“It's not?”
“I've seen Glickman. I've talked to him. I wonder who this man is.”
“I'll know more in a couple of hours,” Ramirez said. “But even now, I can tell you, whoever he was, he didn't die in the fire. Judging from the condition of the skin, he was dead before the fire got him.”
Rebecca watched the rest of the autopsy with interest. The dead man's physical condition, state of his teeth, hair follicles, stomach contents, and so on, indicated he was very likely a homeless man who died on the street, was picked up, and tossed into the building before it was set on fire. Unfortunately, the city had so many homeless, a lot of them did die on the streets, especially in Glickman's neighborhood.
Knowing Glickman, he might have set this up himself— found a body, or someone near death, and somehow got him to his apartment, then torched the place with the body inside so he could run and the people after him would think he was dead.
But also, someone else could have snatched Glickman, and that person left the dead man behind as one big red herring to make everyone think Glickman died in the fire.
With the fire destroying the crime scene, it was impossible to know which had happened.
After the autopsy, Rebecca went to CSI. They had towed Meaghan Bishop's car to the Hall of Justice garage and had finished combing through it. They found a cell phone, downloaded its contents, and had transferred a copy of the information to Rebecca's computer.
When she returned to Homicide, she saved the information to a thumb drive of her own. She still didn't like the thought of turning over evidence to anyone outside the department, but then, she didn't like a lot of what was going on in this case.
As the day wore on, she couldn't rid herself of the image of Richie Amalfi sitting hungry in her apartment. She stopped at a KFC and bought a bucket of chicken with potato salad and biscuits on the side.
Only after she was half-way home did the irony strike her: a crispy corpse and now, crispy chicken. She suddenly lost her appetite.
o0o
Rebecca returned to her apartment to find not only Richie, but also Shay. She wondered why she bothered to lock the doors since it seemed anyone could waltz in whenever they felt like it. Richie was on the sofa and Shay sat at the kitchen table with Spike on his lap, giving Spike doggie treats, one after the other.
She handed him her thumb drive. “It has downloads from Meaghan Bishop's cell phone.”
For the first time ever, she saw Shay smile. He actually was startlingly handsome. He plugged in his computer.
“I've got other news as well,” Rebecca said as she put the chicken and side dishes on the coffee table with plates, utensils and napkins. “Sherman Glickman wasn't killed in the fire.” She told them about the autopsy. “So Glickman might have staged everything, or someone kidnapped him and made it look like he was dead.”
“No, he staged it,” Richie said.
“How do you know?”
“You found the thumb drive. If anyone got to him, they would have made him give it up. But they didn't. He left it, either hoping it would be destroyed, or more likely, since it was in ice, he planned for it to be found so whoever wanted it would stop looking for him. Which means, he thinks someone might have a way to get info on evidence the police have collected.”
“Which,” Rebecca said, “is usually all but impossible, but maybe not in this case considering the level of some of the men who could be worried about what's on that thumb drive.”
“Exactly,” Richie said.
Rebecca had to ponder this in more detail, but on the surface, at least, what he said made sense.
Richie grabbed a chicken leg. “So, if nobody killed Glickman, that could mean nobody's after me either. And that I don't have to hide here anymore.” He took a big bite.
“We don't know for sure what happened to Glickman,” Rebecca reminded him, putting some food onto her plate as hunger overcame squeamishness. “As for you, you're still wanted by the police. We probably would have released you by now for lack of evidence, but running away did you no favors.”
“Yeah, and you're the one in charge of my case,” Richie said, pointing a chicken leg at her.
Shay called out, “I've got news about Meaghan Bishop.”
“All right!” Richie grabbed a napkin, then he pulled out a chair and sat. “Join us, Rebecca.”
“She did get quite a few calls from wealthy, influential men, as well as from Pasternak,” Shay began after Rebecca slid a chair next to Richie and looked on. “But she also received a number of calls from burner phones.”
