Authors: Joanne Pence
Four O'Clock Sizzle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 4) (12 page)
“Thank you,” Rebecca said to her. The secretary made no response. “Pierre, let’s go to my desk.”
Inspectors Calderon and Benson were in the bureau, and both suddenly grew quiet as Rebecca entered with the hotelier. Pierre sat in the guest chair at her desk, but looked decided uncomfortable.
“What is it?” Rebecca asked.
He looked around. “Maybe … not here,” he whispered.
“Let’s go to an interview room.” She made a face at the eaves-droppers as she led Pierre into a dingy green room with a single table and a one-way mirror. They sat facing each other on opposite sides of the table.
The lines on Pierre Fontaine’s face seemed deeper, more careworn. He inhaled a deep breath. “I was supposed to meet Courtney at eleven for brunch. It’s now one, and I haven’t heard from her and can’t reach her on her cell.”
Rebecca wasn’t sure how to react. “Courtney does lose track of time easily.” She was trying to assure herself as well as Pierre. “It’s probably nothing.”
“Yes, but she was going to Diego Bosque’s store. Last night, we were talking about the clothes there, and she grew quite excited about something. She planned to go there and talk to the store manager around ten.”
Rebecca drew in her breath. “Ten,” she repeated; three hours earlier. “And then she planned to meet you afterward?”
“That’s right. When it got to be noon, I called Easy Street. People are there working, moving all the old clothes out, and cleaning. The manager, Peters, I think his name is, said she’d been there. He swore she left around ten-thirty, in plenty of time to meet me. I tried waiting, but now, I’m worried, and so I came here.”
Her lips tightened. “Okay. We will need to go back out to my desk.”
Pierre rushed to keep up with her.
“Bo, Luis,” she called the other inspectors. “We’ve got to find my sister. Here’s her cell phone number. See if one of you can find it. She’s driving a rental car. Budget. I’ll call them and get the license plate number and see if we can track it. She was last seen at Easy Street Clothiers. She was meeting the manager, Dan Peters, at ten this morning. He said she left around ten-thirty. She might show up on traffic cams. They cover that downtown-Financial district area pretty well.”
Inspectors Benson and Calderon didn’t say a word, but went straight to work. When a relative of one of their own was in danger, that took precedence over everything else going on. While Bo worked to get a GPS signal from Courtney’s phone, Calderon tapped into the traffic cameras around Easy Street to see if he could find any signs of Courtney.
It took little time to discover that her cell phone had either been turned off or was destroyed. It was sending no GPS signal.
Rebecca managed to quickly get a license plate for a white Ford Focus.
Calderon had no luck searching for a woman who looked somewhat like Rebecca but with red hair. They all crowded around the traffic camera feed looking for the rental car. After about ten minutes, they found it parked some four blocks from the store. Ironically, it had several traffic tickets gracing its windshield for staying overtime at a parking meter.
“Go back to Easy Street,” Rebecca said. “Let’s look for her leaving the store.”
“It’s in the middle of the block, so the traffic cams don’t pick it up directly,” Calderon explained.
They carefully watched the corners surrounding the clothier, hoping to see her crossing one of them. There was nothing. “Look at that,” Rebecca said, pointing to a white van that was seen crossing an intersection towards the clothier. A couple of minutes passed before they saw the same van at the next intersection. “It doesn’t take that long to go from one corner to the next,” Rebecca said. “And if it stopped to make a pick-up or delivery, it should have taken longer than two minutes.”
Calderon shook his head. “It could be anything. Maybe the van had to wait for someone who was parking. Who knows?”
“Can we get a license plate off it?”
Benson zoomed in, and then read it off to Rebecca who logged into the California DMV system. “We’ve got a problem,” she said, her voice hushed.
“What is it?” Benson asked.
Rebecca stared at the screen, doing her best not to let anyone see how upset this had made her. “The license plate is off a stolen ten-year old green Ford Ranger. It doesn’t belong with the white van at all. Someone in that van might have taken her.”
“Merde,”
Pierre muttered.
“Pierre, go back to your hotel. Courtney might try to reach you there. I’m heading to Easy Street to talk to Dan Peters.”
“I shall come with you,” Pierre said.
“Not a good idea,” she told him firmly.
He didn’t argue.
“I’ll talk to store owners in the area,” Calderon said. “Someone may have seen something.”
“I’ll do what I can to track the white van on the traffic cams,” Benson said. “If it doesn’t work, I’ll join Luis canvassing the area.”
“Thank you,” Rebecca said as her gaze went to her two co-workers and to Pierre. “All of you.”
Then they left.
o0o
Rebecca was about to get into her SUV when her phone rang. To her surprise, it was Shay.
“What’s up?” she asked, knowing Shay would never phone for no reason.
“Have you heard from Richie or your sister over the past couple of hours?” he asked.
Her breath caught. “I’m trying to find my sister right now. I don’t know where she is. Why? What’s going on?”
“Richie and I were supposed to work on some, uh, business around noon. He said he had to meet your sister first. He seemed to think the meeting wouldn’t take long, but now he’s over an hour late, and I can’t reach him. I was wondering if you knew what was going on.”
“This makes no sense,” Rebecca said. “If she was in trouble, why call Richie and not me?”
“Maybe it depends on who she’s in trouble with,” Shay suggested.
Rebecca told him about Pierre Fontaine’s visit. Shay didn’t like it at all and without another word, hung up the phone.
She wasn’t sure what to make of that, but had only gone one block when he sent her a text. He’d located Richie’s Porsche in the Mission district.
She guessed he decided not to waste time asking if she’d join him there. He knew she would.
