by Joanne Pence
On the other hand, she was curious as to how much Wong had said. “Really?”
“I mean, it’s just rumor. I didn’t personally know her or her old man, although I did see him hanging around the tourist areas. He was Russian, you know. Had a pretty thick accent. You don’t hear that kind much around here, so he stood out from the crowd.”
“I see.”
“Just between you and me, I suspect he was selling drugs. Most likely prescription drugs. They’re really big around here, as I’m sure you know.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Of course, Larry doesn’t really talk about his cases, but from what I’ve seen, some real heavy hitters could be involved. If the boyfriend didn’t kill her, someone he knew did. And if he used as well as sold, anything and everything is possible.”
“Interesting,” she said.
“Anyway, I didn’t mean to blather on like this. It’s been good talking to you. I’ll be sure to tell Larry you called.”
They said quick good-byes. Rebecca stared at her phone a moment. That was completely bizarre.
She then called Officer Sherri Grimes. Grimes had no new information for her. She also informed her that Wong never worked on Sundays, and not to expect a call back until Monday, at earliest.
Rebecca couldn’t believe it. Everyone working homicides knew that the majority of killers were caught within the first few days after a murder took place. That was why Homicide worked its inspectors in shifts, so that if they were on-call when a murder happened, they worked twenty-four seven to solve it without thinking their eight-hour day was over and it was time to go home. Instead, they worked around the clock as long as there was a lead that needed quick action.
Since she was at her desk, she did more searches. To her surprise, the owner of Karen’s houseboat had a Russian name, Shurik Charkov. She did a search on him. When she called the address on his driver’s license and tax forms, she learned it was a boarding house and Charkov hadn’t lived there for twenty years.
She was running more searches on Charkov when Bo Benson sat down at her desk. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue since he had been working a Saturday night homicide through the wee hours of the morning, and then had to come in for the meeting.
“Tough case?” she asked.
“Yeah. Teenage gangs. They’re always the worst. But I think we got the guys who did it. Just need a little more evidence.”
“Get some rest, Bo. The evidence won’t disappear that quickly.”
“I know. But first I want to know what’s going on with you.” His dark brown eyes studied her. “I could tell by the way you looked as Eastwood ranted, that there’s more to this than he knows.”
Was everyone able to read what she was thinking just by looking at her? She trusted Bo, but didn’t want to put him on a spot, so all she said was she had angered someone, and ended her tale by adding, “It has nothing to do with work, so you don’t have to worry.”
“But I’m worried about you,” he said. “I know your SUV was parked right near the nightclub of that guy whose case you were involved in not long ago. Paavo’s soon-to-be wife’s cousin. I always suspected something was going on between you two. I also suspect he was the reason you asked me to call you and pretend to be a dispatcher that one night. So, what’s really going on, Rebecca? Is he involved in this?”
Oh, God! It was bad enough that Sutter carped about her and Richie, but now Bo, too?
She might have known he’d figure out who she was with last month when she phoned him late one night. She had helped Bo out of a couple of jams with women who were becoming too “clingy” as he put it, women who had grown attached to him and had started to have what Bo called “expectations.” Bo, age 33, was African American, with a degree in criminology from U.C. Berkeley, and catapulting his way up the ranks so fast that everyone figured he would make captain before he turned 40. He was also sinfully handsome.
He was referring to the night she ended up with Richie at Big Caesars. Nearly a month after the case she and Richie had worked on together, a date took her to his nightclub. Somehow, she ended up with the date gone, and in Richie’s arms. He was about to take her home when she excused herself and called Bo’s number. She asked that he ring her cell phone in thirty minutes so she could pretend the dispatcher was sending her to a murder scene.
He understood.
Bo’s timing couldn’t have been better. As Richie pulled into Mulford Alley, her phone rang.
Rebecca could have ignored it, could have had Richie walk her to her apartment … and the way she was feeling about him that night, she knew exactly which room in her apartment he would have walked her to. Despite the mai tais whispering to her that the easiest way to get over a temptation was to give in to it, she answered the call, told Richie she had a new case, and said good-night.
Now, Bo remembered that, and also made the connection that her car was near Big Caesar’s.
“Richie’s not involved,” she said.
“I know it’s none of my business, but I don’t want anybody taking advantage of you. Are you seeing him?”
“Taking advantage?” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “I’m hardly some shrinking violet who needs protection.”
“I’m not talking about you as a cop,” he said with a firm stare.
She nodded. “All right, you’ve made your point.”
His expression slowly turned into a killer smile. She could see why so many women fell head over heels for him. “If you’re having a problem with anything, come to me, okay? I’ll do what I can to help you out.”
“Thanks, Bo. I appreciate it.”
He stood. “And promise me you’ll stay away from that Amalfi guy. I don’t trust him.”
“Go home and get some sleep,” she told him. “You’re hallucinating.”
He shook his head at her lack of promising anything, and left without another word.
