Five O'Clock Twist

by Joanne Pence

  “I know, but you can’t just hide here.”

  She pondered his words. “You’re right,” she said finally. “Maybe I can’t. Not any longer.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  She stood and paced. “So you can tell your little homicide pal? What is she, another woman who’s all hot for you?”

  His anger flashed that she would talk about Rebecca that way. “Not at all.”

  She spun towards him. “Oh, boo hoo. Richie’s upset that I picked on his friend. Well, I don’t give a damn. The only one I care about is me. Right now, one person is in the hospital and another is dead. All over some screwed up deal. Do you blame me for being scared?”

  “No, I don’t blame you at all. And neither would Inspector Mayfield.”

  “Stop with the Inspector shit or leave.”

  He took a deep breath and let a moment pass before saying, “Calm down. Listen, if it’s not your buyers, could it be a seller who tried to put the screws on the spa owner and over did it?”

  “All I’ll say is people are crazy, Richie. Bat-shit crazy. That’s why I’m getting the hell out of here.”

  He also stood. “You’ve got to be talking to someone about this sale. Who is it?”

  “It’s all done electronically. As long as I get the money deposited in my offshore account, I don’t give a damn if it’s the devil himself sending it to me. And as a matter of fact, I don’t want to know, okay?” she yelled. “You understand now?”

  “Where do you even keep this offshore account?”

  “Richie, you’re driving me—”

  “Where?” he demanded.

  “I go through a legitimate bank. It’s small, but they’ve handled the set-up for years.”

  “A bank?” That surprised him. “Which one?”

  “Superior Savings out in the Marina District.”

  Superior Savings ... It startled him to hear the name. Nobody ever said it around him; he still went out of his way to avoid driving by it. His fiancée used to work there.

  He kept his expression tight. “I’ve heard good things about that bank. I didn’t realize they handled anything as complicated as a holding company.”

  “They do. The income and outgo alone brings them quite a cut in foreign transaction fees.”

  Something about this bothered him the more he heard about it—although it might have been strictly because of the “Superior Savings” employee who no longer worked there. He remembered it as a friendly place, and whenever he went there his day would become a whole lot brighter.

  He hadn’t been back to it for four years. He forced himself to turn his thoughts back to the problem at hand. “Come on, Audrey. I know you must have somebody besides a bank that you deal with.”

  She ran both hands through her chaotic hair. “Sometimes I get leads from one of the mayor’s staffers who often goes on trade missions to China—it’s very important to the port of San Francisco, if nothing else. He gives me names.”

  “Names of people he’s met on those trade missions?”

  “Exactly, and sometimes when a buyer has legal issues, he runs interference for me. At times, he’s even gotten the city to sweeten the deal, and at other times, I get my buyers to give him an incentive to go the extra mile for them. You know how it works, Richie.”

  “That I do,” he muttered. He remembered how much under-the-table wheeling and dealing some of his transactions required. Having a cohort in city government would have made things run much more smoothly.

  “Anyway,” Audrey continued, sitting once more on the sofa. “I even hired a girl who’s able to translate Chinese for me. I was planning on hiring someone who speaks Farsi, and another who knows Russian. I would have had my own little UN right here in this city. Now, I’ll have to learn real estate laws in Argentina. Damn it to hell!”

  Richie also sat, but on the opposite end from Audrey. “I suppose the mayor’s staffer who was giving you all this assistance is Sean Hinkle.”

  She eyed him. “You’ve heard about us?”

  “Just a bit. How long you been seeing him?”

  “A couple years.” She pursed her lips and then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s not exactly a love match, shall we say? We’re business partners with benefits, if that makes sense.” She gave a dry, bitter laugh.

  “A lot of that seems to be going around,” he murmured. “But I’m sorry to hear things aren’t better for you.”

  “Thank you.” She sounded depressed.

  He realized he wasn’t going to get any more detailed information out of her, but he couldn’t pass up asking about Benedetta’s house. “It doesn’t have the permits, but I met the owner and she said you might help her sell it.”

  She cocked her head. “You interested?”

  “Might be,” he admitted. “It could be a good deal.”

  “If you want it, get it. I’m sure there’s nothing really wrong with the place.”

  “How are you sure? You working with the building inspector?”

  “I don’t bother with cheap scams, Richie.” Her words were indignant. “Not at this point in my life, anyway. All I can say is, if you want it, I don’t care. Work it out directly with the owner. Seriously.”

  He nodded, believing her.

  “Like I said,” she continued, “as soon as I get money from a couple deals, I’m out of here. Chinese investors, crazy spa owners, and everyone else who’s turned my life into a nightmare can go straight to hell.”

  o0o

  Rebecca looked up from her desk to see Richie entering Homicide. She felt her whole body go tense. He walked with his usual swagger as if he owned the place, as if last night’s unpleasant dinner date hadn’t happened, or, he didn’t care that it had. He said hello to his cousin’s husband, Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith, and Paavo’s partner, Toshiro Yoshiwara, and then turned to her.

  “Hi.” She couldn’t get more words passed her lips.

  “Hello to you, too.” He sat by her desk.

