Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2) (13 page)

“I appreciate it,” she said, taking her card from her pocket and handing it to him. “Here’s my number.”

“Good. Now, let us enjoy some tea and speak of more pleasant things,” he said. “Have you ever go to Russia?”

Her phone buzzed. She took it out to see a call from Richie. She dismissed it, then turned back to Charkov. “I haven’t, although I would love to see it someday. Particularly St. Petersburg.”

“No, no! Too cold there. You must go to Ukraine. Kiev, Odessa, the Black Sea. So beautiful!” He poured her more tea.

Her phone buzzed again, this time with a text message from Richie. “Get out. Now.”

CHAPTER 13

Earlier, after Richie left Rebecca, he was filled with questions about Karen Larkin. The way Rebecca described her friend seemed nothing like the woman he was learning about from the Sausalito police. He was curious what other people had to say.

There was one easy way to find out.

That evening, he went to a pub near the Richmond station that cops frequented. He sat at the bar with a lime-and-tonic, no gin, since he didn’t know how long he’d be there.

Then he waited for Mr. Big Mouth.

He would come all right. Every bar had one. The  type who showed up and talked to anyone, and who folks avoided because of his blowhard, know-it-all ways.

Around strangers, Mr. Big Mouth could pretend he knew everything about everybody. Ask him a question and he wouldn’t shut up. Tonight, Richie would be his biggest fan

Richie talked to a few guys feeling them out, but they weren’t the right type.

And then
he
walked in.

Older and louder, he stood at the bar instead of sitting, his head swiveling with every bellowed word as if looking for an audience.

Richie gave him one. “So, Hank, have you worked at the Richmond station very long?” No sense kissing up to the gasbag if he didn’t have any information to convey.

“I been there so long, I should run the place,” Hank blared.

“Good for you.” Richie said. “Too bad about the cop from there who was killed, eh?”

“None of our people have been killed,” Hank announced, then added, “Unless you’re talking about that female ex-cop up in Sausalito. She quit a few years back.” He chugged down his beer, draining the glass.

“That must be the one.” Richie ordered him a second beer. “Did you know her well?”

“Of course.”

“Ironic isn’t it? She was a cop and stayed safe, then quit and got killed.” Richie sipped his tonic water.

“It sucks, that’s what it does,” Hank said, noticing others starting to listen. “She
looooved
being a cop, too. Man, she was tough. Guys tried to give her lip, and she’d toss them fast. Not bad looking, either.”

“Sounds like you knew her
real
well.”

Hank smirked. “I could have, but in the same station? Not too bright, if you know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I get it. Look, but don’t touch, huh?” Richie nodded.

The bartender put a beer in front of Hank and he raised the glass towards Richie, whether in thanks or agreement, Richie didn’t care. Hank took a long quaff, then shook his head. “Hard to believe she’s dead, though. She was up for anything, always enthusiastic. A fun lady.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely. I remember … she used to run around with this other gal. Now, that one,
whoa!
The two of them could fill out their uniforms, if you know what I mean. When they’d walk into a bar, guys would practically volunteer to get arrested.” Hank’s expression turned a bit starry-eyed.

Richie smiled gleefully while entertaining a sudden urge to mop the floor with the a-hole’s pudgy face. “The pair of them liked men, huh?” he asked, studying Hank.

“Oh, yeah.” Hank smirked. “Her friend, tall, blonde, killer body, I mean, killer. Farm girl from Iowa or some such place, she was pretty green and pretty soft to start. She didn’t know much about the big city, or the people in it. But she learned. Karen helped her, and then she was the one who moved up the ranks.”

“Karen didn’t like that, I guess,” Richie suggested.

“Naw, Karen didn’t care. She wasn’t the desk-and-paperwork type. She wanted to be out, driving the squad car.” He started to chuckle.

“What’s so funny?” Richie asked.

“Well, the two of them—women in a man’s world and all—they got all kinds of ribbing and shit. They usually took it with good humor, but”—he chuckled, and then his face turned into an ugly leer—“there was this one time—”

“Hank,
can it.” Richie strode from the bar. He didn’t want to hear it; not about Rebecca. Or her dead friend. And he didn’t think knocking Hank’s lights out would be such a nice way to end the evening.

He was driving towards home when his phone rang. It was Shay.

He listened to what Shay had to say. “God damn! I’m not too far. Meet me a-sap.” Then he hung a U-turn in the middle of the street, and stomped down hard on the gas.

CHAPTER 14

How the hell had Rebecca found Charkov’s home? Richie wondered as he drove like a madman to the location Shay gave him.

Even Shay had trouble cutting through the layers Charkov had set up, and the guy was a genius. Crazy, too, but he had found Charkov’s address. He had also put a tracker on the BMW as Richie requested when Rebecca started driving it, so when he saw it stopped near Charkov’s home, he called Richie.

The two arrived on 40th Avenue at the same time. The BMW was still there, and lights were on in Charkov’s living room. Rebecca hadn’t answered his call—so what else was new?—or the text he had sent her as soon as he heard from Shay.

The two assumed she must be still in the house. They waited in the dark at the end of the block where they hoped to remain unseen. If Charkov knew they had found out where he lived, it would cut their longevity to about twenty minutes. If that.

Richie didn’t want to contemplate what walking into that house had done to Rebecca’s. He prayed she was still alive. He kept checking his phone, but she never answered.

No car but Rebecca’s was near. Charkov’s was probably in the garage, but guys like him were rarely alone this early at night. So, where was everybody?

“I’m going in,” Richie said.