“I'm not surprised by the rich guys,” Richie said. “She knew how to pick up men. I had no idea she was anything other than an attractive woman I just happened to meet at the horse races. What an actress! She even got me to think she snubbed her friends just to be with me.”
“Who were her friends?” Rebecca asked.
“I don't know. I didn't meet them. Come to think of it, I couldn't quite tell who Meaghan talked about. She pointed to a group of women far from us, and said I was more interesting.”
“The male ego,” Rebecca murmured with a shake of the head.
He shrugged. “Anyway, we watched a few races together. I won more than I lost, and she called herself my lucky charm. That did it. She only left my side to get her jacket and tell her friends she had run into 'an old friend.' Hell, she may have attached herself to those gals to set up a good story—and, it worked. What a scam artist!” He grimaced at his ability to be so badly fooled.
“Whoever she was working with sent her to meet you,” Shay said. “Whether that was why she was killed, we don't know yet. I have a start, and I'll keep going, but now, I wonder if whoever was using these burner phones is the key to her murder.”
“I'll see what more I can find out,” Rebecca said as she stood. “I'll head back to Homicide.”
“I'm going out, too,” Richie said. “I've been cooped up so long I feel like the Birdman of Alcatraz. I'll get Vito to bring me more fresh clothes, and then I'll get out of here.”
“Be careful. This isn't over yet,” Shay said to his boss, surprising Rebecca that he would express such a human emotion.
o0o
Rebecca and Sutter were at their desks, discussing the material on Glickman's thumb drive when a call came in from Kiki Nuñez.
Her friend never called her at work. “Kiki?” she said.
“Becca, I don't want to worry you, but something's wrong. Your good-looking guy …”
Rebecca's breath caught. “What about him?”
“I was just walking out the door, I had a hot date, but I heard some strange shouts. It sounded bad, you know, so I peeked out at the alley. A black van had stopped in the middle of the street, blocking everything. I saw four Chinese guys beating up your friend and some older guy. Then they took your friend, shoved him in the van, and drove off.”
“Oh, my God!” Rebecca said. Chinese—that could be Johnny Huang's gang. She knew about them from the Gang Task Force. They killed and maimed without compunction. “Did you see which direction they went in?”
“They turned left. But I did better than that. I got the license number.” She read it off. “And the older guy is here with ice on his head. He's kind of cute, you know. But go help your friend.”
Rebecca hung up, her heart pounding. She could only hope she wasn't too late.
o0o
Richie slowly awoke. He opened his eyes only to shut them again from a bright light in his face. He was sitting on a hard chair, his ankles bound to the chair legs and his wrists tied behind his back.
He opened his eyes just a little this time. Even squinting, the light was so bright he couldn't see past it to look his persecutors in the eye.
He tried to pull his hands free, and realized zip ties had been used on his wrists.
“We heard that you were going to write a book about us, Richie,” a voice said.
“No way.” He tugged hard on the ties, but couldn't snap them.
“Do not act smart with me! The book was about gambling, and to be written with our mutual friend, Danny Pasternak. Why are you trying to cause us trouble?”
The voice was familiar—soft, slightly accented, and the English a little too perfect. Johnny Huang! Richie gulped. The leader of a modern day Chinese tong was ruthless. He knew how to keep his men in check, and his enemies scared. Richie once had a conversation with Pasternak about the danger in making book with men like Huang, but Danny liked the color of his money—and the quantity of it. He said Huang was one of his biggest customers.
Now, Richie might have to pay the price. “Come over here, Johnny, where I can see you. You know I had nothing to do with Danny's book. The guy ghosting it was a slimy prick. He used my name because he was afraid to use his own.”
“Why don't I believe you?”
Richie tried to wriggle his hands out of the ties, but they were too big, too broad. He could feel the skin tearing.
