Seven O'Clock Target (An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery) Page 3

  At that point, the principal could scarcely stop shaking.

  Now, finally, the day had come for Hannah to head off to her new school.

  Shay, who had spent time in Iraq and Afghanistan, and had even done some clandestine work for the CIA, couldn’t bear the idea of placing his daughter in the care of a bunch of teachers. What did teachers know about the ways of the world? About evil? Most of them were little more than kids themselves.

  They hadn’t seen the things he had; hadn’t known how cruel people could be.

  He couldn’t—wouldn’t—let her out of his sight.ha“She’s not going,” he had announced to Mrs. Brannigan that morning before breakfast.

  “Yes, she is, Mr. Tate.” Mrs. Brannigan gave him one of her sternest glares. She was one of the few people he knew who wasn't intimidated by him. Mostly, he respected her for that. At the moment, he hated her.

  “I can’t do it,” he confessed, finally.

  Mrs. Brannigan pursed her lips. “I’ll take her today. You can do so tomorrow.”

  He had stayed in his study until the two left the house, and although he had watched them from the window, he was tempted to go out and follow in his car to make sure they got there safely.

  Idiot! He told himself. When had he turned into such a wuss?

  His phone rang. It was Richie.

  4

  Richie strode into the Leaning Tower Taverna on Columbus Avenue, the front panels of his sports coat flapping as he headed for his favorite booth, the one in the very back. As soon as he entered, the familiar smells of peppery red spaghetti sauce, garlic, oregano, and a hint of fennel washed over him as soothing and comforting as a warm blanket. It was truly his home-away-from-home.

  He gave a nod to the waitress, and a glass of Chianti reached the table almost as quickly as he did.

  Soon, Vito Grazioso and Shay, his closest friends and business associates, joined him. First things first, they got down to the business of ordering lunch. Richie, as usual, ordered carbonara, his favorite. Shay, as ever, refused to eat anything prepared in a restaurant, and ordered a cup of Earl Grey tea. And also, as always, Vito needed time to study the menu.

  As much as Shay was a puzzle to Richie, Vito was as easy to read as the morning sun. Where most people saw him as two-hundred-fifty pounds of pure muscle, to Richie he was all heart. As brawny and intimating as he was to those who didn’t know him, to Richie, Vito was one of the kindest and most loyal people he’d ever come across. Finally, Vito ordered a meatball sandwich and a bottle of Coors Light since his wife told him he needed to lose some weight.

  At that, Richie nodded sagely and did his best not to catch Shay’s eye. While waiting for the food—and tea—to arrive, Richie explained the reason for the meeting.

  “I called you here because I’m sick and tired of Rebecca being in danger. I want to know who’s behind the attacks on her, and to make them stop.”

  “I agree about the danger, boss,” Vito said. “I’m glad I was there to help her out of a few jams, like the time someone tried to run her down as she crossed the street, or that time a guy rammed the back of her SUV and pulled a gun on her when she got out to survey the damage.”

  “You did good, Vito,” Richie said, knowing how much Vito thrived on well-deserved praise.

  “The worst,” Shay said, “was when she was sent to a fake homicide on the beach in the middle of the night. At least two guys dressed as cops were involved, and one of them, or someone else, waited there to ambush her.”

  Richie shuddered. “Don’t remind me. That was close for all of us.”

  The waitress brought out the tea and beer. Shay put a tea bag in the hot water to steep. “It also told us that whoever's behind this knows a lot about police procedure and was even able to get a beat cop’s uniform.”

  “Which means,” Richie said, “whoever is behind these attacks is most likely someone high up in city government, the police department, or both.” The thought made his stomach feel sour. He knew Rebecca had been lucky so far, but how long could it last? “Rebecca is a threat to them. One way or another, they want her out of their lives.”

  “What do you want us to do, boss?” Vito asked.

  “We’ll start at the top—the mayor and his staff,” Richie said. “Shay needs to look at their financials and we’ll concentrate on anything odd, especially large sums going into or out of accounts. Then, Vito, you’ll need to watch them, follow them to see what they might be up to. We need to find someone who’s gotten in over his head financially or with women, or drugs, or whatever. Someone who’ll need a special kind of service.” He raised his eyebrows. “The kind of service I'm good at providing. Someone who’ll think of me as his go-to guy.”

  “Got it, boss,” Vito said.

  “Once we finger a staffer who looks like a good mark,” Richie said, “I’ll find a way to meet him or her and offer assistance to help cover up the secrets. Just the fact that I show up and know those secrets is usually enough to rattle most people and get them to listen. Once I’m inside, I’ll get a good idea of what everyone is up to. But be careful. Any leaks about what we’re doing could mean disaster for Rebecca.”

  As soon as Rebecca let her boss, Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood, know that the two young children of the murder victim were missing, she expected the Inspections Bureau Special Victims Unit would handle that aspect of the case. It would be up to her and Sutter to concentrate on finding the murderer.

  Still, to Rebecca’s mind, as important as her job was, she couldn’t help but think about the kids and the need to search for them. The possibility that whoever killed the father had kidnapped the children was high, and she could only hope they were still alive.

