One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) (3 page)

She handed him a mug of black coffee, breaking off his wayward thoughts. He knew she wasn't the type of woman he should ever think about that way. He turned his focus back to himself and his predicament while taking a sip of coffee. To his surprise, it had bourbon in it. “Isn't it against the rules to ply the suspects with liquor, Inspector?” he asked.

“Consider it medicinal,” she said.

“Are you having some, too?” he asked.

“Not on your life. I have the feeling I'm going to need all my senses to deal with you.” She sat on the sofa, holding her coffee mug, and said, “Now, let's start at the beginning.”

 o0o

Richie shut his eyes a moment, then spoke. “I went to the races this afternoon, Golden Gate Fields. At the Turf Club, I saw Meaghan Blakely. She smiled, and we started talking. We hit it off. I asked her to dinner.”

“Did you pick her up at her home?” Rebecca asked.

“No. She said she'd meet me at the restaurant. We went to Sakura Gardens, and from there, we walked the block or so over to Big Caesar’s. Believe me, I never touched her! Why would I kill her? I'm a witness!”

Rebecca plowed on. “Did she mention family, friends?”

He gazed heavenward, as if for patience. “She claimed to be fairly new in town from L.A.”

“Then what?”

Richie slumped back in the chair with a scowl. “After a couple drinks, she excused herself to go to the ladies' room. A few minutes later, some guy, a really big guy, slipped me an envelope. Inside was a note from Danny Pasternak saying he wanted to see me immediately, so I went.”

“He's the club bookkeeper?”

Richie hesitated, then said, “Well … yeah, you could say that.”

“Weren't you surprised to get a note from him?”

Richie tugged at his ear, then looked from one wall to another. “Not really. We're old friends. We go way back.”

She frowned. “Weren't you surprised he was working so late at night?”

“It's Saturday night!”

“So?”

He shrugged.

She pursed her lips. “Why did he want to see you?”

“I never found out. When I reached his office, I knocked, then opened the door and walked in. Instead of seeing Danny sitting at his desk, I saw Meaghan on the floor.” He seemed to shudder from the memory, and then ran his hand over the back of his head.

She waited.

“From the corner of my eye,” he began, “I saw something move. I spun around to see this guy with a gun. A big mother … uh, guy. He wore a ski mask. I lunged at him, grabbing for the gun. It went off.”

“Were you or this other man hit?”

“I don't think so. I froze at the sound. I didn't feel anything, but I remembered guys who'd been shot telling me they didn't feel pain for a long time, only cold, horrible cold.” He went a bit pale at the thought, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, as I was saying, the shooter, the real shooter shoved me hard, and I fell over. The shooter went out the window. I picked up the gun—”

“You picked up the gun? You got it away from him, then?” she asked.

“Yeah, I must have.”

“Why pick it up? Why not leave it?”

“I was going after the killer! I wanted to stop him, and I didn't think he'd respond to, 'Stop, pretty please.'“

She shook her head. “Go on.”

“Like I said, I picked up the gun and ran to the window to go after the guy. Then I heard some people screaming behind me.” Richie paused as if reliving the scene. His dark eyes met Rebecca's. “All I remember are screams, lots of screams. The bouncers came running into the room, and yelled at me to put down the gun. I tried to tell them I didn't do it, that the shooter went out the window. No one listened. Instead, they hustled me into an office.”

“The bouncers claimed they kept an eye on Pasternak's office, and that no one went in there all night except the woman and you. They said Pasternak wasn't even here.”

“They're wrong! The waiter, or whoever he was, gave me a note from him!”

“Where is the note?” Rebecca asked.

Richie's gaze went to his jacket pockets, then the floor as if trying to remember. “I’m pretty sure I left it on the table. Meaghan's coat—full-length, black, probably cashmere—was there, plus our martinis. The note was from Danny. I swear!”

Rebecca nodded. “We'll look for it. In any case, the bouncers told my partner the sound of a gunshot came from the room, and when they ran in, they saw you with the gun trying to climb out the window. They wrestled you down, took the gun, and called us.”

“So? I already told you what happened. While you two waste time on me, the killer's probably half-way to Argentina!”

