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

by Pence, Joanne

  “No?” Her eyebrows rose even higher. “He spent the night in your apartment, didn't he? Or most of it, I know, until I fell asleep. You can't tell me you paid no attention to him when he was there.”

  “He's not a good guy, Kiki,” she said.

  “He's not? Why? What does he do that's so wrong?”

  Rebecca thought a moment. “I don't know yet … but I'll find out.”

  “Girlfriend, the way he talked about you, I think, with just a little encouragement—”

  “No way!”

  “He likes you, dummy!”

  “It's not that way between us,” Rebecca said firmly.

  Kiki shook her head. “Becca, what I gonna do wit'chu?”

  Rebecca smiled. It wasn't the first time she'd heard that from Kiki. “Would you like to come in for some coffee or a beer?”

  “No, thanks. I know you're just getting home from work.” The accent vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “You look tired. Maybe you should get some rest so you can appreciate that guy more. And do something about it! Talk to you later!”

  With that, Kiki headed back up the stairs to her flat.

  o0o

  Rebecca unlocked her door and took one step into the apartment when she saw Richie sitting on the sofa, Spike on his lap, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. “The things one can hear just sitting in your apartment are truly remarkable, Inspector. Not a good guy, huh?”

  “I can't begin to describe how despicable you are,” Rebecca said, putting down her handbag and removing her jacket. “I thought I took my house keys away from you. How did you get in here?”

  “I may have taken them back,” Richie said. As she headed for the sugar bowl, he added, “Or had a duplicate key made. I can't quite remember.”

  “Great! Now I have to get my lock changed!”

  “Or leave it as is.” He walked to the kitchen area and poured a cup of coffee. She wondered how long he'd been there if he had time to brew a pot. “You never know when you might need my help.”

  “I sincerely doubt that.”

  “Oh, yeah, you've got Kiki and Bradley in the building.” He handed her the cup, having learned she liked her coffee black. She was surprised, but gladly took it. “I can see Bradley down here fighting off bad guys. On second thought, no, I can't. Or maybe Kiki can talk them to death.”

  “Very funny.” She sat on the sofa, tugged off her boots, then put her feet up. Richie continued to stand and watch her long enough for her to feel uncomfortable about him, particularly remembering all the things Kiki had said, and even worse, all she had implied. She sipped more coffee—it was hot and felt good going down. “Why are you here?”

  He paced back and forth across the small room a couple of times. “Someone's watching Vito and Shay. I doubt it's the cops, so that means I've got some real trouble out there. But I don't know why.” He sat in the rocking chair by the heater. She realized the house was already warm. She didn't need to come in and spend twenty minutes freezing until the ancient heating system warmed her apartment up enough that she could take her jacket off. She had lived in places that got a lot colder than San Francisco, but those places also had seasons of warm and even hot weather. In San Francisco the chilly dampness wormed its way deep into one's bones and rarely ever let up.

  “It's not the cops,” she confirmed. “Sutter doesn't know about those two, and I'm not having them watched. Whoever it is has to be interested in you, maybe in why you haven't been arrested yet. I wonder if they've managed to follow you here.”

  “No. I'm sure they haven't. So far, this is the only place I know that's safe.”

  “Safe from who?” she asked. “That's what I can't come up with. Yesterday, was someone shooting at you, me, or Glickman? If you know, Richie, you've got to tell me!”

  “I have no idea.”

  She didn't believe him for a minute. She finished the coffee and stood. “Fortunately, caffeine doesn't keep me awake. I'm going to bed.”

  He moved to the sofa and turned on the TV. “Night, Rebecca.”

  She stepped into her bedroom and when she turned to shut the door, she saw Richie's profile as he sat facing the television. Kiki's words went through her mind, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she were a different type of woman—someone more like Carolina Fontana, or even the waitress at The Leaning Tower Taverna—if she'd be sleeping alone, again, tonight.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rebecca left Richie sleeping on her sofa. This was getting to be a habit. She also fully expected him to crawl into her bed again. The only thing disturbing about that was the masculine scent on the sheets and pillow cases. To her dismay, she liked it, and he seemed to fill her dreams—although they weren't romantic dreams, but ones in which they were constantly running from one danger to another.

