Authors: Joanne Pence
Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) (10 page)
Rebecca had no sooner sat down at her desk than Agent Brandon Seymour showed up.
“It’s Saturday,” she said. “I thought the federal government shut down on weekends.”
“Not me. Let’s talk in private.”
She rolled her eyes and led him to the conference room they had used last time.
“What did you find out?” he asked before she even sat.
She folded her arms. “I take it you’re asking about Amalfi?”
“I saw him come here earlier, and then the two of you left together.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t learn anything you don’t already know,” she said.
“Did you ask about Claire Baxter?”
“Of course not.” She gave a slight shake of the head, wondering how she’d gotten into this mess with Seymour. “He’d wonder how in the world I knew her name, let alone anything else. And I don’t appreciate being spied on. And I know Richie would hate it.”
“No one is spying on you. We’re worried about Amalfi. National security can be involved.”
“Bull shit.”
He smiled. He actually looked almost human when he smiled. “You’re right. But saying that often works with people. Still, if you hear anything at all about Claire Baxter, Middle Eastern artwork, art smuggling, and so on, be sure to let me know.”
“I still think you’re wasting your time,” she said.
“But Claire Baxter is with him a lot. Maybe it’s personal between them.”
She didn’t like the way he was staring at her, and couldn’t help but wonder if Richie’s surprising kiss—very sweet, very chaste, but filled with a pulse-quickening promise—hadn’t now found its way into some national database. She did her best not to show any expression as she said, “Maybe so.”
Agent Seymour left to return to snooping on people, and she went back to work.
Seymour’s visit irritated her on a number of levels, and she was too keyed up to do desk work. She decided to go to Sandy Geller’s office and see what he had to say about Candace Carter’s death. She was also curious about the other women—Neda Fourman and Betty Faroni—but she knew that asking Geller any more questions about Neda, and particularly if she also mentioned Betty, would definitely put him on high alert. Besides, she had a good deal of confidence in Shay’s ability to find out what was going on—much more than any other computer technician, aka hacker, she knew of.
She was escorted to Geller’s office. He seemed happy to see her until she told him she was looking a bit further into Candace Carter’s death. Then, it was as if a light had switched off. All his laughter, smiles, and charm vanished and he turned cold and hard answering only with crisp “yes” or “no” response, and offering no help whatsoever. He soon glanced at his watch and announced he needed to get ready for that evening’s performance at the Geary Street theater, and showed her to the door.
She left his office, but rather than leaving the premises altogether, she decided to question Lucian Tully.
She met Sandor’s assistant in one of the smaller meeting rooms. It was the first time she’d talked one-on-one with him. His skin was so pale, it was actually distracting.
“How long have you worked for Sandy?” she asked.
He folded long fingers together and gave her a wide-eyed stare. “I’ve been here five years.” His breathing came fast and heavy. “I was one of Sandy’s first hires.”
“I see that you’re twenty-six,” she continued. “Are you married or anything?”
“No.” He blushed. “I’m way too busy for anyone but Sandy. I’m always there when he needs me.” His smile was both proud and shy. As she studied the way he answered, she saw no hint of anything sexual between the two men. If anything, Lucian evinced a juvenile case of hero-worship.
“Did you know Candace Carter very well?”
He blinked a couple of times. “Not really.”
“But hasn’t she been a client for several years?” Rebecca pressed.
“I suppose. But I leave the clients to Sandy. I’m not good with people. All I remember about Candace is Pearl is with us now.”
“What?” Rebecca was confused.
“That’s what she always said. ‘Pearl is with us now.’”
Rebecca looked at him a long moment. “Okay. Thanks. That’s all for the moment.”
Rebecca also questioned Sandy’s other staff, but none admitted to knowing anything about Candace other than her face, name, and telephone number.
Rebecca headed home. When she arrived, she considered going to Big Caesar’s later that night to see Richie—to help gather information for the FBI, of course. But then she decided that was playing with fire.
“Richie, you’re here so early. What’s wrong?” Carmela said the next morning as she opened the door to her flat. She was still wearing a bathrobe and hadn’t yet put on her make-up. She patted her hair. Even first thing in the morning, it still resembled a stiff helmet, except that one side of it—the side she must have slept on—was squashed down. Combing it probably consisted of doing whatever it took to make it round again.
“I have to talk to you.” He walked straight into the kitchen and sat at the table.
“You want coffee, Richie?” she asked, pouring him a cup before he even answered. “What’s happening? A new girlfriend maybe?” She put the cup in front of him. “You aren’t here so early to give me some good news are you?”
