One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) by Joanne Pence Read Free Book Online

that Danny Pasternak, bookie, had a woman on the side.
    “What you gonna do?” Vito asked Richie.
    “I gotta get home, get some stuff.”
    “How you gonna do that?”
    Richie looked at Shay who reached into his jacket pocket and handed Richie a burner cell phone and a garage door opener. “They're both set to work,” Shay said.
    “Good job,” Richie said, then turned towards Rebecca. “Ready?”
    She all but spat out the words, “Not on your life!”

 
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    Richie held Rebecca’s cell phone to her ear as she called Bill Sutter. She hated driving her black Ford Explorer one-handed, especially when she needed to turn a corner. “Sutter, it's me. How's the case coming?”
    “We've got the murder weapon, no question about it. It's got Amalfi's fingerprints. We've put out an APB on him. Paavo's fiancée, Angie, is here kicking up a fuss that her cousin's innocent. Another cousin is a lawyer and is here to represent him, if and when he shows up. And everybody's wondering where you are.”
    “I'm on the case, where else?” she said. “Who's the gun registered to?”
    “It isn't.”
    Why didn't that surprise her?
    “When you coming in?” he asked.
    “A couple of things came up last night that I want to check out, then I'll be there.”
    “Really? What things?”
    “I ... uh, it's complicated. Listen, did you reach Danny Pasternak yet?”
    “Can't find him. His old lady said he didn't come home last night, but she isn't worried. Seems he spends a lot of nights away. She claims she doesn't know where. Sounds like he's got something on the side, if you know what I mean.”
    “Okay, thanks. Talk to you later.” She nodded for Richie to hit the “End” button. He did.
    “You've got a lawyer,” she said and told him briefly about the conversation.
    He directed her to a narrow street near the top of Twin Peaks, an expensive neighborhood of mid-century modern and newer homes with garages on the ground floor and living areas above. “It's number eighty-one on the left. Gray. Big picture window,” Richie said as he tried to hide in the leg area under the glove compartment. She covered him with a blanket and plopped her handbag on top of it.
    She knew she was breaking more rules than a leopard had spots, but for some reason, she—who was normally such a by-the-book person in everything—was unable to stop herself. She had thought long and hard about getting Richie into her SUV, and then removing the handcuff from her own wrist, putting it on his, and arresting him. She was armed, of course, and it would have been easy. He knew it, too. But he trusted her.
    That was his problem not hers, she told herself. She had a job to do. Right now, she simply wanted to learn why he decided to go to his house and what he expected to find there. And then she would arrest him. She needed to play along just a little while longer.
    She spotted the house he described up ahead.
    An unmarked police car sat two doors before it. She stopped in the middle of the block, rolled down her window, and stuck her head and one free arm out.
    “Mayfield, Homicide,” she called, showing her badge. “You guys can take a half-hour break. I'm going to check around inside. It'll take me a while.”
    “You sure you don't want back-up?” one of the patrolmen asked.
    “What did you say?” She let her voice grow loud and hostile. “You think I can't handle myself? Is that it? Why? Because I'm female, maybe? You think I'm not capable of doing my job? Let me remind you, officer, I'm in Homicide.”
    “No, ma'am. I mean, yes, ma'am.” The guy didn't say another word, just gave a nod to his partner and the two sped off as Rebecca pulled into Richie's driveway.
    “Good thinking,” Richie said, popping his head out from under the blanket. “But for a minute I thought you were going to give the kid a spanking.”
    She threw the blanket back over his head.
    He fought his way free, took the garage door opener out of his pocket