Richie told a good story, Rebecca thought, one that would explain how the gun ended up with his fingerprints on it, and why he would have gunpowder residue on his hand when they tested it. There was just one problem. She didn't see any extraneous bullet holes in the victim or the office, and only one shell lay on the floor from the gun.

No one heard two shots—and they would have if Richie's claim were true that he found Blakely shot to death and that the gun had been fired a second time as he fought with the 'real' killer.

Richie wanted her to believe that the killer managed to shoot Blakely, and then retrieved the shell from the gunshot—a shot no one heard. But if he had the presence of mind to pick up a shell, why didn't he shoot Richie as soon as he walked in? If he had already killed one person, what stopped him from killing a second?

She quickly phoned the head of the Crime Scene Investigation team. He and his team were still at the night club looking for evidence, and would be there many hours more. She asked him to let her know immediately if his team found a second bullet hole and shell, and then she asked if he would locate the table Richie and Meaghan had shared.

He did, and saw Meaghan’s black cashmere coat and two half-empty cocktail glasses at a table, but he found no note from Danny Pasternak.

She thanked him and hung up.

Richie had given her a good story about some other person shooting the woman and escaping out the window, except that no one saw anyone else enter Pasternak's office and the bouncers claimed to have run into the room within seconds of hearing a shot fired.

Why, then, did she believe him?

One thing she knew was true: he appeared exhausted and so was she. Even thinking about dragging him back down to City Jail was a chore. She knew she could do it, but for some reason, she didn't want to.

Her phone rang.

She stood and took her cell phone from her jeans pocket. It was Sutter. “What's happening?”

She paced, growing increasingly irritated as a chagrined Sutter admitted their prisoner had escaped, that he'd been searching for him with the cops and that's why he hadn't called sooner.

Yeah, right.
“Well, guess what,” she began when she felt a tap on her shoulder.

Richie pointed her own gun at her. Her eyes narrowed as they went from the gun to him. He shook his head and gestured for her to hang up.

She knew she was safe with him, and knew she could take him if she had to. She pushed his arm so that the gun was no longer pointing at her, and continued her conversation. “Okay, Bill, keep looking. Let me know how things progress.” She listened to a few more words, then hung up.

“I do not believe you.” Rebecca's voice dripped with disgust as she glared at Richie.

He handed the gun back to her. “Okay, so I wouldn't have shot you,” he said. “But you've got to admit, being threatened made it easier for you not to tell Sutter I was here, no?”

“No!” She folded her arms. Well, maybe so, she thought. “Why are you here, Richie? And how do you know where I live?”

He shrugged, then took off his skewed bowtie, dropped it onto the coffee table, and unbuttoned his collar. The afghan she had placed over his shoulders now lay on the chair by the heater with Spike atop it.

“I thought about you a lot after that day.” He seemed to study her as he spoke. “You remember the one?”

She nodded. Christmas Eve. How could she forget it?

“I thought, maybe if I waited a while, I'd ask you out, you know. So I asked around, and learned where you lived. That's all.”

She nodded again, then rubbed her aching forehead. Obviously, he had thought better of asking her out, for which she was grateful. She might have felt bad about refusing to see him if he had called. Now, she had no reason for guilt whatsoever.

“As I said, why are you here?”

“If anybody can prove me innocent and find Meaghan's killer, it's you,” he stated bluntly.

“Me? You're joking! Why not go to Paavo? He's engaged to your cousin, almost part of the family.”

“That's why. Anything he does would be suspect, and it would make him suspect as well. I don't want to do anything that could mess up him and Cousin Angie.”

“But messing up my career is just fine?”

“I trust you.”

That stopped her.

“I trust you,” he continued, his voice every bit as buttery smooth and oddly seductive as she remembered it. “I trust you to get to the bottom of this, to find out the truth. I saw the man who killed Meaghan. Not his face, but his height, the way he held himself, the way he moved. I want the bastard caught, but I can't do that if I'm sitting in jail.”

Clearly, the only reason she bothered to listen to him, or found him in any way convincing, was that she was too tired to think straight.

“Look,” Richie continued, “you're ready to drop. Get some sleep. I'll be right here when you wake up.”

