Authors: Joanne Pence
“Oh, my God!” Rebecca said. Chinese—that could be Johnny Huang's gang. She knew about them from the Gang Task Force. They killed and maimed without compunction. “Did you see which direction they went in?”
“They turned left. But I did better than that. I got the license number.” She read it off. “And the older guy is here with ice on his head. He's kind of cute, you know. But go help your friend.”
Rebecca hung up, her heart pounding. She could only hope she wasn't too late.
o0o
Richie slowly awoke. He opened his eyes only to shut them again from a bright light in his face. He was sitting on a hard chair, his ankles bound to the chair legs and his wrists tied behind his back.
He opened his eyes just a little this time. Even squinting, the light was so bright he couldn't see past it to look his persecutors in the eye.
He tried to pull his hands free, and realized zip ties had been used on his wrists.
“We heard that you were going to write a book about us, Richie,” a voice said.
“No way.” He tugged hard on the ties, but couldn't snap them.
“Do not act smart with me! The book was about gambling, and to be written with our mutual friend, Danny Pasternak. Why are you trying to cause us trouble?”
The voice was familiar—soft, slightly accented, and the English a little too perfect.
Johnny Huang!
Richie gulped. The leader of a modern day Chinese tong was ruthless. He knew how to keep his men in check, and his enemies scared. Richie once had a conversation with Pasternak about the danger in making book with men like Huang, but Danny liked the color of his money—and the quantity of it. He said Huang was one of his biggest customers.
Now, Richie might have to pay the price. “Come over here, Johnny, where I can see you. You know I had nothing to do with Danny's book. The guy ghosting it was a slimy prick. He used my name because he was afraid to use his own.”
“Why don't I believe you?”
Richie tried to wriggle his hands out of the ties, but they were too big, too broad. He could feel the skin tearing.
“What, you think I'm an author all of a sudden?” Richie said, trying to sound incredulous. “Do I look like a writer to you? Hell! The book is dead, just like Danny. Did you kill him?”
Huang didn't answer the question. “I know about the
Chronicle
reporter. He told my man that you were the one who had all the information, a list with people and money amounts—that you were the one who knew everything going on, much more than him, and perhaps as much as Pasternak.”
“Your man? So was it your guy in the bar with Glickman. Your guy getting him drunk.”
Again, Huang didn't respond, but said, “You met twice with Sherman Glickman. He has a lot of information stored in that small head of his, information he will gladly spill when he's drunk, or scared.”
“He's a liar!” Richie shouted. “And for all I know, he's dead. His apartment was burned up, and he's missing. Did you do it? Is that when you got him to tell you goofy stories about me?”
Huang gave a derisive snort. “I would not soil my hands. I had no need to. He told my man everything we needed to know—that you have the list, all of Pasternak's information. Now, I want it.”
“I hate to break the news to you, but your 'man' is too damned dumb to realize Glickman would say anything to deflect danger away from himself.”
“Is that so? Unfortunately for you,
Richie,
what Glickman said makes sense. I believe you want any information about other people that you can get your hands on.”
“Knowing you believed that jerkoff,
Johnny
, makes me think even less of you than I already did!”
All Richie could make out against the blinding lights was a silhouette coming towards him. A hard slug to the jaw rattled his teeth and made sparks appear before his eyes.
“I want Pasternak's list,” the voice demanded. “I want all the information you have about my gambling and everyone else's.”
“Why should I care about your gambling?” Richie shouted when he got his breath back. “Frankly, I don't give a shit about you!”
“We do not like to take chances.” The voice growled, deep and deadly. “And we do not like liars.”
“It's over, I told you!” Richie insisted. “Danny's dead.”
“Word is out that you are planning to take over his business.” Bitterness hung in the air. “And that you will give the IRS or any other Feds who come to call anything you can to get them out of your hair, including information about me.”
“That's a lie. I'm not taking over a damned thing,” Richie shouted. “How many times do I have to say I don't give a damn about you or the Feds? Who fed you that crap?”
“I still don't believe you. Why is that, I wonder?”
Richie shut his eyes and turned his head away from the bright, brutal glare of the light. He opened one eye, trying to see in the darkness, away from Huang and the others, trying to get some sense of where he was, how desperate his situation might be. Right now, it seemed hopeless. He knew Huang's reputation, and feared that the best he could hope for was that any torture not be prolonged.
