Four O'Clock Sizzle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 4)

by Joanne Pence

  He sat in his favorite chair at the kitchen table while she poured him a cup of coffee. “Not yet. I got your messages, and wanted to tell you I’m fine.”

  “I read that story about you! I was so upset!”

  He’d expected that. “What’s going on with the other guys in the article has nothing to do with me, okay. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

  She put several strips of bacon in a pan to cook. “What do you mean? I don’t know about no other guys. What I want to know is, how come I never met any of your girlfriends? The ones in the story. You never told me you were so close to getting married. You should have let me know. I would have invited the girl to my house, cooked a nice dinner, maybe even some manicott’ —your favorite, Richie. Why don’t you tell me these things?”

  He gaped. “I wasn’t close—”

  “Those women, they looked like nice girls. And they loved you so much. Madon’, I felt so sorry for them! And that one, the one who’s still crying over you! Poverina! It broke my heart. I think there’s a good chance she’ll take you back. Especially if you apologize, and tell her you made a mistake.”

  “I didn’t make a mistake.”

  “To think, that they’re still pining away. It made me weep for them, Richie!” She took a Kleenex from her bathrobe pocket and dabbed her still-dry eyes.

  “Don’t cry, Ma. Really.” He tried to think of a way to get her off the subject. “How about I put on some toast while you fry the eggs?”

  “All right.” She sighed. “I’m happy to cook for my still-single son because he doesn’t have a wife to cook a big breakfast for him and all your kids.”

  He rolled his eyes. He thought she was upset about the deaths and arsons. He should have known better. He got up and put bread in the toaster and then took the butter and raspberry jam from the refrigerator. “In case you see me or Rebecca on the news next to a boat that blew up, she’s fine.”

  “I already saw the story.” Carmela tightened her lips. “It was bad enough she got you shot, now she takes you places where things explode. And you wonder why I think you need to go back to those nice, safe women who loved you so!” She cracked one egg so hard the shell shattered into a bunch of little pieces that fell into the pan, sticking to the egg white. “Ma che fai! See what you made me do!” She scooped up the whole egg and threw it away.

  “It was a nice boat, before it blew,” Richie said, deciding to ignore the egg fiasco. “It made me think I was wrong to sell my sailboat. I might get another one. Or even a cabin cruiser.”

  “Those cabin cruisers, they have an engine? So you don’t have to worry about the wind all the time? It used to make me sick, you out in the ocean, depending on a big sheet to get you home again.”

  “It wasn’t a sheet,” he said, but quickly realized that was a losing argument. “What I liked about the cruiser I saw was that if anything goes wrong, it’s relatively easy to fix …” He thought about the way the boat was set up, how accessible the engine was in case there was a problem at sea. And how an old tar and tour boat operator like Moss Brannigan had to know a whole lot about how such a boat operated. How could he not have known the boat was leaking fuel at a massive rate until he was so far from San Francisco that he felt his life was in danger? It didn’t make sense for a man like him.

  And how was it that the boat blew up during the exact moment when he—and everyone else—were far enough away from it that no one was killed. Yes, Rebecca was going towards it, but at least it exploded before she was in danger. Almost as if …

  What kind of detonation device had been used? And who would profit the most from blowing up what was surely a well-insured money pit?

  He had to talk to Shay. He stood. “I’ve got to get going.”

  Carmela had already put the bacon on a plate and was just now adding the eggs. “You sit! I made this for you, and you’re going to eat. Maybe you don’t get enough good food and that’s why you’re so patz’ that you don’t find a good woman to marry.” She put the plate in front of him with a thud. “At least I’m glad it’s over between you and the cop.”

  Her last words struck deep. He sat back down. “What do you mean?”

  “It’s over. She told Angie and Serefina you two were finito. It’s about time. Mangia!”

  Rebecca must have talked to them while she was mad at him. Maybe after their steak dinner blow-up. Had she meant it then, or had she meant it last night?

  He took out his cell phone and went to the liar app. He clicked on the information about Rebecca.

  From what the app was telling him, the woman never told the truth at all.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Homicide’s secretary, Elizabeth, made a breathless call to Rebecca’s desk to tell her a “Mr. Fontaine” was waiting for her in reception. When Rebecca went to meet Pierre, she found Elizabeth was gawking at him as if she’d been dumbstruck with love.

  “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 windsh
ield 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 h
im, 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.

  He didn’t, and Shay fired, hitting the hand of the gunman. The gun flew into the air, while the bullet apparently kept going and ended up in his shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He held his shoulder, writhing and crying in pain.