The Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Box Set 1

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

AS RICHIE DROVE in circles, speeding, swerving and swearing, around the downtown and Mission Street areas, Rebecca wondered once more if her guess that her dead Santa was connected to the missing Santas wasn't a bad mistake. Maybe she had had a sudden glucose attack from her failure to get a Snickers earlier that day. Maybe she'd let the lure of figuring out just what Richie Amalfi was up to, seduce her. Not, of course, that she would ever want to be seduced by Richie Amalfi!

She glanced at his dark, dangerous looks. Definitely not her type at all…although, he did kind of remind her of a younger, taller Al Pacino. She drew in her breath.

But if, as he’d said, there really were twelve Santas out there, why? What were they planning? She’d seen enough of Richie Amalfi to believe that any plan he was involved in had nothing to do with holiday giving.

Holiday taking was a better possibility. And now, it was up to her to prevent it. Whatever "it" was. She needed a different approach. One to lull him.

"Do you spend Christmas with Angie and her family?" she asked casually.

His eyebrows jiggled with surprise before he said, "Naw. My mother cooks. We eat. Watch a little TV if we can find a game worth paying attention to. Tell old family stories. I'll take home a plate of food that’ll see me through the next couple of days." His gaze slid her way. "You?"

"I’m on call over the next thirty-six hours. So, I’ll spend the day tomorrow basically hoping nobody gets killed. I won't see my family until January."

"What's—"

His question was cut off by the ringing of her cell phone. It was Traffic, calling with an answer to her earlier query.

She listened, then hung up and studied Richie. It was time for answers. Her voice turned hard. "Who do you know at the Stonestown mall?"

His face registered confusion. "Nobody. Why are you asking about the mall?"

"There was an accident—an auto accident—near the airport this morning."

"Yeah?"

"You picked your friends up at the airport."

"So?" He waited, and when she said nothing he swung the car into a red zone and shut off the engine. She braced herself for another explosion of temper, ready to meet it head on. Instead, he shifted in his seat to face her, his voice low, and somehow even more deadly. "You think just because I lost some old guys I’m responsible for everything that goes wrong in this town?" He sounded almost indignant. "What’s with you, lady? Why are you here anyway? You can get the hell out of this car and go back to Homicide. It’s not as if I’d miss your help."

She weighed her options. It would be in the newspapers soon anyway, so it wasn’t exactly a state secret. "All right," she said. "Today, at ten-thirty or so, a car went off an overpass by the airport. It landed upside down and was pretty much flattened. By the time the cops and paramedics got there, though, the driver's body was gone. An hour later, a man dressed in a Santa suit was found at the mall. He was dead. His injuries made it look as if he’d fallen from a great height."

"A Santa suit?" Richie seemed dumbfounded by the story, but at the same time, his eyes darted. "What do you mean? Like he fell or jumped out of a building?"

"Maybe. The problem was, he was in the middle of the parking lot. There was nothing near he could have fallen from."

Richie blinked, and then slowly, a smile filled his face. "So ... it’s sort of like he fell out of—"

"Yeah," she said quickly, not wanting to hear the words she knew he was thinking.

Richie chuckled.

"It’s not funny!" Rebecca stated for the umpteenth time that day.

Something about her indignation made his chuckle develop into a belly laugh. "You’re wrong, Inspector. It is funny. Maybe you should do blood work and give Santa a posthumous DUI." But when he glanced at her frown and his humor died. "Okay, so what does it have to do with me? You were at a mall, for cryin’ out loud. They’re lousy with Santas."

He was right—it should have made sense, but it didn’t. "He wasn't wearing a mall-issued suit, for one thing. Wasn't recognized, had no I.D., and nobody seems to be missing any Santas but you. Are you sure you were expecting twelve Santas and not thirteen? Or maybe you only had eleven, and the dead guy is the twelfth?"

