by Joanne Pence
Spike suddenly began to bark. He rarely barked.
The feeling of being watched that Rebecca had had from the time she’d approached her building tonight returned again, tenfold. She moved towards the back stairs that led up to Kiki’s flat. Spike grew more agitated, running to the stairs and back to her. Rebecca picked him up, put him in her apartment, grabbed her gun, and all but flew up the stairs to Kiki’s back door.
Once there, she knocked hard and loud. When she received no answer, she knocked again and called Kiki’s name as she peered into the window near the door that faced the kitchen. She was horrified to see the kitchen table away from the wall in a skewed position, and a chair on its side on the floor. Rebecca tried the doorknob. It turned.
She opened the door wide.
It made a high-pitched squeal, but other than that, there was no sound coming from the apartment. She crept forward.
From the kitchen, she entered the dining room, then the living room. Both appeared undisturbed. She turned towards the bedrooms and stopped.
Kiki lay in the hallway, a pool of blood around her head.
o0o
Richie Amalfi stood at the back of his nightclub, Big Caesar’s. Located not far from San Francisco’s famous Fisherman’s Wharf area, it had been set up to look like the lush establishments of the 1930’s and ‘40’s with white linen-covered tables around a dance floor, a big band and singer, and an elaborate appetizer menu. Richie wore an elegant black suit and black bow tie to go along with the dressy ambiance of the place. Since he had a trim build, stood a little under six feet tall, with dark brown eyes and wavy black hair, purposefully worn just a tad long, the clothes on him looked James Bond suave than like some wedding party escapee.
Surrounding him was a group of customers including a couple of women who openly vied for Richie’s attention despite their dates. The group was laughing and telling amusing tales. Or, mainly, it was Richie telling stories while the others listened with rapt attention.
The dance area was filled, as usual, when the big band began playing the old jazz and swing favorite, Cab Calloway’s “Minnie the Moocher.” Hearing it, Richie all but cringed, knowing what was coming. The music was fairly soft until the customers loudly joined in singing the “Hi dee hi dee hi dee hi” scat refrain. The raucous cacophony quickly started getting on Richie’s nerves. It was all he could do not to pull the plug on the sound system and tell everybody to go the hell home. He maintained a smile as he escaped from the group by telling them how sorry he was that he had to ‘mingle.’ He was heading for his office when another group of customers stopped him, smiling with anticipation to talk to the popular club owner. At the same time, he noticed his two closest friends, Vito Grazioso and Henry Ian Tate, III, aka “Shay,” enter the club. Vito and Shay helped him handle those difficult and specialized jobs that were the real source of Richie’s income.
The customers introduced themselves, and by force of habit, Richie did all he could to commit each name to memory. He’d learned, over the years, that you never knew when such information would come in handy. “It’s great to meet all of you,” he said as they shook hands, smiling at each person as if he or she was the most important person in the world at that moment, and not giving any hint that he wanted to get away as quickly as possible. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves tonight.”
“It’s wonderful,” they gushed.
“Thank you so much for coming,” he said. “I truly appreciate it.” He then excused himself and went off to meet Vito and Shay.
“What the hell took you so long?” He hurried with them back to his office.
Vito and Shay caught each other’s eyes and didn’t reply.
They entered the office, a large space, designed by Richie when he took over ownership of the club. On one side were a walnut desk, bookcases, and plush leather chair, and other side held a sofa, side chairs, and a mini bar. Blown-up photos of the great jazz and swing performers of the last century—people like Ella Fitzgerald, Billy Holiday, Louis Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, and Dean Martin—hung on the walls. The office also had a private bathroom with a shower. Richie had no idea why or if he’d ever need the shower, but since he’d put in the bathroom, why not?
