The Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Box Set 1

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER FIVE

THE TWELVE SANTAS marched single file into LaRocca’s Corner wishing Merry Christmas to one and all. Half of them followed Lorenzo the Slug in a rush to the bathroom, while the others took over two tables, three barstools, and ordered twelve Boiler Makers. Earlier, they’d had lunch at the replacement for the Old Spaghetti Factory, and espresso at the replacement for the Café Trieste. Neither, they’d concurred, was as good as the "real" places they remembered.

Once they got settled, after a few words with the bartender about the Good Ol’ Days, Guido Cucumber said, "By the way, we’re looking for Big Leo Respighi. Seems he’s given up mahjongg. Even closed his business. What’s up? You know where we can find him?"

The bartender looked surprised. "Leo? I hadn’t heard he’d closed up shop. I suspect he’s home with the old lady."

"No way," Guido said. "His wife’s dead."

Stricken, the bartender put down the rag he’d been wiping glasses with. "Anna Maria?"

"Hell, no!" Guido scowled. "That’s Punk Leo’s wife—"

"Don’t call him Punk if you know what’s good for you," the bartender warned.

"Who cares?" Guido said. "We’re talking his father—Big Leo."

"Hey, fellows, I’m sorry," the bartender said. "But Big Leo died about six, seven years ago."

The other Santas were listening and they all doffed their caps in memory of the now Dead Leo.

"See, I told you he was dead!" Peewee muttered.

"We gotta plan." Lorenzo the Slug sat at a table and the Santas gathered around him. "I thought Big Leo would be the one to help us. He knew a lotta things money can’t buy. We needed him, and now he's dead. The rat!"

"Poor Dead Leo," Guido Cucumber muttered.

"I got an idea," Joe Pistolini, called Joe the Pistol for obvious reasons, said. "I know a woman who’ll help us. Her uncle's a good friend."

"I hope so," the Cucumber said. "I’m starting to get a little tired with all this eating and drinking and gabbing. I gotta save my energy for tonight."

The others wearily concurred.

As Richie walked alongside Rebecca back to his Porsche's parking spot, he tried to figure out if he should ditch her somewhere. He had to admit, for some weird reason he liked having her there, but she had no part in this, and it could end up being dangerous for her.

Somebody was pulling a fast one here, and he was in the middle of it. What if the extra Santa had shown up at the airport and said he was supposed to be part of the group? Richie wondered if he’d have believed him and let him join the others. Or even worse—what if he would have bumped off one of the real passengers and took his place? Would the others have known he didn’t belong? In fact, what if one of them already was a fake? What if they’d all been kidnapped? How could he explain how he’d let that happen on his watch?

The thought turned him ashen.

Some insider had to have leaked out the information about the Santa costumes. Who was the snitch, and whose side was he on? Were the old boys, right now, in danger?

He doubted it. They hadn’t looked the least bit scared when they sucker punched Rebecca with the van’s door. The nerve of those guys picking on a woman that way … unless they decided she was the one who posed the most danger to them.

He only hoped she didn't end up with two black eyes as a result. The lady, he had discovered, had a temper.

He had chuckled about the Santa costumes when they were first proposed. These old geezers were only "somebodies" in their own minds, he had thought. Some had served time. Others were lucky, had never been caught, and the statute of limitations had long passed on anything they might have done.

On the other hand, considering that they were now on the lam and another Santa was dead, maybe they’d been right to be paranoid.

He thought about letting someone on the inside know what was happening, but doing so meant he had to admit that he’d lost the twelve guys. Twelve! Who in the hell loses twelve men? That was more than a frigging football team!

It was embarrassing. Not to mention potentially deadly. Scratch the "potentially." Much as he hated to admit it, Rebecca Mayfield and her resources in the police department were his last, best hope at finding them.

The chance of the Santas being picked up by the cops was high. Frankly, he never imagined they could drive around in a van all day and not get nailed. None of them could drive a straight line, he was sure, and he doubted they could keep this up for very long now that it was dark out. Half the guys had cataracts and the other half were legally blind. No way could they continue night driving without running into something.

