Two O’Clock Heist

Chapter 3

3

Richie drove Rebecca back to Homicide. As she got out of the car, he asked, “If I call you later to see how you're doing, will you answer the phone?”

She smiled. “I will, and thank you for going to Sausalito with me. I appreciate it.”

“Maybe someday we’ll go under better circumstances.”

She replied with a non-committal, “You never know.”

“That’s a firm maybe if I ever heard one. But I’ll take it.”

Instead of going home, she returned to her desk and ran some background checks on Karen Larkin and Yuri Baranski. She learned nothing new about Karen, and Yuri’s information was non-existent from the time he quit attending San Francisco State. Rebecca had encountered that sort of thing before when investigating someone who had entered the country on a student visa and stayed after it expired. She expected that to be Yuri’s story as well.

So what had happened? And if Yuri had killed Karen, why?

A quick check of the time caused Rebecca to hurry home for her second date with a pharmacist she met at her local Walgreen’s. He was a nice fellow, quiet, and a bit awe-struck that she was a cop. They went to see a new action film, Spiderman, number heaven-only-knows. She paid little attention to it, but kept thinking about Karen and old times. Her date held her interest even less than the movie.

Later that evening, she had just unlocked the door to the breezeway that led to her garden apartment, and was debating whether or not she should invite the pharmacist inside, when her phone buzzed. She glanced at it.

Richie.

“Good night, Brendon,” she said giving him a quick kiss. “It was fun.”

He gaped with disappointment as she waved goodbye and shut the breezeway door. The look on his face told her he realized a third date was not inevitable—unlike yet another Spiderman sequel.

As she walked through the breezeway to a yard with a few potted plants and a seating area, she answered the call.

“Is it really you?” Richie asked.

“I promised I’d answer. Besides, if I didn’t, and you stormed over here the way you did into Homicide, I’d be evicted.”

“So now I get criticized for having been worried?”

“Okay, that was nice of you,” she admitted.

“I was thinking about you tonight,” he said. “Wondering how you’re doing.” His voice was low and smooth as butter. It had always gotten to her.

“I’m fine.”

“Want company?”

She had to do a lot of spine-stiffening to reply, “No.”

“Sure?”

“I’m sure. Worry not.”

“How about—”

“Good bye, Richie.”

“I get the message. Bye … for now.”

She hung up and continued to her apartment. Despite shaking her head at his call, she also couldn’t help but smile.

From the moment she awoke Saturday morning, she couldn’t get Karen out of her mind. She phoned Officer Grimes and asked if Yuri Baranski had been found yet.

He hadn’t.

Yuri was the key. She knew it.

Rebecca had met a few people in San Francisco’s Russian community while she was a patrol officer and called them to ask about Yuri Baranski. None could help her.

Enough! she told herself. It wasn’t her case; it wasn’t even her jurisdiction.

Time to think of other things, like that evening’s get-together. Her friend, Kiki Nuñez, whose flat was above Rebecca’s tiny apartment, was throwing an open house for the best customers of her ritzy, downtown spa, and she had invited Rebecca who, truth be told, could barely afford a pedicure at the place.

Rebecca preferred not to go, but Kiki insisted she attend to meet the handsome new masseuse she had just hired. Kiki swore she would fall madly in love with him. Rebecca doubted it, but it was easier to go along with Kiki than to argue. Kiki was a force of nature, with a personality as big as her hair, which she wore in loopy waves falling half-way down her back.

But then, Rebecca thought, why not check the masseuse out? He might be great … or rub her the wrong way.

As the day wore on, not even thoughts of meeting a supposedly irresistible masseuse could stop her from obsessing over her friend’s murder, and how shoddily Officer Grimes was handling the crime scene. Finally, she got into her Ford Explorer and drove out to the Richmond area where she and Karen had worked together.

The area had a large Russian community centered around the Russian Orthodox Holy Virgin Cathedral with its five onion-shaped domes covered in bright twenty-four carat gold leaf. The first wave of Russian people to come to San Francisco were mostly Russian Orthodox who fled the Lenin-Stalin Communist takeover in the early twentieth century. After the break-up of the USSR, another wave of Russians moved there in the early 1990s.

Rebecca drove up and down the streets, remembering good times and bad out there.

As she drove along Geary, she noticed the Golden Gate Garage, located on the corner of Stanyan and Geary.

And that was what caused her to remember …

Karen had told her about Yuri finding a job as an auto mechanic at the shop. When Rebecca heard it was on Stanyan Street, she confessed that, as a young woman in Idaho, Rod McKuen’s book of poetry, Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows, was one of the reasons she decided to move to San Francisco.

Karen had howled with laughter. At the time, Rebecca didn’t know why, but she had since met a number of people, men in particular, who scoffed at “Stanyan Street”—at most of McKuen’s emotional poetry, in fact—but she didn’t care. She loved his work and still did. She had wept real tears at the love lost in that poem and cared not a whit what others thought of it.

She spun around the block, headed back to Stanyan Street, then parked and walked to the garage. She hoped someone in the shop might be able to give her Yuri’s whereabouts. For all she knew, he might still work there.

The customer area inspired no confidence. Run-down, with grimy walls and gray-blue paint worn away around windows and doors, it had ancient beer and cigarette posters on the walls, along with a forgotten 2003 calendar of scantily clad models.

