Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2)

by Joanne Pence

  As they headed out the door, the band played “Anything Goes.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “What’s going on?” Rebecca asked. “You look nervous as a cat with a new pit bull in town.”

  “It was nothing.”

  Rebecca buttoned her jacket as soon as they stepped outdoors. The fog was coming in, and she heard mournful foghorns out on the bay.

  “Look, I’m sorry about that,” he said, standing close.

  “It’s okay. I was about to leave anyway.”

  “So I noticed. Talking to those guys made me hungry,” Richie added, sliding his hands in his pockets against the cold. “Want to join me? My favorite late-night restaurant in Chinatown is open. The one we once went to. I could go for something simple. Maybe pork chow mein, a little beef won ton, and throw in hot, spicy, Szechuan chicken, a spring roll or two. How does that sound?”

  Her all but meatless dinner salad left her unable to turn down decent food. She was glad her stomach didn’t growl with joy. “It sounds delicious.”

  “Good. My car is just around the corner in a garage.”

  “Mine is right there.” She pointed to her Ford Explorer at the next corner. “As I drove up, someone pulled out of the parking space.”

  “Lucky,” he muttered, “but no thanks.” They continued to his car.

  The difference between lumbering around the narrow, crowded, cable-car laden streets of San Francisco in her SUV and weaving in and out of city traffic in a Porsche 911 Turbo was beyond night-and-day. Not to mention that she drove slowly and cautiously, and Richie drove as if he were competing in the Grand Prix.

  Up ahead, a signal turned yellow with Richie too far away to run it, so he actually stopped at the light, much to Rebecca’s relief.

  “So,” she said, catching her breath from his manic driving. “Will you now tell me what that was all about?”

  “What was what about?” he asked innocently.

  “Those two ABC men.”

  His lips formed a thin line. “I just wonder who’s been talking, that’s all.”

  “So there is something behind their questions,” she said.

  He glanced at her. “It’s not important. And it’s not what they think.” The light changed and he was off to the races again. “Or you, with that suspicious cop brain of yours. But thanks for going along with me.”

  “No problem,” she said honestly. For some reason, there was rarely a dull moment around Richie.

  Street parking in Chinatown was impossible to find, yet he managed to locate space in an alley by squeezing between a dumpster and a truck. In minutes they were inside a bright restaurant, noisy with people, Chinese music, and food. She remembered being here, and that the food and service were exceptional.

  A man led them through the crowd and down some steps to a much quieter area with soft lights and black lacquered tables spread far apart from each other to give some privacy. She remembered this as well.

  A waiter appeared almost instantly. Richie consulted with Rebecca on their order, and then added, “Plus, how about a couple other dishes you think we might like.”

  Hot oolong tea was placed on the table, along with chopsticks and a Chinese style soup spoon followed in a surprisingly short time by their meal. The food was even better than Rebecca remembered, and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

  As they ate, she explained how she had tracked Baranski to the Golden Gate Garage and then saw his and Karen’s baby’s photo in the shop. “So, I hung around outside and waited. I had a hunch. Sure enough, guess who walked out of there?”

  He froze. “You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”

  “Of course I did. He tried to deny who he was, but it was him. He managed to get away before I could reach my car.”

  “The men in the shop must know you found him.” His voice was tense.

  “Only if he told them. After seeing the photo, I didn’t say much and then left.”

  He shook his head. “I hate to tell you, but for a cop, you’re a terrible liar. Too much is written on your face. It doesn’t take a genius to know what you’re thinking.”

  “Oh?” Frankly, it wasn’t the first time she’d been told that.

  He tugged at his ear and one leg started to jiggle. “This is not good.” He now rubbed his chin. His fidgeting made her more and more nervous.

  “Calm down! Now that I know where he works, I’ll let the Sausalito PD know. They can get an arrest warrant on him.”

  “Hmm.”

  She put down her chopsticks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Why didn’t they find him already? What if the cops in Sausalito know more about the case than you think they do? What if they’ve been warned off?”

  “Like you’re trying to warn me off?”

  “Exactly,” he said.

  She pushed aside her plate, unable to eat another bite. “Someone’s got to find Karen’s killer.”

  He looked as if he might be ready to argue, but then simply nodded. “Okay. But I’ve got to admit, I don’t know that I have half the guts you do. I’m not sure I’d be willing to take on the Russians even if a friend of mine were killed by them.”

  “We don’t know yet that they killed her.”

  He lay his chopsticks on his plate. “There’s a reason the Russians are so feared. Normally, a person’s family is off limits. The wives and kids, nobody touches them. And if somebody does, it means all-out war. But with the Russians, they’ll go after anyone and everyone connected, no matter how distant. Which is why there’s a good chance they were responsible for Karen Larkin’s death and the boyfriend, this Yuri, is the one who caused it even if he didn’t pull the trigger. Tell me if I’m missing something.”

  She rubbed her temples. “No, you aren’t. You’re right. But you don’t need to worry about me.” She glanced at his Rolex. “It’s late. Time for me to pick up my car and go home.”

