by Joanne Pence
“Don’t try it!” Rebecca warned, turning her gun back on the scar-faced man who was just then reaching behind his waist.
He froze, then put his hands up. “Get out of here,” he said to Richie. “Just remember what I told you.”
Richie nodded at him and went to Rebecca’s side. While Rebecca held the gun on El Grande and his still-whimpering companion, Shay cut the tape off Courtney and lifted her to her feet.
Rebecca took the lead to be sure no surprises waited for them outside, followed by Richie, Courtney, and then Shay, who walked backwards to keep his eyes on the men in the kitchen.
Once out of the house, they hurried to Rebecca’s car and drove away before El Grande called for help.
“Are you okay?” she asked Richie and Courtney as she drove.
“I am, thanks to Richie coming when I called. They made me do it, Rebecca.” Courtney’s tears flowed.
“Richie?” Rebecca asked.
“Yeah, fine.” He sounded angry.
“Thank you so much for helping Courtney,” she told him.
He nodded, but still seemed in no mood to talk.
But Courtney was. “It’s drugs and money laundering,” she said. “I recognized the clothes connection from a similar drug money laundering scheme in the Los Angeles fashion district. It’s been stopped, but it was one of the biggest in the country, and run by the Sureños gang. I went to Easy Street and talked to Dan Peters, the manager. He didn’t seem to anything, but clearly the place is being watched because when I left, a couple of guys grabbed me and put me in the back of a van. I was brought to a house and asked what I know. But I know nothing! They insisted Richie knew, and that I should call him and ask to meet. I … I did.”
“You didn’t try to warn him?” Rebecca asked with a fierce scowl.
“How?” Courtney wailed, then scrunched down a little in the car seat. “They’re scary guys, Rebecca. Really scary.”
Rebecca said nothing more to her as she reached the street where Richie’s and Shay’s cars were, miraculously, still there waiting. She parked and, while Courtney stayed in the car, she got out with Richie and Shay. Other than the bruise, Richie seemed okay. She would have said something about it, but he didn’t look in the mood to hear any sympathy. He’d been picked up by thugs, punched, and was furious. She got it.
She walked with him to his car. Richie faced her. “El Grande seems to think you know more about what’s going on than you do,” he said once he stopped clenching his teeth. “Your sister started asking questions in Easy Street Clothiers that got back to him somehow, and apparently pushed all his paranoid buttons. I tried to explain she was a reporter from Los Angeles, and knows nothing about what goes on in this city. I said he needed to let her go unless he wanted a whole lot more trouble. You don’t take on a cop’s family with impunity.”
“How did he capture you?”
“I was stupid. I knew something weird was going on when I got Courtney’s call, since it came by way of Big Caesar’s. That told me it had nothing to do with you. I thought—assumed—she wanted to talk about Pierre. It wouldn’t be the first time one of his women called, wanting to know if he had a wife or girlfriend hidden away, or if she had any chance at all with him. Anyway, Courtney sounded upset, so I agreed to meet her. El Grande’s men, not Courtney, waited for me.”
“I can’t believe she’d make a call that would put you in danger that way!”
“Believe me, she did what any normal person would do when being threatened and coerced by men like that,” Richie said. “She’s not a cop, Rebecca.”
“I guess.”
“I’ll admit, El Grande’s worse than I imagined. I thought he’d be more reasonable, at least able to listen. Unfortunately, he was neither.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“He thought I was involved with things I’m not.”
“Like what?”
“Everything. Apparently, there’s a war going on. It’s stayed under the police radar, but it’s happening. Somebody powerful is trying to move into the city. Their fingers are in all kinds of things—especially drugs and money laundering, like Courtney said. For some reason, that guy, El Grande, thinks I know who these newcomers are. I kept telling him I have no idea what he’s talking about, but he said everyone told him otherwise. I know my reputation, and sometimes I really hate it.” And he looked straight at Rebecca as he added, “In all kinds of areas.”