He saw a movement in the distance, but whether it was one of Huang's men, or Shay or Vito—or hopefully both of his friends—he had no idea.
“How the hell should I know?” He finally said in answer to Huang's question. This back-and-forth arguing disgusted Richie. He had never backed down from a fight, and wasn't about to start now. “All I know is, you're hiding back there with your men surrounding you. And I'm tied up. What's the matter, Johnny, are you scared of me?”
“Not scared, disgusted.”
“It's your men who should be disgusted,” Richie said. He decided to throw caution to the wind. If it was his friends out there, this would give them a chance to help. And if not … so be it. “They see what a coward you are! They know you're nothing! Nothing but an asshole.”
Huang barked orders in Chinese as he strode towards Richie, in his hand something that looked like a small blowtorch.
Richie clamped his jaw shut tight, his body tense as he waited. He had a good idea what was coming.
“Police! Drop your weapons!”
Immediately, a shot rang out. The lamplight popped and the room went completely black. He saw bursts of fire from gun barrels, heard volleys of shots fired in rapid succession, along with the sound of running footsteps.
“Drop your weapons
now!”
Was that Rebecca? He thought it sounded like a hard, ball-busting version of her voice.
The darkness made him disoriented, and the shots and running footsteps seemed to be coming from all directions at once. Richie held his breath, expecting pain, expecting death. To his amazement, he wasn't hit.
But he was a sitting duck and needed to get away from the gunshots. He started to rock the chair, trying to tip it over, thinking he'd be safer if he was lying on the ground instead of up here at bullet level.
Rebecca's hand touched his face in the darkness. He hadn't realized how well he knew her touch, her scent.
She grabbed his wrists. He heard a ripping sound as she hurriedly sliced through the ties, then slapped the knife into his now freed hands. She ran from him, firing more shots, drawing return fire away from him. He cut the zip tie around his ankles, and dropped flat against the cement floor.
Only a couple more gunshots sounded, a few more footsteps, and then all went quiet.
He waited. He had no idea which direction to go in to find safety, or to escape the room. He still heard nothing.
“Rebecca?” he whispered.
She didn't answer.
She had saved his life and now …
“Rebecca!”
“I'm here,” she whispered.
Relief filled him as he scrambled towards her voice. “Are you near? I can't see a damned thing! Where are you?”
“Stay still. You're close. I'll find you.”
“Ouch! That was my finger you stepped on!”
She reached out and felt the top of his head. “Why are your hands on the floor?”
“Because I didn't know it was safe to stand up.” He reached up and found her hips, then her waist, holding it as he stood beside her, and then continued to hold her. He couldn't help but wonder about her reaction if he dared move any closer, if he dared to hold her the way he had wanted to for a long time now.
“Now you worry about your safety!” She wanted to slug him for scaring her so badly, or at least to push him so hard he'd fall over. Instead, she touched his face, knowing it well, even in the darkness. “You damned fool.” Her voice was husky. “Were you daring them to kill you? What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Hell, if I'd known you cared this much…”
She smiled, knowing he was doing his best to relieve her tension, her fears—and his own—by saying something light and humorous. “Fat chance!” She replied in kind. “Let's get out of here.” She grappled for him in the dark, finding his chest, then arms, then his hand. He gripped hers tight, and through his hand she could feel his fear and nervousness over his close call. “I think we need to go this way.” She took a couple of steps and walked into something that fell over with a crash. “Uh, oh. What was that? Something's wet on the floor.”
“It smells like wine. You must have knocked over a bottle,” Richie said. “What is this place?”
“The cellar of an empty warehouse in the old Bayshore district. Probably a place winos hang out.”
“Winos who had the sense to run, even leaving a bottle behind, when they saw Johnny Huang's gang pull up. How did you find me here?”
“Kiki saw what happened,” Rebecca replied. “Between the van's license, traffic cams, and your burner phone's GPS, I was able to track you.”
“God, are we idiots or what?” Richie said as he stopped walking. “Cell phones have a flashlight. Let's use yours.”
“Mine? Are you kidding? It's city-issued. No flashlight. What about yours?”
“It's not much better,” he said, dejected.
“So much for that idea,” she murmured, as they slowly crept in what they hoped was a straight line. “Vito's okay, by the way. Kiki's taking care of him.”