  This was clearly no way to live. She obviously needed to find herself a sexy cop to have a torrid affair with. The last thing she wanted was to get into her bed and think about Richie! Of course, if torrid affairs were that easy to come by, her life would be a lot more exciting.

  When she reached her desk in Homicide, the crime scene report on the rice bowl from Richie's house showed no fingerprints other than his. That meant, as Richie suspected, whoever trashed his house had used gloves.

  The telephone records on Amalfi and Pasternak had also arrived.

  She began with Pasternak's phones. The list, however, was way too short. The man was a bookie; he lived on the phone. Those weren't his only records. How was it that Shay could find Pasternak's phone records, while she, using a by-the-book SFPD request form, had been given this garbage?

  No calls were found between Pasternak and Richie. The names she saw meant nothing to her except one, the San Francisco Chronicle.

  She dialed the number, and got an answering machine telling her she'd reached the desk of Sherman Glickman, Sports Department, and to “Please leave a message.”

  She went on to Richie's phone list. It was a lot longer than Pasternak's. Two numbers came up most often. One was to a Vito Grazioso. The other to a number whose identification showed only as “Private.” Not even her reverse directory had any information, and she ended up talking to supervisors at the cell phone company who issued the number. It belonged to a Henry Ian Tate, address unknown. It was Shay's number.

  Something about his name bothered her. She looked down at it again. Henry Ian Tate.

  Then it struck her. His initials: H.I.T., as in hit man.

  Just then, Sutter walked in with a warrant to search Meaghan Bishop's apartment.

  o0o

  Rebecca and Sutter entered the beautifully and expensively furnished apartment. Bishop had to have money to not only live in this neighborhood, but to afford such high quality furniture.

  Rebecca searched for anything that might give a hint as to Bishop's killer. She found an iPad. It wasn't exactly high tech, but if it had a GPS, they might be able to use it to track her recent movements.

  She also found a couple of old cell phones which she put into evidence bags, but no new ones. Since she had old phones, a new one must be somewhere.

  In Bishop's unopened mail she found a car insurance bill for a blue Toyota Prius. The landlady had told her the apartment came with basement parking. Rebecca took a quick ride down on the elevator to look for Bishop's car. It wasn't there. Now, she knew which car the police should look for.

  She called City Towing since the car had likely already been towed due to overdue parking. They didn't have a record of picking up the Prius, but would search further.

  Rebecca went back up to the apartment.

  Sutter met her at the door and put his forefinger to his lips. He led her to the bedroom and the clock-radio. He had opened the back and pointed to a small black button-sized object.

  As Rebecca watched, Sutter used a screwdriver and needle nose pliers to disconnect the wires and remove it. He put it in an evidence bag. “Who would want to bug Meaghan Bishop?” he said. “There's clearly more going on with this woman
than we've been able to figure out yet.”

  “Whoever paid for this place might be the one who also bugged it,” Rebecca said. “I see no indication that she worked or paid for all this herself.”

  “How many men bug their mistresses' apartments?” Sutter said. “I mean, if you can't trust your own mistress …”

  “If you say so.”

  Sutter shrugged.

  “This is crazy,” Rebecca said. “Who lives this way?”

  “Only crooks,” Sutter muttered.

  She gathered Bishop's bank accounts, and saw that she had received nine thousand, nine hundred dollars every month for the past eight months. If she received ten grand, the government would have demanded to know where it came from. It seemed she received the money in a cashier's check with no identifying information.

  She tried to find some income tax papers, but could not. Bishop had a driver's license, a Macy's card, and a bank account. Nothing more.

  Shoes and handbags made by Ferragamo, Gucci, Coach, St. Laurent, and some expensive-looking brands Rebecca had never heard of, filled the closet. More proof of money.

