by Joanne Pence
“No. We’re fine. You two need to do what’s necessary to take care of yourselves. I’ll talk to you when I learn more.”
Richie sat back down, as did Pierre. Rebecca realized it was one of the few times he’d ever done what she asked. Strangely, she didn’t feel good about it.
o0o
Rebecca drove to the parking garage underneath Union Square in the heart of San Francisco’s downtown. A uniformed officer spotted her waving her badge and directed her down two floors. She easily found the crime scene, not because of the officers standing around a black Lexus, but because of the photo-snapping crowd of gawkers.
The Crime Scene Unit was at work. The medical examiner had come and gone, and Luis Calderon and his partner, Bo Benson, were just finishing up. They would complete their canvass of the area and then share their information with Rebecca and Sutter. This case had just gotten big enough that Lt. Eastwood ordered all four detectives to stay on it.
Rebecca peered inside the Lexus. The victim looked to be in his mid-to-late thirties, light brown hair, slim and trim. His face was florid, his eyes open and streaked with broken blood vessels. His clothes had been soaked with blood, now dried. Around his neck was a wire that cut into his flesh, cutting through his neck and severing his carotid arteries. The blood and scratches on his neck along with the blood on his fingers and nails were most likely from trying to grab the garrote and pull it from his neck.
Rebecca took a step back. Although the victim’s face was red and disfigured from his death struggles, there was no doubt in her mind that she would have recognized him. She had looked at his photograph too many times this past week.
She picked up the garage’s ticket stub.
Assuming Diego Bosque had tried to leave within a few hours of entering the garage, he had been in this car, dead, for two days.
CHAPTER TWELVE
A little after one a.m., Rebecca made it back to her apartment.
Courtney was curled up asleep on the sofa, the TV on, but woke up as soon as she heard the front door shut. She sat up. “I was getting worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” Rebecca said wearily. “Glad to be home.”
The two decided Courtney should share the queen-size bed with Rebecca. She’d find it more comfortable than the sofa, and they had shared a bed many times when growing up. As they put clean sheets on it, and got into their nightclothes, Rebecca told Courtney a little about the crime scene.
“It’s such a shame,” Courtney said. “When you told Pierre and Richie that another friend had been murdered, it made it all much more real to me. Before then, I’ll confess, it was like a movie—all fake.”
“I wish it were fake,” Rebecca said. “No such luck.”
The two soon fell into bed, exhausted, but once the lights were off, Courtney rolled onto her side facing Rebecca. “Okay, tell me about Richie.”
“What do mean?”
“What’s he like? What do you know about him? And how do you feel about him?”
Rebecca didn’t want to touch the last question, so she told Courtney a little about Richie’s past, about him growing up in North Beach, how his father had been killed when he was young, how he was a self-made man, and that when he finally wanted to settle down, his fiancée died in an auto accident. It took a few years and two very good friends to pull him out of a depression after that.
“Not an easy life,” Courtney said. “The way you talk about him, I think you really care about the guy.”
“I do care about him, but that’s as far as it’ll ever go. He’s told me as much, especially with me being a cop. It scares him, and I understand that completely. Also, he’s not my type.”
“Oh. Not at all. Anyone can see that.” If Courtney had spoken any more tongue-in-cheek, she’d have a hole in the side of her face. Courtney shifted so she lay on her back. “You know what your problem is?”
“I know you’re going to tell me.”
“It’s that you’ve walled your emotions up so thoroughly, you don’t know what you feel. You gave your heart to two guys that people told you were good, true men, and they weren’t. Or, at least, they weren’t right for you. And now you’re seeing someone that ‘people’ say is wrong for you, someone you shouldn’t trust at all—at least that’s what SF Beat would have you believe. Let me tell you, you can’t listen to others.”
“But—”
“No buts. I think you actually do trust him, which has only confused you all the more because you believe you can’t trust your own instincts. After all, you’ve been wrong twice already, right?”
“I’m not—”
“And even worse, you’re a control freak. And you’re bossy. I swear, when I heard you’d become a cop, I howled. I told everyone that was the perfect job for you.”
“I am not bossy!”
“Oh, yes. And even your boyfriends, as much as you felt they left you, I think you may have given a bit of a shove.”
“I never—”
“And now you’ve met someone you can’t control.”
“I don’t want to control him.”
“That, I do believe. You enjoy the challenge of the guy.”
“This is all such nonsense, Courtney.”
Courtney laughed aloud. “Sure it is. Look, I’ve been married, divorced, and I’ve considered getting remarried more times than I can count. I’ve made some lulus of mistakes with men in my life, but that hasn’t stopped me from looking. I suspect I’m more determined than ever to find the right guy. You think Richie’s not your type? Who was your type? Farmer Eddie or that jerk you were seeing when you first came to the city who ran off like a scared rabbit when you got shot. Believe me, if you were hurt, Richie would be there for you. I can see it in him.”
“He would be, for something like that. But as far as a long-lasting, committed relationship, he’s not looking for that—at least, not from me. He’s told me as much.”
