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

by Joanne Pence

  Rebecca sat and tried to talk to the wife, but she was so upset, there was no communicating with her at this point. And although Rebecca had to take a statement, it wouldn’t hurt to wait until after the results of the autopsy.

  In early afternoon, Rebecca returned to the Hall of Justice. She was walking past Homicide’s front office when the executive assistant waved at her to stop. “Oh wait. Here she is now. Please hold a minute,” Helen said into the phone, then faced Rebecca. “You have a call. Line 3.”

  Rebecca continued to her desk and picked up.

  “You cannot hide, Inspector. We know where you are.” Then the phone went dead.

  The male voice had no discernible accent, but the words had been carefully enunciated. Someone obviously saw her enter Homicide. She wondered if the person also knew she was staying at Richie’s.

  She was startled out of her thoughts by Lt. Eastwood beckoning her into his office. “The CSI found no prints or other evidence of anyone with a record in your apartment. They found a number of different prints, but no criminal matches to them.”

  “Okay,” she murmured. She knew what he was getting at. She had dated a few cops, and several had been in her apartment, even in her bed. Nothing had come of those relationships.

  “The young man burned in your car fire has no record. He claims he was just leaning against it talking to friends when it burst into flames. That doesn’t explain, however, why the driver’s door was flung open. Also, the crime scene investigators said the car had definitely been rigged to catch fire when someone turned on the ignition. They’re all but certain the kid jump started it.”

  She rubbed her temple. “Perhaps, but everyone says he’s a good kid. Let it go. If he did anything wrong, he’s been punished enough.”

  Eastwood scowled. “The CSI also said the device wasn’t a bomb, so it wasn’t intended to kill. But if you had been seated in the car with your seat belt on and then started the ignition, you would have been badly burned before you got out.”

  His words, delivered so coldly, rocked her.

  “We’ve found no reason to think this was anything but a targeted action against you personally,” he added. “If it was the Russians, they were giving you a warning—for now. We can’t act against them yet because we have no proof. We’ll keep looking, but I must caution you to be very, very careful. Don’t push them.”

  She swallowed hard, thanked him for his concern and warning, and left.

  Somehow she managed to get through a meeting with one of the assistant DA’s preparing for trial on a case in which she had been the arresting officer. But she found it impossible to concentrate after Eastwood’s words. They were worse than seeing her house trashed because, once Spike was found, no permanent damage had been done to her home except for furniture. But the burning car could have been quite different.

  Since no new calls to investigate had come in, and she was waiting for Harlan Stegall’s autopsy, she reached for an older case, one of three she wasn’t ready to give up on. Something about the investigations bothered her and she didn’t want them classified as “cold cases” yet. She had a good record for closing homicides, and kept these cases on the corner of her desk so they wouldn’t be forgotten. She hated giving up on anything, ever.

  Just as she would learn who killed Karen Larkin, no matter what it took.

  She was rereading the file when Inspector Paavo Smith came over and sat in her guest chair. He was tall, about 6’2”, and good-looking. Like Rebecca, he was 34 years old, but with more years in Homicide. His hair was dark brown, his cheekbones high and angular, and his nose had a slight bend where it had been broken more than once. Large, pale blue eyes were his most striking features, and they zeroed in on her now. She had an idea what was coming.

  “What’s going on, Rebecca?” Paavo asked.

  She wondered how much she should tell him. Truth be told, the house she should be living in was his. From the time she met him, her first day in Homicide, her heart had skipped a beat. No, more than a beat. She was still half in love with him. But he had fallen for a woman who seemed completely wrong for him in every way—Richie’s cousin, Angie. Ironically, everyone who knew the two inspectors believed the right woman for Paavo was Rebecca. Truly, the world was a comedy of errors, and she was the butt of the joke.

  “Nothing at all,” she replied, hating the lie.

