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

by Pence, Joanne

  A minute later, he knocked on it.

  “What?!”

  “Here are your clothes.”

  She opened the door a crack and he handed her clean clothes, underwear included.

  She all but threw on the jeans and a red ribbed turtleneck, then stomped into the living room. Her hair was wet, and she wore no makeup or shoes, but she didn't care. “How the hell did you get in here?”

  He held up a keychain with a fob in the shape of the state of Idaho. “I found it in your sugar bowl. Really, Rebecca, that's way too traditional a place to hide anything.”

  “You searched my apartment? You went through my things?” She wracked her brain … of course, that first night when she was so tired she couldn't keep her eyes open. “You've got some nerve!”

  “Don't worry. I found it the first place I looked.”

  She heard a sizzling noise at the same time as her anger quieted enough to realize that the delicious smells filling the apartment came from her kitchen area.

  Richie hurried over to the range and flipped the steaks he was frying, then put salt and pepper on them. In a smaller pan, he was sautéing mushrooms. “I had a few things to check on,” he said. “Then, I got hungry.”

  “You're a wanted man and you went shopping?” To her dismay, she was salivating simply from the aroma of his cooking. She hadn't realized how hungry she was.

  “Actually, Vito picked them up for me. And my starving won't find the real killer any sooner.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “I don't know why I haven't hauled you in already!”

  “Because you won't throw an innocent man in jail. Look, I didn't rig my own home to blow up, did I?”

  “No, but you still have to prove your innocence to me.”

  He looked stricken. “I thought you trusted me.”

  “Like hell.”

  He opened the oven door and she saw French fries spread over a cookie sheet. She loved French fries. “Almost,” he said, then proceeded to add a bit more butter to the sliced mushrooms.

  Her stomach growled.

  “Got any wine?” he asked.

  “Look,” she said, “I came home to shower, and take a nap. Maybe I ought to just go back to work.”

  “So? Do you have any wine?”

  “No.”

  “That's what I figured.” He took a bottle of pinot noir from a bag and handed it to her. “Want to open it?”

  As she stood holding the bottle, he removed two salad plates with mixed lettuce and raw vegetables from the refrigerator and put them on the table with a bottle of ranch dressing. He found two dinner plates in the cupboard, and as she hurried to uncork the wine, he dished out the fries, then the steaks, covering them with mushrooms.

  Richie Amalfi, homemaker. Was she seeing things?

  She also noticed that he no longer wore the wrinkled outfit, but had on a black pullover sweater and black slacks. On the sofa's arm lay a gray sports coat. He seemed refreshed, and even his hair seemed shiny and soft. She didn't like noticing such things about him, but reminded herself that she had been trained to be observant. Obviously, she couldn't help herself.

  He put her plate across the table from his, then sat. “Wine?” he asked.

  “Yes.” Feeling awkward, she took a seat. “Thank you.”

  “Enjoy.” He started eating. After a moment, she did as well, and found this all so surreal she would have thought she was dreaming except that everything tasted too delicious.

  “So,” he said, pausing to wash down the food with a gulp of wine, “What did you find out?”

  She thought about the news she had to give him. He had told her he liked Danny Pasternak. “Nothing that can't wait until we've finished eating.”

  She had a good third of the steak left when someone knocked on the door.

  Their gazes met. “You expecting Shay or Vito?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Is it a cop looking for you?”

  She shook her head. “The door to the breezeway is locked. And cops don't break in the way some people do! It's probably my landlord.”

  The knock sounded again.

  Richie stood. “Be careful in case whoever's behind this is following us.”

  She nodded, picked up her gun, removed the safety and pressed herself against the wall as she headed towards the door. Richie moved to the area behind the door, his steak knife in hand.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  A sultry voice answered crankily, “Is me! What's wrong wit'chu, Rebecca?”

  Rebecca relaxed. She knew that voice and that accent. Her friend, Kiki Nuñez, lived in the middle flat above her and below Bradley. She would have come down the backstairs to Rebecca's door. Now, Rebecca had two choices. Either try to send Kiki on her way without an explanation, or let her come in and meet Richie Amalfi.

