To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (19 page)

Donald Porter, the former museum curator, called Angie’s cell phone the next afternoon. He’d found a peculiar story in a Russian newspaper about her brooch. A radical group of dissidents had removed it from the Hermitage, and while it was being smuggled out of the country, the smugglers were caught. They and the dissidents were arrested. The article did not say, however, what had become of the beautiful cameo of the Tsarina. The assumption was that it had been returned to the museum, but since Angie had it, obviously that wasn’t true.

“That’s an amazing story.” She thanked Porter and hung up.

After relaying this information to Paavo’s answering machine—he was never around when she called, it seemed—she did something she’d wanted to for some time. She caught a taxi for the trip across town to the Cypress Motel.

An up-close-and-personal view of the seedy area, however, made her question the wisdom of leaving the cab.

“Drive around a bit,” she requested. “I’d like to take a look at this part of town.”

“You get a kick out of slumming, lady?”

She didn’t bother to answer.

Cecily and Mika’s apartment was not anywhere near this area. While Angie could understand the family going into hiding after Sam was killed, what had made them come to this part of town?

The driver circled around several busy streets, knowing how to increase a fare. In the middle of a block stood a barren theater, its lobby boarded, and the outdoor ticket booth a poster board for graffiti and cheap, homemade flyers. “Stop!” she yelled.

The words Bernal Heights Theater stretched along the top of the now empty marquee. BHT.

Why would Cecily have brought her children this far from home to a movie? There were plenty of theaters in her area, much nicer ones, too. This area hadn’t deteriorated in the last thirty years. It was always bad.

“Let’s go back to that motel,” she said, deep in thought. “And I’d like you to wait for me.”

The cab pulled into the parking lot. Her chest tightened at the sight of the places Paavo had mentioned—Room 8 and the vending area.

“You looking for a room?” A rumpled, middle-aged man stood in the office doorway. As he observed the quality of her Jil Sander pants suit and Gucci boots, he openly ogled her.

“Hi.” Her cheerful greeting sounded forced as she introduced herself and handed him a business card. “I’m writing a book on places of some notoriety in San Francisco—exciting spots that people will want to come and visit for a few days.”

“I’ve never heard of notoriety being a drawing card.” He frowned, as if she could make his business even worse.

“Oh, but it is. Think of all the people who drove by O.J.’s place on Rockingham Way,” she said.

“But would they want to sleep there?”

“Trust me.” She followed him into an office furnished in rattan with threadbare cushions in need of fumigation. He stepped behind the counter and swiveled his reservation book toward her. Hope springs eternal, she supposed. “I heard a famous murder happened right here thirty years ago—guns blazing, a Mafia hit, Al Pacino barking orders.”

“You’re the second person who’s asked about that this week.” He stroked his chin.

“There you go!” she cried. “Instant fame.” She bent close, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “What can you tell me?”

“Nothing. I don’t know nothing about it. I’ll try to find out for you, though. Fifty bucks for tonight, special rate. I’ll give you my best room. Tomorrow I might know something.”

She straightened. “No way.”

“Yeah, well…” He shrugged as if to say it didn’t hurt to ask.

“Tell me,” she said. “Do you know people you can ask about what happened years back?”

“Not really. It was strange, though, this place.” He shut the reservation book and shoved it in the corner. “When I first bought the motel, there were a lot of weird people hanging around it.”

“Oh? What kind?”

“You know.” He bent forward, elbows on the countertop.

“No, I don’t.” She casually leaned a hip against it.

“Guys with guns.”

Her knees went weak. “Criminals? Gangs?”

“No, no. Not that kind. Suits.”

She could scarcely believe her ears. “Suits? You mean government types? G-men?”

“Yeah. You know, they all looked like Efrem Zim
balist, Jr. They soon stopped coming after I took over, but for a long time I’d always wondered if this might have been used as one of those, uh, what do you call it…?”

She braced her palms on the counter. “A safe house?”

“Yeah! That’s it!”

