Five O'Clock Twist

by Joanne Pence

  “Do you know who he was?”

  “No.”

  “Ever see him before?”

  “A couple times here, with her.”

  “What can you tell me about him?” Rebecca asked. “What did he look like?”

  “I’m not too sure. It was kind of dark where they sat. I guess he was okay looking, nicely dressed and all. It’s usually the guys who are really good-looking that I notice.” She couldn’t help but smile at that admission. “I think he was probably close to Audrey Poole in age.”

  Rebecca hated herself for doing it, but she couldn’t help asking, “Did he have kind of thick black hair, dark eyes, almost six feet tall, with a slim build? Oh, and a sharp dresser?”

  “I don’t think he had much hair at all, come to think of it. Or it was really short. And he definitely wasn’t slim.”

  Rebecca let out the breath she’d been holding. She suspected Richie was the type the waitress would remember, but it never hurt to check. “Did they look like they were romantically involved?”

  “Um, well, I’m not sure. I mean, the woman—Audrey—paid for their drinks. She got here before him, and ordered a dirty martini. Then when he came, she ordered another for herself and the same thing for him. I guess that’s okay, but she didn’t even ask if that was what he wanted. And then, he left before she did.”

  “Did he leave a long time before her, or just long enough for her to pay and then meet him outside, perhaps?”

  “Um, maybe. But I don’t think so. I remember asking if she’d like another drink, but she didn’t. So, I guess, she sat there a while.”

  Rebecca nodded. Richie had told her Audrey was seeing Sean Hinkle. She wished she knew what Sean Hinkle’s hair was like these days. She recalled it being on the thin side, maybe thin enough to be scarcely visible in the dark bar. “If you think of anything more, give me a call.” She handed Ms. Hayes her card and left the bar.

  Rebecca stood a moment out on the sidewalk, the same spot she had seen Audrey on the video tape. She wondered if Audrey had decided to walk home since it wasn’t all that far. Unfortunately, she hadn’t made it.

  Rebecca returned to Homicide. Sutter had received Audrey’s home and business landline and BlackBerry cell phone logs, and was now going through them. He found real estate clients and spam, but nothing else. Rebecca doubled-checked his work, and she had to agree. The woman seemed to have no personal life.

  But then, Rebecca received an alert on one of Audrey’s credit cards. Someone attempted to use it in a liquor store on 6th Street and Folsom, which was near the Hall of Justice.

  Rebecca decided it would be easier to walk there than to drive and try to park in that area. Even the illegal spots where cops left their vehicles were usually taken.

  The liquor store owner claimed a homeless man had come in trying to use the card. He knew it wouldn’t go through, but he played along. When it bounced, he kept it, and now gave it to Rebecca. The homeless guy ran, taking a bottle of Thunderbird with him.

  The owner showed Rebecca a picture of the guy on his in-store security camera. He was probably in his fifties, about 5’3”, with long gray hair, a beard, and a heavy black jacket that had a strange shine as if from grease. Rebecca thanked the owner and gave him her business card, asking that he call her if the fellow returned.

  On her way back to Homicide, turning the corner on 7th Street, she spotted a man sitting in a doorway slugging down some cheap white wine straight from the bottle. Looking at his black pants, dark jacket, long gray hair, and short stature, she walked towards him.

  The homeless fellow gawked at her, put the cap on the bottle and then ran. She ran after him.

  He turned down an alleyway, then across a traffic-filled street. Rebecca didn’t stop, but kept going. He turned into another alley, but it was a dead-end.

  She drew her handgun and held it on him.

  “I didn’t mean to take the wine!” the man cried. “But I was so thirsty, I couldn’t help myself. I’ll pay for it.” He took some money from his pocket. A fair amount of cash.

  “Where did you get all that?” she asked.

  He pulled out a five and jammed the rest back in his pocket. “It’s mine!”

  “If you had cash, why use a credit card at the liquor store?”

  “It’s going fast. Thought I’d try the card. But the owner got all bent out of shape when it wouldn’t go through. I would have paid him, but he started yelling. Here.” He held out the money. “Like I said, I’ll pay for the wine. I don’t want no trouble!” His grimy hand trembled.

  “Calm down,” she said. “I don’t care about your wine.”

  “No?” His eyes widened in disbelief.

  “It’s the credit card you tried to use.”

  “It was my sister’s.” He quickly shoved the five spot deep into the same pocket as his other bills. “She said I could use it. I tried to tell the store owner.”

  “And what was your sister’s name again?”

  “Uh…”

  “Right. Where did you get it?”

  His brow furrowed.

  “Will your memory get any better down at the station?” Rebecca all but yelled the question.

  “It was in a garbage can!” He put a hand to his eyes a moment—the other continued to hold his wine tight against his chest—then he added, “Somebody threw it away. I don’t know who. I figured I could use it more than sewer rats.”

  “So you took it,” Rebecca said. “What else did you take?”

  He reached into another pocket and took out a cell phone. “Here. I can’t get it to work anyway.”

  Audrey’s second phone. Of course! She took it. “Anything else?”

  He shook his head.

  “Any other credit cards?”

