Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) Read online

  THREE O’CLOCK SÉANCE

  An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery

  Joanne Pence

  QUAIL HILL PUBLISHING

  CHAPTER ONE

  On Tuesday afternoon San Francisco Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield did something completely out of character. She left work early and went home.

  Homicide had been eerily quiet for the past two weeks. Murders happened, but they were all gang-related, which meant the Gang Task Force took the lead. Homicide did its part, but the Task Force usually knew who the shooters were before the body was even cold. She had cleared so many cases and finished so much paperwork, she could see the top of her desk. Not all of it, but most. That was progress.

  Her apartment was in a building three stories tall. The home of Bradley Frisk, the building’s owner, made up the entire top floor, in what San Franciscan’s called a “flat.” The middle flat was where Kiki Nuñez lived, a forty-something year old divorcee who owned her own exclusive spa. The bottom street-level floor consisted of a two-car garage, and behind it, facing the back yard, was Rebecca’s small apartment. Originally it had been a storeroom. A tunnel-like breezeway led along the outside of the garage from the street to the back yard.

  As Rebecca opened her apartment door, Spike, a ten-pound Chinese Crested Hairless/Chihuahua mix, greeted her by jumping on his hind legs and spinning in circles. He was a neat little guy, although definitely strange looking with tufts of white hair on the top of his head, ears, tail, and from the knees down, but hairless and spotted in between. She had found him shivering in fear at a crime scene and decided to keep him when the pound declared him not adoptable because he tried to bite anyone, other than her, who attempted to pet him. Since he’d watched his owner die in a shootout where over forty rounds of bullets had been fired, she understood his wariness.

  After feeding Spike and relaxing a bit, Rebecca decided to see what Kiki was up to. She could go for some girl talk. And maybe a little wine. She went into the yard and took the steps up to Kiki’s place and knocked on her back door.

  Kiki didn’t answer, so Rebecca went up one more flight to the top floor and knocked on Bradley’s back door. He wasn’t home either.

  Clearly, everyone led a far more exciting life than she did.

  Back in her apartment, she switched on her plasma, flat-screen television. Richie Amalfi, a sometime friend of hers, had sent it to her after her boxy, antique one had been destroyed by a crazy Russian gang. He assured her it wasn’t new, that it hadn’t “fallen off a truck,” and that she was more than welcome to it.

  She wrestled with herself a bit, but then decided to keep it. Everything was so expensive in San Francisco that not even a homicide inspector’s salary went very far. If it wasn’t for overtime, she wasn’t sure she could make it. And it was a really nice TV.

  After eating a sandwich for dinner, she switched it off. Television held no interest that night.

  She was currently dating Ray Torres, a patrol officer. He was a nice fellow, but this week he was working the night shift. She thought about sending him a text to ask him to stop by if he was cruising the neighborhood. It wasn’t his territory, but cop cars did travel far afield at times.

  The more she thought about it, she didn’t feel like seeing him either. She could only stand hearing so much about MMA wrestling.

  A name flitted across her mind, the name of a person who always seemed to make life a whole lot more exciting when he was near. But that ship had sailed. Good riddance.

  She shut off the TV and took Spike out to the back yard to play. For his “needs,” due to Rebecca’s sometimes long and always irregular hours, he was small enough that he used a kitty litter box kept in the bathroom.

  The back yard was nothing but a concrete square surrounded on all sides by three-story tall buildings. In its center, the landlord had placed a large raised flower bed with a built-in bench along its edges. Shade-loving begonias, impatiens, hydrangeas and ferns gave the yard color and warmth.

  Rebecca sat on the bench and was playing fetch with Spike, throwing a little red ball for him, when she heard a doorbell. At the end of the breezeway, facing the street, was a locked door to keep strangers from wandering into the back yard uninvited. The bell beside that door was wired to ring in her apartment.

  No one ever rang that bell unless she was expecting someone. And she wasn’t.

  Given her irregular hours, her friends always texted or called before coming to visit.

  She figured it was just some kids playing around, but then the bell rang again, and she heard knocking on the door.

  She walked through the breezeway, opened the door, and gaped. The embodiment of her earlier thoughts stood before her. “Richie.”

  “Hey,” he said with a smile. “Good to see you. How you been? Can I come in?”

  She frowned, not wanting any part of this bizarre hale and hearty greeting. The last time she’d spent any real time with him was two months earlier when he’d stepped in to help when she found herself in the cross hairs of the deadly Russian gang that wrecked her TV. He ended up getting shot for his efforts. She had thought, after all that, they’d reached a new level in their relationship, but when his arm healed, he had made no effort to see her. Except for a couple of days surrounding the wedding of his cousin, Angie Amalfi, to one of Rebecca’s co-workers, Paavo Smith, he’d been AWOL. “What do you want?”

  Spike peered around her leg, saw Richie and started jumping in circles, his tail wagging like crazy. Despite his usual wariness around strangers, Spike had taken to Richie almost from the first time the two met.

  “Hey, little buddy.” Richie bent down and petted him. “At least you’re glad to see me.”