“Lucky fellow. But wait a minute. Where's everyone else?”
“Everyone who?” she asked.
“Your back-up. You didn't come after Huang's gang alone, did you? You aren't suicidal.”
“I was tempted to call, but then you'd have been arrested, and I would have been in really hot water with my boss. So, when I saw how that spotlight blinded everyone, I knew what I needed to do. I waited to hear as much as I could until it got too dangerous for you. I think I picked the right time.”
“The right time? Are you crazy?” He sputtered and thundered simultaneously, an achievement she hadn't imagined was possible. “It was so close I could feel the wings of heaven's angels around me.”
“You? Heaven? I don't think so!”
They reached a wall. Both leaned against it in relief, side-by-side, shoulders touching. “Well, whatever,” Richie said. “But we still have a problem. They might be waiting for us outside.”
“I know. Maybe I really do need to call for backup.”
Richie took out his cell phone, hit a number on speed dial and handed it to her. “Tell Shay where we're located. He'll clear the way for us.”
She explained everything to Shay, then gave him back the phone.
“Now we wait,” she said, thinking about Huang's men possibly lurking around nearby.
“We need to find a way to kill time,” he murmured, his voice sounding deep and definitely sexy in the darkness. “Want a suggestion?”
By the time Shay arrived, Johnny Huang and his gang had vanished. Richie figured Huang expected police back-up to arrive and wasn't about to take them on.
Shay soon left, saying only that he would do whatever it took to convince Huang that targeting Richie was a big mistake. After looking at his eyes as he spoke, Rebecca didn't want to know what he planned. She might have to arrest him.
She and Richie returned to Mulford Alley where Richie pried Vito from Kiki's loving hands and sent him home to his wife to mend his bruised face and tarnished ego.
As he and Rebecca entered her apartment, Spike ran up to greet them.
“Hey, boy!” Richie picked up the dog, then hugged and petted him. “I never thought this homely little mutt would look beautiful to me, but he does.”
“Speaking of which,” Rebecca handed him an ice pack, “put this on your face. You're uglier than ever with all the swelling that's going on.”
“Gee, thanks. I'm not sure, which is worse, Johnny Huang's fists or your mouth.” He sat on the rocking chair with Spike on his lap and the ice pack against his bruises.
Rebecca turned on the heater, then watched him a moment. “That must have been scary.”
His one uncovered eye peered up at her. “Scary? Freddy Kruger movies are scary. Zombies are scary. That was god-damned terrifying.”
“Bourbon?” she asked.
“Double. No, triple. Neat.”
She handed him the drink and poured one for herself as well. She had been in a shoot-out twice before, and one of those times she was hit. She understood the fear he talked about. In that pitch-black basement, she not only dealt with the dread of what each moment, each gun-shot, might bring, but she also relived the terror of those earlier incidents.
She put on the heater to warm the place up, fed Spike some presumably yummy canned dog food, and then sat on the sofa. Richie was still shivering, but not from the cold. They both drank down their bourbon a little too quickly. She poured them each another glass, this one to enjoy.
After a while she said, “We've been looking at this as participants rather than as cops. It's time to stop that.”
“Right now, I'd say we are participants. At least, I sure as hell am one.” Richie sipped the bourbon and tilted his head against the back of the rocking chair, still holding the ice pack. “What do you suggest?”
“Let's go back to where this all began, Meaghan Bishop's death. Were you set up or did you happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
“How can you ask that?” He faced her with dejection and disappointment. “Clearly I was set up. I was given a note to see Danny.”
“If there was one, it disappeared. So who took it? And when? No one came into the nightclub after the shooting as far as we know, or left it—other than the shooter you saw climb out the window. If someone took it, that person was still in the nightclub when I got there.”
“You're right! And I'm right that a note existed, which means someone
in the club
took it. And Danny, who's always there on Saturday night,” Richie pointed out, “wasn't.”
Rebecca thought about this. “We never did get an answer to the question, why wasn't he there? You and Carolina say Danny was always in his office on Saturday night. But that night, he wasn't. Why not? What did he know? There had to be a reason, but so far, we haven't come up with any. Also, Carolina indicated Danny was afraid of someone.”
