Authors: Joanne Pence
The kinds of things people put on Facebook never ceased to amaze Rebecca. As a cop, she would never consider revealing about herself one tenth of the personal information people thoughtlessly posted about their lives.
Shay, she discovered, had a particular talent for digging through Facebook for data. He found a woman named Sheila Chavez who tagged a number of photos with the name of her good friend, Meaghan Bishop. Sheila Chavez also told the world she lived in Daly City. That made her easy to find.
Rebecca rang the doorbell to the small, cookie-cutter house. A dark-haired, dark-skinned woman opened the door. She was dressed in a grubby, oversized T-shirt and jeans with holes. “Sheila Chavez?” Rebecca asked as she showed her badge.
Chavez's dark eyes grew wide with worry. “Yes. What's wrong?”
“I understand you were friends with Meaghan Bishop.”
Chavez nodded.
“I'd like to talk to you about her.”
“Why? Is she in some kind of trouble?”
“Unfortunately, she's been killed. Murdered. We're trying to find out whatever we can about her life, to try to determine why anyone would want to kill her, and who that person might be.”
“Oh, my God! I had no idea.” Chavez put her hands to her face. “Poor Meaghan. I'm so sorry.”
“Can we talk inside?” Rebecca said before any platitudes began. She didn't want to hear how wonderful Meaghan had been.
“Oh, shoot. Everything's such a mess.”
Rebecca was always surprised by how quickly sorrow turned into embarrassment over not winning a Good Housekeeping of America award. It happened time and again in her investigations. “It doesn't matter. I need some information.”
Chavez opened the door wide. Rebecca stepped straight into a living room filled with toys, dirty dishes, and magazines. “I haven't seen Meaghan in a year or so,” Chavez said. “I have no idea who would want her dead.”
The contact was more recent than Rebecca had anticipated. “We don't want to rule anything out. You may know more than you realize.”
As Chavez turned off the TV, Rebecca pushed aside papers and toys on the sofa and sat down. “How many kids do you have?” she asked.
“Three. The two oldest are in school, and the youngest is taking a nap now. We've got to be pretty quiet so we don't wake him up.”
“Did Meaghan have any kids?” Rebecca asked softly.
“No, unless it just happened. When we were close, some years back, her old man didn't want any.” Chavez picked up a pack of cigarettes from the top of the TV, then went to a recliner and sat.
“What was his name?” Rebecca asked.
“She's not with him anymore. They broke up some time ago.” Chavez lit a cigarette. “Everybody called him Sonny Blakely. I'm not sure what his first name was.” She took a deep drag, then held out the pack. “Smoke?”
“No thanks,” Rebecca said. “Meaghan was using the name Blakely when she died. Were she and Sonny married?”
“I can't imagine. They split up over three years ago. I remember because it was right after my Javier was born. Meaghan came into the hospital to see me, but she should have been in the bed instead of me. They had a fight—a knock-down, drag out. She was pretty broken up. Emotionally, I mean. To me, she was lucky to be rid of him. He was a gambler—addicted to it, if you ask me—and a creep. One day on top of the world, the next dirt poor.”
“What became of Sonny Blakely?” Rebecca asked.
“I don't know. After they split, Meaghan moved out of the neighborhood. Since I had a new baby, plus my other two, I didn't see her hardly at all.”
“Was she working?”
“She worked downtown. Macy's. She got by okay.”
“You said you hadn't heard from her for a while. Did you two have a falling out?”
“No—it's life, that's all. We parted as friends.” Smoke hovered over the room as she puffed. “The last time I saw her, she was still plenty steamed at Sonny. She said he left her and straightened up. Oh, man, that pissed her off!”
“Was Sonny Blakely in San Francisco as well? Did she say what he was doing?”
Chavez flicked the cigarette ash, half in the ashtray, half on the floor, then shut her eyes a moment. “It's hard to remember. I don't think she said, only that he fell into a pig sty and came out smelling like a rose, or something like that.”
“Do you have any pictures of Sonny, by any chance?”
“Me? God, no! Why would I…oh, wait! There may be one on my old phone. I keep buying newer models of iPhones, but I think I left some photos on one of the older versions. Let me look at it. I'll have to plug it in to recharge.”