She looked at Shay as well as Richie. “Should we all meet somewhere? Talk about this?”
“No. Not now,” Richie said. “I’m going home. And you have a sister to take care of.”
She couldn’t help but suspect Shay would go with Richie to talk in more detail about what had happened. But he was right, she was needed elsewhere.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rebecca drove Courtney to her rental car, and its parking tickets, and then they met at her apartment.
Once inside, tears again filled Courtney’s eyes. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t expect any trouble, and I never expected to put anyone in danger.”
“It’s not your fault, Courtney,” Rebecca said.
She dried her eyes as best she could. “I also see, with the constant danger around this kind of work, it’s not for me. I don’t want to do news. I don’t want to think about, let alone see, heads without bodies, boats blown up, and scary gang leaders threatening to slice off my ears and fingers until I tell them things I don’t even know!” She shuddered. “I’m going back to L.A. I’ll head to the airport now.”
“I’m so sorry it turned out this way,” Rebecca said. “Will you see Pierre before you go?”
“No. I’ll send him a text, explaining it all.”
“I see.”
“He’ll understand. Believe me.”
Rebecca understood as well, even as she realized she was surprisingly sorry to see her sister leave. “Take care of yourself, Courtney.”
“You, too. Be careful! And take care of Richie. He’s my hero. You two … maybe you aren’t quite as different as you think.”
They gave each other a hug and a quick kiss on the cheek, and then Courtney hurried out the door.
o0o
“There she is. Finally!” Carmela Amalfi said to her friend, Geraldine Vaccarino. The two women sat side-by-side on “guest chairs” at Rebecca’s desk.
Rebecca froze just inside Homicide’s doorway, stunned to see them there. After all the emotion and the fear and the potentially deadly gunfight she’d just faced, Richie’s mother was the last person in the world that she wanted to see. She was tempted to cut and run, but Carmela was already giving her a little wave.
She had met Carmela a few times, and had met her friend Geri during a case involving Geri’s deceased sister. The only other person in the room was a sheepish Paavo Smith, who quickly gathered some papers, his jacket and gun.
“You’re in good hands now,” he said a little too cheerfully to Carmela, his wife’s aunt. “I have to get going.” He gave Rebecca an apologetic glance as he dashed past her to the elevator. “They’ve been waiting about an hour.” She was sure he felt every one of the daggers her eyes shot at him.
“He’s a good man, that Paavo,” Carmela said to Geri, watching Paavo disappear into the hallway. “My niece, Angie, did okay, I guess.”
“Handsome, too. And big. I do like a big man,” Geri said and the two ladies chortled.
“Carmela, Geri,” Rebecca interrupted as she reached her desk. She didn’t even try to smile. Or sound particularly civil. “I’m sorry you had to wait. No one told me you were here.”
“I thought you’d be here sooner,” Carmela said. “I hear how you’re always working when you’ve got a case, and I know you have a big one since my son is in danger.”
Rebecca sat. “I’m trying to make sure he understands the danger as well.”
“Good.” Carmela squared her shoulders. “I heard you and Richie don’t see each other anymore. I want to make sure that won’t get in the
way of you working this case.”
Rebecca might have been insulted, but she understood Carmela better than that. “It won’t.”
“Bene. Also, we want to help,” Carmela said. “If there’s anything we can do…”
Geri chimed in. “We were pretty good not so long ago.”
“Yes, you both were.” Rebecca still had nightmares over the dangers those women once faced, whether they realized it or not. She didn’t want to think about Richie’s reaction if anything had happened to them. “I don’t think there’s anything you can do at the moment. But thank you, and I’ll keep you in mind.”
“Richie shouldn’t be alone,” Carmela said.
Rebecca’s mouth dropped, wondering what Carmela could possibly be suggesting.
“You should insist he stay at my house,” Carmela said. “He’ll be fine there. He won’t listen to me, but if the police were to tell him to move in with his mother until the danger passes …” She gave Rebecca a steel-eyed stare.