Shay held his arm. “He’s never alone. You won’t make it.”

“Then where are the other guys’ cars? I can’t just stand here.”

Just then, Richie’s phone buzzed. “A text from Rebecca. ‘48th and Fulton’ What the hell is that?”

“It might not be from her,” Shay said ominously. “Not if they took her phone. If they did, they saw your message telling her to get out. This is a taunt.”

Richie ran his hand over his mouth, torn between going to Charkov’s house, or the texted location.

“Charkov may have left before we got here,” Shay said. “Something about that house—it seems too quiet.”

Richie nodded. “True.” He looked at his phone again. “Okay, let’s go.”

The intersection of 48th and Fulton had a building on one corner, a dark, empty parking lot across from it, and Golden Gate Park all along Fulton street. The park was thick with shrubbery, all but forming a natural fence between it and the sidewalk.

Shay held a semi-automatic pistol at the ready. They looked around but saw no one. “That way,” Richie said, pointing towards the park. “If the Russians are coming, it makes the most sense as a place to meet.”

They quietly walked into the park, staying among the trees and brush surrounding them. “Stop,” Richie whispered. “I think I heard something.”

They waited and listened.

Thump.

“Go!”

They hurried towards the sound, but saw nothing in the darkness. They searched, trying to spot any movement among the trees and bushes.

Thump.

“That way!” Again, they ran towards the sound, then stopped.

All was silent.

They went deeper into the park. Only a few dimly burning lamplights lit a path. They stayed off it, inching along its edge in the shadows, waiting, listening.

Richie couldn’t take it any longer.
“Rebecca!”
he called, despite the look Shay gave him.

They heard a soft thud again and ran towards the sound.

Shay pointed to a dumpster deeper along the path.

“Rebecca?” Richie called as they neared it. No answer. His heart pounded with fear as he and Shay each took one side of the heavy metal top and lifted it up and over, to fall on the far side of the large bin.

It was so dark they couldn’t see what was inside. They reached down, pushing aside food containers, cans, paper cups. Richie’s hands felt thick plastic sheeting. He tried to lift it, but something heavy was holding it in place. Something like a body.

“What the--!” Richie said, as he cl
imbed up and into the dumpster.

A body bag.

God, no!
he thought, thankful it wasn’t matted down, bound with tape, and that it just might have held some oxygen. He prayed that was the case. He tried to rip it open, but the plastic was too strong.

Shay handed him a knife. Qu
ickly, he cut into the bag making a long gash, then ripped it apart.

Rebecca.

She lay still as death. She was on her side, her head tucked as if trying to make a space to find air. But her eyes were shut, her mouth covered with tape.

Richie carefully pulled the tape off. “Breathe, Rebecca. Breathe.”

He felt for a pulse. “She’s alive,” he whispered, then patted her cheek several times as he called her name over and over. He should have hit her harder, perhaps, but hated the thought of hurting her any more than she had been. She blinked a couple of times, and then opened her eyes.

Seeing that, he felt as if he, too, could breathe again. He quickly cut the bindings from her wrists and ankles, and then moved to her side and put his arm under her head and shoulders. “You’re okay. We’ve got you,” he said.

She let her head roll against his chest and shut her eyes once more. Richie waited, thanking God she was alive.

Rebecca slowly moved
her arms and legs, stiff and cramping, then wrapped her arms tight around Richie, as her breath came in sharp, harsh gasps.

“It’
s okay,” he said, holding her against his chest. He kissed the top of her head, and lay his cheek against her hair. Her entire body was trembling.

“Richie, we’ve got to move,” Shay said.

He nodded. “We need to get you out of here,” he whispered to Rebecca. She needed his help to stand, and then he lifted her and she all but rolled over the edge of the dumpster into Shay’s arms. He lowered her to the grass.

Richie quickly climbed out of the garbage, and sat beside her once more. She tried to sit up, and he supported her as her heart rate calmed and her breathing returned somewhat to normal.

“No air,” she whispered as her fingers grasped the front of his jacket.

“Shh.” He couldn’t help but put his arms around her once more as he shuddered at the thought
of how close she had come. “You’re safe now. We found you.”

She burrowed closer to him
, holding him tight.

“You were smart to kick the sides of the dumpster,” Richie said, lightly stroking her head. “That’s what we heard.”

“I could scarcely …” Her voice broke.

“But you did,” he murmured.

“I knew you’d find me,” she whispered. Her large blue eyes looked at him with such openness and trust it was almost his undoing. “I knew it.”

He swallowed hard
, and wondered if she even realized what she was saying. He felt as if she were filling all the cold, empty places in his heart.

“I saw your text message,” she said, a little stronger, “and stood to leave. Two men came in …”

“You don’t have to talk,” he whispered.

She didn’t seem to hear him. Her arms tightened as, speaking in a halting, almost spasmo
dic manner, she told him what had taken place. “Charkov said it was too bad I knew where he lived. That it made me less than trash, and that’s how I would be treated. The others wanted him to kill me, to shoot me right then. But he said no. He said he wanted me to think about how everyone had failed me. He said he would send the police a message saying where to find me—I guess he thought you were a cop, my partner perhaps—but he said you would fail. He sent a text and then laughed.”

“Don’t Rebecca,” Richie didn’t think he could bear to hear more.

“The worst part,” she swallowed hard, “he wanted me to die slowly, to be thinking as I suffocated in garbage.”

Richie couldn’t speak as his imagination filled with what she must have felt as her air slowly diminished. Sometime, someplace, he would get even with Charkov. The sadistic
son of a bitch would pay for what he did to her.