“Of course not, Ma. Sit down.”
“Sit? How can I sit? Did you eat breakfast? I’ve got bacon and eggs. Or maybe French toast? What would you like?”
He was going to refuse, but then realized she’d be in a much better mood after cooking, especially if she also ate. And if he said no, she’d try to figure out why he didn’t like her cooking anymore, or if she needed to come up with a more appealing food for him and if so what, instead of listening to what he had to say.
“Bacon and eggs sounds good.”
“
Bene!
And I’ll even give you three eggs. You used to be fat, back when you let yourself go after the terrible tragedy. But now, you’re getting thin. What’s going on with you?”
“I wasn’t fat.”
Well, maybe.
“And now I’m actually going to the gym at least once a week. Sometimes more. I’m not thin; it’s that the flab has turned to muscle. I’ve never felt better.” Sometimes he wondered why he even tried to have normal conversation with her.
“Yeah, well, you might be healthy, but you could use a little more meat on your bones.” She added two more slices of bacon to what already seemed to be half a pound.
As she cooked, she told him about going shopping to try to find a present for a baby shower for the daughter-in-law of one of her friends, and how she was getting tired buying all these presents for
other
people’s grandkids. He tuned her out as best he could. Soon she put a platter of food in front of him, with toast that she had buttered, and made a smaller plate for herself. “I’ll just take a little,” she said, sitting across from him as he began to eat, “to keep body and soul together. I’m meeting the girls at noon mass today, and then we’re going to lunch after. Why don’t you come to church with me, Richie. It’ll help.”
“One of these days,” he said, doing his best not to get distracted from the reason for his visit. “The girls” were her lady friends, all age 60-plus. He pointed at the food with his fork. “This is great, Ma. You make the best eggs.”
“Bacon grease. A little dab. When you get married, be sure to tell your wife.”
He rolled his eyes. “Sure. But I’m not getting married.”
“Your cop girlfriend might have different ideas. Zi’ Maria saw you and her out on Union Street yesterday. She said you two looked real friendly.”
“Christ, Ma, you got the Italian hotline checking up on me?”
She shrugged. “I have friends.”
“First, she’s not my girlfriend. And trust me, she wants to get married even less than I do. And never to me.”
“Well, I’m glad of that since
she got you shot a couple months ago!
But any woman who doesn’t want to marry you has to be
cacootz.
”
It was a Calabrese word for squash, but also was slang for idiot, or “squash head.”
“Not really,” he said. “Besides, she’s got a boyfriend, so forget about her. Anyway, speaking of girlfriends—”
“Yes?” She actually sounded a bit hopeful.
“
Your
girlfriend—I heard some disturbing news about Geri.”
He told her he’d heard that Geri was spending a lot of money on Sandor Geller’s shows and séances. The one thing he didn’t say was where or how he got the information. Being the kind of guy he was, nobody questioned how he found out what he knew. It was just accepted that he did, and every so often, like now with Geri’s money, such beliefs were confirmed.
When he finished, a long moment passed in complete silence. “So, I tell you a little about Geri wondering about her sister’s money and next thing I know you’re looking into how Geri spends her money?” Carmela glared. “Geri can take care of herself.”
“Like her sister did?”
“That was different.”
“It’s more than that,” he said. “And isn’t there something
you
want to tell me?” he asked.
Her eyes widened innocently—another tell that she was lying. “Me?
Niente.
”
He folded his arms. “No? How about explaining why you’re doing the same thing?”
She put down her fork and cast steely black eyes at him. “What are you saying?”
“I know you’ve gone to that charlatan’s séances. I know you’ve spent money on him. Lots of money.”
“How …” she began, but then she pursed her lips and didn’t bother to continue. “So, wise guy, you think you know so much, eh?”
He put down his fork as well. “I know plenty! I know you gotta stop this. What’s the matter with you? I know you say all this supernatural garbage interests you, but this is going too far. What are you trying to do? Talk to Pa? After all these years, is that it? You still miss him that much?”
Carmela stood. “
Madonna mia!”
She crossed herself and slapped her palms together, fingers pointed upward as she looked heavenward. “How did I give birth to such a
buttagatz?
”
“I’m not an idiot,” he said indignantly. “I have proof.”
Fist on hip, she stared hard at him. “Proof. I spit on your proof! That man, that psychic, is nothing.
Stunad!
How stupid do you think I am? Your poor father—let him rest in peace.”
