One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) (8 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Rebecca picked up Spike from Bradley's flat and then decided they could both use some fresh air, even though it was night. The backyard was small and cement covered with a square wooden planter box, about five feet by five feet, in the center. The wide edges served as benches. Rebecca sat beside a group of pink azaleas and purple petunias while Spike scampered playfully.

Bradley kept the flower bed weeded and the plants healthy. Rebecca's contribution was to keep Spike out of them.

Rebecca had decided to return home to get some sleep, good sleep, after escorting Barbara Pasternak back to her home. It had been a ridiculously long day, and she needed to be sharp the next day, Monday, as she put together the evidence on Meaghan Bishop's and Danny Pasternak's deaths. Logic told her the deaths were related, but she needed something substantial to prove it.

Unfortunately for Richie Amalfi, he wasn't with Rebecca at the time someone shot Pasternak. He could have murdered both people.

She took a deep breath as she petted Spike. The last twenty-four hours had been long and confusing on many levels. She probably needed fresh air to clear her troubled thoughts far more than Spike did.

She continued to pet her little guy. The vet thought he was a mix of Chihuahua and Chinese Crested Hairless. She had found him abandoned at a crime scene about six months earlier. He wore a collar with his name, but no other identifying information. She brought him to the pound, but weeks went by and no one claimed him. Rebecca feared a gas chamber loomed in his future because of his unfortunate “fur” situation—mainly his complete lack of it except for a tuft on the top of his head—and because he liked to bare his tiny but sharp teeth and to snap at everyone but her. Weird though he was, she took him home.

Although Bradley had a no-pets policy in her rental agreement, his heart went out—after he finished laughing—when she showed him Spike and explained the dog's situation.

Spike slowly grew to trust humans again, and stopped trying to bite anyone who came too close. She left dry kibble out for him while she worked, and cat-like, he only ate when hungry. When she was home, she fed him canned dog food or healthy people food, which he loved. She taught him to use a cat litter box, but let him use the yard when he wanted to. For a dog to use a cat's litter box had to be demeaning, and she didn't want Spike to develop self-esteem issues. Strangers pointing at him and laughing were bad enough.

He loved his home, loved her for saving him, and was a brave little tyke. She was surprised he didn't tear Richie Amalfi's throat out, come to think of it.

Bradley Frick stepped out onto the small balcony off his kitchen. From it, back stairs led down to the yard. “Rebecca,” he called. “I almost forgot. I saw three strange men lurking around the building. They may have been looking for you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“They seemed dangerous, like your police work.”

“What did they look like?”

“It was too dark to tell, but they all looked big!”

She had a good idea who he saw. “Don't worry, Brad. They were most likely relatives visiting from Idaho.”

“Oh, my,” he said, his eyebrows high. “I'm not sure if that's a relief or not.”

She thanked him for letting her know about the strangers, and went into her apartment with Spike.

Even though it was late, and she was tired, she took a long, much needed shower since she had missed one that morning. When done, she turned off the water and was reaching for a towel when she heard, “Just want to warn you before you come out, I'm ba-a-a-ack.”

She froze. Wrapping the towel around her body, she stuck her head out the bathroom door and peered towards the living room. There stood Richie Amalfi, arms folded, head cocked, as he peered her way. He waved. She jumped back and slammed the bathroom door shut.

A minute later, he knocked on it.

“What?!”

“Here are your clothes.”

She opened the door a crack and he handed her clean clothes, underwear included.

She all but threw on the jeans and a red ribbed turtleneck, then stomped into the living room. Her hair was wet, and she wore no makeup or shoes, but she didn't care. “How the hell did you get in here?”

He held up a keychain with a fob in the shape of the state of Idaho. “I found it in your sugar bowl. Really, Rebecca, that's way too traditional a place to hide anything.”

“You searched my apartment? You went through my things?” She wracked her brain … of course, that first night when she was so tired she couldn't keep her eyes open. “You've got some nerve!”

