One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1)

by Pence, Joanne

  “No?” he asked, catching her eye.

  “Never.” Her tone left no wiggle room.

  “I guess that explains Mike Hennessy,” he said.

  She put her hands on her hips. “Are you a detective now?”

  “Is it serious between you two?”

  “Good God, no!” He obviously didn't know Mike Hennessy—a nice guy, but watching paint dry was more exciting.

  “Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

  “That's rather personal,” she said.

  “You're right.” He nodded. “None of my business.”

  With that, he opened the door to the garage and let her walk in front of him, heading towards her SUV.

  As she unlocked the door and started to get in, Richie bolted for the street.

  “Hey!” she yelled, stunned, then took off after him.

  A Maserati was waiting, its passenger door open. Richie jumped in and the driver—she was sure it was Shay—took off, nearly going airborne as the car catapulted down the hilly streets.

  She turned, ran into the garage, and backed out her SUV, but by the time she tore down the hill and reached the corner, the Maserati was nowhere to be seen.

  As she pounded the steering wheel in furious frustration, she muttered words she was sure would make Richie's mother gasp.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Catching up on your beauty sleep, Mayfield?” Bill Sutter asked when she walked into Homicide. His skin color was even more pasty than usual. “I didn't hear that you've done anything to help advance our case. Oh, wait. You're sick. How could I forget?”

  “What do I have to do?” she snapped. “Bring a note from my doctor?” She was irate, and unfortunately for Sutter, he was the only person nearby to take it out on.

  A thin blue vein stood out in the center of his forehead. “You could have asked the medical examiner for one—she's a doctor. Oh, wait. You missed the autopsy, didn't you? Because you felt bad.”

  “But not nearly as bad as I'd feel if I let our prime suspect escape!” She marched to her desk, leaving Sutter with his mouth hanging open.

  She sat and took a deep breath. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I've had a bad day.”

  “Don't think you're the only one,” he mumbled.

  “Any surprises at the autopsy?”

  He grimaced and shook his head. Bill Sutter despised autopsies and did anything he could to get out of attending one. They had become her responsibility in their “teamwork.”

  She really had no business antagonizing her partner. He had made a mistake, and so had she.

  Ironically, they both managed to do the same thing.

  They both lost Richie Amalfi.

  Stupidly, she believed she and Richie had reached some sort of agreement to work together. After all, she chauffeured him around the city trying to find a reason for Meaghan Blakely's murder, as well as a possible suspect.

  So much for trust. So much for being a complete sucker. She could have kicked herself, and that was nothing compared to what she planned for Richie when she found him again.

  When, not if.

  o0o

  The fingerprint report had come in on Meaghan Blakely. Rebecca read that her real name was Meaghan Bishop, age 31, 5'6”, brown hair, green eyes, 130 lbs. She had an arrest record a mile long in her late teens and early twenties for shoplifting, prostitution, possession, and selling. Then she either went straight or got smart, because the arrests stopped. With that background, Rebecca doubted it was the former. But considering the way she looked and was dressed, whatever she was into was much more of a “high caliber” crime than previously.

  And, it had led to her crossing paths with a killer.

  “I guess you saw this?” she asked Sutter, holding up the fingerprint report. He nodded. “Any luck finding where she lives?”

  “You think I had time for that?” His voice dripped with petulance.

  “All right, I'll work on it. Also, anything come in yet from CSI?” She rifled through the new papers that had been laid on her desk. “Did they find a second bullet?”

  “What second bullet?” Sutter asked.

  She realized Richie had only told her, not Sutter, his story. “Before you came in, Amalfi gave me his side of things.” She gave him a quick rundown. “So, Amalfi claims the gunman's first bullet killed Blakely, and the second bullet was the one that went off when he was wrestling the gun away—the one that might cause powder burns to show up on his hand if, that is, we had him here to test him.”