Rebecca once saw Richie’s old room in his mother’s flat. It looked like a shrine—his toys were still in it. She could just imagine him trying to live there now. “I certainly can suggest it,” she said. And then some devilish impulse took over and Rebecca couldn’t help herself. “Or, maybe he needs someone to stay with him. As protection. A bodyguard. In fact, maybe I’m the one who should—”
“No. I’m sure that won’t be necessary.” Carmela stood, and then Geri did the same. “Just make sure you keep him alive by finding the killer.”
“You know,” Geri said to Carmela, “the girl does have a point about staying with Richie. I mean, she carries a gun and all.”
“Statagitt’!” Carmela said under her breath to Geri. Of course, it wasn’t as if Rebecca could understand her, although she imagined “shut up” would be a good guess. Ironically, from what Richie had told her about the Calabrese dialect Carmela spoke, not many Italians would have understood her either.
“We’re going.” Carmela stood. “I hope you find whoever is trying to hurt Richie right away. I don’t like having to worry about him. Although, come to think of it, I always do.”
“Good-bye, Rebecca,” Geri said.
Carmela waved.
“Ciao!” Rebecca called and couldn’t help but chuckle to herself as she watched Carmela cringe.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The crime scene unit’s forensic report on the explosion on Moss Brannigan’s cruiser was hand-carried to Rebecca’s desk. Plastique, apparently near the engine, had been set off by a cell phone signal. Her eyes narrowed. That might have explained how it exploded when no one was so close they might have been killed. But it didn’t tell her who did it. Or why.
She was pondering those questions when she heard footsteps approaching her desk and looked up.
“Richie.” She felt as if she’d become a stop on the Italian hotline with all the visitors she was getting.
He looked one way and then the other. “Nobody else is here,” he said and then leaned forward to give her a brief kiss, then a longer one.
And, since no one was there, she stood and kissed him back. “I was so worried about you.”
“I was hoping Shay would contact you when I missed our meeting. Still, when you and he came in all armed and dangerous, it was great. What badasses!”
“Good.” She kissed him again, glad for once to be at her desk alone. “So,” she sat down. “What brings you here? I thought you were going home to rest after all that.”
“I did, for a while. But first I wanted to thank you for getting me out of there in one piece, and also to give you some information.”
“What information?”
“I kept thinking about the story Moss Brannigan told you about losing gas on his yacht. It just didn’t make sense to me. Not that I know much about boating, but I do know B.S. And Brannigan knows a lot about boating. Anyway, I asked Shay looked into Brannigan’s financials.
“The guy was about to lose his business. The Celine was a huge money pit for him. It was having some problems that routine maintenance should have taken care of, but it seems he didn’t have the money to do it timely, so the little problems grew into big, expensive ones. In fact, he couldn’t even sell the boat in the shape it was in. I kind of doubt he ever took it under the Golden Gate—that water’s really rough—let alone all the way up to Mendocino. A lot of his problems would be solved if the yacht just went away, and he got money from his insurer. I think, between the arson fires and then the murderer, he saw an opportunity and took it.”
“You’re suggesting he blew up his own boat?”
“It would make sense.”
She agreed. Something about Brannigan’s showboating at the Central Station, and the way he all but called a press conference over his “bachelor” troubles hadn’t sat well with her. “It fits,” she said. “Especially since the bomb was apparently triggered by a cell phone. We’ll get on it with that in mind.”
“Good.” He leaned back and folded his hands behind his head, elbows out. “Any time you want a case solved …”
“Thank you, Mr. Holmes. By the way, my sister went back to L.A.”
“I’m not surprised. El Grande is going to give her nightmares for a long time, I’m afraid.”
“I would have hoped Pierre Fontaine could keep away bad dreams.”
He shook his head. “Courtney knows better than that. Pierre’s the type of guy who’ll wait until he’s around fifty and then marry a twenty-two year old airhead with a lot of money.”
