Three O'Clock Séance: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 3) Read Online Free Page A

séances with Geller. She was, in fact, one of the very first Sandoristas in San Francisco. All in all, to me, her story sounds too similar to Betty Faroni’s to be a coincidence.”
    “Now I remember!” Rebecca opened a file cabinet drawer, rifled through it, then pulled out a folder and put it on her desk. “It’s not a cold case, because it wasn’t even a case.”
    She looked through the papers, then stopped at one of them and read it over quickly. “This is it. The deceased, Neda Fourman, was eighty-nine years old and had a heart condition. When the building manager found her dead in her apartment, we were called in. I remember Bill Sutter, who was working the scene with me, finding pamphlets about life after death, séances, and a group called the Sandoristas. At first he thought she was involved in Nicaraguan politics—as in San -din- istas. It was actually pretty funny.”
    At Richie’s expression, she said, “Death-cop gallows humor, what can I say?”
    He grinned at that, and then stood and leaned over her shoulder to look at the file with her.
    “Anyway,” she continued, “the M.E. checked her over and we ruled it a death by natural causes.”
    “I see,” Richie murmured as he skimmed through the paperwork.
    She found his nearness unsettling, and scooted to one side. “I have a couple of contacts in the LAPD, and I’ll see if they saw anything at all questionable about the deaths of Betty Faroni and her friend. They might even have something on Geller.” She shut the file, and he straightened. “Time to go.”
    Richie drove her back to her apartment, and then walked her to the door by the garage that led to the breezeway. There, he stopped.
    “Good-night, Rebecca,” he said. “Thanks for looking into all this.”
    She nodded. “No problem. You’re being a good son, looking out for your mother’s friend.”
    “I look out, as much as I can, for everyone I care about,” he said, his voice and eyes soft.
    She quickly unlocked the door, and then stepped into the breezeway before she faced him again. “Good-night. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”
    She shut the door and waited until she heard the Porsche’s engine start, and then, with a sigh, she headed for her apartment.

 
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    The next morning, Richie picked up his phone to call his friend Shay, aka Henry Ian Tate III, aka HIT-man, with information about Neda Fourman: age, address, and date of death. He’d gotten the data as he leaned over Rebecca in Homicide last night. Thinking about being that close to her, alone, the lights dim … it had been all he could do not to pick up where they’d left off some months ago in his living room, the first and only time he’d ever seriously kissed her. He might have given her a peck on the cheek in greeting or whatever from time to time, but that day, in his living room, now that was a kiss.
    Hell. Who knew he’d have such thoughts while in a Homicide bureau? His friends would snicker.
    He had realized back then that he was starting to fall for her and broke it off. She was the type of woman a guy could get serious about, which made her the last type he wanted in his life.
    And since she’d made it clear she didn’t care to ever get serious about him, things were cool between them. Cool in the good sense.
    That was why he was able to ask her to help him find out about this modern day Harry Houdini. They were simply friends and this was strictly business, quiet nights in Homicide notwithstanding.
    He made the call. Shay picked up, and Richie gave him the information. He didn’t even need to say what he wanted done with it. Shay would know. Talk about psychic—the guy was spooky, and it wasn’t because of any mind-reading ability.
    Shay liked to say the moniker “HIT-man” referred to his prowess as a computer hacker, but he was also a deadly shot, military-sniper level, and he owned a battery of fire arms. Rumor had it he had an MBA from the Wharton School of