The area was named for Mission Dolores, one of the original California missions built long before the land ever became a state. It was home to a large Mexican and Central American population, and although in the very heart of the city and a regular target for urban renewal projects, it remained an area of mostly small, run-down homes and high crime. It wasn’t the sort of area in which Richie would ever leave his beloved Porsche out on the street.
It couldn’t have stood out more if it had neon lights on it.
She pulled into a loading zone, and Shay showed up almost immediately and parked behind her. He drove a black Maserati. The neighbors were probably having palpitations, assuming a bigwig gang meeting of some kind was going on. The two of them looked around, but saw nothing that gave any idea where Richie might be.
A pharmacy was on the corner, across the street from the Porsche. Inside, Rebecca showed her badge.
“Do you have outside security cameras?” she asked. “I’d like to see them.”
The pharmacist looked like he was going to protest when Shay quietly said, “Right now.” Something about a man who wore an expensive tan cashmere jacket, a white shirt, and Kelly green silk ascot, while coldly and fiercely making a demand, was so off-putting and bizarre, it caused people to not even consider crossing him.
The pharmacist brought them into the back room. The surveillance system was digital, and Shay was able to get it to work in no time flat. They saw the two men walk up to Richie as he got out of his Porsche. Just the way they held their hands Rebecca knew they were armed. They walked him to a Mercedes and put him in it. The license plate was clearly shown.
Rebecca got on the phone to Homicide and told Bo Benson what was going on. He ran the number plate for her. Of course, it came up as belonging on a VW bug. But the photo she sent of one of the men with Richie matched a facial recognition criminal records file.
“Uh oh,” Benson said. “Mariano Cepeda. He’s got an arrest record a mile long. He’s a big shot in the Thirteens. There’s an address on record, but who knows.” He gave her the address.
Her heart sank. The 13’s were ruthless and deadly. The thought of both Courtney and Richie being in their hands …
Rebecca remembered that the cop she had been dating before Richie had worked the beat involving the 13’s, a Mexican drug-running gang. If anyone knew where the 13’s might hide someone they’d snatched, it was Ray Torres. She gave him a call.
“Rebecca, it’s good to hear your voice again,” Torres said. His voice was low, soft, and hopeful. She felt kind of bad that she’d made him unhappy when she stopped seeing him. He was a good man, and he was going to make some lucky woman very happy. But she wasn’t that woman. “How have you been?”
“Not too bad, Ray. I’m calling about a case.”
“Ah. I see.” His disappointment was clear.
“Someone involved in a murder investigation has been picked up by Mariano Cepeda and another man. We think they’re bringing him somewhere to be questioned. Do you have any idea where that might be?”
“If they’re bringing him to meet the head of the Thirteens, you don’t want to mess with him. Cepeda is his main man, but believe me, he’s bad news.”
“I’m sure he is.” Her voice turned cold. “What can you tell me?”
“It’s your funeral. His name is Gonzalo Piña. They call him El Grande. You’ll find him on Twenty-Ninth Street, near Dolores.” He didn’t have the number, but he gave her a description of the house.
As Rebecca drove, she explained to Shay that the 13’s were a local drug gang connected with the Norteños. They constantly battled with the Sureños from Los Angeles to maintain their hold on drug trafficking in the city. They easily found the house that Ray Torres had described. Parked directly in front of it was the Mercedes from the security video.
She parked around the corner and then handed Shay a bullet-proof vest before putting one on herself. She always carried a spare in her SUV because her partner, Sutter, so often forgot his—as if, without a vest, he had an excuse to stay away from dangerous situations. Then, ready to go, her heart pounding at what they might find, she and Shay crept towards the house.
Rebecca crouched in shadows near the front steps while Shay took the handle of his gun and smashed in the Mercedes’ driver’s side window. He then joined Rebecca as the car alarm erupted in a shrill wail.
The door to the house burst open and two men with guns came running out and down the four front steps to the sidewalk. Rebecca tripped one as he ran by, and hit him on the back of the head with the butt of her gun as he fell. He landed unconscious on the sidewalk. At the same time, Shay gave the other an upper cut punch to the chin that stunned and spun him, followed by a knuckle to the temple that laid him flat.
Rebecca and Shay ran to landing for the front door and stood with their backs plastered to the wall on each side of it and waited. Her mouth dry, Rebecca wondered if their plan had any chance of working at all, when a third man came through the doorway, scratching his stomach and bellowing about the Mercedes still shrieking. Rebecca plunged the back of her upper arm hard into his windpipe. Stunned, he bent forward, gasping, and unable to breathe or cry out. She slammed her elbow into a pressure point behind his ear. He dropped, out cold.
Shay gave a quick, congratulatory nod, and Rebecca allowed herself a small smile as they entered the house, guns drawn, knowing they had to move fast.
Voices came from the down the hall. Rebecca crept forward and peered around a moldy doorframe. She saw Richie in a chair, the side of his face with a dark red welt. Two men stood over him. One was short, thin, and very young, with a long, stringy mustache and goatee, and scraggly long black hair. The other was heavy, and older. He wore expensive-looking clothes and a massive gold watch that matched his gold front tooth. His face had a scar from cheek to chin that all but danced as he swore a blue streak in Spanish.
Her eyes searched for her sister, and found her sitting on the floor against a side wall, her ankles and mouth duct-taped, and her arms pulled behind her back as if they, too, were taped together. Courtney’s eyes were wide, terrified, and her face was tear-streaked. Fury filled Rebecca, and the thought flashed that if she weren’t a cop, she might just shoot the bastards that did this to people she loved and cared about.
Shay, she knew, didn’t have such qualms. She met his gaze and gestured that she was going in. He gave her a thumbs up.
With her gun held at eye level, aimed at El Grande’s chest, she stepped into the kitchen. “Police. Let them go! Now!”
But the young fellow drew his gun.
“Put it down!” she yelled.