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

by Pence, Joanne

  Sidwell's chin rose. “Money, most likely. Like I said, that's all Meaghan was interested in. Richie has it, so did Danny. It was a bad mix. I'm sorry for all of them.”

  “We tried to find the waiter—or anyone else—who gave Richie a note saying that Danny Pasternak wanted to see him the night of the murder, but we had no luck. Has anyone come forward yet?”

  “None of my people talked to Richie. I believe he just made that up, that he followed Meaghan, pushed her into Danny's office and killed her. That's the only scenario that makes sense, given what we know about all this.”

  Rebecca drew in her breath. “So it seems, Mr. Sidwell.”

  With that, she again interviewed the wait staff and other workers. She had one bit of new information. One of the band members now thought he might have seen Danny in the club on Saturday night but he wasn't sure of the time. Since no one else remembered seeing him enter or leave, she wasn't sure if she could believe the sighting or not.

  But if Danny was there, he could have sent almost anyone to give Richie a note, and then told that person to immediately leave the club. And since Meaghan knew Danny, she might have gone into his office to meet with him as well, perhaps to work on some scheme the two of them had cooked up.

  If the band member was right, this was the first bit of information that backed up Richie's story. But it did no good if she couldn't find some hard evidence to prove it.

  And she still had a problem. Since it wasn't Richie who killed Meaghan and Danny, who was it?

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  After her meeting with Sidwell, Rebecca returned to Homicide.

  Inspectors Paavo Smith and Toshiro Yoshiwara, the week's on-call homicide team stood in the middle of the room with Lt. Eastwood, and filled him in on their latest case. A fire had broken out in some slum apartments south of Market. A body had been found in the apartment belonging to Sherman Glickman. The fire had started in that apartment, and arson investigators were looking into it. It was definitely suspicious.

  “Did you say Glickman?” Rebecca walked over to them, stunned by the news. “Is the body his?”

  “The body was burned so badly, it'll be tough to I.D.,” Paavo said. “The neighbors said they thought he was home. They also said there was some sort of shootout in front of his place Monday night involving a man and”—he paused, quizzically eying her a moment—“involving a couple of other people. It sounds as if Glickman was involved in something way over his head. Why do you ask?”

  Rebecca slowly released the breath she held as Paavo began to talk about the shootout. She hadn't yet told anyone in Homicide about her meetings with Glickman. She especially wanted to keep the knowledge away from Paavo because of his connection to the soon-to-become-a-relative, Richie Amalfi.

  “I found his name on the list of phone calls Danny Pasternak made,” she said. “I planned to question him, but hadn't gotten to him yet.”

  Paavo fixed his pale blue eyes on her. He clearly knew there was a lot more going on than she was saying, and had decided to keep her secret. He was a good guy, and a friend. Even though he was engaged to be married, he still made her heart flutter when he was near. It was pretty much his fault that other men never quite measured up.

  She turned to Eastwood. “If Glickman's death is connected to my cases, the apartment fire might be more than arson. It might be murder.”

  Eastwood nodded. “I agree. You and Sutter take it. Do you think Glickman's job as a reporter could have anything to do with his death?”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I doubt it. He was in sports and apparently close to being fired.”

  Eastwood eyed her with suspicion. “Hmm. Well, anyway, keep me posted.” With that, he walked away.

  Paavo gave Rebecca his and Yosh's preliminary findings. “Let me know if I can help in any way,” he said quietly. She nodded in appreciation. He understood the problem she had with Sutter, but this was their case now. He had two others he was already working on.

  “Paavo, wait.” She dropped her voice so others couldn't hear. “What do you know about Richie Amalfi?”

  “I hardly know him, but I find it hard to believe he's a murderer.”

  “Would you trust him?”

  She could feel him studying her as if trying to figure out what she was asking. “All I can say is, he's been good to Angie, and helped us quite a bit in the past. I want to trust him.”

  “But?”

