Seven O'Clock Target (An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery) Page 2

  He’d bought them for Rebecca, knowing she loved fresh flowers. Not only had they not helped to convince her to move in with him, they hadn’t even convinced her to stay with him last night!

  As he pushed buttons on his automatic espresso machine, he thought about Rebecca. He should have known flowers wouldn’t make a difference. She wasn’t like any woman he’d ever dated.

  None of them had been dedicated cops who’d gotten on the wrong side of “the elite” in the city. Rebecca had overturned some big rocks in City Hall, and what she found wasn’t pretty.

  And the people who’d been hiding under those rocks didn’t like being exposed. Richie, frankly, didn’t care at all about big city government corruption. As far as he was concerned, it was a fact of life—as common as birds and bees. Or more fitting, vultures and hornets.

  But now, the bastards were interfering with his happiness.

  It was time to act.

  3

  Rebecca saw black-and-white police cars and paramedic vans filling the street as she approached a small house in the city’s Bayview-Hunters Point district.

  It was one of the few areas in San Francisco where gentrification and resulting high prices hadn’t yet hit. Driving to the crime scene, she had passed an abandoned housing project, several decrepit factories, and some oddities such as a defunct mortuary.

  Neglect was the word for what had happened here. Neglect of buildings and the people who lived in them.

  She parked as close as she could get to the crime scene. Around her, police radios crackled and a few older people stood just beyond them to watch the action.

  The house itself needed paint, and a short chain-link fence enclosed a front yard with dead, matted grass where a lawn ought to have been. Not even weeds grew here, Rebecca thought, as she put on a crime-scene protecting jumpsuit and booties.

  “I’m Officer Cortez.” The young policeman who had been the first to arrive on the scene met her and introduced himself.

  “What have we got?” she asked.

  “The victim’s name is Daryl Hawley. He rents this house. He and his wife recently separated. She showed up this morning to pick up their kids and found the body.”

  Rebecca nodded her thanks and followed Cortez into the house. The small living room had a sofa, a chair, and a TV. A stout woman huddled on the sofa. She held several pieces of Kleenex to her nose and mouth. Her full cheeks were tear-stained, her bushy blond hair so dry it seemed it would snap off if brushed too vigorously. She wore a dark green dress and black leggings.

  “That’s the victim’s wife,” Cortez said. “Tracy Hawley.”

  Rebecca wondered where the kids were now, and guessed someone, a relative or police officer, might be keeping them away from the crime scene.

  She continued through the living room to the small kitchen. To one side of the room was a table covered with used bowls and plates, and on the other, beneath a window, a pile of dirty pots and dishes all but buried the sink. And in the center, Dr. Evelyn Ramirez, the city’s medical examiner, bent over a man’s body. He lay sprawled face down on the floor. A sea of blood surrounded him from a bullet wound to the back of the head.

  Dr. Ramirez glanced over her shoulder at Rebecca, then stood upright and stretched her lower back. “I’m getting too old for this job. Particularly this early on a Monday morning.”

  Sure, Rebecca thought. Even early in the morning, the ME appeared meticulously put together, flawlessly made-up, and her hair perfectly styled. “That’s not age,” she said with a wry smile. “It’s your wild weekends.”

  Evelyn snorted. “Not this weekend, believe me.”

  The two had become friends over the years, and despite Rebecca’s curiosity, this wasn’t the time or place to pursue this conversation. Instead, she swerved to the situation at hand. “Does that gaping hole in the back of the victim’s head tell me what I need to know?”

  “Cause of death. Right.” Evelyn pulled off her rubber gloves. “Of course, I’ll autopsy him to see if there are any surprises. I will say, judging from the powder burns, the gun was held at a very close range.”

  “Time of death?” Rebecca asked.

  “It’s been a while. I’d say last evening, probably seven o’clock give or take thirty, forty minutes on each side.”

