by Joanne Pence
“Don’t say a word,” he cautioned. “They’ll think you’re a detective, too”—he looked down at her: petite, not a hair out of place, and dressed in designer clothes—“sort of. Stay back and let me do the talking. All the talking.”
“Okay.” She looked so wide-eyed and thrilled to be there that he had a sudden ghastly vision of her turning in an application for the police academy.
The main door to the apartments was unlocked. When they entered, the first thing that hit them was the stench—a mixture of urine, rancid oil, and cooking smells of cheap mutton and fish stew.
They walked up two flights to Apartment 15.
Paavo knocked on the door several times. When no one answered, he began to knock on other doors nearby. Finally, an elderly man peered into the corridor.
Paavo showed his badge as he introduced himself. “I’m looking for Hannah Dzanic. Have you seen her recently?”
“Hannah, you say?” The old man shouted. He wore a stained undershirt and pants that nearly fell off his butt, and smelled like cheap whiskey. “You’re looking for Hannah?”
“That’s right. Have you seen her?”
“Me? No.” He shook so badly he could hardly talk. “Can’t say as I have.”
“Is there a manager in the building?” Paavo shouted.
“Apartment One. You got any money you can spare?” He held out a thin, quivering palm.
Paavo gave him five bucks. A boozer in as bad shape as this old fellow could die from DTs if he was cut off from alcohol altogether.
“Thanks, mister.”
Paavo put his hand on Angie’s back and walked closer to her than he ever would if she were another detective. He wondered what he was thinking, bringing her to a place filled with this wreckage of humanity.
He had her stand to the side as he knocked on the manager’s door. A middle-aged blonde answered, gave him the once-over, and leaned seductively against the door. Her light cotton bathrobe was tightly cinched at the waist, and the front gaped open. “And what can I do for you?” she asked, her voice sultry.
Angie peeked around Paavo, clearly curious to see what was attached to a voice like that. The woman didn’t seem to notice her.
“Inspector Smith, SFPD. I’m looking for Hannah Dzanic.” He showed his badge. “Are you the manager here?”
The woman’s name was Martha Brass. Paavo asked her basic identifying questions for his records, then continued. “No one answered Dzanic’s door when I knocked. Apparently she hasn’t shown up for work for a few days.”
“Did you try the hospital?” Brass asked. Her eye caught Angie’s, and her hand went to her neckline, closing the gap a little. “She was due anytime. Maybe she’s there?”
“We’ve checked. When did you last see her?”
“I can’t remember. She worked at some dive down the wharf. That’s all I know.”
“Did she come home most nights after work?”
“I don’t run a Sunday school here, mister,” she said with an aptly brassy laugh. “But I’ll say that when she first moved in, she was hardly around. Once she got herself knocked up, she was here most nights. I’ve seen that before, let me tell you.”
“Did she talk much about the baby’s father?” he asked.
“She never talked to me, period—other than to pay the rent and complain about the noise when the people next door got in an argument. Kind of stuck up, though I don’t see why. She had nothing going for her that I could see.”
“Any idea where we could find her other friends?”
Angie made a “Mmph” sound. He ignored her.
“She didn’t have any other friends that I could tell,” Brass said. “Maybe she had the kid and took off. She seemed pretty unhappy most of the time.”
Angie tugged at his sleeve. She looked ready to explode. He couldn’t take it. “Okay,” he told her.
“Did she talk to anyone else in the building?” Angie asked. “She must have been friends with one of the neighbors. Didn’t anyone notice she hadn’t been home for a few days?”
Brass looked at Paavo. “Is she for real?” Then to Angie. “Miss, this ain’t the kind of place where the neighbors hold Tupperware parties, if you get my drift. They probably don’t know she’s missing, and they sure as hell don’t care.”
“Oh.” Angie shrank back into the woodwork.
“I’d like to make sure she isn’t in her apartment,” Paavo said. “Maybe she’s sick in there. Or worse.”
