Carolina watched with mouth agape. “Jeez, you two are sure a couple of lovebirds. Don't want to let go even for a minute.”
“Yeah, that's us,” Richie said with a devilish smirk as he pressed his shoulder against Rebecca's, his face close to hers, and his voice a low rumble. “Lovebirds.”
“Turkey!” Rebecca whispered to him as Carolina went to the bar across the room.
“Mud hen!”
“Capon!”
There was that smirk again, and one eyebrow lifted. “Don't count on it.”
She abruptly shut her mouth as Carolina approached with their drinks, still in bottles and cans. She put a can opener on the table. Rebecca and Richie's eyes met. Who knew it took two hands to open a beer bottle or soda can? Rebecca held the containers while Richie opened them. Carolina observed them in wide-eyed amazement.
An open can of Diet Pepsi was on a lamp table and she sat in the chair beside it.
“So Richie, you wanted to see me about something?” Carolina murmured as she kept perusing Rebecca from head to toe and back again with a bewildered what-can-he-possibly-see-in-her question in her eyes.
Rebecca would have loved to wipe that smugly stupid look off Carolina's face, but she kept her mouth shut, knowing that was the best way to learn something, which was, after all, why she was here.
Richie gulped down some beer, then nodded. “All I can figure is Danny must be involved in this thing—whatever it is. I'm hoping he might have said something to you. Was he having trouble with anyone? You women have a sixth sense about your men, especially if he was seeing another woman. Did you get any feeling like that about Danny?”
“God, Richie, I wish I could help you, but everybody loved Danny.”
He sipped more beer and let a moment pass. “I know you'd like to think that, but the truth is, Danny was a bookie. He took money from people and placed bets. That meant that if they lost, they had to pay up. Sometimes people don't like to shell out when the money's due, you know?”
“You're right.” She walked to the bar and poured a whole lot of bourbon directly into her Pepsi can, not spilling a drop, as if she had done it often. “I don't like to think of that stuff, but you're right.”
“Somebody trashed my house,” Richie said. “They tried to blow it up. Someone shot my date in Danny's office. Now, nobody seems to know where Danny is, and I'm supposed to take the fall for the dead woman's murder. All that happening within a few hours has to mean it's all connected. What if Danny is involved? What if he's in trouble? In danger? Look, if some guys are after him and I don't stop them, they might come here. They might be after you next.”
Carolina's eyes rounded like saucers. “Oh, God! You think so, Richie?”
He nodded.
She swirled the can, brows crossed as if from the strain of thinking. “Danny acted worried, but I'm having trouble remembering why. It was, you know, like not all that interesting to me.” She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “He said, 'Boy, this'll fry 'em.' Then he'd laugh.”
“What would fry who?” Richie asked.
She took a few swigs, then brightened. “Maybe you can call me sometime, and I might remember.”
“Listen,” Richie said, “I don't have time for games.”
“Aw, Richie!”
He spoke the next words slowly. “Carolina, tell me right now. I won't ask again.” A chill went down Rebecca's back at his harsh and threatening tone. She had never seen that side of him before.
Carolina paled and studied him to see if he was joking. He wasn't. “Hey, now I remember!” she cried, then hurried across the room to sit on the sofa beside Richie, thigh to thigh, her hand on his knee. The sofa had become pretty crowded. “He worried about his book.” She smiled, thrilled she could be of help.
“Book?” Richie said. “You mean like his records? His bookie info?”
“No, not that kinda book. A real book. He was writing a book about his life, and gambling, and all the big shots he knew—that kinda tell-all stuff. He even thought about putting in a epi—, uh, epilode? Epilodge? Epi—”
“Epilogue?” Rebecca ventured.
“Yeah, one a those, to give pointers about how to beat the odds. Then, he was gonna retire off of all the money he'd make on the book. And even royalties. And maybe a movie deal. He figured it'd be a best seller for a long time, and him and me could live someplace nice like Aruba. I didn't believe that last part, but he was nice to say it, doncha think?”
