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

by Pence, Joanne

  She explained everything to Shay, then gave him back the phone.

  “Now we wait,” she said, thinking about Huang's men possibly lurking around nearby.

  “We need to find a way to kill time,” he murmured, his voice sounding deep and definitely sexy in the darkness. “Want a suggestion?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  By the time Shay arrived, Johnny Huang and his gang had vanished. Richie figured Huang expected police back-up to arrive and wasn't about to take them on.

  Shay soon left, saying only that he would do whatever it took to convince Huang that targeting Richie was a big mistake. After looking at his eyes as he spoke, Rebecca didn't want to know what he planned. She might have to arrest him.

  She and Richie returned to Mulford Alley where Richie pried Vito from Kiki's loving hands and sent him home to his wife to mend his bruised face and tarnished ego.

  As he and Rebecca entered her apartment, Spike ran up to greet them.

  “Hey, boy!” Richie picked up the dog, then hugged and petted him. “I never thought this homely little mutt would look beautiful to me, but he does.”

  “Speaking of which,” Rebecca handed him an ice pack, “put this on your face. You're uglier than ever with all the swelling that's going on.”

  “Gee, thanks. I'm not sure, which is worse, Johnny Huang's fists or your mouth.” He sat on the rocking chair with Spike on his lap and the ice pack against his bruises.

  Rebecca turned on the heater, then watched him a moment. “That must have been scary.”

  His one uncovered eye peered up at her. “Scary? Freddy Kruger movies are scary. Zombies are scary. That was god-damned terrifying.”

  “Bourbon?” she asked.

  “Double. No, triple. Neat.”

  She handed him the drink and poured one for herself as well. She had been in a shoot-out twice before, and one of those times she was hit. She understood the fear he talked about. In that pitch-black basement, she not only dealt with the dread of what each moment, each gun-shot, might bring, but she also relived the terror of those earlier incidents.

  She put on the heater to warm the place up, fed Spike some presumably yummy canned dog food, and then sat on the sofa. Richie was still shivering, but not from the cold. They both drank down their bourbon a little too quickly. She poured them each another glass, this one to enjoy.

  After a while she said, “We've been looking at this as participants rather than as cops. It's time to stop that.”

  “Right now, I'd say we are participants. At least, I sure as hell am one.” Richie sipped the bourbon and tilted his head against the back of the rocking chair, still holding the ice pack. “What do you suggest?”

  “Let's go back to where this all began, Meaghan Bishop's death. Were you set up or did you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”

  “How can you ask that?” He faced her with dejection and disappointment. “Clearly I was set up. I was given a note to see Danny.”

  “If there was one, it disappeared. So who took it? And when? No one came into the nightclub after the shooting as far as we know, or left it—other than the shooter you saw climb out the window. If someone took it, that person was still in the nightclub when I got there.”

  “You're right! And I'm right that a note existed, which means someone in the club took it. And Danny, who's always there on Saturday night,” Richie pointed out, “wasn't.”

  Rebecca thought about this. “We never did get an answer to the question, why wasn't he there? You and Carolina say Danny was always in his office on Saturday night. But that night, he wasn't. Why not? What did he know? There had to be a reason, but so far, we haven't come up with any. Also, Carolina indicated Danny was afraid of someone.”

  “If he was blackmailing people, no wonder he was scared. But don't forget,” Richie said, “that he knew Meaghan Bishop. Also, when we talked to Carolina, she had already heard about Meaghan's death, and even that I'd been arrested. She's hardly one to watch the news on TV or, God forbid, read a newspaper. So who would have told her about it, if not Danny? And how did he know so much about it?”

  “Okay, here's my theory,” Rebecca said. “What if Danny was there Saturday night? What if Meaghan went to his office to see him and he killed her? Danny was desperate for money—that's clear from Glickman. He was working with Meaghan on some kind of scheme, or schemes, to swindle money from people. What if it all went wrong and he had to kill her? Since no one heard the first shot—and, yes, I do believe that you found Meaghan dead—Danny must have used a silencer on the gun. Then, he picked up the shell, took off the silencer and had someone go out and hand you a note saying he wanted to see you. Danny then escaped out the window.”

