Six O’Clock Silence

Chapter 3

3

That evening, Rebecca parked her older black Ford Explorer atop a red “no parking” zone in the dead-end street where her apartment was located. Richie’s nearly new Porsche 911 Turbo sat a couple of doors away, also in a red zone. Fortunately, meter maids giving out parking tickets never bothered to drive into tiny Mulford Alley.

When Rebecca first moved to San Francisco, she received a sticker that allowed her to park for free in her own neighborhood. What it didn’t say was that very few such “free” parking spots existed. In fact, she almost never found one open. After a couple of weeks, she realized if she didn’t park illegally, her only option was a pay lot, and they were beyond expensive in the busy part of town—between Nob Hill and the Tenderloin—where Rebecca lived.

She found Richie in her apartment. Just seeing him made her heart beat a little faster and her evening a little brighter. He was only a little taller than her five-feet ten-inches, with deep-set, dark eyes, prominent cheekbones, and a Roman, aquiline nose. His clothes were always expensive and stylish, and he wore his wavy black hair slightly long and expertly trimmed. He was, in a word, handsome.

The TV was on, and delicious smells came from the tiny kitchen. Not only the kitchen was tiny, the entire apartment was. The building consisted of two large upper flats, and a garage that took up most of the ground floor. Her apartment, such as it was, had once been a storeroom in the back of that garage. Converted to a two-room living space that opened to the backyard, it now held a combination living-dining-kitchen, plus a bedroom with a bathroom so small it made airplane johns seem spacious. The furniture, like the apartment itself, was old and mismatched, but comfortable.

Of course, the city’s building code considered such an apartment completely illegal. The irony of her being a cop and living and parking illegally was not lost on her.

Her little residence was a far cry from Richie’s spacious home atop Twin Peaks with a beautiful view of the city and bay. Still, he seemed to enjoy visiting her and her little Chihuahua-Chinese Crested hairless mix named Spike, and she came to accept the fact that she didn’t mind him dropping in uninvited, and that she missed him when he wasn’t there.

She especially didn’t mind the visits when he brought her something good to eat.

She breathed in the aromatic scent. “What smells so good?” she asked as she took off her jacket.

“Hello to you, too,” he said as he peeked in the oven. “And I’m happy to see you.”

“Uh, oh, Spike,” she said, patting Spike’s head in greeting. “Now he’s insulted.” She faced Richie. “Hello. How ever are you? And what smells so delicious?”

Richie grinned.

She liked his smile, liked everything about him, truth be told.

“It’s Carmela’s lasagna. She brought over a casserole for me. It’s more than enough for two, but I’d never tell her that.” He picked up an unlabeled wine bottle from the kitchen counter. “And here’s some of my Uncle Sil’s vino. The best.”

“It sounds heavenly.” She took off her gun and holster, then kept her gaze glued to his as she walked toward him. He put down the wine bottle, one eyebrow raised, as she slid her arms around his neck. “And since Carmela brought the lasagna to you, I know it hasn’t been poisoned.”

Despite the fact that Carmela’s only son was nearly forty years old and had never been married, Carmela watched over him like a mother bear guarding her cub. Rebecca had gotten between the two of them at her peril. Not only was Rebecca not Italian, and not Catholic, she was a cop, which meant—in Carmela’s mind—that she often put Richie in danger. Little did Carmela know how much danger Richie put himself into, danger that Rebecca usually had nothing to do with, and often warned him against.

“Carmela loves you.” Richie smiled as his arms circled her, drawing her close.

She kissed him. “Sure she does.”

He kissed her back. “She told me so. How can I not believe my own mother?” Her heartbeat quickened at his touch, her arms tightened, wanting him closer, much closer, but then, abruptly, he pulled away. “Listen, I found this thumbtacked on your door.” Surprised, she let him go as he took a piece of paper from his pocket. “It’s got me worried.”

He handed it to her. It was a picture of a skull and crossbones—a sign of poison or a pirate ship. “Do you know why it’s there?”

She carefully looked over the front and back of the small sheet. “No, but I found the same drawing under my car’s windshield wipers at work today.”

“What?” Richie bellowed. “Someone is telling you he knows where you live and where you work. This means danger.”

“Yeah, and I’m quaking in my boots.” Her tone was sarcastic. “I face bullets. I face you. Some little pencil sketch isn’t going to scare me.”

“It’s no joke. This should scare you! It’s a warning.”

Rebecca dropped the paper into a baggie. “I’ve pissed off a lot of people as a cop. I’m used to threats. But, for you, I’ll give it to the CSI unit to look for fingerprints. Happy?”

He didn’t look happy, but turned away to take the casserole out of the oven. “The lasagna is hot. It needs to sit a few minutes.”

Rebecca put together a salad while Richie sliced some sourdough bread. Then he opened the wine and poured them each a glass.

Rebecca watched him work in silence.

Silence … that wasn’t like him. In fact, given the way she’d greeted him, she was surprised they weren’t in her bedroom right now. Something was definitely wrong.

