But he had overheard Bill Sutter and the cop talking, and their conversation convinced him just how dumb that would be.
He could have tried to run fast and far, but the cops surely had put an APB out on his car within a matter of minutes of him taking off. Besides, where would he go? And if he ran, he would look guilty—even guiltier than he did by his escape.
On top of all that, the real killer had to be laying low somewhere in San Francisco laughing his head off that Richie would take the rap for him. Whoever that figlio di puttana was, he wouldn't get away with it.
He would find the bastard who did this, and prove to the world that he—Richard Joseph Francis Amalfi—was innocent.
Somehow.
Then he thought of Rebecca. Oh, pardon—Inspector Mayfield. If anyone could do it, she could.
He