He looked startled at first, tense, then fell suspiciously quiet. "When I left the airport, I had twelve Santas," he replied, but then he asked, "What does he look like?"

"He’s older, late sixties, seventies. Gray hair. A small guy. The photographer has probably e-mailed me copies of the best digital photos from the scene by now. If we go back to Homicide I can show you. Maybe you’ll recognize him."

"I got a better idea." He reached behind the seat and pulled out an iPad mini. He turned it on, punched a few buttons, then held it toward her.

"Log onto your network," he said.

She shook her head. "Won’t work. It’s a closed, internal system, lots of security."

"Trust me."

Dubious, she took the device and did as told. In a matter of seconds, even faster than her supposedly secure terminal at work, she was into the system. She didn’t want to think about it.

The photographer's photos were there. She flipped through them, then put the clearest one on the screen. "Are you squeamish about looking at dead bodies?" she asked.

"What, you think they'll give me nightmares or something?" Richie reached for the photo, glanced at it and blanched. Before he turned white then an anemic green, she saw recognition in his face. He handed the iPad back to her. "Never saw the guy before."

"You’re lying."

"I never lie." He cranked the ignition and pointed at the computer. "Keep it close. Let’s get going."

She put it in her handbag. "Where to?"

"I don’t know. It’s a small city, a big van. Something’s got to show up."

"You’re lying again! You’ve got someplace in mind." Any minute now, she was going to pull her Glock on him, no doubt about it. "Now, tell me where we’re going."

Richie ran long fingers through blue-black hair that flopped in waves when he was through, almost but not quite thick enough to hide the small, thinning spot at the back of his head. She noticed a hint of gray at the temples, a slight cragginess to the skin, and lines at the outer corners of his eyes. Normally, she liked such signs of maturity in a man. She might need to rethink that.

Richie’s next comment brought her back to earth. "I said I didn’t recognize the guy in the photo. But I know someone who might."

o0o

The building was shaped like a triangle. The pointed nose, on the corner of Columbus Avenue, held the front door. In the early days of the last century, LaRocca’s Corner was one of the most popular mob hangouts. These days, it was mostly filled with yuppies who liked its post-Prohibition décor and its wise guy wannabe customers. Rebecca never doubted, however, that a few of the real thing continued to frequent it as well.

Richie's mouth scrunched as he perused Rebecca head to toe. "I better go in alone. You wait."

She said firmly, "No."

"They’ll wonder who you are. What you’re doing with me."

"Tell them I’m a friend."

He tugged an earlobe, and looked uncomfortable. "Well ..."

She glanced down at her black jacket, slacks, boots, and white blouse buttoned to the collar. She’d pulled her hair back in a barrette as they’d left Homicide. He was right. She didn’t look like someone a guy like him would hang around with. Which was, in her opinion, not a bad thing.

"Just wait a minute." She dug some lipstick out of her purse and put it on, then unfastened the barrette and shook her hair loose. Taking off the jacket, she removed her gun from her back-of-the-waist holster and put it in a zippered compartment in her Galco holster handbag. Next she cinched her belt tight, and rolled the sleeves of her blouse to the elbows and unbuttoned the top two ... no, the top three ... buttons and spread the collar wide.

"Now?" She expected the scrunched-mouth look again. Instead, she noticed his Adam's apple move as if he swallowed hard as his gaze slowly drifted down her long frame, and then back up again. He reached up and gently pushed a couple of strands of hair back from her eye. To her surprise, his expression softened as he gazed at her. Then he nodded. For some reason, her pulse began to beat a bit faster at his touch.

They walked inside with his arm around her waist. He kept her close as they approached the bar, waving to people, calling out greetings in Italian and English, and using the kinds of nicknames she thought had been made up for shows like The Sopranos.

He ordered bourbon and water and quietly asked her what she wanted. She hesitated a fraction of a second then said, "Gin and tonic."

The understanding in his eyes was even more unsettling than the fact that she had ordered alcohol on duty. Well, she could order it, but it didn't mean she had to drink it.