Harold Partridge sat in the glow of the lamplight in his big, empty house, a black lacquered Russian jewelry box nestled in his hands. It was just a little thing, with a design on its lid of a colorful, fairy-tale village. For some reason, he loved this symbol of the natural, peasantlike life he’d never had, of a warm, happy home, of love and laughter.

Not like his own home, with two ex-wives and three kids who hated him. At times, guilt and sorrow over the way he’d treated them nearly caused him to apologize, but then, they didn’t behave so well toward him either. They didn’t understand the pressures he was under. The pressures of business, and all he’d had to do to make it a success.

It wasn’t really his fault. None of it was.

He heard a sound and nearly jumped out of his skin. Leaping from the chair, his hand on his heart, he peered into the darkness, trying hard to see. A secret drawer in the lamp table held a gun, if he could only reach it.

“Who’s there?” he whispered. The gun caught the light, but the face was in shadow. “Do you want money? How much? Name your price, and go.”

All was silent.

“What do you want of me?” he pleaded.

The last sound he ever heard was a gunshot.

That night, Paavo went to visit Aulis. A night lamp beside the bed cast a dim yellow glow into the
room. In a dark corner, a nun sat quietly saying the rosary. He’d met her briefly once before.

“Oh my,” she said, startled to see him. She jumped to her feet. “I’ll be leaving. I don’t mean to disturb you.”

“You aren’t, Sister. Please stay. I’ll only be here a minute.” He reached for Aulis’s hand and held it as he greeted the old man. As ever, Aulis didn’t stir in the slightest.

With a heavy sigh, Paavo sat down in a chair beside the bed and bowed his head, still holding Aulis’s hand. He had spoken to the doctor on the phone and knew there was nothing that could be done but to wait, and hope.

“It gets to be almost too much, doesn’t it?” Sister Ignatius asked, sitting down again.

“It does,” he admitted. “It’s maddening that I can’t get through to him. Can’t make him better.”

“Sometimes it helps to talk, even if it’s only to a sorry old nun who spends her days sitting in hospital rooms.”

Her gentle voice warmed him. How could he trust her, though? Nun or not, he found it hard to open up to anyone, to tell others his inner thoughts and feelings. Yet when he gazed at her, something told him he had no reason not to trust this woman. He sensed he could confide in her as a person, not because she was a nun. It was disconcerting. He was a cop, not a psychic. Yet was there really so much difference? Sometimes he thought his most valuable cop’s tool was his discernment. To his surprise, he wanted to talk.

“There’s not much to tell,” he said finally, sitting straighter. He kept his eyes on Aulis.

“You love Angie very much, it seems.” The nun’s voice came to him from the shadows in which she sat.

Her words surprised him, but then he realized the two women probably had talked at some length. Girl talk, as it were. Angie was that way—very open and easy to converse with. “I do,” he admitted.

“Are you planning to marry?”

He kept his eyes on Aulis, and Angie’s description of Catholic confessionals came to mind. “I’d like that. She thinks she would.”

“You sound doubtful.”

“At times.”

“Why?”

The soft yellow night-light caught his attention. “Marriage means responsibilities, and to Angie, it means children. With my job, my background, I worry about doing right by them.”

“Your background?”

“I have almost no experience with families and how they work. I consider Aulis my father, but I lost my real parents when I was very young.”

“Don’t you remember them at all?”

He paused, and the silence of the night hospital descended over the room. “I didn’t think I remembered my father. Recently I saw a picture of him, and I discovered that I do.”

“That…that’s good.” She sounded somewhat puzzled by his words.

“Only a few things, general things, a sense of him, if not the man himself.”

“How old were you when he died?”

“Four.”

“It’s not surprising, then, that you don’t have a clear memory.” Her voice softened. “And your mother?”

He thought a moment. “I remember missing her.” His reply was spoken as quietly as her question. “I remember telling Aulis at times I was going to run away and look for her.”

“She…isn’t dead, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never tried to find out?”

“No. I’ll admit I thought about it. But as a child, Aulis taught me to forget about her. He said she was a heavy drinker, and hinted at a lot worse. When I asked Jessica—she was my older sister—she’d get upset, but in the end, she agreed.”