  Rebecca had already turned away when the thought struck of what often happened when she changed purses—which, given the state of her wardrobe, wasn't often. She would move everything important, but at the bottom of the bag she would find little notes and receipts that she didn't want to transfer, yet she also didn't want to toss in case something she needed to keep was there. Usually in a hurry, she would leave them in the bag to sort through later.

  She wondered if other women did that.

  She began going through Bishop's purses, one by one. Sure enough, she found receipts, cough drops, grocery lists, dirty tissues, clean tissues, but nothing of interest until she came across a hand-written note with only an address: 99 Spruce Street.

  “I wonder what this is?” she said, bringing out the note to Sutter.

  Sutter called the office to check city records for the address. “It belongs to a city supervisor, Mark O'Brien.”

  Rebecca was stunned. Why would Bishop have a supervisor's address?

  Just then, her cell phone chimed. Caller ID told her it was Sherman Glickman.

  “This is Inspector Mayfield,” she said.

  “We've got to talk,” he cried. “I'm scared!”

  “Where are you?”

  “I'm at the restaurant by the windmill at the beach.”

  She knew the place. “I'll be there in twenty minutes or so.” It wasn't far away, but with a stoplight at nearly every corner, traffic moved at a snail's pace through the city.

  She told Sutter something came up, and left Bishop's apartment before he could ask what.

  As she headed for her car, she called Richie. To her surprise, he wasn't at her apartment, but apparently investigating something on his own with Shay. He would meet her at the restaurant's parking lot. She couldn't miss Shay's Maserati.

  o0o

  Rebecca and Richie walked into the Beach Chalet Brewery and Restaurant together. It was located above the Golden Gate Park Visitor's Center that featured historic WPA frescoes from the 1930's.

  Glickman sat at a corner table, hunched over a huge Reuben sandwich and a coke.

  “Are you all right?” Rebecca asked as she and Richie sat down across from him.

  He shook his head. His tan shirt and tan jacket matched the color of his hair, making him even more bland than the last time she saw him. Only his round, ruddy cheeks gave him color. “When I got home from work today, my apartment had been broken into. The whole place was trashed.”

  “Trashed?” Richie asked. “Or searched?”

  “I don't know. Searched, most likely.”

  “Any idea who did it?” Rebecca asked.

  “No.”

  “What were they looking for?” she asked.

  He hesitated.

  “If these are the people who already whacked two others,” Richie said, “and they're now after you, you're in trouble. The only thing that might save you is if you level with the Inspector. This isn't the time for secrets.”

  Glickman looked from one to the other. He was scared. Very scared.

  “It's not my fault!” he cried. That, Rebecca knew from experience, was the first sentence out of the mouth of a guilty man. “It's just that I think … well, I'm afraid I didn't give you the whole story yesterday. But it all happened because I was having trouble at work.”

  “What kind of trouble?” she asked, her voice filled with phony compassion.

  “I'm not getting anywhere working for the Chron. Newspapers get skinnier every day, even big city ones. I'll be lucky to have a job in a year. And anyway, I've always wanted to write a real book—a book filled with journalistic fact-finding. One that'll make people sit up and take notice. One that'll open the door to a real future for me.”

  Rebecca couldn't help but grimace. The last thing she wanted was hear his sob story about failed ambition or missed opportunities.

  “Didn't I hear you're no longer writing on the sports page because you don't like to fly with the teams?” Richie asked.

  “So?” Glickman's lips mashed together. “That has nothing to do with the price of tea in China.”

  Richie winced while Rebecca gave Glickman an encouraging smile. “You're right, Mr. Glickman,” she said. “Please continue your story.”

  “I met Danny when I covered the 49ers,” he said. “Danny wanted to know the inside word on players' health, attitudes, what the team was saying about their opponents—all the stuff that might go into which team might win, and which might lose. So, I told him. When I gave him particularly good intelligence, he'd reward me. It was mutually beneficial, but nothing illegal. We became friends. Then, I started hating to travel with the team, and my intel started to disappear.