They all sat in their usual seats, the sofa for Vito, and a side chair for each of the other two. Richie had a new job for them, a typical job, involving a guy who gambled too much at a floating poker game organized for the Bay Area’s high-roller elites. Richie’s client lost big, and now he was supposed to pay off—but had nothing to pay off with unless he sold either some property or some of his wife’s jewelry. It was Richie’s job to make a deal with the organizers to keep the man’s marriage, if not his finances, intact. And from the whole mess to squeeze out enough of a payment for himself, Shay and Vito, that it was worth their time and effort to get involved.
“So, you got all this straight, Vito?” Richie gritted his teeth as he waited for his friend’s answer. “Or do I have to go over it again?”
“I got it, boss. Wha’dya think? You know you can count on me with these things.” Vito tried not to show that his feelings were hurt, but they clearly were. He was a bear of a man, although a not-too-tall bear, with a barrel-shaped body covered in a perpetually worn tan car coat whose pockets bulged with food and mysteries unknown to anyone but Vito. And sometimes it seemed not even he knew what he’d stuffed in there. He was a bit older than Richie, but his still black hair grew thinner by the day, and his hairline receded deeply. His face was overly fleshy, and his eyelids drooped so badly his nearly black eyes were scarcely visible. He could look intimidating, but he was the softest one of the three. Finally, he mumbled, “You know it’s child’s play.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Richie sneered.
“Knock it off, Richie.” Shay snapped with a twist of his mouth. “You know we’ll handle it.”
There were times, like now, when Richie wondered just who the boss was in this merry crew. At the same time, he knew Shay had a point. He was acting like an S.O.B., and had no business picking on Vito.
And Shay was the only guy he knew with the balls to tell him so.
Shay was Vito’s opposite in every way. With six-feet-three-inches of rangy muscle, he could have passed for a model in GQ Magazine. Richie always enjoyed watching women react to him. Everything about him was pristine, and he rarely had a single strand of his light, wavy blond hair out of place. His eyes were large and deep blue, with an almost purplish hue in certain lights. His clothes were expensive and impeccable, and he had a penchant for silk ascots. Even his voice sounded exquisite. But he never allowed anyone to get close. Not women, not men. Richie and Vito were the best friends Shay had, and even from them, he kept secrets.
“You know there’s nothing difficult about this case.” Shay pressed his fingertips together as he spoke. “Another gambler, no self-control, got in over his head. His nuts are in a vice and he wants us to keep it from his wife. It’s scarcely a big deal, and not a problem. The thing that is a problem, however, is you.”
Richie’s irritation level soared. “Me? You’re saying I’m a problem?”
“Exactly,” Shay said. “Something’s wrong with you.”
Richie could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “That’s bull shit.”
Shay ignored his outburst. “Does it have to do with Mayfield?”
“Rebecca?” Richie widened his eyes. “What makes you think that?”
“You haven’t seen her the last two nights, and if you don’t tonight, Saturday night, no less, that’ll make it three. What’s going on? Did you two get into a fight again?” Shay asked.
“Hey, I pay you two to spy on other people, not on me. It’s none of your damn business whether I see Rebecca or not.”
Shay folded his arms, and leaned back in the chair. “It’s our business when it makes you a bastard to work with.”
“You know we care about you, boss,” Vito added. “Whatever it is, you can tell us. Did she dump’ya?”
“Maybe it’s time you just go see her,” Vito said. “Face-to-face.”
“I’m busy here,” Richie answered, his arms spread wide.
“You think this place can’t run without you?” Shay asked. “Your new manager would walk through fire if you asked him, and you know it.”
“Go see her, boss,” Vito said. “We can’t handle you this way.”
Shay stood. “I think Vito’s right,” he said. “But it’s up to you. I’ll let you know what I find out about your guy’s finances. Maybe he’s not as hard up for cash as he wants you to think.”
Vito got to his feet, as did Richie. “I’ll head out, too, boss. I’ll tag after your Mr. Big tomorrow, let you know what I find out.” Vito couldn’t keep up with Richie’s ever-changing clientele, so he tended to use “Mr. Big” as the name of any person whose case they were working.