The nun fell silent, and Paavo stared a long while at the night-light. “I spent a lot of time questioning, and wondering, about my mother. Wondering about the responsibilities of a parent, and if she had any idea how her kids felt being dumped on some neighbor’s doorstep.”

The nun’s voice was gentle and soothing. “She must have known. Her going left a terrible void in your life—and in hers, too, I would imagine.”

“I tried hard to blame her—and to hate her. It never quite worked.”

He bowed his head.

“What about your sister?” the nun asked. “Did she remember your mother? Did she ever talk about her, or say she missed her?”

“We didn’t talk much about her. When we did, Jessie would grow sad. She remembered her well. The way Jessie used to talk, she made me think mothers were some magical creatures who knew how to make everything better in your life. She said our mom—Jessie used to call her ‘Mom’—would know when something was wrong even without us telling her, and she could make us feel better if we were sad. Jessie never gave up hope that Mom would come back. And then Jessie had no more time left to wait for her.”

“I’m so sorry,” the nun whispered.

The room fell absolutely still.

“If your mother is alive,” she said, “I would
imagine she never gave up hoping to come back to you. Whether or not she succeeded was in God’s hands. I think that if you were to believe, in your heart, that she wanted to return, you wouldn’t be far off, and it would be a comfort to you.”

He nodded.

She stood and gathered her things. “Gracious, I didn’t realize how late it is. Sister Agnes must be having fits. I’m always Sister Slowpoke. I’m glad we had a chance to talk, Inspector Smith.”

“Yes, so am I,” he said, feeling the empathy in her eyes.

“Good night, Sister.”

She nodded, and he heard the soft swish of her skirt as she left the room.

Angie awoke late in the day. Paavo had called her last night, but he hadn’t come to see her. She suspected he’d spent the night at Filbert Street, puzzling over the gunplay and danger around them, and possibly waiting for someone to approach the bungalow. The five
A.M.
news came on the radio before exhaustion overtook her worry and racing thoughts and she’d been able to fall asleep.

Before that, she’d spent a lot of time thinking. One question kept returning to her—why had Cecily brought her children to the Bernal Heights Theater? Irene had said she’d been worried about her boss, and Eldridge Sawyer would be plenty to worry about. Irene had also said she’d been visiting Cecily that last night when Sam called Mika and he left in a hurry. It made no sense that Cecily would suddenly decide to take the children to a movie, yet why else would the movie stubs from that particular theater have ended up in Jessica’s wallet? Somehow it had to be connected.

As dawn lit the sky, Angie came up with a plan that seemed like a good one. Now, in the harsh light of day, she wondered if she dared try it.

Paavo turned onto Harold Partridge’s driveway and immediately stopped. The large circular path was filled with blue and white cars from the Santa Clara County sheriff’s office.

Paavo got out of his car and showed his badge. “What’s going on?”

“Harold Partridge was killed. His housekeeper found the body this morning.”

“Killed? How?”

“From what I’ve been told, a single shot, middle of his forehead.”

Paavo left Partridge’s home as soon as possible after talking to the investigator assigned to the case. The fellow looked stricken. Not only were there few murders in Santa Clara County’s jurisdiction, no victims had been as famous as Harold Partridge.

Fortune 500 moguls getting assassinated in their homes tended to create lots of questions, even in the minds of green investigators, and Paavo answered as many as he could, keeping information about the Russian brooch out of the story. He explained his presence by saying that he was investigating Gregor Rosinsky’s murder, and that the jeweler had phoned Partridge three days before he’d been killed.

He emphasized that he was unaware of any connection between Partridge and Rosinsky’s murder, and that he was merely getting background information on the jeweler. He convinced the county investigator to let him leave before the press got wind that a San Francisco cop was there. They would have a field day speculating on any statement he might give them—including a “No comment.” The last thing Paavo wanted was any publicity.

The investigator agreed, and Paavo left, uneasy
about his evasiveness and lack of candor. It nagged at him as he drove back to San Francisco and the Hall of Justice.