Brass’s eyes went round and bulging. “Good God! Let me get my keys.”
They followed Brass up the stairs. Angie half expected her to dislocate her hips the way she swung them as she walked, her hands stuffed in her pockets in a way that made the robe cling to her huge, obviously silicone-enhanced breasts. Angie couldn’t help but wonder if she hadn’t once worked in one of the places below them. Or if she still did. With that body, most of the patrons probably didn’t care that her face looked like Father Time.
Martha unlocked the door to Hannah’s apartment and stood back, letting Paavo enter first, Angie next.
The apartment was bare except for what probably came with it—a double bed with no head-board, a bureau, sofa, table, and two chairs.
Even seeing the bareness of the place, Angie was still troubled that Hannah had made no provisions for her baby. No baby clothes or furniture, not even diapers or receiving blankets. It wasn’t natural. No matter how poor, women had a nesting instinct when pregnant and found a way to provide no matter what it took.
This made no sense at all to her.
“Here’s her hairbrush,” Martha said, lifting it from the dresser top. “Do you want it? You can pick up DNA from hair, and this has lots of hair in it. I saw that on CSI.”
“Thanks,” Paavo said, his expression strained. “We’ll keep it in mind. Hopefully, we won’t need it.” He handed her a card. “Here’s my phone number. If Hannah returns, or you see or hear anything at all about her, give me a call. Anything at all,” he repeated.
“I will,” she said, reading the card. “Paavo. That’s an odd name. What kind of name is it?”
“Odd? I didn’t know that,” he said, then gave Angie a time-to-get-out-of-here nod.
She saw it but was so busy studying the apartment it didn’t register. How could a person live in a place like this? she wondered. It was so sad, so depressing. She’d want to at least put some flowers in it. Or bright curtains. Anything to take away the dinginess, not to mention the stuffy, moldy smell that permeated the room. She wondered if they’d let her open a window.
Paavo nodded at her again.
She nodded back. On the dresser she saw a card for “Dianne Randle, Department of Social Services, City and County of San Francisco.” Angie vaguely remembered Stan saying something about Hannah going to county welfare.
If so, would it give Hannah enough money to get her out of this apartment? Maybe Hannah had gone to this Randle for help. Or to find a place to hide, perhaps?
Angie had to believe Hannah would come back—and that Stan could do something to help her. One solution would be for him to marry Hannah and take care of her child. That wasn’t such a far-fetched idea. Hannah looked at him with something akin to hero worship, and he was clearly in love with her. In fact, the more Angie thought about it, Hannah would be perfect for Stan.
She’d make him settle down and develop a sense of responsibility. Not only would such a marriage benefit Hannah and Kaitlyn, but Stan as well.
On the other hand, Angie remembered what happened not so long ago when she tried to help Connie with her love life. She shuddered at the memory. Maybe it would be best to stay out of Stan’s romantic affairs.
But on yet another hand—had she just come up with three hands?—someone had to do something about Hannah and Kaitlyn. If not Stan, then who?
Speaking of hands, she suddenly felt Paavo’s grip her arm. Her feet scarcely touched the ground as he led her out the door.
“Did I miss something?” she asked.
>
Chapter 19
Paavo and Rebecca reconnoitered in Homicide to talk about Sherlock Farnsworth. Rebecca told him about the goose egg her investigation had become, and he told her about the missing Hannah Dzanic.
Rebecca went back through her notes and read aloud the parts about Farnsworth’s concerns about a pregnant woman.
Much as he hated to, Paavo phoned Stan, waking him from a deep sleep, and asked for everything Hannah had ever said about Farnsworth, a.k.a. Shelly Farms.
“All I remember was that he helped her with things like getting her and the baby on welfare, and that she was worried because she hadn’t seen him for a few days.”
Paavo and Rebecca nodded. “Let’s go,” Paavo said.
The Athina was nothing like the type of restaurant Angie usually frequented. Paavo was astonished by it.