  Rebecca nodded, then faced Cortez. “You mentioned kids earlier. Where are they now?”

  “Good question,” Cortez replied. “They have two kids, boy and girl. The husband had them this weekend, but when the wife showed up to take them to school, she found him dead. She doesn’t know where the kids are.”

  That sounded bad. A quick glance at Cortez told her he was thinking the same thing.

  “What’s being done about finding them?” she asked.

  “Patrol is out canvassing the area, and officers are checking with the neighbors.”

  But if the father was killed last evening, Rebecca thought, where have the kids been all this time? Her skin prickled at the thought.

  Just then her partner, Bill Sutter, arrived. He was usually the last to show up at a crime scene. Sometimes Rebecca wondered why she put up with him and didn’t go to her boss and demand a new partner—one who worked with her as a team, not someone only half-interested in their casework because he was too busy thinking about retiring from the force.

  She filled Sutter in as they went through the Hawley home working their way around the technicians dusting for fingerprints.

  They saw no immediate evidence of a break-in. In fact, the location of the wound, the way the gun had been held near the victim, even the way the victim fell, were typical of a contract execution.

  Rebecca found a phone buried under the newspaper on the kitchen table and bagged it as evidence. From his wallet and papers she learned he had a steady albeit low-paying job as a driver for RX Wholesale.

  In the bedroom was an old laptop. A quick search of the area around the laptop turned up a small spiral notebook with passwords. “Thank you, Daryl Hawley,” Rebecca whispered. She arranged for them to be delivered to her desk in Homicide.

  Finally, it was time to talk to the ex-wife.

  The woman stiffened, squeezing the wad of Kleenex she’d been holding as Rebecca and Sutter approached. Then she dropped it on the coffee table and rubbed her hands against the skirt of her dress. Her eyebrows were thinly penciled and her eyelids so puffy from crying that her eyes were practically hidden. Fear filled her face as she stood. “Where are my kids?” she demanded, her voice high and trembling.

  “Police officers are out looking for them,” Rebecca said calmly. “They’re talking to your neighbors. Can you think of anywhere they might have gone?”

  “No. Their friends don’t live around here.” She all but spat out the words and seemed more angry than anything. It was obvious to Rebecca that her tears were about her kids and not her dead husband. “They don’t know anyone here except Daryl.”

  “Is their school nearby?”

  “No. Even when we lived here, I took them to a private school in the Sunset district. We now live close to the school.”

  Her words surprised Rebecca. This hardly looked like the home of a couple who could afford a private school. “Might the children have called someone to pick them up?” Rebecca asked. The Sunset district was on the other side of the city.

  Tracy Hawley’s hands clenched as she all but shouted, “They don’t have phones. They’re just little kids.” But then her face crumpled and her tears fell again. “My God!”

  “I’m sure they’re all right. They’re probably scared and hiding,” Sutter said, his voice surprisingly soft and comforting. “We’ll find them for you.”

  “I hope,” she whispered and grabbed the Kleenex again to wipe her eyes.

  Rebecca gave her a moment, then asked, “What’s your full name?”

  “Tracy Jane Hawley.” She threw in her address and date of birth, making Rebecca wonder if she’d had previous encounters with the police.

  “Am I correct that
you and Daryl Hawley are separated?” Rebecca asked.

  “I moved out two weeks ago. I was thinking about filing for a divorce.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  “It’s not important now,” she whispered.

  Rebecca knew the answer to that question could be quite important, but she let it rest a moment. “What brought you here today?” she asked.

  Tracy’s voice turned flat. “I came to pick up the kids and take them to school. I can’t depend on Daryl doing it.” She squeezed her eyes shut and turned her head as if trying to dispel the vision.

  “Was the front door locked when you got here?” Rebecca asked.

