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

have done this with the police watching the house? Unless”—she faced him—“they did it before you escaped from Bill Sutter. Before you became a suspect.”
    He didn't answer but walked down the hall. There was a small guest bedroom, a den, and a large master bedroom. They had all been ransacked the way the living room had been. In the bedroom, three TV sets had been aligned on stands facing the bed—a king. Now, all had been destroyed as if someone searched inside them. But for what? she wondered. Exactly what was Richie not telling her?
    Richie no longer seemed sad, and no longer swore. He no longer said anything, but in a fierce, all-consuming fury marched through the house, alternately kicking some broken pieces and sadly glowering at others as he absorbed the destruction.
    She wasn't sure if his silence or his cursing was worse.
    He stopped suddenly and picked up a small, framed black-and-white picture of a young man. He was thin, wearing jeans, a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, smoking a cigarette and leaning against an old Plymouth sedan. He was good-looking, with fairly long, thick black hair and heavy-lidded dark eyes much like Richie's. The whole photo had the look of something out of the sixties or seventies.
    The glass covering the photo had been smashed. “Why'd they do this?” Richie muttered. She knew he expected no answer from her.
    “Who was he?” Rebecca asked.
    “My father. It's my favorite picture of him, taken when he was young, hopeful, and maybe a little reckless, before everything went to hell for him. He died when I was only five, but I kind of remember him. Or, at least, I tell myself I do.” He stood the photo with the broken glass up on a shelf, and Rebecca could sense his sorrow as he did so.
    Richie opened more windows throughout the house and then led her out the back door off the kitchen to clear their heads and wait for the smell of gas to dissipate.
    “Want to sit?” Richie asked, pointing at the stairs. It was warm outdoors, which was a good thing since they had discovered earlier as they left her apartment that being stuck together with handcuffs made it impossible for them to put their jackets on.
    “Sure.”
    They sat side-by-side, facing his garden. Richie's feet were wide spread, his free arm flung casually across one thigh. She sat with her knees together, her free arm wrapped around them. Their cuffed hands were between them, palms resting on the step they sat on.
    She tried to imagine what was going through his head after all that had happened since last night. More than anything, he looked deflated, and every bit his age, which Paavo once told her was around thirty-nine or forty. Crow's feet lined the outer corners of his eyes, and curved lines—laugh lines they were usually called but not, she thought, in his case—creased the edges of his mouth. His face was fairly thin, and his nose high and long—a very Italian face, to her Nordic eye.
    In the sunlight, his hair was so black it had no trace of brown, and only the temples held a few gray strands. His eyes often appeared as black as his hair, yet in the sunlight she could see flecks of brown and even green in them.
    He wasn't buff, but not soft and flabby either. He no longer had the lithe, slim body of a young man, but had the solid build of someone mature and strong. And while he wasn't movie-star handsome, something about him, especially around the eyes, and the nose, and the mouth, and definitely the somewhat long, rakish way he wore his hair, reminded her of Al Pacino back when she was young and he was a heartthrob, until she learned he was only about five feet seven inches tall, which meant he would barely reach her nose. At least Richie was taller than that. In all, there was nothing she disliked about his looks. Not that it mattered one way or the other.
    She swallowed hard and forced her gaze down to the handcuffs, trying to rekindle her anger and suspicion.
    Beside his, her hand