  She stepped back, letting him and Spike reconnect. Richie was dressed casually in a light gray sport coat, pink shirt, no tie, and black slacks. She remembered once reading that a man had to be confident in his masculinity to wear a pink shirt. That described Richie.

  “Okay, come in,” she said.

  Spike nearly jumped into his arms, and Richie carried him into the yard, making over him the whole time.

  She sat back down on the flower bed bench. She knew he had heard her question. She waited for him to answer it.

  He sat beside her, then picked up Spike’s red ball and tossed it. Spike scrambled, grabbed the ball and brought it back. Richie petted and praised him, then tossed it again. She watched Spike, but even more, she watched Richie.

  He was about four years older than her 35 years, and stood about an inch taller than her 5’10” height. His hair, worn long enough to show its waves, was black as soot, although the temples held a few strands of gray. His eye color seemed to change from being as black as his hair, to showing flecks of light brown and even green in sunlight. But more than any of that, he had an expressive face, and could say as much with his eyes as with his words. She found him good-looking, but she had dated plenty of handsome men, and she was surrounded by great looking cops all day long at her job.

  Maybe whatever strange fascination he held for her was because she couldn’t figure him out.

  Finally, he said, “Something’s going on that needs looking into.”

  So he was here because of her job. What else had she expected? “If it’s not a dead body, it’s not my area.”

  He caught her gaze. “But it is. Only it hasn’t been declared a murder. Not even a suspicious death. That’s the problem.”

  None of what he was saying made sense. “If the death is
n’t suspicious, why are you concerned? Are you now an expert in causes of death?”

  “As a matter of fact, there’s been more than one death; more than one body.” His jaw tightened as he added, “And now my mother’s friend is involved with the guy who may be behind it. Whatever is going on, he makes my teeth hurt. I know he’s crooked, but I can’t find anything on him. I don’t like it.”

  At the thought of Richie’s mother, Rebecca couldn’t help but grimace. The woman had taken an instant dislike to her. “Carmela doesn’t miss a thing. I’m sure she can take care of herself and her friend.”

  “Usually, that’s true,” Richie said. “But she has one real big weak spot.”

  “Other than you?” At his frown, she asked, “What is it?”

  “Ghosts, spirits, and anything that has to do with talking to the dead.”

  Carmela was a spiritualist? She’d never met anyone more down-to-earth and practical. “Your dead bodies don’t have anything to do with ghosts, do they?”

  He hesitated a moment, even looking a bit embarrassed. “Sort of. The guy I’m worried about is one of those ‘I-talk-to-dead-relatives-of-people-who-give-me-money’ con artists.”

  This was getting better by the minute. “Are you saying he’s a medium?”

  “You got it. He calls himself a psychic medium for the dead.”

  She was appalled. “Why, in heaven’s name, have you come to me about this?”

  He looked at her as if her question was crazier than Carmela’s friend. He jumped to his feet—Richie never could sit still for long. “Who else was I supposed to go to? Tell me. Who?” He spread his arms wide—he was definitely Italian. “If I’d gone straight to Homicide, Calderon and Bo Benson would have laughed and then tossed my ass out of there; Paavo’s now part of the family so I don’t see him or his partner interviewing my mother, who happens to be his wife’s aunt; and Bill Sutter would rather sleep at his desk than do any actual work. That leaves you.”

  She folded her arms. “Nice to know I’m your last choice.”

  At that, he grinned—he had a really nice smile—and sat down next to her again, his shoulder touching hers. “Actually, you’re my first choice, but I had to think of some reason why the other guys wouldn’t work.”

  It was a struggle not to smile back. She shifted away from him, hands on thighs, and took a deep breath. “Look, the last time I was involved in an off-the-books case with you, I nearly lost my job—”

  “Your case, not mine,” he pointed out.

  “It was only because I had a flawless record, and I’m the only female in Homicide, that I wasn’t fired or demoted. I’m not going to risk it again by going off looking for some spiritualist charlatan that you’re implying may be a murderer.”

  “You also kept it because you’re one of the best detectives in the department, and everyone knows it,” he said. His gaze slowly took in her face from the broad forehead to the almost pointed chin. “I’ve missed you, by the way.”

  His praise, words, and warm scrutiny left her momentarily speechless until she decided he was simply trying to worm his way into her good graces so she’d help him. “You’re wasting your time dealing with Homicide. Or me. You should find a private eye.”

  “What if I’m right, Rebecca? How many more people—alone and elderly—will he kill before he makes a mistake and the police go after him?”

  “That’s a low blow.” He knew she had a strong sense of duty, and that she foolishly (in his opinion) thought she somehow might make a difference, for the better, in other people’s lives. He was playing on that sense, a sense she saw as strength, and he saw as weakness. Another of their major differences.

  “It’s true.” He got up, picked up Spike’s red ball and, to Spike’s delight, tossed it. He turned to her. “I’m here because this situation worries me. I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think so. At least come with me tonight to see this guy’s act.”

  “Why in the world would I do that?”

