Authors: Joanne Pence
Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) (17 page)
Rebecca woke with a start to the sound of her cell phone buzzing. The first thing she thought was that it was the dispatcher calling, but then she remembered that her on-call shift had ended.
After leaving Half Moon Bay, she had worked most of that night and again all day Friday on Geller and Lucian’s deaths, as well as doing all she could to make sure the cases against Henry and Marta Highfield were airtight. She and Richie had managed to convince the San Mateo detectives that she had given the “mystery men”—Shay and Vito—approval to leave since they weren’t needed for the case. She ended up chewed out by Lt. Eastwood for that—what else was new?—but she found it better than possibly opening Shay up to more scrutiny, especially if the FBI got wind of his identity.
More important was the jurisdictional issue between San Francisco and San Mateo counties, but by late Friday night when, exhausted, she went home, she was pretty sure she’d get the case.
She had talked to Richie briefly about his statements, and was glad to hear Carmela and Geri were doing just fine.
Now, she sat up in bed and reached for the phone. First she saw the caller: Richie. Then the time: 3:00 a.m.
“Hello?” she mumbled.
“If you’re alone, open your front door. It’s raining.” Then he hung up.
It took her a moment to process what he had said, and then she got out of bed. She was wearing her old yellow cotton pajamas, three big buttons kept the top closed, and an elastic waistband held up the bottoms. She went to the door.
He was standing there in the rain, his eyes troubled and questioning. “I know this is crazy, but—”
“Come inside,” she said.
He walked into the apartment.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He ran his hand through his damp hair and then brushed some of the raindrops off his jacket. “Put on shoes. Or slippers. It doesn’t matter which. And a coat.”
“Shouldn’t I get dressed first?”
He couldn’t help but smile as he looked at her pj’s. “They’re fine. Hurry.”
“Hurry?” She did as he asked. Something—a sixth sense?—told her to go along, or she might always regret it. She put on her leather jacket. “Why?”
He lifted Spike and put him in her arms, then found a couple cans of Spike’s food and put them in his pockets. He picked up her handbag, added her badge, gun, and cell phone, and then took her hand and pulled her outside the apartment.
“What are you doing?” she demanded as she watched him make sure both doors were locked. “It’s cold and wet out here.”
“It’s warm and dry in the car.”
She and Spike got in. “Now will you tell me what this is about?” she asked.
“You’ll see soon enough.”
He tore across the city. The streets were all but empty, and he didn’t even bother to wait for red lights to change once he saw no cars were coming. It was as if they were the only people out and about in the city.
Rebecca soon realized he was heading for his house. And it was clear he wasn’t about to answer any of her questions, so she just stared at him as he drove, wondering what madness had overtaken him.
He pulled into the garage. They walked up the stairs to the door that opened to his kitchen. She envied his kitchen—large, attractive and modern with white cabinets and pale blue, gray, and white granite countertops. If she ever had time to cook, which she rarely did, she’d love a kitchen like this one to work in.
She put Spike down. Richie opened the back door, and Spike trotted out. He left the back door open for Spike’s return as he put a bowl with water on the floor for him. In thirty seconds flat, Spike was back inside, shaking off the rain.
Richie finally faced Rebecca.
She wondered if he’d explain. “Now, will you—”
He took her handbag from her arm, placed it on the counter, and then led her into the living room. The living room was dominated by a picture window. From his home near the top of Twin Peaks the city lights far below were like a sparkling carpet, interrupted by lit spires of tall buildings. Beyond the downtown, the outline of the Bay Bridge was like a Christmas decoration spanning the bay.
The living room had a cozy warmth, with a light gray sectional, two blue chairs, coffee and lamp tables of pale ash, a fire place, and a 60-inch plasma TV.
He helped her out of her coat and placed it on the sofa, then removed his jacket and tossed it beside hers. He flicked a switch to light his fireplace. “Would you like some wine?”
“No.” She gawked at him.
“Good.” He put his arms around her.