“Nice.” Richie pondered her words. He glanced at Rebecca. She could tell from his expression how potentially dangerous it could be to write a book about his life as a bookie, especially if he planned to name those so-called “big shots.” Danny couldn't be that stupid. Carolina had to be wrong. “Wait a minute,” Richie said. “Danny was a great guy, but he was no writer. I mean, he'd send a text message and it'd be damn dull. He was a numbers guy, not a wordsmith.”
“Yeah, that's what worried him. But he found somebody to work with. He called him something like, uh, his ghost. Yeah, that's right. His ghost. Jeez, Richie, do you think that was, like, prophetic?”
CHAPTER SIX
“What's going on, Mayfield?” Bill Sutter demanded hotly. Rebecca had shut off her cell phone ringer when she went into Carolina Fontana's apartment, but while there she had felt it vibrate every five minutes. Once outside, she found a flurry of missed calls from her partner.
“I'm sorry, Bill,” she said as she and Richie walked along the sidewalk towards her SUV.
“I need you here! We're the weekend on-call team!”
“Any new cases?”
“Not yet, but at any minute—”
“I know! I'm sick, but I'll be there as soon as I can.”
“Sick? Then why the hell didn't you answer the door when I sent Mike Hennessy over to check on you?” Sutter yelled into the phone. She had never heard him that angry before, but then, she had never before done anything to make him angry at her. She held the phone away from her ear as Sutter continued. Richie moved closer so he could listen in.
“Are you going to tell me where you are?” Sutter continued. “Or do I have to send out a posse to find you? It was interesting, by the way, that Hennessy didn't need to be told your address. But that aside, he reported that when you didn't answer, he knocked on your landlord's door. The landlord told him you had some visitors and probably went out with them. What the hell's that supposed to mean? What visitors? Where's 'out'? I want you here, Mayfield!”
“I went to the doctor's,” she said calmly. “I shut off the phone so he could listen to my heart and lungs without ring tones messing up my physical.”
Richie tried not to laugh.
“Forget it, Mayfield! Your landlord said you didn't look or act sick. You've never been to a doctor in all the time I've known you—and you've come to work in such bad shape the chief had to order you to go home. What are you up to?”
“Look, I'll be there as soon as I can, all right?”
There was a long pause. “Something's not right,” Sutter said. “This isn't like you at all! For all I know, you're in danger! You check in to Homicide or the nearest station within the hour. That's an order from your senior partner.”
“I don't know if it'll be possible.”
“That's what worries me. One hour!”
She hung up and then faced Richie. “You heard?”
He nodded. “One more place we need to go, then you can go calm Sutter down.”
Whatever could he mean by that? she wondered. “Okay.”
He waited as she unlocked the SUV, and then slid over from the driver's side to the passenger seat.
She got in. Awkwardly, they fastened their seat belts. “So,” she said, “now that you've spoken to Carolina Fontana, what do you think has happened to Danny Pasternak?”
He turned to her, head cocked, those heavy-lidded eyes studying her. “Right now, I'm more interested in what Bill Sutter said. Why does Officer Hennessy know where you live?”
o0o
&
nbsp; Rebecca pulled into a gas station then headed straight for the women's room, Richie in tow. Fortunately, it was empty. He might have the bladder of a bull, but she didn't. When the two of them came out, a woman stood waiting to use the room. She gawked at Richie then Rebecca. “I should tell the manager!” she said.
“Don't bother, lady, he's my prisoner.” Rebecca held up her cuffed wrist.
“Prisoner of love.” Richie waggled his brows and pointed at Rebecca. “She's very kinky.”
The woman gasped, unsure which to believe, eyed the bathroom warily, then turned around and hurried back to her car.
After another brief skirmish at Rebecca's SUV, she and the offensive one came to an understanding: Richie would crawl over the seats to get in, and she would crawl over them to get out. Then they drove away.
Richie phoned Shay and sent him over to Carolina's apartment to see if Danny left any paperwork or computer information there.
“Why didn't you do it while you were there?” Rebecca asked once he hung up the phone.