“I’m sure he has. The problem is, you’ve listened to his words. And I suspect he’s listened to yours. Rebecca, you say really hurtful things when you’re scared.”
“Scared? Me?”
“Yes, you!” Courtney said. The way her words were slowing down, Rebecca could tell that she was almost asleep, but still, she murmured. “From what I’m seeing in this, with each other, you’re both cowards.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At Homicide the next morning, Sutter let Rebecca know Moss Brannigan had called and said he’d found a hole in his gas line. He was sure someone had put the hole in it, and was trying to kill him. Since Rebecca hadn’t gotten along with him, Sutter decided to step in. The marina where the boat was docked had all kinds of security. If someone had tampered with Brannigan’s cruiser, he would have worked hard to avoid cameras. Sutter planned to review the security footage when he had time.
Now that Diego Bosque was found dead, the news media was going crazier than ever covering the story of the “bachelor murders.” Lt. Eastwood, rather than Sutter, was holding press conferences.
Whoever killed Bosque had disarmed the GPS system in his car and removed the SIM card from his phone. Rebecca had access to Bosque’s phone records and could get his text messages, but she was stymied as far as any encrypted messages the phone might contain. Not even the super techs in the Crime Scene Unit could crack the phone.
Also, just as she’d warned Richie and Pierre after learning of Bosque’s death, she also had to warn the two other enticing bachelors. She had Sutter contact Moss Brannigan while she again tried to reach Logan Travis, but his phone sent her, as usual, to voice mail. She tried to find a secretary, an office, or any other way to reach him, but had no luck.
She and Sutter went again to Bosque’s apartment. This time, they were able to enter it and search for any clue as to a motive for his murder, or a lead on any suspects. The strangest finding was many boxes of black vests. They weren’t your grandfather’s vest, but attractive ones that she imagined looked good on slim, younger men. But why so many boxes?
The vests were all made in China, according to the packaging.
The more Rebecca learned about the victims in the case, the more confusing everything became. She couldn’t remember dealing with anything like this before. Arsons, murders, and a whole variety of different businesses. Nothing made sense.
She was also so sick and tired of being ignored, berated, and walked out on by these enticing (hah!) bachelors, that, while Sutter headed back to Homicide, she decided to drive to Logan Travis’s home. She planned to insist he talk to her, or she’d bring him in for obstruction of justice. It was already evening, so he should be home.
The exterior of his home was surprisingly humble-looking. Something told her the millionaire’s interior wouldn’t be nearly so modest. She rang the doorbell and knocked loudly several times, but there was no answer. No lights were on that she could tell.
She stood outside the house pondering what to do next.
The Ingleside district wasn’t very far away from Twin Peaks, where Richie’s home was located, and since he knew Travis, he could most likely reach the man. But she was conflicted. That was what happened when a person allowed her private life to get mixed up with her professional one.
She stewed over what to do a little longer, then got into her car and headed for Richie’s house.
He lived on a narrow street near the top of Twin Peaks, one of the city’s more expensive areas. As she reached his home, she saw that the lights were on inside. Normally, she would have pulled into his driveway, but that was something friends did, and this was a business-oriented visit. She saw a parking space a couple of houses down on the opposite side of the street and took it.
The street level of his house held the garage and a storage area, while the house proper was on the second level. She walked up the long flight of stairs to the front door and rang the bell.
When he didn’t open the door, she phoned his land line. She could hear his phone ringing.
“Yes?” he said.
It wasn’t exactly the friendliest greeting she’d ever heard. “Open your door, Amalfi.”
He did. He looked surprised to see her. She walked into his living room. It was a large room, dominated by a picture window that gave a view of the east side of San Francisco, from the downtown to the waterfront, the Bay Bridge, and then beyond to the East Bay hills. Another wall held a gas-operated fireplace, which was now lit to ward off the chill of the foggy night air.
“I’m here because of my cases,” she said quickly.
“I see.” His gaze was shuttered, impossible to read. “Okay, so what do you want to know?”
“Can we sit?” she asked as she moved towards the sofa.
He nodded and sat in the chair facing it. She took the sofa. He didn’t offer her any wine, beer, or coffee, which wasn’t like him. But then, she had said this was business. She quickly told him about her earlier meeting with Moss Brannigan, and his discovery today that someone had, indeed, tampered with his fuel line. “That means attacks were made on four of the six of you, with two deaths.”
“That damned magazine.” Richie angrily folded his arms. “We didn’t expect it to turn out the way it did, of course! No one expected that. What the hell.”
“I never learned how the article came about,” she said.
A moment passed before he answered. “I was at Tanaka’s restaurant having lunch with Pierre. The restaurant was surprisingly empty, so Tanaka joined us and we got to talking about how this economy is the pits. I said the cost of advertising was my biggest problem. It’s ridiculously high in this city. Pierre said we needed free PR, and that we should go on some reality TV show. I suggested, The Bachelor, and the idea grew from there. We thought a magazine article would be great PR, but we figured three guys wasn’t enough. Pierre said he knew the owner of the Golden Gate Tour Boat company, Moss Brannigan, who Pierre claimed looked like someone who’d stepped out of the pages of a romance novel about sea captains and pirates. Tanaka said he knew the owner of Easy Street, where a lot of the new tech millionaires shop. And I knew Logan Travis who’s part of that Silicon Valley crowd, plus he’s gay. We thought we had a good mix. I pitched the idea to a few reporters I know, suggesting a puff piece about six single guys working to make it big in the city, and succeeding. I even gave them the names. They sounded like they thought it was a great idea.”
