Two O’Clock Heist

Chapter 4

4

Rebecca had to admit she didn’t even remember the drive home. It was bad enough that she had lost Yuri after managing to find him, but then, Richie hanging up on her was the last straw. She kept replaying in her head all the things she should have said to him. What nerve! What gall! Was he “Mr. Sensitive” all of a sudden? Just who did he think he was?

Just who did she think he was? She still wasn’t quite sure, despite trying to find out. The good news was that he had no record.

She first met Richie last Christmas Eve when he wandered into Homicide looking for his cousin Angie’s fiancé, Inspector Paavo Smith. He wanted Paavo to help him with a “situation.” Paavo wasn’t working that day, Rebecca was, and suddenly found herself involved.

That worked out well, but then, two months ago, her path crossed with Richie’s again, and she had to arrest him as a murder suspect, resulting in one of the strangest weeks in her life. She saved Richie’s life—although, to be fair, he had also saved hers. But for the first time, ever, she had put aside her rulebook, kept secrets from her boss, and fired her weapon.

Because of all that, she decided she needed to forget about him, to walk away and not look back. But then, when he barreled back into her life yesterday, he caused her to remember how very much she enjoyed his company, and how strangely exciting she found life when he was near.

Damn him, anyway.

When she got home, she was still fuming. Only after greeting Spike, an odd-looking Chihuahua and Chinese Crested Hairless mix, did she begin to feel a bit better. She had found him at a crime scene some months earlier and turned him over to the Humane Society where it was discovered that he had an unfortunate habit of snarling and showing his teeth at almost everyone who wasn’t Rebecca. When no one claimed him, she feared that his acting as if he might bite, mixed with his furless body except for a long tuft of hair on the very top of his head, would cause him to not find a home. So Rebecca adopted him. If she hadn’t, she expected he would soon have been toast.

She fed Spike some Alpo and then took a container of Chicken Caesar salad from the refrigerator as her dinner. The deli should have included a magnifying glass so she could find the chicken. When done, she moved to her sofa and sat with Spike on her lap, sipping some white wine.

It would be irresponsible, she now decided, not to talk to Richie about what he knew. He had told her she was in danger. The reaction to her simple questions at the Golden Gate Garage had certainly put her on high alert. Something was very wrong there, and Richie might know exactly what it was.

All in all, she shouldn’t allow a bizarre personal situation to stand in the way of obtaining what might be crucial information. That would be unprofessional.

When Richie told her that she knew where to find him, he meant his nightclub, Big Caesar’s. It opened at eight p.m. She glanced down at her jeans and boots. The best part about the outfit was that her waist holster fit snugly in the back of her jeans, and she could cover it with her jacket. But if she showed up dressed that way, looking like a cop, she might scare his customers.

She needed to dress suitably for a Saturday night at a fancy dance club. And then, she would listen to what he had to say.

She showered away the day’s grime, washed and dried her hair, then put on a “little black dress”—the one every woman has—the one that came out for funerals or boring cocktail parties with people from work.

She looked like a schoolmarm and took it right off.

Spike jumped up on the bed, his head quizzically c****d.

“Yes, I’m going to see Richie,” she said to Spike, causing his ears to perk up as if he understood every word, which at times she thought he just might. Richie was one of the few people Spike didn’t growl at. “I know you like him, but I’m not happy about this.”

She reached for her one and only cocktail dress, a low-cut green number she wore the last time she went to Richie’s night club. Not that she went there with him. She had a date with a nice, but unfortunately dull fellow. Somehow, he left, and she ended up with Richie.

She held the dress, remembering that evening, remembering how good it felt being with Richie … and promptly put the dress back in the closet.

She also remembered how, after that too enjoyable evening, Richie had called the next day several times. She never answered. He left a message and asked to see her. She didn’t respond. He tried several more times the day after that, leaving more messages. She didn’t call him back. On the third day, he even didn’t try.

That was four weeks ago. She hadn’t seen or heard a word from him until yesterday. But why, dammit, was a time line of his attempts at communication stuck in her brain?

And why was he the only one to sympathize with her over the death of a friend? She had checked her emails, texts, and phone messages many times yesterday, but no one else had bothered to say a word. And now he had called to warn her about danger as well as to say he had more information.

The least she could do was to hear him out.

She reached for her work clothes. “Get over it, Mayfield! This is business, pure and simple.”

If he wanted to give intel to a cop, a cop would show up at his night club.