“Because Shay is better at stuff like that, and I always use the best. Go straight, then left onto Columbus Avenue.”
“But why would Carolina allow Shay to go through Danny's things?”
He tugged at his ear. “He can be persuasive.”
“He'll threaten her?”
“Of course not.” He shrugged. “But he's got his ways.”
She didn't like the sound of that.
Richie sat fiddling with the radio, looking in the almost empty glove box, adjusting the outside mirror on the passenger side even though she was the one driving and had found it perfect. Did the guy never stop touching things? He was truly getting on her nerves. Or, it might be more that the longer this crazy situation with him went on, the more frayed her nerves were becoming. If she got caught, she was in for a world of hurt with her job. Or, her former job was more like it.
“What does Shay do?” she asked, trying to think of anything besides how much trouble she could be in.
Suddenly every muscle-twitching, ear-tugging, knuckle-cracking, hair-raking movement of his stopped and he stared at her. “Why the interest?” he asked. “Although, I hear a lot of women are attracted to his looks. At first, anyway.”
“And then?” Rebecca asked, curious.
His gaze turned enigmatic. “Then, they get to know him.”
o0o
Richie directed Rebecca into a street lined with two and three-story flats near the very top of Russian Hill. One of them had an open garage door and Richie directed her inside.
“Let's go,” Richie said, picking up the sweater they had used to hide the handcuffs from Carolina.
Rebecca refused to move. “Not unless you tell me where we're going.”
“I think it's better if you're surprised.”
She counted to ten. “No, it isn't.”
He took one look at her expression and said, “Okay. We're going to see my mother. Her name's Carmela.”
“What? You want to pay a visit now?” She climbed over the seats to get out of the car
“I don't want to. I promised. She's worried about me.” He led her out the back of the garage to a little yard filled with dead shrubs. An unlocked gate led from that yard to the one butted against it. From there, they went into the garage of the building it belonged to. An interior door opened to a large foyer with a maroon-colored carpet and wooden banisters that led upstairs to two flats. Rebecca felt he was leading her through a maze.
Finally, Richie took her hand and once again draped the sweater he carried over their joined hands and handcuffs to hide them from view. He smoothed his hair, his shirt, straightened his collar, and then knocked on the door of the top flat.
Almost immediately the door flew open. A small, older woman with short, dyed, copper-colored hair and a hawk-like nose stood glaring at Richie. “Richie, what's the matter with you getting mixed up with such people! Are you all right?” Carmela Amalfi put her hands on his shoulders as she studied him head to toe at the same time as she scrutinized Rebecca and, in typical Italian mother fashion, clearly found her wanting.
“Like I said, it's not my fault, and I'm okay.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek.
She pushed him away and faced Rebecca.
“Who's this?”
“This is my friend, Reba.”
Rebecca took a half-step forward. “Hello, Mrs. Amalfi.”
Carmela gave her a curt nod, her eyes narrow. “You're so blond. Your people must come from northern Italy. Milanese, maybe?”
Rebecca glanced at Richie with a Now what? look.
He swallowed hard. “She's not Italian, Ma.”
“Oh? You didn't tell me her last name. What am I, a mind reader? You said you were looking for a nice Italian girl, so I thought … seeing as how you two can't seem to let go of each other and all.” She grimaced, but also appeared befuddled as her gaze locked on the sweater covering their hands.
“I know, I know.” He kissed her cheek again then put his arm around her waist as all three of them walked into the flat. They stood in a hallway with the living room and dining room at one end, the bedrooms at the other, and the kitchen and bathroom in the middle. He backed away from Carmela. “I've got to get something in my bedroom, Ma.”
“In your bedroom? Then Reba can stay here with me.” She pressed her lips together so fiercely they made her face wrinkle. “As is only proper. Right?”
Rebecca gaped, speechless.
“No, I need her with me.” Richie headed down the hall, pulling Rebecca behind him. Carmela looked ready to spit.
