Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2) (9 page)

“And I’ll help you. As for my place, it needed updating anyway. Sometimes housecleaning is good, in many senses of the word.”

When Richie stayed at her apartment, she had learned how easy he was to talk to. That evening, their conversation soon turned away from murder and violent gangs to movies, music, politics, and the life of a single person in a big city. Richie had a way of telling stories that made her laugh, and they had lots of laughter, only interrupted at times by Spike’s loud snoring.

At some point, Rebecca glanced at a clock and thought there was something wrong with it. “That can’t be,” she said.

“What?” Richie turned around, looked at the clock, and then his watch. “It’s right. Nearly two a.m.”

Over the course of the evening, they had finished two bottles of wine, and Rebecca felt more than a little tipsy. “I had no idea it was so late. I’m supposed to go to work tomorrow. Or, considering the time, today.”

“Sleep in, and call in sick so you can spend more time with Spike.”

“I like the way you think. But I’ll go,” she said, much as she disliked the idea of facing Sutter and her boss.

They went out to the yard to give Spike one last potty break. The night was calm, the moon nearly full, and the sky surprisingly clear. She glanced at Richie. When he was relaxed, as now, his lips were always a little upturned as if with a secret smile, and his heavy eyelids were a bit closed, giving him a dreamy demeanor. He definitely looked good by moonlight, but then, he did by daylight as well. Or soft light, listening to music and talking deep into the night. She remembered how she used to liken him to a young, handsome—and tall—Al Pacino. She was wrong; he was better looking.

Okay, Mayfield, you are officially sloshed.

She scooped up Spike, quickly said good-night, and then hurried off to the guest room.

To her dismay, once in bed, she suddenly felt very much awake as her thoughts turned to Richie just down the hall. She couldn’t help but think that she only had to walk a few steps, and open his door. He’d be surprised, but he wouldn’t turn her away. Nothing had been said, or done, but at times she could all but taste the look he gave her. That was when she would step back. But now, she wanted to step towards him, as close as she could get.

She looked over her shoulder at the door, and couldn’t help but wish Richie was bolder than she was, and would come to her room.

But she knew he would never do it, not when she had made her feelings about that quite clear.

CHAPTER
9

Rebecca awoke to the sun shining into her room and Spike scratching at the door. She glanced at her cell phone, surprised to find it was already 9:00 A.M. She had either slept through her alarm, or turned it off in her sleep.

She raked her f
ingers through her hair, and rubbed her eyes, trying to wake up. She needed to call Eastwood and tell him not to worry. She was rarely late, and he might think something had happened to her after her horrible Saturday night.

Spike again clawed at the door and whimpered. “Don’t do that, Spike,” she said. “You’re a guest here. Don’t mess up the door. Just wait, I’ll take you outside.”

She got out of bed. She slept in what was basically an over-sized sweatshirt with the sleeves cut to her elbows. It was so thick, unrevealing and sexless she thought nothing of walking out of the bedroom in it. She hadn’t brought a bathrobe with her because she didn’t own one.

She opened the door just a crack and heard some noises coming from the kitchen. Richie must be awake already, and was hopefully making coffee. “Let’s go, Spike,” she said softly, letting him out of the bedroom.

He raced down hall, his little legs pumping so fast they were a blur. He skidded across the living room’s hardwood floor, ran into the kitchen … and that was when Rebecca heard a high-pitched shriek. She ran through the house as barking and a loud female voice bellowing words she didn’t understand came from the kitchen.

“No! No!
Aspet’! Lasciami!
Richie!
Che schifozz’?!
Richieeee!”

Rebecca froze in the doorway to see Carmela Amalfi, Richie’s mother, sitting on the kitchen counter, kicking her feet to keep Spike away from her as he jumped up and down, sometimes springing so high he nearly reached the countertop, barking the whole time.

She scooped Spike up and rushed him out the back door, then turned around. “I’m so sorry.”

“Ma!”

She heard Richie’s voice, spun to face him, and swallowed. Hard. He was barefoot, wearing pajamas bottoms, and pulling a big, loose T-shirt over his head. His chest, she couldn’t help but notice, was a lot more well-toned and muscular than she would have suspected.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Help me down.” Carmela ordered.

Rebecca had to wonder how the little woman got up on the counter in the first place. She wasn’t heavy, but she wasn’t very tall and was definitely pear-shaped.

Richie put his hands on her waist and Carmela held his shoulders as he lowered her.

“Basta! Scorciamend’!”
she cried, waving her hands, as soon as her toes touched the floor. “
Ma che cozz’u fai,
Richie? What’s going on here? ”

“Nothing.” he said. “Uh…you know Reb…uh, Becky.”

She glared at Rebecca, her lips a thin line. “Becky? I thought you said her name was Reba.” To Rebecca, the way Carmela looked at her, her name was Mud.

“My name is Rebecca,” she said. “And I’m here because—”

From behind his mother, Richie was vigorously shaking his head, and wildly sliding his fingers under his chin in the classic movieland signal for “Cut.” as in “Don’t tell her what’s happening.” Rebecca didn’t know why he didn’t want his mother to know, but she had to respect that.

“Because?” Carmela asked, her hawk
-like nose high in the air as her mouth scrunched and her black eyes narrowed as she took in their states of undress, then zeroed in on Richie.
“Perch
é?”

“Because we’re crazy about each other.” Richie scooted to Rebecca’s side and wrapped an arm around her. “That’s the way it is, Ma.”

“Humph. There’s more going on here. I thought so when you showed up at church yesterday. Not that it wasn’t about time.” Carmela’s harsh gaze leaped from one to the other. Rebecca wondered if she’d ever worked for a CIA interrogation unit. “But I suppose you aren’t going to tell me. Anyway, I cooked
osso buco
for dinner last night and made extra for you. I know how much you love it. It’ll be even better today than it was yesterday. Unfortunately, though, I didn’t bring enough for two. If you would tell your mother what’s going on …” At that moment, Carmela’s eyes shifted to Rebecca. “Do you have a job? Are you living here?”