  “So, who did I fight with?”

  “A second gunman?” she asked. “Or someone working with, or for, Danny. Whoever he was, he wore a ski mask and waited for you. He got you to fire a gun, pushed you aside, and climbed out the window. Without the silencer, people heard the second gunshot and found you in the room.”

  Rebecca stopped, sure Richie would poke holes in her theory.

  “No way. Too many people jumping out windows, for one thing,” he began. “For another, Danny couldn't do it. He had stubby little legs and a huge belly. He'd have needed a ladder to get out the window and he'd have been like a turtle on his back on the other side. The gunman, though, was big—some four or five inches taller than me, big and bulky. And strong. He could have done it easy.”

  “Okay. Forget the first part, keep the second.”

  “I think you're on the right track,” Richie said. “At least, you don't have me shooting anybody.”

  They both sat quietly, sipping their second glasses—generous doubles—of bourbon, trying to put the pieces together.

  “What I also don't get is why Meaghan wanted to meet me?” Richie said, breaking the silence. “I understand it was probably some kind of scheme, but I can't imagine what.”

  “After you met her, who suggested going to Big Caesar's?” Rebecca asked.

  “Well…it seemed to just come up.” He thought back on that day, not even a week earlier, when Meaghan was alive, vibrant and beautiful. “We talked. She said she was having fun, and assumed I was going to be busy that evening, and wasn't it a shame. I said I was going to Big Caesar's to see a friend. As I've told you, I often go there Saturday night, hang out at the bar, and place a couple bets. She sounded interested, said she'd never been there, so I asked if she'd like to go with me. We went to dinner first. That was it.”

  “Do you often take women with you to Big Caesar's?”

  He lowered the ice pack as he gave her a look that said he wondered what her question had to do with the murders. Still, he answered. “Not often. The dating game's gotten a bit old after all these years. But if someone interesting or fun comes along …” He shrugged.

  Rebecca understood. She felt much the same herself. “So she would have known that talking to you would give her a good chance of getting into Big Caesar's. Would you like some fresh ice?”

  “No to the ice, it's making my face numb. But yeah, she could have used me to get into Big Caesars. Or she could have gone alone or with a girlfriend.”

  “But she went out of her way to meet you. The question is why.” Rebecca rubbed her temples. “And, then there's Glickman. Heaven only knows where he is. Given that Johnny Huang's boys didn't snatch him, and Teo Reyes' guys seem not to care, we can be all but certain Glickman faked his own death. And now, he's still running.”

  “Good riddance! Half-ass little twerp.” Richie's mouth wrinkled in disgust. “As long as there's a McDonald's, he'll be fine.”

  Rebecca nodded, still thinking. Then she said, “Someone clearly wanted to get rid of both you and Meaghan and came up with a plan to take care of two birds with one stone, so to speak. That's the only thing that makes sense. So, who or what is the link between you and Meaghan?”

  “Nothing! I just met her!”

  Rebecca put her head in
her hands. “What are we missing?”

  “I don't know, dammit!” Richie poured himself more bourbon.

  At least, Rebecca thought, he wasn't scared or shivering any longer. Even somewhat beat up, he looked good. Once again, her gaze lingered on him a bit too long. She feared this was becoming a habit. She forced her thoughts back to where they should be. “Let's start with the first murder. What do we know about Meaghan Bishop? She was once young, perhaps a bit wild, and in love with Harrison Sidwell.”

  “I still find that hard to believe,” Richie muttered, staring at his drink. “A woman like Meaghan with a wimp like Sidwell? Impossible.”

  “He was clearly a bit tougher in his Sonny Blakely days, I've heard.” Rebecca stood and picked up the bourbon bottle in one hand, her glass in the other, ready to pour, but then she glanced over at Richie once more and abruptly stopped. It was already pretty late, and he would surely be spending the night in her apartment again. She had no idea what effect the bourbon was having on him, if any, but she knew her two glasses were already making her find him a little too tempting. No, a lot too tempting. And if she drank any more, she might decide the best way to handle temptation was to give in to it. But that would never do. Not with him, in any case.

