The Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Box Set 1

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

IF ANYONE HAD TOLD Rebecca Mayfield this morning that she’d end up in a black Porsche sitting next to a guy who looked and sounded like he stepped out of a bad remake of Pulp Fiction, she would have told him he was nuts. If he went on to say that she’d be investigating a Santa Claus corpse who looked flat as a mosquito on a car windshield and was now in hot pursuit of a van with twelve more jolly ol’ Saint Nicholases, she’d have called the men in white coats for him.

She glanced at Richie Amalfi, who had just swung to the wrong side of the street to pass a cable car, nearly causing a head-on with a Gallo Wine truck, and suppressed the urge to stomp on the brake pedal—with his foot on it—and write him up.

Earlier, she phoned the dispatcher at Central Station and learned, to her amazement, that a report had come in from Chinatown about a van filled with Santa Clauses blocking the area around Waverly Place and causing a commotion. Waverly was a narrow side street parallel to Grant Avenue in the heart of Chinatown, and lined with tongs—legitimate family associations, or so they told the police. The dispatcher had just sent two squad cars to get the old guys out of there before the scene erupted into another tong war.

"Sounds like your boys are in Chinatown," Rebecca said to Richie when she got off the phone.

"Holy Christ!" Richie got up and headed for the door. "Thanks."

Mrs. Mayfield hadn’t raised a stupid daughter. Some guy dressed in red pajamas had gone splat on her watch, and now twelve more were careening through the city with Lucky Luciano, here, in hot pursuit. There had to be some connection. No way would she believe it was a coincidence.

"Wait up!" She grabbed her purse, jacket, and was clipping her hair into a barrette at the nape of her neck as she followed him. "I’m going with you."

"No, you aren’t." He spun on his heel in the doorway, hand on the frame as if to physically block her way.

"Yes, I am," she said, nose to nose with him as she put on the jacket. "You don’t know where in Chinatown they are."

"It’s a huge van. How hard will it be to find it?"

Her jaw jutted as she smiled. "You’ll never know, will you?"

His eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to get involved in this?"

"Civic duty?" she suggested. "Helping the elderly? I mean you, not the Santa boys."

"Me?" He grinned and dropped his arm. "All right, Inspector. Have it your way."

They had another argument when they reached the parking lot. She didn’t like getting into cars with strangers, although him being Angie’s cousin helped. He absolutely refused to ride in her aging Ford Explorer and leave his car in the lot. Her choice was either to ride in the Porsche or to follow it—and then have to deal with parking, losing him in traffic, or having him simply take off and the Explorer be unable to keep up.

No argument. She folded her long body into the sleek little sports car, and was filled with suspicion over where and how he'd gotten it. The powerful motor hummed and darted into traffic.

"So," she said, assessing the cable-car passing, wine-truck menacing maniac at the wheel, "you picked up twelve old guys at the airport. Are they all friends?"

He sped up at the yellow light, hit the intersection as it turned red and cruised across. "Something like that, yeah."

After she peeled her fingers off the dashboard, she said, "You're obviously worried about them. They might get lost, I suppose."

"They know the city."

"No need to worry, then," she offered, closely watching his reaction.

His mouth wrinkled, but he didn't answer.

"What about their families?" she pressed. "Have you notified them?"

"Look, Inspector, cut the third degree. They're missing, all right? It's Christmas Eve. There are people they want to be with. Although"—brown eyes darted her way—"maybe you don't know about that kind of stuff. Why are you working today?"

She never answered personal questions from suspects. Not that he was one. Yet. "Tell me what you were doing with the old guys. It might help us find them."

"No family here, huh?" he persisted.

"My family's in Idaho, thank you. Now, if you expect me to help you, I need some information."

"They’re going to ring bells for the Salvation Army." At her sneer, he added, "I volunteered to drop them off at their pot-stands."

An eyebrow lifted. "So you're one of Santa’s little helpers."

"Well ..." He screeched to a halt behind a car that had stopped for a pedestrian. "Just like you said. Civic duty." He lowered the window, stuck his head out and yelled, "Move it, douchebag!"

Okay, she told herself, so he’s not going to tell me what he’s up to. She hadn't exactly expected he would. His furtiveness told her that it was probably shady and likely to end up with someone dead. Someone like her victim this morning.

She directed him toward Waverly Place. Half a block before reaching it, the traffic stopped completely. A crowd of people surrounded the entrance to Waverly.