As they waited, Rebecca continued to ask questions, but learned nothing useful. Finally, Chavez picked up an older iPhone model and scrolled through the photos dating back over five years. Rebecca got to see a young, vibrant Meaghan Bishop in those photos. The woman was truly lovely, and Rebecca felt the tragedy of her untimely death even more.
“Here we go! I know Sonny was at this party,” Chavez said. “My daughter's baptism. We had all our friends come over, and Meaghan insisted Sonny join her. That was when she still hoped to turn him around, get him to want to get married, have kids, you know. Unfortunately, a leopard can't change his spots, as they say.”
She seemed lost in thought a moment, then continued, “Meaghan was a traditionalist at heart. A good kid.”
“Except that she had a record,” Rebecca said.
“So? Doesn't everyone? Or almost.” Chavez grimaced, then returned to searching. “Meaghan always had big dreams, and with her looks, she should have been able to get just about anything she wanted in life. But then she fell hard for Sonny, and that was it. I warned her; all her friends did. He wrecked everything for her, wrecked her life. I don't know why she was killed, but I do know I'd try to find out if Sonny was somehow involved.”
Rebecca nodded. She found it interesting how the process of searching for photos often caused people to remember many things that they either had forgotten, or hadn't really wanted to say, and all kinds of details often emerged.
“Ah! Here he is. Wait, let me see if the next photo or two…yes! Look. This is him.” She turned the phone towards Rebecca.
She could have fallen off the sofa, she was so stunned at what she saw. Staring into the camera, looking glum and sullen, his hair nearly to his shoulders, wearing a T-shirt, with a cigarette hanging from his mouth and holding a drink in his hand, was Harrison Sidwell—Big Caesar's manager.
Rebecca called Harrison Sidwell and asked him to meet her at Homicide. When he arrived, the tall, thin manager looked even more nervous than he had the night of the homicide. She led him into the interview room.
“Mr. Sidwell,” Rebecca said after turning on the tape recorder and making the opening statement, “why did you tell me that you didn't know Meaghan Bishop.”
He rubbed his mustache as if to give himself time to think. “I thought you said her name was Blakely.”
“I thought you said you didn't know her.”
He eyed her through his black-framed glasses without answering, then his shoulders sagged. “Okay, I did know her, but it was a long time ago. I hadn't seen her in years. I was afraid that if I told you, you'd come after me. I swear I didn't kill Meaghan. I was once in love with her. She walked out on me, though. Said I was no good—and she was right. I wasn't. Losing Meaghan was terrible for me. But it woke me up, got me to straighten myself out.”
“You changed your name,” Rebecca said.
“Actually, I didn't. Blakely was my step-father's name. I borrowed it when I was growing up. I was born with the name Sidwell. It's what's on my birth certificate. I just went back to it, and dropped Blakely. I never liked the guy anyway. He was a loser.”
“And the name Sonny?”
“Harri-
son.
Sonny. Get it? I'll tell you, unless your last name is Ford, Harrison isn't a name for a kid to live with. I went back to it when I started working at Big Caesar's as a waiter. Now, I run the place.”
“How did you manage that?”
He shrugged. “I discovered I have a head for business. I started helping with the accounting and payroll, and when the owner wanted to go down to Florida to live, he trusted me enough to leave me in charge. I now make more money than I ever dreamed possible.”
“Give me the owner's name and contact information before you leave today,” she said.
“Sure.”
She returned to her questions. “When did Meaghan discover you've done well for yourself?”
He shook his head. “I have no idea.”
“When did you first see her after your break-up?”
“Last Saturday night when she walked into the club on the arm of Richie Amalfi. He introduced us. I was shocked to hear the name Blakely. I guess she wanted to let me know she was doing well, too, the way she was all dolled up. She looked like a million bucks, I'll tell you. But using my old name … that was a shock. It told me she hadn't forgotten me.”
“So you two never married?” Rebecca asked.
“No.” His voice was flat, but it seemed to Rebecca that he was trying to hide a surfeit of emotion,
“Did she go to the back offices that night to see you, Mr. Sidwell?” Rebecca asked. “It seems you two would have had a lot to talk about.”
He rubbed his temple. “I wish she had. I had been watching her, looking for a chance to talk to her if Richie left her alone. But he didn't.”
“But eventually,” Rebecca pointed out, “she did leave the ballroom. Did you follow her?”
“No. I was busy with some customers.”
“Too busy to talk to the woman you had once been in love with?”