They interviewed Eugene and Gail Leer, Tyler Marsh and the cook, Michael Zeno. No one could tell them anything about Hannah’s whereabouts or Shelly Farms. “I know nothing!” was everyone’s favorite line. Tyler wouldn’t even admit to being the baby’s father, but fell back on the old line that he was one of several men Hannah had been seeing. From the way Angie had described Hannah, as well as what he’d gleaned from Hannah’s landlady, that wasn’t very likely.
It was also clear the Athina people were nervous about something, and having two cops in the restaurant made it worse. They’d be watched.
At the same time, Angie sat in the living room of the beautiful Marin County home of her second sister, Caterina. It was in Tiburon and had a magnificent view of the city across the bay.
“Cat” as Caterina currently preferred to be called, handed her a caramel macchiato latte. She’d just bought herself a nine-hundred-dollar espresso machine and was trying out all her favorite coffee shop recipes.
“I don’t know what to do,” Angie said, eying the tall drink topped with whipped cream. “My party’s next weekend and everybody’s acting so strangely it’s driving me crazy. Paavo and Papà are pretending to be friends—you know that’s a disaster waiting to happen. Mamma burst into tears, Frannie’s jealous, Connie keeps to herself, and Stan has forgotten about food and is lovesick over a woman with a baby who’s run out and left him with the kid. Is the world coming to an end?”
“Well, I’m sure your party, at least, is under control,” Cat said. “You’re probably seeing preparty stress in Mamma, Papà, and Paavo. And it’s about time Stan thought about something besides his stomach. Things will work out.”
“Has Mamma said anything to you about the party?”
“Not a word.”
Angie couldn’t believe it. Serefina was one of the great talkers of the world. Keeping all this bottled up inside had to be a horrible strain. “Not even where it’ll be held? Surely you know.”
“I don’t.” Cat’s eyes sparkled. “But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
How many times had Angie heard that already?
“What does Paavo think about all this?” Cat asked.
“He’s more appalled than anything,” Angie admitted. “I thought he was okay with it, but he acts strangely whenever I bring up Papà. I wish those two would settle their differences. Did Papà treat all of your fiancés this way?”
“You’ve always been his favorite,” Cat said. “He’s more protective of you than the rest of us.”
“I don’t think so!” Angie cried.
“It’s natural. You’re the baby. You don’t know how much they missed you when you spent that year at the Sorbonne. They cried over every one of your letters, and read them over and over until the paper wore out.”
“I didn’t know that,” Angie admitted.
“It’s not something they would have told you. Relax about your party! You’re so much like Mamma, you want to stick your fingers into everything! They want your party to be as lovely and memorable as you do, and it will be. Don’t worry.”
Angie was dumbfounded. “I’m like Mamma?”
Feeling somewhat better after the heart-to-heart with her sister, not to mention the caramel macchiato, Angie set off for a place she’d never been to before: a welfare office.
The waiting room was packed with women and squalling children, and many of the mothers looked like they were children themselves. Most of the youngsters appeared well fed and happy. Some of the mothers were exceedingly well fed, but none seemed happy.
Several glowered at her, and she realized this was not the place to wear an Escada pantsuit with a Gucci bag and shoes. Her handbag alone probably cost close to what these women had to live on for a month. She tucked the offending bag under her arm but then realized they probably thought she was protecting it from them. At that point, she wasn’t sure what to do with it.
The line to the front desk was long. It wasn’t as if she were there to apply for anything, so she stood off to the side until she caught the eye of an employee in the back. The woman looked stunned to see Angie waving at her and approached.
Angie met her at the end of the front counter. “I need to talk to Dianne Randle,” Angie said.
The clerk’s head bobbed up and down several times, taking in Angie from head to toe. “Is she your worker?”
“My what?”
“Your social worker. Does she handle your case?”
