One O'Clock Hustle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 1) by Joanne Pence Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Joanne Pence
and hit one of the buttons. The two-car garage door opened. A 700-series BMW sedan was parked on one side. She should have known Richie would own more than one car…unless he lived with someone. A girlfriend maybe?
But he had dated Meaghan Blakely.
Two-timing rat!
“Who does that car belong to?” she asked.
“It's mine. Sometimes a Porsche is too small.” He glanced at her. “Why?”
Rebecca ignored his question and drove into the garage. “I hope you realize that if those cops are watching, they're going to wonder where I got your garage opener.”
“Better they wonder that than see me waltz you up to my front door and open it with a key.”
She knew he was right, but for some reason that only increased her irritation. Why did he have that effect on her? He hit the remote again and the garage door lowered shut behind them. “Come this way,” she said, opening the door on the driver's side.
He stubbornly shook his head, then put his hands together and cracked his knuckles. At each pop, a ripple went down her back. God but he was annoying! “I already crawled over the car seats when we got into this piece of junk,” he said. “Now, it's your turn.”
“You can't believe how much I hate you.” She stepped out of the driver's door and tugged on the handcuffs. “At least my car doesn't have bucket seats with a gear shift and handbrake in the center. Be thankful and come on.”
He sat like an immovable object. “That's only because they didn't make bucket seats in nineteen-fifty! But you've still got this arm rest between the seats. So it's your turn.”
She did a slow burn, yet the inside of his house might turn up some evidence that would prove his guilt or innocence, and entering with him would make it easy to search. “Fine. Go!” She crawled over the seats and out the passenger door.
They walked up a flight of stairs, and then he unlocked the door between the garage and the house.
The sunny kitchen was bright with white cabinets and pale blue, gray, and white granite countertops. But the cabinet doors and drawers all hung open, and the room smelled of gas.
“What the…!” Richie ran across the room, Rebecca doing her best to help, as he flung open the window over the sink, then hurried to the gas cooktop and shut off the burners. They were unlit and caused gas to fill the house.
A whirring sound continued. The two stood absolutely still, then both turned towards the microwave. It was running.
“Get out of here!” Rebecca cried, tugging on Richie's arm to leave the kitchen. She could have been trying to pull a brick wall.
Her feet were nearly lifted out of her boots as he lunged towards the microwave and punched the button to open the door. Inside she saw a bowl with rice in it. It had started to blacken. The rice was a built-in timing device. Set the microwave to run for an hour or more, put the rice inside, and wait for it to dry out enough to catch fire. When it did, with the gas leak, the whole house would have gone up.
A shudder went through Richie that Rebecca could feel through the handcuffs.
Although most of his swear words were in Italian—including the infamous ' fung gool '—she didn't need a translation.
Five minutes later, they would have been too late to save the house—and possibly have been killed.
“Let's get all the windows open,” she said, feeling a little squeamish. They stepped into the living room. The picture window gave a breathtaking view of San Francisco, looking eastward, towards the downtown and financial district skyscrapers. But Rebecca scarcely noticed as she and Richie went to the smaller side windows and opened them wide.
That done, she watched Richie's expression move from shock to sadness as he eyed the destruction to his home.
The furniture had been slashed, and its stuffing pulled out. The huge, wide-screen plasma television set lay smashed on the floor, its back pried off and tossed aside.
“My God,” she murmured. “How could they
But he had dated Meaghan Blakely.
Two-timing rat!
“Who does that car belong to?” she asked.
“It's mine. Sometimes a Porsche is too small.” He glanced at her. “Why?”
Rebecca ignored his question and drove into the garage. “I hope you realize that if those cops are watching, they're going to wonder where I got your garage opener.”
“Better they wonder that than see me waltz you up to my front door and open it with a key.”
She knew he was right, but for some reason that only increased her irritation. Why did he have that effect on her? He hit the remote again and the garage door lowered shut behind them. “Come this way,” she said, opening the door on the driver's side.
He stubbornly shook his head, then put his hands together and cracked his knuckles. At each pop, a ripple went down her back. God but he was annoying! “I already crawled over the car seats when we got into this piece of junk,” he said. “Now, it's your turn.”
“You can't believe how much I hate you.” She stepped out of the driver's door and tugged on the handcuffs. “At least my car doesn't have bucket seats with a gear shift and handbrake in the center. Be thankful and come on.”
He sat like an immovable object. “That's only because they didn't make bucket seats in nineteen-fifty! But you've still got this arm rest between the seats. So it's your turn.”
She did a slow burn, yet the inside of his house might turn up some evidence that would prove his guilt or innocence, and entering with him would make it easy to search. “Fine. Go!” She crawled over the seats and out the passenger door.
They walked up a flight of stairs, and then he unlocked the door between the garage and the house.
The sunny kitchen was bright with white cabinets and pale blue, gray, and white granite countertops. But the cabinet doors and drawers all hung open, and the room smelled of gas.
“What the…!” Richie ran across the room, Rebecca doing her best to help, as he flung open the window over the sink, then hurried to the gas cooktop and shut off the burners. They were unlit and caused gas to fill the house.
A whirring sound continued. The two stood absolutely still, then both turned towards the microwave. It was running.
“Get out of here!” Rebecca cried, tugging on Richie's arm to leave the kitchen. She could have been trying to pull a brick wall.
Her feet were nearly lifted out of her boots as he lunged towards the microwave and punched the button to open the door. Inside she saw a bowl with rice in it. It had started to blacken. The rice was a built-in timing device. Set the microwave to run for an hour or more, put the rice inside, and wait for it to dry out enough to catch fire. When it did, with the gas leak, the whole house would have gone up.
A shudder went through Richie that Rebecca could feel through the handcuffs.
Although most of his swear words were in Italian—including the infamous ' fung gool '—she didn't need a translation.
Five minutes later, they would have been too late to save the house—and possibly have been killed.
“Let's get all the windows open,” she said, feeling a little squeamish. They stepped into the living room. The picture window gave a breathtaking view of San Francisco, looking eastward, towards the downtown and financial district skyscrapers. But Rebecca scarcely noticed as she and Richie went to the smaller side windows and opened them wide.
That done, she watched Richie's expression move from shock to sadness as he eyed the destruction to his home.
The furniture had been slashed, and its stuffing pulled out. The huge, wide-screen plasma television set lay smashed on the floor, its back pried off and tossed aside.
“My God,” she murmured. “How could they
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