  “He's hard to read.”

  She nodded. “Any idea what he does to make his money?”

  Paavo smiled. “I doubt even Angie knows the answer to that one. He used to dabble in real estate when the market was hot, and I have the impression he got out and made a bundle before the housing bubble burst. Now, I think he's involved in 'transportation.' I can question what he does, but I have no proof of anything.”

  Rebecca nodded. That was pretty much where she was with Richie's activities. She thanked Paavo, and let him return to his casework.

  She returned to hers, trying not to spend any more time pondering the question of Richie.

  She had barely gotten started when Eastwood called her into his office.

  He didn't invite her to sit, although he remained seated as he said, “I know I was hard on you the other day about not keeping me informed about this case. I have come to learn that much of the fault that time was not all on your shoulders. I hope we can get past this and I particularly want to know whenever something potentially sensitive—like the involvement of a reporter—is involved.”

  “Of course,” she said, knowing that was as close to an apology as anyone ever got from Eastwood. Apologies didn't matter to her—they were worth nothing in her book. But Eastwood clearly was trying to clear the waters. “I'm sorry about Glickman, sir. I would have come to you if anything at all had turned up.”

  “Good. One more thing I want to mention,” he said. “I've heard rumors that you've been seen with Richard Amalfi. I'm assuming such rumors aren't true. Although the investigation has expanded quite a bit, he's still, I understand, a suspect. I want you to be aware of what some people are saying. Such stories won't do anything to help your career with this department.”

  “Thank you for letting me know,” she said.

  “It isn't true, is it?” he asked.

  “I know Richie Amalfi is a suspect. I know that if I were to see him, I need to make an arrest.”

  His eyes narrowed as he looked at her, then he nodded. “Good.”

  o0o

  Rebecca and Sutter went to Glickman's apartment to inspect the crime scene and talk to neighbors—the ones who hadn't been forced to leave their own burned-out apartments—to find out if they witnessed anyone suspicious lurking about at the time of the fire. Sutter was astounded to learn about the drive-by shooting a couple of days earlier, and that the woman being shot at resembled Rebecca, and the man with her sounded a lot like Richie. Rebecca shrugged the news off, but Sutter eyed her with increasing skepticism.

  Sutter decided to talk to more of the neighbors while Rebecca poked around the burned out apartment. Glickman's computer, much to her dismay, had burned into a charred, twisted lump of plastic and metal.

  This destruction made little sense to her. Someone must have believed Glickman knew a lot more than he said he did.

  His appliances still stood in the burned out kitchen. The range was charred black, and when she opened the oven door, it fell off onto the floor. The inside was empty. The equally blackened refrigerator was small, with a single door and the freezer compartment inside. She opened the door to find that although the fire hadn't gotten inside, the heat had caused the food to spoil, plastic containers to melt, and jars to crack.

  Inside the small freezer were a couple of defrosted TV dinner packages and ice trays. She pulled out the trays. On the bottom of one, covered with water, was a thumb drive. Eureka!

  She took it out and prayed the water and heat hadn't destroyed it as she placed it in an evidence bag. She knew one person who was probably
quite good at retrieving possibly ruined data.

  She heard Sutter walk back into the apartment, and immediately stuffed the evidence bag in her pocket. First I harbor a fugitive, now I tamper with the chain of evidence. Great career moves, girl.

  She would turn it in eventually, but first she wanted Richie to go over the list of names. She was pretty sure she'd learn more about the men on the list from Richie than she could after hours of research.

  o0o

  As she drove home, anxious to tell Richie all that had happened and to contact Shay for help with the thumb drive, she suddenly swerved into a parking space and stopped the car.

  What was wrong with her? She had always done everything by the book and took pride in being that way. Even Richie knew it, as much as his calling her 'Rebecca Rulebook' rankled.

  Now, she found herself rushing home, looking forward to sharing police information with a suspect and asking for help from someone who might be a hit man. Had she gone stark raving nuts?