“What, you think I'm an author all of a sudden?” Richie said, trying to sound incredulous. “Do I look like a writer to you? Hell! The book is dead, just like Danny. Did you kill him?”
Huang didn't answer the question. “I know about the Chronicle reporter. He told my man that you were the one who had all the information, a list with people and money amounts—that you were the one who knew everything going on, much more than him, and perhaps as much as Pasternak.”
“Your man? So was it your guy in the bar with Glickman. Your guy getting him drunk.”
Again, Huang didn't respond, but said, “You met twice with Sherman Glickman. He has a lot of information stored in that small head of his, information he will gladly spill when he's drunk, or scared.”
“He's a liar!” Richie shouted. “And for all I know, he's dead. His apartment was burned up, and he's missing. Did you do it? Is that when you got him to tell you goofy stories about me?”
Huang gave a derisive snort. “I would not soil my hands. I had no need to. He told my man everything we needed to know—that you have the list, all of Pasternak's information. Now, I want it.”
“I hate to break the news to you, but your 'man' is too damned dumb to realize Glickman would say anything to deflect danger away from himself.”
“Is that so? Unfortunately for you, Richie, what Glickman said makes sense. I believe you want any information about other people that you can get your hands on.”
“Knowing you believed that jerkoff, Johnny, makes me think even less of you than I already did!”
All Richie could make out against the blinding lights was a silhouette coming towards him. A hard slug to the jaw rattled his teeth and made sparks appear before his eyes.
“I want Pasternak's list,” the voice demanded. “I want all the information you have about my gambling and everyone else's.”
“Why should I care about your gambling?” Richie shouted when he got his breath back. “Frankly, I don't give a shit about you!”
“We do not like to take chances.” The voice growled, deep and deadly. “And we do not like liars.”
“It's over, I told you!” Richie insisted. “Danny's dead.”
“Word is out that you are planning to take over his business.” Bitterness hung in the air. “And that you will give the IRS or any other Feds who come to call anything you can to get them out of your hair, including information about me.”
“That's a lie. I'm not taking over a damned thing,” Richie shouted. “How many times do I have to say I don't give a damn about you or the Feds? Who fed you that crap?”
“I still don't believe you. Why is that, I wonder?”
Richie shut his eyes and turned his head away from the bright, brutal glare of the light. He opened one eye, trying to see in the darkness, away from Huang and the others, trying to get some sense of where he was, how desperate his situation might be. Right now, it seemed hopeless. He knew Huang's reputation, and feared that the best he could hope for was that any torture not be prolonged.
He saw a movement in the distance, but whether it was one of Huang's men, or Shay or Vito—or hopefully both of his friends—he had no idea.
“How the hell should I know?” He finally said in answer to Huang's question. This back-and-forth arguing disgusted Richie. He had never backed down from a fight, and wasn't about to start now. “All I know is, you're hiding back there with your men surrounding you. And I'm tied up. What's the matter, Johnny, are you scared of me?”
“Not scared, disgusted.”
“It's your men who should be disgusted,” Richie said. He decided to throw caution to the wind. If it was his friends out there, this would give them a chance to help. And if not … so be it. “They see what a coward you are! They know you're nothing! Nothing but an asshole.”
Huang barked orders in Chinese as he strode towards Richie, in his hand something that looked like a small blowtorch.
Richie clamped his jaw shut tight, his body tense as he waited. He had a good idea what was coming.
“Police! Drop your weapons!”
Immediately, a shot rang out. The lamplight popped and the room went completely black. He saw bursts of fire from gun barrels, heard volleys of shots fired in rapid succession, along with the sound of running footsteps.
“Drop your weapons now!”
Was that Rebecca? He thought it sounded like a hard, ball-busting version of her voice.
The darkness made him disoriented, and the shots and running footsteps seemed to be coming from all directions at once. Richie held his breath, expecting pain, expecting death. To his amazement, he wasn't hit.