Once that happened, Rebecca would get the call from the dispatcher, and he’d rush with her to wherever they were, pick up the pieces and deliver them on time.

"Your nose stop bleeding?" he asked.

"Yes." She'd put the handkerchief in her purse. "I'll send the hankie back after I wash it."

"It's not important."

When they reached a street lamp, he stopped walking. "Wait," he said, then turned to her and put his hand under her chin, studying her face in the light. "I don't think you'll have a shiner for Christmas."

"Good! I don't want anything to remind me of this day!" She pushed his hand away.

He tried not to chuckle, but failed. He started walking again, and she continued at his side.

"It's not funny," she muttered.

The way she had lost her temper irritated her. Paavo Smith would never have done anything so undignified, and she shouldn't have either. She decided to put things back on an even keel.

After a while, she said, "Your kids must be excited about Christmas. Are any young enough to still believe in Santa Claus?"

He jumped. It wasn’t the kind of question a guy liked to hear. "My what?"

"Kids. The ones you talked about at LaRocca’s."

"I don’t have any kids! None that I’ll admit to, anyway," he added. An old joke. He was sure he didn’t have any, though he’d lived pretty wild in his younger days.

He glanced at Rebecca. She was basically a quiet woman, but he liked it when she talked to him, even if she said some oddball stuff. "What made you think I had kids?"

She looked confused. "Somebody asked about Sheila, and you said your wife was home with the kids."

"Wife? No way! She’s an old girlfriend. A widow. She’s got kids. May her husband rest in peace, but after I dated her awhile, I could see why he decided to check out so young. I don’t have anything to do with her anymore. Or ... not much."

"No wife, no girlfriend?" she asked.

"No wife. Lots of girlfriends," he said with a grin. "None serious. Not lately, anyway. You?"

She thought about Greg Horning at home in Cleveland for Christmas. "Could be," she admitted. "I'll see how it works out after the holidays."

He nodded. "Another cop?"

"Sure. Who else do most cops date but other cops?" she asked with a rueful shrug. "We're the only ones who understand us."

"That's what I figured," he said. "I warned my cousin Angie about that, but the Amalfis are all pretty stubborn."

Her eyebrows lifted. She couldn't imagine anyone having a negative thought about Paavo Smith. He was the best cop she'd ever met. Angie Amalfi, on the other hand ... "That's funny, because all of Homicide warned Paavo about Angie."

He did a double take. "Are you crazy? Angie's a great catch."

Rebecca frowned. "A lot of women go for the uniform."

"Paavo's plain clothes." Richie eyed her. "Why? Who do you think is better suited for him?"

She stared straight ahead. "I have no idea."

He eyed her firm mouth, her small pointed chin, jutting proudly. "Oh, yeah?" he asked. He wanted to smirk, but didn't dare.

She glared as if she'd gladly see him burst into flame. "That's what I said."

They reached his car and got in.

"Where to?" she asked.

"Telegraph Hill."

"Why?"

"I've got to talk to somebody."

In just a couple of minutes, he stopped in the driveway of a house half way up Telegraph Hill on Vallejo Street. "Wait here." He got out of his Porsche.

To his irritation, she got out of the car as well. Before he could object, she said coldly, "If you think I’m about to twiddle my thumbs in your car while I’ve got a dead body to investigate, you’re wrong. If this guy knows anything, I’m going to hear it."

"He won’t talk to a cop," he shouted, arms spread straight out at his sides and his face so close to hers they were almost nose-to-nose.

"He’ll talk if I take him in!"

He straightened, doing a slow burn and running his hand along the back of his head. She was going to get him bloody well killed! He tried not to shout, to be reasonable, but it didn't work with her. "For what reason could you arrest him? Because I think he might know something? That won't work. He'll simply say I was wrong. Look, Inspector, I need to find my twelve guys. If they know something about your dead merry old elf, you’ll find out, but only after I’ve got them. So, back off!"

