Six O'Clock Silence Read online

  Jang sat back in his chair and stared at Richie. “Those are strong words, my friend. You must be careful where you say things like that, or you might find you’re committing suicide just like the mayor’s chief of staff did.”

  “I’m here asking you to help,” Richie said.

  “Why should I get involved at all? For the good of the city, or my conscience?”

  “No. For power.” Richie leaned forward. “If you have the power to take down the guys who are behind this in the city government, you’ll be the one running the city. Not openly, but everyone who matters will know what happened, and know where the real power in the city lies. I believe you would very much enjoy being in that position.”

  Jang’s black eyes stared at him, then slowly crinkled into a smile. “I believe you are quite correct. I will look into this situation. I could not allow the future Mrs. Amalfi to be placed in danger, could I?”

  Richie swallowed. “I wouldn’t say there’ll be a future Mrs. Amalfi anytime soon—and probably not the inspector unless she has a major change of heart about yours truly. But all that aside, I’ll be grateful for anything you can do to help, and under an obligation to help you in the future in any way I can.”

  Jang smiled, then nodded slowly. “Keep sending profitable business my way. That’s payment enough. For now.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Rebecca and Bill Sutter rang the doorbell of the Najjar home on Lobos Street in the Oceanview area, a once crime-infested area that was now making a comeback due to the ever increasing cost of property in the city. One of the more curious aspects of the Oceanview area was that it had no view at all of the ocean, being inland and at the city’s southernmost edge.

  It was evening. The two detectives had purposely waited until 7:30 p.m. in hopes of finding Gebran Najjar, the brother of the deceased, at home. They had investigated him a bit and learned he owned a dry cleaning business in the area. He’d had it for fifteen years. He and his wife were buying the house they lived in. His mother, Fairuz, also lived there.

  From inside the house they heard children calling their mother, and a girl’s voice asking if she could open the door.

  “Go! I’ll get it,” a woman shouted back just before the door swung open.

  Rebecca stared at an attractive woman, probably in her late thirties, with dark brown eyes, olive skin, and thick black hair that fell past her shoulders. “Yes?” she asked. The mouth-watering scent of spicy cooking wafted out to Rebecca, and she hoped her stomach didn’t growl with hunger.

  “We are looking for Gebran Najjar,” Rebecca said. “Does he live here?”

  “Yes. He is my husband.” The woman’s dark eyes looked hesitant and worried. She spoke with a slight accent.

  Rebecca and Sutter introduced themselves, showing their badges. “Is he home?” Rebecca asked.

  “Yes. We were just about to sit down to dinner.” The woman frowned at those words, as if realizing a couple of detectives appearing at the door took precedence over sitting down to a meal. “Please come in. I’ll call him.”

  “Thank you,” Rebecca said. “Your name is?”

  “Salma Najjar.”

  They walked up the stairs to the main living quarters of the home, and Salma Najjar showed them to the living room. Two children, a boy, about eleven or twelve, and a younger girl were there.

  “Go to your rooms and be quiet,” Salma ordered. The two hurried away with barely a backward glance.

  She gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat,” she said to the detectives.

  A large, burly man with dark eyes, a balding head, and deeply tanned skin entered the room. He wore gray slacks, and a white undershirt, as if he had taken off whatever dress shirt he might have been wearing. On his feet were slippers.

  “Who are our guests?” he asked.

  “This is my husband,” Salma said softly. He looked a good ten years older than his wife, and like her, his accent was practically nonexistent.

  Rebecca and Sutter rose to their feet as they introduced themselves.

  “We’re here with news about Yussef Najjar,” Sutter said. “We understand he’s your brother?”

  “That is correct,” Gebran said. He and Salma glanced at each other and she inched closer to him.

  “Is your mother here with you?” Rebecca asked.

  “No, she is not.” Gebran glanced briefly at Rebecca, then fixed his gaze on Sutter. “What do you know about Yussef?”