  She thought a moment, and then her shoulders sagged. “No, I guess it wasn’t. I rang the bell. I wasn’t expecting Daryl to answer, but I thought my kids would. When they didn’t, I tried the door. It opened.” Her breath caught. “Unless the kids were playing outside, we kept the door locked. Often with a dead bolt.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “I came inside and found Daryl.” She sounded defeated.

  “Did you touch anything?”

  “No. I was sure he was dead by the way his eyes stared, cold and blank. I called nine-one-one, then ran outside to look for Molly and Porter. I went up and down the street yelling their names, but didn’t see them. A few neighbors came out, but they were no help. Then, the ambulance arrived, and soon after the police.” Again her tears flowed, and her voice grew loud, desperate. “They stopped me from trying to find my kids and made me sit here. Where are they?”

  “Do you have a picture of them?” Rebecca asked.

  Her hands shook as she grabbed her tote bag and dug through it, finally coming up with a wallet bulging with credit cards. She looked through it, then shook her head. “All these are too old. Oh, wait.”

  She easily found her cell phone. Practiced fingers flew over it. “Here. Molly is six and Porter eight.”

  Rebecca took the phone and looked at two cute, brown-haired, blue-eyed children smiling at the camera.

  “I’ll need a copy of this,” Rebecca said, and at Tracy’s nod, sent one to her email address.

  “Why is all this happening?” Tracy whispered.

  “We’ll find them, Mrs. Hawley,” Rebecca said. “Like my partner said, they’re probably scared and hiding somewhere.”

  Tracy nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

  “Could you tell me,” Rebecca asked, “where were you last evening? Did you see your husband or children at all yesterday?”

  Tracy sniffled and shook her head. “No. I… I met someone at work. We spent the day together, then went to dinner. I got home around ten and went to bed. Alone. I guess we didn’t hit it off as well as I thought we would.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “Blaxor Pharmaceuticals.”

  “How long have the two of you dated?”

  “That was our first date.”

  “And what’s his name?” Rebecca asked.

  Tracy’s eyes widened. “Why all these questions? You can’t think that I …”

  “We have to check everyone and everything,” Rebecca said. “I’m sorry.”

  While Tracy turned to her phone to get the contact information for her date, Rebecca wondered if Tracy knew what the time of Daryl’s death had been. At that time, on a Sunday evening, it was likely the kids were in the house when their father was killed. If so, they were witnesses.

  Rebecca had tried to sound upbeat, but her guts warned her things might not work out well at all.

  Henry Ian Tate III, called Shay, sat in the study of his home in the exclusive Presidio Heights area of San Francisco. He was alone and listening as the front door was pulled shut. A chill rippled through him.

  Shay was a mystery to everyone who knew him. That would have included friends if he had any. He might have patrician good looks, light blond hair, pale blue eyes, and a propensity for expensive clothing that included ascots and silk-blend sports coats, but his stern expression was both off-putting and intimidating to most people.

  He had many acquaintances—most of whom hadn’t wanted to encounter him to begin with and definitely wanted no repeat confrontations. And he had a couple of people that, these days, he routinely worked with, Richie Amalfi and Vito Grazioso. Other than them, his dealings with people were limited to his housekeeper and his daughter.

  Whenever asked what his job was, he’d reply, “Contractor,” and then give the cold, flat stare that caused men not to question him further.

  When Richie needed help, either technological or strong-arm, he would go to Shay. Shay was always ready to help. Or, he used to be.

  Lately, he’d been questioning that part of life. No, that wasn’t true. He’d begun to question every part of his life.

  Nine years ago, he met a Lebanese woman, Salma Najjar, in San Francisco. Despite Salma being already married—an arranged marriage—they fell in love. Although Shay had tried over the years to forget her, he never really had. Recently, they met again, and that was when he had not only learned that he had fathered a child, Hannah, but also that Salma could be charged—and likely convicted—of murder.

  Shay believed she had killed at least one person, and possibly two. He knew there was a current moratorium on capital punishment in California, but the state could reinstate the death penalty at any time. Two murders could make that a possible sentence.