Big Caesar’s was in the North Beach area, close to Fisherman’s Wharf. Residents of the city and around the Bay enjoyed its elegant atmosphere, fancy drinks, and plentiful hors d’oeuvres that made it easy to forget that the club didn’t offer a dinner menu. Perhaps the biggest surprise was the popularity of its jazz and swing music from as far back as the 1930s through more current hits like those of Big Bad Voodoo Daddy and others. Rather than being filled with aging Baby Boomers, even 20- and 30-year-olds found the retro dance club fun, and enjoyed wearing stylish cocktail dresses and beautifully cut suits or even tuxedos. Recently, more and more tourists showed up as the club’s reputation soared.

Rebecca went through the main doors. To one side was the coat check and hallway to restrooms and business offices, and straight ahead was the ballroom. She was a huge fan of old black-and-white movies, and Big Caesar’s ballroom always reminded her of some of her favorites, such as the old “Thin Man” films. She could easily see Nick and Nora Charles there, or more specifically, William Powell and Myrna Loy, drinking and dancing the night away. White cloth-covered tables formed three half-circles around the dance floor which was in front of a raised platform with a band and singers. Off to the right was a large bar with glass mirrors behind it, and a few cocktail tables in front.

“Isn’t It Romantic?” played as she crossed the ballroom to the bar area. The male singer’s voice was soft and crooning, a Fred Astaire singing-to-and-then-dancing-with Ginger Rogers sort of voice. She liked the melodious old song, and in answer to the question posed, yes, everything around her was definitely romantic.

She took a seat at the bar. “Is Richie in?” she asked the bartender.

“I’ll get him for you,” the bartender said, then gave a signal to one of the cocktail waitresses, a gorgeous woman wearing a very short silver lamé dress. She nodded and left.

Rebecca ordered a mai tai. A man walked to the stool beside her and then stopped.

It wasn’t Richie, but a stranger. One of Richie’s people, perhaps. She smiled at him.

“You seem to be enjoying the song,” he said. He looked distinguished, tall, probably in his forties.

“I am.”

“Are you waiting for someone? Or may I join you?”

That wasn’t what she expected at all. Her smile vanished. “Well, I …” she began. He didn’t wait for an invitation, but put his drink down and sat beside her.

“The name’s Charles,” he said. “I work not far from here. I come by often for a drink and the music, but I haven’t seen you before. Believe me, I would have noticed. So, what’s your na—” He froze in mid-word.

“The lady’s with me.”

That voice she recognized.

Richie put a possessive hand on her back and gave her would-be suitor a steely glare.

“Sorry,” Charles said as he scurried away.

Richie took the now vacant seat. He caught the bartender’s eye and lifted his forefinger, then turned to face her and for a long moment, didn’t speak.

He looked handsome. Something about the atmosphere with the music, fine clothes, and frankly romantic setting, suited him. And unsettled her.

She was normally attracted to tall, brawny, All-American Hero types. His face was finer boned, his dark eyes more intense, and all-in-all far more troubling to her well-being. She took a sip of her mai tai.

The bartender put a Scotch on the rocks in front of Richie and walked away.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” His voice was hushed and seductive.

“How could I not? You seem to know something about Karen’s murder, and at the moment, no one else is willing to talk to me.”

She had put ten dollars on the bar. She had no idea what drinks cost here and hoped it would cover hers. He took the money and handed it back to her. “It’s on the house.”

She took the bill from him and slapped it back onto the bar. “I pay my own way.”

He grinned. “You don’t ease up, do you?”

She met his gaze. “Not about anything.”

“I’ll just have to change your ways.”

“And me, yours.”

One eyebrow lifted, but then he said, “I didn’t get a chance to ask you yesterday, how’s Spike?”

It surprised her to hear him ask about her ball of cranky dog-dom who growled at most strangers but not, oddly, Richie. Clearly, at times, her pet had a lapse in judgment.

“He’s fine.”

“Does he miss me?”

“Does he miss heat rash?”

He chuckled, and a smile filled his face, forcing her to remember how expressive his face was—sometimes smiling and fun, and other times brooding and melancholy.

She decided to steer away from anything personal with him and turned to the reason she was there. “Tell me why you called. What is it I’ve got to know?”

“Dance with me, and I’ll sing like a bird.”

She looked towards the band. A woman was singing “(Give Me) A Kiss to Build A Dream On,” a romantic tune about wanting just one, magical kiss. She remembered too well how good it had felt to slow dance with Richie. She forced herself to scowl. “Do I look like I came here to dance?”

Dark eyes drifted over her and he smiled. “You look good enough to start a new trend. Cop chic.”

“Don’t try to flatter me. I’m here about a murder.”

“Is it flattery if I’m telling you the truth?”

She shook her head, trying to ignore his compliment, but compliments came to her so infrequently given her line of work, she had to admit to liking it. But then, he always had a way with words. “You’re changing the subject.”