  Despite his lack of interest in her except as a valued colleague, he represented everything she was searching for in a companion—a cop who had risen from nothing through the ranks to Homicide, so he understood her own journey and how difficult it had been. He was logical, cautious, serious, and followed the letter of the law, much as she had tried to do before she met Richie. Once, she saw everything as either black or white, but now, she also saw shades of gray.

  “You’re holding something back,” Paavo said.

  She grimaced. “You could read it in my face, right?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  Damn! “Okay. A friend, an ex-cop, was murdered in Sausalito and I don’t like the way the investigation is being handled. I’ve asked questions, and somebody clearly doesn’t like me poking around.”

  His eyes were intense as he studied her. “Does it have anything to do with Richie?”

  “What? Why—”

  “Richie’s mother told Angie’s mother, who told Angie, about Richie’s new girlfriend, and they soon figured out that she’s you.”

  “Oh, no!” Rebecca groaned. “You mean Richie’s mother knows I’m a cop? He told her I was a hairdresser.”

  Paavo grinned. “The Italian hotline must have been working overtime on you two.”

  “Good lord!” She pressed her hands to her cheeks a moment.

  “I know your car was parked near Big Caesar’s when it blew. And Angie tells me Richie asks lots of questions about you.”

  Her eyes widened. “What kind of—”

  “She doesn’t say, and she doesn’t tell him anything. But … I know it’s not my business, and personally, I like the guy, but you should know that not even Angie knows exactly what he’s involved with, although she swears it’s not illegal. Is this other case you’re investigating about Richie? Are you in danger because of him? It’s happened in the past.”

  She couldn’t believe this. “You’ve got it wrong, Paavo. Backwards, in fact. I’ve put him in danger.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” he said.

  And she found it hard to believe she was standing up for Richie. “Your fiancée’s cousin has never been anything but good and helpful to me. He has nothing to do with my current difficulties. In fact, he’s warned me. I think … if it weren’t for him … I might have been in my car when it caught on fire.” She couldn’t stop herself from shuddering at the image that sprang into her mind. She had investigated burn victims in homicides, and they were horrible sights.

  Paavo studied her. “Did you ever consider that he might have known what was planned for your car?”

  “You’re wrong, Paavo. Does Angie trust him?”

  “Yes, but they’re cousins. He’s family, the big brother she never had, always there for her.”

  Always there for her … Yes, that described Richie. Rebecca drew in her breath. “In this case, she’s right.”

  “And he obviously knows how to charm women,” Paavo added, clearly unhappy.

  She was now officially irritated. “You’ve made your point.”

  He frowned. “Okay, if that’s how you want it,” he said. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”

  “I appreciate your concern,” she muttered, but didn’t mean it. It suddenly dawned on her that she had never had a conversation with Paavo about anything outside of work and cases. Even this was more about her as a cop than about her as a person. She had never joked with him, never really laughed—not like she did with Richie. And yet, Paavo was the one she had held up as her ideal. The realization so confused her that she stood. “I’m sorry, but I’m out of
here.”

  Paavo also stood. “Rebecca, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “I know.” She didn’t look his way as she picked up her belongings, and adjusted her Glock in her back holster, but then she heard a familiar voice behind her.

  “Hey, Paavo. How’s it goin’?”

  She cringed as Paavo called, “Doing well, Richie. We were just talking about you.”

  “Oh?” Richie’s gaze met with Rebecca’s.

  She gaped, then grabbed his arm, and spun him around. “Out! Right now! We’re leaving.”

  He glanced at Paavo who shrugged.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Richie said, as she all but dragged him to the elevator.

  o0o

  Rebecca fumed in silence until she and Richie left the building. “What in the world are you doing here?”

  “It’s a beautiful day,” he said calmly. “I was thinking about what you said about the detective in Sausalito not working yesterday. He should be there today, so maybe we need to visit him.”

  She put her hands on her waist. “You don’t need to go with me.”

  “Actually I do, because one wrong word from the detective and you’ll bite his head off and end up blacklisted.”