  He couldn’t say whether the murders were justified or not. That wasn’t his call to make. But he completely understood Salma’s motives and had vowed to do all he could to protect her.

  He was also convinced that Salma had no choice but to run. Taking Hannah with her would have been all but impossible, and no life for the girl. Also, Salma didn’t know how her Lebanese husband, Gebran Najjar, would treat Hannah once he learned she was the product of his wife’s illicit affair.

  For all those reasons, Salma had all but begged Shay to take Hannah and to raise her himself. Shay also helped Salma escape the law … and the country … as he took his daughter into his home.

  Shay had spent little time around children. If he bothered to think about them at all, which he rarely did, it was to conclude he didn’t particularly like them. For the life of him, he had no idea how he was supposed to suddenly behave like a parent toward one. And a girl, at that.

  Fortunately, his live-in housekeeper, Mrs. Brannigan, had not only raised three children of her own, but had several grandchildren. To Shay, she suddenly became worth her considerable weight in gold.

  She was a genuinely good and dependable person—she had to be to meet his exacting standards—and he felt quite at ease relying on her to take care of the child. In fact, for the past weeks, he had done all he could to stay out of Mrs. Brannigan’s way and let her deal with Hannah’s everyday needs.

  Now, he rushed from the study to the living room, hurried to the window, and looked down at the street. Hannah was walking to school, Mrs. Brannigan with her. He knew he should be the one walking her, protecting her, but what did he know about talking to an eight-year-old?

  He watched until he could no longer see her tiny figure in the distance. As she disappeared from sight, an eerie foreboding struck.

  He quickly turned away from the window. There was no reason for him to feel such unease. People sent their children off to school every day. He shouldn’t worry.

  But still…

  It was ironic, he thought, how he had known Hannah only a short time—hadn’t raised her or even known about her—and yet she already meant everything to him. God forbid what he would do to anyone who tried to hurt her or take her away from him.

  He was already working on the necessary legal issues.

  Although Salma Najjar had given him notarized documents declaring Shay was Hannah’s biological father and that she wanted him to have custody of the girl, California law held the legal presumption that a woman’s husband was the father of her children. Therefore, Shay contacted an attorney to help him overcome that presumption
.

  To help satisfy the courts, he and Hannah had taken a DNA test. Although he was awaiting its results, he had no doubt she was his daughter. A person only needed to look at them to know. Both had uniquely shaded blue eyes that darkened along the outer edges of the iris to a deep lavender. Also, the girl’s long-limbed, lithe build, the way she cocked her head, even the way she spoke, were incredibly like him.

  And she looked nothing like the stocky Gebran Najjar.

  He had reluctantly taken care of her school needs thanks to Mrs. Brannigan who, after Hannah had been living with him for two weeks, announced, “That child needs to go to school.”

  “But you can teach her here at home, and so can I,” Shay had insisted. “She’ll do better than at any school.”

  “That’s not the point.” Mrs. Brannigan declared. In her early sixties with short gray hair, medium height, and a warm disposition, she could be every bit as forceful as her boss when necessary. “She should be with children her own age. She can’t sit around here with an older woman and a father who hides in his study all day. She misses the people she once knew. She needs to make new friends.”

  As much as he hated to admit it, he knew she was right.

  He carefully researched private schools in the area, and was pleased to find an exclusive school, The Sutcliffe Academy, only a few blocks away. He was determined Hannah would go there.

  Since he was skilled at doing “specialized” internet research, he put that ability to work before going to meet the school principal. It had paid off.

  As he expected, the principal initially announced that the Academy was simply too full to admit Hannah. A few words from Shay, however, about the principal’s fortuitous and sudden accumulation of funds for his mortgage payments after being seriously in arrears … and the principal swiftly discovered he had room for Hannah after all. He didn’t even question why she was being admitted as “Hannah Tate,” when her birth certificate showed “Hannah Najjar.”