Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2) (5 page)

“I know,” she whispered.

Just then, a cocktail waitress hurried to him and waggled her thumb in the direction of the two men he was again eying. “A couple ABC stiffs,” she murmured.

He nodded and stood as the gray suits walked up to them.

“Richard Amalfi?” one asked.

“Yes.”

They pulled out business cards. “Boyd Waddey,” said the first.

“Tom Hutchison,” said the second, also handing Richie a card.

“California Alcohol Beverage Control,” Richie read, his expression flat, but then he gave away his nerves by fidgeting with one of the buttons on his suit jacket. “What’s this about?”

“We understand you’re selling wine illegally,” Waddey said.

“You’re kidding me.” Richie pointed to the wall on a far corner of the bar. “You see those licenses hanging over there? They aren’t just decoration. Everything going on here is completely legit.”

“The problem isn’t in here. It’s that you’re selling wine that doesn’t meet California state regulations. We’ve been hearing about a great new wine hitting restaurants. Just one problem. It’s not licensed. The skinny is, you’re the supplier.”

“Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus, too.” Richie tugged at an ear as he looked at them with disgust. “What is this? You want to come after me with some sensible complaint, that’s one thing, but to come here with some completely cock-and-bull story, is nuts. Do I look like a wine maker all of a sudden? You think my feet are red with grape toe jam? Jeez!”

“Look, Mr. Amalfi,” Hutchinson said gently, as if he was the good cop to Waddey’s bad, “We saw a white truck behind the restaurant. We’d like to know what’s in it.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to know what’s in it, too. The truck just showed up a couple days ago. It’s not like I use that area for anything. I figure it belongs to one of the neighbors. If they don’t get rid of it this weekend, I’ll call to have it towed. But it’s a good-looking truck, so I doubt it’s been abandoned.”

“You’re letting it sit on your property even though you have no idea who it belongs to or what’s in it?” Waddey said with a sneer.

“Is there a law against that?” Richie asked, cracking his knuckles. They sounded like machine-gun fire.

“Not at the moment,” Waddey said, taking a step back.

“No, but you’re working on it, right?” Richie looked even more disgusted, as he ran a hand over the back of his head. “Look fellas, I’m being a good neighbor about the truck. So, what do you want from me? Anyway, until you’ve got something more to complain about than the state of my back yard like some friggin’ gardener, I’m going to take my girlfriend home. She’s got to work tomorrow. She’s a cop.” He took Rebecca’s arm, tugged her off the stool, and hurried her out of the ballroom.

As they headed out the door, the band played
“Anything Goes.”

CHAPTER 5

“What’s going on?” Rebecca asked. “You look nervous as a cat with a new pit bull in town.”

“It was nothing.”

Rebecca buttoned her jacket as soon as they stepped outdoors. The fog was coming in, and she heard mournful foghorns out on the bay.

“Look, I’m sorry about that,” he said, standing close.

“It’s okay. I was about to leave anyway.”

“So I noticed. Talking to those guys made me hungry,” Richie
added, sliding his hands in his pockets against the cold. “Want to join me? My favorite late-night restaurant in Chinatown is open. The one we once went to. I could go for something simple. Maybe pork chow mein, a little beef won ton, and throw in hot, spicy, Szechuan chicken, a spring roll or two. How does that sound?”

Her all but meatless dinner salad left her unable to turn down decent food. She was glad her stomach didn’t growl with joy. “It sounds delicious.”

“Good. My car is just around the corner in a garage.”

“Mine is right there.” She pointed to her Ford Explorer at the next corner. “As I drove up, someone pulled out of the parking space.”

“Lucky,” he muttered, “but no thanks.” They continued to his car.

The difference between lumbering around the narrow, crowded, cable-car laden streets of San Francisco in her SUV and weaving in and out of city traffic in a Porsche 911 Turbo was beyond night-and-day. Not to mention that she drove slowly and cautiously, and Richie drove as if he were competing in the Grand Prix.

Up ahead, a signal turned yellow with Richie too far away to run it, so he actually stopped at the light, much to Rebecca’s relief.

“So,” she said, catching her breath from his manic driving. “Will you now tell me what that was all about?”

“What was what about?” he asked innocently.

“Those two ABC men.”

His lips formed a thin line. “I just wonder who’s been talking, that’s all.”

“So there is something behind their questions,” she said.

He glanced at her. “It’s not important. And it’s not what they think.” The light changed and he was off to the races again. “Or you, with that suspicious cop brain of yours. But thanks for going along with me.”

“No problem,” she said honestly. For some reason,
there was rarely a dull moment around Richie.

Street parking in Chinatown was impossible
to find, yet he managed to locate space in an alley by squeezing between a dumpster and a truck. In minutes they were inside a bright restaurant, noisy with people, Chinese music, and food. She remembered being here, and that the food and service were exceptional.

A man led them through the crowd and down some steps to a much quieter area with soft lights and black lacquered tables spread far apart from each other to give some privacy. She remembered this as well.

A waiter appeared almost instantly. Richie consulted with Rebecca on their order, and then added, “Plus, how about a couple other dishes you think we might like.”

Hot oolong tea was placed on the table, along with chopsticks and a Chinese style soup spoon followed in a surprisingly short time by their meal. The food was even better than Rebecca remembered, and she hadn’t realized how hungry she was.

As they ate, she explained how she had tracked Baranski to the Golden Gate Garage and then saw his and Karen’s baby’s photo in the shop. “So, I hung around outside and waited. I had a hunch. Sure enough, guess who walked out of there?”