After they left, Richie sat alone in his office, gave a thirsty glance towards his mini-bar, and thought about Vito’s suggestion.
CHAPTER THREE
Rebecca sat in the Emergency unit’s waiting room at San Francisco General.
After finding Kiki unconscious, Rebecca had called 9-1-1, followed by a call to the police, expressing her belief that the apartment was a crime scene for a robbery or an attempted murder. The blood beneath Kiki’s head was fresh, and the front door lay wide open. She suspected the attacker must have run out when she pounded on the back door.
When the paramedics arrived, Rebecca grabbed Kiki’s purse and cell phone knowing she would need Kiki’s health insurance and social security numbers, if not her credit cards. She also picked up her own handbag with her badge and cell phone. Waving the badge, she climbed into the ambulance to go to the hospital with Kiki. One look at her expression and the paramedics didn’t try to stop her.
Once at the hospital, as the nurses whisked Kiki off to the trauma center to be worked on, Rebecca caught her breath and phoned Kiki’s son, Esteban. From what she and the paramedics could see, Kiki was unconscious as a result of something having been used to strike her several times. They feared her skull had been fractured, and that such a blow could lead to potentially fatal bleeding and swelling of the brain.
Rebecca was distraught about her friend’s condition, but managed to sound calm and assuring for Esteban’s sake. As she sat waiting for him to arrive, and waiting for word from the doctor’s about Kiki’s condition, she couldn’t help but remember when she first met the boy as a gangling teenager of sixteen. Kiki once told her he’d developed a major crush on her, but once he started dating girls his own age, the crush had vanished as quickly as it had begun. Now twenty-two years old, Esteban was a recent graduate from San Francisco State University in computer sciences. He lived with a couple of roommates, working as a barista until a decent job came along in the tech industry. In the meantime, Kiki gave him money when needed.
Esteban found Rebecca in the waiting room. She had not yet been given information about Kiki’s condition from any doctor. After talking to Rebecca, he had called his older sister, Sierra, who was living in San Jose. She was now driving to the hospital as well, and should be there in a couple of hours.
All they could do was to wait. After about five minutes of waiting, Esteban decided to avoid conversation and find solace on his cell phone. He had turned into a handsome young man, Rebecca noted, with long black hair and a surprisingly muscular build. She knew Kiki worried about him not being able to find a good job, and was afraid he might give up looking if his jobless situation went on too long. The last thing Kiki wanted was for him to decide that making fancy lattes and living on his mother’s dime was all that life would ever hold for him.
Rebecca found the latest copy of People and was about to sit back down to read it when, from the corner of her eye, she noticed movement. She looked up to see Richie storm towards her like someone hopped up on too many of Esteban’s high-octane espressos.
“Why are you out here?” he raged as he neared. His dark eyes studied her, his expression simultaneously relieved and angry. “Don’t tell me you’re still waiting to see a doctor? What’s wrong with this place?”
The others in the waiting area looked up at the handsome but irritated fellow wearing a black suit, white shirt, and unknotted black bow tie. From his clothes, Rebecca knew he had come here straight from Big Caesar’s, but she wondered why. She took his arm and pulled him away. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
He studied her with confused eyes. “What am I…? I heard about you, about the ambulance. What’s going on?”
“I don’t know yet. The doctor’s haven’t told me a thing. But there was so much blood. I know head wounds bleed a lot, but—”
“Wait. Whose blood?”
Now Rebecca was the confused one. “Kiki’s. She was attacked in her home.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “Christ Almighty!”
She noticed that people nearby were staring as if trying to hear what was being said, and even the Esteban stirred a bit. “Let’s go outside.”
They stepped onto a small outside patio set up primarily for smokers. There, he put his arms around her. “God! I was afraid …” He pulled her close.
“Afraid of what?” she asked, breaking away.