“That was no puff piece.”
“I know. I have no idea how it ended up at San Francisco Beat. All I know is someone took our good idea and turned it into a bucket of spit. And now, two of the guys are dead.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze downcast.
“The question is,” she said, “how did the idea get changed? Do you know the writer or the editor? Did you contact anyone connected with the Beat?”
“You think I’m nuts or what?”
“Sorry.” She thought about his story. “The editor of the Beat told me she once worked for Sunset Magazine. Do you have any connections there?” The large, high-circulation magazine was based near Silicon Valley.
Richie frowned. “I do. I pitched the story to a Sunset writer. Why not go big-time, right? She’s idiot enough to have given it to the Beat.”
“I suspect that’s what happened,” Rebecca said. “But I also heard you knew about the change in tone for the story before it was printed.”
Richie told her how his bouncer, Lenny, found the writer, Connor Gray, in his club bothering a couple of the cocktail waitresses. “As Lenny was ready to boot the guy out, he told him he had a first amendment right to be there because he was working on an article about me for the Beat. God, what a filthy rag. Anyway, I know a guy who’s dating the copy editor there, and she sent me the draft of the story. That’s when I called a meeting to let the other guys know what had happened.”
“Did any of the men give you an indication the article could pose a danger for them?”
“No.”
“No engagements that might be broken, or business deals that might go south?”
“No one said a word.”
“When I spoke to a detective in Kyoto after Tanaka’s death,” she said, “he mentioned that Tanaka had been investigated for ties to the Yakuza, but was cleared.”
Richie scowled. “Cleared? Did he also tell you the Yakuza’s tentacles often reach to Japanese officials? Especially low-level local ones? A clearance might not mean a whole lot.” He continued. “God, if the Yakuza is involved … Such a group would explain the violent deaths, but not the arsons.”
“True, unless they want to get involved in your work as well, and the arson was a warning.”
His chin lifted a bit as he said, “I doubt it.”
She wanted to ask why, but decided she might not like his answer. His connections, she suspected, ran deep and wide. Instead, she asked, “Did Tanaka ever give the slightest hint some sort of criminal activity was going on?”
He thought a moment. “Not in so many words. I’d heard rumors about him and some shady business associates, but not anything specific. In any case, I tried to ignore them—not my business—and yet I always had a feeling something big was going on that he didn’t like, something probably illegal. He’d make jokes about going away, hiding even, somewhere that no one knew his name. I tried to let him know I might be able to help, but he never asked. And I never pressed the point. Like I said, it was none of my business.”
“Thank God he didn’t go to you if the Yakuza is involved,” she said.
“Maybe. Or, maybe he’d still be alive.”
She changed the focus. “What about the other two men?” she asked.
“Pierre introduced me to Brannigan, and I’ve known Travis about a month.”
“How did you meet Travis?” she asked.
“He asked me to help him with something.”
“With what?”
“Security. It started small, but every week he called back to get a bigger and better system. The whole Silicon Valley crowd is a nest of vipers and intrigue with people
poaching each other’s ideas and patents all the time.”
She nodded. “He wouldn’t answer any of my phone calls or messages. When you speak to him, would you ask him to call me?”
“Sure.”
She had run out of things to ask him about. She stood. “You’ve given me a lot. Thank you. I should get back to work.”
“So, the grilling is finally over.” It was as if a door had been slammed shut. His face lost all warmth. “Okay.”
“Be careful,” she said.
He remained motionless … and emotionless.
She left the house. As she walked down his front steps, she realized how much she missed being with him. Not the Richie she’d just interrogated, but the warm guy she’d come to know. She missed the excitement being around him had always brought her. But now that the tabloid article had caused this rift, she had no idea how to end it. She put the key into the ignition of her Ford Explorer, but then pulled it back out. What if she went back to his house and asked if they could start over? Would that help, or ultimately, only lead to bigger and worse complications?
She reached towards the ignition again, then stopped. Maybe she should check her messages, and if nothing was urgent, she’d go back to see him. She knew she wanted to. And this time, she wouldn’t immediately announce she was there only because of her murder investigations.
She was waiting for her new messages to load when she saw a car turn onto the street. It drove by Richie’s house, then turned around at the end of the block and drove down the street again. She slumped down in the car seat watching it. The car parked just past Richie’s. She told herself the driver must be someone looking for one of his neighbors. A visitor. That’s all.
The driver got out of the car and stood there a moment, then crossed to Richie’s side of the street. He disappeared momentarily, but then the glow from a street lamp cast a faint outline of someone near Richie’s house. It was the driver, she was sure. He was tall, dressed in dark clothes, and a hoodie. She didn’t like what she was seeing.