“You've got to understand, Meaghan was … different. She was trouble with a capital T. I had to think about getting mixed up with her again, frankly. Finally, I decided to go out to the hallway and wait for her to come out of the ladies' room. At least, I assumed that's where she went. But then, Richie got up and walked out of there, too. It made me wonder just what was going on.” He paused as if reliving the scene. “I had just left the ballroom when I heard a shot. I saw the bouncers run down the hall and I went after them. The door to Danny's office was open…and I saw Meaghan lying on the floor.
“That's all I remember. I kind of fell apart after that, I guess, because everything else is a blur. I remember the bouncers telling me they had grabbed the shooter. I told them to hold him in my office until the police got there.” He bowed his head.
“Why didn't you tell me this before?” she asked.
“I was shocked, confused. Sad. I was afraid if you learned about the kind of guy I was in the past when I knew Meaghan, you might think I could have done it. But I didn't! I would never harm a hair on her head. A part of me still loved her, even after all this time…” His voice gave out and he turned his head away, taking deep breaths.
“Mr. Sidwell,” Rebecca said calmly, trying to give him time to compose himself. “You said Mr. Amalfi left the ballroom soon after Meaghan. Did you see a waiter, or anyone, hand him a note before he left?”
Sidwell thought a moment. “No, not that I noticed. I think he simply got up and followed her out of the room.”
“Why do you think Ms. Bishop went into Danny Pasternak's office?” Rebecca asked.
He shook his head. “I know of no reason for her to do that. I don't think she knew Danny, and besides, he wasn't there that night. I think Amalfi made her go in there. They were probably arguing or something, and he killed her.”
“For what reason?”
“You'll have to ask him. He's a madman. In the time I've known him, he's done all kinds of crazy things. I wouldn't put anything past him.”
She didn't like hearing that, especially since it went along with the kind of reputation he had, although she had to admit the reputation was at odds with the man she knew. Could she be so wrong about him? She continued with her questions. “I've been told Danny Pasternak was a bookie, and that he was usually at Big Caesar's on Saturday night, but that Saturday, he wasn't there. Do you have any idea why not?”
“You've heard wrong. He was my bookkeeper. That's all. It's true he liked to hang out at the club with friends, to drink and talk. I don't think he had a happy home life at all. But I have no idea why he did or didn't show up on any Saturday night, let alone last weekend.”
o0o
Troubled by all she had learned, Rebecca returned to her apartment. The sofa where Richie had been sleeping was empty. That was good, she told herself. She was used to being alone. Besides, something about him made her nervous. Maybe because she simply wasn't used to having a man around any more. It had been a while since she'd dated seriously. An even longer while since she'd been in love. Or even, sort of in love. She sighed. No sense dredging up that old history!
Still, she wondered where he had gone off to. She headed for the bedroom to change into something more comfortable, and froze in the doorway.
He was lying on the bed, on his side, under the covers. She stepped closer. He looked peaceful, warm … inviting. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and something in them darkened. She felt her mouth go dry.
“I don't believe you,” she said finally.
“So I've been told,” he rolled onto his back, and rubbed his eyes. The covers slipped down and she saw with relief that he wore an undershirt. He groggily sat up.
“You're in my bed!”
“Don't worry about it. I'm on my side.”
“Your what?!”
Did his audacity know no bounds at all? Although, she had to admit, she had just thought the same thing.
He frowned.
“That sofa's narrow, so after you got up so early, I saw no reason for a perfectly good mattress to go to waste!”
She threw up her hands. “So you spent the whole day in bed?”
“What, are you my mother now?” He ran his fingers through his hair trying but failing to tame the unruly mass. “If you must know, I couldn't sleep last night. I couldn't sleep until after you left.”
“I give up!” she muttered.
“Good! Now will you leave so I can shower, shave and get dressed? Unless you want to watch ...”
She turned on her heel and slammed the bedroom door shut.
Hearing him chuckle only increased her irritation.
“I know a place where we can get some useful information,” he called. “Want to come with me?”
She still fumed, even though she wasn't exactly sure what had made her so angry, but finally she said, “Fine!”
She only hoped that when Vito did the grocery shopping the day before, he had also bought Richie his own toothbrush. And a razor.
o0o
The inside of The Leaning Tower Taverna on the corner of Columbus and Vallejo was so dark Rebecca felt blinded. Richie directed her past the bar to a small dining area. “You aren't seeing us here,” he called to the bartender.