  She put her glass in the sink and the bourbon back in the cupboard. She noticed his eyes following her as she did it.

  “Anyway,” she said, trying to get back to business as she returned to the sofa, “the two of them split up, and she worked at Macy's. But then, about eight months ago, she successfully blackmailed someone into giving her ten grand a month.”

  “I sure know how to pick 'em,” Richie said woefully as his dark gaze met hers. She had never before noticed how long his eyelashes were, but she had often noted the strong, firm line of his mouth.

  She studied her carpet until her breathing went back to normal. “Okay, so she probably had nothing to do with the mobsters Danny was going to rat out, and her fling with the City Supervisor came to nothing.” Rebecca faced him again. “By process of elimination, that leaves you, Richie, as her killer. You did it. Nobody's left.”

  “Har, har.”

  “Well, who else? Danny's dead, there's no reason to suspect Sidwell, and the owner of the nightclub isn't anywhere near,” Rebecca said.

  “They're the same person,” Richie said, putting his glass down and resting his head once again on the back of the rocking chair.

  “Who's the same? Same as what?”

  “Sidwell.”

  “What do you mean? He's the manager.”

  “And he's the owner.”

  Rebecca stared at him. “No. The owner is Brian Shoemaker. We checked on him. I even spoke to him. He's in Florida and leaves day-to-day operations to Sidwell. I don't think he has any idea what's going on.”

  “He sure doesn't. The guy's senile.” Richie rocked back and forth. “He probably doesn't even remember that he sold the place to Sidwell last year.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I ought to be. I'm the one who lent Sidwell the money to buy it.”

  Rebecca couldn't believe he was just now telling her this. She jumped to her feet and stood in front of him. “You're part owner of the club?”

  He stopped rocking, and sat up straight. “What? I lent him money, that's all. I don't want any nightclub! Two hundred large, at a great interest rate. Five years, a nice balloon payment at the end of the time. I'm a businessman, remember? The club's a money-maker. I checked it out before making the loan. Sidwell will pay it off. Maybe early. In fact, after the publicity in the paper, you'd think fewer people would go there. Instead, it's doing better than ever.”

  She folded her arms. “You are kidding me, right?” She couldn't stop herself from seething. What was it about him that caused that reaction in her? “You didn't really withhold this from me all this time!”

  Now he stood up as well. “Withhold what? I told you I lent him money.”

  She wanted to explain that she had thought in terms of a hundred, maybe at most, a thousand dollars, not two hundred thousand! Fuming, she walked over to the kitchen table, then turned, her palms flat on the table top as she faced him. “Sidwell lied to us about his position in the club. Why would he do that unless it was for some important reason? Innocent men don't lie.”

  “I'm sure it was a misunderstanding.” He slid his fingers through his hair. “I don't know … maybe his nerves got the better of him. Sidwell's a good guy, a go-getter, but he's high-strung as hell. I tell you, he made Big Caesar's what it is today. Okay, he knew Meaghan, but he explained that to you.”

  Rebecca pondered this a moment. “Sidwell had control over the crime scene and could touch the evidence before the police arrived. Did you see him the entire time until the police got there?”

  He didn't answer for a long moment. “No. No, I was hustled into his office by the bouncers. But you've got this wrong. It's hard to believe Harrison would harm anyone. He's a soft-spoken, cautious guy. Mousey. For cryin' out loud, the guy even felt bad when his bouncers caught me. He said he'd help me get the charges dropped.”

  She thought a moment. “Meaghan's friend, Sheila Chavez, said Sidwell had a serious gambling problem.”

  Richie frowned, then picked up his phone and called Shay. He asked Shay to see if Sidwell was on Danny's list of customers.

  As they waited for Shay, Rebecca said to Richie, “You do realize, that the list Shay is looking at is dangerous for you guys to have. You almost got killed because Johnny Huang didn't like you having all that information on him. I want it back.”