“Don't worry. I found it the first place I looked.”

She heard a sizzling noise at the same time as her anger quieted enough to realize that the delicious smells filling the apartment came from her kitchen area.

Richie hurried over to the range and flipped the steaks he was frying, then put salt and pepper on them. In a smaller pan, he was sautéing mushrooms. “I had a few things to check on,” he said. “Then, I got hungry.”

“You're a wanted man and you went shopping?” To her dismay, she was salivating simply from the aroma of his cooking. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.

“Actually, Vito picked them up for me. And my starving won't find the real killer any sooner.”

She put her hands on her hips. “I don't know why I haven't hauled you in already!”

“Because you won't throw an innocent man in jail. Look, I didn't rig my own home to blow up, did I?”

“No, but you still have to prove your innocence to me.”

He looked stricken. “I thought you trusted me.”

“Like hell.”

He opened the oven door and she saw French fries spread over a cookie sheet. She loved French fries. “Almost,” he said, then proceeded to add a bit more butter to the sliced mushrooms.

Her stomach growled.

“Got any wine?” he asked.

“Look,” she said, “I came home to shower, and take a nap. Maybe I ought to just go back to work.”

“So? Do you have any wine?”

“No.”

“That's what I figured.” He took a bottle of pinot noir from a bag and handed it to her. “Want to open it?”

As she stood holding the bottle, he removed two salad plates with mixed lettuce and raw vegetables from the refrigerator and put them on the table with a bottle of ranch dressing. He found two dinner plates in the cupboard, and as she hurried to uncork the wine, he dished out the fries, then the steaks, covering them with mushrooms.

Richie Amalfi, homemaker. Was she seeing things?

She also noticed that he no longer wore the wrinkled outfit, but had on a black pullover sweater and black slacks. On the sofa's arm lay a gray sports coat. He seemed refreshed, and even his hair seemed shiny and soft. She didn't like noticing such things about him, but reminded herself that she had been trained to be observant. Obviously, she couldn't help herself.

He put her plate across the table from his, then sat. “Wine?” he asked.

“Yes.” Feeling awkward, she took a seat. “Thank you.”

“Enjoy.” He started eating. After a moment, she did as well, and found this all so surreal she would have thought she was dreaming except that everything tasted too delicious.

“So,” he said, pausing to wash down the food with a gulp of wine, “What did you find out?”

She thought about the news she had to give him. He had told her he liked Danny Pasternak. “Nothing that can't wait until we've finished eating.”

She had a good third of the steak left when someone knocked on the door.

Their gazes met. “You expecting Shay or Vito?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Is it a cop looking for you?”

She shook her head. “The door to the breezeway is locked. And cops don't break in the way some people do! It's probably my landlord.”

The knock sounded again.

Richie stood. “Be careful in case whoever's behind this is following us.”

She nodded, picked up her gun, removed the safety and pressed herself against the wall as she headed towards the door. Richie moved to the area behind the door, his steak knife in hand.

“Who is it?” she called.

A sultry voice answered crankily, “Is me! What's wrong wit'chu, Rebecca?”

Rebecca relaxed. She knew that voice and that accent. Her friend, Kiki Nuñez, lived in the middle flat above her and below Bradley. She would have come down the backstairs to Rebecca's door. Now, Rebecca had two choices. Either try to send Kiki on her way without an explanation, or let her come in and meet Richie Amalfi.

Both were bad.

 o0o

Rebecca managed to get Kiki to go back to her flat by telling her she had company—
wink, wink—
male company. Kiki's eyebrows nearly reached to her hairline as she took in Rebecca's damp hair and bare feet. Then she smiled, nodded, gave a thumbs up, and left. Rebecca knew from the look her friend gave her, that she would soon be doing some big-time explaining.

When she went back into the apartment, Richie had cleaned up a good portion of the kitchen. He pointed at the steak on her plate. “You want to finish that now or later?”

“I guess later.”

