by Joanne Pence
After a long silence, Shay said to Richie, “On a completely different subject, have you heard if Rebecca identified the skeleton yet?”
“No, I haven’t. As I said, I haven’t seen or even talked to her much lately. Maybe I’ve stayed away too long,” he added with a quick glance at Vito, then again faced Shay. “Why do you want to know?”
Shay shrugged. “No reason. I’m just curious about these new databases the police are using.”
Richie nodded. He usually enjoyed being with his friends, but nothing was enjoyable these days.
He missed Rebecca. He missed their easy rapport, even when she challenged him. Missed the need to be constantly alert and vigilant around her. Missed her touch.
Hell, he missed everything about her.
o0o
After spending the afternoon trying to find out more about Yussef Najjar with little success, Rebecca went to the shooting range for some practice, and afterward to the gym to work off some of the pent-up energy and anxiety she was feeling over the situation with Richie.
She simply didn’t know how to deal with his issue. After talking to Jim Taylor, she could understand Richie’s suspicions about Isabella’s death. The chance was great that there was nothing to it—probably 80% that the death was an accident as had been determined—yet questions were unavoidable.
She had returned home, showered, and was trying to decide if she was hungry enough to cook up some dinner, when she heard a knock on her apartment door.
Kiki, she thought. The idea of seeing her friend, who would probably want to head out somewhere to eat, was a welcome one. She swung open the door.
It was Richie. She wanted to wrap her arms around him, but thoughts of all she had learned about his former fiancée stopped her. She stood there gawking at him for far too long, and then invited him in.
His expression was grim. Instead of kissing her or greeting Spike—things he usually did when he walked into her home—he said only, “We’ve got to talk.” And then he began to pace.
“All right.” Nervous, she went over to the sofa and sat. Spike perched at her side, and as Richie walked back and forth, their eyes followed his steps, their heads all but synchronized. The room was so small, he could only take a few steps before he needed to turn around and go the other way.
Finally he spoke. “The more I’ve thought about it, the more concerned I’ve become about your safety.”
That was not what she expected to hear. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“You know very well what I mean. You know you’re in danger.” He stopped and faced her, then ran a hand over the back of his head, a sure sign of anxiety with him.
“Are you talking about that sniper? That was weeks ago!”
“Yes, and just last week you were left warning notes on your car and on your front door, and earlier this week, a truck could have killed you. Maybe even tried to kill you.”
“How do you know about that?”
“That doesn’t matter!” He was waving his arms now. “I think it’s all connected. You’ve got a target on your back.”
“Don’t be—”
“Stop! Just get your things, and Spike’s, and come stay at my place until we find out what’s going on.” He clamped his mouth shut and waited for her answer.
She drew in her breath, then softly, calmly stated, “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m beyond serious,” he said, practically seething.
She got up, went to the kitchen, took out two stemmed glasses and poured them each a glass of claret. “Richie, sit down.”
He didn’t sit, but she handed him his glass anyway as she returned to the sofa. “Yes, something happened. Yes, I was in danger. But I’m being careful, and watchful. If I get any idea I’m in danger again, I’ll go to your place and hide. Okay?”
He put the wine on the coffee table and continued pacing. “No, it’s not okay. It’s not enough.” With an exasperated sigh, he dropped onto the sofa beside her, and put his hands on her arms, facing her squarely. “I’d like you to move in with me.”
“I said that when, or if—”
“Permanently.”
Her breath caught, then she put down her glass as well. There were times she’d been crazy enough to be ready to follow him anywhere, but this wasn’t one of them. It took a moment before she found her voice. “Now, I know you’re joking.”
“I’ve never been more serious.”
She couldn’t help but wish his words were true. She suspected he believed they were, but she also suspected, no, she knew, there was more to it.
His hands felt warm on her arms, and his gaze was too deep, too caring, for her to say what she needed to. The subject had been on her mind for a few days, and this was—unfortunately—the time to bring it up.
Much as she hated to.
She broke his hold and walked to the kitchen. With both hands flat on the counter, she took a deep breath before she turned to face him again. The confusion, even the hurt, in his eyes tore at her. Her mouth felt dry. “Richie, I know that you’ve been looking into Isabella’s death.”
“How—?”
She put up her hand and shook her head, stopping him from asking. “I understand that, given what happened to her, you’re afraid something will happen to me as well. But you can’t keep me in bubble-wrap at your house. That’s not who I am.”
“You think I’m projecting her onto you? Not in the least! You two couldn’t be more different. I’m worried about you. Only about you.” His gaze was so intense it rocked her.
She was so, so tempted to take him up on his offer. She needed to get the conversation away from her, and she could think of one sure way to do it. She folded her arms, all but hugging herself against the waves of emotion emanating from him. “Did you ever figure out where Isabella was going that morning?”
He looked shocked by the question. “How do you know it was an issue?”
“I looked at the accident file. It hung like a huge question mark over the whole case. That, and a call someone made to nine-one-one saying two cars were speeding on the bridge approach.”
“What call?” he asked, the color gone from his face.
