One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) (5 page)

“Don't get me started on ways to torment a parent.” Richie said with a laugh.

She liked his laugh, liked the way expression filled his whole face, especially his eyes, as he spoke, and laughed, and smiled. She found it hard to look away from him. “I guess you did a bit more than hide,” she said.

“My mom would have been on her knees thanking God if that was all,” he said, then his face fell, and she imagined his thoughts turned to the police contacting his mother last night, and to his father's picture on the floor, the glass cracked.

Despite herself, she sympathized with what had happened to him, and his loss. “Your home looked like it was lovely.”

“Yeah. It
was
. You got that right.”

“At least it wasn't destroyed. Furniture is easily replaced.”

“Thank God.” He reached over to the box hedge beside him and rubbed a leaf. “I surprised my friends and relatives when I bought this place, it being outside of the old neighborhood and all. But sometimes a guy likes to have a little peace and quiet, you know. Nobody living upstairs or down, a little garden. I thought I'd found a refuge. No more, though.”

“You'll fix it up. It'll be fine,” she said.

“Maybe.” Brooding, he stared out at the lawn. “I'm going to find whoever's behind this, Rebecca. They'll be sorry they decided to mess with me.”

“What were you hiding in the house?” she asked. At his sudden harsh stare, she added, “Don't tell me nothing. It's time to come clean about everything that's going on. It's the only way I can help you.”

“Damn!” he murmured, then louder. “You're way off base.”

“I told you, don't say that!”

“What do you want me to say?” He scarcely moved, and his voice had turned so cold, so hard, it hit deep in her gut. All in all, she preferred her fidgeting, emotional Richie to this icy one. “Do you think I want somebody to blow up my home? It's bad enough they trashed the place. I don't know what they're looking for. I don't have anything ... much.”

“You're lying to me!” she insisted.

“I'm hiding nothing! Okay? Nothing.” He all but snarled at her, then turned away with a shake of his head. “You're so damn suspicious!” He went back to brooding.

“You came back here for a reason. What was it?”

He rubbed his forehead. “That's not important anymore. It's all changed.”

Just then, his phone rang.

He mostly listened, only saying a word or two. When he hung up, he stood and faced Rebecca. “Nobody seems to know where Danny Pasternak is.”

She stared up at him, not moving. “How do you know that?”

“Vito tried to find him, and couldn't. I'm not surprised the cops couldn't find him, but Vito should have been able to. Something's wrong, Rebecca. I wonder if something happened to Danny.”

She stood facing him, the handcuffs keeping them much too close together. “We'll have to find out.”

“Shay found a place on Telegraph Hill that might have some answers,” he said. “Let's get out of here.”

“One minute while I call the Crime Scene techs,” she said. “I want them to dust your house for prints or any indication of who might have broken in here.”

“No.”

“No?”

“The guys who do this sort of thing are pros. They don't leave prints. All you'll get are a bunch of prints from people who the law might have some interest in for a variety of reasons, but don't want to harm me. I won't allow it.”

She wanted to argue with him, but even more important was to find out those “answers” he referred to on Telegraph Hill.

“What if I just take the bowl that had the rice in it,” she said. “Testing it will tell us a lot, or nothing.”

He nodded. “You're wasting your time, but I don't care. Fine, do it.”

They returned to the kitchen. She placed the bowl in a zip-lock bag, then they left the house.

Never in her life had she associated with anyone who seemed so much like he should be guilty, yet still caused her to believe in his innocence.

She wasn't sure why she believed him, but she would stake her life on it. And considering that she had let him drag her into a house that could have been blown to kingdom come, she already had.

CHAPTER FIVE

Richie gripped Rebecca's hand and then draped over their joined hands and handcuffs a dark blue pullover sweater he had picked up at his house. “That works,” he said.

“That looks dumb. Nobody carries a sweater that way,” she protested.

“Yeah, it's weird, but it's better than letting anyone see the cuffs. It looks less strange if we stand close together.”

“Terrific.” The word was a sneer.

He kept her close as they walked up to the doorman of a high-rise apartment on the east side of Telegraph Hill near the waterfront. Richie's friends had found Danny's goomar's apartment, and they were there to talk to her.

“We're here to see Miss Fontana,” Richie said. “Vito Grazioso and friend.”

“I'll let her know some guests have arrived.” The doorman picked up the phone and spoke softly, then faced them. “Twentieth floor, apartment twenty-o-one.”

Richie paled. His mouth opened then closed, and finally he whisked her over to a corner and said quietly, “Let's forget it.”

Why? she wondered. Then she smirked. “You're afraid of heights.”

His gaze shifted from the doorman, to the elevator, to her. “Of course I'm not! But what's wrong with Danny's woman? She think she's an eagle up there?” He stuck his free hand in his pocket and pouted. “Hell, I might get a nose bleed.”

She couldn't help but smile. If she hadn't seen it, she wouldn't have believed it. “I'll hold your nostrils shut if that happens,” she said. On occasion, this morning, she would have been tempted to hold his mouth shut at the same time, but not now. Actually, the supposed tough guy's fear of heights was kind of cute. As soon as she thought that, she shuddered, and told herself to forget it. “Cute” was the last thing she wanted to think about Richie!