  He hesitated, looked her in the eyes, then handed over three more.

  Rebecca grimaced. Then, although she knew it was a waste of breath, since she used to be a street cop she did her duty. “Don’t take wine without paying for it, and never try to use cards that aren’t yours.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

  “Now get out of here.”

  Rebecca hurried back to Homicide with the cell phone. She tried some of the 4-digit pins she found scribbled in Audrey Poole’s address book, but nothing worked. Apparently, the homeless man’s multiple attempts to guess the password resulted in it being locked.

  She knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, for her tech staff to break into.

  And of course she knew a person who could do it. Shay.

  She shook her head. Why was this always happening to her?

  She felt bad about the way the conversation had deteriorated when Richie came to give her information about Audrey Poole, and ever since finding Poole dead she had wanted to tell him she was sorry his friend had been murdered. Now, she had a good excuse to call.

  o0o

  Rebecca wasn’t sure where the best place would be to meet Richie. She could show up at Big Caesar’s, but if she didn’t want to stand out in that crowd, she’d have to dress up. She didn’t want him to get the wrong impression.

  She could ask him to meet her at a bar or restaurant, but that smacked of a date.

  She could ask him to come to Homicide, but that was hardly fair. She usually went to the homes of people she needed to talk to, and not drag them into Homicide unless they were suspects or heavily involved in a case.

  In short, to treat him the same as anyone else meant going to his house. She expected he would be home around seven o’clock to get ready to go to Big Caesar’s for the evening.

  She drove to his house near the top of Twin Peaks, an expensive neighborhood of mid-century modern and newer homes near the center of San Francisco. She saw his house lights on. His garage took up the ground floor, and the living area was above it. She parked in the driveway, then walked up the stairs to the front door and knocked.

  He looked simultaneously surprised and intrigued to see her. He stiffened his shoulders. �
�Rebecca, is something wrong? It’s not Kiki, is it?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, and Kiki is doing well, all things considered,” she said. “I had hoped to see you earlier. I suspect you’ve heard about your friend, Audrey.”

  “Yes.” He drew in his breath. “It’s hard to believe.”

  “I wanted to say how sorry I am. I know you liked her.”

  He waited a moment, then said only, “Thank you.”

  She found it awkward to be standing in the doorway, yet she understood why he hadn’t invited her inside. She drew in her breath. “I’ve also come by to ask you and Shay for some help.”

  “About Audrey’s murder investigation?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “In that case, come inside.”

  As she walked in, memories of prior visits filled her. She liked his home. His living room was richly furnished in blues and grays, with a picture window providing a view of the eastern side of San Francisco from the downtown to the bay bridge and the Oakland hills. She stopped a moment, enjoying the view.

  “Can I get you something? Wine, coffee maybe?” he asked.

  “No thank you. I won’t be here long.”

  He nodded, his lips a firm, straight line, and sat on the sofa.

  She took the nearby easy chair, but before she sat, she put a cell phone on the coffee table. “It’s Audrey Poole’s. I haven’t turned it in to the department yet. It’s locked, so I know if I give it to them, I’ll be ready to retire before they crack into it. I’m hoping you and Shay can get into it and let me see what she was up to.”

  Richie stared ominously at the device. “Do you have any idea what that could contain? If Audrey was involved with who I think she was involved with, the information in there could be dangerous.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  Richie picked it up and looked it over. “This’ll be nothing for Shay. And I want to find out who killed her as much as you do. For me, it’s personal.”

  She nodded. “I know.”

  He said nothing more, but she found she didn’t want to leave. “I’m sorry I treated you badly when you came to Homicide yesterday,” she said. “Of course you know what you’re doing. I have no business interfering.”

  “I don’t mind hearing your opinion.” He rose to his feet.

  She took the hint and walked to the door. “Good. Well, good-bye.”

  “I’ll call you when Shay’s gotten into the phone.” He opened the door for her.

  She caught his eye as she stepped out. He looked as if he were about to speak, but then didn’t. She understood. There was much she wanted to say as well, but she didn’t know how or where to start—or where to end.

  He waited a moment.

  She turned away, facing the street.

  She heard the door softly shut behind her.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next morning at her desk, Rebecca was still fuming about her experience at Richie’s house—not at him, but at herself. What was wrong with her? She’d gotten what she wanted. She’d gotten what she wanted. She’d managed to build a barrier between them that made the Great Wall of China pale by comparison. Maybe they could eventually be friends and collaborate from time to time the way he did with Shay and Vito.

  An occasional confidential informant, and that’s all.

  Definitely nothing more.

  Why, then, did she feel so miserable?

  When she thought about her past relationships, given the way her life was now, they all seemed a bit dull, even boring, and she was glad they hadn’t worked out. Someday, she would surely feel the same about Richie.

  Although she had to admit, being around him was never boring. She couldn’t help but think about Richie and the drug lord, El Grande, not very long ago. That whole episode had scared her to death. She still got the shakes when she thought about how close Richie had come to getting himself killed.

  Boring vs. frightening. What a choice.

  She needed to find a good man in between the two extremes. Maybe that was the best way, the only way, to get over Richie.