  “What brings you here?” she asked. She paused the screen of surveillance videos she’d been reviewing.

  He studied her face a long moment, then said, “I want you to know I talked to Audrey Poole.”

  So this is business, she thought. She felt relieved. “You found her.”

  “I did.” He gave her one of his self-satisfied smiles. He did have a nice smile, she couldn’t help but notice, even when he was being annoyingly smug.

  “The big news,” he continued, “is that something has scared her badly. She’s in hiding, and it has to do with the spa.”

  “What’s she scared of?”

  “She doesn’t know for sure. But something spooked her enough that she plans to move to Argentina.”

  “All connected to the spa?”

  “She thinks it is.”

  Rebecca pursed her lips. Little of this made any sense to her. “She must at least know who’s behind the deal.”

  “That she does. She’s now working in a specialized market. Her buyers are Iranians, Chinese, Russians—you get the picture.”

  “Not really,” Rebecca admitted.

  “It’s high finances on a global level. In order to make sales, move money, and not get the feds involved, people like Audrey Poole have found that working with local governments makes the process a whole lot smoother.”

  “Local government?” Rebecca was having trouble following all this.

  “Pretty sweet, isn’t it? Those wealthy people bring money with them—money for all kinds of purposes. Plus, people like Poole can get ten percent to put buyers and sellers together. And sometimes a lot more money than that is handed out to turn the deal into something the feds won’t ever hear about. I may look into trying it out myself.”

  Rebecca’s heart sank. Richie sounded far too interested in this new scheme. “So you’re thinking about getting involved in Audrey Poole’s business deals?”

  “Me? No!” When he tried to look innocent, it never worked. “I only looked her up be
cause of Carmela.”

  She felt a cold chill. She knew Carmela Amalfi only well enough to know the woman considered her completely unfit to be dating Richie. Her number one crime was that she wasn’t Italian, and second, that she was a cop and once “got Richie shot,” to use her expression. “Why is Carmela involved? Was she reminding you that you should have stuck with Audrey?” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she could have sunk through the floor.

  “Jealous?” he asked with a definite lilt in his voice.

  “You wish!” He looked so ridiculously pleased at the thought she couldn’t help but smile, despite herself. “Okay, tell me how Carmela’s involved?”

  “She isn’t. Not directly. But she has a friend who is, Benedetta Rossi. She owns the house I was telling you I might buy, and Audrey Poole is her agent.”

  “Maybe I need to talk to Benedetta Rossi,” Rebecca said.

  “Don’t waste your time. Trust me on that.”

  Rebecca did, unfortunately. But she asked him to tell her everything about Carmela’s friend, including her address.

  “Let’s go back to foreign investors and city staffers,” Rebecca said when he finished. “It does sound like big money and shifty deals. And you did mention Audrey dating one of the mayor’s staffers.”

  “And some of these foreign players can get very tough, very fast,” Richie added. “Kiki’s attack still worries me, okay? You’ve got to be careful.”

  “I’m always careful,” she said. But then, the more she thought about what he was saying, she couldn’t help but shake her head. “I’m afraid, Richie,”—she took a deep breath—“I’m afraid the one who isn’t careful is you.”

  “Me?” He sounded taken aback by her vehemence. “What brought this on?”

  She couldn’t help herself as all her weariness, worries about Kiki, and frustration about her roller-coaster emotions where Richie was concerned—not to mention worrying about him—bubbled over. “What are you doing looking into foreign investments and heaven-only-knows what kind of intrigue dealing with parts of the world that want to do us harm? Why get involved with them?”

  He seethed. “I’m not involved with them!”

  “Not yet,” she snapped back. “But I know you. I see the gleam in your eyes when you talk about all the money passing hands. And possibly, Benedetta Rossi’s house can be a foot in the door.”

  “I never said—”

  “You don’t have to!”

  “Good Christ, woman! After all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”

  “I do trust you. It’s the people you deal with I don’t trust!”

  “Which means you’re questioning my judgment.”

  “Not at all. It’s that I know—I see every day—how easy it is for good things to go bad, and for good people to get mixed up in things they never intended to be involved in. And I see the deadly consequences of that happening. It worries me. You worry me.”

  He glared a long moment, then, his voice tense but measured, said, “Okay. I’ll admit there’s a lot of money involved. I mean, a hell of a lot. And I deal with people who have money. What do you want me to say?”

  She rubbed her forehead, then could only whisper, “I just don’t know.”

  “You see the worst of people in your job. I get that. But you either trust me or you don’t.”

  Arguing was getting her nowhere. It never did; yet it often seemed that was all they were capable of. “As I said, I do trust you and your judgment.”

  He leaned close enough that, despite everything, she was drawn to him like a magnet. He placed a warm hand on hers, reminding her how much she liked the feel of his hands. Her breathing quickened. “Then trust when I tell you,” he said, his voice low and velvety, “to be careful. Your investigation could upset people you don’t want to upset.”

  “Warning taken.” She turned away from him and quickly started the surveillance video running once more. She forced her attention on it instead of the man much too close to her.

  Richie stood, his mouth a rigid line, his eyes hooded as he peered down at her. “Audrey suggested I go to Argentina with her.”