She steered him towards the elevator where he waited, nervously rocking from heel to toe and jiggling the coins in his pocket. Rebecca moved closer to him to better hide the handcuffs from the doorman. If he spotted them, he'd most likely call 911. Then she would have to arrest Richie. And more than ever, she didn't want to.

The elevator doors opened and she shoved Richie on ahead of her so he wouldn't bolt and let the handcuffs be seen. As it began to move, his hand under the sweater tightened on hers. The higher they rose, the harder he squeezed until she feared she'd have crushed knuckles before the fifteenth floor, let alone the twentieth.

When it stopped, he leaped off faster than if fired from a slingshot. She tumbled out against him, her arm going around him, clutching him, to stop from falling. She quickly jumped back, but he seemed too busy deep breathing to even notice.

He quickly found 2001 and knocked on the door. A blond woman opened it and then stared at them with seriously curled eyelashes covered with gobs of mascara and eyebrows waxed and penciled into high, thin arches. The combination made her appear perpetually astonished.

“Richie? Where's Vito?” She stepped out of the apartment and glanced towards the elevator after giving Rebecca a quick once-over. Her features were pinched, her eyes small despite her tricks to make them seem larger, and even her teeth looked tiny and thin.

“I didn't feel like giving the doorman my name.”

“That's okay, Richie. You know how much I like seeing you.” Richie followed her into the apartment, half-dragging Rebecca with him.

Carolina Fontana wore a tight scoop-necked black knit top that showed off enormous round balls of silicone where her breasts ought to be, skin-tight black Capri pants that left nothing to the imagination, and sky-high black stiletto sandals. “Vito told me you might come by to see me, Richie. I tried to fix my face for you,” she said in a breathless voice as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Thanks for coming. I'm worried about Danny! I'll do whatever I can to help you.”

“I know, sweetheart,” he said, holding her close with his one free arm. Her waist was tiny, and her behind so round and protruding Rebecca wondered if a little surgery hadn't been performed there as well. She stood beside them—unseen, unnoticed, and obviously unwelcomed.

Carolina took a half-step back, clutching the front of Richie's shirt. “I heard what they been saying about you, Richie,” she emoted, “but I didn't believe it. Not for a minute. Not Richie, I said to myself. That Richie, he's one of the good guys.”

“Thanks, Carolina. I was hoping you knew I'd never hurt a hair on a woman's head. Is Danny here?”

She broke into sobs on his shoulder. “I don't know where he is. You got to believe me.”

“Look, was something going on between Danny and the dead woman? I mean, I know he was always faithful to you. He loved you. But he had to have known her since she was killed in his office, right?”

Rebecca couldn't take much more of this. She could feel her gorge rising. “Her name was Meaghan Blakely, by the way.”

Carolina didn't bother to look at her. “I have no idea who she was, or what she meant to my Danny.” Her sobs, snuffles, and catches in the throat grew louder.

Rebecca turned away from Carolina's theatrics. Looking over the apartment with its beautiful bay view, French provincial furnishings, and tasteful artwork, she couldn't help but suspect that Ms. Fontana's tears were more over worry about what all this might mean for Danny's future—and ultimately her own. If Danny was involved in this murder, Carolina would need to find someone else to pick up the bill for her, and from the way she held on to Richie as he continued his one handed comforting—and Rebecca couldn't help but wonder just how thorough his comforting would be if she weren't attached to his other hand—it appeared Carolina considered him a prime candidate.

But then she noticed that Richie was looking at her. She met his gaze and he rolled his eyes, as if to say he knew exactly what Carolina was up to.

Rebecca grinned slightly, then nodded. She coughed, then coughed again.

Carolina peeled herself off Richie like skin from a banana, starting at the head and only slowly easing her body away from his one centimeter at a time. “Oh, excuse me,” she said, eying Rebecca. Despite her sobs, her eyes were dry. No running mascara for her. “How rude of me.” She stuck out her hand. “Carolina Fontana.”

Despite the Italian-sounding surname, her first name was pronounced like the southern states: Car-o-
lye
-na, as in 'nothing could be finah.' Since Richie held Rebecca's right hand, she had to grasp Carolina's with her left and gave a weak squeeze that she hoped appeared to be comforting. “I'm—”

“Becky Jones,” Richie said quickly. “A friend.”

Carolina's eyes zeroed in like a radar gun on their clasped hands with the sweater over them. “Please sit down.” Carolina gestured towards the sofa. She stood with her back ramrod straight, shoulders back, chest out.

Rebecca usually prided herself on having a good, all natural figure. Her proportions were more than adequate and her four-times a week gym workouts had left her well-toned, firm, and shapely in a—not to be too smug about it—attractive way. Still, around Carolina Fontana she felt like a flat-chested teenager. Especially since she still wore last night's jeans and heavy turtleneck. She wondered if Carolina wondered why Richie wore dress slacks but no jacket, and a wrinkled white shirt.

“Would you two like a drink?” Carolina asked.

“Yes,” Richie replied.