  She should turn around, drive straight back to the Hall of Justice and give the thumb drive to CSI. To do anything else was wrong. She could be fired for it. Hadn't Eastwood warned her once already?

  And if she were fired, what would she do with herself? She hated the thought of not being able to go to Homicide each day and see what new, interesting cases turned up, to not spend time with her co-workers: Luis Calderon, Bo Benson, Yosh, Paavo, or even—she shuddered—Bill Sutter.

  She put her finger on the ignition button, ready to start the car and head back to work when, from the side view mirror, she noticed a black Land Rover slowly driving down the block towards her. It had tinted windows, and looked exactly like one that she spotted behind her for the past several blocks. She hadn't worried about it because she was on 9th Street, a major thoroughfare in this part of town. The Land Rover she saw earlier had turned right at the corner.

  The SUV passed her and turned right at the same corner.

  If it was circling the block, she was getting out of there.

  As she drove along 9th Street, she noticed that the Land Rover had parked at the intersection. She kept going, but a short time later, she spotted it once more, this time a couple of cars behind her.

  She turned left. The Land Rover followed.

  She sped up and zigzagged through the streets, using every trick she had learned in her eight years of police work on how to shake a tail. Finally, she succeeded.

  She found herself in Chinatown. Worried about who was following her, and relieved to be free of them for the moment at least, she cautiously made her way home.

  o0o

  When she opened the door, the delicious scent of Italian cooking filled the apartment. Richie was at the stove, stirring a pot. “You're home, good!” he said. He looked casual and at ease, wearing black slacks and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A lock of wavy black hair fell onto his forehead in a perfect arc. “I cooked up some spaghetti and meatballs. I was hungry. Vito stopped by with food, including salad greens for you, milk, sour dough bread, butter, and a bottle of Mondavi's cabernet sauvignon. You're just in time.”

  She walked past him taking off her jacket, and putting her gun in a cupboard. “Can you get hold of Shay?”

  “Why?”

  “I've got Glickman's thumb drive.”

  He eyed her stance and put down the spoon. “What's going on?” He moved towards her. “Something's happened.”

  She rubbed her arms. “I believe Sherman Glickman has been killed—burned to death,” she said. “A fire broke out in his apartment and, apparently, he was inside. The arson team suspects it was set. They're still working on it. I suspect someone wanted to make sure he'd stay quiet.”

  He slowly absorbed the news. “I can't say I'm surprised.”

  “Me, neither.”

  “He was an idiot, going around talking to people. If Danny was killed to keep him quiet, whoever did that wouldn't let Glickman live … or anyone else the killer thinks might know something.”

  As she realized what he was implying—what might come next—her gaze snapped towards him. “My God.”

  Richie stiffened, his lips tight. “Yeah, that's right. Glickman tried to save his miserable life by putting some of the blame on me. So if they've gotten rid of Danny, and now Glickman…”

  Rebecca's heart pounded as worry filled her. “Someone tried to follow me as I headed home just now,” she began. “I lost them, but Lieutenant Eastwood told me people are talking about seeing us together. I might have been followed to lead the killer to you.”

  He stepped closer, a tightly controlled fury in his eyes. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “I'm fine.”

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Good.” He paced, his mouth a harsh, thin line and his fingers raking through his hair, as he pondered the implication of Glickman's death, and of Rebecca being followed. “The question is, was it the good guys or the bad guys doing the following?”

  “I don't think there are any good guys involved in this mess. You might not be safe here. If they find out where I live …”

  “I'll be all right. It's better if I'm here. It's not that easy to find or get into, and I'm not leaving you here alone if those guys do figure out where you live.”

  “It's too dangerous,” she said.

  “I'm not running. This has to end.”

  She put her hand on his shoulder, stopping his pacing. “It will. I promise. I'll find who killed Glickman and the others.”