“I never see nuttin',” the big man called, his voice gruff.
She slid into a booth in the back corner, and Richie climbed in next to her, a bit too close for her comfort.
“I don't see you either, baby,” a waitress said to Richie. She had appeared almost immediately, gave Rebecca a quick once over and then ignored her. Rebecca was finding that reaction from Richie's female admirers irksome.
“So, what'll you have?” the waitress continued, openly ogling Richie. “You hungry, babe?”
“Carbonara,” he said, then turned to Rebecca and casually draped his arm over her shoulders. “You should try it. Best in town.”
She stiffened, but then tried to relax, realizing he was putting on a show for the waitress. “Fine,” she agreed with a nod.
“And salads, Italian dressing. Antipasto, and bring some bruschetta,” Richie said to the waitress as his hand now caressed Rebecca's upper arm. “In fact, keep it coming until we say stop. I'll have a beer, too. Anchor Steam. Dollface?”
It took Rebecca a minute to realize he was talking to her. Another to stop thinking about the warmth of his hand on her arm and then to realize it wouldn't have been smart for him to call her by her name since word may have gotten out that the SFPD's only female death cop was investigating the murder at Big Caesar's. “Coors,” she said through gritted teeth. “Lite.”
Rebecca had never seen anyone get such fast service, and soon Richie drank, she sipped, and both ate. Every few minutes her cell phone vibrated. It was Sutter. She didn't call him back.
Richie told her as much as he knew about Danny Pasternak and she told him what Shay had helped her learn about Meaghan Bishop and Harrison Sidwell.
“I can't believe it,” Richie said. “He did look at her kind of strangely, now that I think about it. But he never let on he knew her.”
“I wonder why not?” Rebecca asked.
Richie shrugged. “It would have been awkward. I mean, he and I are friends. I even lent him money. Then, for him say to me, 'Oh, that broad you're with, she used to be my old lady.' I don't think so.”
Just then, Shay slid into the booth across from them. He said nothing, but cast a sullen frown in Rebecca's direction. He wore a soft heather-colored plaid jacket with a green silk ascot. If Rebecca didn't know better, she'd think he was on his way to some exclusive afternoon tea.
“What've you got?” Richie asked, twirling the hot pasta onto his fork and then filling his mouth with it.
“I looked for a computer or papers at Carolina's with no luck, but she had Danny's cell phone and home phone number, and that opened up a world of information. The most interesting were calls with a reporter for the
Chronicle
, Sherman Glickman. The guy covers sports. He used to be the beat reporter for the Giants, but developed some sort of phobia about flying so now he only handles home games. Looks like the
Chron
wants to get rid of him, but because he claims fear of flying is a disability, they can't fire him.”
Richie looked skeptical. “You think he's the ghostwriter?”
Vito joined them and sat down next to Shay. Again today he incongruously wore a big gold pinky ring that look like it weighed a couple of ounces, and an old, bulky brown car coat that Goodwill might have rejected. “Writing ghosts?” Vito's eyes bounced from Richie to Shay. “What you guys talking about? How many glasses you had already? Or is this some kinda séance? Where's the Ouija board?”
They filled him in on everything that was going on. “Hey, you know what's weird about that?” Vito asked, then answered his own question. “Danny used to say Richie was the only guy he knew who had enough brains and knew enough good stories to write a book. You know that, Richie?”
“He did?” Richie appeared strangely pleased, even touched, by the news. “He never told me.”
“Yeah. He liked to repeat your stories all the time,” Vito said with a nod, then gave a sad smile. Rebecca watched both men's eyes grow a bit misty.
“Most the time,” Vito said with a sniffle, “when he'd tell me one of your stories, he didn't even get it that I was one of the main guys there in 'em! Hell, I coulda told him the story better'un he told me. Poor bastard. Do you think he killed the woman, and the wrong person found out and got even?” Vito shook his head. “Like Dante said, there ain't no greater sorrow than to remember a time of happiness when you're miserable.”
Rebecca nearly choked on her carbonara. She swallowed fast. “Dante?” she said, reaching for some water. “Like, Dante's
Inferno
Dante?”
“Don't ask,” Richie advised.
“My Ma told me if I only read one book in my life, make it Dante,” Vito replied. “So I did. He was one smart
goomba
.”