  “And you’ll prevent that how?”

  He grinned. “I’m your charm offensive. Come on.” He flung an arm across her shoulders. “I’ll even let you drive.”

  “I’m on call, you know. Any second, I might have to turn around and come back to the city.”

  “It’s too beautiful an afternoon for murder. The next one shouldn’t happen until nightfall.”

  Actually, he was right about that. Afternoons were the quietest times in Homicide. Also, she was glad to get away from her desk. Everyone’s sudden concern about her social life was hard to take.

  She drove the BMW. She didn’t know what made her more nervous, the way the cars had to squeeze together to merge onto the Golden Gate Bridge, or Richie’s stomping his foot through the floorboard as if a brake pedal was there when he thought she didn’t see a merging car.

  But then, inspiration struck on how to get him to ignore her driving. “By the way,” she said sweetly, “Angie told Paavo that your mother knows I’m a homicide inspector.”

  “What?”

  She smiled, and enjoyed the rest of the journey.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Sausalito Police Department was located in a red-brick, two-story building a few blocks inland from San Francisco Bay and the tourist shops and restaurants.

  Rebecca showed her badge at the front desk and explained that she was there as a friend of the murder victim, not an SFPD Homicide Inspector. Still, the eyes of the elderly officer at the desk narrowed as if he saw her putting her nose where it didn’t belong.

  He led her and Richie upstairs to a large, airy room with new-looking desks, and pointed towards a slightly built Chinese-American, who appeared to be in his forties. His desk was beside a window with a view of the waterfront. He stood as Rebecca and Richie walked towards him.

  They introduced themselves, then sat on the opposite side of his desk. The desk was remarkably tidy with one folder, closed, and a computer monitor.

  “Officer Grimes told me about your visit to the crime scene,” Wong said to Rebecca. “That was a courtesy, of course, since you work Homicide.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate it.”

  “Now, what can I do for you while you’re in town?” A hint of irritation colored Wong’s words.

  “I’m here strictly as a private citizen—”

  “And you?” Wong cut her off as his gaze went to Richie.

  “I’m here as her friend,” he said.

  “Of course.” Wong’s lips tightened a moment. “We know Karen Larkin once worked for the SFPD, and so you’re naturally interested in this case. But she worked there a long time ago—”

  “Not all that long,” Rebecca countered.

  “Whatever.” He sounded beyond disinterested, and no longer tried to hide his unhappiness that the Big City Inspector had shown up. “The case appears to be a domestic dispute—perhaps even a fight among thieves. Expensive jewelry was found in her home. And her boyfriend has disappeared. We suspect he was involved, probably the killer.”

  “Was there any evidence of something more happening?” Rebecca asked. “A break-in? Was anything taken?”

  “Who could tell? The victim lived on a maintenance-challenged floating home. There wasn’t much to take.”

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “In other words, a run-down houseboat.”

  She noticed Richie’s wince.

  “We prefer our own terminology.” Wong looked down his nose at Rebecca as if she were some sort of low-life.

  She took a deep breath. The detective’s attitude rankled. She reminded herself to be nice, and that Wong might not actually be the person she should be talking to. Since most county towns were small, detectives with knowledge and training to handle horrific crimes such as murder were centralized in the County Sheriff’s Department. “Are you handling the case, or was it given to Marin County investigators?”

  His chin jutted up and out. “Investigation’s Adult Crimes Unit is in charge on paper since we’re understaffed. On paper, Deputy Sheriff Mike Vargas has the case, but in actuality, I’m the one with the lead on it.”

  “So you’re still investigating it?” Rebecca asked.

  “Of course.”

  Her eyebrows rose as her eyes slowly passed over his nearly empty desk.

  Wong puffed up like someone itching to make an arrest … of her … and to throw away the key.