  Rebecca had dealt with the murder of a teenager twice, and they were horrible, wrenching crimes for everyone involved, the police as well as parents and friends. She couldn’t imagine handling a young child’s murder and hoped she never would. The thought of it spurred her to ignore what Lt. Eastwood said and continue to hunt for them.

  The best scenario, to her mind, was that the kids headed back to their mother’s apartment and were lost and scared in the big city. If so, someone should report them soon. A bulletin with their photos had already gone out to all patrol units in the city to be on the lookout for them.

  She guessed there was enough ambiguity about where they might be and whether or not they were in any immediate danger that no Amber alert had yet been issued. Sutter had promised to see to the release of pictures of the kids to the media. Surely, if the children were wandering about the city, they would be spotted.

  In the meantime, she and Sutter decided to canvas the neighborhood themselves. Often, after studying a crime scene, patrol officers knocked on doors while the homicide inspectors returned to the Hall of Justice and scoured databases to learn about a murder victim’s background, prior arrests, phone records, financial situation, and so on. But with missing children, time was of the essence. If a neighbor saw or heard anything that might give them a hint as to what had happened in that house the night before, and where the children might be, they wanted to hear about it as quickly as possible. Plus, in a neighborhood like this one, people tended not to talk to uniformed police. At least Rebecca and Sutter wore plain clothes.

  They went first to the home east of Hawley’s rental. The small lawn area was overrun with weeds and no lights shown through the windows. When no one answered their knocks, they hopped the fence to the back yard and looked through grimy windows to the home’s interior. It was empty, seemingly unoccupied.

  As they approached the house to the west side of Hawley’s, an elderly man opened the door. He had been watching the police activity from his window. His name was Dennis Crumley, a retired widower, and he had lived in the neighborhood, in the same house, for thirty-five years.

  “I didn’t look out my window at all last night,” he said when Rebecca introduced herself and asked if he had seen anything. “In fact, I think I fell asleep early with the TV on.”

  “Did you see Mr. Hawley’s children?” she asked.

  “I saw them, all right. A lively pair. They seemed like good kids. They played out on the street all weekend, running into and out of the house. But once it started to get late, he’d usually call them back inside. I assumed he did last night, as well.”

  “Did you see them or hear them this morning?” Sutter asked.

  “No, can’t say I did. It was all pretty quiet until Hawley’s wife showed up and started running up and down the street yelling for the kids. I tried to stop her and ask her what was going on, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  “Okay,” Rebecca said. “And, can you tell me which houses are occupied on this street? Some seem to be empty.”

  “Yeah, lots of places need work and the owners don’t want to bother.” He pointed out several houses she might check.

  “If you think of anything, or see anything, please call me,” Rebecca said, handing him her card.

  He took the card and studied it a moment. “You know, I did hear something. But I suspect it was a car backfiring. Although it might have been a gunshot.”

  Rebecca stepped forward. “What time?”

  He shook his head. “I’m not sure. I’d say around seven o’clock, but TV is messed up on Sunday nights. If I had my regular programs, I’d know for sure.”

  Rebecca asked him to call if he remembered anything more, then she and Sutter headed for the four other homes on the block that Crumley said were occupied. Two had no one home, and residents in the other two hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  The inspectors headed for the next block to find that the neighborhood quickly turned from one with small homes to an area that had once been commercial. As Rebecca studied the large, old, mostly empty buildings, she could i
magine scared kids hiding in any one of them. Still, it seemed they would have come out by now.

  She and Sutter entered the buildings that weren’t locked or boarded—ones young children might easily have entered—but nothing indicated the children might be there. Everywhere they went, they called the children’s names, praying for a response that never came.

  “We should wrap this up,” Sutter said, “and head to homicide. The SVU should be here by now. No sense covering the same territory as them.”

  “You’re right,” Rebecca said. “I just want to check out one more block with homes. Why don’t you go back, get started with some database searches, and I’ll meet you there in an hour or so.”

  Sutter frowned. “It’s not a great idea, you going alone to these houses and old buildings.”

  Rebecca patted the Beretta on her hip. “I’ll be careful.”

  5

  Porter Hawley opened his eyes and saw nothing. He took a moment to remember…

  And then it all rushed back at him.

  He remembered looking around the dark, dusty basement and seeing boxes, crates, and a staircase that went up to a door that must have opened to the main floor. But more than anything, he remembered a bizarre group of dolls seated on child-size tables and chairs in what looked like a schoolroom scene. They were near the wall opposite the staircase. They were what Molly saw that had scared her so badly.

  And, he had to admit, scared him as well.

  Porter thought of how he had been staring at those strange dolls when he realized the sound he heard was the platform being raised. He had spun around to see it floating upward from the basement floor.

  He had run to it, already waist-high and grabbed on. He managed to climb on. But Molly was slower, and it was already too high for her. His gaze jumped from her up to the opening in the ceiling. There, he saw the face of a stranger peering down at him. A man. His heart nearly stopped. But as quickly as their eyes met, the man pulled back, his face no longer visible.