She drew back, her hands on his arms. “What is this? Have you gone crazy?”
“No. Sane. It’s time to finish what we started months ago—the last time you were here. We would have back then, except my mother showed up.”
“And now she’s not here?” Rebecca’s pulse pounded. Well did she remember—almost too well—how it had felt holding him, kissing him, the last time she was in this room.
“No. She and her friend both wanted to sleep in their own beds tonight, thank God. So she won’t be interrupting this time.”
“This time?”
“She was a little crazy back then with worry, and I was a little crazy with a different kind of worry—about you. I tried to walk away from you. And that made me even crazier.”
“I don’t—”
“Don’t you?”
He drew her close, and this time she let him. But instead of moving faster, everything slowed. She could feel the heat from his hands against the thin cotton of her night clothes.
“Tell me to take you back home,” he murmured. “Tell me you never want to see me again, and I’ll do as you ask. And I’ll promise to never bother you again. Never.”
She couldn’t do that.
She lifted a hand to his head, her fingers twining in his hair. She loved the feel of it, soft, and wavy. A part of her was tempted to give it a good hard yank, to hurt him for having hurt her when he ignored her for so long, but much more than that, she wanted him, and had for a long time.
She let go of his hair, and studied his face, a face she had come to know well over the course of one bit of craziness after the other that she had been through with him. And perhaps the craziest thing of all was how much she had come to care about him.
Her eyes never left his as she pulled his shirt free of his belt, lifting it and his undershirt so that her cool hands could touch his warm skin. As soon as they did, his mouth found hers. She pressed her body closer as their kisses grew fiercer, hungrier. He started moving forward, towards her, and she stepped backwards even as she kept him close. She knew where he was headed, and pulled him along every bit as much as he was pushing her.
His fingers found the buttons on her pajama top, and he opened them while she struggled with his first button. At that same moment, the back of her legs bumped the bed.
In no time they were atop it, their clothes in a heap on the floor.
She had found out once before that she loved the way he kissed, but she learned those kisses had been nothing compared to the way he made her feel now.
He surprised her, somehow knowing how to hold her, kiss her, touch her; how to make the conflagration that was her body grow even hotter.
He overwhelmed her, and she loved it.
When their breathing became steady once more, and their heartbeats calmed, he rolled onto his back and then reached for her hand, lacing his fingers between hers. “I always thought,” he murmured, “that making love with you would be special, but I never imagined …”
She liked hearing that. And for this moment, at least, her heart filled with … emotion … for him, with more feelings than she ever wanted or suspected. She did what she could to tamp them down. But despite her caution, she couldn’t resist leaning forward and kissing his lips, his cheeks, his aquiline nose, and what she always thought of as his “Al Pacino” eyes.
“What are you doing?” he asked with a smile.
She leaned back and drew her finger from his ear to his jawline, to his neck, and shoulder. “I wish I knew,” she whispered, a little frightened by the amount of emotion she heard in her voice, and realizing he heard it, too. “But I know it’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long, long time.”
“Good,” he said. Then he rose up and flipped her onto her back as he took her in his arms once more.
o0o
Much later, she opened her eyes. It was still dark outside, but the living room lamp had been left on, and cast the bedroom in a soft glow. The red numbers of the clock-radio on the nightstand read 5:23 A.M. Spike was curled up at the foot of the bed. She looked over her shoulder and there, beside her, lay Richie, sound asleep.
She turned to face him. Sleeping, his hair tousled and falling onto his forehead, he looked completely angelic. She listened to the deep, steady rhythm of his breathing. The pillow beneath her head carried his scent and she liked it. She liked everything about being here with him.
And that’s what worried her.
Her relationships had always turned out badly, which meant chances were that eventually they’d part. As much as he might be wrong for her, she feared she was even worse for him. After losing a fiancée, the last thing he needed was a fly-by-night affair. He needed someone who could always be there with him. Someone who would make all those foods with long names that ended in i’s and a’s that she couldn’t begin to pronounce let alone cook. Someone who could see to it that he stopped getting involved with dangerous people like smugglers of ancient artifacts.