  “Sneaky bastard,” Sutter murmured, rubbing his jaw where Richie had slugged him. “He only got away from me because we were being nice to him since he's almost part of Paavo's family and all. We should have treated him like the lying murderer he is! And no—no second bullet has been found, and isn't likely to be.”

  “Ah, here are ballistics on the gun.”

  “It's no help,” Sutter said.

  She read it quickly. The clip was empty. There was no telling how many rounds had been fired at the crime scene.

  “Damn,” she said. “You talked to the witnesses. Are they sure they only heard one shot?”

  “The two bouncers as well as two gals who happened to be in the hallway headed for the Ladies' heard the shot. No one else heard a thing.”

  She stared at Sutter. “How soon afterward did they find the body?”

  “The two women didn't know the sound was a gunshot. They heard a loud noise and went a few more steps down the hall. The door to Pasternak's office was open. They saw the body and raised holy hell. The bouncers were right behind them.”

  “Why were the bouncers out in the corridor and not at the front door or in the ballroom?”

  “Probably because those two women are gorgeous,” he said with a shrug as if it was the most normal thing in the world to abandon one's job to follow beautiful women.

  She rolled her eyes heavenward.

  o0o

  A call came in from the dispatcher. A body riddled with gunshot wounds had been found in a car on Bayshore Boulevard near Oakdale Avenue. The next on-call team wouldn't take over for another six hours, so it was their call.

  Sutter drove the two of them to the scene.

  When they arrived, they saw that the car, an Audi A3, had been rammed into a building, its right fender crushed. The first responders had thought they were going to a single-car accident, a matter of a driver losing control, but when they saw the body and the car's interior, and pushed the body back off the steering wheel and air bag, they realized what had really happened.

  As Rebecca studied the victim, a bad feeling came over her.

  He was a white, middle-aged male, short, portly, well-dressed, and with two massive bullet wounds to the head. Skull, brains, blood and gore covered the car's interior.

  Sutter put on his gloves, opened the passenger door, and took the car's registration out of the glove compartment.

  “Mayfield, take a look at this,” he said.

  She walked around the car and took the slip of paper from him. The car was registered to Daniel Pasternak.

  As soon as the Medical Examiner and Crime Scene Investigation teams arrived and moved the body from the car, Rebecca took the wallet from his pants pocket. The photo and description given on the driver's license matched that of the victim. It was Danny Pasternak.

  o0o

  Rebecca stood on the front steps of the Pasternaks' two-story Victorian in the Pacific Heights district and rang the doorbell. Officer Ray Dandridge, an eighteen-year veteran of the Northern station accompanied her. To approach the house where a murder victim lived without some sort of backup was never a smart move, so much so, that “Never-Take-A-Chance” Sutter made sure he always had something else to do.

  In any case, Rebecca wanted to be the one to break the news to the new widow so she could gauge Mrs. Pasternak's reaction as she learned of her philandering, bookmaking husband's death.

  Rebecca had been leaning towards Pasternak as the killer of Meaghan Blakely, or more
correctly, Meaghan Bishop. After all, the shooting took place in his office, although Richie's description of the shooter hadn't fit Pasternak at all.

  Who was she kidding? The most likely killer was the most obvious … Richie Amalfi.

  She shook her head at her foolishness. How many times had she interviewed friends of suspects, including some of the most brutal, heartless killers she ever encountered, and listened to statements about “what a nice young man” the killer was, and how “no one believed he could commit such a crime.” Now, she held those head-in-the-sand beliefs.

  She mulled over the statistics on murder cases. Over 80% were committed by someone the victim knew … and Pasternak knew Richie Amalfi. But 16% of the time—one in seven or so—the killer was a family member, and of those, 40% of the time, the family member was a spouse. Since Danny Pasternak already had a mistress, to her mind, he would have few if any qualms about an affair with yet another woman. She wondered if he and Meaghan Bishop were an item. But, if so, why would she go to Big Caesar's with Richie? To make Pasternak jealous? That could be a motive for murder, but if so, who killed Danny?