He froze. “You didn’t say anything to him, did you?”

“Of course I did. He tried to deny who he was, but it was him. He managed to get away before I could reach my car.”

“The
men in the shop must know you found him.” His voice was tense.

“
Only if he told them. After seeing the photo, I didn’t say much and then left.”

He shook his head. “I hate to tell you, but for a cop, you’re a terrible liar. Too much is written on your face. It doesn’t take a genius to know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh?” Frankly, it wasn’t the first time she’d been told that.

He tugged at his ear and one leg started to jiggle. “This is not good.” He now rubbed his chin. His fidgeting made her more and more nervous.

“Calm down! Now that I know where he works, I’ll let the Sausalito PD know. They can get an arrest warrant on him.”

“Hmm.”

She put down her chopsticks. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Why didn’t they find him already? What if the cops in Sausalito know more about the case than you think they do? What if they’ve been warned off?”

“Like you’re trying to warn me off?”

“Exactly,” he said.

She pushed aside her plate, unable to eat another bite. “Someone’s got to find Karen’s killer.”

He
looked as if he might be ready to argue, but then simply nodded. “Okay. But I’ve got to admit, I don’t know that I have half the guts you do. I’m not sure I’d be willing to take on the Russians even if a friend of mine were killed by them.”

“We don’t know yet that they killed her.”

He lay his chopsticks on his plate. “There’s a reason the Russians are so feared. Normally, a person’s family is off limits. The wives and kids, nobody touches them. And if somebody does, it means all-out war. But with the Russians, they’ll go after anyone and everyone connected, no matter how distant. Which is why there’s a good chance they were responsible for Karen Larkin’s death and the boyfriend, this Yuri, is the one who caused it even if he didn’t pull the trigger. Tell me if I’m missing something.”

She rubbed her temples. “No, you aren’t. You’re right. But you don’t need to worry about me.” She glanced at his Rolex. “It’s late. Time for me to pick up my car and go home.”

“Your apartment is just a few minutes from here. How about I take you?”

“But my car—”

“A couple guys who work for me can drop it off on their way home.”

“They don’t have the key.”

He gave her one of those looks. “Rebecca,” was all he said.

There were times, like this one, that even after all her years in the big city, she’d blurt out something that made her realize she still had the heart of a farm girl from Idaho. Okay, they didn’t need a key. She got it.

“Besides, it’s been a while since I’ve seen Spike,” he said, raising his eyebrows and trying to look innocent. There was nothing innocent about him—or about the way he made her feel. And his words clearly indicated he wasn’t thinking about dropping her off on the sidewalk.

Going directly home as opposed to going in the opposite direction just to pick up her car made infinite sense she told herself, especially as she wondered just how much more interesting this evening might become. Her breathing had definitely sped up as she nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

CHAPTER
6

Rebecca was strangely silent as Richie drove to her apartment. He guessed she was trying to put together all he had told her about the Ruskies with what she also knew about her friend. He felt bad for her; he knew she had been hit hard by her friend’s death, and was trying not to show it. It wasn’t working.

And he was quite willing to be her personal Comforter-in-Chief.

Her apartment was midway up the south side of Nob Hill. At the very top of the hill were the famous Mark Hopkins and Fairmont hotels along with gentlemen’s clubs for uber-rich of the city, plus Grace Cathedral where all of them could go when they needed to seek forgiveness.

Downhill from Rebecca’s apartment sat the seedy Tenderloin where prostitutes openly lined the streets each night.

Surrounding her were expensive small flats and apartments, and she was lucky to find a minuscule place on Mulford Alley. Her building had two large flats above the garage, and her apartment had originally been a storeroom behind that garage. To get there, one had to enter a door alongside the garage that opened to a breezeway to the back yard, then cross the yard to her cozy two-rooms. Richie had practically lived there for a week some two months earlier. To his surprise, he had liked it—and Rebecca—more than he ever imagined possible.

Four years ago, when the only woman he ever truly loved
was killed in an auto accident, something inside him died as well. The thought of falling in love again, of once more chancing being hurt so badly he wondered how he could get through another day, frankly scared the bejeezus out of him.

Maybe that was why he liked being around Rebecca. He knew a woman like her could never be serious about him. And that, he told himself, was a good thing.

A red-painted curb lined one side of the street because the alley was quite narrow. Fortunately, meter maids never ventured in there, so all the residents, and Richie, parked atop the “no parking” red zone. The night was heavy with fog, dimming the street lamps to small, wispy orbs. He walked with her through the dark street to her building, then hung back as she stepped towards the door to the breezeway, key in hand. Once they reached her apartment, he’d kiss her good-night and see what happened next. She threw him such mixed signals, he didn’t know which way was up. All he knew was that around her, everything became much more exciting, more intense—even thoughts of a simple good-night kiss on a foggy night in San Francisco.

He was so busy thinking about her, and how just being near her did funny things to his temperature, that it took him a moment to realize she had stopped before unlocking the breezeway door. “What is it?” he asked.

She turned the doorknob.

The door opened.

He knew she was fanatical about making sure that the breezeway door, as well as the one to her apartment, were locked.

The Russians.

She pressed herself against the wall and gestured for him to get behind her. She pulled a Glock from the holster she wore along the back waistband of her jeans and chambered a bullet.

“I left the door locked,” she whispered. “I always do, and I double-checked it.”

“I know.” He placed his hand on her shoulder. “Don’t go in there. Call somebody. Or I will.”

“Wait back here,” she ordered.