“If he was blackmailing people, no wonder he was scared. But don't forget,” Richie said, “that he knew Meaghan Bishop. Also, when we talked to Carolina, she had already heard about Meaghan's death, and even that I'd been arrested. She's hardly one to watch the news on TV or, God forbid, read a newspaper. So who would have told her about it, if not Danny? And how did he know so much about it?”
“Okay, here's my theory,” Rebecca said. “What if Danny was there Saturday night? What if Meaghan went to his office to see him and he killed her? Danny was desperate for money—that's clear from Glickman. He was working with Meaghan on some kind of scheme, or schemes, to swindle money from people. What if it all went wrong and he had to kill her? Since no one heard the first shot—and, yes, I do believe that you found Meaghan dead—Danny must have used a silencer on the gun. Then, he picked up the shell, took off the silencer and had someone go out and hand you a note saying he wanted to see you. Danny then escaped out the window.”
“So, who did I fight with?”
“A second gunman?” she asked. “Or someone working with, or for, Danny. Whoever he was, he wore a ski mask and waited for you. He got you to fire a gun, pushed you aside, and climbed out the window. Without the silencer, people heard the second gunshot and found you in the room.”
Rebecca stopped, sure Richie would poke holes in her theory.
“No way. Too many people jumping out windows, for one thing,” he began. “For another, Danny couldn't do it. He had stubby little legs and a huge belly. He'd have needed a ladder to get out the window and he'd have been like a turtle on his back on the other side. The gunman, though, was big—some four or five inches taller than me, big and bulky. And strong. He could have done it easy.”
“Okay. Forget the first part, keep the second.”
“I think you're on the right track,” Richie said. “At least, you don't have me shooting anybody.”
They both sat quietly, sipping their second glasses—generous doubles—of bourbon, trying to put the pieces together.
“What I also don't get is why Meaghan wanted to meet me?” Richie said, breaking the silence. “I understand it was probably some kind of scheme, but I can't imagine what.”
“After you met her, who suggested going to Big Caesar's?” Rebecca asked.
“Well…it seemed to just come up.” He thought back on that day, not even a week earlier, when Meaghan was alive, vibrant and beautiful. “We talked. She said she was having fun, and assumed I was going to be busy that evening, and wasn't it a shame. I said I was going to Big Caesar's to see a friend. As I've told you, I often go there Saturday night, hang out at the bar, and place a couple bets. She sounded interested, said she'd never been there, so I asked if she'd like to go with me. We went to dinner first. That was it.”
“Do you often take women with you to Big Caesar's?”
He lowered the ice pack as he gave her a look that said he wondered what her question had to do with the murders. Still, he answered. “Not often. The dating game's gotten a bit old after all these years. But if someone interesting or fun comes along …” He shrugged.
Rebecca understood. She felt much the same herself. “So she would have known that talking to you would give her a good chance of getting into Big Caesar's. Would you like some fresh ice?”
“No to the ice, it's making my face numb. But yeah, she could have used me to get into Big Caesars. Or she could have gone alone or with a girlfriend.”
“But she went out of her way to meet you. The question is why.” Rebecca rubbed her temples. “And, then there's Glickman. Heaven only knows where he is. Given that Johnny Huang's boys didn't snatch him, and Teo Reyes' guys seem not to care, we can be all but certain Glickman faked his own death. And now, he's still running.”
“Good riddance! Half-ass little twerp.” Richie's mouth wrinkled in disgust. “As long as there's a McDonald's, he'll be fine.”
Rebecca nodded, still thinking. Then she said, “Someone clearly wanted to get rid of both you and Meaghan and came up with a plan to take care of two birds with one stone, so to speak. That's the only thing that makes sense. So, who or what is the link between you and Meaghan?”
“Nothing! I just met her!”
Rebecca put her head in her hands. “What are we missing?”
“I don't know, dammit!” Richie poured himself more bourbon.
At least, Rebecca thought, he wasn't scared or shivering any longer. Even somewhat beat up, he looked good. Once again, her gaze lingered on him a bit too long. She feared this was becoming a habit. She forced her thoughts back to where they should be. “Let's start with the first murder. What do we know about Meaghan Bishop? She was once young, perhaps a bit wild, and in love with Harrison Sidwell.”
“I still find that hard to believe,” Richie muttered, staring at his drink. “A woman like Meaghan with a wimp like Sidwell? Impossible.”