  “Your apartment is just a few minutes from here. How about I take you?”

  “But my car—”

  “A couple guys who work for me can drop it off on their way home.”

  “They don’t have the key.”

  He gave her one of those looks. “Rebecca,” was all he said.

  There were times, like this one, that even after all her years in the big city, she’d blurt out something that made her realize she still had the heart of a farm girl from Idaho. Okay, they didn’t need a key. She got it.

  “Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Spike,” he said, raising his eyebrows and trying to look innocent. There was nothing innocent about him—or about the way he made her feel. And his words clearly indicated he wasn’t thinking about dropping her off on the sidewalk.

  Going directly home as opposed to going in the opposite direction just to pick up her car made infinite sense she told herself, especially as she wondered just how much more interesting this evening might become. Her breathing had definitely sped up as she nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Rebecca was strangely silent as Richie drove to her apartment. He guessed she was trying to put together all he had told her about the Ruskies with what she also knew about her friend. He felt bad for her; he knew she had been hit hard by her friend’s death, and was trying not to show it. It wasn’t working.

  And he was quite willing to be her personal Comforter-in-Chief.

  Her apartment was midway up the south side of Nob Hill. At the very top of the hill were the famous Mark Hopkins and Fairmont hotels along with gentlemen’s clubs for uber-rich of the city, plus Grace Cathedral where all of them could go when they needed to seek forgiveness.

  Downhill from Rebecca’s apartment sat the seedy Tenderloin where prostitutes openly lined the streets each night.

  Surrounding her were expensive small flats and apartments, and she was lucky to find a minuscule place on Mulford Alley. Her building had two large flats above the garage, and her apartment had originally been a storeroom behind that
garage. To get there, one had to enter a door alongside the garage that opened to a breezeway to the back yard, then cross the yard to her cozy two-rooms. Richie had practically lived there for a week some two months earlier. To his surprise, he had liked it—and Rebecca—more than he ever imagined possible.

  Four years ago, when the only woman he ever truly loved was killed in an auto accident, something inside him died as well. The thought of falling in love again, of once more chancing being hurt so badly he wondered how he could get through another day, frankly scared the bejeezus out of him.

  Maybe that was why he liked being around Rebecca. He knew a woman like her could never be serious about him. And that, he told himself, was a good thing.

  A red-painted curb lined one side of the street because the alley was quite narrow. Fortunately, meter maids never ventured in there, so all the residents, and Richie, parked atop the “no parking” red zone. The night was heavy with fog, dimming the street lamps to small, wispy orbs. He walked with her through the dark street to her building, then hung back as she stepped towards the door to the breezeway, key in hand. Once they reached her apartment, he’d kiss her good-night and see what happened next. She threw him such mixed signals, he didn’t know which way was up. All he knew was that around her, everything became much more exciting, more intense—even thoughts of a simple good-night kiss on a foggy night in San Francisco.

  He was so busy thinking about her, and how just being near her did funny things to his temperature, that it took him a moment to realize she had stopped before unlocking the breezeway door. “What is it?” he asked.

  She turned the doorknob.

  The door opened.

  He knew she was fanatical about making sure that the breezeway door, as well as the one to her apartment, were locked.

  The Russians.

  She pressed herself against the wall and gestured for him to get behind her. She pulled a Glock from the holster she wore along the back waistband of her jeans and chambered a bullet.

  “I left the door locked,” she whispered. “I always do, and I double-checked it.”

  “I know.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t go in there. Call somebody. Or I will.”

  “Wait back here,” she ordered.

  She skulked quietly along the breezeway wall, her Glock pointed and ready to fire. He crept along behind her, with no idea what he could do, but unwilling to leave her alone. When she reached the back yard, she peeked into it. The yard was dark. All the neighbors’ lights were off. “Kiki’s party,” she whispered. “I forgot all about it.”

  He had no idea what she was talking about. Only a small entry light over her front door was lit. From it, he could see that the door was open. The yard itself seemed to be empty.

  “Oh, my God,” she whispered.

  Richie caught her arm as she started forward, holding her back. “It’s too dangerous.”

  She shook him off. “I’m being careful.”

  Like hell, he thought, but followed as she inched forward. Standing outside the doorway, Rebecca pressed herself to the wall as she reached inside and found the light switch right beside the door opening. She flipped on the lights then took a quick peek inside at her combination living-dining-kitchen area. It was empty of people, but it had been tossed. Drawers emptied, her television smashed, furniture knocked over.

  She stepped inside, gun extended, as she walked towards the bedroom.

  Richie followed. The bedroom, too, was empty, as was the bathroom. The bedroom had also been tossed, everything from her bureau drawers lay on the floor, and even the mattress had been pulled off the bed.

  Richie couldn’t help but notice some lacy, black underwear and immediately was hit with a pantheon of emotions—from fury at the thugs who would manhandle her things, to imagining how damned sexy she would look wearing that, to a stab of jealousy at the oaf she had wanted to impress.

  “Spike?” she called.