“Okay, Ma, calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
She looked indignant a while longer, then rolled her eyes and sat down again. “I went to two séances, but I did it for Geri. I wanted to see what they were like, and see that Sandor Geller up close.” Her eyes narrowed and her forefinger tapped the table as she continued. “I knew there was something wrong with him the minute I laid eyes on him. When he smiles at you, you can’t see his teeth, and when he laughs, it’s too loud and too long.”
Richie didn’t want to get into that. “And what did you find out about him?”
“He’s un gazzo di chooch.”
He nearly choked on his coffee. She’d just called Geller a donkey’s dick. He agreed.
“We know that after he found out Geri’s sister had no more money to go see him,” Carmela said, “the big shot gave her a little money each month to help with expenses. Plus, every so often, he let her attend a séance for free. To keep her happy, I guess. But it makes no sense.”
“I agree,” Richie admitted.
“Geri wanted to find out what the catch was, so she found out how to get invited to his private séances. For a long time, she didn’t tell me she was going. But I knew something was up. She’s so stubborn, that Geri, she kept saying, ‘No, there’s nothing.’ But I knew better. I could see the lie on her face. Finally, she confessed.”
“Confessed?”
“She temporarily moved most of her money to her sons—under threat of eternal damnation if they touched any of it. Then she went to Sandy in tears and said she could hardly afford to see him anymore, but she wanted to keep going. He knew she was Betty Faroni’s sister, of course, and had even connected her with Betty during a couple of séances. Geri laid it on thick and said she’d rather die than no longer be able to visit with spirits.”
“Uh oh,” was all Richie could say as he heard this. Thoughts of assisted suicide swirled around his head. Was that what was happening?
“Sandy told her he was sorry, but not to do anything rash. That these things had a way of working themselves out. Two days later she found out how.”
“Yes?”
“It’s a sin against nature, but I don’t think it’s illegal. I’ve got a copy.” She rummaged through a stack of papers on the corner of the counter, then pulled one out and handed it to him.
As Richie read it, his jaw dropped open.
Rebecca spent most of Sunday at work learning what she could about Neda Fourman, Candace Carter, and Elisabetta Faroni, and found that when people lived quiet, normal lives, there really wasn’t much for the police to be able to find out about them. Even if they did take up with con-artists in their last days.
Agent Seymour, or Bran, as he asked her to call him, phoned her, and she explained again that she had no information for him. God, but he was a pest. Next, she wasted a lot of time explaining to Dr. Evelyn Ramirez why she wanted an autopsy done on a woman that the two homicide inspectors charged with investigating the death had declared her to have died of natural causes. Ramirez explained the cost of an autopsy, and if it wasn’t officially authorized, her staff would need to absorb it, which she didn’t want to do, yada, yada.
Finally, Ramirez agreed to continue to hold Candace Carter’s body in the morgue until Rebecca secured an official request for an autopsy along with the funds to do it.
All in all, Rebecca was quite glad to head for home by late afternoon.
She turned onto her alley and slammed on the brakes. Parked up ahead were a Porsche and a Maserati. Richie and Shay. They were either in their cars, in her back yard, or in her apartment. She should throw them out. And would, except that she wanted to see them. Or, to be honest, she wanted to see Richie.
They weren’t in their cars, the breezeway, or the yard. Given the people they sometimes dealt with, and the FBI’s concern, she put her hand on her weapon as she unlocked her apartment door, then carefully opened it.
“Don’t shoot, Rebecca. It’s just us.”
She scowled as she entered.
Richie and his creepy friend Shay sat at the small dinette. They were an incongruous pair, particularly in her little apartment—the blond and serious Shay with his wheat-colored jacket and emerald green ascot, looking like he was about to take a constitutional across the moors, and Richie with his cocky grin, casually tousled black hair, and wearing a black wool pullover and gray slacks that were suitable for a wine-and-cheese nosh.
They had Shay’s laptop open and angled so that they could both read from it, and in front of each was a bottle of Blue Moon ale.
Spike sat on Richie’s lap. He lifted his head, and the little weasel seemed to think about it a moment before he jumped down and ran over to greet her.
She pointedly exchanged greetings with only Shay as she petted her dog, then faced Richie.
“It’s bad enough you barge in without being invited, Amalfi, but trying to steal my dog’s affections is going too far.”
“Can I help it if Spike has good taste?”
