Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3)

by Joanne Pence

  “The problem,” Richie said, “is the monthly stipend. If the client doesn’t die quickly, Geller could end up making little money, or even taking a loss. That Neda Fourman made it to age eighty-nine probably was costing Geller a bundle. So … guess what’s the only way to assure a profit?”

  “I don’t need to guess,” Rebecca said, disgusted with all she was hearing.

  He nodded. “And that, Inspector, is where you come in.”

  “Would you do a search for Candace Carter?” Rebecca asked Shay. “She may be his latest victim.”

  As Rebecca logged in to her system at work to get Candace’s vital statistics for Shay’s search, Richie ordered Chinese from his favorite take-out place, offering a big tip for a super-speedy delivery.

  Shay easily found information on Candace Carter. She had a life insurance policy from the school district where she worked. The beneficiary was Lucian Tully.

  They had just finished going over the policy on Candace when the doorbell rang. Rebecca went out to the door past the breezeway. She was surprised Richie thought he needed to go with her, until she saw the amount of food he’d ordered. He paid, then carried the box filled with goodies.

  “All that?”

  “I’m hungry. Plus, I like variety. And you know leftover Chinese keeps a few days in the fridge. It makes a great late-night snack.”

  The implication of his statement hung in the air as she followed him back into the apartment.

  o0o

  That Shay hardly ate anything when he was with other people was one of the many strange things about him, in Rebecca’s opinion. Tonight was no different and he left the apartment before Rebecca or Richie were half-way through their meals.

  Richie always had a good appetite, as did she. He wasn’t afraid of ordering adventurous dishes off a Chinese menu, and she was finding each one better than the last. Between food and conversation, she had always found him to be a great dinner companion, which frankly surprised her. Many of the men she chose to date began to bore her after a while. She wondered if the fault was theirs, or if she simply chose the wrong men to date. She knew she’d never choose to date Richie, so why she ended up spending so much time with him was quite baffling.

  When they ate their fill, he even helped her move the leftovers into plastic containers to keep better in the refrigerator.

  She wondered what she was going to do with him once they were done. Stay? Leave? Go to Big Caesar’s? And if it seemed he wanted to stay in her apartment …

  They soon finished cleaning up the kitchen. Rebecca looked at him, not sure what to do.

  “Since there’s nothing more we can do tonight, how about a movie?” he suggested.

  “Here? On TV?”

  “No, big screen. There’s a brand new Captain America film out. Just started yesterday. I’ve been wanting to see it.”

  “You like the comic book movies, do you?” she said with a smile.

  “What, you think I go for chick flicks?”

  “Definitely not.” Getting him out of her apartment sounded like a good idea. They checked the movie schedule and were about to head out the door when Richie’s phone made an odd chiming sound.

  He frowned. “I’ve got to take this,” he said.

  He walked away from her as he answered the call. He rarely took a call when he was with her. His phone buzzed a lot, and most of the time he barely glanced at it. This time, even the ring was strange.

  She did her best to listen in, but he only said a few “yeahs” and “uh huhs.” He looked at her a couple of times, then frowned, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the call had to do with the situation that interested the FBI. “Okay. I’ll get someone over there right away.”

  He closed the connection. With the phone still in hand, he said, “I’ve got to try to catch Shay before he gets home. He’ll need to come back this way to pick up something.”

  “Wait,” she said as he was about to call. “If whatever it is, is nearby, we’ve got a whole hour before the next movie starts. If you want to pick it up yourself, I don’t mind waiting.”

  He checked his watch. “That would be easiest. I’m not sure, though …”

  She decided to press him. “Is it one of your clients? You said there was nothing illegal going on. If that’s true, what’s the problem?”

  “That is true.” He sounded indignant. “Okay. Why not? You’re right. No problem.”

  They drove up to the top of Nob Hill, and then west to a block with a some very attractive older homes and flats. “This is it,” he said. As usual in this part of the city, all the street parking was filled so he parked in front of a driveway. And he wasn’t the only one. “Wait here,” he said, leaving the keys in the car. “If you see a cop giving tickets, just go around the block until I come back.”

  “That’s tempting.” Her hand lightly stroked the wrapped leather steering wheel, and then the top and sides of the leather-covered shift knob.

  He took a deep breath before saying, “See how much I trust you?” He didn’t wait for a response, but got out of the car and sprinted across the street.

  His words made her feel suddenly guilty. He talked about trusting her, and she was here because the FBI expected her to spy on him. She decided she wouldn’t do it. She’d tell Richie the FBI had asked her to report on him and his deals, and she’d tell Brandon Seymour she refused to take part in any of this.

  Somehow, she could see both men having a major eruption over such words. Well, too bad.

  She shifted so she was leaning against the door to more easily watch the beige building Richie had entered.

  Maybe she should take the Porsche for a spin, she thought. She’d probably never get another chance after admitting to Richie she was supposed to spy on him for the FBI, and had been tempted to do so.

  She turned to see if anyone giving parking tickets was in the area when, instead, she saw two men on the opposite side of the street walking in the direction of the beige building. Something about them, something not right, caught her attention.