  No. She was clutching at straws, making up stories to prove Richie innocent when she needed to simply go where the evidence led her.

  The deadbolt clicked, and the door opened a crack. One dark eye peered out. At the sight of Rebecca's badge, the door opened wider.

  A sallow-skinned, middle-aged woman with sagging jowls peered up at her. The woman was five-foot three or four, wearing slippers and a bathrobe. Her hips and stomach were thick, and her breasts seemed to droop down somewhere around her waistline. “What is it?” she asked, looking from Rebecca to the police officer at her side. Her short hair was dyed auburn, but the dye job was yellowing, and a halo of grown-out gray glowed against her scalp.

  “I need to speak to Mrs. Daniel Pasternak.” Rebecca identified herself and her companion.

  “I'm her—Barbara Pasternak,” the woman said.

  “May I come inside to talk?”

  The widow didn't budge. “What's this about? It's Danny, isn't it? He's done something! Or is he hurt? Is that it?”

  “I'd like to talk to you in private,” Rebecca spoke gently.

  Nervously, Barbara Pasternak invited her inside. As Rebecca entered, Officer Dandridge followed but stopped at the entrance to the living room.

  The Victorian had been completely remodeled with walls torn out to open up the typically small rooms, and most likely to install new electricity and plumbing. This type of home, in this neighborhood, cost a few million dollars. Rebecca didn't think bookies made that kind of money.

  They sat on matching high-backed, pillow-filled gold and orange chenille patterned sofas that Rebecca sank into and Barb Pasternak nearly drowned in. Rebecca faced her. “Do you know your husband's whereabouts this afternoon?”

  Barb's bottom lip jutted out and she studied a pillow at her side, picking at unseen flecks or threads on it. “No.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Yesterday.” Her eyes went cold and hard. “He didn't come home last night.”

  “Didn't that worry you?” Rebecca asked.

  She looked more bored than concerned. “No. It wasn't the first time.”

  “Any idea where he was?”

  Barb went back to plucking invisible particles from the pillow. “I suspect with some woman. Not that it matters to me anymore. Why?”

  Instead of answering, Rebecca asked, “Do you know of anyone who ever threatened him?”

  “I suppose a lot of people,” she said solemnly. “He wasn't exactly a popular man.”

  “Can you think of anyone in particular?”

  “No.” She rubbed the pillow hard, as if to smooth it, then stopped and cast a steely gaze on Rebecca. “Tell me what this is all about.”

  “I have very bad news.”

  Barb stiffened. “Yes?”

  “Your husband was killed this afternoon. He was shot while driving his car. I'm sorry.”

  “Shot?” Barb half stood, then collapsed back onto the sofa. “Danny's dead?”

  Rebecca waited for tears or hysterics, but there were none. Barb clasped her hands together so tightly her fingers reddened. “Who did it?”

  “We don't know. We're looking for witnesses. We found him in the industrial part of Bayshore Boulevard. Do you know of any reason why he would have been out that way?”

  Her eyes shifted. “No.”

  “Do you know about the woman killed in your husband's office last night?”

  “Yes. Some detective called me. He wanted to talk to Danny. I gave him Danny's cell phone.”

  “Inspector Sutter?” Rebecca asked.

  Barb nodded. “That sounds right.”

  “The dead woman's name was Meaghan Bishop. She was also known as Meaghan Blakely. Do you know her or know of her?”

  “No.” The answer was quick, curt, and angry.

  Rebecca hurried on. “We're questioning several people in connection with her murder and Danny's. Did your husband ever mention anyone who might have worried him for some reason, or made him nervous about something?”

  The woman's mouth tightened. “I don't know that anybody did that.” She bit her bottom lip and dropped her gaze to the ground.

  “We're investigating everyone who seemed at all close to your husband,” Rebecca added. “How did he get along with people at Big Caesar's? The waitresses? Harrison Sidwell, the manager, the owner, members of the band and so on?”