Back at his desk, he dialed Bradley’s home number. It was already evening on the East Coast. When the special agent came on the line, Paavo asked him for all the background files, paperwork, or reports having to do with the FBI’s attempt to place Cecily and her family into the Witness Protection Program.

“First, little if anything is put in writing in cases like that, and second, I can’t do it, Paavo.” Bradley’s voice was subdued. “There are too many questions being asked about these files already. Someone noticed that they’ve been moving. It sent up a red flag. Any more requests and they’ll want to know why. What you’re doing isn’t department business, and you’re getting classified information. There’s got to be a reason for it.”

“There is a reason. Harold Partridge was murdered this morning.”

“I heard. Hell, the whole country heard. You saying he had a hand in this?”

“That’s right.”

“Holy shit.”

“Exactly. He was tied in, somehow, with what went down thirty years ago, and I need to find out what that was.”

“Damn, Paavo, I can’t do it. You know the penalty for unauthorized use of these files. It could mean my job, and if Partridge was a player as well…”

“A lot more than a job is at stake, Bradley. I’ve got to stop it. I think I’ve just skimmed the surface. The answer might be in those files.”

“Look, I don’t have those records anyway. They’re in San Francisco. Background reports like you’re talking about are in local files, probably microfiche,
not anything we’d put in our database. And probably nothing exists, anyway! I can’t help you.”

“You can get me access to the files,” Paavo demanded.

“I can’t. They’re there; I’m here.”

“Fax me an authorization.”

“I’m not high enough to authorize shit! I’m sorry, buddy, but you’re on your own in this one.”

Paavo hung up. Maybe he should try Bond again, see if he could get the guy to level with him. Bond clearly knew a lot more than he was saying, but until finding Sawyer, Paavo had no way to prove it. If he hurried, he’d get to the FBI before the office closed, although he expected Bond and many agents stayed around after hours, much like S.F.P.D. inspectors did.

He went down to the parking lot, to the city-issue car he was using. As he walked toward it, he heard footsteps behind him.

He turned to see Eldridge Sawyer approach. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“What’s this about?” Paavo asked. Sawyer was wearing a suit, carrying a thin brown briefcase, and looked like the quintessential FBI agent.

“I’ve got some answers for you, but not here.” Only the tough, wide-legged stance, the darting steel-gray eyes, resembled the survivalist Paavo had met earlier.

Paavo nodded and unlocked the unmarked Ford. Sawyer got into the passenger seat. “Head toward the Embarcadero,” Sawyer said, looking from side to side and back to make sure they weren’t being followed.

Once they passed the congestion of the downtown area, Sawyer seemed to relax.

“Any time you’re ready to talk,” Paavo said, “I’m listening.”

“I thought a lot about what you were saying—and the fact that you found me. First, I’m moving on. Gideon’s history. But I came across some files I thought you ought to see. They’re about your mother.”

“Files? Where did you get them?”

“There was a lot of shit going down when I was at the Bureau. I found out too much, and I didn’t want to end up dead like Cecily and your old man. I would have been next.”

“You worked a lot more closely with her than you wanted me to believe,” Paavo said.

“What makes you think that?”

“If you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have known enough to be worried about. What was your role? Was she ever a research clerk, or did you know from the beginning that she’d be doing a lot more?”

“Take a right up there, then left at the next corner.” Sawyer stared straight ahead as Paavo turned as directed. “You knew those times. We were suspicious of everything and everybody, especially those connected to so-called student movements. The groups behind them were no more students than I was.”

“And if you could turn up some information no one else knew about, it would have made your career, wouldn’t it? You called Cecily ambitious and deceitful—you were the same, right?”

“In the middle of the next block, pull over and park.”

Again Paavo did as Sawyer said. They were in an industrial area near the water, the Bay Bridge directly overhead. Sawyer removed a folder from the briefcase and handed it to Paavo. “I never meant for it to end up this way.” With that, he got out of the car and ran across four lanes of traffic to a
white Chevrolet. The car started up and turned immediately onto the bridge approach.