Someone she could never be.
If she was smart, while he slept, she would gather up her clothes and her dog, call a taxi, and leave. And yet, she hated the thought of not seeing him again. Of not feeling the excitement that always filled her whenever he was near.
As she watched him sleep, as she felt him easing his way into her very protected heart, she couldn’t help but to move a little closer to him. His heavy lidded eyes opened. “Good morning,” he mumbled, and then he quickly went back to sleep.
She smiled.
Listening to her head, she would tiptoe from the room and go back home. But listening to her heart …
She snuggled deeper under the blankets and, as sleep overtook her and her eyes drifted shut, the thought struck that although she had no idea where this would lead, she could be certain of one thing: it was going to be an interesting journey. And it was one that she didn’t want to miss.
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Find out what happens next in the lives of Rebecca and Richie when the clock strikes
FOUR O'CLOCK
…
coming in 2016
o0o
Rebecca and Richie met and shared their first mystery/adventure in the novella
The Thirteenth Santa
. Th
eir first full novel adventure took place in
One O'Clock Hustle
. They also make a brief appearance together in the Angie Amalfi mystery,
Cook’s Big Day
.
If you missed it, here's the beginning of
The Thirteenth Santa
:
It was Christmas Eve, and Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield was on a case.
Garlands of silver tinsel and strings of cheery lights decorated the outdoor parking lot of San Francisco's largest mall. In the center of it, while curious shoppers gawked and impatient drivers raged over the loss of parking spaces, yellow crime scene tape surrounded a black body bag. Homicide detectives were put in charge when a suspicious death occurred, and as soon as Rebecca arrived the concerned merchants of Stonestown descended on her, screaming their outrage over the distasteful police presence. A corpse could dampen tidings of good cheer under the best of circumstances, they protested, but to see one at high noon on the day before Christmas would cause shoppers to flee to the competition.
Frankly, surveying the crowd, it didn't appear as if anyone much cared.
Earlier, as she drove to the mall in answer to the SFPD dispatcher’s call, she'd worried about the crime scene because of both the day and the location. She hoped the death would have a simple and obvious explanation—bad health, for example. Joggers, in particular, were big on dropping like flies in the damnedest locations.
Given the strange smirks on the faces of the patrol cops who guarded the body, though, she had the bad feeling that there’d be nothing at all normal about this case.
Officer Mike Hennessy was a friend from the Taraval Station. Like her, he was single and therefore a prime candidate for holiday duty. They’d dated a couple of times until both realized it wasn’t going to work. Maybe it was because as a homicide inspector, she was superior to him. Or maybe something else. She didn’t know, and preferred not to analyze it.
"What’s so funny, Mike?" She pushed back the sides of her black wool blazer, her hands on the hips of her black slacks as she surveyed the area. The air was crisp, the sky pale blue. Gulls swarmed overhead awaiting discarded food from overfed, harried shoppers. "You guys look ready to split your guts about something."
Officer Hennessy’s eyes darted toward his partner. His mustache twitched in his effort to keep a straight face. "There’s nothing funny, Rebecca. A man’s death is never amusing."
His partner sputtered and clamped a hand over his mouth. Rebecca glared. The more he tried not to laugh, the more his shoulders shook.
"You’re right, Mike." Rebecca flipped open her pocket notebook. "A man’s death is a grave matter."
Hennessy’s partner stomped his foot, and doubled over from his struggles.
"Remove the sheet, please," she ordered.
Hennessy carefully lifted it away, reversing the direction he’d placed it over the body to cause minimal disruption to any evidence.
Even being a cop, the sight jarred her at first, then calmly, she studied the victim. He looked like a bloodied, broken rag doll.
His bones were twisted at unnatural angles and his body seemed oddly squished, as if he’d fallen from a great height. She looked up and then all around. They were in an open parking lot. No buildings were near. There was nothing for him to have fallen
from
.