  Porter froze, unsure for a moment what to do, but quickly realized he couldn’t leave Molly. And he was afraid to keep going upward. The man’s expression had been fierce, ugly.

  He slid off the platform, letting himself drop to the ground. His legs and ankles ached from the jolt of landing on the hard cement.

  He and Molly had clutched each other's arms, crying and shaking in fear as they watched the platform settled into the floor above them.

  The basement had now become pitch black. He had seen no windows, and no light shone along the edges of the platform or the door at the top of the stairs. He expected the stairs led to a door, a way out. But once the room darkened, he was too scared to move, especially when he thought of the creepy group of dolls. He felt disoriented and soon had no idea which direction led to the door or to the controls for the platform.

  He and Molly had screamed for what seemed like hours for someone to let them out, to please, please come and find them. They had shed copious tears, and eventually, somehow, managed to fall asleep on the cold cement floor. He had no idea how long they slept. All he knew was now that he was awake, his legs, arms, and back were stiff and sore from lying on the hard ground, his head ached from crying, and his throat felt raw from shouting for help. Help that never came.

  Plus, he was hungry. And thirsty. And scared.

  Molly was still asleep when he heard footsteps.

  “Wake up,” he whispered and shook Molly’s shoulder.

  She opened her eyes to darkness. “What—”

  “Listen. Someone’s coming.”

  Molly immediately stopped speaking. Her hand grasped his.

  Porter felt his heart pounding with fear but also hope as he listened to the rattle of a doorknob. “Maybe someone’s found us.”

  Then, as the door opened at the top of a flight of stairs, daylight streamed into the basement.

  He and Molly stood, squinting in the sudden brightness, ready to run up the stairs when a portly figure dressed in black filled the doorway. The figure wore a hoodie pulled forward to hide the face.

  Porter froze.

  The figure bent low and placed a tray on the top step. “Eat.” The voice was low, hushed, and male. Then he reached back, picked up two buckets and placed them beside the tray. “And use these so you don’t soil yourselves or the floor any more than you already have!”

  Then the figure backed out of the doorway.

  “Wait, please!” Porter shouted, running up the stairs. “Let us out of here. We want to go home.”

  The door slammed shut before he reached it and darkness fell over the cellar once more. The basement seemed even darker than before.

  He dropped to his hands and knees and continued to the top of the stairs where he found the tray of food. He opened the bag. “It’s hamburgers,” he said. “And, I think, a carton of milk and what might be a bottle of water. Can you find me, Molly?”

  “Yes. I’m on the stairs. I’m coming up.”

  She reached him quickly. The two were so hungry and thirsty they ate and drank everything that had been left for them.

  It wasn’t until they had finished that Molly whispered, “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  Porter suddenly realized they should have saved some of the food and drink. What if the man didn’t return? What would they do? How would they get out of here?

  “I don’t know,” he whispered in answer to her question. “I just don’t know.”

  6

  San Francisco City Hall is an ornate Beaux-Art neoclassical structure built to show the resilience and reemergence of the city after tremendous destruction visited on it by the 1906 earthquake and fire. The building occupies two full city blocks, capped by the tallest dome in the U.S., a full forty-two feet higher than the one in Washington D.C.

  On the second floor, Deputy Mayor Dianne Cahill stood at the window looking out at Civic Center Plaza. She was an attractive woman in her early fifties. Most people in the city knew of her and knew her story. Born in San Francisco to an African-American mother and a white father who both had been radicals at U. C. Berkeley, they had raised her and her younger sister in a Marin County commune. Dianne had put herself through college and devoted herself to working for the people of San Francisco by getting into city politics. She had been a powerful political operative in the city for years. Mayors came and went, but “Madam Deputy” had ensconced herself as the true power inside city government. She knew where all the bodies were buried, and no one who crossed her could survive. Many people predicted much bigger things for her than the deputy mayor position, but she had not been interested.

  Or, not until recently. Now, Mayor Cornelius Warren had his eye on the governorship and good money was being bet that this time Dianne Cahill would run for the mayor’s seat. And she’d get it. Few of the city’s politicians were as popular with the voters. She was competent and ran the city according to her vision for it.

  At the moment she was on the telephone with the mayor’s new chief of staff, Clive Hutchinson. She had phoned him.

  The two of them were once an item—a secret item because he was only an analyst in the accounting division when they first met. She soon saw to it that he was promoted to head of the department, and they wanted to be sure the appointment was never viewed as anything but merit-based.

  With Hutchinson’s latest promotion to chief-of-staff, Cahill had hoped they could let the world know of their courtship. But recently Hutchinson had one excuse after the other to keep from seeing her. At work, he was cordial and friendly, but nothing more. When she tried to question him about his suddenly busy schedule, his excuses sounded legitimate. But she was nobody’s fool and sensed exactly what was going on.

  “I just heard that Daryl Hawley has been found dead,” Cahill said.

  “Hawley … the name is familiar,” Hutchinson remarked.

  She couldn’t believe he didn’t remember. “It should be.” Her tone was terse, worried.

  “Oh, God,” Hutchinson murmured.

  “Yes,” Cahill sneered, knowing he had finally put it together. “And guess which homicide inspector has the case?”