Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2)

by Joanne Pence

  Despite all that, Vargas also believed Baranski was Karen’s killer, even though he, too, might now be dead. It was a truism, after all, that the best suspect in a spouse’s homicide was the surviving spouse—that was Cop 101.

  After Vargas and Rebecca compared notes, by the end of the meal, their conversation took a personal turn. She learned he was divorced with two kids, and he learned she had never been married, and both of them had decided the only people who could ever understand them were other cops.

  Strangely, although Rebecca knew that was a fairly common conclusion among her fellow officers, she didn't know a single one married to another cop. She couldn’t help but wonder why.

  Vargas asked if she was seeing anyone, and she hesitated a moment before she said “Not really.” Both of them noticed her hesitation, and while his gaze turned questioning, he said nothing. She didn’t try to explain, but she knew she had blown the possibility of him asking for a date. In truth, she wasn’t sure how she would have answered if he had.

  Maybe someday, when she wasn’t living at Richie’s and he was completely out of her life, she would look Mike up. He seemed like a great guy. Her heart, though, didn’t beat any faster when he was near.

  “Let’s go check out the Golden Gate Garage,” Vargas said. “It should be closed now, but who knows, maybe we’ll hear someone calling for help.”

  She grinned. “You never know.”

  They walked down the block, thinking of ways to get inside, but when they reached it, the lights were on.

  Vargas regarded the building with a scowl. “I do believe I have every right to go in there and ask a few questions.”

  Rebecca nodded. “I would say so. I’ll stand by the door and watch your back. I wouldn’t put anything past the guys in there.”

  He nodded, then his gaze softened as he looked at her. “You’re okay, you know?”

  She gave a small smile and said simply, “Ready when you are.”

  They entered, and Vargas asked for the manager.

  Fedor Vasiliev came out and introduced himself. His eyes widened as he noticed Rebecca. He then ignored her and spoke pleasantly with Vargas. He tried to say he had never heard of Yuri Baranski, but Rebecca had told Vargas about the photo of Baranski’s daughter. Vargas pointed it out. "Oh, you mean that guy?" Fedor Vasiliev said. "His name isn’t Yuri Baranski. It’s Yakov Polanski.”

  “Whatever you call him, I want to talk to him,” Vargas said. “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. He hasn’t come here to work in a couple of months.”

  “He was seen here on Saturday.”

  “No, not him. You are wrong.” Vasiliev shook his head vehemently. Two of his men started forward, but he scowled at them, and they turned around, pretending they were there to look for some paperwork.

  Vargas eyed them, and then asked, “If he’s not here, where is he?”

  The manager wrote down the Gate 6 Road address. “This is as much as I know.”

  “You had better be telling the truth,” Vargas said, standing tall, chest out, and holding Vasiliev’s eyes.

  “I am. Go there! You can ask him yourself why he hasn’t come to work. And when you see him, tell him not to bother to come back. He’s fired.”

  Vargas and Rebecca left the garage. “I don’t believe a word he said,” Vargas told her. “I’m going to watch who comes and goes. It worked for you the other day.”

  “Why don’t I join you?” she said. “I’m already parked on Stanyan with a view of the garage, although I may have to leave at any time since I’m on-call this week.”

  They got into Richie’s BMW.

  “Some car you got here,” Vargas said, running thick, square, but manly hands over the leather upholstery.

  “It’s not mine. A friend lent it to me when mine was set on fire.” She had told him over dinner about the connection between Baranski and Russian organized crime, and the results of that, only omitting details of her current living arrangements.

  “Must be a pretty good friend,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she murmured, focusing on the garage.

  Vargas tilted the car seat back so he could be more comfortable as they watched.

  As the night wore on, weary, she tilted hers back as well.

  o0o

  A call came in a 5 a.m., startling Rebecca and Vargas awake. They were stunned to realize both had managed to fall asleep as they watched the garage, which now had its lights out. She had to remember to never again attempt a stakeout in such a comfortable car.