“Salut’,” both said as their glasses clinked. His dark eyes followed her. But then she turned and walked to the dining table. Still, he said nothing. Richie was usually the more animated one, talkative and joking.

“You’re quiet tonight.” She studied him as they both sat.

“Am I?”

“You aren’t mad because I’m not all freaked out about a skull and crossbones, are you? Believe me, if anyone dressed up as a pirate comes after me, I’ll know I should have listened to you.”

“Very funny. But you’re right—I may be over-reacting.” He took a big bite of lasagna and then a sip of wine.

She, too, began to eat, but couldn’t help studying him and wondering for the umpteenth time how he managed to become such a big part of her life. Tonight he seemed different, though, almost sad. His deep-set dark eyes were downcast. She took in the faint lines along their outer edges—“crow’s feet” she’d heard them called. And few gray hairs punctuated the temples of his thick, wavy black hair. She reached out and placed her hand on his.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I’m just a little tired. It’s nothing.” His words were soft, introspective, but then he said, “Tell me about your day.”

As they polished off more than half of Carmela’s lasagna, which Rebecca found to be the best she had ever tasted, she told Richie about the ugly meeting that took place that very morning with her boss, Lt. Eastwood. “He called me into his office and told me the mayor wasn’t happy with my performance in Homicide. The mayor, mind you, as if he knows anything about the cases I’ve worked over the years.”

“Why did he say that?” Richie asked.

“Because I questioned the mayor’s chief-of-staff about a case.”

“Oh yes, your old boyfriend.”

“Sean Hinkle wasn’t a boyfriend. I only dated him a few times. But anyway, the mayor believes I ‘badgered’ Sean, which led to his suicide. Is that ridiculous or what? Frankly, I never believed that Sean killed himself, but it wasn’t my case.”

Richie let out a low whistle. “That’s a good reason for the mayor to be irritated.”

She put down her fork. “Don’t you dare say that! I had nothing to do with Sean’s death. I tried to defend myself to Eastwood, but he wouldn’t hear it. He sided with the mayor. And if you do, too—”

“Calm down.” Richie held up his hands in an ‘I surrender’ gesture. “I know you acted correctly. And I think your boss is a real shithead.”

She smiled even as she took a deep breath. “Good. And yes, he is. I keep hoping he’ll get promoted out of Homicide. That might be the only way I’ll be free of him.”

“Yeah, except that he’s already beyond the Peter Principle.”

She thought a moment. “That’s where you keep getting promoted until you reach a point where you’re incompetent, and then you’re stuck in that position forever, right?”

“You got it.”

“That’s not encouraging, Richie.” She frowned. “It would mean my career has ended as well. No way will Eastwood ever recommend me for promotion.”

“Don’t worry,” he said softly. “People know how good you are. You’ll be running the place long before Eastwood. And then you can fire him.”

She lifted her wine glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Me, too.”

Dinner over, as the two cleaned up the kitchen and Richie still wasn’t being his usual talkative self, something came to mind that would surely intrigue him, and possibly get him out of his funk. “Eastwood did one good thing today,” Rebecca said. “He sent Sutter and me to a case that may turn out more interesting than he ever expected. Some workmen found a few bones in Golden Gate Park. I suspect Eastwood thought the bones were some animal’s. But this afternoon, the Medical Examiner confirmed that they’re human. We’ve now got the crime scene unit out there looking for the rest of the body.”

“The rest of the body?” he repeated. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No, it’s not. We saw no flesh, just bones—a hand and forearm. It seemed they’d been buried for some time.”

“Buried like in a grave?”

“Possibly. Some pipe layers were out there digging a deep trench for a new sewer line.” While Rebecca covered the remaining lasagna and refrigerated it, Richie filled the dishwasher.

“What if,” Richie shuddered, “they’ve stumbled across an old Indian burial ground? That’s not good mojo, you know.”

“Hopefully, it’s nothing like that.”

They moved into the living room and sat on the sofa. She studied him. “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

“Why?”

Because you’re letting me do most of the talking. She always enjoyed Richie’s ability to talk about anything, anytime, and to simply be entertaining in an often humdrum world. But tonight, he was unnaturally quiet. Finally, she said, “You seem to have something on your mind.”

“Not at all. How about a movie?” he asked.

“I’d probably fall asleep.” She gave him a smile and come-hither lift of her eyebrows. That type of comment always led him to some sort of suggestive remark. She felt rather suggestive herself tonight. She waited.

“Oh.”

That’s all? She put her hand on his knee. “There are better ways to spend an evening.”

“You’re sleepy,” he said and stood up. “I’d better get going and let you get some rest.”

She was stunned.

He wore a strange expression as he gently touched the side of her face. “Yeah, that would be best.” He picked up his jacket and patted Spike.

“I’ll call soon,” he said, and then left the apartment.

She stared at the door he had just exited without giving her a goodnight kiss or even a backward glance. She was certain something was very wrong indeed.