  “I'd gladly give it to you,” Richie said, “but it's on our computers. Tell you what, we'll erase the files. How's that?”

  Even if she stood over them as they erased the files, she knew Shay could find and restore them in the blink of an eye. “Fine. Erase them. I'm going to trust you to do it.”

  Richie put up his right hand. “Scout's honor.”

  She pursed her lips. Sure.

  Just then, Shay came back on the line. Richie put him on speaker so Rebecca could hear his answer. “I see someone listed as HS,” Shay said. “It could be him, but the bets are bigger than Sidwell should have been able to afford.”

  “How big?” Richie asked.

  “Let's see.” Shay gave a quick run-through of month to month activities, and then, the bottom line. “At the time Danny died, this 'HS' was in the hole to him over a hundred-thirty thousand dollars.”

  “A hundred-thirty large? Son of a bitch! I always knew there was something sleazy about that guy!” Richie shouted. He looked a bit ashen as he faced Rebecca. “If he was using money I lent him to gamble, you'll be right to arrest me, because I'm going to kill him!”

  o0o

  Since everything Rebecca had to tie the murders to Sidwell was circumstantial or pure speculation, the next morning she filled in her partner and together they got a warrant to search Harrison Sidwell's apartment as well as his banking, phone, and credit card records.

  He went from shock to indignation to a raging anger when the two detectives showed up to investigate. Rebecca came away with a list of his accounts.

  His investment information was so complicated, she was afraid she was going to need an accountant to sort it all out for her. She had a better idea. She transferred copies of everything onto her laptop, and then took it home where Richie waited to hear from her.

  “You might want to call Shay,” she said as she set up her laptop and opened the files.

  Richie looked at them. “Maybe not.”

  Rebecca sat beside him and was surprised at how much he understood about Sidwell's bookkeeping and finances. She reminded herself that he was a businessman … of sorts. He never did explain exactly how he earned his money, and now she guessed she could add “loan shark” to his nefarious activities. When she ran checks on him at work—all quite legitimate since he was a suspect—she found a network of companies that were so intertwined they made her head hurt. But nothing jumped out as illegal.
>
  “I don't get it,” Richie said. “Before I gave Sidwell the loan to buy the club last year, my auditors went over its books in minute detail. They came up with it being not only a good investment, but a place with lots of room for growth. It wasn't the 'hot' club of the moment, because what's up one month is passé the next. His idea was quality, to create a club with a solid reputation. But now its profit margin has flatlined. What the hell is going on?”

  Rebecca left him alone as he worked through the numbers, providing coffee and sandwiches from a deli a block away. Finally, he sat back and frowned at the screen. “Got it.”

  She sat by him again as he pointed out the problem.

  “The nightclub is nearly in the red because the salaries he's paying out take every cent. Six months ago, Sidwell hired 'Michael Brown' for sixty-grand a year. Two months later, 'William Jones' came on board, same salary. They had social security numbers, all taxes were taken out of their salaries, and even W-2s were issued, but they were never scheduled on the job.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They're fakes,” Richie said. “Sidwell set them up, paid employer taxes on them—that was the reason for their common names, it makes them a lot more time-consuming to check on. Then, he kept their salaries for himself. He could have cleared over a hundred grand a year on those two names.”

  Rebecca studied the computer screen as he explained further.

  “If we put together Sidwell's actions with Danny Pasternak's file of his customer's wins and losses, we can see that Sidwell started betting about seven months ago. As his gambling debts climbed, he developed one fake name. He was able to pay off Danny fairly quickly, but soon got into the hole again. He was fifty thousand in debt when the second name showed up in his books.”

  “How could he come up with fake employees?” Rebecca asked. “Didn't anyone else pay attention to what he was doing?”

  “Remember, he had been bookkeeper and manager, and then became the owner. No one questioned him. Danny was never really much of a bookkeeper, and everyone but—I'm sorry to say—you and your partner, knew it.”