  Rebecca gave Sutter a slight nod, and he said, “I’m sorry to inform you that his body has been found.”

  Gebran stiffened. “He is dead?”

  “Yes. It’s clear he has been dead at least nine years, most likely from the time he was first reported missing.”

  “Where did you find him?” Gebran’s words were gruff.

  “Please,” Rebecca said, interrupting. “Let’s all sit down. This is a shock, I’m sure.”

  As they sat, Sutter went on to explain, as delicately as he could, the circumstances of the discovery.

  “We are looking into the reasons for his death,” Rebecca said. “But first, we have one question. When the Missing Persons investigators were looking into his disappearance, his mother told them he had gone back to Lebanon. We find, now, there is no evidence of that.”

  Gebran rubbed the palm of one hand hard against his knee. “I remember those days. They were very upsetting. Our mother also told us that my brother had returned to Lebanon. We didn’t question her about it. Many problems are going on in that country. If Yussef went back there, we didn’t want to know why, or to have anything more to do with him.”

  Rebecca wondered about his answer. “Is that because he might have gotten involved in the country’s politics?”

  “No, no. We stay out of politics and the wars. We are Christians,” Gebran stated firmly.

  “We go to Our Lady of Lebanon,” Salma added softly.

  Rebecca glanced at Sutter, eyebrows raised. He shook his head. Neither had heard of such a church.

  Gebran added, “It’s in Millbrae, the only Maronite Catholic Church in the area.” Millbrae was on the peninsula between San Francisco and San Mateo where Yussef had worked and lived. Gebran then scowled at Salma, as if she should know better than to speak. The room filled with tension.

  “Tell me a little about yourselves,” Rebecca said. “Do you work?”

  Gebran told her about his dry-cleaning business, confirming her research. She faced Salma. “And you? Do you have a job?”

  She looked stricken. “No. I help my husband when he needs me. And I do the books and pay bills for his business. That’s all.”

  Rebecca faced Gebran. “Did you ever employ your brother?”

  “No.” The word was sharply spoken.

  “Do you have other employees?” Sutter asked.

  “Only my wife’s father. He doesn’t speak good English, so he works in the back. I handle the customers.”

  Sutter nodded. “And his name is?”

  “Zair Lahoud, but he knows nothing about all this. And what does my business have to do with my brother’s death?”

  “You tell me,” Sutter said. “Why didn’t anyone go back to the police when you found out your brother wasn’t in Lebanon?”

  “I didn’t know,” Gebran said. “I only knew what my mother told me. My brother and I weren’t close.”

  “Was he younger or older?” Rebecca asked.

  “Younger. Two years.” Gebran stared at the floor as he answered.

  “Married?” Rebecca asked once more.

  “No.”

  “Did he have a girlfriend or a partner?” she asked.

  His eyes flashed angrily. “You ask if he’s gay?”

  “I’m asking you about others who might have been close to him.” Rebecca did her best to keep her voice calm and friendly. “The only leads in his file were people he worked with and this family.”

  “No one was close to him but us,” Gebran said.

  Salma seemed to shrink furt
her and further into herself with each outburst.

  “We would like to speak to your mother,” Rebecca said. “We understand she lives here. Will she return home soon?”

  “She is in a nursing home. She has some dementia and my wife could not care for her,” Gebran said.

  “Which one?” Sutter asked.

  “Let me talk to her doctor first.” Gebran’s voice grew colder, harder, with each word. “To give her such news about her son, in her condition … I want to be sure she can handle it.”

  Rebecca and Sutter glanced at each other. “That’s fine. We’ll call you in a day or so to find out what arrangements have been made for us to speak with her,” Sutter said.

  Gebran nodded, and then he asked, “Tell me, do you have any idea what caused my brother’s death?”

  “It appears he was shot,” Sutter said. “We don’t yet have any idea why, but we’ve retrieved the bullet. We’ll figure it out.”