  The dispatcher was sending Rebecca out to Hunters Point where shots had been fired, resulting in two fatalities. She dropped Vargas off at his car and then sped to the crime scene.

  As usual, she arrived before Sutter. Uniformed officers had secured the area. Two young men were lying in the street, both dead. A neighbor pointed to a small, dilapidated house on the corner and said the killer had run inside it. Rebecca and an officer went to check on the residents there, and when no one answered, the officer gave the door a kick. The two entered.

  Rebecca saw a male going out a back window and chased after him. She went out the window while the officer ran around the outside of the building. She was giving chase down a street when she saw Sutter’s car heading towards her. She yelled and pointed at the suspect. Sutter made a U-turn, got ahead of the suspect, and then sprang from his car.

  The suspect stopped and spun around. Rebecca was about to tackle him when she saw a switchblade in his hand and a semi-automatic pistol tucked in his belt by his stomach. She froze, her hand on the grip of her holstered Glock at her back. Everything about him, from the way he was bouncing on his toes to the wild look in his eyes told her he was high. From behind, Sutter yelled at him to drop to the ground, arms spread out wide, or he would shoot.

  He hesitated a split second, and then did as told. Rebecca kicked the knife out of the way as she pulled back his arms and cuffed him. When they got him to his feet, they took the Ruger he carried.

  “I didn’t do anything.” were his only words.

  Processing the crime scene, the murder victims, getting statements from witnesses and the alleged shooter, and doing it on a few hours’ sleep, took most of the day.

  Rebecca was exhausted but wired. Having a drugged-out killer armed with a knife and a gun turn on you will do that.

  By late afternoon, she had to get away from Homicide and drove to the spa owned by her friend and neighbor, Kiki Nuñez—not for a spa treatment, but simply to see a friendly face.

  The waiting room was a mixture of azure blue and black marble. She gave her name and asked for the owner. In moments, Kiki all but flew out of the back room, the sleeves of her kimono smock flapping. She was age 48, a bit overweight, energetic, and twice divorced-but-still-looking. She also had two grown children. “Rebecca! Where you been? I been so worried abou’ chu!”

  Rebecca wondered why Kiki sounded so strange until she realized two customers stood nearby. Kiki claimed using an accent made her more interesting to customers and that brought in more money, so she used it even though she was born and raised in Oklahoma.

  “That’s what I’m here to talk about,” Rebecca admitted.

  Kiki told her assistant, a French woman who really did have an accent, to take over, and she led Rebecca back to her office. There, she poured her some coffee from her espresso machine.

  “Last I heard, after you left your apartment, you were still looking for Spike,” Kiki said. “Did you find him?”

  “Richie’s friends found him.”

  “Richie … oh, my! Is he back in the picture?” Kiki’s eyes lit up and she smiled broadly. “Casanova is one handsome devil. Don’t tell me you’re staying at his house?”

  “I am.” She told Kiki a bit about her friendship with Karen Larkin, and her murder.

  “Oh, Becca, such a sad story. I’m so sorry for your friend. Do you think her boyfriend killed her?”

  “Everything points that way.”

  “Your fri
end survived on the street as a cop for some six years,” Kiki said. “She had to have good instincts for people. And she was right to leave the force when she got serious about Yuri. Believe me, I know people with immigration problems. Some are lucky—they can go their entire life without anybody caring. Others, once the law takes notice of them, and especially if the illegal is a Russian who might be connected, will get deported so fast they don’t know what hit them. And things might not be so pleasant for someone who’s Ukrainian even if he has fathered an American child. That part of the world has nothing but political troubles.”

  “You could be right. I just don’t know.” Rebecca shook her head.

  Kiki studied her. “There’s more about this case that’s bothering you.”

  “Everything about it bothers me,” Rebecca admitted. “The woman they talk about, jewel thief, welfare queen, maybe even call girl, isn’t the woman I knew at all.”

