Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2) by Joanne Pence Page B
Authors: Joanne Pence
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first part …
Eventually, Silvio put all 420 cases of wine into a truck and drove it to Richie’s house. He asked Richie to “get rid of it” for him.
When Richie opened a bottle, he was stunned to realize that although it hadn’t aged long, it tasted a lot like a great Italian Barolo Riserva, one of the more expensive reds around.
His uncle told him that if he could sell it for four dollars a bottle, he’d recoup the money he put into making and bottling it. All he wanted was to get his twenty-thousand dollars back. Since California had recently enacted a law saying it was okay to sell homemade wines at charity events, that was good enough for Richie. Charity began at home, and without this money, his uncle might go broke and become a burden to the state.
Richie contacted a number of friends who owned restaurants, and offered them the wine for free, along with a donation of six dollars a bottle. He’d keep the extra two bucks a bottle for himself, and make about ten large for his time. He figured that if the guys who took the wine happened to mix Silvio’s wines with the house wines used to serve their customers, it wasn’t his fault.
He sold about a third of Uncle Silvio’s wine that way; and that was when his problems began.
As restaurant owners served the wine as a house red, customers who knew wines started to rave about it, and sent friends to taste the great red being poured.
Word spread, and people soon began asking about the brand and year. As the restaurant owners said it was a secret, curiosity and interest grew.
Three people who weren’t even friends came to Richie with requests for ten cases each. Richie was surprised. He charged the first person ten dollars a bottle; the second fifteen; and when the third gladly paid twenty dollars per, Richie knew he was sitting on something special.
And that, he guessed, was what brought the state license bureau nosing around.
He got into the truck and drove it to Vito’s driveway in the Marina district. Vito was at work. He did indoor house-painting when he wasn’t making more money by helping Richie with his various projects, which was most of the time.
Richie left him a message saying the truck was at his house, and then took a cab back to Big Caesar’s to pick up his Porsche. He was tempted to drive over to the Hall of Justice to make sure his Beemer was okay out there in the parking lot, but he guessed if a parking lot filled with cops’ personal cars wasn’t a safe place to leave in car in the city, there was no hope for the rest of them.
Not that he wanted to go there because he was worried about Rebecca Mayfield.
Or, so he wanted to believe.
o0o
Earlier that morning, on the way to work for Eastwood’s special meeting, Rebecca drove to her apartment and spent twenty minutes looking for Spike with no luck. She didn’t try Bradley and Kiki’s flats. If either of them had found Spike, they would have called her. Besides, she and Richie had stopped by her apartment after leaving the hospital and had spent more time searching. But they found no trace of him.
Feeling as if her heart had been ripped out, she continued on to Homicide.
She kept her mouth shut as her boss, Lieutenant Eastwood strode out of his office to Homicide’s main room. He was of medium build, 49 years of age, but had grayed prematurely and now had a thick head of silver-colored hair that he wore swept to one side with a perceptive wave and a small pomp above his forehead. He had also called her partner and the weekend on-call team, Luis Calderon and Bo Benson, into the bureau for the meeting. He put his other two detectives, Paavo Smith and Toshiro Yoshiwara, on speaker phone.
Eastwood began to speak in a grave tone, repeating Rebecca’s tale to him, and warning everyone that if the Russian mafia was after one of their own, they all needed to take special precautions. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary so far. The meeting ended with everyone telling
Eventually, Silvio put all 420 cases of wine into a truck and drove it to Richie’s house. He asked Richie to “get rid of it” for him.
When Richie opened a bottle, he was stunned to realize that although it hadn’t aged long, it tasted a lot like a great Italian Barolo Riserva, one of the more expensive reds around.
His uncle told him that if he could sell it for four dollars a bottle, he’d recoup the money he put into making and bottling it. All he wanted was to get his twenty-thousand dollars back. Since California had recently enacted a law saying it was okay to sell homemade wines at charity events, that was good enough for Richie. Charity began at home, and without this money, his uncle might go broke and become a burden to the state.
Richie contacted a number of friends who owned restaurants, and offered them the wine for free, along with a donation of six dollars a bottle. He’d keep the extra two bucks a bottle for himself, and make about ten large for his time. He figured that if the guys who took the wine happened to mix Silvio’s wines with the house wines used to serve their customers, it wasn’t his fault.
He sold about a third of Uncle Silvio’s wine that way; and that was when his problems began.
As restaurant owners served the wine as a house red, customers who knew wines started to rave about it, and sent friends to taste the great red being poured.
Word spread, and people soon began asking about the brand and year. As the restaurant owners said it was a secret, curiosity and interest grew.
Three people who weren’t even friends came to Richie with requests for ten cases each. Richie was surprised. He charged the first person ten dollars a bottle; the second fifteen; and when the third gladly paid twenty dollars per, Richie knew he was sitting on something special.
And that, he guessed, was what brought the state license bureau nosing around.
He got into the truck and drove it to Vito’s driveway in the Marina district. Vito was at work. He did indoor house-painting when he wasn’t making more money by helping Richie with his various projects, which was most of the time.
Richie left him a message saying the truck was at his house, and then took a cab back to Big Caesar’s to pick up his Porsche. He was tempted to drive over to the Hall of Justice to make sure his Beemer was okay out there in the parking lot, but he guessed if a parking lot filled with cops’ personal cars wasn’t a safe place to leave in car in the city, there was no hope for the rest of them.
Not that he wanted to go there because he was worried about Rebecca Mayfield.
Or, so he wanted to believe.
o0o
Earlier that morning, on the way to work for Eastwood’s special meeting, Rebecca drove to her apartment and spent twenty minutes looking for Spike with no luck. She didn’t try Bradley and Kiki’s flats. If either of them had found Spike, they would have called her. Besides, she and Richie had stopped by her apartment after leaving the hospital and had spent more time searching. But they found no trace of him.
Feeling as if her heart had been ripped out, she continued on to Homicide.
She kept her mouth shut as her boss, Lieutenant Eastwood strode out of his office to Homicide’s main room. He was of medium build, 49 years of age, but had grayed prematurely and now had a thick head of silver-colored hair that he wore swept to one side with a perceptive wave and a small pomp above his forehead. He had also called her partner and the weekend on-call team, Luis Calderon and Bo Benson, into the bureau for the meeting. He put his other two detectives, Paavo Smith and Toshiro Yoshiwara, on speaker phone.
Eastwood began to speak in a grave tone, repeating Rebecca’s tale to him, and warning everyone that if the Russian mafia was after one of their own, they all needed to take special precautions. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary so far. The meeting ended with everyone telling
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