  “He never talked about any of them,” she said.

  “What about friends, associates? For example, Richie Amalfi?”

  Barb Pasternak stared at the floor, then met Rebecca's gaze straight on. “I only met him once. They got along. But I still didn't like him!”

  “Others you can think of?”

  “Like I said, he never talked to me about anybody he knew.”

  “I see,” Rebecca said, standing. “Now, if you could accompany us to the morgue, we need you to make an identification. We'll take care of business as quickly as possible. Is there someone you'd like to call? Someone to be with you at this time?”

  Barb shook her head, her jaw working as if she were grinding her teeth. Finally she said, “Let's get it over with.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rebecca picked up Spike from Bradley's flat and then decided they could both use some fresh air, even though it was night. The backyard was small and cement covered with a square wooden planter box, about five feet by five feet, in the center. The wide edges served as benches. Rebecca sat beside a group of pink azaleas and purple petunias while Spike scampered playfully.

  Bradley kept the flower bed weeded and the plants healthy. Rebecca's contribution was to keep Spike out of them.

  Rebecca had decided to return home to get some sleep, good sleep, after escorting Barbara Pasternak back to her home. It had been a ridiculously long day, and she needed to be sharp the next day, Monday, as she put together the evidence on Meaghan Bishop's and Danny Pasternak's deaths. Logic told her the deaths were related, but she needed something substantial to prove it.

  Unfortunately for Richie Amalfi, he wasn't with Rebecca at the time someone shot Pasternak. He could have murdered both people.

  She took a deep breath as she petted Spike. The last twenty-four hours had been long and confusing on many levels. She probably needed fresh air to clear her troubled thoughts far more than Spike did.

  She continued to pet her little guy. The vet thought he was a mix of Chihuahua and Chinese Crested Hairless. She had found him abandoned at a crime scene about six months earlier. He wore a collar with his name, but no other identifying information. She brought him to the pound, but weeks went by and no one claimed him. Rebecca feared a gas chamber loomed in his future because of his unfortunate “fur” situation—mainly his complete lack of it except for a tuft on the top of his head—and because he liked to bare his tiny but sharp teeth and to snap at everyone but her. Weird though he was, she took him hom
e.

  Although Bradley had a no-pets policy in her rental agreement, his heart went out—after he finished laughing—when she showed him Spike and explained the dog's situation.

  Spike slowly grew to trust humans again, and stopped trying to bite anyone who came too close. She left dry kibble out for him while she worked, and cat-like, he only ate when hungry. When she was home, she fed him canned dog food or healthy people food, which he loved. She taught him to use a cat litter box, but let him use the yard when he wanted to. For a dog to use a cat's litter box had to be demeaning, and she didn't want Spike to develop self-esteem issues. Strangers pointing at him and laughing were bad enough.

  He loved his home, loved her for saving him, and was a brave little tyke. She was surprised he didn't tear Richie Amalfi's throat out, come to think of it.

  Bradley Frick stepped out onto the small balcony off his kitchen. From it, back stairs led down to the yard. “Rebecca,” he called. “I almost forgot. I saw three strange men lurking around the building. They may have been looking for you.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “They seemed dangerous, like your police work.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “It was too dark to tell, but they all looked big!”

  She had a good idea who he saw. “Don't worry, Brad. They were most likely relatives visiting from Idaho.”

  “Oh, my,” he said, his eyebrows high. “I'm not sure if that's a relief or not.”

  She thanked him for letting her know about the strangers, and went into her apartment with Spike.

  Even though it was late, and she was tired, she took a long, much needed shower since she had missed one that morning. When done, she turned off the water and was reaching for a towel when she heard, “Just want to warn you before you come out, I'm ba-a-a-ack.”

  She froze. Wrapping the towel around her body, she stuck her head out the bathroom door and peered towards the living room. There stood Richie Amalfi, arms folded, head cocked, as he peered her way. He waved. She jumped back and slammed the bathroom door shut.