"Go to hell," she said calmly.

"Trust me," he pleaded, running out of ideas and time.

"Not on your life! Who lives here?"

"It's Punk Leo's place. But you can't call him that to his face. Just Leo. Leo Respighi."

"I want to see him."

He glared. "Then keep your mouth shut and don’t—whatever you do—let on that you’re the law!"

She glared right back. "I'm not making any promises."

He clamped his jaws shut and grudgingly led the way up the outside stairs to the front doors. As they went, he noticed that she quickly removed the barrette and fluffed her hair a bit, and even smoothed and adjusted her blouse. Except for the bruise on her nose, a drop of blood on her blouse, and the smudge on her face, to him the lady looked damned fine.

There were three doors in the style common to San Francisco flats. He rang a bell and one of the doors buzzed open. Inside a narrow foyer they faced another long flight of stairs.

"Hey, paisan—it’s me, Richie."

"Richie! Caro mio!" A woman’s voice called down. As they reached a bend in the stairs, they looked up to see a middle-aged woman with a square face and short, black curly hair standing at the landing. She wore an apron and was wiping her hands, a diamond and platinum ring on nearly every finger, then held her arms out to give Richie a big hug. He hugged her in return.

She stepped back and eyed Rebecca. "Who’s this? A new girlfriend, Richie? She’s very pretty."

He took Rebecca’s hand and pulled her forward. "This is, uh, Becky May ... Mason. Becky, meet Anna Maria Respighi." Anna Maria grabbed her hands and welcomed her. Richie was glad Anna Maria kept her mouth shut about Rebecca's nose. Probably because she'd seen a lot worse than that being married to Punk Leo.

"Is Leo here?" Richie asked.

"He’s in the back, watching TV. I’ll go get him. Sit down in the kitchen. You hungry, Richie?" She patted his face. "You and your girlfriend, you want to eat something?"

"No, sweetheart," he said. "We’re fine. Just got to talk to Leo."

"Aspetti. You come to my house, you eat." She gave them both a glass of red wine and made up plates of leftover rigatoni and meatloaf still on the counter from dinner. While she zapped them in the microwave, she lit herself a cigarette and asked Richie in Italian all about his new girlfriend. He only prayed Rebecca didn’t understand as he sang her praises in the bedroom and the kitchen—the only places he could think of that really mattered. He decided she didn’t have a clue what he was saying since she neither blushed or shot him with the gun she was packing in that big black purse she lugged around everywhere. Come to think of it, she probably never blushed.

With the cigarette smoldering in an ashtray, Anna Maria put a plate in front of Richie, and another before Rebecca. "Mangia," she said, then softly to Rebecca. "I hope you like it."

She said it so sweetly, Rebecca found herself murmuring, "I’m sure I will." The smell of the spicy red sauce and the hint of garlic, onion and oregano in the warming meatloaf, reminded her that she was starving. The food was delicious.

Richie, too, ate with gusto. "You’re looking too skinny, Richie," Anna Maria said.

"I’m not skinny—just not so heavy anymore. I was letting myself go. The hell with that. I joined the gym. Run, box. It’s good for me. I actually feel better."

"You were overweight?" Rebecca asked between bites.

"For a little while," he murmured, then stuck his head further down toward his plate.

"A woman," Anna Maria said in explanation to Rebecca as she stood by the open back door for the last few drags. "It's a long story."

"And not one I came here to talk about, Anna Maria," he said, washing down a swallow with wine. "So anyway, where’s Leo?"

Rebecca found the previous conversation interesting, however. "Was that Sheila?" she asked Anna Maria.

"Sheila? No, no, no. It was Mary. She was—"

"Enough already!" Richie shouted.

Anna Maria smiled fondly at him, crushed the cigarette butt, patted him on the arm as if in consolation, and then headed down the hall to get her husband.