As he talked to the bartender and others, she pretended to sip her drink, listening carefully, even though little of what they said made sense. Most of it was almost in code, and sounded suspiciously like the kinds of conversations one might have with a bookie. The only difference was that this time of year they talked football, not horses. Christmas and college bowl games seemed to go better than mistletoe and holly in this little establishment.

A very drunk man staggered over and put his arm around Richie. "How’s it goin’ pal?" he slurred.

"Fine, Pinky. Looks like you’ve got a heat on. You got cab fare to get home?"

"Naw. I’m not ready to go home anyway." He eyed Rebecca suspiciously. "Say, where’s Sheila?"

"She’s home with the kids. Let’s get you a cab."

"No need, Richie, really."

Richie sweet-talked him to the door.

Home with the kids? Rebecca hadn't thought of Richie as being married. He didn’t seem settled, and hadn't mentioned a wife and kids earlier when he talked about Christmas at his mother's. He might be divorced, but then, a lot of these "wise guy" types didn't talk about their wives. The women kept the house, raised the kids, and prayed in church for the ever-deteriorating souls of their husbands, but nothing more.

Given all she'd seen so far, it was interesting that Richie Amalfi was on Angie's father's side of the family. From what Paavo told her, Sal Amalfi was a straight arrow—a businessman who had made millions on shoe stores and real estate. Angie's mother's relatives were another story. One branch of Serefina's family, headed by her uncle Bruno Bacala, also called Bruno the Tweeds because of his stylish clothes, was connected up to the armpits.

Richie placed his hand on her arm, startling her out of her thoughts. She hadn't heard him return. "Have you got the gizmo in your purse with the picture of the dead body?"

She handed the iPad over and he showed the bartender.

"Sure I know him," the man said. "It’s Cockeyed Lanigan. Mean old coot."

"He’s dead," Richie stated.

"No fooling? Man, the old guys are dropping like flies. Nobody’s going to mourn Lanigan, though, you can count on that."

"Any idea why he’d be headed to the airport this morning?"

"Not me. The only guy who ever talked much to him was Punk Leo. Maybe he knows."

Richie’s attention was distracted from the bartender when a new customer came in laughing about some old Santas who broke up a mugging just outside St. Francis. The kids they caught not only gave up the old lady’s purse, but went into the church to thank God they were still alive.

The clientele at LaRocca’s Corner laughed as if it was the funniest thing they’d ever heard.

Richie was all over the newcomer finding out just where the van was, who was in it, and where it was going. The information didn’t help much, but at least they knew the Santas were in the neighborhood.

By the time they left LaRocca’s, the sun was setting. "Damn!" Richie said, scowling at the sky. "Soon, it’s going to be harder than ever to find them." He checked his watch. "I’ve only got four hours."

"Then what?" Rebecca asked, putting her jacket back on, rebuttoning the top of her blouse, and capturing her long hair once more into a barrette. "Your Santas turn into a pumpkin?"

His mouth wrinkled into a worried frown. "No, but I might."

Just then, right before their wondering eyes did appear … a big white Econoline filled with little old men. The van headed up Columbus Avenue, then turned onto Mason.

"Holy s**t!" Richie cried and took off after it.

The van started up a hill. Richie and Rebecca tried to catch it but were losing ground when a cable car clanged for them to get out of the way. As it went by Rebecca grabbed the pillar that went from the back guardrail to the roof. She used it to pull herself onto the bottom step on the side of the cable car.

Richie was behind Rebecca and couldn’t grab the same rail, but lunged for the back of the car and managed to grab the top of the guardrail. He had to run fast to keep his footing, and then he shot up, lifting a foot onto the bottom rail and pulling the second foot up after it. He held on tight.

"Rebecca! Watch out!" he suddenly shouted.

She had been looking at him, and now turned to see the back end of a UPS van jutting out into traffic, only a half-foot from the side of the cable car.