He covered the steak with plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator, then picked up the dishes and cutlery and loaded the dishwasher. He then reached for the frying pan he had used for the steak.

“Richie, wait,” she said.

He stopped. “Yeah?”

“There's something you need to know.” She waited until he put the pan in the sink. “There was another homicide today. A drive-by shooting.”

He nodded. “I know. Danny bought the farm.”

“You know?” Thoughts swirled about what that might mean.

“Don't get crazy on me, Rebecca,” he said. He washed his hands then wiped them with a paper towel. “I got a call from Vito. You can't keep something like that quiet. That's why we're going to find Danny's killer.” He threw away the towel.

She shook her head. “I've got to turn you in, you know.”

“No, you don't.” He walked over to the rocking chair and sat. “Besides, we could both use a good night's sleep.”

Her jaw dropped. “You aren't suggesting—”

“I sure am. Where else do I have to go?”

“You can't—”

“I stayed here last night.”

“But I was—”

“Yes?”

She shut her eyes. If word got out that she had fallen asleep with a wanted man in her apartment …

“That couldn't be helped!” she said.

“No, maybe not. But other things …” He lifted an eyebrow.

She hated it when he did that. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Rebecca, I've come to know you pretty well. Being handcuffed to a person will do that. That means I know there's no way on earth you would give some cop your only handcuff key. You had one someplace near, ready to free you earlier today if things got dicey. Maybe in your purse. More likely, in your jeans, where it would stay hidden from me. No way in hell I'll ever get into them.”

“Truer words have never been spoken!” She folded her arms, throwing him hard looks. “In my distress at your outrageous behavior, I may have forgotten all about the key.”

“You? Forget something?” He got up and walked towards her, his voice soft. “I think you just wanted to see where all this would lead.”

“As if you didn't? Shay could have easily brought you a handcuff key when he came to my apartment that first morning.”

“Touché.” He took a step closer. “You know I'm no murderer, and you know as well as I do that I can figure out who's behind these murders about a hundred times faster than that worthless partner of yours. You want my help; you just can't admit it.”

“I want no such thing.” She stepped back, increasing the distance between them.

He said nothing as the seconds ticked by, then he nodded. “Go get some sleep, Rebecca. You're raving.”

He again sat on the sofa, used the remote to click on the TV. “I hope you don't mind, I have trouble sleeping in such a quiet place.”

Despite herself, she didn't have the heart to turn him out of the apartment or try to strong-arm him down to the jail. She also couldn't help but think of him lying out here alone on that sofa, a sofa which was way too small for him.

CHAPTER NINE

The next morning, Rebecca got up early while Richie slept with the TV still on, and Spike curled up at his feet—little traitor! She dressed and headed for Homicide to get some work done. Some real work.

She needed to run a normal investigation of the murders, the kind she had always conducted before Richie Amalfi upended her life. She needed to use foot work, computer searches, interrogations, surveillances, and everything else at her disposal, to find out all she could about her victims and potential suspects.

She started out on her computer. Meaghan Bishop had a three-year old California Driver's License that showed her living in Daly City, a San Francisco bedroom community. But she also had a Macy's credit card with recent activity that gave a San Francisco address. Well, lo and behold, Rebecca thought. Was that easy, or what? Finally, Rebecca felt good again about her investigation.

She went into the Macy's statements. Over the past seven months, Meaghan Bishop had purchased more than twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of upscale clothes, shoes and handbags. Each month she paid off the entire prior month's bill.

Just then, Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood, chief of the Homicide Bureau, marched into the room. He did not appear happy.

She found herself pinned back in her chair as Eastwood loomed over her. His anger about Amalfi's escape was bad enough, but his fury at not having been told about the escape and only learning of it after some reporters started questioning him, had sent him over the top. As he ranted, his face turned several shades of purple.

Apparently, the
Chronicle
had reported that a suspect had been placed under arrest on Saturday night, but when none showed up at City Jail, the press wanted to know why. Eastwood and the public relations officer, an officious woman named Isabel Hernandez-Kramer, who Eastwood hated even more than he did reporters, had to meet with them to explain.

