Free Two O'Clock Heist: A Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 2) by Joanne Pence

she even gave him a one-armed hug—her other arm still holding Spike. “Thank you so much—and your friends. However did they find him? And he looks and smells so good.” She petted Spike, straightening the green bow that held his topknot. “I can’t believe they even took him to a groomer’s.”
    “Actually,” he admitted, looking well pleased by her reaction. “I did. He had gotten filthy out there. They found him hiding in Huntington Park.”
    “Oh, my God! He crossed California Street? It’s got so many cars, and even a cable car. I can’t imagine how he made it.”
    “Don’t think about it,” Richie suggested. “Fortunately, no one took him home. Although the guys who found him said they could understand why. He wasn’t exactly friendly when they tried to pick him up, and his teeth may be small, but they’re sharp.”
    “I’ll give them a reward for all their troubles,” Rebecca said. “And their bites.”
    “Don’t worry about it.”
    She knew then he must have paid them for their time and trouble—probably more than she could afford. “Thank you,” she said simply, then walked down the stairs to the yard and sat on the bottom step. Richie sat beside her as Spike brought her the red ball. She laughed, and tossed it for him until he grew tired, crawled back to her lap and lay down. His eyes soon shut and he snored lightly.
    She smiled at him, and then her gaze went to Richie, leaning forward, his forearms resting on his thighs as he stared out at the garden.
    He looked so thoughtful and serious, she ran her hand lightly over his back. He turned his head and looked questioningly at her. Her fingers went to his hair, touching just the very ends of it above his shirt collar. It was black as night, thick, wavy and soft. She saw a strand or two of gray, reminding her that he wasn’t a kid any more, but a man, a mature man.
    She drew back her hand as if she were playing with fire, and perhaps she was. But right now, for this one moment, she cherished knowing someone who had gone out of his way for her and her pet. No matter what others thought about him, Richie would always have a place in her heart for this kindness.
    Flustered by such thoughts, she blurted out the only thing she could think of. “Has Spike eaten?”
    He straightened. “I fed him as soon as he got here. All I had was a steak, but I cut it up small and cooked it. He scarfed it down.”
    “I’ll bet he did.”
    “Then we went to the groomer’s. The sister of a friend of mine owns a shop. I wanted her to check him out, to see if he needed to go to a vet. She’s sure he’s fine. These little dogs are apparently ratters, and that’s probably what he ate.”
    “Eeuuw! I don’t want to hear that. Poor Spike. But thank you for taking such good care of him.”
    “Hey, I’m fond of the mutt, too, you know.”
    o0o
    Talk of food made them hungry, and they decided on Richie’s spaghetti, especially since Spike ate the only steak in the house.
    As Richie cooked, Rebecca told him about her discovery that a Russian named Shurik Charkov owned the houseboat that Karen and Yuri lived in. She added that she was trying to find a home address for him, but so far, no luck.
    “Shurik Charkov?” he repeated with a frown.
    “Yes. Do you know him?”
    “No, no. Never met the guy.” He told her he would get his friend, Shay, on it. She had met Shay two months earlier. He was one of the handsomest men she had ever seen—tall, buff, blond hair, blue eyes, tanned, with impeccable taste in clothes, particularly neck scarves and ascots. And he was incredibly adept in the use of both computers and firearms.
    What was there not to like? Only that some of the things he said and implied, and on occasion the way he acted, made her nervous. He wasn’t—she didn’t think—a psychopath, but he wasn’t exactly normal either.
    Of course, the longer she worked in Homicide, the less faith she had that anyone was normal. 
    Richie knew how to make a