  “There’s got to be something else going on,” Kiki said. “Something you and those detectives are all missing when you concentrate on facts and evidence. Where is the heart? What did Karen feel? Did you talk about this to Richie?”

  “Richie?”

  “He understands people.”

  Rebecca was dumbfounded by this. “As if I don’t?”

  “You’re a lot of good things but sometimes you don’t see a tree right in front of you because you’re so busy looking at the whole forest.”

  “I think the saying is you don’t see the forest for the trees.”

  “It goes both ways, Becca. Speaking of which, what’s going on with you and Casanova?”

  Rebecca tried to chuckle. It didn’t work. “So far, three people at work have warned me against having anything to do with him. Even I warn myself against it.”

  “You can’t live your life based on what other people think. You care about him.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Rebecca said wearily. “He’s not what I want or need.”

  “You could be wrong.”

  “I’m not. A relationship with Richie would go absolutely nowhere. He’s got love ‘em and leave ‘em reflecting off him in neon letters.”

  “Maybe he’ll be different with you. I know he likes you.”

  “He likes women.” She drew in her breath. “If he were a different kind of guy, and if I could be more casual about relationships, it’d be a whole different story. But he’s not, and I’m not.”

  “Stalemate, huh?”

  “Afraid so. But enough of that. The good news is I’ve met a really nice deputy sheriff from San Rafael. He’s made it clear he’s interested.”

  Kiki’s eyebrows rose. “And you like this deputy?”

  “He’s a good guy, divorced, two kids who live with his wife and her new husband. Good job. What’s not to like?”

  “But could he make you forget Casanova?”

  “Well, not when I’m living in Richie’s house.” She tried to smile about the situation. “But maybe someday. Richie’s the kind of guy who can get under your skin.”

  “Rebecca, what am I gonna do with you? You can’t compromise about love.”

  Rebecca finished her coffee, then stood. “I need to get going. And no one said anything about love.”

  “Sometimes, for someone so smart, you’re can be a really dumb gringa, girlfriend,” Kiki said, shaking her head.

  At that, Rebecca smiled, and soon they both laughed. Kiki gave her a hug, and told her to just take it day-by-day, that whatever was meant to be would be, and a whole raft of other clichés that Kiki knew and used with abandon.

  “And next time you’re back at your place, come see me. I’ll keep your secret,” Kiki said.

  Rebecca was confused. “What secret?”

  “That you’re there. I’m guessing that’s why you didn’t say anything to Bradley or me. But you know the pipes in that old building rattle when anyone of us uses water. We know you’ve spent time at home.”

  “You’re saying someone was in my apartment?”

  Kiki’s eyebrows went up. “It wasn’t you? My God! I’m glad I didn’t go knocking.”

  “Me, too. I’ll look into it,” Rebecca promised. She soon left, more confused and worried than when she arrived.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rebecca headed back to the Hall of Justice, hoping Kiki had heard CSI rummaging around trying to find evidence as to who broke into her apartment.

  Seeing Kiki made Rebecca miss her little apartment. As much as she liked Richie’s house, his food, and yes, his company, she didn’t belong there and staying was becoming increasingly awkward on a number of levels.

  As soon as she got her apartment back, she would end her growing interest in him once and for all. Kiki saw it; so did people at work. It was time for Rebecca to admit it was true.

  Insight into why Karen Larkin left the force struck. Of course, Karen’s situation was far more serious since she was in love with the man her superiors, co-workers, and family found objectionable. But once Karen learned that Yuri was associating with the Russian syndicate, she had to either report on the crimes she knew about, or quit. Karen had been even more of a by-the-book person than Rebecca, but she also had a strong romantic streak. Rebecca could understand Karen going with her heart instead of her job.

  That was where the two of them differed.

  Rebecca stopped in CSI and talked to Inspector Pacheco. He gave her back her apartment keys and said they had been there only once, the day after the break-in.