“But ...” She glanced at her watch. She'd been awake more hours than she could count at the moment. Between dead bodies and Richie, it felt like a hundred. She sat on the sofa while he moved Spike and the blanket onto the floor.

“Look at it this way,” he offered, his tone soft and soothing. “Where would I go? If I wanted to run, I would already be far from here. But I don't want that. So get some sleep. Maybe I will too.”

He took off his jacket and then sat on the chair, resting his head back against it.

She waited for him to shut his eyes, but he didn't. Instead, she found herself nodding off. She tried to shake off the sleepiness, but the heater's warmth seemed to creep over her, soothing and restful. Spike jumped onto her lap, lay down, and soon snored softly.

As if with a will of their own, her long legs stretched out on the cushions and she slid down a bit on the seats. In a goofy way, Richie's words made sense, and a ten-minute power nap was tempting. She wouldn't let herself do it, however. Only in the interest of comfort did she turn onto her side and lay her head against the armrest while, as Spike scrambled to find a new comfortable spot, she heard herself murmur, “No way would I go to sleep with you here, Richie Amalfi.”

CHAPTER THREE

Rebecca opened her eyes to see her bedroom filled with sunlight.
What? How can that…

She lay on her back atop her bed, fully dressed, the comforter over her. She didn't even remember going into the bedroom last night.

She felt something binding her right wrist. She turned her head … and bolted straight up to a sitting position.

Richie Amalfi lay next to her, fast asleep.

Her gaze immediately dropped to her wrist, and she received another shock. Her right wrist was cuffed to his left.

Handcuffs?

He had handcuffed
her
to
him?

How could she have let herself to fall asleep with him in her apartment? Why did she allow herself to act so foolishly in his presence? What was wrong with her?

The world flashed red as pure, unharnessed fury washed over her. It was all his fault! How could he have such nerve, such chutzpah, such moxie, as to handcuff her and then lie down on her bed?

She would kill him. That's all there was to it. If a firing squad was legal in the state she'd gladly pull a trigger. If electric chairs were still used, she'd throw the switch. She'd sharpen the blade on a guillotine … or dull it. She wasn't fussy.

She glared at him. The area below his eyes had darkened from fatigue, and his brow furrowed as if from worry even in sleep. Yet, the way his black hair flopped onto his forehead gave him a disarmingly innocent look.

Richie Amalfi innocent? Hah!

Still, she wondered how anyone so rotten could look so angelic when sleeping.

Fortunately, she sat on the side of the bed where she usually slept—the side where she kept a gun under the mattress. Lots of cops slept that way. The middle of the night, when asleep, was a cop's most vulnerable time. Moving slowly, she slid her left hand between the mattress and box spring. She couldn’t find the gun. Awkwardly, she reached a little further. It was missing.

He had to have taken it. Damn him! Loading him into a wood chipper was too good for him.

Now, as her head cleared, she had a vague memory of him helping her pull off her boots and guiding her towards the bedroom, of her arguing against it, but being so tired she all but fell onto the mattress.

She lay back down again and flung her left arm over her forehead. She thought about getting her handcuff key and freeing herself, but then a very different idea came to mind.

She wondered exactly what had gone through that crime-infested mind of his last night. Why, of all the people he knew, of all the places he could have run to, did he come here to her? The excuse he gave made sense and flattered, she must admit. But there had to be more to it than that.

Amalfi learned fast, and between friends, relatives, and his own, probably bad, experiences, he knew far too much about police procedures. Coming here, he clearly had something up his sleeve. He always did. And once he got what he wanted, he'd take off and disappear again.

Most crooks and killers she could take down with no problem. But then, most crooks and even killers were pretty dumb. She couldn't say that about Richie. He could play dumb, but he wasn't. From everything she had heard about him from Paavo Smith, and from her own limited experience with him, he very likely had something in mind, and she wanted to know what it was.

A way to do it came to her—a plan that wouldn't exactly be easy to pull off. Was she a good enough actress? And, most importantly, did she dare do it?

Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. Two could play at his little game!

Was he still asleep? He no longer breathed deeply, and he hadn't snored at all. What kind of a man didn't snore or at least breathe heavily as he slept?