  “What a great photo!” Richie blurted, pointing at a framed portrait on Wong’s desk of Wong and a tall, blond male, late 20’s, early 30’s, surrounded by flowers, their arms around each other’s waist. Behind them was the San Francisco Bay with the city far in the distance. Both wore shiny, matching rings on their left hands. “Are congratulations in order?”

  Rebecca glared at Richie for asking a personal question.

  For the first time, however, Wong smiled. “Well, yes, they are.” He ran his finger along the top of the frame as if to wipe off the merest speck of dust. “The happiest day of my life.”

  “Where was it?” Richie asked. “It looks beautiful.”

  “Oh, it was. The wedding took place on Angel Island, and our reception was in Tiburon. We booked an entire ferry to take our guests back and forth from the island to the reception. Cost a king’s ransom, but worth every penny. At one time my ancestors would have been detained on that island. Chinese immigrants weren’t welcome here. And now, I was able to marry the man I love in that very spot.” He sighed. “Pretty wonderful, I think.”

  “So do I.” Richie held out his hand. “Congratulations, sir.”

  “Thank you so much.” They shook hands.

  Rebecca impatiently waited for them to finish. “Congratulations,” she murmured. “I spoke to your husband yesterday.”

  “Yes. He told me.”

  She noticed he didn’t apologize for not calling her back. “If I may, I’d like to see the crime scene investigator’s report.”

  Wong cast her a hard look, and Richie sat back in his chair. She was sure Richie gave Wong one of those “male-bonding” eye contacts that she hated. She just might end up shooting him one of these days.

  “Sorry. That isn’t possible,” Wong told her.

  She now fantasized about shooting him as well. Through gritted teeth she asked, “Why not?”

  “It’s not public information.”

  Those words were nothing but a slap. Inter-departmental cooperation could be granted, and would have allowed her to look at the report.

  “What about Yuri Baranski?”

  He held up his hand. “Stop right there. Everything about Mr. Baranski is confidential, Inspector.”

  “Oh, but I—”

  “I will not discuss him!”

  Richie coughed.

  Rebecca glanced towards him, and he gave a sm
all shake of the head. “Well, I can see your point,” she said sweetly to Wong. “Perhaps another time.”

  “Perhaps,” Wong mumbled, although his expression said “Cold day in Hell.”

  “Thank you for your time.” She and Richie stood to leave. “If you find out anything more, would you give me a call?” She handed him her card.

  He tossed it onto his desk as if it were trash. “I don’t know that I’ll have time to call you, but feel free to check in with me whenever you wish.”

  “Thanks”—Rebecca turned towards the door—“for nothing.”

  o0o

  From the police department, Rebecca and Richie went to Gate 6. Since Wong refused to help, she would question Karen’s neighbors herself.

  “I take it you don’t trust Wong,” she said to Richie as she drove.

  “Something’s not right,” he replied. “I’m not sure what yet.”

  She agreed.

  On Gate 6, she and Richie went from houseboat to houseboat. She would show her badge, while Richie stood back and smiled. No one questioned either her authority or who he was.

  She learned quite a bit.

  Karen and Yuri had been having troubles for some time after the baby was born. Most of their fights had to do with money, particularly, Yuri’s lack of it.

  Everyone heard them fighting on the afternoon of the day she was killed. She demanded Yuri leave the houseboat, to take his things and leave her and Nina alone. She screamed that she never wanted to see him again.

  Yuri yelled back that he would never give up his child—that she had better not even think about keeping Nina from him if she knew what was good for her.

  Karen said he’d take the child over her dead body, that she couldn’t trust him. He kept making promises, and he never kept any of them. She said she gave up everything for him, and she got no thanks for it.

  The fourth houseboat they visited belonged to the man who found Karen’s body. He and his wife had heard the fight with Yuri, and much later heard strange sounds coming from the boat. They ignored them, but around one a.m., the wife woke her husband. She noticed the lights on throughout the houseboat, including the baby’s room. That never happened. She insisted her husband go over and check on Karen.