  She might not have the people skills that Richie had, but she did have a cop’s sense for danger and bad guys, and that sense was now on high alert. Those guys surely had nothing to do with Richie—that would be a weird coincidence—but she watched them nonetheless, glad she had her gun in her handbag.

  She reached for it now as they slowed down not far from her. She couldn’t see anything about them in the dark street, only that they didn’t have the jaunty, light movements of teenagers.

  They stopped at the same beige building Richie went into. So coincidences do happen. A few steps led from the sidewalk up to a covered entryway. From the car, she couldn’t see the actual doorway to know if it was open or shut, or when Richie was leaving his client’s home.

  Taking care not to let the car door make any noise, Rebecca got out of the Porsche, taking the keys with her. She swung the door closed but didn’t even let it latch so as not to alert the two skulkers. She stooped behind the car and waited to be sure they hadn’t heard her.

  As a muni bus drove down the street, she used it to shelter her as she darted closer to the beige building, and then ducked behind a minivan.

  Now, the two sneaks stood with one on each side of the entry, and waited.

  She held her gun. A door banged shut and then Richie stepped onto the sidewalk, a flat box tucked under his arm.

  The would-be robbers sprang in front of him, both brandishing handguns. “Hand it over,” one ordered.

  “Easy, guys,” Richie said. “This isn’t worth getting killed over.”

  One of them laughed. “Who’s going to kill us? You? I don’t think so.”

  “No—the cops who are watching.”

  Now both laughed. “Yeah, ri—”

  “Police! Drop your weapons!” Rebecca shouted from behind the van.

  The men both glanced in the direction of her voice, and then sped off in the opposite direction.

  Richie backed up and leaned against the
building, one hand over his heart, the other still clutching the box.

  She ran to him. “You all right?”

  “Nothing a stiff shot of bourbon won’t cure. I hate guns when they’re pointed at me.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “Come on,” she said. “I think we don’t want to go to the movies. We want to go back to my place to see what’s so interesting that those guys were ready to kill for it.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “How did you know those men weren’t going to shoot you and try a standoff with the police?” Rebecca asked as she got into Richie’s car. If they decided to fight it out, it might have turned ugly.”

  Richie didn’t want to think about it. He started the engine. “Too many questions when my heart’s still in overdrive.”

  “Just one then, how did you know I wasn’t still sitting down the street in the Porsche?”

  “Maybe I had faith in you,” he answered.

  “Blind faith,” she said with a shake of the head.

  “Not really.”

  He mainly had faith that she’d been watching and listening. In fact, he’d been stunned to hear her voice so close, and that her reaction was so quick. Thank God!

  They returned to her apartment. Fortunately, she did have bourbon, and he did need it. His hands were still shaking from those two morons holding a gun on him.

  He drank his glass down in one gulp, and was surprised to see her do the same. He realized she, too, had been shaken up seeing guns drawn.

  He sat on the sofa, and she sat beside him.

  “So,” she said, pointing at the brown-paper wrapped box on her coffee table, “what is it?”

  Her breathing sounded back to normal. His might have returned as well except that she was so close. “The box is actually a wooden crate. Inside, carefully packaged so it isn’t harmed in any way, is an Assyrian relief on alabaster from about eight-hundred B.C.”

  The box was about a foot and a half square, and four inches tall. “Sounds valuable.”

  “Extremely. Mainly because almost all of these reliefs are now in museums. It’s almost impossible for a private collector to get one. One was sold at auction a few years back for over eleven million dollars. This one is ‘only’ worth about two-hundred grand.”

  “My God! Definitely, don’t open it.”

  Richie saw that she was surprised by the price, but nothing else. That had to mean the FBI agent who’d been watching Claire Baxter was very likely watching him as well. Seeing Rebecca with him, he probably approached her. He wondered how much they had already told her.

  “Why did your client give it to you tonight?” Rebecca asked.

  “My client’s an art dealer. Claire Baxter. But I suspect you know that.” She lifted her eyebrows in surprise, but he continued. “Claire is well known in the business—a sterling reputation for only having the highest quality pieces with no questions ever about their authenticity or anything else.”

  “Claire is the red-haired woman I once saw next to your car?”

  “She is noticeable that way,” he said. “It all started some two or three weeks ago. She called asking me to check out a new art dealer, an Iraqi, who had some antique pieces for sale. Claire is big with the Silicon Valley crowd who want to invest their money in tangible things that should increase in value—art and antiques, especially museum quality pieces. And they don’t care if they’re overpaying if they find something they really want.”

  “I’ve heard that about them,” Rebecca said.

  “I had a guy I know look into the dealer. He didn’t like what I saw. The dealer’s paperwork was incomplete. I suggested Claire back off. She chose to believe the Iraqi when he said he couldn’t get more information from a war-torn country. His argument was plausible, but my source still nixed him. The dealer offered Claire a twenty-percent commission, and that was that.”

  “Money talks, as usual,” Rebecca said.