Rebecca was so dumbfounded by the questions, she took a moment to answer. “I’m—”

“She’s a hairdresser,” Richie said, clutching her even tighter against his side. His clothes were light cotton, and Rebecca could feel the contours and warmth of his body against her own. “She makes good money.”

“That’s good,” Carmela said, fluffing her own dyed copper-color hair. It was cut so short it resembled a helmet. “I like hairdressers. Anyway, now I understand. It’s like they say, you can always tell who’s a carpenter because his house is the one that needs repair. But that’s all right, Rebecca. Or do you prefer Reba? Or Becky? Anyway, I’m sure you’ll have more time for yourself one of these days. Richie will see to it. My son, he’s a good boy.”

Rebecca and Richie both gawked at each other, momentarily speechless, and Rebecca fought the urge to run her fingers through her hair to try to smooth it, wondering what Richie’s mother found so awful.

“Okay, okay, I see you two don’t want this old lady hanging around interrupting your morning. I’ll get going. Richie, I hope you can make it to dinner next Sunday. I’m making ravioli the way Nonna Michelina used to do. Bring Reb … uh, Bec … whatever. It’s okay, even if she’s not Italian. At least she’s not another one of those horrible cocktail waitresses always hanging around you like leeches.
Che brutt’!
They should know my son is too good for them.”

“Yeah, sure, Ma,” Richie said as he guided his mother towards the door. “Thanks for the
osso buco
. I’ll call you later on about Sunday. I’m not sure what’s happening then.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

She waggled her finger at him. “Some women just want your money.”

“I know, I know.” He all but pushed her onto the front stoop.

“Now, don’t go—”

He shut the door, then turned and faced Rebecca looking even more sheepish than he did the first time she encountered Carmela. He ran his hand through his hair as he walked to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. “Sorry about that.”

Rebecca folded her arms. “At least she decided it’s okay that I’m not Italian,” she said, trying to keep a straight face, but failing. Her mouth broadened into a big smile that ended in a chuckle.

Richie joined in, both leaning back against the granite kitchen countertops and laughing with a mixture of humor and embarrassment over the encounter. “She’s got a key. I forgot all about it. Usually, I don’t have women here when she shows up.”

“Unless they’re ‘leech-y’ cocktail waitresses, I take it.” Rebecca folded her arms and lifted one eyebrow as she waited for his reply.

“I dated a couple. My mother met the last one and wasn’t impressed. She was drop-dead beautiful, but between her ears was a vacuum like shouldn’t exist outside of deep space.”

“Poor Richie,” Rebecca said, as she let Spike back into the house. “I’m sure you cared about her brains.”

“I did!”

She shook her head, then turned back to the guest room to take a shower and get dressed for work. Richie followed right behind her, heading for his own bedroom.

“I never knew a sweatshirt could look so good,” he muttered.

As she opened the door to the bedroom, she turned and
faced him. His hair was mussed with lock tumbling onto his forehead, his eyes were heavy, he needed a shave, and he was wearing pj bottoms and a T-shirt, yet he looked like the sexiest thing she had seen since she didn’t know when. All the thoughts she had about him last night as she tried to fall asleep slammed into her once more, only now the thoughts and feelings aroused were worse because he was within touching distance. No doors, no hallways, stood between them.

She froze, and she knew she couldn’t hide the desire from her face as her gaze met his. And the maddening part was, she didn’t want to. He didn’t move, as if waiting for her.

It seemed neither breathed, not until she said, “Time for work,” and hurried into the bedroom.

She closed the bedroom door, leaned against it, and shut her eyes a moment. As she envisioned once more the look of surprise, curiosity, and raw unmasked passion on Richie’s face, she couldn’t help but wonder …

o0o

Shortly after Rebecca headed off to work, Richie sat in his living room, not sure what to do. How had he gotten himself into this mess with her? She was too complicated, too serious, and too much the cop. Maybe he should find himself another cocktail waitress
. And then he smiled at Rebecca teasing him about ‘leechy’ women.

He didn’t understand himself any more. If she was just about any other attractive woman living in his house, sleeping here … well, they wouldn’t have needed two sets of sheets, that’s for sure. Why did he treat her so differently? He knew plenty of women who were, objectively speaking, prettier, richer, more highly educated, and acted eager to jump in the sack with him any old time. Yet she was the one he most enjoyed being with, who he actually had fun with, and who, for some damned reason, even brought out a protective instinct in him that—again objectively speaking—was ludicrous on the face of it. He treated her as if she were a sister or favorite cousin, but what he most wanted was far from brotherly.

Yet the way she had looked at him in the hallway that morning, he was afraid he would ignite and burn up as completely as her SUV had.

Women! He would never understand them.

His phone rang. He was relieved to hear it—glad for any distraction from his current thoughts.

Vito called to say he was sorry but his wife didn’t like the wine truck in their driveway. Vito was one of the toughest guys Richie had ever met, except where his wife was concerned. Then, he turned into the biggest wuss imaginable. He would ask “How high?” before Margie even told him to jump.

He promised Vito he would move the truck. He tried to think of where to move it to. He had warehouses, but the last thing he wanted was to connect the illegal wine to himself.

If he parked it near Shay, he’d have an even worse problem than with Vito since Shay owned a large older building in Presidio Heights overlooking Julius Kahn Park. He lived on the top floor and rented out the lower levels as apartments. His nosy neighbors would question him having a big truck in his parking space for more than a couple of hours. Besides, it would clash with his Maserati.

Then inspiration struck and he phoned Vito.