  “Unless it was a gang,” he said, turning towards her. She dropped her hand. “Teo Reyes and Johnny Huang's gangs don't leave evidence, and they could have fifty eye-witnesses, but none of them would dare admit to seeing anything. If that's the case, you'll find Glickman's murder all but impossible to solve.”

  “But—”

  “Rebecca, you know how they are!”

  “I don't care. I'll do whatever is needed.”

  “No!” Abruptly, he gripped her upper arms, pulling her close and looking her straight in the eye. “We'll figure out what's going on, who killed Danny and Meaghan. Once that happens, whoever silenced Glickman will know I wasn't involved. You can't go poking your nose around people like Reyes or Huang. You need to be absolutely certain you can take them down before you make a move. Otherwise, it's too dangerous. Not only for you, but for your partner as well.”

  She placed her hands flat against his chest as if to hold him back. She could feel his heartbeat. “My job is always dangerous,” she said softly.

  “Not like going up against these guys. Talk to your boss, old what's-his-name who struts around the office like a peacock. He'll tell you to back off. He doesn't want to end up at the wrong end of a Chinese or Columbian dartboard. It's not healthy. Trust me on this.”

  She was ready to fight this battle. But if she did, she'd have to go it alone. Neither Sutter nor Eastwood would back her, of that she was sure. Her gaze intense, she asked, “If I did go after him, would you back me?”

  His hold tightened on her. “If that's your choice, you know I would.”

  She could feel herself being drawn to him, wanting to close the distance between them, but that would have been foolish for so many reasons. She forced herself to turn away. She hated it when he, who was all emotion and unfounded intuition, made her, who was the epitome of precise logic and practicality, feel like she was being irrational.

  She took a few more steps, and rubbed the arms he had held. She hated when he made her notice his touch, notice it and like it. And want more.

  Richie stared at her a long moment. He then called Shay, and afterward, poured them each a glass of cabernet. “Shay will be here in an hour or so. He'll bring his laptop and some special software.”

  “Good.”

  He handed her a glass. “Salute,” Richie said, holding out his glass.

  She nodded. “Salute.” Their glasses clinked together.

  As she sipped on the wine, her tension beg
an to ebb ever so slightly.

  “It's going to be all right, Rebecca,” he said. “Trust me.”

  She couldn't help but think that was the problem. She did trust him. Probably way more than she should.

  o0o

  They sat at her small kitchen table. He had dished out dinner and now waited, watching her, as she took the first bite of spaghetti. “Oh, my God. This is really good!”

  He chuckled. “Glad you like it.” He also began to eat.

  She ate a couple more forkfuls. “I can get used to coming home to your cooking. You're spoiling me, Richie.”

  “Why not? You work hard. You deserve someone to do things for you once in a while.”

  “I don't know about that,” she said with a smile.

  He drank down some wine. “I'm surprised you aren't married, or don't have a steady boyfriend. Are you divorced?”

  “No. Never married.”

  “Almost?” he asked.

  She dug into the pasta before answering. “I guess you could say that.”

  “What happened?”

  “With the first, I was too young. Probably too innocent.” She tried to shrug it off and continue eating.

  “The first?” He gave her a small smile filled with curiosity. “Tell me about it. I'm interested.”

  Why not, she decided. “Well, I still lived at home at the time, on my dad's farm. It was a decent size, nearly four hundred acres. My boyfriend—I guess you could call him my fiancé since we and everyone else assumed we'd get married—anyway, he lived on the adjacent farm.” She paused then, to make sure he was still interested.

  He nodded, and waited for her to continue.

  “While in my late teens, my folks separated, but didn't divorce. I stayed on the farm with Dad, and my younger sister moved to Boise with Mom. I guess Eddie liked the idea of marrying the daughter of a farmer—merging our lands, making good money, and all that. But after Dad died and Mom sold the farm, he didn't find me—a woman with no job and no home—nearly as interesting. Before long, we stopped seeing each other.”

  “Is that why you left Idaho?” he asked.