  Salma put her hands to her mouth, her eyes wide as she looked at her husband with something close to horror.

  Gebran’s reaction was the opposite. He lifted his chin and gave a firm nod. “It sounds like a robbery. This used to be a bad area, people shot for no reason. It’s gotten much better lately.”

  “But his body was found far from this area,” Rebecca pointed out.

  Gebran shrugged. “Who can explain what killers do?”

  “One thing, still, is not clear,” Rebecca said. “Why did your mother say her son had left the country when he hadn’t?”

  “I have no idea.” Gebran’s lips curled in disgust. “I’m sure she believed it.”

  “And what about you, Mrs. Najjar?” Rebecca asked. “Do you have any idea why his mother said he had gone to Lebanon?”

  Salma looked scared, whether because of the question or simply because she was being directly questioned, Rebecca had no idea. Salma gazed at her husband. He nodded.

  “I have no idea,” she began, then cleared her throat, “why my mother-in-law said what she did.”

  Rebecca hadn’t really expected anything else. Time to leave.

  As she walked out of the living room, Rebecca saw the two children scramble from the hallway into a bedroom, and then quietly shut the door.

  o0o

  Since the hour was late, Rebecca and Sutter had each driven their own cars to the Najjar home. When they left, Rebecca waved goodbye to Sutter, saying she would see him in the morning.

  She got into her Ford Explorer and headed toward home. She had only gone about a half mile when, stopped for a red light, she was thrown into her steering wheel and heard the crunch of her back bumper. “What the hell!” she grumbled, one hand flying to her ribs. The sudden jolt rattled her, but thankfully she wasn't hurt.

  She grabbed her car registration and her handbag and got out of the SUV.

  The car behind her was an old two-tone Lincoln Continental. She was surprised that the driver hadn't gotten out yet, especially since it looked as if his front bumper had sustained more damage than her back one. Still, it was enough damage that she was plenty pissed off.

  She stood, arms crossed, glaring at her bumper as the Lincoln's door opened, and a man stepped out. He didn't exactly look like a Wall Street type. His expression was gruff, his build burly, and his face pockmarked and deeply tanned. As he stepped past the door, she saw that he held a handgun, and it was pointed at her.

  “What's this?” she asked, the picture of calm. She'd be damned if she'd let the man scare her.

  “Drop the purse, lady.” The stranger held the gun as if he knew how to use it.

  “You don't want to mess with me,” she said as she placed her handbag on the street, then took a step back. “What's going on?”

  “I know who you are,” he replied. “Now, remove the gun you're wearing.”

  The words surprised her. He knew she was a cop. “I'm not. It's in my handbag.”

  He looked pleased. “You better be telling me the truth. Just sayin’. I see any sudden move, and I shoot. Take that as a warning, Inspector. Now, get in the car.”

  “Not a chance.”

  “You heard me! Get in!” He waved the gun toward the Lincoln so there was no mistake about his order. She needed to stay calm and cool, but she felt her legs weakening.

  The creep stopped waving the gun and thrust it toward her. His sneer proved that he wouldn't hesitate using it if she didn't do as he said.

  She took a first step toward the Lincoln, thinking about her next strategic move, but before she could take a second step, a large gray Dodge Ram pickup sped down the street, heading straight at them.

  “Look out!” Rebecca shouted.

  The gunman's head jerked around at the roar of the truck's engine heading his way. Seeing it closing in on him, he ran toward the sidewalk and dived out of the way with barely a second to spare.

  Through the windshield, Rebecca could see Vito behind the truck's wheel. He swerved to avoid Rebecca, and then stomped on the brake. “Let's go!” he shouted through the open window.

  She only paused long enough to grab her handbag, then jumped in the passenger side. He was speeding away before she even shut the door.

  “We'll go back and pick up your car once we know it's safe,” Vito said. “Or I'll give Shay a call and have him get it and deliver it to your house. That way, for sure, there'll be no danger to you.”