She stared at it, shocked, when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and yanked her body hard against his, then held her close to the back of the cable car as they zipped past the UPS van with only inches to spare.

As she watched, she knew her face and every other part of her would be decorating the van right now if it weren't for Richie's quick thinking.

On the other hand, she wouldn't be in this predicament or on this cable car in the first place if it weren't for him! She wasn't sure if she should thank him or slug him.

She might decide after she stopped shaking.

He was still holding her tight when a red-faced conductor stormed out of the cabin. "What the hell is wrong with you two idiots? If you want to commit suicide you do it on somebody else’s car! Now get inside and pay like everyone else, or get the hell off!"

The cable car was halfway to the next corner when it had to stop behind a row of cars for a red light. Richie saw that the van was stopped as well.

Ignoring the conductor, he leaped off the car and ran toward the van. When Rebecca saw what he was up to, she followed, but not before mouthing "Sorry," to the outraged ticket-taker.

Violation: riding public transportation without paying fare.

"Open up!" Richie yelled, tugging on the driver’s locked door handle and pounding on the window. "What’s the matter with you guys?"

Rebecca was on the passenger side, yanking on the doors, but they were also locked. She looked inside, and sure enough, just as Richie had promised, rows of little old Santa Clauses sat, their dark brown eyes gaping back at her in surprise and wonder. She had to admit that until that very moment, a part of her simply hadn’t wanted to believe his story was true.

She pulled on the door handle of the front passenger door with both hands, one foot on the frame for leverage, demanding the fellow inside open it, when the light turned green. Other cars began to move. Suddenly, the door swung open and slammed hard against her. The window hit her nose, hurtling her end over end. Black lights and bright stars exploded in her head. Luckily, she rolled in the direction of the sidewalk out of the way of the oncoming cars. The van rocketed away.

Richie's hands tucked under her armpits and lifted as he half-dragged her out of the street and over to the curb where they both sat. "You okay?" He took out a handkerchief—she didn’t think anyone used them any more—and lightly pressed it to her nose. Maybe in his line of business he needed one. When he lifted it away, she saw blood. There was no maybe about it.

"Does it feel broken?" he asked.

The world turned as red as her blood. She'd been dragged all over town, had a drink in a bar with a nest of criminals, broke enough laws to spend a week in jail, nearly got wiped out while riding a cable car, and now she'd been hit in the nose by a van of Santas! Her breath started coming short and fast, her ears rang, and her entire world began to tilt.

Suddenly, he grabbed the back of her head, shoved it between her knees and held it down. Her hand found his chest and she shoved him away. He let go of her, and she sprang back up. "What the hell are you doing?" she shrieked.

"You turned white as a sheet! I thought you were going to pass out," he said. "You gotta take it easy. How does your nose feel?"

"Take it easy?" Her temples pounded. "How can I take it easy around you! You moron! You dolt! You—" She grabbed the handkerchief from him as she felt blood trickling down her nose to her upper lip and covered both. She gingerly felt her nose. It didn't feel broken, thank God! "You pithant!" She lisped.

"Calm down," he ordered as if talking to a child. "You're hurt."

"I'll show you hurt!" She swung her arm and socked him in the ear, hard, then jumped to her feet.

"Ow!" He rubbed the side of his head. "What did you do that for?"

"I must be crathier than you are to have wathted my time on you and your bullthit!" The thought that she was no closer to knowing why he was driving around with the Santas, what he was up to, how it was all connected to her dead guy, and the fact that she was lisping, turned her purple with rage.

A car driving by stopped and a middle-aged man gawked at her, his mouth hanging open. She stepped towards him. "What'th your problem?" she demanded. He sped away.

She spun back to Richie, still sitting on the curb watching her in stunned silence.

Abruptly, she stopped, stared down at him, then lifted her head and walked away, handkerchief still pressed firmly to nose.

He shook his head in wonder, then got up and followed.