Four O'Clock Sizzle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 4) (7 page)

She and Sutter had been doing extensive research on the backgrounds of the two men, looking for any kind of connection, any former trouble with the law, talking to people who knew them, searching for anything at all that could lead to someone wanting to brutally kill Tanaka and potentially to have kidnapped Bosque—or worse.

But so far, nothing had turned up.

She was again puzzling over Tanaka and Bosque’s phone records when the autopsy, if you could call it that, on Tanaka’s head hit her desk. She was stunned to find it showed a considerable amount of cocaine and alcohol in the bloodstream at the time of death. So much, in fact, that Tanaka was likely passed out or close to it when he was killed.

The report also showed that whatever caused death had only happened to the torso, very likely a gunshot or stabbing. Given Tanaka’s state, it could have been inflicted by either a man or—and here she thought of Tanaka’s odd love life—a woman.

Rebecca was pondering that when a call came in from Officer Lottie Hernandez in the city’s Central Station.

CHAPTER EIGHT

If Rebecca were still a patrol officer, she’d want to work at Central Station. It had nothing to do with the physical space, which looked like Hollywood’s version of an old, grubby precinct with a high front desk to meet the public, and a cluttered open room for the officers with mismatched, ancient desks. To make matters worse, it was at street level below a multi-storied parking garage. But as in real estate, it was all about the location. Central Station was on Vallejo Street between Grant and Stockton, an area where Chinatown blended with North Beach. Of the city’s nine police stations, Central patrolled seven of the top ten San Francisco tourist attractions, including Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower, Union Square, Nob Hill, and Russian Hill, as well as the city’s major hotels.

Rebecca once went up to the top level of the parking structure. The view of the city skyline with the bay, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Coit Tower, was breath-taking.

She always had a spring in her step as she entered Central. As the desk clerk directed her to Lottie Hernandez’s desk, she saw the officer smiling broadly while speaking to a man whose back was to Rebecca.

Hernandez spotted her and waved her forward. The man turned and stood. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Seagram’s advertisement. He had seemed handsome enough in the magazine article, but it was nothing compared to the raw sexuality he exuded in real life. The thought crossed her mind that
this
was the kind of power and attraction that the tabloid had described.

“Mr. Brannigan, Inspector Mayfield,” Rebecca said, shaking his hand as she reached the desk.

“Call me Moss.” His blue eyes twinkled outrageously.

She smiled and then greeted Officer Hernandez and thanked her for calling. Hernandez showed the two of them to an interview room, and then she joined them. Looking at Brannigan—Moss—Rebecca didn’t blame her. Talk about eye candy.

“I understand something happened that has worried you,” Rebecca said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me all about it.”

“I know Lottie, I mean Officer Hernandez, has already heard all this …” He flashed “Lottie” a megawatt smile. Rebecca couldn’t help but stare. The man actually had deep dimples. She usually didn’t care for dimples on a man, but on him they looked seriously sexy.

“No problem,” Lottie said, beaming back at him. She was clearly not going anywhere. “You tell the Inspector all about it.”

His piercing blue eyes met Rebecca’s. “I probably wouldn’t have thought too much about it if it weren’t for the arson attacks and that terrible beheading. What a horror story! I can’t even listen to the news anymore.”

“Were you close to the men involved?” she asked.

“Not really. I met Pierre Fontaine through business connections. We put together a package deal for tourists. But I only met the others once.”

“When was that?”

“Pierre asked me if I’d take part in a magazine article about bachelors who made it big in the city. Sounded like some great free publicity, so I said yes. Well, then, instead of what I was expecting, I learned
San Francisco Beat
was going to publish a hit piece on us. One of the guys involved, Richie Amalfi, got us together at Tanaka’s restaurant to discuss it. We thought about suing—defamation, slander, libel, whatever. Lots of threats and terms were tossed around, but the more we talked, the more we realized the piece probably wouldn’t hurt us for long. All of our businesses thrive on publicity. And you know what they say about publicity—it’s all good. Well, not good if people get food poisoning at a restaurant, or drown on my tour boat, or get bed bugs in Fontaine’s hotel. You know what I mean. But this—that a bunch of single guys are rich and interesting, and women (or in Travis’s case, men) like to hang out around us—what’s the problem? Finally, we decided to let the article get printed. If, as a result, our businesses suffered, then we’d revisit suing the tabloid. And we’d have proof that financial harm was done.”

“In the course of the meeting,” Rebecca asked, “did you get any sense of danger? That any of them were worried about their personal safety if the article was printed?”

“Not at all,” Moss said. “That’s why it came as such a shock to hear about the arsons and Shig’s murder.”

“Tell me, did the writer interview you?”