Paavo could have made a U-turn and followed, but he saw no reason to. Whatever wrong or misplaced ideas Sawyer might have had in the past, he wasn’t the one behind all that was going on now. All Sawyer wanted was to hide from those same people—a desire Angie and her cousin had disrupted. That, and an obvious sense of guilt, had brought him here today.

Paavo opened the file. It was filled with photocopies of Cecily’s reports, Sawyer’s reports, and notes about recruiting her for undercover work—having her befriend a female history professor as a way into the anti-Soviet movement.

Sawyer did a good job sanitizing the file, but still, his own cowardice came through loud and clear.

The investigative report at the end of the file stopped Paavo cold. It wasn’t an FBI report at all, but an incident report, prepared by the Federal Building’s own security staff in case of escalating trouble, of Cecily Campbell’s attack on Tucker Bond.

As he read the eyewitness reports by Filomena Almazol and Roberta King from the typing pool, a clerk named Randy Fineman, and finally Eldridge Sawyer, a startling picture emerged.

Cecily had approached Bond in the building’s parking garage as he arrived at work early on the morning of October 8, five days after Mika’s death. As soon as he stepped out of his car, she ran up to him and began screaming at him.

All heard her accuse Bond of betrayal—that they’d met Thursday night, she’d told him “everything,” and he had used and betrayed her. Bond tried to get her to calm down, but she didn’t. She was crying, and said it suddenly had all come together for her. Looking at the words used, Paavo
could see Sawyer’s conclusion that the two had been lovers.

Bond protested that he’d done nothing, and she ran off, saying she’d get even with him—she’d make him pay.

When the security staffer interviewed Bond about the incident, he said he didn’t know what Cecily was talking about, that he’d never met with her anywhere. In fact, on the night she’d alleged they’d met, he’d been out with a friend, and had proof.

Paavo went to the next page on-screen to see Bond’s alibi. As he looked at it, he suddenly understood exactly what had happened.

Angie would have liked to give Paavo a call, but she didn’t dare dig into her tote bag and try to steer this behemoth at the same time. The fellow at the Mercedes dealership had sworn driving an SUV was as effortless as any automobile when she’d asked to test-drive the ML55 AMG. But she felt like she was navigating a Muni bus, and everyone knew how often they got into accidents in this city. While she liked being up high, she had no idea what was happening along the sides or back of the SUV. Once she’d tried to change lanes, and nearly sideswiped a Honda Civic. She was just starting to get a feel for the side-view mirrors. On top of that, the car had so many dials and gizmos, she was afraid she’d jettison herself if she pushed the wrong button.

She needed a car for a number of reasons, like going to a grocery to stock the Filbert Street bungalow with TV dinners for Paavo, visiting Connie for some clear-eyed, not-caught-in-the-middle perspective on all this, and even going car-shopping at different dealerships. Trying to do all that in taxis was inconvenient and time-consuming. Besides, her hotel room was quickly resembling a prison cell.

The first stop on her itinerary was the most important. Last night she’d thought of someone who might possibly have a good idea of what Cecily had been up to the night Sam was killed.

Up ahead, the building loomed.

Street parking was all filled, as were nearby parking lots. An empty, yellow-painted loading zone took up most of the sidewalk. Heck, as far as she was concerned, the SUV was big enough to be a truck, and it was probably too late for deliveries anyway. She stopped the Mercedes at one end of the zone, locked the doors, and hurried across the street into the building.

As she rode up on the elevator, she checked her cell phone and set it to go straight to the message center so that it wouldn’t ring and disturb her meeting. Immediately on reaching her floor, she turned away from the reception area and walked down the hallway, reading nameplates on doors for the person she wanted to speak with. She found the right one and knocked.

“Excuse me, miss.” The receptionist stepped out of the public office and called to her. “You need to check in first.”

“But this is the person I want to talk to,” Angie said.

Just then, a tall, hawklike man opened the door. He looked down at Angie, then at the receptionist. “It’s all right,” he said. “I’ll see her.” He meticulously rubbed a speck of dirt off the doorframe, and then held the door wide for Angie to enter.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “It’ll only take a minute of your time. I wanted to talk to you about a movie-ticket stub I recently found.”