Dark eyes met hers. “I left work early and decided to stop by your place. I haven’t seen you much lately. But I no sooner got out of my car than that old fart who lives next door and sits at the window all day long stuck his head out and told me you weren’t home. He said you went off in an ambulance. I came straight to Emergency and found you sitting there.” He looked her up and down. “Apparently unhurt and”—he grinned—“looking good.”
She glanced down at the fluffy slippers, sweat pants, and bulky top she’d changed into after work. “If you were worried, why didn’t you phone me?” she asked.
“If I was worried? If? I was told you were on your way to the hospital in an ambulance. I didn’t think they’d let you chat on your cell phone. It so happened, I was scared half to death by the news.” His lips tight, he paced in a circle, one hand on the back of his head. “For cryin’ out loud, Rebecca! Who knows what could have happened to you? What with the crazy people—killers—you chase after! Of course I was worried.”
She tried to look dismayed, but despite her earlier thoughts about possibly, or probably, ending their relationship, she was glad to see him. And the thought that he had dropped everything and rushed to her side thinking she might be hurt, got to her. As she looked at him, she could all but feel her demeanor, her stiff expression, soften, and even she could hear the warmth in her voice as she said to him, “I don’t know what to do about you. But thank you for coming.”
“It’s okay,” he murmured. As they half-sat on the balcony railing around the patio, he wrapped an arm around her back. “So what’s going on with Kiki? What happened to her?”
She didn’t move away. After feeling so scared and worried about Kiki, she appreciated the comfort he offered. Somehow, just having him there made her feel more confident the doctor might have good news. She knew it was ridiculous to feel that way, but there it was.
When she finished her story, he stood upright and paced. He was never one to sit still for long. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to harm Kiki,” he said. Then, his face filled with worry, he added, “Are you sure she was the victim? What if someone was looking for you?”
She folded her arms. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
He flung his arms wide. “I’m not here to reassure,” he bellowed. “I want to be sure you’re safe. That you’ve considered all the possibilities. And Kiki being mistaken for you is a very likely one, if you ask me.”
She shook her head. “I’m five-foot-ten, blond, and in good physical shape if
I say so myself. Kiki’s five-foot-two, with long, black hair and a roundish body that never saw the inside of a gym. I simply do not see anyone mistaking the two of us.”
“Unless it was someone paid off to go after you. You know your apartment is well hidden. What if it was someone who was told to go after the woman who lived in that building?”
“Just stop, Richie. I don’t need you to make me any more paranoid than I already am.”
“You aren’t nearly paranoid enough,” he shouted. “Look, I’ll get Shay and Vito to look into—”
“No, you won’t!” she said, wondering why, with him, she so often ending up in a shouting match. It was another reason this relationship was for the birds. As for Shay, she was sure he was a former CIA sniper, a former hit man, or possibly both, before he started working for Richie. And Vito—although he was a sweetheart—was also, at best, muscle.
She drew in her breath and tried to calm down. “I’m sure it wasn’t a mistake. Someone went after Kiki. Not me.”
“You know it was no burglar,” he said. “When confronted by a homeowner, they run. They don’t bash anyone’s head in.”
“Unless the guy was crazy or on drugs,” she added. “But all the lights were on. Anyone would know the flat wasn’t empty.”
“So if whoever broke in wasn’t trying to rob the place and wasn’t after you, then going after Kiki with a hammer or whatever, hitting her in the head that way, leaves only one conclusion. Someone wanted her dead.”
She didn’t even want to think about what he was suggesting. “I can’t imagine that.”
“Any idea how he got into her flat?” Richie asked.
“I don’t know.”
He put his hands on her shoulders and waited until her gaze met his. “I’m sorry to say,” his voice smooth as melted butter, “but it still makes more sense that you might have been the target.”
She studied him a long moment, then took a deep breath and stepped back, breaking his hold. She put her hands on her hips. He was upsetting her on several, very different, levels. “All this tells me is that I’d better go back home and talk to the cops who showed up at her house to see what they’re finding.”