“He tried, but I wasn’t about to talk to anyone from that rag.”

“Did you ever see him?”

“No. He called. I never returned the calls.”

“Okay.” Rebecca drew in her breath. “Tell me what happened to you. Why are you afraid you’re in danger?”

“I’ve got my tour boat but I also own a cabin cruiser. I use it for my own pleasure, up and down the coast mainly, although I have sailed all the way to Panama a couple of times. Fortunately, I’ve learned with my tour boat not to rely on any instruments but to always have back-up data. I headed out early this morning and planned to spend a couple of days cruising up around Mendocino when I saw a discrepancy in the fuel level. The shipboard instrument said the tank was full, which is where it was supposed to be. But my back-up gauge—the one that was supposed to be simply redundant, showed the tank down to only a quarter full. That made no sense, so I turned the cruiser around. It was all but empty by the time I docked. Once docked, I checked it over. I haven’t found anything yet, but I know the fuel line and gas gauge were tampered with. That’s the only explanation. I wanted to get to the police and report this before anything else happened. I also want to make sure if anything happens to me, it’s not thought of as an accident. There’s clearly some sort of maniac out there going after those of us in the magazine article. And I don’t like it one bit!”

“I understand your worry,” she said, her voice soothing. “I would suggest you double your private security efforts. I can ask that some patrol officers drive by your home as often as possible—and that’ll help as long as you’re home.”

“What about police protection wherever I go?”

“Unfortunately, most police work is finding out who committed a crime, and not to prevent a personal attack.”

“Bull shit! I see police protecting people all the time.”

“At public events and for public officials, not one-on-one for private citizens. But I’ll see what I can do. I’m only suggesting—”

“You’re suggesting you sit around and twiddle your thumbs until I’m dead like Tanaka, or have my tour boat torched like Bosque and Amalfi’s businesses were.” He rose to his feet. “Thanks for telling me I just wasted my afternoon here, Officer.”

“Wait.” She stood and handed him her card. “You’ve been very helpful. I need you to tell me exactly what you find when you check your cruiser. I can send a crime scene team to the boat to look for any clues as to who might have done the tampering.”

“Fat lot of good that’ll do. Thanks for nothing.”

He stormed from the station, leaving Lottie looking after him in bewilderment, and Rebecca steamed. Another egotistical “enticing bachelor” had just walked out on her.

And, adding insult to injury, Logan Travis and Pierre Fontaine still hadn’t bothered to respond to her insistent calls.

CHAPTER NINE

Rebecca woke up to the insistent ringing of her doorbell. It was already nine o’clock, and the sun was streaming through the window. She sat up, unable to believe how she had slept so late, but working a murder case with only a head was quite labor intensive, especially when she’d stayed at it until after one in the morning.

The doorbell chimed again. She put on a bathrobe and slippers and went out to the breezeway to see who was bothering her. She pulled open the door and stared in shock. It was her Los Angeles-living, show business-aspiring, impossible-to-understand younger sister. “Courtney! What in the world are you doing here?”

Rebecca’s younger sister was thirty years old, divorced, with no kids. She was beautiful—most of her good looks came naturally, but she had learned every trick in Hollywood’s book to enhance what she was given. She didn’t have an ounce of fat on her, and not much in the way of muscle either. Her bust line was as fake as her long, dark eyelashes, and the extensions in her dyed auburn hair.

She wasn’t a mere Hollywood wannabe, but had acted in a variety of parts over the past eight years. She hadn’t yet, however, “hit it big.” Her role that had the largest audience hadn’t shown off her beauty at all. She’d been a zombie on TV’s
The Walking Dead.

“I was pretty sure you must be home when I saw that behemoth SUV of yours out in the alley.” Courtney wheeled a carry-on bag into the breezeway toward Rebecca’s apartment. “I tell you, the flight was okay, but the coffee was weak and all they gave us to eat was a tiny bag of pretzels. I’m starved and I’m getting a caffeine headache.”

As they entered the apartment, Spike looked at Courtney and began non-stop barking and hopping from side to side.

“What in the world is
that?
” Courtney asked, pointing at the dog.

“That’s Spike. Come on Spike, calm down. She’s what’s known as a sister.”

But Spike wouldn’t calm down until Rebecca picked him up. He had had a rough life before Rebecca found him at a crime scene where his owner had been killed, and he remained quite suspicious of strangers. “He doesn’t know you, that’s all.”

“That’s the ugliest dog I’ve ever seen in my life!”

“He is not!” Rebecca kissed his head.

“In what world? He’s missing his freaking hair! And, what’s with those awful pink spots? Are you sure it’s even a dog?”

Courtney put her bag on the sofa and unzipped it.