  “Exactly. So Claire was working on sales of three pieces of gold jewelry at over fifty grand each, when the FBI came to call, saying the items she sold were stolen from a museum in Baghdad. She freaked and came looking for me. Shay told her I was at some Geary Street theater and apparently she drove to each one looking for my car. But when she saw you, she split.”

  “She’s got a mess on her hands,” Rebecca said. “And I guess the FBI confiscated the pieces she was trying to sell.”

  “Oh, yes,” Richie said. “Which means the smugglers want her to pay for them. But that’s the least of her problems. The FBI wants her to help them capture the man she’s been in contact with. But she knows that if the Iraqi, or whatever he is, gets wind of her working with them, he’ll kill her. She tried to tell the FBI she wants no part of them, but the agent said she’s their best lead, and if she won’t help, she’ll be charged as an accessory and put in prison.”

  “So she’s between a rock and a hard place,” Rebecca said. “Given that, I’d rather take my chances working with the FBI and hoping they’ll protect me.”

  “I agree. I told her to have nothing more to do with the Iraqi. What little I could find tells me the person she’s working with is a front man for an entire smuggling ring. The situation is too volatile for her to face alone. I told her I’d talk to the man in charge and find out what they want to make them leave her alone, but keep her out of Federal prison.”

  “But doing that puts you in danger.”

  He simply nodded.

  She realized that in his explanation of how he made his money, he left out one very important detail—his work easily put him in danger. He wasn’t breaking the law, but along its edges were many not so nice people who could turn deadly in an instant.

  “It stinks, Richie,” she said finally. “Do you have any idea who the two men were waiting for you outside her home?”

  “One way to find out.” He picked up his cell phone and called Claire Baxter’s number. The phone rang, then went to message. “It’s Richie. Call me.”

  He put the phone on the coffee table, and stared at it, expecting her to call back right away.

  “Want more bourbon or coffee or food?” Rebecca asked, then with a smirk added, “I’ve got a lot of left-over Chinese.”

  “No, nothing. Thanks.”

  Five minutes later, he called again with the same result. “It makes no sense that she isn’t answering or calling. I know she was expecting to hear from me.” Richie stood. “I’m going back to her house.”

  Rebecca put on her jacket and joined him. “Let’s go.”

  It only took a few minutes to reach Claire’s condo. Richie rang the doorbell, and when he received no answer, he turned the doorknob. To his surprise, the door opened.

  “Claire?” Richie said as he started up the stairs.

  “Wait!” Rebecca took her firearm from her handbag and motioned for Richie to get behind her. One glance at her weapon reminded him of the two men waiting for him the last time he’d been here. He nodded and did as she wanted. If he lived somewhere other than San Francisco, he might be able to get a concealed carry permit and not have to hide behind Rebecca, which he hated. Here, however, hen’s teeth were more common than concealed carry permits for private citizens.

  As quietly as possible, they went up to Claire’s living quarters.

  The top of the stairs opened onto the living room. It looked as if some sort of struggle had taken place—a couple of chairs and tables were sitting in awkward positions as if they’d been shoved around. But also, several places on the walls that once held paintings no longer did, and large empty areas gaped on the display shelves.

  Rebecca faced him, her expression questioning. He shook his head.

  She led the way as they searched the dining room, kitchen, bath and two bedrooms. Claire Baxter wasn’t in any of them.

  They returned to the living room, and Rebecca put her gun back into her handbag. “I imagine those walls and shelves weren’t bare when you were here earlier?”

  “The room looked like a showplace
,” Richie said. “Beautiful furniture and art. This is a real shame.”

  “I wonder if Baxter ran when whoever robbed her came in.”

  Richie took out his cell phone and punched in a number. A phone rang in the room. His heart sank. They found Claire’s phone under the sofa.

  “Don’t touch it,” Rebecca said. “It might have the fingerprints of the robbers—and likely kidnappers.”

  Richie used tongs from the kitchen to pick up the phone and then put it in a baggie. “What are you doing?” Rebecca asked.

  “Giving it to Shay. He’ll be able to find out who she’s been talking to. It could help us find her.”

  “You can’t do that! There might be some vital evidence for the police. I’m calling this in.”

  He put his hand over her phone. “Calling it in to who? We don’t know that anything happened to her. Plus, she’s an adult which means there’s some sort of waiting period before she’s officially missing.”

  “But you said her home has been burglarized, the furniture knocked around.”

  He stared at her. “Did I? Hmm. I don’t remember that. For all I know, she’s messy, and she might have taken her things to sell them. Buying and selling art—that’s her business.”

  “What if something happens to her while you’re playing games?” Rebecca cried. “What if she’s killed?”

  “The fastest way to get her killed is to have the police start snooping around. Besides, isn’t the FBI watching her? They might already know where she is.”

  “Richie—”

  He walked down the stairs. “I’m going to find Shay. Get him started right away. And I’ll get Vito to keep an eye on this place in case someone comes back.”

  She followed.

  They reached the sidewalk. “But first I’m going to drop you off back at your apartment.”

  She frowned. “Not on your life.”

  “I don’t know where this is going to lead, but I do know it’s not the sort of thing for you to even know about, let alone take part in. So, yes, you’re going home.”