That was when she realized what had amused the cops. Even before Hennessy spoke the words, she could predict what he was going to say. "It looks like"—he began before, like his partner, he sputtered and chuckled—"it looks like he fell off his sleigh."
"He hit the eject button by mistake," his partner blurted.
"Santa the sky-diver." Hennessy howled.
As the two rolled around with laughter, Rebecca made no reply. It was Christmas Eve, and Santa Claus—red suit, tasseled hat, black boots and all—lay at her feet, dead.
o0o
"What the hell! This is crazy!" Richie Amalfi stomped back and forth over an empty parking space, gesturing wildly. A short while ago the space was filled by a monstrous white Econoline passenger van. And the van was filled with twelve Very Important People. But now, it—and its passengers—were gone. "I don’t believe it!" he bellowed with rage.
Wasn’t it bad enough that he, a man who usually saw the light of dawn as he was going to bed, had to face it this morning when he got up? Now, the whole reason he had roused himself at such an ungodly hour had all fallen apart. He should have stayed home. Bed, booze and broads—they were what made life worth living. And his life wasn't going to be worth squat if he didn't solve this present problem.
He ran both hands through his black hair. His eyeballs bulged; his scalp felt like it was being squeezed.
It was nearly Christmas. Filled with good cheer, he had agreed to handle this little task. Now, his Christmas spirit was going to get him a .45 through the brain.
That morning at the San Francisco airport he'd picked up his charges one-by-one as they arrived from different parts of the country. The first was there at seven, the last at ten. The four who had come in from the east coast had arrived the night before and stayed at an airport hotel.
Like some little Mary Sunshine googly-eyed social director he’d gathered them all together, waited while they put on their disguises—lifetimes of paranoia didn’t die easy—and squeezed them into the twelve-passenger Ford Econoline van he’d borrowed from a
goomba
for just this purpose.
He'd barely left the airport, on 101 North, when the piece of crap van started to cough and shimmy like a TB victim. He pulled off at the nearest freeway exit. It was just a block from a gas station, so he’d told the passengers to wait while he went for help. Nothing wrong with that, was there? At least he didn’t have to go far, dressed as he was in an Armani double-breasted pin-striped suit, white shirt with lots of starch in the collar the way he liked it, a red tie, and brand new wing-tipped shoes.
He’d had to wait about twenty minutes for the station’s mechanic to finish up with one customer, even though he'd tried to slip the guy a C-note to ditch the earlier job. It could have been a lot worse, though. The day before Christmas, every housewife, Sunday driver, and certifiable moron who should never be allowed behind the wheel of a moving vehicle got on the road to clog it up and call for help when they couldn’t figure out how to get the car out of "Park." Bah, humbug! When he saw he’d have to wait for the mechanic, he’d tried AAA, but the phone line was so jammed up he was left on hold and couldn’t even get through to an operator.
The day had not started out the way he’d expected, to put it mildly.
And it had just gotten worse.
"It’s a van!" he yelled at the bored mechanic. "A huge mother! It can’t just disappear."
The mechanic leaned against the tow truck and chewed on a toothpick. "Maybe this is the wrong street?" His manner was so lackadaisical, his tone so condescending that Richie was ready to take the toothpick and shove it down his throat.
But then he thought ... maybe the jerk-off was right.
Not that he forgot where he left the van, but that his passengers might have gotten it going again and test drove it a little way. Yeah, that was it. Hadn’t he heard that Joe Zumbaglio used to be called Joey Zoom because he was so good with cars? Although, if it was good at fixing them or at heisting them, Richie couldn’t remember.
He rubbed his forehead, then disgusted, flung himself into the truck and directed the mechanic which way to go. Then he directed him another way, and another, until they ended up driving all over the neighborhood, up and down side streets, checking out driveways, back alleys, even along the freeway.
Nothing. No van. No passengers. Only a snickering mechanic.
A small bead of perspiration broke out on Richie’s brow.
This isn’t happening to me
.