“He was clearly a bit tougher in his Sonny Blakely days, I've heard.” Rebecca stood and picked up the bourbon bottle in one hand, her glass in the other, ready to pour, but then she glanced over at Richie once more and abruptly stopped. It was already pretty late, and he would surely be spending the night in her apartment again. She had no idea what effect the bourbon was having on him, if any, but she knew her two glasses were already making her find him a little too tempting. No, a
lot
too tempting. And if she drank any more, she might decide the best way to handle temptation was to give in to it. But that would never do. Not with him, in any case.
She put her glass in the sink and the bourbon back in the cupboard. She noticed his eyes following her as she did it.
“Anyway,” she said, trying to get back to business as she returned to the sofa, “the two of them split up, and she worked at Macy's. But then, about eight months ago, she successfully blackmailed someone into giving her ten grand a month.”
“I sure know how to pick 'em,” Richie said woefully as his dark gaze met hers. She had never before noticed how long his eyelashes were, but she had often noted the strong, firm line of his mouth.
She studied her carpet until her breathing went back to normal. “Okay, so she probably had nothing to do with the mobsters Danny was going to rat out, and her fling with the City Supervisor came to nothing.” Rebecca faced him again. “By process of elimination, that leaves you, Richie, as her killer. You did it. Nobody's left.”
“Har, har.”
“Well, who else? Danny's dead, there's no reason to suspect Sidwell, and the owner of the nightclub isn't anywhere near,” Rebecca said.
“They're the same person,” Richie said, putting his glass down and resting his head once again on the back of the rocking chair.
“Who's the same? Same as what?”
“Sidwell.”
“What do you mean? He's the manager.”
“And he's the owner.”
Rebecca stared at him. “No. The owner is Brian Shoemaker. We checked on him. I even spoke to him. He's in Florida and leaves day-to-day operations to Sidwell. I don't think he has any idea what's going on.”
“He sure doesn't. The guy's senile.” Richie rocked back and forth. “He probably doesn't even remember that he sold the place to Sidwell last year.”
“Are you sure?”
“I ought to be. I'm the one who lent Sidwell the money to buy it.”
Rebecca couldn't believe he was just now telling her this. She jumped to her feet and stood in front of him. “You're part owner of the club?”
He stopped rocking, and sat up straight. “What? I lent him money, that's all. I don't want any nightclub! Two hundred large, at a great interest rate. Five years, a nice balloon payment at the end of the time. I'm a businessman, remember? The club's a money-maker. I checked it out before making the loan. Sidwell will pay it off. Maybe early. In fact, after the publicity in the paper, you'd think fewer people would go there. Instead, it's doing better than ever.”
She folded her arms. “You are kidding me, right?” She couldn't stop herself from seething. What was it about him that caused that reaction in her? “You didn't really withhold this from me all this time!”
Now he stood up as well. “Withhold what? I told you I lent him money.”
She wanted to explain that she had thought in terms of a hundred, maybe at most, a thousand dollars, not two hundred thousand! Fuming, she walked over to the kitchen table, then turned, her palms flat on the table top as she faced him. “Sidwell lied to us about his position in the club. Why would he do that unless it was for some important reason? Innocent men don't lie.”
“I'm sure it was a misunderstanding.” He slid his fingers through his hair. “I don't know … maybe his nerves got the better of him. Sidwell's a good guy, a go-getter, but he's high-strung as hell. I tell you, he made Big Caesar's what it is today. Okay, he knew Meaghan, but he explained that to you.”
Rebecca pondered this a moment. “Sidwell had control over the crime scene and could touch the evidence before the police arrived. Did you see him the entire time until the police got there?”
He didn't answer for a long moment. “No. No, I was hustled into his office by the bouncers. But you've got this wrong. It's hard to believe Harrison would harm anyone. He's a soft-spoken, cautious guy. Mousey. For cryin' out loud, the guy even felt bad when his bouncers caught me. He said he'd help me get the charges dropped.”
She thought a moment. “Meaghan's friend, Sheila Chavez, said Sidwell had a serious gambling problem.”
Richie frowned, then picked up his phone and called Shay. He asked Shay to see if Sidwell was on Danny's list of customers.
As they waited for Shay, Rebecca said to Richie, “You do realize, that the list Shay is looking at is dangerous for you guys to have. You almost got killed because Johnny Huang didn't like you having all that information on him. I want it back.”