She forced her eyes from his. A while back, circumstances caused her to give him keys to her apartment. When she asked him to return them, he pointed out that sometimes a person wanted help, but not necessarily 9-1-1’s. She said she had people in her building who’d help her—Kiki Nuñez and Bradley Frisk. He made no comment, but his look said it all, as in, “If you need serious help, do you really think they’d be able to provide it?”
He had a point. She agreed it would be a good idea for him to keep the key for emergencies. This, however, didn’t qualify.
After taking off her jacket, and putting her gun away, she took a deep breath before she faced them again. “You have such a beautiful home, Richie,” she said, keeping her voice light. And in truth, he did. “Why did you let yourself into mine?”
She could see from his expression that he had a devilish answer to that, but he simply said, “Shay found something important, and I figured it’s easier to show you than to try to explain. Besides, I thought you’d be home on a Sunday. You’re not on-call today.”
How would he even know that? She gave up. “Okay. Let me feed Spike first.”
“I fed him,” Richie said. “But I’ll get you some beer or wine. I brought over a good chardonnay—it’s in the fridge. You’ll like it, and you might need it once Shay gets started. This is all about numbers.”
“Wine sounds good,” she said as she took off her boots, and joined the men at the table. Richie had put a chair for her between him and Shay so she could easily see the screen. Her wine was beside the computer and she reached for it, taking a long sip. Something told her that he was right—she was going to need it.
“This,” Shay said as he opened a PDF document, “is a life insurance policy that Neda Fourman had from her employer. She worked as a nurse for over forty years, and had a really good pension and insurance plan. She made Lucian Tully her beneficiary, and in return, she was given a monthly stipend, plus she could attend a free séance once a month—that alone was worth five-hundred dollars to her.”
Rebecca’s head was already spinning. “Lucian Tully? Life insurance? What?”
“It means,” Richie said, “she sold her life insurance policy in exchange for the money she needs now.”
“I thought that sort of thing was illegal,” Rebecca said.
“It’s actually not,” Shay told her. “What you’re thinking of are viatical settlements, where the policy holder was close to dying when the transaction was completed. A lot of changes were made to the insurance industry since those were hot investments, back when young men of working age and insured by their employers were dying of AIDS and needed cash. What Geller is doing is closer to what’s called a ‘life settlement’ but instead of a middle man getting involved, Geller is working directly with his customers. He finds ones who have life insurance, but for whatever reason have no family members as beneficiaries. If such a person becomes strapped for cash, Geller offers a way for them to have money now. Sort of like a reverse mortgage, but it doesn’t put a person’s home at risk. In fact, there’s no risk at all to the policy owner. In most of these cases, they like the idea of Geller getting their life insurance policy to ‘carry on his good work,’ as one of the people wrote right on the policy when he signed it over.”
She looked from Richie to Shay and back again. “How in the world did you find out all this?”
“Carmela told me about it,” Richie admitted. “Somehow, her friend Geri convinced Sandy that she was all alone in life—no close family, and, now, she had little money. She was visited by Lucian Tully who said Sandy was concerned about her. Together, they filled out a form. He started asking about other assets she might have. She kept saying she had nothing until he asked about life insurance. She remembered her sister Betty once told her she had one. Something made Geri say she did have a policy. A few days later, Lucian returned with a promise that Sandy would send her five-hundred dollars each month if she signed a form for her life insurance company that, if processed, would make Lucian her beneficiary.”
“What?” Rebecca had never heard of such a thing.
“Right. Of course, she didn’t sign the form.”
Shay chimed in. “Once Richie gave me the information, I knew what to look for. I found that Lucian had been made beneficiary for her sister Betty’s life insurance. And I’ve already tracked down similar beneficiary changes on five of the eight others Geller is sending money to. They’re all in their seventies or eighties and relatively healthy. Most have insurance, small policies, from their jobs or pension funds that they probably haven’t thought about until Lucian came knocking at their door with an offer of money. Since the monthly stipends they receive come out of Geller’s account, Lucian must be Geller’s stooge in this, and nothing more.”
“The problem,” Richie said, “is the monthly stipend. If the client doesn’t die quickly, Geller could end up making little money, or even taking a loss. That Neda Fourman made it to age eighty-nine probably was costing Geller a bundle. So … guess what’s the only way to assure a profit?”
“I don’t need to guess,” Rebecca said, disgusted with all she was hearing.
He nodded. “And that, Inspector, is where you come in.”
“Would you do a search for Candace Carter?” Rebecca asked Shay. “She may be his latest victim.”