She was bothered by her co-workers cautioning her about Richie, although she understood it. It wasn’t so much what he did, not even what he said, but it was more about attitude, style. A look. He had it. What could she say? A long while had passed before she learned to trust him, but now she did. In spades. Did that make her crazy? A bad cop? Or were people making assumptions about Richie without really knowing him, because none of them did.
Or was she letting feelings she had for him as a woman blind her to what she should be seeing as a cop?
Once again, she promised herself to keep him at arm’s length. She couldn’t help but suspect that any relationship with him would only end badly—for her.
She left Homicide and got into his car, not missing the irony of it.
She drove once more to Mulford Alley, then parked and looked around for Spike. She was increasingly upset and pessimistic about him. If those Russians mobsters hurt him, she wouldn’t rest until she put them all in prison for the remainder of their miserable lives.
She looked up at Kiki’s flat. She wished she could sit and talk face-to-face with her friend, but the less Kiki knew about all this, the safer she would be—especially if those Russians came lurking around her apartment again.
Rebecca walked over to Taylor Street, and was marching up and down, looking in doorways and under cars, when Richie phoned her.
He only said three words, “Rebecca, come home.”
Something about the way he said them, the smile in his tone, caused her to know exactly what he was talking about. She hurried to the BMW, and drove to his house. She didn’t even think about what his use of the word “home” implied.
CHAPTER 8
Rebecca pulled into Richie’s garage and then practically flew up the stairs into the kitchen. Finding it empty, she hurried to the living room. No one was there either. For a moment she was puzzled, but then went to the French door leading out to the well-tended yard. Stairs led down to a lawn area surrounded by flowers, shrubs, and a small vegetable and herb garden.
There, Richie tossed a little red bal
l and Spike ran after it, picked it up, trotted back with a spring in his step, and dropped the ball for Richie to toss again. She hadn’t even known Spike knew how to play fetch.
She didn’t move for a long moment, watching them, letting relief and thankfulness fill her.
And then she opened the door.
As soon as Spike saw her, he ran up the steps, then twirled around and practically did back flips. She finally managed to catch him in her outstretched arms, hugged him, and showered him with kisses.
Richie came up the stairs to join them, a big, goofy smile on his face. Filled with joy, she even gave him a one-armed hug—her other arm still holding Spike. “Thank you so much—and your friends. However did they find him? And he looks and smells so good.” She petted Spike, straightening the green bow that held his topknot. “I can’t believe they even took him to a groomer’s.”
“Actually,” he admitted, looking well pleased by her reaction. “I did. He had gotten filthy out there. They found him hiding in Huntington Park.”
“Oh, my God! He crossed California Street? It’s got so many cars, and even a cable car. I can’t imagine how he made it.”
“Don’t think about it,” Richie suggested. “Fortunately, no one took him home. Although the guys who found him said they could understand why. He wasn’t exactly friendly when they tried to pick him up, and his teeth may be small, but they’re sharp.”
“I’ll give them a reward for all their troubles,” Rebecca said. “And their bites.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She knew then he must have paid them for their time and trouble—probably more than she could afford. “Thank you,” she said simply, then walked down the stairs to the yard and sat on the bottom step. Richie sat beside her as Spike brought her the red ball. She laughed, and tossed it for him until he grew tired, crawled back to her lap and lay down. His eyes soon shut and he snored lightly.
She smiled at him, and then her gaze went to Richie, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs as he stared out at the garden.
He looked so thoughtful and serious, she ran her hand lightly over his back. He turned his head and looked questioningly at her. Her fingers went to his hair, touching just the very ends of it above his shirt collar. It was black as night, thick, wavy and soft. She saw a strand or two of gray, reminding her that he wasn’t a kid any more, but a man, a mature man.
She drew back her hand as if she were playing with fire, and perhaps she was. But right now, for this one moment, she cherished knowing someone who had gone out of his way for her and her pet. No matter what others thought about him, Richie would always have a place in her heart for this kindness.
Flustered by such thoughts, she blurted out the only thing she could think of. “Has Spike eaten?”
He straightened. “I fed him as soon as he got here. All I had was a steak, but I cut it up small and cooked it. He scarfed it down.”
“I’ll bet he did.”
“Then we went to the groomer’s. The sister of a friend of mine owns a shop. I wanted her to check him out, to see if he needed to go to a vet. She’s sure he’s fine. These little dogs are apparently ratters, and that’s probably what he ate.”
“Eeuuw! I don’t want to hear that. Poor Spike. But thank you for taking such good care of him.”
“Hey, I’m fond of the mutt, too, you know.”
o0o
Talk of food made them hungry, and they decided on Richie’s spaghetti, especially since Spike ate the only steak in the house.
As Richie cooked, Rebecca told him about her discovery that a Russian named Shurik Charkov owned the houseboat that Karen and Yuri lived in. She added that she was trying to find a home address for him, but so far, no luck.
“Shurik Charkov?” he repeated with a frown.
“Yes. Do you know him?”
“No, no. Never met the guy.” He told her he would get his friend, Shay, on it. She had met Shay two months earlier. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen—tall, buff, blond hair, blue eyes, tanned, with impeccable taste in clothes, particularly neck scarves and ascots. And he was incredibly adept in the use of both computers and firearms.