  Both were bad.

  o0o

  Rebecca managed to get Kiki to go back to her flat by telling her she had company—wink, wink—male company. Kiki's eyebrows nearly reached to her hairline as she took in Rebecca's damp hair and bare feet. Then she smiled, nodded, gave a thumbs up, and left. Rebecca knew from the look her friend gave her, that she would soon be doing some big-time explaining.

  When she went back into the apartment, Richie had cleaned up a good portion of the kitchen. He pointed at the steak on her plate. “You want to finish that now or later?”

  “I guess later.”

  He covered the steak with plastic wrap, and put it in the refrigerator, then picked up the dishes and cutlery and loaded the dishwasher. He then reached for the frying pan he had used for the steak.

  “Richie, wait,” she said.

  He stopped. “Yeah?”

  “There's something you need to know.” She waited until he put the pan in the sink. “There was another homicide today. A drive-by shooting.”

  He nodded. “I know. Danny bought the farm.”

  “You know?” Thoughts swirled about what that might mean.

  “Don't get crazy on me, Rebecca,” he said. He washed his hands then wiped them with a paper towel. “I got a call from Vito. You can't keep something like that quiet. That's why we're going to find Danny's killer.” He threw away the towel.

  She shook her head. “I've got to turn you in, you know.”

  “No, you don't.” He walked over to the rocking chair and sat. “Besides, we could both use a good night's sleep.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You aren't suggesting—”

  “I sure am. Where else do I have to go?”

  “You can't—”

  “I stayed here last night.”

  “But I was—”

  “Yes?”

  She shut her eyes. If word got out that she had fallen asleep with a wanted man in her apartment …

  “That couldn't be helped!” she said.

  “No, maybe not. But other things …” He lifted an eyebrow.

  She hated it when he did that. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

  “Rebecca, I've come to know you pretty well. Being handcuffed to a person will do that. That means I know there's no way on earth you would give some cop your only handcuff key. You had one someplace near, ready to free you earlier today if things got dicey. Maybe in your purse. More likely, in your jeans, where it would stay hidden from me. No way in hell I'll ever get into them.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken!” She folded her arms, throwing him hard looks. “In my distress at your outrageous behavior, I may have forgotten all about the key.”

  “You? Forget something?” He got up and walked towards her, his voice soft. “I think you just wanted to see where all this would lead.”

  “As if you didn't? Shay could have easily brought you a handcuff key when he came to my apartment that first morning.”

  “Touché.” He took a step closer. “You know I'm no murderer, and you know as well as I do that I can figure out who's behind these murders about a hundred times faster than that worthless partner of yours.
You want my help; you just can't admit it.”

  “I want no such thing.” She stepped back, increasing the distance between them.

  He said nothing as the seconds ticked by, then he nodded. “Go get some sleep, Rebecca. You're raving.”

  He again sat on the sofa, used the remote to click on the TV. “I hope you don't mind, I have trouble sleeping in such a quiet place.”

  Despite herself, she didn't have the heart to turn him out of the apartment or try to strong-arm him down to the jail. She also couldn't help but think of him lying out here alone on that sofa, a sofa which was way too small for him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The next morning, Rebecca got up early while Richie slept with the TV still on, and Spike curled up at his feet—little traitor! She dressed and headed for Homicide to get some work done. Some real work.

  She needed to run a normal investigation of the murders, the kind she had always conducted before Richie Amalfi upended her life. She needed to use foot work, computer searches, interrogations, surveillances, and everything else at her disposal, to find out all she could about her victims and potential suspects.

  She started out on her computer. Meaghan Bishop had a three-year old California Driver's License that showed her living in Daly City, a San Francisco bedroom community. But she also had a Macy's credit card with recent activity that gave a San Francisco address. Well, lo and behold, Rebecca thought. Was that easy, or what? Finally, Rebecca felt good again about her investigation.