But he was a sitting duck and needed to get away from the gunshots. He started to rock the chair, trying to tip it over, thinking he'd be safer if he was lying on the ground instead of up here at bullet level.
Rebecca's hand touched his face in the darkness. He hadn't realized how well he knew her touch, her scent.
She grabbed his wrists. He heard a ripping sound as she hurriedly sliced through the ties, then slapped the knife into his now freed hands. She ran from him, firing more shots, drawing return fire away from him. He cut the zip tie around his ankles, and dropped flat against the cement floor.
Only a couple more gunshots sounded, a few more footsteps, and then all went quiet.
He waited. He had no idea which direction to go in to find safety, or to escape the room. He still heard nothing.
“Rebecca?” he whispered.
She didn't answer.
She had saved his life and now … “Rebecca!”
“I'm here,” she whispered.
Relief filled him as he scrambled towards her voice. “Are you near? I can't see a damned thing! Where are you?”
“Stay still. You're close. I'll find you.”
“Ouch! That was my finger you stepped on!”
She reached out and felt the top of his head. “Why are your hands on the floor?”
“Because I didn't know it was safe to stand up.” He reached up and found her hips, then her waist, holding it as he stood beside her, and then continued to hold her. He couldn't help but wonder about her reaction if he dared move any closer, if he dared to hold her the way he had wanted to for a long time now.
“Now you worry about your safety!” She wanted to slug him for scaring her so badly, or at least to push him so hard he'd fall over. Instead, she touched his face, knowing it well, even in the darkness. “You damned fool.” Her voice was husky. “Were you daring them to kill you? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Hell, if I'd known you cared this much…”
She smiled, knowing he was doing his best to relieve her tension, her fears—and his own—by saying something light and humorous. “Fat chance!” She replied in kind. “Let's get out of here.” She grappled for him in the dark, finding his chest, then arms, then his hand. He gripped hers tight, and through his hand she could feel his fear and nervousness over his close call. “I think we need to go this way.” She took a couple of steps and walked into someth
ing that fell over with a crash. “Uh, oh. What was that? Something's wet on the floor.”
“It smells like wine. You must have knocked over a bottle,” Richie said. “What is this place?”
“The cellar of an empty warehouse in the old Bayshore district. Probably a place winos hang out.”
“Winos who had the sense to run, even leaving a bottle behind, when they saw Johnny Huang's gang pull up. How did you find me here?”
“Kiki saw what happened,” Rebecca replied. “Between the van's license, traffic cams, and your burner phone's GPS, I was able to track you.”
“God, are we idiots or what?” Richie said as he stopped walking. “Cell phones have a flashlight. Let's use yours.”
“Mine? Are you kidding? It's city-issued. No flashlight. What about yours?”
“It's not much better,” he said, dejected.
“So much for that idea,” she murmured, as they slowly crept in what they hoped was a straight line. “Vito's okay, by the way. Kiki's taking care of him.”
“Lucky fellow. But wait a minute. Where's everyone else?”
“Everyone who?” she asked.
“Your back-up. You didn't come after Huang's gang alone, did you? You aren't suicidal.”
“I was tempted to call, but then you'd have been arrested, and I would have been in really hot water with my boss. So, when I saw how that spotlight blinded everyone, I knew what I needed to do. I waited to hear as much as I could until it got too dangerous for you. I think I picked the right time.”
“The right time? Are you crazy?” He sputtered and thundered simultaneously, an achievement she hadn't imagined was possible. “It was so close I could feel the wings of heaven's angels around me.”
“You? Heaven? I don't think so!”
They reached a wall. Both leaned against it in relief, side-by-side, shoulders touching. “Well, whatever,” Richie said. “But we still have a problem. They might be waiting for us outside.”
“I know. Maybe I really do need to call for backup.”
Richie took out his cell phone, hit a number on speed dial and handed it to her. “Tell Shay where we're located. He'll clear the way for us.”
One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) Page 15