Richie threw the car into reverse and was just about to careen backwards when another car pulled up behind him. And right behind it was a Coca-Cola truck. "What the—!" He pounded the steering wheel.

The streets of Chinatown were narrow, often one-way, and cluttered with double-parked cars and trucks unloading food, souvenirs, and tourists. The streets around Waverly were clogged under normal circumstances, and Waverly itself was even worse. Richie couldn’t go backwards, forwards, or even along the sidewalk.

He shut off the motor, yanked out his key, jumped from the car and ran toward Waverly.

"Hey!" Rebecca climbed out and watched his retreating figure. What the hell, she thought, and took off after him. If someone stole or towed the Porsche, it was his problem, not hers. She mentally ticked off his fifth traffic violation in as many minutes: illegal parking.

Richie marched up and down the small street, puffing and snorting. "I don’t see any van," he yelled. "Why don’t I see the van?" He furiously kicked a bag of refuse, knocking it over. Its loose ties fell off, and rotting contents spewed onto the sidewalk. She eyed it, then him in distaste. Public littering.

"The report," she began, "said they went into a mahjongg parlor next to the Hop Sing Tong—"

Before she finished, Richie took off down the block. "There it is." He pointed toward a dark brown brick doorway. It was non-descript except for some Chinese writing painted on the side. She eyed it skeptically. "Don’t tell me you read Chinese."

"No. Just the words"—he pointed at two characters—"mah and jongg."

With a calm swagger, Richie went inside. She’d never been in one of the Chinese gaming parlors before. They were illegal as hell, but the cops were under strict orders from the city fathers to leave them alone. You could either chalk it up to "understanding diversity" or "bribes." Take your pick. She followed.

The room was shrouded in a thick haze of smoke. Considering all the gambling taking place there, the city’s "no-smoking in doors in any public places" policy was a non-factor. A jumble of tables with fluorescent lights over them filled the room. People sat, four to a table, looking almost like a bunch of bridge players except for the intensity of their expressions. Even now, in the afternoon, the room was nearly full. The clinking of game tiles was deafening. No one paid attention to the newcomers.

Richie strolled up to a pudgy bald-headed Chinese man at the desk and the two greeted each other like long lost pals. They talked quietly a while before the man shook his head and pointed up the street.

"They split," Richie said, not quite touching her as he ushered her toward the door. "He thought they were going to a restaurant, or trying to shake the cops who were looking for them, although, uh, they’d have no reason to be wary of cops," he quickly added. "None at all."

Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Why would they worry about cops looking for them in the first place?" she asked, although she already knew better than to expect an answer. She gave the players at the mahjongg tables one last I'd-love-to-arrest-them-all-for-illegal-gambling look, then let him steer her outside.

They reached the street just in time to see a large white van go by on the opposite end of Waverly Place, over on Washington Street. The van must have been double-parked or have done something people didn’t like because a crowd of elderly Chinese men shook their fists and yelled after it in Cantonese. No translation needed.

"God damn!" Richie ran to Washington and watched the van lurch uphill. So did he. Rebecca sprinted up the hill with relative ease, and was surprised that he managed to stay in front of her.

The van turned at the corner onto Stockton, and by the time they reached the intersection, it was nowhere in sight. Richie bent over, hands on knees, trying to catch his breath, his face a brilliant shade of purple.

They returned to his car to find that the crowd had dispersed and his Porsche was now the only thing blocking traffic. The Coca-Cola and Toyota drivers stuck behind him had apparently decided to push it out of the way. One man tried to break into the car with a slim jim lockout tool while the other stood at the back of it, ready to push. Richie lifted the guy away from the car window, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and tossed him onto the street.

The man looked up at the outraged Richie, apparently decided he had no complaints, and scrambled back to his beat-up Camry. The Coca-Cola driver followed.

Rebecca scowled at all three. Assault and battery on Richie's part, and possibly destruction of property depending on what happened to the Porsche once the two geniuses got it rolling since they were on a fairly steep hill. She was tempted to arrest them all, then go back to Homicide and use a more traditional approach to crime solving.

"You coming?" Richie asked as he got in. She hesitated, but Richie might be her only lead to the dead Santa for a long while. She jumped into the passenger seat and before she’d even shut the door, he stomped on the gas pedal.

"Why did the Santas go to the mahjongg parlor?" she asked and fastened her seat belt.