“You’re staying here?” Rebecca asked as she put Spike out in the yard—more for his sake than for Courtney’s—and then filled the coffee maker with water. “This place is tiny for just me
and Spike
. What’s going on?”

“I’ve stayed before with no problem.” She took out a couple of blouses and a skirt on hangars. She shook them. “I’ll hang them in the bathroom so steam from the shower will take out the wrinkles.”

She no sooner stepped back into the kitchen area than Rebecca handed her a cup of coffee and proceeded to make a cup for herself.

“Already? Ah, you’ve got one of those fancy one-cup-at-a-time coffee thingies.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked over the rest of the apartment. “Oh, my God! Look at that TV set. It’s also new. And it's plasma. And huge.” Her head bobbed back and forth from the TV to the coffee maker. “Are you on the take?”

“Courtney! I can afford nice things now and then.”

“After paying rent in San Francisco? Who do you think you’re talking to?”

When Rebecca’s coffee was ready, she sat at the small dinette table across from Courtney. “So, why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here.”

Courtney put both hands on her coffee cup and waited a long moment before answering. “I’m hoping a story here will help me. A lot.”

“A story? What do you mean?”

“I’m hoping to get a good news article on my own.”

That made no sense to Rebecca. “Why are you doing news? You’re an actress. Aren’t you still with
Desperate World
?”

Courtney’s eyes teared up. “No. My character killed herself last week. I’ve been trying to find something else, but everybody in Hollywood seems to want women who are in their early twenties, or even younger. It’s disgusting. Thirty isn’t old, but there aren’t as many soaps as there used to be. I’m in the running for a couple of shows, but they need to wait a while. It’s like, they don’t want the public to say ‘
What’s Delilah Morgan doing on this show?’
I mean, Delilah was quite popular, you know. A lot of people told me they watched
Desperate World
because of me. There was even some hate mail when I killed myself.”

“I’m sure.” Rebecca tried to sound sympathetic.

“Anyway,” Courtney said as she blinked away her tears, “there’s going to be an opening coming up on
The Real Story.
It’s a show that’s dedicated to digging deep into news stories that have captured the public’s imagination.”

“I believe ‘lurid’ may be the term you’re looking for,” Rebecca said.

Courtney frowned. “You could say that. Anyway, the current lead has a drinking problem. They’ve kept it from the public, but she’s going to be leaving ‘to spend more time with her family’ as they say.” Courtney leaned forward and her forefinger pounded the table top. “I. Want. That. Job. And the best way I know to get it is to bring them the inside scoop on the murder case you’re working on. Have you found the rest of the body yet?”

Rebecca just stared at her. “You do
not
mean that you want to dig into my case.”

“I do,” Courtney admitted. “I understand there’s arsons, a death in one of those fires, a murder with no body, a missing bachelor, and they’re all part of a juicy tabloid story. I want to call it ‘
The Bachelor
Meets
Survivor
.’”

“Great,” Rebecca muttered.

“Little Miss Courtney Mays is just sure that this story will lead to her being named as a host on
The
Real Story.
And you need to help her.”

Rebecca hated it when her sister referred to herself in the third person almost as much as she hated the way Courtney had shortened their last name for “show biz” reasons. “I can’t help you because I don’t know who did it yet. I think you’ve wasted your time coming here. If you want, I’ll let you know when I figure out who did it. Maybe then, you’ll have a story.”

“I’d like to meet the four bachelors you’re able to find.”

Rebecca blanched. “You aren’t going to meet them through me!”

“Why not? You know me, I can usually get men to tell me all kinds of things. You know I can get hold of press credentials and use them to meet the surviving bachelors, but it’d be much easier if you’d simply introduce me as your sister, the Hollywood TV star. I’ll take it from there. I mean, nobody tells the police anything, do they? I’m sure I’ll find out stuff you could only dream of learning.”

Rebecca didn’t doubt that. “No.”

“Damn it, Rebecca! You have all the luck. Can’t you share a little of it with me?”

“I have luck? Are you kidding me?” Rebecca had never considered herself as being “lucky.” Quite the opposite, in fact.

“This is a great story,” Courtney insisted breathlessly. “It’ll make your career, Rebecca. You might be Chief of Police some day. People care about it. If you catch the killer, you’ll have saved all these great, handsome, eligible men. Too bad one was killed, and maybe two since we don’t know why one of them is missing, but you can’t have everything. And without their deaths, there’d be no case.”

Rebecca looked at Courtney as if she were crazy, which she pretty much was. She was completely Hollywood in thought, word, and deed—in other words, self-centered and willing to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

Rebecca’s phone buzzed. It was Sutter, telling her Pierre Fontaine was back in town. He had tried to talk to the guy, but Fontaine said he knew nothing and didn’t want the police or anyone else bothering him. Sutter wanted to know if she wanted to give the arrogant French S.O.B. a try.