They returned to the gas station and he peeled a fifty off his roll of greenbacks for the driver, the whole time trying to figure out what the hell to do next. He checked the time on the platinum Rolex on his arm. It was a little after noon. He had plenty of time. All day, in fact. No reason to panic.
He paced. He would call a cab, go home and get his car. Yeah, that would work. And while he was at it, he’d make a few phone calls. Just call to say hello, right? And for sure, somebody would say to him, "'Ey, Richie, you won’t believe what I just saw."
It wasn’t as if he could actually tell anyone what had happened, not if he wanted to see Christmas Day. San Francisco Bay was too close by, and he was allergic to concrete overshoes.
o0o
Homicide was completely, painstakingly empty. Space-vacuum kind of empty. No telephone rang. No important memos waited to be read. Not even an impersonal interoffice e-mail arrived wishing her a "happy winter season."
A little sad, a little lonely, maybe a little sorry for herself for being stuck here at work instead of with her family for Christmas, Rebecca leaned back in her chair and put her feet up on her desk. She had always wanted to do that. She tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her desk, and watched it bounce. Even the new man in her life, Greg Horning from Vice, had gone back to Cleveland to spend the week with his family.
She sighed. "Jingle Bell Rock" went through her head although she didn't like the song. Then a Snickers bar called her name, and she made her third trip to the candy machine. She slid in a dollar bill.
The machine burped, and the bill slithered out again. She shoved it in; the device up-chucked and spit it back. The junky contraption looked like it was sticking its tongue out at her, daring her to try once more.
She did; same result.
Grabbing the dollar, she returned to Homicide to check her e-mail yet again to see if CSI or anyone else had contacted her. They hadn’t.
Not only was Homicide a barren wind tunnel, so was the entire fourth floor of the Hall of Justice. Even the women’s bathroom. Heck, she could have used the men’s room if she’d wanted. No thank you.
Lieutenant Eastwood, head of the division, had given everyone the day off except for Rebecca and her partner. It wasn’t that Eastwood was being generous; he knew nothing got done on Christmas Eve. Past years, when the staff came in, they fretted about last minute shopping yet unfinished, then went down to the third floor to drown their sorrows with Christmas cheer in the district attorney’s office. The punch was so strong, Rebecca was sure the only fruit in it was an orange dipped twice then discarded. Christmas wasn’t the time of year a lot of homicides occurred anyway. That was New Year’s. All of Homicide would be on duty next week.
She glanced over at her partner’s empty desk. Good ol’ Bill Never-Take-A-Chance Sutter. He was a snail on the slow road to retirement. With enough time in to collect a pension, he was merely hanging around until he felt "ready" to officially leave. He’d probably show up around three o’clock today, leave at three-thirty. Or sooner. Rebecca wondered if he ever would retire. Generally, a person needed something to retire
from
.
Frankly, it didn’t matter if Sutter was here or not. Except for the weird death this morning, all was quiet. Too quiet. She tried to rouse someone from the Coroner’s office to do the autopsy on Santa Claus right away, before they went home or visited the DAs, but so far her calls went unanswered. If no one was willing to do the autopsy today, she’d have to wait until December 26
th
for the results. Not even the coroner was ghoulish enough to do such a procedure and then go home and carve up a Christmas goose.
She rifled through the reports of the few eyewitnesses at the mall. Everyone denied seeing or hearing anything. No one even knew how long the body lay in the parking lot before a harried shopper bothered to report it. The security camera covering that part of the lot had been awaiting repair for the past six weeks.
All she could do now was wait.
Wait for the fingerprints to run through the system, wait for photos of the victim, wait to use them to scan criminal records for digitized matches. She was tired of waiting, and couldn't help but wonder if the dead Santa had a family who was also waiting—waiting for him to return home.
He looked old, like he could be someone's grandpa. What kind of Christmas would his family have once they learned he was dead?
She'd never forget the first time she had to inform a family on Christmas that the husband and father wasn't coming home again. It was horrible. She shook off the memory. She was a cop; she knew death didn't stop for holy days.