What was there not to like? Only that some of the things he said and implied, and on occasion the way he acted, made her nervous. He wasn’t—she didn’t think—a psychopath, but he wasn’t exactly normal either.
Of course, the longer she worked in Homicide, the less faith she had that anyone was normal.
Richie knew how to make a great marinara sauce with Italian sausage for the spaghetti. With it, they had a green salad and Richie opened a bottle of red homemade wine from an uncle. She didn’t know much about wine, but she found it quite good.
Thoughts flickered through her mind about the ABC visitors to Richie’s club, but she quickly decided she was letting her suspicions run wild. What would they care about his uncle’s wine?
After dinner, they cleaned up the kitchen, then went into the living room.
The first time she had come to his home, it had been ransacked by some bad guys looking for evidence they thought he had. Now, it was her home that had been attacked.
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you yesterday,” she said, “how nice your living room looks.” It had a light gray sectional, two sky blue chairs, and tables in a pale ash. Plus, he had a brand new 60-inch plasma TV.
“I guess it is a better than the last time you saw it.” His mouth wrinkled with the memory of the destruction they had found.
She ran her hand along the chenille fabric of his sofa. “Is there something about you and me that causes people to want to trash our homes? What’s that all about?” She gave him a wry smile.
He looked at her a long moment. “Since whatever it is brought you here, how bad can it be?”
She didn’t know how to reply to that, and steered away from what he was clearly suggesting. “Hopefully, they’ve only tossed my apartment, and didn’t do any real damage. Not that the furniture was anything special, but it was mine, and if I ever find out who put their grubby hands on it, I’ll get even.”
“And I’ll help you. As for my place, it needed updating anyway. Sometimes housecleaning is good, in many senses of the word.”
When Richie stayed at her apartment, she had learned how easy he was to talk to. That evening, their conversation soon turned away from murder and violent gangs to movies, music, politics, and the life of a single person in a big city. Richie had a way of telling stories that made her laugh, and they had lots of laughter, only interrupted at times by Spike’s loud snoring.
At some point, Rebecca glanced at a clock and thought there was something wrong with it. “That can’t be,” she said.
“What?” Richie turned around, looked at the clock, and then his watch. “It’s right. Nearly two a.m.”
Over the course of the evening, they had finished two bottles of wine, and Rebecca felt more than a little tipsy. “I had no idea it was so late. I’m supposed to go to work tomorrow. Or, considering the time, today.”
“Sleep in, and call in sick so you can spend more time with Spike.”
“I like the way you think. But I’ll go,” she said, much as she disliked the idea of facing Sutter and her boss.
They went out to the yard to give Spike one last potty break. The night was calm, the moon nearly full, and the sky surprisingly clear. She glanced at Richie. When he was relaxed, as now, his lips were always a little upturned as if with a secret smile, and his heavy eyelids were a bit closed, giving him a dreamy demeanor. He definitely looked good by moonlight, but then, he did by daylight as well. Or soft light, listening to music and talking deep into the night. She remembered how she used to liken him to a young, handsome—and tall—Al Pacino. She was wrong; he was better looking.
Okay, Mayfield, you are officially sloshed.
She scooped up Spike, quickly said good-night, and then hurried off to the guest room.
To her dismay, once in bed, she suddenly felt
very much awake as her thoughts turned to Richie just down the hall. She couldn’t help but think that she only had to walk a few steps, and open his door. He’d be surprised, but he wouldn’t turn her away. Nothing had been said, or done, but at times she could all but taste the look he gave her. That was when she would step back. But now, she wanted to step towards him, as close as she could get.
She looked over her shoulder at the door, and couldn’t help but wish Richie was bolder than she was, and would come to her room.
But she knew he would never do it, not when she had made her feelings about that quite clear.
CHAPTER 9
Rebecca awoke to the sun shining into her room and Spike scratching at the door. She glanced at her cell phone, surprised to find it was already 9:00 A.M. She had either slept through her alarm, or turned it off in her sleep.
She raked her fingers through her hair, and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up. She needed to call Eastwood and tell him not to worry. She was rarely late, and he might think something had happened to her after her horrible Saturday night.
Spike again clawed at the door and whimpered. “Don’t do that, Spike,” she said. “You’re a guest here. Don’t mess up the door. Just wait, I’ll take you outside.”
She got out of bed. She slept in what was basically an over-sized sweatshirt with the sleeves cut to her elbows. It was so thick, unrevealing and sexless she thought nothing of walking out of the bedroom in it. She hadn’t brought a bathrobe with her because she didn’t own one.
She opened the door just a crack and heard some noises coming from the kitchen. Richie must be awake already, and was hopefully making coffee. “Let’s go, Spike,” she said softly, letting him out of the bedroom.
He raced down hall, his little legs pumping so fast they were a blur. He skidded across the living room’s hardwood floor, ran into the kitchen … and that was when Rebecca heard a high-pitched shriek. She ran through the house as barking and a loud female voice bellowing words she didn’t understand came from the kitchen.