  Just then, Homicide’s secretary, Elizabeth Havlin, buzzed. Rebecca had a visitor named Luke Barton. She thanked Elizabeth and headed to the office. The only Luke she could think of was Inga’s boyfriend, who she had continued to attempt to track down with no luck.

  Sitting in the office was a nervous-looking young man wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, a flannel shirt over them as if it were a jacket. He jumped up as soon as he saw her. “I heard you were looking for me.”

  “You’re Inga’s friend?”

  “Yeah. Well, sort of. I mean, I just met her about a month ago, and we’ve dated a little. I mean, I’m so sorry to hear she died, I mean, that she was killed and all. I don’t know if I can help, but I’m here.”

  Rebecca took him into the interview room and got his full name and address, and then asked, “Where were you last Saturday night?”

  “My old girlfriend moved to Portland. I was up there. We’re trying to work it out. We might have, too. I just came back here to pick up my stuff and then I heard the cops were looking for me because of Inga. But I’m moving.”

  “What’s your girlfriend’s name?”

  He gave her name, address, phone number, and also pulled out a few gas receipts he’d managed to hang onto that showed he drove up last Friday and came back yesterday.

  Rebecca made copies of everything, as well as his car registration.

  She would check into it, but she suspected his alibi would hold up. She thanked him and sent him on his way.

  She was more sure than ever that she was looking for one solution to the murders of both Audrey Poole and Inga Westergaard, and that Luke Barton had no part in either.

  When she returned to her desk she saw that she had missed a call from FBI special agent, Brandon Seymour.

  She couldn’t help but wonder if he knew anything about offshore holding companies and investors from China. That seemed right down the FBI’s alley. She couldn’t help but think of how Seymour was always on the ‘right’ side of the law, understood and accepted her job as a cop, and had, from the time they first worked together, made it quite clear he would like to go out with her. Any time, any place.

  Seemed like a no brainer.

  She picked up the phone and punched in his number.

  o0o

  Rebecca spent the rest of the afternoon going through Inga Westergaard’s family, friends, and business connections, and ended up with nothing that caused her cop instincts to light up. She then switched to putting together pieces of Audrey Poole’s life and business, and contacting Poole’s most recent US-based business clients. She quickly found they were among the most closed-mouth people she’d ever met. She got nowhere with any of them.

  She next turned to Audrey’s bank records about her holding company. One look at the complex transactions and foreign bank involvement told her it would take someone with a lot more knowledge of business than she had, like a forensic auditor.

  She gritted her teeth as, once again, the fact that Shay claimed to have an MBA from Wharton School of Business wasn’t lost on her. She was not going to go asking Richie for any more favors.

  She came across the name of Audrey’s accountant, Bridget McMillan. Good. Who needed Shay, anyway?

  She tried calling the accountant, and like everyone else she needed to reach in this case, the call went to messaging. She left a message, and then several more as time passed and she received no call back.

  Ironically, the more she looked into both Inga and Audrey’s lives, and investigated their murders, the less sense it made for their deaths to be connected.

  Finally, she gave up wrestling with these cases and left work to go to the hospital to visit Kiki. She found Kiki asleep and still lightly sedated from her surgery, so Rebecca didn’t disturb her. She spent a little time with Sierra who hadn’t left her mother’s side, and then continued on her way home.

  After left-over pizza and a salad for din
ner, she went upstairs to visit her landlord.

  Bradley Frick was still a nervous wreck about the break-in and the murder of Kiki’s assistant. He was about Rebecca’s height, fairly bony, with bleached blond hair that he wore in a spiked style, despite being too old for it. He was somewhere in his forties, although he dressed and acted as if he were still in his twenties. Or younger. He made his fortune as a software developer by selling his product to Google. He tried to explain to Rebecca what it did, but she never understood anything beyond it being some sort of algorithm to track purchasing power.

  Rebecca tried to calm him down, but at the moment, he was sure that Tierra del Fuego, the southernmost tip of South America, was the place to be.

  Finally, unable to take his nervous paranoia a moment longer, she went back to her apartment.

  It was funny, but as she opened the door, she could all but see Richie on the sofa, Spike on his lap, a beer at his side, and ESPN on the TV.

  But the sofa was empty and the TV off. Spike looked happy to see her, but even he seemed to recognize something, or someone, was missing.

  She found an old movie she loved, Ghost, a romantic fantasy. She had to chuckle as she thought of how much Richie would despise a maudlin movie like that. She had a good cry over it, then went to bed.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Richie sat at a table at the St. Francis Hotel’s Clock Bar, watching the entrance. Finally, about fifteen minutes late, his ex-client, Steve Burlington, strolled in. Being kept waiting had put Richie, who was already not thrilled with the world, in a crummy mood.

  “Why here?” Richie said as Burlington joined him. “I didn’t know you like fancy joints like this.”

  “I like it when I don’t want to run into anyone I know.” Burlington’s tone was harsh. “Here, we can talk.”

  A waiter came by and Burlington ordered a cosmopolitan. Richie already had a craft-brewed IPA in front of him.

  “Okay,” Richie said, staring hard at Burlington. “Talk.”