She believed he faked sleep at this point. Maybe curiosity over her motives gripped him, just as she was curious about his. She glanced at the small lamp on the nightstand beside her. He would soon find out exactly how she felt.

She yanked the lamp's plug from the wall.

Tightly clutching the base of the lamp, she lifted and held it over his head as if ready to let it drop.

His arm reached out and grabbed hers. “Good morning to you, too,” he grumbled. “Do you always wake up in such a good mood?”

She sat up again. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

He sat up as well, removed the offending lamp from her hand, and dropped it between them on the bed.

“What's the reason for this?” she demanded, wriggling her manacled wrist.

“You might have had second thoughts.” He rubbed his eyes and yawned. “How the hell was I supposed to know what might go through that cop brain of yours? You might have run out, called somebody, maybe shot me in my sleep. I wouldn't put it past you!”

“You were right about the last one,” she muttered.

It struck her that she was having a conversation with a man she hardly knew, a possible murderer, while sitting on her bed. At this point she didn't know if she were angrier at Richie or at herself for going along with this farce. She got off the bed, stretching out her arm as she did so. “Now, wise guy, how are you going to get these cuffs off, short of going to a police station? I want to use the bathroom, and I'll be damned if you're coming with me. You get this off me, or I'll take an ax to you!”

“Calm down, Inspector,” Richie said as he crawled over the bed to her side and also got off it. “I need some coffee.” His slacks were badly rumpled, his white dress shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned at the neck, and he needed a shave. He looked like hell.

“Listen, Amalfi—”

“Stop, okay?” He rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Isn't it bad enough I'm accused of a murder I didn't commit, my head is about to explode, and frankly, lady, I want to detach you as much as you want to be detached. So, get the key.”

She huffed, tried to fold her arms—one of her favorite gestures—only to realize she couldn't, which infuriated her despite the fact that this annoying situation continued because of her own decisions. Reminding herself of her ploy, she forced herself to breathe calmly.

“What key?” she asked innocently.

His brows crossed. “Don't kid around. I know you cops all have universal keys for handcuffs. That's why it doesn't matter who puts them on or takes them off. So where do you keep yours?”

She gave him a look that could cut through steel. “I gave my cuffs and key to the officer at the crime scene because he had put his on you. They're what you're wearing.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he reached into his pocket and took out his key ring. On it was a miniature pocketknife set. “All right, Inspector, if that's how you want to play it.” From the set, he pulled a toothpick-like steel implement.

“Where did you get that? I thought we emptied your pockets.”

He shrugged. “Maybe when the cop leading me to his squad car hit the dirt, he dropped the bag with my keys, cell phone, and wallet. You'll have to ask him. Also, I destroyed the cell phone’s SIM card, so there’s no way to track it. ”

She shut her eyes a moment, looking for strength. “Before you do anything else, put my Beretta back under the mattress.”

He had put the gun under the mattress on “his” side of the bed, retrieved it, and slid it under “hers.”

Then the two marched into the other room and sat at the small kitchen table so he could keep the cuffs steady as he began to pick at the lock. Nothing happened. “I don't know why it's not working,” he said, closely and cautiously eying her. “I've always opened them this way.”

“Maybe it's because the cuffs were changed recently since too many crooks knew how to get the old ones off!” she shouted. She didn't like the way she turned into a raging harridan whenever around Richie Amalfi. Usually, she was completely cool and collected.

He kept trying, then he slammed down the pick. “Hell! My hands are shaking. I need coffee. I can't take your yelling, and I've got to take a leak, too.”

The two marched towards the bathroom like condemned men to a gallows. The tiny space off the bedroom held a toilet, basin, shower over the tub, and—since Spike was such a small dog and Rebecca's hours so irregular—Spike's “cat litter” box.

“Me first,” Rebecca said, sidling past him. If she sat sideways on the seat, her arm reached the door, which she closed as much as possible against the links of the handcuffs. “Don't look, and don't listen!”

They soon switched sides. While Richie sounded like Niagara Falls, she stood in the bedroom contemplating her next move. Should she remove the handcuffs, or let this farce continue awhile? She decided to see what he would do next.