Rebecca’s eyebrows were still high on her forehead, wondering what all that was about. "Seems like a lot of women in your life."

He shrugged.

She found herself strangely curious about him and was going to try to find out more when a big man walked into the kitchen wearing a satin robe patterned with Christmas trees and reindeer on a red background. Richie stopped eating and Rebecca nearly dropped her fork.

Punk Leo’s bare legs looked like toothpicks below the robe, and his feet were shod in loose, floppy brown leather slippers. "’Ey, Richie, how’s it going?" His deep voice reverberated throughout the kitchen like a boom box.

Leo sat down at the table. Richie introduced Leo and Rebecca, calling her his "acquaintance." Leo’s brows slanted downward as he nodded. Leo's nose, lips and ears were all oversized and blubbery. The only things small were his eyes and, it seemed, his intelligence.

"We’re trying to find out who this guy is." Richie pretended not to know Cockeyed Lanigan as he showed Punk Leo the thirteenth Santa’s photo on the small computer screen.

Leo no sooner looked at it then practically threw it back at Richie as he bellowed, "I don’t know him, and I don’t want to know him."

"What do you mean?"

"He’s trouble. I don’t have nothing to do with him. Nothing. Is that clear? I don't even want to hear his name in my house."

"He’s dead, Leo," Richie said starkly.

Leo's face darkened. "Dead? You show a picture of a dead guy to me? You do that in my house! Bring me seven years bad luck! Are you crazy?" He lunged, toppling Richie and his chair to the floor.

Anna Maria started shrieking for them to stop.

Using his arms and legs, Richie was trying to shove the big man off him. Rebecca avoided where she looked as the two scrambled on the floor and the bathrobe lifted, revealing more of Leo than she’d ever wanted to see.

Rebecca made one attempt to pull Leo off Richie, who looked like he was in danger of being smothered, and got an elbow buried in the stomach for her troubles, doubling her over to gasp for air. The gun she had in her purse tempted her, but it would give away that she was a cop, and Richie had warned her not to. She could use some of the karate she’d learned, but she didn’t like the idea of breaking anyone’s bones on Christmas Eve.

Anna Maria solved the dilemma by grabbing a dust mop and shoving and shaking the head of it between the two men, bopping first Leo then Richie in the face. Clouds of dust billowed with each smack. When the men started coughing, she swung the mop even more forcefully, hitting their noses and foreheads, then chest and shoulders. With each swing, more dust flew, making them pant more, which meant they had to take bigger and bigger gulps of air and only managed to get even more dust in their mouths.

Finally, they let go of each other and rolled to their sides, eyes watering and choking.

Cold-c****d by a dust mop. Rebecca tried not to laugh, but as she looked from Punk Leo to Richie gasping from their exertions, she couldn't help herself. The thought struck that in some crazy way, despite everything, this madness around her was funny. Her gaze settled on Richie, and she realized she hadn't been around such a provocative but interesting man in a long, long time. God! Where had that thought come from? The crack on her nose must have been harder than she'd thought.

"Cover yourself, Leo!" Anna Maria yelled, still wielding her mop. "What’s wrong with you two? It’s Christmas Eve! You should be ashamed!"

As Anna Maria helped Leo struggle off the floor, Rebecca held out a hand to Richie.

"You get that filth out of my house!" Leo roared, facing Richie again. "I don’t know Cockeyed Lanigan and I don’t give a damn that he’s dead!"

"Do you know what he was up to this morning?" Richie asked, stubborn as usual.

Leo went beefy red. "What are you, some kind of cop? I don’t know nothing! Get the hell out of here, Richie," he said. "And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll go home and forget about all this."

"The cops will find out what happened, Leo. Homicide's on the case, and you know how stubborn, pig-headed, and worse than a dog with a bone, those people are," Richie said with a glance at Rebecca and wearing a lopsided grin. "After all, Cockeyed Lanigan's dead."

"Yeah?" Leo adjusted his robe. "Then that means there really is a Santa Claus."