  She kept her eyes on the screen. “Well, I’m sure you and Evita will have fun there.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m sure we would.”

  She refused to face him again.

  He turned and walked out the door without another word.

  She couldn’t stop herself from looking up to watch him go.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sean Hinkle’s phone buzzed. He picked it up and saw the number the caller used. He didn’t want to answer, but he also didn’t want the caller to have to phone him back. That never ended well. He took the call. “This is Sean.”

  “I warned you, but you wouldn’t listen, would you?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “It’s too late for ‘sorry,’ Sean, my friend. Much too late. Audrey’s old pal found her, and soon the cops will, too. I’m sick to death of them, always sticking their noses into my business. They’re going to screw this up not because they’re clever, but because they aren’t. They’re bunglers, just like you. And that’s why you need to fix this mess.”

  “But the cops—”

  “Are only people, my lad. People that can be bribed. Although in this particular case, I don’t know that I’d even attempt it, not from what I’ve heard about the homicide detective in charge.”

  “You mean Bill Sutter?” Sean asked.

  “He’s about as much in charge as Howdy Doody when someone lets go of the strings. Do something about her, you idiot!”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And remember, you can’t trust Audrey Poole anymore. If she opens her mouth, we’re all in trouble. She’s dead to us now, not to mention dead weight and a liability. Nothing more.”

  “I understand.”

  The line, to Hinkle’s relief, went dead.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The insistent ringing of her cell phone woke Rebecca from a deep sleep. She opened one eye and looked at the clock. 5:00 A.M.

  She wanted nothing so much as to ignore the phone, roll over and go back to sleep. Last night, she’d stayed in Homicide, first going through video from street cameras and local businesses, but none caught the doorway to the spa, and then going through Inga’s bank accounts and phone records.

  Nothing gave any hint as to why the woman was murdered. Her latest boyfriend, Luke, remained a mystery. Rebecca tried contacting him, but his number had been disconnected. That was suspicious, but aside from him, Inga seemed to live the life of a young, attractive single in the big city. Her friends were her age, her emails and social media posts were about dates, men, movies, music, and money—which she seemed to be perennially short of.

  Around eleven, Rebecca gave up for the night and went home.

  She soon went to bed, but couldn’t sleep. Thoughts of Richie kept going round and round in her head. Ever since they met, she had watched him perform a constant balancing act, almost like walking a tightrope between legal and illegal. Too many times already, she had found herself holding her breath around him, afraid he might topple off that rope and land on the wrong side of things.

  Her supervisors had said in not so many words that she would have a very hard time moving up in her career as long as she was involved with him. And her instinct told her to closely guard and nurture the career she had chosen.

  She tossed and turned, thinking of all the clever words she wished she’d said to him to get him to see things her way. But no matter how often she replayed the scenario, it didn’t make things any easier between them.

  Finally, exhaustion must have overtaken her because she remembered seeing 1:30 a.m. on the clock, but nothing more until her phone rang some three-and-a-half hours later.

  She dragged herself out of bed, made a travel mug of strong coffee, saw to Spike’s needs, and went on her way. In a city filled with a number of rough neighborhoods, gangs, and drugs, it was rare for h
er to be sent to the tony Pacific Heights area.

  It was still dark as she reached a residential street filled with police cars and on-lookers. The street was so steep that cars weren’t allowed to parallel park for fear of their brakes not holding. She introduced herself to uniformed officers Dunn and Benton who had been the first to arrive and had secured the crime scene. Dunn, the spokesman of the two, was a large man, middle-aged, with what used to be called a “beer belly.” He had a heavy-jowled faced that could either smile warmly or give a hard, icy stare when needed. He was the type of guy she often saw in a policeman’s uniform when growing up in Idaho. In San Francisco, many of the officers were female, young, and a whole lot smaller and thinner. And probably eschewed doughnuts for wheatgrass juice.

  “A couple garbage collectors found her,” Dunn said, his voice low and gruff. A woman’s body lay on the sidewalk, and crime scene tape now blocked off much of the area around her. “First they figured she was some passed-out drunk, but then they considered the neighborhood and wondered if she’d fallen and was hurt. One of these ‘sanitation engineers’ as they call themselves, walked over to check on her, and when he saw all the blood, he called nine-one-one.”

  “Where are they?” Rebecca asked, trying to figure out why the garbage truck wasn’t still there at the scene.

  “They couldn’t wait—swore they’d be fired if they didn’t finish the route. And with the new chief’s policies, I couldn’t demand they stay here. But they promised to come back. I’ve got their names and phone numbers.”

  Rebecca nodded. They were all under an edict to be a “kinder, gentler” police force, one that would receive no complaints from the public. The new captain had a “zero tolerance” complaint policy. Like that was going to work. “Did they touch anything?”

  “They swore they didn’t.”

  As Dunn was speaking, the photographer and medical examiner arrived, and then Rebecca’s partner. While Bill Sutter continued to question Dunn, Rebecca went to greet the ME.

  “Can this street be any steeper?” Ramirez swore as she made her way to the body. Even at five in the morning, she was dressed to kill, including high heels that made balancing on the hill questionable.