Six O’Clock Silence

Chapter 2

2

Four days earlier—

San Francisco Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield and her partner, Homicide Inspector Bill Sutter, stood at the edge of a trench dug to lay sewer lines in the far western portion of Golden Gate Park. The area, up to this time untouched by most park users, consisted of pine and fir trees, shrubs, a rarely visited old Dutch windmill, and a small tulip garden. But as the city’s population grew, the Recreation and Park Commission decided to install public restrooms to prepare for future activity centers. The sewer lines would connect the restroom to the city system.

The trench was the length of two football fields, and deep. Along it were mounds of dirt that had been excavated.

As best Rebecca and Sutter could determine, none of the workmen had noticed anything unusual about the site until they arrived that morning. They found that something—most likely dogs or foxes—had dug through some of the dirt and scattered a number of small bones and one large one. The foreman believed the bones were human and called the police.

“I’d say the foreman is right,” Rebecca said. Thirty-five years of age, she was tall, with large blue eyes in a triangular face ending in a pointed chin. Her straight blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “The bones look as if they’re from a human hand, as in fingers. And the longer one could be a forearm.”

The bones weren’t the clean white color seen in museums or medical schools, but were a deep, mottled brown. All had been gnawed on, their ends ragged. But until someone with medical and forensic knowledge studied them, no one currently at the crime scene could officially state what they were looking at.

“I suspect,” Sutter said, pointing at the undisturbed land on either side of the trench, “the rest of the body must be in there somewhere.” Sutter was in his fifties, with short gray hair and a wiry build. He consistently spent more time planning for his retirement than thinking about his cases, but somehow couldn’t bring himself to turn in the “I’m-outta-here” paperwork.

“If someone buried an entire body out here,” Rebecca said, “whoever did it picked one of the least busy areas of San Francisco. If those new sewer pipes weren’t being installed, the site might have gone on undisturbed for quite a few more years.”

“I always thought only vagrants and people wanting to hide from prying eyes come to this part of the park,” Sutter said. “Seems like a waste of taxpayer money building restrooms way out here. No one, least of all me, ever expected this new construction.”

Rebecca ignored most of the comment, but Sutter did have a point. “Which means, whoever buried the body—or parts of the body—here, must have assumed it would remain well hidden. That it would never be discovered. It also means it’s highly likely our corpse’s death was no accident.”

She walked away from the trench, Sutter following. “Let’s get these bones packed up and to the lab and shut this site down until we have a better idea of what’s going on out here.”

Richie Amalfi turned his Porsche northward, across the Golden Gate Bridge to the town of Terra Linda, a place filled with 1950’s Eichler homes that apparently were once the be-all and end-all of modern suburban living. These were now a bit of a curiosity, as in people being curious over what the public ever saw in them.

He parked in front of the home of Brian Skarzer, shut off the engine, and wondered for the hundredth time if he was being very, very stupid. Skarzer was the branch manager of Superior Savings Bank where Richie’s fiancée, Isabella Russo, had been working at the time of her death, four years earlier.

Richie still had a few questions about what had happened back then, and he expected Skarzer had some answers.

He had tried for years to ignore his uneasiness over the accident that took Isabella’s life, telling himself he was being paranoid, and unwilling to accept that horrible things do happen to many good people. But then, a few weeks back, Richie became entangled in one of Rebecca’s cases that involved an old real estate friend of his, Audrey Poole.

In the course of running down a scheme involving phony international transactions, Audrey told Richie that Superior Savings Bank held the account for “Audrey Poole Investment Holdings,” aka “API Holdings.” Her words implied someone at the bank knew Audrey had been playing fast and loose with real estate laws.

Not long after talking to Richie, Audrey had been murdered—a murder that Rebecca had solved.

Since Isabella’s job was as a loan officer, Richie couldn’t help but think she might have looked closely at the way API Holdings handled the real estate transactions. If so, he wondered if she found something criminal which, given Audrey’s company, wouldn’t have been difficult to do. And what if someone involved had decided to silence Isabella?

Richie had spent the past month looking into the bank with his friend, Henry Ian Tate III, aka “Shay.” They didn’t like what they saw. Four men had sufficient access to the bank’s records to know what actions taken by API Holdings were illegal, and to keep those activities hidden from bank auditors. The four were Brian Skarzer, the branch manager; Grant Yamada, the assistant branch manager; Ethan Nolan, the senior data operations manager; and Isabella’s assistant loan officer, Cory Egerton. Three of them still worked at the bank. Cory Egerton had left soon after Isabella’s death, and so far, neither Richie or Shay could track him down.