She found it interesting that he knew Courtney would recognize that about Pierre, and she hadn’t. She then told him about Carmela’s visit to her. “So, basically, I’ve met everyone except the elusive Logan Travis and the writer of the article, Connor Gray. He’s the one who was watching the arson fires, and I suspect he’s the one who set them as well. I had been thinking that whoever set the fires also committed the murders and blew up Brannigan’s yacht, but that doesn’t make sense. I think I’ve been looking at this all wrong.”
“How so?” Richie asked.
“First, let’s ignore Brannigan. He’s not involved except to use the ‘bachelor’ troubles to rid himself of an albatross. That leaves us with arsons and murders. The arsons were unprofessional, and would have only done damage to buildings if it weren’t for the unfortunate fellow who died in a fire. The murders were horrific, cold and ugly. Doesn’t sound, to me, like the actions of the same person.”
“You’re right,” Richie said. “But I’m sure Logan Travis doesn’t know anything. Trust me on that. But Connor Gray is another story. You know, he threw all kinds of hints in his write-up about something shady going on. I thought it was just to sell magazines, but what if he had actually stumbled across something?”
“That could be,” Rebecca said. “Liv Wong said he was really excited about the story. He thought it might sell a lot of copies if she could get enough publicity. Unfortunately, her budget simply doesn’t allow that.”
He thought a moment. “But what about free publicity? Just like the six of us had wanted?”
“Arson fires. Of course!” Rebecca shook her head in disgust. “Didn’t I say arsonists like to look at their handiwork?”
“Two arson fires within two days had already caused the Chronicle and other reports to link them to the SF Beat story,” Richie said. “What if there were six fires? That would have meant big publicity for the little schmuck.”
“And planning to set six fires would explain why Connor Gray went skulking around, watching all of you. That would explain why he was caught on camera sneaking around the alley behind Kyoto Dreams.” Her eyes widened. “What if, when he was there, he saw the murder? And the murderer? What if that’s why he’s missing?”
“In other words,” Richie said, “if he saw who killed Shig, he may be dead as well.”
She nodded. “Let me call Eastwood and get an authorization to put out an APB on him.”
He waited while she explained to her boss what w
as happening and why the all-points bulletin was necessary. She got his okay, and then sent out the alert along with the driver’s license photo and one from Connor Gray’s Facebook page. “Now, we wait,” she said when that was taken care of.
“No. Now you send all the information on Easy Street and Kyoto Dreams to Shay. I’ll fill him in on it. There are a few things I’ve got to take care of tonight.”
A cold chill went through her. “Not anything involving El Grande, I hope.”
He hesitated, then said only, “Not directly.”
He gave her a quick good-bye kiss and left.
She tried not to think about what he was up to, and turned instead to gathering information to send to Shay.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rebecca had worried about Richie all night after hearing him say he was going after El Grande, directly or not. She hoped she had misunderstood him. By the next afternoon, she had an excuse to call him and to see how he was doing.
A bit earlier, she had found Logan Travis at the sandwich shop eating his tuna salad on rye, just as her sister had predicted. She followed him home. She knew she could knock on his door, and bully her way inside to question him, but from all she’d heard the man would probably just clam up.
Instead, she phoned Richie and told him she wanted to have him meet her at Travis’s home so she could question him. Richie insisted he talk to Travis first, to smooth the way. She insisted he do so immediately—especially since she was sitting in her car, a half-block from his client’s front door.
Ten minutes later, Richie called back to say Logan Travis was willing to talk to her, as long as Richie was also present. She agreed.
o0o
“What can I help you with?” Travis asked as she and Richie sat in his living room.
“You mentioned that you had someone lurking around your house,” Rebecca said. “Do you have any videos or other information on him?”
“I have some old videos saved,” Travis said. “But the lurker hasn’t been back for some time.” He led them to a room filled with computer monitors, servers, and drives. He typed in a few words, and in a few seconds, a black-and-white screen opened up, and a man in a hoodie was seen creeping through the garden. “That’s the same man I saw at your home,” Rebecca said to Richie.