Free Four O'Clock Sizzle: An Inspector Rebecca Mayfield Mystery (The Rebecca Mayfield Mysteries Book 4) by Joanne Pence Page A

EIGHT
     
    If Rebecca were still a patrol officer, she’d want to work at Central Station. It had nothing to do with the physical space, which looked like Hollywood’s version of an old, grubby precinct with a high front desk to meet the public, and a cluttered open room for the officers with mismatched, ancient desks. To make matters worse, it was at street level below a multi-storied parking garage. But as in real estate, it was all about the location. Central Station was on Vallejo Street between Grant and Stockton, an area where Chinatown blended with North Beach. Of the city’s nine police stations, Central patrolled seven of the top ten San Francisco tourist attractions, including Fisherman’s Wharf, Coit Tower, Union Square, Nob Hill, and Russian Hill, as well as the city’s major hotels.
    Rebecca once went up to the top level of the parking structure. The view of the city skyline with the bay, Alcatraz, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Coit Tower, was breath-taking.
    She always had a spring in her step as she entered Central. As the desk clerk directed her to Lottie Hernandez’s desk, she saw the officer smiling broadly while speaking to a man whose back was to Rebecca.
    Hernandez spotted her and waved her forward. The man turned and stood. He looked like he had just stepped out of a Seagram’s advertisement. He had seemed handsome enough in the magazine article, but it was nothing compared to the raw sexuality he exuded in real life. The thought crossed her mind that this was the kind of power and attraction that the tabloid had described.
    “Mr. Brannigan, Inspector Mayfield,” Rebecca said, shaking his hand as she reached the desk.
    “Call me Moss.” His blue eyes twinkled outrageously.
    She smiled and then greeted Officer Hernandez and thanked her for calling. Hernandez showed the two of them to an interview room, and then she joined them. Looking at Brannigan—Moss—Rebecca didn’t blame her. Talk about eye candy.
    “I understand something happened that has worried you,” Rebecca said. “Why don’t you start at the beginning and tell me all about it.”
    “I know Lottie, I mean Officer Hernandez, has already heard all this …” He flashed “Lottie” a megawatt smile. Rebecca couldn’t help but stare. The man actually had deep dimples. She usually didn’t care for dimples on a man, but on him they looked seriously sexy.
    “No problem,” Lottie said, beaming back at him. She was clearly not going anywhere. “You tell the Inspector all about it.”
    His piercing blue eyes met Rebecca’s. “I probably wouldn’t have thought too much about it if it weren’t for the arson attacks and that terrible beheading. What a horror story! I can’t even listen to the news anymore.”
    “Were you close to the men involved?” she asked.
    “Not really. I met Pierre Fontaine through business connections. We put together a package deal for tourists. But I only met the others once.”
    “When was that?”
    “Pierre asked me if I’d take part in a magazine article about bachelors who made it big in the city. Sounded like some great free publicity, so I said yes. Well, then, instead of what I was expecting, I learned San Francisco Beat was going to publish a hit piece on us. One of the guys involved, Richie Amalfi, got us together at Tanaka’s restaurant to discuss it. We thought about suing—defamation, slander, libel, whatever. Lots of threats and terms were tossed around, but the more we talked, the more we realized the piece probably wouldn’t hurt us for long. All of our businesses thrive on publicity. And you know what they say about publicity—it’s all good. Well, not good if people get food poisoning at a restaurant, or drown on my tour boat, or get bed bugs in Fontaine’s hotel. You know what I mean. But this—that a bunch of single guys are rich and interesting, and women (or in Travis’s case, men) like to hang out around us—what’s the problem? Finally, we decided to let the