  She went into the Macy's statements. Over the past seven months, Meaghan Bishop had purchased more than twenty-five thousand dollars' worth of upscale clothes, shoes and handbags. Each month she paid off the entire prior month's bill.

  Just then, Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood, chief of the Homicide Bureau, marched into the room. He did not appear happy.

  She found herself pinned back in her chair as Eastwood loomed over her. His anger about Amalfi's escape was bad enough, but his fury at not having been told about the escape and only learning of it after some reporters started questioning him, had sent him over the top. As he ranted, his face turned several shades of purple.

  Apparently, the Chronicle had reported that a suspect had been placed under arrest on Saturday night, but when none showed up at City Jail, the press wanted to know why. Eastwood and the public relations officer, an officious woman named Isabel Hernandez-Kramer, who Eastwood hated even more than he did reporters, had to meet with them to explain.

  Somehow, Eastwood managed to keep from the press the fact that the suspect had been let go “involuntarily.” He claimed the man was merely questioned and released.

  Finally, Eastwood stormed off making not-so-veiled threats about Rebecca's job if anything like that ever happened again under her watch.

  She decided the best thing to do was to make herself scarce. She drove to the address on Bishop's Macy's account.

  It was an apartment building in the Marina district, a location of upper-middle to upper class homes.

  Rebecca introduced herself to the manager and owner. “I have a few questions about Meaghan Bishop.”

  “What for? Did you say you're in Homicide?” Mary Del Monico was middle-aged, overweight, walked with a limp, and had one clouded, possibly blind eye.

  “As I said, I have some questions. How long did Ms. Bishop live here?” Rebecca asked. She had her game face on—no explanations, no reactions.

  “Why do you say 'did'? Oh, my! She lives, uh, lived here six, seven months now.”

  “Did she live alone?”

  “She better! That's how I rented the apartment. No sub-leases or anything allowed.”

  “When did you last see her?”

  “Some time last week, I'd say. What happened to her?” At Rebecca's stare, Del Monico answered the question. “She stuck to herself pretty much, not a friendly person.” She folded her arms.

  “Did you ever notice any particular friends or family who came to visit her?”

  Del Monico wrinkled her mouth. “I don't spy on my tenants.”

  “Maybe you happened to see someone—perhaps someone who helped her move in?”

  Del Monico gave a heavy sigh. “Let me think. I remember one fellow. He was here a few times.”

  “Can you describe him?”

  “I don't see so hot.”

  “Hair color? Build? Anything?”

  “Black hair, maybe.”

  Rebecca felt her stomach drop. “Is he about my height? Broad shoulders?” She swallowed. “Kind of good-looking?”

  “Hmm,” she thought about it, then shrugged. “I don't think so, but I don't know. For all I know, I might have been looking at the garbage man.”

  “Well, if you remember anything more, will you call me immediately?” She handed the landlady her card.

  Del Monico held it close to her eye. “I guess I could do that.”

  “I'm sorry to say, Meaghan Bishop was murdered. I'm conducting an investigation to find her killer.”

  The landlady's eyes widened. “Murdered? When?”

  “Saturday night.”

  “My goodness.” She pressed her hand to her mouth a moment. “I guess that means I'll have to clean out her apartment myself. I don't know if she has any relatives.”

  “You can't touch it until our investigation is completed,” Rebecca said. “Something in it might lead to her killer.”

  “I can't touch it? Are you kidding me? How long's that going to take?” Del Monico asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “But I have to rent it out! I need my rents to live on.”

  “We'll release it as soon as possible. I'd like to see the apartment now,” Rebecca said.

  Del Monico's small mouth tightened. “Do you have a warrant?”

  “No, but as I said, Meaghan Bishop was murdered.”

  The landlady squared her shoulders. “That doesn't matter to me. I need something—a piece of paper—to justify letting anyone into her apartment. Landlords have been sued over doing things like that, you know!”

  “Getting an approval to search the premises will only slow things down,” Rebecca pointed out. “And we will get one.”