As Rebecca logged in to her system at work to get Candace’s vital statistics for Shay’s search, Richie ordered Chinese from his favorite take-out place, offering a big tip for a super-speedy delivery.
Shay easily found information on Candace Carter. She had a life insurance policy from the school district where she worked. The beneficiary was Lucian Tully.
They had just finished going over the policy on Candace when the doorbell rang. Rebecca went out to the door past the breezeway. She was surprised Richie thought he needed to go with her, until she saw the amount of food he’d ordered. He paid, then carried the box filled with goodies.
“All that?”
“I’m hungry. Plus, I like variety. And you know leftover Chinese keeps a few days in the fridge. It makes a great late-night snack.”
The implication of his statement hung in the air as she followed him back into the apartment.
o0o
That Shay hardly ate anything when he was with other people was one of the many strange things about him, in Rebecca’s opinion. Tonight was no different and he left the apartment before Rebecca or Richie were half-way through their meals.
Richie always had a good appetite, as did she. He wasn’t afraid of ordering adventurous dishes off a Chinese menu, and she was finding each one better than the last. Between food and conversation, she had always found him to be a great dinner companion, which frankly surprised her. Many of the men she chose to date began to bore her after a while. She wondered if the fault was theirs, or if she simply chose the wrong men to date. She knew she’d never choose to date Richie, so why she ended up spending so much time with him was quite baffling.
When they ate their fill, he even helped her move the leftovers into plastic containers to keep better in the refrigerator.
She wondered what she was going to do with him once they were done. Stay? Leave? Go to Big Caesar’s? And if it seemed he wanted to stay in her apartment …
They soon finished cleaning up the kitchen. Rebecca looked at him, not sure what to do.
“Since there’s nothing more we can do tonight, how about a movie?” he suggested.
“Here? On TV?”
“No, big screen. There’s a brand new Captain America film out. Just started yesterday. I’ve been wanting to see it.”
“You like the comic book movies, do you?” she said with a smile.
“What, you think I go for chick flicks?”
“Definitely not.” Getting him out of her apartment sounded like a good idea. They checked the movie schedule and were about to head out the door when Richie’s phone made an odd chiming sound.
He frowned. “I’ve got to take this,” he said.
He walked away from her as he answered the call. He rarely took a call when he was with her. His phone buzzed a lot, and most of the time he barely glanced at it. This time, even the ring was strange.
She did her best to listen in, but he only said a few “yeahs” and “uh huhs.” He looked at her a couple of times, then frowned, and she couldn’t help but wonder if the call had to do with the situation that interested the FBI. “Okay. I’ll get someone over there right away.”
He closed the connection. With the phone still in hand, he said, “I’ve got to try to catch Shay before he gets home. He’ll need to come back this way to pick up something.”
“Wait,” she said as he was about to call. “If whatever it is, is nearby, we’ve got a whole hour before the next movie starts. If you want to pick it up yourself, I don’t mind waiting.”
He checked his watch. “That would be easiest. I’m not sure, though …”
She decided to press him. “Is it one of your clients? You said there was nothing illegal going on. If that’s true, what’s the problem?”
“That
is
true.” He sounded indignant. “Okay. Why not? You’re right. No problem.”
They drove up to the top of Nob Hill, and then west to a block with a some very attractive older homes and flats. “This is it,” he said. As usual in this part of the city, all the street parking was filled so he parked in front of a driveway. And he wasn’t the only one. “Wait here,” he said, leaving the keys in the car. “If you see a cop giving tickets, just go around the block until I come back.”
“That’s tempting.” Her hand lightly stroked the wrapped leather steering wheel, and then the top and sides of the leather-covered shift knob.
He took a deep breath before saying, “See how much I trust you?” He didn’t wait for a response, but got out of the car and sprinted across the street.
His words made her feel suddenly guilty. He talked about trusting her, and she was here because the FBI expected her to spy on him. She decided she wouldn’t do it. She’d tell Richie the FBI had asked her to report on him and his deals, and she’d tell Brandon Seymour she refused to take part in any of this.
Somehow, she could see both men having a major eruption over such words. Well, too bad.
She shifted so she was leaning against the door to more easily watch the beige building Richie had entered.
Maybe she should take the Porsche for a spin, she thought. She’d probably never get another chance after admitting to Richie she was supposed to spy on him for the FBI, and had been tempted to do so.
She turned to see if anyone giving parking tickets was in the area when, instead, she saw two men on the opposite side of the street walking in the direction of the beige building. Something about them, something not right, caught her attention.