“No,” Rebecca answered at the same time.

Carolina looked confused. “Would you like beer, Richie? Or maybe a high ball?” Then, to Rebecca, “I've got Diet Coke and 7-Up, too.”

Richie asked for a beer, Rebecca a Coke as Richie headed for a chair, Rebecca the sofa.

He realized his mistake and stepped to the sofa beside her. They stood, side-by-side, facing it.

Glaring at each other, Rebecca stepped backward, Richie forward, and they made a half-circle. Both ended up with their backs to the sofa, and then they sat.

Carolina watched with mouth agape. “Jeez, you two are sure a couple of lovebirds. Don't want to let go even for a minute.”

“Yeah, that's us,” Richie said with a devilish smirk as he pressed his shoulder against Rebecca's, his face close to hers, and his voice a low rumble. “Lovebirds.”

“Turkey!” Rebecca whispered to him as Carolina went to the bar across the room.

“Mud hen!”

“Capon!”

There was that smirk again, and one eyebrow lifted. “Don't count on it.”

She abruptly shut her mouth as Carolina approached with their drinks, still in bottles and cans. She put a can opener on the table. Rebecca and Richie's eyes met. Who knew it took two hands to open a beer bottle or soda can? Rebecca held the containers while Richie opened them. Carolina observed them in wide-eyed amazement.

An open can of Diet Pepsi was on a lamp table and she sat in the chair beside it.

“So Richie, you wanted to see me
about something?”
Carolina murmured as she kept perusing Rebecca from head to toe and back again with a bewildered what-can-he-possibly-see-in-her question in her eyes.

Rebecca would have loved to wipe that smugly stupid look off Carolina's face, but she kept her mouth shut, knowing that was the best way to learn something, which was, after all, why she was here.

Richie gulped down some beer, then nodded. “All I can figure is Danny must be involved in this thing—whatever it is. I'm hoping he might have said something to you. Was he having trouble with anyone? You women have a sixth sense about your men, especially if he was seeing another woman. Did you get any feeling like that about Danny?”

“God, Richie, I wish I could help you, but everybody loved Danny.”

He sipped more beer and let a moment pass. “I know you'd like to think that, but the truth is, Danny was a bookie. He took money from people and placed bets. That meant that if they lost, they had to pay up. Sometimes people don't like to shell out when the money's due, you know?”

“You're right.” She walked to the bar and poured a whole lot of bourbon directly into her Pepsi can, not spilling a drop, as if she had done it often. “I don't like to think of that stuff, but you're right.”

“Somebody trashed my house,” Richie said. “They tried to blow it up. Someone shot my date in Danny's office. Now, nobody seems to know where Danny is, and I'm supposed to take the fall for the dead woman's murder. All that happening within a few hours has to mean it's all connected. What if Danny is involved? What if he's in trouble? In danger? Look, if some guys are after him and I don't stop them, they might come here. They might be after you next.”

Carolina's eyes rounded like saucers. “Oh, God! You think so, Richie?”

He nodded.

She swirled the can, brows crossed as if from the strain of thinking. “Danny acted worried, but I'm having trouble remembering why. It was, you know, like not all that interesting to me.” She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “He said, 'Boy, this'll fry 'em.' Then he'd laugh.”

“What would fry who?” Richie asked.

She took a few swigs, then brightened. “Maybe you can call me sometime, and I might remember.”

“Listen,” Richie said, “I don't have time for games.”

“Aw, Richie!”

He spoke the next words slowly. “Carolina, tell me right now. I won't ask again.” A chill went down Rebecca's back at his harsh and threatening tone. She had never seen that side of him before.

Carolina paled and studied him to see if he was joking. He wasn't. “Hey, now I remember!” she cried, then hurried across the room to sit on the sofa beside Richie, thigh to thigh, her hand on his knee. The sofa had become pretty crowded. “He worried about his book.” She smiled, thrilled she could be of help.

“Book?” Richie said. “You mean like his records? His bookie info?”

“No, not that kinda book. A real book. He was writing a book about his life, and gambling, and all the big shots he knew—that kinda tell-all stuff. He even thought about putting in a epi—, uh, epilode? Epilodge? Epi—”

“Epilogue?” Rebecca ventured.

“Yeah, one a those, to give pointers about how to beat the odds. Then, he was gonna retire off of all the money he'd make on the book. And even royalties. And maybe a movie deal. He figured it'd be a best seller for a long time, and him and me could live someplace nice like Aruba. I didn't believe that last part, but he was nice to say it, doncha think?”

“Nice.” Richie pondered her words. He glanced at Rebecca. She could tell from his expression how potentially dangerous it could be to write a book about his life as a bookie, especially if he planned to name those so-called “big shots.” Danny couldn't be that stupid. Carolina had to be wrong. “Wait a minute,” Richie said. “Danny was a great guy, but he was no writer. I mean, he'd send a text message and it'd be damn dull. He was a numbers guy, not a wordsmith.”

“Yeah, that's what worried him. But he found somebody to work with. He called him something like, uh, his ghost. Yeah, that's right. His ghost. Jeez, Richie, do you think that was, like, prophetic?”