“You hadn’t heard?” That surprised her, and by his reaction, she knew he hadn’t. “It might not have had anything to do with her accident—or had everything to do with it. Two cars were apparently seen speeding along the Marina Green heading for the tunnel to the bridge. The call was made only about ten minutes before another call reporting the accident.” She paused. “The fog was so heavy that morning, no one was able to clearly see what was going on.”
He swallowed hard. “Yes, I remember that fog. It still blanketed everything after I got the call from her parents and drove out to spot where the accident took place. I wanted—needed—to see what had happened, but it had been all cleared up. Can’t inconvenience the commuters, after all.” He stopped talking as memories hit. “No one said anything about another car, or cars, or a nine-one-one call.”
“There wasn’t much to it. Not enough information to follow-up.”
He steepled his hands, his eyes bleak. His breathing came fast, too fast. “So Isabella might have been out there with some other driver—someone she was trying to get away from. That means she might have known, tried to get away, that she was scared, so damned scared…”
“No.” Rebecca sat beside him, wishing that she could make it right for him, but that was beyond anyone’s ability. She lightly rubbed his shoulder. “We don’t know that. The speeders could have been long gone before Isabella ever reached the area. We don’t know how much time passed between the person seeing the speeders and reporting them. When pressed for information—type of car, license, etc.—he said he didn’t know because of the fog, and then hung up. No one investigated beyond looking at traffic cams and seeing nothing.”
“Except that there were few skid marks,” he murmured.
So, she thought, the police told him that much—probably to help ma
ke the case Isabella most likely fell asleep at the wheel. She folded her hands on her lap. “The report could have been about anyone, even a couple of kids deciding to drag-race through the tunnel thinking it was empty.”
“At six in the morning? I doubt it.”
Good point, Rebecca thought. “We have no idea what happened, Richie.”
Richie nodded. “Yeah, so I heard.”
More than anything, she wished she hadn’t brought this up. It was too personal, too raw. Perhaps it always would be. She hurt to see him this way.
“Stay for dinner,” she said, trying to sound “normal” as she headed for the kitchen, knowing full well that normal might never be theirs again. “I went grocery shopping today and bought some steaks and potatoes. While I cook, try to relax, at least a little. You look exhausted.”
She went into the kitchen, took the steaks out of the refrigerator, and placed them on the counter. She turned to smile at him, happy they were together again, even though the tension in the air was trying to keep them apart. She hoped to see his irrepressible smile, his mesmerizing gaze following her every move, but she saw none of that. He sat on the sofa, his head bowed. She ached to see him that way. “I’m so sorry, Richie. I truly am,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have looked at the files. It wasn’t my business. I thought I was helping, and all I’ve done is made you feel worse. I—”
“No! Stop, Rebecca.” In an instant, he stood before her, his dark gaze capturing hers. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “You’re a detective. Investigating is what you do.”
She appreciated his words, but his understanding only made her feel worse. “I didn’t mean to stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong. I feel so bad.”
He put his arms around her. “I probably would have asked you to read the file one of these days, anyway, especially if Shay’s investigation into Superior Savings Bank turns up anything questionable.”
She took a deep breath, gripping his shoulders. Then she lifted her hands to his head, her fingers stroking the gentle waves of his soft, ink-black hair. “I care about you, Richie,” she whispered. “So very much.”
“I know you do.” He kissed her temple, the tip of her nose, and when his lips captured hers, the tension between them withered away.
She had no idea how long they stood there, caught up in a kiss she wasn't sure she ever wanted to end, but slowly she pulled back, still locked in his embrace. “Hungry?” she asked.
“Are you?”
“In more ways than one.” She smiled. “But for now, let’s cook.”
He nodded and swung open a lower cabinet door to get a frying pan. But then he stopped and regarded her with a knowing gaze.
She was puzzled. “Now what?”
“You don’t normally go out and buy steaks for yourself for dinner. So this means you were thinking about me being here with you. Much as you say you don’t see us working out as a couple, Rebecca, your actions speak a lot louder than your words.”
She gave a slight nod, admitting everything he said was true.
“And, as for the invitation to move in with me, it still stands.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“In fact,” he took the steaks from the counter, put them back into the refrigerator, and took her in his arms again, “those will make a fine dessert, but I’ve got a much better idea about our main course.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Even after insistent urging, including bribes of foot and back massages whenever her heart desired, Rebecca refused to move into Richie’s home. Still, they spent the weekend together. Something told her—a warning almost—not to let this moment slip through her fingers, to allow herself one weekend at least, a carefree and, yes, a romantic time. A calm before the storm, perhaps. But for once, she listened to her heart.
She found every moment filled with joy, once they put aside fruitless discussions of Isabella’s accident or potential dangers to Rebecca. Of course, the topics were on both their minds, but she needed to simply enjoy the beauty of the world around her, and not dwell on its ugliness. And so did Richie.
On Sunday, they walked around Fisherman’s Wharf, and when Richie learned Rebecca had never taken a boat tour of the bay, he whisked her onto one. They held hands as wind whipped through their hair. They stole kisses when no one was looking, and even when others were watching. They laughed at the antics of sea lions basking in the sun, and at nothing at all.