Angie glanced down at her clothes. She might have to rethink her casual attire. “I have to speak to her about one of her cases. Hannah Dzanic is missing. It’s…it’s a police matter.” She half cowered, expecting the wrath of Paavo to swoop down on her for hinting she might have anything to do with the police. She hadn’t actually said she was with the police, of course, and the woman hadn’t asked. Instead, she’d hurried into the back room.
Less than five uncomfortable minutes passed before the woman reappeared and asked Angie to follow her.
Dianne Randle handed the teenage girl sitting at her desk some forms and sent her away, then stood and invited Angie over. The social worker was in her fifties and matronly, with wiry salt-and-pepper hair capping her head. She wore a polyester gray suit, the jacket and skirt looking like one box atop the other. Every so often the jacket would shift and Angie could see a plain white shell under it. A gray and white scarf at the neckline looked more awkward than stylish.
The two shook hands. Randle had one of those enthusiastic I’m-here-to-help-you grips that left Angie’s knuckles aching.
“What is this about?” Randle asked as they sat. “Edith told me Hannah is missing.”
“That’s right.” Angie intended to tell Randle everything. “I was wondering if you’ve heard from her.”
Randle’s piercing blue eyes studied Angie. “What’s your interest in her?”
“I met her and liked her, then she disappeared. I’m afraid something may have happened to her. For one thing, she was genuinely fearful of the baby’s father, although she never said why. I was wondering if she came to you for help, or if you have any idea of others she might have gone to.”
Randle looked confused, then her jaw tightened. “Edith said…didn’t you say you’re with the police?”
“Me? No. The police are looking into this, but they have no leads, either.”
“Where’s the baby?” Randle asked.
Angie shifted. “The baby?”
“You said Hannah’s missing, but you didn’t mention the baby. Where is she?”
Suddenly Angie realized her mistake. If she told this woman that a man who was practically a stranger to Hannah was caring for her child, she’d have Child Protective Services descend on him and take Kaitlyn away. Once Hannah returned—and Angie had to believe she would—she could be charged with child abandonment and ruled an unfit mother. “I’m sorry,” Angie said nervously. “Hannah took the child with her.”
The way Randle’s eyes bored into her, it was all she could do not to drop to her knees and beg forgiveness for lying. She was sure Randle was quite successful at keeping her charges well in line.
“I don’t believe I can help yo
u, Miss Amalfi.” Randle’s firm tone offered no compromise.
Angie stood. It had been a mistake to come here. Randle walked her to the door. The black Ferragamo pumps she wore surprised Angie. She might not have any taste in suits, but her feet were happy.
With that admittedly strange thought, Angie left.
Chapter 20
The two sat on a bench in the middle of the Stonestown Mall holding newspapers in front of their faces as Elizabeth Schull walked by on the way into a party goods store, Paavo scowling, Sal curious.
When Paavo learned Sal was casing his own store to see what Schull was up to during her lunch break, he decided he’d better get over there, much as he didn’t want to.
Schull went first to the food mart section for a cobb salad to go, and now this. They’d simply moved from bench to bench, nose in newspaper the entire time, watching her.
“It’s good you have a badge,” Sal said as he eyed the party goods store. “You show it to the store owner, and he’ll tell us what she bought in there. Then we’ll know if it’s anything we need to worry about.”
“He doesn’t have to tell us if he doesn’t want to,” Paavo pointed out. “There are rules against such things.”
“He’ll want to,” Sal said. “Or else.”
Yeah, right, Paavo thought. As if it were that easy.
“Is this like police work?” Sal asked behind the newspaper.
“We rarely do anything like this,” Paavo said, wondering about the man’s obsession with his job. He shifted the paper to the side, his gaze on the storefront.
“Ever kill anybody?” was Sal’s next question.
“Yes.” After a moment, Paavo added, “It was terrible.”
“I know that Angie saved your life around the time you first met,” Sal sat quietly. “I was worried about her, what she had to do, but she was level-headed.”
“It was clearly self-defense as well.”
“I know. Still…” He sighed. “Do you know how much Serefina and I worry about her? She’s impulsive. Doesn’t always think things through.”