Somehow, Eastwood managed to keep from the press the fact that the suspect had been let go “involuntarily.” He claimed the man was merely questioned and released.

Finally, Eastwood stormed off making not-so-veiled threats about Rebecca's job if anything like that ever happened again under her watch.

She decided the best thing to do was to make herself scarce. She drove to the address on Bishop's Macy's account.

It was an apartment building in the Marina district, a location of upper-middle to upper class homes.

Rebecca introduced herself to the manager and owner. “I have a few questions about Meaghan Bishop.”

“What for? Did you say you're in Homicide?” Mary Del Monico was middle-aged, overweight, walked with a limp, and had one clouded, possibly blind eye.

“As I said, I have some questions. How long did Ms. Bishop live here?” Rebecca asked. She had her game face on—no explanations, no reactions.

“Why do you say 'did'? Oh, my! She lives, uh, lived here six, seven months now.”

“Did she live alone?”

“She better! That's how I rented the apartment. No sub-leases or anything allowed.”

“When did you last see her?”

“Some time last week, I'd say. What happened to her?” At Rebecca's stare, Del Monico answered the question. “She stuck to herself pretty much, not a friendly person.” She folded her arms.

“Did you ever notice any particular friends or family who came to visit her?”

Del Monico wrinkled her mouth. “I don't spy on my tenants.”

“Maybe you happened to see someone—perhaps someone who helped her move in?”

Del Monico gave a heavy sigh. “Let me think. I remember one fellow. He was here a few times.”

“Can you describe him?”

“I don't see so hot.”

“Hair color? Build? Anything?”

“Black hair, maybe.”

Rebecca felt her stomach drop. “Is he about my height? Broad shoulders?” She swallowed. “Kind of good-looking?”

“Hmm,” she thought about it, then shrugged. “I don't think so, but I don't know. For all I know, I might have been looking at the garbage man.”

“Well, if you remember anything more, will you call me immediately?” She handed the landlady her card.

Del Monico held it close to her eye. “I guess I could do that.”

“I'm sorry to say, Meaghan Bishop was murdered. I'm conducting an investigation to find her killer.”

The landlady's eyes widened. “Murdered? When?”

“Saturday night.”

“My goodness.” She pressed her hand to her mouth a moment. “I guess that means I'll have to clean out her apartment myself. I don't know if she has any relatives.”

“You can't touch it until our investigation is completed,” Rebecca said. “Something in it might lead to her killer.”

“I can't touch it? Are you kidding me? How long's that going to take?” Del Monico asked.

“I don't know.”

“But I have to rent it out! I need my rents to live on.”

“We'll release it as soon as possible. I'd like to see the apartment now,” Rebecca said.

Del Monico's small mouth tightened. “Do you have a warrant?”

“No, but as I said, Meaghan Bishop was murdered.”

The landlady squared her shoulders. “That doesn't matter to me. I need something—a piece of paper—to justify letting anyone into her apartment. Landlords have been sued over doing things like that, you know!”

“Getting an approval to search the premises will only slow things down,” Rebecca pointed out. “And we will get one.”

She firmly raised her chin. “I need to protect myself.”

Rebecca studied the woman. “We haven't met anyone not involved in the case who knew her … until now. Will you come down to the Hall of Justice to identify her?”

“Me?” To Rebecca's surprise, Mrs. Del Monico looked and sounded quite pleased by the request.

“That's right. I'll get someone to drive you to the city morgue, and then back home. After that, we'll get a warrant to search.”

Since Sutter was still at his desk, Rebecca asked him to meet Mrs. Del Monico at the morgue. She then called for an officer to transport the landlady.

Rebecca was quite glad to send the woman on her way.

Her next step was to return to her apartment. She wasn't sure if she wanted to find Richie still there or not. As she was walking to her car, her cell phone rang.

To her complete shock, the caller was Shay. And the information he gave her was even more surprising.