Richie steeled himself. Time to act. He needed to talk to those men, to see how they reacted to him and to any hint that foul play had resulted in Isabella’s death. He got out of the car and rang the bell.

A teenage boy came to the door. “Who are you?” The kid’s lips contorted with derision.

“I’m looking for Brian Skarzer,” Richie replied.

“If you’re selling something or want to convert him, he’s not interested.” The obnoxious teen started to shut the door in Richie’s face.

He put his foot next to the door jamb. “Do many Jehovah’s Witnesses come to see you driving a Porsche?”

The kid angled his head to check the street. “That’s yours?”

Richie nodded.

“Just a minute.”

Richie saw a man, probably in his mid-fifties, medium height, pudgy, with a comb-over that didn’t succeed in hiding the glare from his bald spot approach the open door. “You’re here to see me?” he asked.

“I want to talk to you about Isabella Russo,” Richie said.

Skarzer looked momentarily puzzled. “Why? You with the police or something?”

“Several questions have come up in the course of reviewing some insurance payments made at the time,” Richie said. “I’ve been asked to look into them. The name is Richard Doolittle. I’m with a private firm. We hope to resolve our issues quietly with no police involvement.”

Skarzer turned skeptical. “Insurance questions? After how many years? Four? Five?” Since Richie remained impassively at the door staring at him, Skarzer scowled. “Well, I guess you may as well come in.”

He led Richie into a small living room with a large TV. His wife came out of the kitchen. Skarzer introduced Lois to Richie and made it clear this was a “work” visit and she needed to leave. She did.

“Now,” Skarzer said when they were seated and alone in the room, “what can I do for you?”

“We’re looking into some occurrences that took place around the time Ms. Russo was killed,” Richie said. “One of the things that stood out was that her assistant, Cory Egerton, left your employ just a few months after her death, and now, it seems no one knows where he’s located.”

“What in the world does Cory Egerton have to do with an insurance claim on Isabella?” Skarzer asked.

“Please, just answer the question.” It was all Richie could do not to wipe the sneer off the guy’s face.

“Well, you said no one knows where he is, and I guess I’m among them.” Skarzer sounded annoyed. “It’s not as if I keep track of my former employees.”

Richie gritted his teeth. “Maybe you can tell me something about Egerton. What was his relationship to Ms. Russo?”

“He was her assistant. Beyond that, I have no idea.”

“Think about it.” Richie’s eyes narrowed with a clear message not to even attempt to challenge him.

“You look somewhat familiar to me,” Skarzer said, pushing back. “Why is that?”

Richie shrugged. “I’ve been in your bank a few times.”

A look of sudden recognition flashed across Skarzer’s face. “I remember now. You were engaged to her. You used to come by the bank all the time.” His gaze hardened. “You can get out of my house.”

“I’ve just got a few questions, and then I’ll be on my way.” Richie’s tone was mild, reasonable, even as he made no attempt to move.

Skarzer grimaced, staring hard at him. “Why are you really here?”

“As I said, I’ve still got some questions about her death.”

“After all this time?”

“What the hell does time matter when there are too many unanswered questions, such as why Egerton left the bank so soon afterward.”

Skarzer grimaced and strode to built-in shelves, where a small bar-like setup stood among books and knickknacks. He poured himself about three-fingers of bourbon. He drank down half of it and didn’t offer any to Richie. “The guy was disappointed that he didn’t get Isabella’s position after she passed away. That’s all. He was clever, extremely clever, with the technical side of the work. He understood our computer programs inside and out, but he had no people skills. The last thing we wanted was him as a team leader.”

“Can you think of anyone who might know where he’s gone?”

Skarzer sat again, still gripping the bourbon-filled glass. “No. You might check with Personnel. They probably sent him paperwork. Also, many people who have worked for us keep their accounts open since we offer good rates to current and past employees.”

“Okay, thanks.” Richie stood, as if to leave. “One last question. It appears Isabella was coming here—to your home—to see you the morning she was killed. Could you tell me the reason for such an early visit?”

“That’s completely wrong. She wasn’t coming to see me.” Skarzer appeared sincerely shocked by the suggestion. “I have no idea where she was going. Frankly, we rarely spoke when she was at work, so I find it hard to imagine she’d be coming to my home at any hour of the day, let alone such an early one.”

Richie nodded. He had to admit, he believed Skarzer—Isabella wouldn’t have wasted her time talking to such a schmuck.

He wouldn’t waste any more time talking to the schmuck either.