  Oh, no. Her little dog. Richie immediately helped her search. They first lifted the mattress back onto the bed, thinking Spike might be under or behind it. He wasn’t.

  Richie thought Spike was just about the goofiest looking mutt he’d ever seen, but Rebecca loved him, so that made him just fine in Richie’s book.

  They searched through the house, then went out to the back yard. He wasn’t there either.

  “He may have run up the backstairs to hide near Kiki or Bradley’s flat,” Rebecca said, hope filling her voice. Wooden stairs led to small landings by the back doors to her landlord’s and Kiki’s places. “Kiki threw a big party tonight, so I suspect they aren’t home yet. I’ll go see if Spike is scared and hiding up there.”

  “I’ll head outside,” Richie said, “in case he ran out and is hiding in the alley.”

  He didn’t like the sad look on her face as she nodded that she liked his idea. Also, he’d never seen her so scared before, not even two months ago when she came face-to-face with a killer. He knew her fear wasn’t for herself, but for her dog.

  He wished he could tell her he’d make everything all right, but sometimes that was impossible. He feared this might be one of those times, and he also knew she wasn’t a person who would put up with feel-good remarks based on wishful thinking.

  He walked up and down the alley calling for the dog with no luck. He even went out onto Taylor Street, and hoped Spike hadn’t run out there because there was far too much traffic. But most prevalent in his mind was the thought that one of those thugs gave the tiny pet a vicious kick, and that he’d find a broken corpse tossed in some corner.

  About ten minutes later, he saw Rebecca, on her hands and knees looking under cars in the fog-filled alley. He went to her and helped her to her feet. “No luck, I take it.”

  She shook her head, fighting hard to hold back tears. “I don’t know what to do. Where can he be? Who would do this?”

  “Could the Russians have followed you home?”

  She thought a moment. “They might have.” Her voice shook. “That poor little dog has already been through so much. I just …”

  She took a few steps away from him, then turned back, her big blue eyes meeting his. He knew he had to say something that would give her hope. “None of this means they’ve hurt him,” he began. “Look, if they … if they did something to him, they would have left him where you could find him. Used him as a warning. But they didn’t. That tells me that when he saw them, he knew they were bad news and split. He’s a smart little guy. I think he took off and is probably sleeping somewhere waiting until he thinks it’s safe to come home.”

  She said nothing a long moment, then nodded. “That makes sense,” she murmured. “I hope you’re right.”

  His cell phone vibrated. He took it out. It was Louie, the guy he called to pick up Rebecca’s car. “Louie, where are you? I thought you’d be here by now.”

  “You didn’t tell me this job was dangerous,” Louie yelled.

  “What are you talking about?” Richie asked.

  “The SUV—it caught fire! Burst into flames! My cousin was in it. He was going to drive it. The only thing that saved him was he hadn’t shut the door when he stepped on the gas. He was able to hurl himself to the ground and roll. Still, he got burned. An ambulance is taking him to SF General. I’m heading there now.”

  “My God, Louie. I had no idea.”

  “What’s wrong?” Rebecca asked.

  “I’ll get over there,” Richie said. “You make sure he gets whatever help he needs. I’ll cover the cost, whatever it is. You got that?”

  “I know, Richie. I know you’re good for it. He’s got some insurance from work, but still …”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Carlo Fiori. But that’s not the only reason I called,” Louie said. “You need to warn her.”

  “I will. Thanks, Louie. I’ll see you later.”

  He put the phone back in his pocket.

  “Richie, what is it?” Rebecca asked. “What happened?”

&nbs
p; He drew in his breath. How should he tell her? “Rebecca, how fond are you of your car?”

  o0o

  Rebecca tried to figure out what he was talking about. “My car? Don’t tell me your friends got into an accident.”

  He looked around the dark alley. “Come on, you’re a sitting duck out here. We’ve got to move. Pack some clothes, and we’ll go to my house.” Richie grabbed her arm and started back to her apartment.

  “Have you lost your mind?” She stopped and pulled her arm free.

  “Your car was rigged to catch fire when you got inside. It might not have killed you, but it sure as hell would have put you in the hospital for a long, long time.”

  “What?”

  “My friend’s cousin was in it. He’s in the hospital.” Richie’s voice was pain-filled. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

  She didn’t move. “Someone got hurt because of me? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Someone got hurt because of the Russian syndicate.” This time she didn’t argue as he hurried her back to her apartment. She stood in the living room taking in the mess that her little apartment, her sanctuary, had become. She felt stunned, unable to comprehend all that had gone so wrong. And her dog …

  Suddenly, Richie was in front of her, holding an armload of her clothes. She didn’t have many—she didn’t need many in her line of work—and it seemed he had grabbed everything in the closet, hangers and all. “I’ll put these in the car while you get some of those underthings you women wear—and as many guns as you have salted away—and leave.”

  She pulled a carry-on from the closet and quickly threw shoes and anything else she thought she might need into it, probably more than she would ever use, but it was easier to grab everything than to try to sort things out.