  She firmly raised her chin. “I need to protect myself.”

  Rebecca studied the woman. “We haven't met anyone not involved in the case who knew her … until now. Will you come down to the Hall of Justice to identify her?”

  “Me?” To Rebecca's surprise, Mrs. Del Monico looked and sounded quite pleased by the request.

  “That's right. I'll get someone to drive you to the city morgue, and then back home. After that, we'll get a warrant to search.”

  Since Sutter was still at his desk, Rebecca asked him to meet Mrs. Del Monico at the morgue. She then called for an officer to transport the landlady.

  Rebecca was quite glad to send the woman on her way.

  Her next step was to return to her apartment. She wasn't sure if she wanted to find Richie still there or not. As she was walking to her car, her cell phone rang.

  To her complete shock, the caller was Shay. And the information he gave her was even more surprising.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The kinds of things people put on Facebook never ceased to amaze Rebecca. As a cop, she would never consider revealing about herself one tenth of the personal information people thoughtlessly posted about their lives.

  Shay, she discovered, had a particular talent for digging through Facebook for data. He found a woman named Sheila Chavez who tagged a number of photos with the name of her good friend, Meaghan Bishop. Sheila Chavez also told the world she lived in Daly City. That made her easy to find.

  Rebecca rang the doorbell to the small, cookie-cutter house. A dark-haired, dark-skinned woman opened the door. She was dressed in a grubby, oversized T-shirt and jeans with holes. “Sheila Chavez?” Rebecca asked as she showed her badge.

  Chavez's dark eyes grew wide with worry. “Yes. What's wrong?”

  “I understand you were friends with Meaghan Bi
shop.”

  Chavez nodded.

  “I'd like to talk to you about her.”

  “Why? Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  “Unfortunately, she's been killed. Murdered. We're trying to find out whatever we can about her life, to try to determine why anyone would want to kill her, and who that person might be.”

  “Oh, my God! I had no idea.” Chavez put her hands to her face. “Poor Meaghan. I'm so sorry.”

  “Can we talk inside?” Rebecca said before any platitudes began. She didn't want to hear how wonderful Meaghan had been.

  “Oh, shoot. Everything's such a mess.”

  Rebecca was always surprised by how quickly sorrow turned into embarrassment over not winning a Good Housekeeping of America award. It happened time and again in her investigations. “It doesn't matter. I need some information.”

  Chavez opened the door wide. Rebecca stepped straight into a living room filled with toys, dirty dishes, and magazines. “I haven't seen Meaghan in a year or so,” Chavez said. “I have no idea who would want her dead.”

  The contact was more recent than Rebecca had anticipated. “We don't want to rule anything out. You may know more than you realize.”

  As Chavez turned off the TV, Rebecca pushed aside papers and toys on the sofa and sat down. “How many kids do you have?” she asked.

  “Three. The two oldest are in school, and the youngest is taking a nap now. We've got to be pretty quiet so we don't wake him up.”

  “Did Meaghan have any kids?” Rebecca asked softly.

  “No, unless it just happened. When we were close, some years back, her old man didn't want any.” Chavez picked up a pack of cigarettes from the top of the TV, then went to a recliner and sat.

  “What was his name?” Rebecca asked.

  “She's not with him anymore. They broke up some time ago.” Chavez lit a cigarette. “Everybody called him Sonny Blakely. I'm not sure what his first name was.” She took a deep drag, then held out the pack. “Smoke?”

  “No thanks,” Rebecca said. “Meaghan was using the name Blakely when she died. Were she and Sonny married?”

  “I can't imagine. They split up over three years ago. I remember because it was right after my Javier was born. Meaghan came into the hospital to see me, but she should have been in the bed instead of me. They had a fight—a knock-down, drag out. She was pretty broken up. Emotionally, I mean. To me, she was lucky to be rid of him. He was a gambler—addicted to it, if you ask me—and a creep. One day on top of the world, the next dirt poor.”