  Rebecca went to her partner. Bill Sutter was at his desk eating sunflower seeds and tapping out a report on the computer. “A neighbor said she’s heard someone in my apartment. It might be a squatter, or worse. I could use back-up.”

  He spat out a shell, wiped his hands, and stood. “I knew this was going to cause me trouble,” he grumbled.

  “It might be nothing,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, but checked the magazine on his Glock, which said more than words could have.

  They drove separately. As Rebecca waited for Sutter, she was surprised to see a white truck parked where Mulford Alley dead-ended. She wondered who it belonged to, and it only increased her nervousness.

  Sutter soon arrived and followed as she unlocked the door to the breezeway beside the garage. From it, she crossed the back yard to her front door, and unlocked it.

  She stopped in the doorway.

  Something felt off.

  Memories of the past couple of days rushed at her. Of being bound and unable to breathe, of coming up against a switchblade and gun. She glanced at Sutter who nodded in encouragement.

  She squared her shoulders and held her Glock at the ready. She could see the living room, dining nook, and most of the U-shaped kitchen, then kept going until she could see around the kitchen counter.

  She crept towards the bedroom and peered inside. The door wasn’t swung all the way open against the wall as it usually was.

  She slowly backed out of the bedroom, using hand gestures to indicate to Sutter that she may have company. She pressed against one side of the doorway, Sutter against the opposite side. “Come out, now,” she said.

  She heard a footstep, then another. And then the door moved slightly as a man stepped out from behind it. First, she saw his revolver, but he didn’t fire. Next, she saw his face.

  “Yuri Baranski,” she said, continuing to hold her gun on him.

  “That’s right.”

  “Put the gun down. We need to talk.”

  “So you can arrest me? No.”

  “How about if I arrest you, instead?” Sutter said from behind Baranski.

  “Do you expect to shoot the two of us?” Rebecca asked, studying his face. “The way you shot Karen?”

  “I would never hurt her. I loved her!” They stared at each other a long moment before he said, “We can talk.” He put his revolver on the ground and gave it a kick towards Sutter. Sutter picked it up, then cuffed him and searched Baranski for more weapons. He had none.

  “How did you
get in here?” she demanded.

  “At night, from roof and down back stair. I have lock pick. It’s not important.” He spoke with a moderately heavy accent.

  She eyed him carefully. “Why did you come here?”

  He sucked in his breath through his teeth. “When I saw you at Golden Gate Garage, I remember you, and how Karen talked about you, her friend. Please let me explain. I have done nothing wrong.”

  Rebecca had Baranski sit at the breakfast table. She sat across from him, Sutter on a more distant chair in the living area, as Baranski explained that Charkov wanted to kill him for bringing the law to Charkov’s door, to his business. Baranski knew he was nothing to Charkov, less than a foot-soldier. Also, he had wanted to break away from the syndicate for some time, but to attempt to do so could be deadly.

  Baranski knew that if Charkov were to kill him and plant more evidence of Karen’s murder on him, it would get the law away from the Russian syndicate. That was Charkov’s goal in all this.

  “My fear was Charkov could kill me at any time, or the police could arrest me for Karen’s murder, and then what would happen to Nina?” Baranski said. “If Charkov takes her … he likes girls, not women. Likes young, skinny girls. If he kept Nina, then, as she grows older …” He shuddered. “I believe you would make sure she is safe. I needed everyone—you, police, Charkov—to think I am dead. People who know me, know I would not leave Nina, so when I did, they would believe I died.

  “I made noise so my nosy neighbor would think I left at night, but I stay with Nina and then sneak out in morning. Then I send you text. I expect to see you in ten minutes, but I wait many hours. Finally, you come, you take care of my daughter.”

  Rebecca nodded. “Nina is with the Child Protective Services. If you don’t pick her up soon, they’ll contact her grandparents in Santa Rosa.”