"Is that a joke?" He zigzagged past obstructions to proceed around the block. "Like, why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Ho, ho, ho." Her fingers itched to smack him. Hard. "What did they want in there?"

"They went for old time’s sake, I guess," was his unsatisfactory response. For a man who emoted big time, he was remarkably tight-lipped, which meant he had secrets. She didn't like secrets.

The Porsche disappeared into the Stockton Street tunnel, the easiest route between Chinatown and the downtown area, and popped out near Union Square.

As opposed to Chinatown, which always resembled Hong Kong in the 1970’s or '80's no matter what the season, holiday or time of year, the Square was lit with Christmas decorations. Up ahead was Macy’s, to the right Saks Fifth Avenue. On the opposite street, the St. Francis Hotel, one of the city’s oldest and finest, took up the entire block. Smaller exclusive shops and boutiques ringed the Square and nearby Maiden Lane. Rebecca couldn’t afford a handkerchief in one of the Lane’s shops, as opposed to Angie Amalfi and—by the looks of him—her insane cousin.

Here, people rushed about doing last minute Christmas shopping. She had gotten all hers finished two weeks before Thanksgiving. That was when stores held truly big sales, and there were no crowds. She could shop quickly, efficiently, and save money besides—not that she had many gifts to buy. But that wasn't the point.

Her Christmas season was efficient. No hubbub; no crowds teeming with energy. None of this kind of holiday excitement filling the air and making her spine tingle.

"Damn! Look at all these people." Richie broke into her thoughts as he waited impatiently three cars back from a red light. "I still have four presents to get. Looks like I'll be short."

"The disadvantages of your profession, I suppose." Her tone was thick with sarcasm.

Something flashed across his dark eyes. "My profession? You don't know beans about my profession. Maybe you should look at your own."

"What is your profession?" she asked.

He shrugged. "A little of this, a little of that."

"What did I tell you?" she said with a frown.

Just then, a laughing, package-laden couple jaywalked in front of them. He looked suddenly rueful and surprised her by saying, "Not exactly normal jobs for normal people, are they?"

Maybe it was the holiday bustle, maybe it was the sudden glint of honesty she saw on his face, or perhaps it was simply because they were both alone and working on Christmas Eve, but she said quietly, "Then we wouldn't be who we are, right?"

"Right." His elbow rested on the doorframe, hand to chin, and speaking more to himself than her in a voice so soft his words were almost imperceptible said, "Sometimes I wonder how bad that would be."

She glanced at him, but made no response. He met her gaze. The dark, almost hard-edge look she had found so off-putting when she first saw him seemed to have softened, or maybe it was because she was able to look past the surface coldness and found something deeper, more sensitive, even perhaps a little likeable.

The Porsche suddenly seemed a lot smaller, and he seemed a lot closer. The moment lengthened, but then she turned her head, facing straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she noticed that he did the same. They sat in awkward, mutual silence, spectators to a festive, holiday scene; outsiders together.

The mood was broken when Rebecca spotted a large white van turning into the underground parking garage beneath Union Square. "Is that it?" she asked.

"We've got them now!" Richie punched the air as he swerved out of his lane, crossed oncoming traffic and zipped in front of cars lined up waiting to enter the garage. As he stopped to take his ticket from a parking garage machine, the burly driver he had cut off honked long and loud, then got out of his car and stomped toward them. Rebecca rolled down the window and held up her police badge. He backed off.

Richie roared up and down narrow parking lanes until he spotted the van. But it was already empty.

Nearby it, every parking space, nook and cranny was filled, often illegally, and he had to park an entire floor away. "Let’s stay close to the lot." He headed for the elevator. "They should come back soon. You married?"

The question surprised her. "No," she replied, and focused back on the problem at hand. "Why not just wait near the van?"

"Hell, no." Thick concrete pillars held up the ceiling. Above was a park with trees, grass, and winter plantings. "I'll wait 'til I'm dead to have dirt and people walking around on top of me. Besides, I don’t do underground in earthquake country. Engaged?"

"No." Not that it was any business of his, she thought. He was like a bulldog. "Don’t you know the chance of there being an earthquake while we’re waiting down here is practically zero?"

The elevator bell bonged and the doors opened. "Yeah? Tell that to the people who died going across the Bay Bridge during the last big one. I’m going up to the Square. I’ll take my chances above ground."