  “One day, Danny came to me and said the IRS was breathing down his neck. He owed them big time. The only thing he could think of was to make a deal. He'd give them enough info for them to go after others, and with the kickback he'd get from that—they actually pay snitches—he'd get out from under his own bill.”

  “I can't believe Danny would do that,” Richie insisted, facing Rebecca. “He liked his money, but he wouldn't rat out his friends.”

  “You may be wrong about that,” Glickman said. “But you're right that he liked money, and that's what led to all the trouble.” He then stopped talking to take a small, mousey bite of his Reuben. Rebecca could all but feel Richie's patience vanish.

  “Come on, come on, Sherman, hurry it up!” Richie growled. “You think I got all day?”

  “It's my habit to chew carefully so I don't choke.”

  “I'll give you choke, you little shit!” Richie said.

  Glickman pushed the plate to the side. “I'll go back to it later. Anyway, Danny came up with an idea. He knew that once he ratted out his customers, he couldn't work as a bookie anymore, so he decided to write the book I described to you. He offered me twenty percent of his profit if I did the actual writing for him. I agreed.”

  Richie and Rebecca nodded, both waiting for the punch-line.

  “But then, I met with Danny and he began telling me his story. Well, I'm sorry. I know he was a friend of yours and all, but it wasn't very interesting. In fact, it was pretty damned dull. The only way to make the book interesting was to talk about the people who were Danny's customers, especially the ones who were crooks and mobsters. I could write a little bio about how dangerous some guy was, and then show the risk Danny took to work with him. The public loves that kind of thing. That, at least, could be an interesting story. But it also caused a big problem for Danny.”

  “Damned right,” Richie muttered.

  Glickman picked up his sandwich. “I'm so hungry.” He took a quick bite of it.

  Rebecca was feeling every bit as impatient as Richie. “What was the problem?”

  He put the sandwich down and carefully wiped his lips with his napkin. “The people Danny should write about don't want any public attention,
especially not from the IRS or anyone else in government, if you know what I mean.” With that, Glickman waited until both Rebecca and Richie nodded to show that they knew the type of person he was talking about. People who were, euphemistically, said to be 'connected,' the type Rebecca believed Richie to be.

  “So,” Rebecca said, arms folded and leaning against the back of her chair. “I imagine Richie Amalfi was in Danny's book.”

  Glickman glanced quickly at Richie. “Actually, no. He said Richie was a friend. He didn't want to involve him. Also, Richie was just small potatoes compared to others he was naming.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Richie muttered.

  “Finally, something good about you!” Rebecca addressed Richie. “Your bookie loved you.”

  “Har, har.” Richie glared at Glickman. “You going to give us the rest of this saga, or just sit there?”

  Glickman cleared his throat. “There's not much to say. I guess, somehow, word got out about Danny's book and his list.”

  “Got out?” Richie repeated. “How the hell does something like that just 'get out'? I can't imagine Danny went around telling people.”

  Glickman chewed his bottom lip. “I don't know. I was in a bar after talking with Danny. I was getting a bit nervous about how things were going. Danny was acting odd all of a sudden, and I was worried he had changed his mind. Maybe wouldn't pay me at all. Anyway, the bar was the one not too far from Big Caesar's. Let's see, what's its name? You probably know it. You've got to go a block over to Columbus, and then turn towards North—”

  “Get on with it!” Richie was completely out of patience.

  “Okay…well, as I recall, this guy came up to me. He was big, with tattoos on his neck and arms, and—I'm not usually one to judge—but he was fairly, I'm sorry to say, not exactly good looking.”

  “Who was he?” Richie could scarcely speak, his teeth were clenched so tightly.

  “He wasn't the person Danny was going to name, but one of his men.”

  “Who was the guy Danny was going to name?”

  “Teo Reyes.”

  “Reyes! Are you crazy? He's one of the biggest coke dealers in the Bay Area!” Richie did all he could to keep his voice down, to not shout his irritation at the dipshit. “He has people whacked every day! How could Danny even think about putting him in a book? No wonder he was clipped!”