, Carolina. I was hoping you knew I'd never hurt a hair on a woman's head. Is Danny here?”

  She broke into sobs on his shoulder. “I don't know where he is. You got to believe me.”

  “Look, was something going on between Danny and the dead woman? I mean, I know he was always faithful to you. He loved you. But he had to have known her since she was killed in his office, right?”

  Rebecca couldn't take much more of this. She could feel her gorge rising. “Her name was Meaghan Blakely, by the way.”

  Carolina didn't bother to look at her. “I have no idea who she was, or what she meant to my Danny.” Her sobs, snuffles, and catches in the throat grew louder.

  Rebecca turned away from Carolina's theatrics. Looking over the apartment with its beautiful bay view, French provincial furnishings, and tasteful artwork, she couldn't help but suspect that Ms. Fontana's tears were more over worry about what all this might mean for Danny's future—and ultimately her own. If Danny was involved in this murder, Carolina would need to find someone else to pick up the bill for her, and from the way she held on to Richie as he continued his one handed comforting—and Rebecca couldn't help but wonder just how thorough his comforting would be if she weren't attached to his other hand—it appeared Carolina considered him a prime candidate.

  But then she noticed that Richie was looking at her. She met his gaze and he rolled his eyes, as if to say he knew exactly what Carolina was up to.


  Rebecca grinned slightly, then nodded. She coughed, then coughed again.

  Carolina peeled herself off Richie like skin from a banana, starting at the head and only slowly easing her body away from his one centimeter at a time. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, eying Rebecca. Despite her sobs, her eyes were dry. No running mascara for her. “How rude of me.” She stuck out her hand. “Carolina Fontana.”

  Despite the Italian-sounding surname, her first name was pronounced like the southern states: Car-o-lye-na, as in 'nothing could be finah.' Since Richie held Rebecca's right hand, she had to grasp Carolina's with her left and gave a weak squeeze that she hoped appeared to be comforting. “I'm—”

  “Becky Jones,” Richie said quickly. “A friend.”

  Carolina's eyes zeroed in like a radar gun on their clasped hands with the sweater over them. “Please sit down.” Carolina gestured towards the sofa. She stood with her back ramrod straight, shoulders back, chest out.

  Rebecca usually prided herself on having a good, all natural figure. Her proportions were more than adequate and her four-times a week gym workouts had left her well-toned, firm, and shapely in a—not to be too smug about it—attractive way. Still, around Carolina Fontana she felt like a flat-chested teenager. Especially since she still wore last night's jeans and heavy turtleneck. She wondered if Carolina wondered why Richie wore dress slacks but no jacket, and a wrinkled white shirt.

  “Would you two like a drink?” Carolina asked.

  “Yes,” Richie replied.

  “No,” Rebecca answered at the same time.

  Carolina looked confused. “Would you like beer, Richie? Or maybe a high ball?” Then, to Rebecca, “I've got Diet Coke and 7-Up, too.”

  Richie asked for a beer, Rebecca a Coke as Richie headed for a chair, Rebecca the sofa.

  He realized his mistake and stepped to the sofa beside her. They stood, side-by-side, facing it.

  Glaring at each other, Rebecca stepped backward, Richie forward, and they made a half-circle. Both ended up with their backs to the sofa, and then they sat.