She stood at a small wooden counter and rang the bell that sat atop it. A young man came out of the back and looked surprised to see her. She showed her badge and asked to speak to the owner. The owner wasn’t available but the manager, Fedor Vasiliev, was.

Vasiliev, husky, medium height, with broad shoulders and a bear-like stance, came out of the back room. He left the door open behind him. “You are Homicide?” he barked, his Russian accent thick.

“That’s right.” She gave her name and showed her badge. “I’m looking for Yuri Baranski. Is he here today?” She had learned it was best to ask people specific questions as if you already knew something, even when you didn’t.

Surprise flickered in Vasiliev’s eyes, but he quickly looked down. When he lifted his gaze to her again, it was placid. “I don’t know who you talk about.”

Something about this place caused her cop instincts to go into overdrive. “It’s my understanding Baranski works for you, or once did.” She moved closer to the door, curious about the shop area. “I simply need to know how to reach him.”

“Sometimes we bring in strangers to wash cars when we have too much other work,” Vasiliev said, his tone harsh and cold. “We pay them a little, in cash, for each car. It means nothing.”

“I know what Baranski looks like. Maybe if I take a look …” She strode straight into the shop.

Several men were there working. One Mercedes and one Lexus were up on hydraulic lifts, and through the open garage doors in the back, she saw more high-end cars. She wasn’t sure why, but two words came to mind. “Chop” and “shop.” She took a step back. On the wall beside the door were a coffee urn plus cups, sugar and dry creamer packets on it. Snapshots of women and children had been thumbtacked to the wall over it. With a shock, she saw that one of the photos was of Karen and her daughter.

Three men wearing grease-stained shirts and jeans hurried from around the shop to stand in front of her. They were bruisers, and all stood in a similar pose, feet spread, beefy arms at their sides with their hands crossed in front of their groins, much like the stance of Secret Service men guarding a president.

She stiffened. “Well, thank you,” she said with a lilt in her voice as she returned to the customer area. “You’re surely working on expensive cars, Mr. Vasiliev. You must do good work here.”

Vasiliev stared hard at her. “This is San Francisco. They are what people here drive.”

She nodded and gave him her card, then kept her eyes on his goons as she backed towards the exit. “If you think of anything about Yuri Baranski, please call.”

“Yes.” He glanced down at the card she gave him. “Inspector Rebecca Mayfield.” He pronounced her name slowly and distinctly, reminding her of Boris in the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons of her youth. Only he wasn’t half so funny. “I will be sure to contact you,” he added.

She left the garage and hurried to her car. If she ever had to go back there, it wouldn’t be alone.

Rebecca got into her car, moved it to a driveway where she could see Golden Gate Garage’s main entrance and side door. She had a camera with a telephoto lens. The staff seemed to use the side door rather than the front. Oddly, she saw no customers enter or exit the business entrance.

Whenever she saw someone leave the building, she took his photo.

It was ironic that after almost ten years in the city, she now sat on the Stanyan Street of reality, not romantic idealism, watching for a man who might be a murderer.

Her phone rang. Richie’s name showed up in the caller ID. She dismissed the call.

To her dismay, many of the men leaving the garage wore baseball caps. She wasn’t sure she would recognize Yuri in one.

Five minutes later, Richie called again with the same result.

Something about one man leaving the shop caused her to take notice of him, and she snapped a raft of photos before he turned down Stanyan, his back to her.

She started her car, gunned the engine since the light up ahead was yellow, and zipped across Geary. She stopped in the middle of the block and rolled down her passenger side window. “Yuri! Wait!”

He turned and looked directly at her. Yes! She recognized him from the photos at Karen’s. “I’ve got to talk to you,” she said. “It’s about Karen. She and I were friends. Do you remember me? My name’s Rebecca Mayfield.”

He looked stricken but then shook his head. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know anyone named Karen.”

“Please, wait there.” She swung into a driveway.

He dodged cars to run across the street and jump into an old Chevy Malibu.

“Stop!” Rebecca ran across the street as he started the engine.

“You’re crazy, lady! Get away from me!” he shouted and then pulled out of the parking space. She grabbed a door handle, but the door was locked and she had to let go or she would have been dragged.

The light had changed at the corner, and as she tried to cross the street to get back to her car, the traffic whizzed past without letting her jay-walk. Drivers honked and one-finger saluted her as she fought to get past them. By the time she reached her car, Yuri was long gone.

She was furious. As she shut the car door, Richie phoned her yet again.

She picked up the phone. “What?”

“Ouch. Glad you’re in a good mood, Sunshine. Are you still near that Russian garage?”

She looked around. “How do you know where I am?”

“Maybe somebody was concerned about you. Look, I made some phone calls after I left you yesterday. You’ve got to keep away from those people.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know exactly.”

“Is this some sort of a threat?”

“A threat? Christ almighty!” He shouted. “You really don’t trust me, do you? No, it’s not a threat. I only called because I’d be mad at myself if anything happened to you because you blundered into something you don’t even know about, okay? Is that clear enough?”

“No. Not one bit.”

“Fine, then. Ignore my call. If you ever want more information about the danger involved, you know where to find me.”

“What are you …? Richie? Hello? Hello?”