  She was shaking from fear and adrenaline as she murmured, “What are you doing here?” The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she realized exactly what he was doing there. “No need to answer that.” She took a few deep breaths before adding, “Just tell Richie, it seems he's right. This time.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rebecca had to admit that after the prior evening’s attack, she took Richie’s paranoia over her well-being a lot more seriously than she had previously.

  As much as she preferred to be logical and practical, her gut cried out that things were not as they should be at work, and that the problem might start higher up on the food chain than her boss, Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood. All the way up to City Hall, in fact.

  Calderon and Benson had been in charge of the investigation into the death of the Mayor’s chief of staff, Sean Hinkle. But they had been pressured to end the investigation quickly, and that meant a determination of suicide. Lt. Eastwood had made it clear that if they delayed, they would not be looked upon with favor by anyone in the department or City Hall.

  Normally, Calderon and Benson would have ignored Eastwood. Neither was the type that accepted attempts at intimidation with anything but scorn. In this case, however, they couldn’t find anything to question. In fact, the main thing they questioned was Sean Hinkle’s home. Nothing was out of order, and not a spot was found anywhere … not even fingerprints. It had been wiped clean.

  Rebecca decided to take a look at some of the findings herself. Calderon and Benson hadn’t known Hinkle. She had. And dating him a couple of times had been one of her bigger lapses in judgment.

  Once more, she found herself in the Records Division going through files until she found the one on Hinkle’s death. The case had been closed, so the investigation materials had been sent there for storage. Since it was determined to have been a suicide, it didn’t even warrant a “box” of material from the investigation, only a manila folder filled with Q’s and A’s of people who knew, worked with, or lived near Hinkle at the time of his death. His grieving parents were both alive, as well as a married sister. No one spoken to had any idea why he would kill himself. At the same time, the investigation turned up no reason for anyone to want him dead.

  Rebecca turned to his financial records. His finances were in even worse shape than she had expected. He had even managed to lose money investing in API Holdings—the same holding company that Isabella Russo may have been working with at the time she died.

  Suddenly, the call Rebecca had received from Jim Taylor came back to her with renewed significance. Isabella’s assistant had quit his job and disappea
red. The bank’s personnel office should have had some record of where he might have gone, after all they had to send him his paycheck, tax reporting forms, all kinds of things. Taylor had said the man had left no forwarding address, but it was worth checking again.

  Something told her that they might not cooperate if she merely called them on the phone. Paying them a visit in person, waving her badge, might go further to get the information she needed.

  She quickly made copies of some of the information about Sean Hinkle’s finances and his arrangements with the real estate holding company, and stuck them in her bag.

  Then, she phoned Richie.

  o0o

  Rebecca always enjoyed going to Richie’s house on a small street near the top of Twin Peaks in the center of the city. The style of the house was contemporary, with the garage and storerooms taking up the ground floor, and the living area above them. A long staircase led from the sidewalk to the front door, and a large picture window dominated the front of the house, giving Richie a beautiful view from his living room of the city below.

  She pulled onto the driveway, and walked up to the front door. When Richie opened it, he gave her a quick kiss. “Shay is here,” he said, by way of explanation. In Richie’s world, emotional displays with girlfriends weren’t done in front of buddies. “You okay?” His eyes were worried.

  “I’m fine,” she said as she entered the living room. It was a sedate room, casual yet elegant, with a light gray sectional, two sky blue chairs, and tables in a pale ash—not to mention a 60-inch plasma TV. On one side of the room was a fireplace, and on the other, the picture window. Through it, the lights of the city shone like stars far below them.

  She faced Shay and offered him a smile. “Thank you for bringing my car back last night.”

  Ever the gentleman, Shay stood. Not only did he dress like an aristocrat with wool slacks and soft handmade cotton shirts, but his manners reflected a formal upbringing as well. “No problem. Glad to be of service.”