He whisked Rebecca into a bedroom and quickly shut the door. She found herself in a young boy's paradise, with autographed baseballs, Little League trophies, an army of Transformers, Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots, toy trucks and cars, and an arsenal of toy guns and rifles. Even a cowboy holster and hat. “You still have a bedroom in your mother's house?” she asked, stunned.
He was going through the top dresser drawer, which was filled with underwear and socks. “Here it is!”
He held up a handcuff key.
“What every young boy should have,” Rebecca said wryly.
“I knew it'd come in handy one of these days.” He unlocked the cuff from his own wrist first.
“What is this room, some kind of shrine?” Rebecca held out her wrist so he could remove her cuff as well.
“She says when I have kids they can come and visit. Anyway, she doesn't need this room.” He put the handcuffs and the key back inside the dresser drawer and shut it.
“I suggest you don't leave those there, not if your mother's the snooping type. You don't want her to get the wrong idea about you…or, God forbid, me.”
“My mother would never think of what you're suggesting. You don't talk that way about her. You don't even think that way about her. She doesn't know about that sort of stuff.”
Sure she doesn't.
Rebecca did her best not to smile as he opened the drawer, removed the scandalous handcuffs and key, and stuffed them into the pocket of his slacks.
“Are you an only child?” she asked, picking up a Transformer action figure and looking it over. She also played with those as a kid.
“Yeah. It was just me and my mom growing up.”
“I see,” Rebecca murmured, putting down the toy.
“It's not bad being the apple of your mother's eye with no competition. Speaking of which, she's going to break down the door if we don't get out of here.”
Rebecca struggled to keep a straight face when Richie opened the door and found Mama Amalfi standing before it, arms crossed, looking ready to burst with indignation and umbrage. He hurried past her, giving her a quick peck on the cheek as he zipped by, then flung his arm around Rebecca's waist and hustled her down the stairs at a fast clip. “Thanks, Ma. Gotta go. I'll call you.”
“What do you mean, you're going?” Carmela leaned over the banister and shouted, “I made pasta fazool and gagootz for you! The way you like them!
”
“Freeze them, Ma. I'll be back!”
Only after he got Rebecca out of his mother's garage and into the yard did he stop, let her go, and take a deep breath. She laughed. “And I thought I had it bad with my mother,” she said.
He looked more frazzled by his mother than he had when he was being arrested. “You mean you get the old 'Why aren't you married yet?' treatment, too?” he asked. “And your mother isn't even Italian or Jewish, right?”
“My mother's family was Swedish, but that hasn't stopped her. She thinks if I were married, I'd give up my job to stay home to be a wife and mother.”
He paused, his hand on the door to the garage where her SUV was parked. “Would you?”
“Hell, no! I love what I'm doing. It's interesting and when I get a killer off the streets, immensely satisfying.”
“I'm with your mother. I honestly don't see why an Idaho girl would want to be a cop in San Francisco.”
She shrugged. “Maybe it was because I loved watching reruns of The Streets of San Francisco and hoped to meet a young Michael Douglas. Who knows? Boise's a nice quiet city, a good place to raise a family, but I was young and single and wanted to experience life in a big city.”
“How did you end up with the police?”
She rubbed the wrist that had the handcuff on it. “Dumb luck, I had a friend who moved to San Francisco and she made some phone calls for me. The police department had a big push to hire more women. I've always been physically fit, so I took the test. I thought I'd keep the job just long enough to bring in money while I looked around for work I really wanted to do. I never dreamed I'd like it.”
“You sound like an adrenaline junkie,” he said.
She glanced his way. “Aren't all cops? What's the old saying? Each work day is seven-hours fifty-five minutes of boredom and five minutes of sheer terror. God love it!”
He shook his head. “You can't deny the danger,” he said. “Especially in a city like San Francisco. I don't know if I'd want to watch my wife strap on a gun to go off to work every day.”
“Hell, that's not only a problem for husbands,” she said wryly. “Just dating, I've met plenty of good men who can't handle it. That's why I only go out with cops now. I wouldn't even consider dating a civilian.”
One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) Page 6