  “Because it’s a long story, and I think it’ll all make much more sense after you’ve seen the guy I’m talking about. Then you can decide to ignore me or not. His performance starts at eight in a little theater out in the Richmond district—the kind of safe area his audience, people like my mother and her friend, feel comfortable going to.”

  She had truly vowed to never again have anything to do with Richie Amalfi.

  But then, she didn’t have anything else to do that evening.

  And besides, she was feeling bored and more than a little intrigued at the thought of seeing a psychic medium in action. It had nothing to do with Richie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rebecca changed into a pale mauve skirt, a black pullover with a scoop neckline, and black heels with a sexy ankle strap. She removed the pony tail band to free her long blond hair, added a little jewelry, a little make-up, a splash of perfume, and she was done.

  Eat your heart out, Amalfi.

  The way Richie eyed her as she walked into the living room, he may have been doing just that. “You clean up real good, Inspector.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ll let me know if I still have dirt on my face or hayseeds between my teeth.”

  He chuckled as they left the apartment.

  She sat in the passenger seat of his Porsche 911 Turbo. The light scent of his after shave reminded her of other times she’d been in his car, times she preferred to forget.

  Richie told her a bit more as he drove across town. Sandor Geller was the psychic’s name. Rebecca wondered if he was any relation to Yuri Geller who people had believed could bend spoons with his mind, until it was shown that magicians could do everything Geller did. But Yuri Geller continued to insist he was legit, and to this day had a large, loyal following with books and television shows. Sandor may have decided to use the name since many people already knew it. Or, he may have been born with it.

  In the past, Rebecca had observed that Richie had a good sense about people, what some might call intuition, while she felt about as intuitive as a tsetse fly. He clearly believed something strange was going on with this so-called psychic wannabe, and logic told her he might be right.

  The building where the event would take place was large enough to be impressive, but nowhere near the size of the downtown halls that psychics such as John Edward, James Van Praagh, Rosemary Altea, Sylvia Browne, or George Anderson might have needed for their sell-out crowds.

  Although Rebecca would never in a million years admit it to Richie or anyone else, she was familiar with those people. She first became interested in paranormal phenomena while in high school. She even went to a ghost hunt on Halloween at the enormous, spooky Old Penitentiary back home in Boise. They did a few things to entertain the customers, but not one ghost appeared. She had watched The Amityville Horror any number of times, and read everything she could get her hands on about Ed and Lorraine Warren, demonologists who were involved in that and a number of other cases.

  But by the time a movie involving the Warrens, The Conjuring, came out, Rebecca was already a cop. The evil and demonic acts she saw in real life made Hollywood’s view of them child’s play by comparison. With her job, any interest in psychic phenomena, demons, and spirits had vanished along with her innocence.

  The theater probably held some seven or eight hundred people in lightly padded fold-down seats and was quickly filling up. Richie found places for them in the middle of the audience. He didn’t want to be too far back and miss anything.

  Before the show began, a skinny, pale young man, his brown hair pulled into a man-bun, came onto the stage. He introduced himself as “Mr. Geller’s assistant, Lucian,” and then insisted everyone turn off their cell phones and not take pictures or make recordings. Next came a parade of people with stories of how Sandor Geller connected them with dead friends and loved ones.

  Nothing like priming the pump, Rebecca thought.

  Finally, the lights dimmed, a hush fell over the audience, and as recorded music blared, Sandor Geller
walked out on stage wearing a purple cape and silver turban with a jeweled pin holding a peacock feather sticking straight up from it. He strutted around the stage while most people cheered, and a few hooted and laughed.

  “Is this a joke?” Rebecca asked. “Who would ever take this jerk seriously?”

  “Keep watching,” Richie whispered.

  “I am Sandor Geller,” the guy bellowed in a loud, deep voice. “Or …”

  He removed the turban, the cape, and the tear-away tuxedo suit under it and tossed everything to his assistant, Lucian. Despite the gasps from some in the audience as he tore away his suit, he hadn’t turned the show into a Chippendale male stripper routine. Instead, Geller stood before them in scruffy jeans and a cream-colored shirt with a wide collar and baggy sleeves. He rolled back the sleeves, ran his fingers through his hair to fluff it, and then flung open his arms, saying in a normal voice, “You can call me Sandy.”

  The audience roared its approval. Sandy held up a finger in a “one moment” gesture, and took off his black dress shoes. Lucian ran out on stage and exchanged them for a worn pair of brown loafers. Sandy put on the loafers, and heaved a loud sigh of relief. “Now I’m ready!” He gave a dimpled smile, to even more sustained applause. He looked about twenty years old, although Rebecca imagined he must be at least in his mid-thirties.

  Women made up most of the audience, and “Sandy,” as opposed to “Sandor” looked pretty darn cute with rakish hair, twinkling blue eyes, and those deep dimples. Rebecca now understood a good part of his appeal.

  He began with humorous stories about performances in Los Angeles, Denver, and the day before in Las Vegas, explaining that he toured those areas at least once each month to meet with his followers. He added how glad he was to be “home” now, implying that his San Francisco audience was far more sophisticated than the rubes elsewhere. And that, as a result, the evening they would spend together would be far more important and satisfying to all of them.