“I’ll take it. He’s at the hotel?” Rebecca asked as she looked at her sister. At the moment, interviewing Lucifer himself would be preferable to staying home arguing with Courtney.

She ended the call. “I’ve got to go out. You’re wasting your time here. Enjoy the city. We can meet for dinner and catch up, but after that, I suggest you take the next plane home. When I solve this case, I’ll be sure to let you know.”

Courtney folded her arms and stared at her hard.

Rebecca was familiar with that look. It meant war.

o0o

La Colombe d’Or was a small, boutique hotel known only to people who could afford its outrageous rates. Its name was scarcely visible on a small brass plaque near the door. Despite all that, the elegant, flower-filled lobby, furnished to look like something from 1890s San Francisco, was buzzing with people.

Rebecca walked past the line of those waiting to check in. Approaching the harried desk clerk, she asked to speak to Pierre Fontaine. She slid her badge to the clerk rather than flashing it—she didn’t want anyone to notice. The clerk nodded in gratitude at her discretion and rushed off.

In less than five minutes Pierre Fontaine emerged from the back room. His hazel eyes scanned the crowd and then fixed on her. One look and Rebecca could see why he was included in the magazine article. Like Moss Brannigan and, she had to admit, Richie, Fontaine’s photos didn’t do him justice. Nor was he hurt by the way he smiled at her—a mixture of both friendliness and something more: the look of a man appreciating the woman in front of him. To his credit, it didn’t come across as a leer at all, but his gaze made Rebecca feel flattered, and despite herself, she stood a little straighter. If Fontaine could bottle that ability, he’d be a billionaire.

And considering the number of people in his lobby, he might be on the road already.

“I’m Pierre,” he said as he approached. And of course, he had a stomach curling sexy French accent to go along with the name, as well as dark brown wavy hair, captivating eyes, and an olive complexion. He wore a suit, but instead of stiff and businesslike, it looked soft, casual and shrieked “expensive.”

“Inspector Rebecca Mayfield.” She showed her badge.

He lifted his eyebrows as if impressed. “
Enchanté,
Inspector Mayfield. I received your calls, but your friend, Mr. Amalfi, told me how busy you are, and since I had nothing to add, I didn’t want to waste your time. I thought I’d made it clear to your partner, as well. But,
ce n'est pas important
.
You’re here now. Let’s go into my office.”

“Fine.” Rebecca spoke through clenched teeth at the thought of Richie’s interference.

But then Fontaine’s gaze shifted to somewhere over her right shoulder, and a bright, appreciative smile spread across his face. Rebecca turned to see what the attraction was. Her heart sank. She should have known.

“Look who’s here!” Courtney said as she strolled towards them.

“Why are you here?” Rebecca asked.

“I’m looking for a room, of course,” Courtney said before she turned her full attention on Fontaine with a dazzling smile.

His eyebrows were somewhere up near his hairline as he glanced at Rebecca. “So you know this lovely creature?”

“My sister, Courtney Mays.” By way of warning, Rebecca quickly added, “She’s with the press.”

Courtney smiled brightly as she reached out her hand. “The LA press. I’m with a TV network.”

Fontaine gave an appreciative murmur as the two shook hands. “We were just going to my office to discuss this
situation très terrible.
Won’t you join us?”

Rebecca caught Courtney’s gaze, letting her eyes narrow as she gave a small shake of the head.

Courtney faced Pierre. “I’d love to.” She all but cooed the words.

Rebecca clenched her teeth so tight it caused a shooting pain in her jaw.

They no sooner entered Fontaine’s office than a woman entered with a silver tray holding a coffee service and a platter of cream puffs and éclairs. Since Courtney had eaten only toast, and Rebecca nothing, the two couldn’t turn down the pastries. Rebecca didn’t know if it was because she was hungry or what, but she thought the éclair she was now eating was the most delicious she’d ever had. Courtney said so out loud.

“Thank you, ladies,” Fontaine said. “My chef makes them fresh each morning for our guests.
Maintenant,
Inspector, what do you wish to know from me?”

Rebecca talked briefly about the murder, arsons, Bosque’s disappearance, and Moss Brannigan’s allegation of someone tampering with the fuel line on his cruiser. She admitted that she had not yet found any link between the incidents beyond the magazine article.

“That magazine article!” Fontaine exclaimed. “
Mon Dieu!
I thought it would cause trouble, but I never dreamed anyone would die because of it.”

His words were almost exactly the same as Richie’s. Rebecca wondered exactly how much the two had talked about all this.