He turned his head and sipped his Scotch, staring at the bottles lined up above the back of the bar. Then he put the drink down. “I learned from a reliable source that the Golden Gate Garage is run by the Russian mob.”

She nearly choked on her mai tai. She knew from guys on the Gang Task Force that the Russian syndicate was found up and down the West coast, including San Francisco, but she had never encountered them herself. She had suspected something amiss that afternoon, but not that amiss. “Damn! It’s where Karen’s boyfriend works.”

“Your life will be in danger if you hang around them. They’re a paranoid bunch. You don’t want to give them any reason to think you’ve taken an interest in them. No reason whatsoever.”

Her jaw tightened. “How do you know that?”

He shrugged and drank more of his Scotch.

The song had changed, rather appropriately she thought, to “Big Time Operator.”

Rebecca drew in her breath. “The place looked like it could be a chop-shop.”

He nodded. “The West Coast Russians are mostly into auto thefts through Northern California, Oregon, and Washington State. They steal high-end cars for parts or they’ll switch out the VINs in body shops, then use I-5 to travel to Oregon and Washington and sell what they’ve got to other Ukrainian and Russian criminals. As competition grows, and the economy worsens, the gangs are increasingly violent.”

“Which means Karen’s boyfriend was part of it.”

“There you go,” Richie said. “And that means your friend might have been as well.”

Rebecca shook her head. “I can’t believe she did anything illegal. She wasn’t the type.”

“People change. Things happen.” His gaze met hers. “Sometimes, they have to do s**t they don’t want to, and once they start, they can’t get out from under.”

She couldn’t help but wonder if he was talking about himself. He had money, but she couldn’t find out how he got it. From what little he had told her, she knew that when he was young, he and his mother often didn’t know where their next meal was coming from.

She noticed that something behind her had caught his attention and she turned to see what it was. A couple of guys in gray suits, looking even more out of place than she did, were entering the club. She again faced Richie.

“Karen Larkin was a good person, and a good cop,” she said. “I don’t know what happened to her, or why she was murdered, but I don’t believe she could have changed that much.”

He held her gaze a long moment. “I’m just saying, you start looking under rocks and you might not like the snakes you find hiding there.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Just then, a cocktail waitress hurried to him and waggled her thumb in the direction of the two men he was again eying. “A couple ABC stiffs,” she murmured.

He nodded and stood as the gray suits walked up to them.

“Richard Amalfi?” one asked.

“Yes.”

They pulled out business cards. “Boyd Waddey,” said the first.

“Tom Hutchison,” said the second, also handing Richie a card.

“California Alcohol Beverage Control,” Richie read, his expression flat, but then he gave away his nerves by fidgeting with one of the buttons on his suit jacket. “What’s this about?”

“We understand you’re selling wine illegally,” Waddey said.

“You’re kidding me.” Richie pointed to the wall on a far corner of the bar. “You see those licenses hanging over there? They aren’t just decoration. Everything going on here is completely legit.”

“The problem isn’t in here. It’s that you’re selling wine that doesn’t meet California state regulations. We’ve been hearing about a great new wine hitting restaurants. Just one problem. It’s not licensed. The skinny is, you’re the supplier.”

“Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus, too.” Richie tugged at an ear as he looked at them with disgust. “What is this? You want to come after me with some sensible complaint, that’s one thing, but to come here with some completely c**k-and-bull story, is nuts. Do I look like a wine maker all of a sudden? You think my feet are red with grape toe jam? Jeez!”

“Look, Mr. Amalfi,” Hutchinson said gently, as if he was the good cop to Waddey’s bad, “We saw a white truck behind the restaurant. We’d like to know what’s in it.”

“Yeah, well, I’d like to know what’s in it, too. The truck just showed up a couple days ago. It’s not like I use that area for anything. I figure it belongs to one of the neighbors. If they don’t get rid of it this weekend, I’ll call to have it towed. But it’s a good-looking truck, so I doubt it’s been abandoned.”

“You’re letting it sit on your property even though you have no idea who it belongs to or what’s in it?” Waddey said with a sneer.

“Is there a law against that?” Richie asked, cracking his knuckles. They sounded like machine-gun fire.

“Not at the moment,” Waddey said, taking a step back.

“No, but you’re working on it, right?” Richie looked even more disgusted as he ran a hand over the back of his head. “Look, fellas, I’m being a good neighbor about the truck. So, what do you want from me? Anyway, until you’ve got something more to complain about than the state of my back yard like some friggin’ gardener, I’m going to take my girlfriend home. She’s got to work tomorrow. She’s a cop.” He took Rebecca’s arm, tugged her off the stool, and hurried her out of the ballroom.

As they headed out the door, the band played “Anything Goes.”