They shared the sink to wash their hands and faces and comb their hair. She found it completely disgusting that he used her toothbrush. Some things were not made for sharing. She remembered a time when she was younger and 'cooler.' Back then, she always had an extra toothbrush in her apartment, just in case it might be needed. Now, not so much.

Next, he insisted on shaving. Not being partial to blue-black jowls, she gave him the razor she used on her legs. He then demanded a new blade. Some people were so fussy.

As she waited for him to finish, she knew what a Siamese twin felt like, or to be politically correct like all of San Francisco, a conjoined twin. Whatever, it wasn't pleasant.

Back at the kitchen table, he picked at the handcuffs a little longer. “Do you have a file?” he asked.

“A fingernail file?”

“No. A big one. To saw these things in half.”

She socked him in the arm. Hard.

 o0o

Richie would have liked to pace back and forth across the kitchen as he listened to the messages on his cell phone but he could only manage a few steps each way. Rebecca sat on a chair. She stretched out her arm and when fully extended, he had to cross back the other way. He couldn't help but wonder what kind of game she had decided to play, but he was more than willing to go along. At least she hadn't gone all rulebook on him and turned him in. He knew they were going to have to talk—he only hoped he could be persuasive.

Messages completed, he placed a call. “Shay, it's me. You heard?” he asked. He gave out Rebecca's address. “Come over. Bring Vito.” He hung up.

“Shay and Vito?” Her lip curled. “Who are those guys?”

“They work for me.”

“Sure. In 'transportation,' right?”

He smirked. “You got it.”

“Forget it! In the light of day, and after getting some sleep, I can see that all this is a really bad idea. Come with me to Homicide. Give yourself up and it'll go easier on you. We'll say you gave yourself up to me and then I'll work to get you released so we can figure out who the real killer is.”

“Yeah, they'll be all soft and cuddly as they escort me to get the needle! No way, Inspector. I'm not a fan of lethal injections, especially not ones that go into my arm.” He spun around and found he could reach a cupboard. He opened the door and perused her supply of dry and canned food. “What've you got that's good to eat around here?”

“If you think I'm going to cook—”

He swung the door shut. “Don't worry. I wouldn't trust you to. But first, there's something I've got to do.”

He pulled out a kitchen chair and sat, then picked up the cell phone and stared at it. He put it down, stood, ran a hand over the back of his head, his face, then sat again and picked up the phone once more. He stared at it, then the ceiling, put the phone down, took a deep breath, tugged his ear lobe, and studied the cell phone once more.

She couldn't take it. “What the hell are you doing?”

He didn't answer, didn't even look her way, but hit a button on speed dial, and picked up the phone.

“Hey, Ma, it's—” He swallowed the rest of his words and listened.

“Already?” he said. “I didn't think they'd show up so fast ... I'm sorry, Ma ... I'm okay, really ...” He held the phone away from his ear a moment. Rebecca couldn't hear the words, but the tone of voice reminded her of when she was a little girl and did something her parents called “very disappointing
.
”

“I can't come by. What if they're watching your house?”

She noticed his arm kept twitching as he talked, and at first she didn't understand why. Then she got it. With one hand attached to Rebecca, the other holding the phone, and him being Italian, he was finding it difficult to communicate. Frustrated, he stood and tried to pace again, only to be hauled back by Rebecca. He scowled at her and sat again. “I'm fine, really. Yeah, somebody's taking care of me. Don't worry. Okay. Okay. Five o'clock. I'll try, Ma. Really. Don't cry! And stop worrying. It'll be…I know. I know. Love you, too.”

He hung up and glanced at Rebecca. He looked sheepish, then he shrugged. “Mothers,” he said, then jumped to his feet. She found herself dragged towards the refrigerator.

“Hey!” she protested, but it quickly died when he handed her a carton of eggs, and on top of it put a cube of butter and a brick of cheddar cheese. “Play nice, Inspector,” he said, “and I'll make you a cheese scramble.”

She felt tempted to stand pat and make life hard on him. On the other hand, she was starving and needed her wits and her strength to get this nonsense over with as soon as possible. She cooperated.