"But you could be trapped in an elevator," she reasoned, stepping on.

"It’s faster than taking the stairs." His hands twitched, his whole body bounced with nervous energy.

"What about tall buildings?" She wasn’t sure if she was intrigued or simply enjoyed making him squirm. "Do you go up in them?"

"I would, if I had business up in one." When the elevator doors opened, he catapulted off it then tugged at his jacket in a show of casual indifference. It didn't fool her. "Let’s walk around the park." He forged ahead without waiting, obviously ill at ease with her questions. Behind his back, she smiled.

The area was crawling with Santa Clauses. Everywhere they looked one or two stood, collecting money or handing out fliers. A violinist played "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Rebecca usually could take or leave the song, but for some reason—perhaps because she was so alone this year—the song reminded her of Christmases past, when she was a child in Idaho, when her father was still alive and she was surrounded by family, and all of them enjoyed the snow-covered beauty of the land.

Her eyes grew misty. She felt Richie's gaze on her and tried to hide her feelings. She didn't like it that this man, practically a stranger, seemed to read her so well. The only man she'd met in a long time that she truly wanted to understand her was engaged to another woman, and probably spending a warm and joyous Christmas Eve with his fiancée.

How ironic was it that she was with that fiancée's scoundrel of a cousin?

They were soon out of range of the violinist, and neared a children’s choir singing about city sidewalks dressed in holiday style. Suddenly, she found herself glad to be out of Homicide and here, surrounded by the warmth of the holiday—even if she was with a whack job a few trucks short of a convoy and searching for old coots who sounded like Santa’s elves on speed.

"There they are!" Richie grabbed her hand and pointed toward the big, main entrance to Macy’s a block away. "Come on!"

He plunged into the street, pulling her with him, jaywalking between cars and busses. She was glad the traffic was all but stopped due to the crowds. She couldn’t believe he’d spotted the Santas. She could scarcely make them out in the chaos, and she’d been trained in crowd surveillance.

He ran up to them, approaching from behind them. "Wait!" he yelled, as soon as he was close enough for them to hear.

The Santas turned to face him. Each carried a Salvation Army kettle.

"Are you kidding me?" Richie’s face went through a series of contortions: anger, disbelief, mulishness. He reached out and tugged at one of the Santa’s beards. The elastic stretched and revealed a frowning but youthful mouth. "Uh ... sorry." Richie let go and the beard snapped back into place.

One Santa, bigger and more muscular than the others, stepped up to Richie, then shoved his donation kettle in Richie's stomach. Richie dropped a ten dollar bill in it, and then hurried away.

"It was a good try," Rebecca said.

"Yeah." He smoothed his shirt then the jacket, and ran his palm, diamond-pinky ring flashing, against the sides of his hair to smooth it. The whole time his back was to the Salvation Army Santas as if he couldn’t care less about them.

They walked down to Market Street, heads swiveling from side to side, up and down a time or two. The streets swarmed with jaunty red caps and white beards mixed among the throngs of shoppers. "I’ve never seen so many goddamned Santa Clauses in my goddamned life!" Richie exclaimed.

Rebecca spotted a group of Santa hats marching toward the Ferry Building. "Are your Santas short?" she asked.

"Yeah! Where?" He looked where she pointed, then frowned. "What the hell. It’s worth a try."

They hurried after the group, but slowed down as they neared. The Santas all carried boxes of Girl Scout cookies.

Richie kicked a mailbox, leaving a smudge from the sole of his shoe on it, and uttered a string of Italian curses. She ignored him, except to tick another violation: mutilating Federal property.

"This is dumb," he complained. "Let’s get back to the van and wait."

"Why don’t you tell me why you want to find the Santas?" she asked.

"Why don’t you tell me why you care?" He shot back.

"Hey, you asked for help." She sidestepped the question.

"And aren't you supposed to be investigating murders?" he asked. "Nobody’s dead. Just some old guys missing, yet you’ve glommed onto me like Crazy Glue. It doesn’t fit, Inspector."

She wasn’t ready to tell him about her dead Santa. Not with the way he'd been behaving.

They were in the parking elevator before she said, "Tell me why you need to find the Santas, and I'll tell you why I'm interested."

His eyebrows rose. "So you're saying you'll show me yours if I show you mine?"

"Fat chance!" she said with a glare.

He smirked—a smirk that quickly vanished when they got off the elevator.

The van was gone.