A part of her wondered if she wasn’t being foolish not taking Richie up on his offer to move in with him. But that was a commitment she wasn’t sure she was ready to make, particularly since she felt he wouldn’t have asked her if he wasn’t worried about her being in danger. If she were to live with him, it had to be for a far better reason than a haunted sense of protectiveness.
On Monday morning, she walked into work wearing her best poker face. If she came in happy from her weekend, the teasing from her fellow detectives would have been merciless.
She hadn’t even finished her morning coffee before she received a call from Patti Flynn, her State Department contact. Flynn could find no information that Yussef Najjar had traveled to Lebanon. That wasn’t to say he hadn’t traveled there using a fake identification of some sort, which was becoming increasingly common when dealing with certain Middle Eastern countries. All she could attest to was that Najjar hadn’t traveled under his own name.
Flynn had continued to look into the matter, however, and called up information about the family. Some twenty-eight years earlier, at age fifteen, Yussef Najjar entered the US with his mother, Fairuz, and an older brother, Gebran. They had gained admittance to the US through the Fairuz's brother, who petitioned the government to bring his widowed sister and her two teenage sons into the country. Flynn had a San Francisco address for Gebran and Fairuz Najjar.
Rebecca gave Sutter the information, and the two decided it was time to pay a visit to give Yussef’s relatives the bad news—and to see if one of them might not be the prime suspect in Yussef’s murder.
Rebecca was about to leave the office with Sutter when a call came into her from Jim Taylor, the retired traffic investigator. He was calling to say he had remembered something that had struck him as strange at the time. A few months after the accident, he had contacted the bank to finish up a few loose ends before he sent the folder off to be filed. To his surprise, the man who had been Isabella’s assistant, Cory Egerton, no longer work there. His coworkers hadn't been able to reach him by phone or email. A woman in the office said she'd dropped by his apartment, only to find that he'd moved and left no forwarding address. Taylor had tried to locate him, but without luck. Eventually, he gave up and simply filed away the case.
o0o
Richie drove into Ross Alley and parked in one of his favorite places—the red zone in front of Canton Souvenirs, a wholesale supplier of tourist kitsch. Since street parking was essentially nonexistent in Chinatown, the owner of the warehouse had had the curb painted red but he allowed his friends to use the space for short visits to the area. Others who parked there found their cars towed away almost immediately. Richie’s car never was.
From Ross Alley, Richie walked a block to the Five Families Association, and asked to speak to Milton Jang, its current head.
He was shown to Jang’s office. Jang placed his cigarette and its holder on an ashtray as he rose from his desk chair, one hand outstretched to shake Richie’s. He had a slight but steely build, with withered skin and dyed black hair. “Ah, my friend. To what do I owe this honor?”
Richie grinned. Jang always spoke that way, knowing Richie was the one who should feel honored to have been let in to see him so quickly. “The honor is mine,” Richie said, playing his role in the ritual as their hands met.
Jang smirked and walked over to some comfortable chairs, gesturing for Richie to take one of them as he poured them each a snifter of brandy.
Richie was always amazed by the beauty of Jang’s office. The ceiling was carved teak, the walls mostly filled
with scrolls and paintings, while étagères housed porcelains and vases from long-ago dynasties. In addition, the room’s carved wooden furniture pieces had been made in San Francisco’s Chinatown, and the gold display pieces all came from the California Gold Rush of 1849 that brought the first Chinese immigrants to “Gold Mountain,” as they called their new home.
“I hear your nightclub is doing very well.” Jang placed the brandy on a small table between them and sat.
“You should come see it,” Richie said, “as my guest. Bring friends and family, as many as you’d like.”
“Perhaps one day, although I rarely leave my home and office.”
“I can see why.” Richie looked over the room with a nod of admiration.
“So, what brings you here when you should be out with that lovely homicide detective I’m told you are seeing?” Jang asked.
“She’s the reason I’m here,” Richie said. “You have influence in city politics.”
“Who, me?” Jang said with a big smile.
“Oh, how could I forget? You never get involved in anything that isn’t saintly,” Richie said. “Let’s cut the bull. This is serious—like, life and death serious.”
Jang’s eyebrows rose with interest. “Go on.”
Richie explained why he thought someone in city government had been involved in phony real estate deals, and Rebecca had gotten dangerously close to uncovering it.
Jang nodded. “Crooked money, crooked politicians. What else is new? So, why are you here?”
“Because I’m hoping you know the people involved.”
“I had nothing to do with any of that,” Jang insisted.
“I agree,” Richie said. “But you know many of the people involved in this kind of business. I need names.”
Jang smirked. “Sometimes my memory is not good.”
Richie’s expression hardened. “If we were just talking about money and screwy real estate deals, I wouldn’t give a damn either. Who the hell cares? We’ve worked together and did pretty well more than once. But this is different. There’s a lot more going on—and whatever it is has put Inspector Mayfield in danger. It’s centered in city government. The mayor’s chief of staff didn’t commit suicide. He was murdered.”