by Joanne Pence
“Hah! You subtle? That’s the day I’ll become the next Mrs. Donald Trump! Anyway, why should there be a next time?”
“Because TV pays a lot more than newspapers.”
Connie tasted her salad, and decided to add a bit more salt. Quick as a flash, Angie taped her salting the food. “Your point?” Connie asked. Now she was grimacing at the camcorder, too.
“When I realized I was actually glad my apartment had been broken into so I had an excuse to move in with Paavo, I knew it was time to do something about our living situation.” Angie took a bite of salad, and chewed thoughtfully before continuing. “I want to be with him. Despite the break-ins, we had a great day yesterday—we saw his friends at the police department, contacted his insurance company, then shopped for a new bed for him. Of course, this morning when I woke up in a beautiful hotel room—romantic, room service, every convenience at the touch of a button—and I found a note beside me instead of a man, I gritted my teeth. I swear, he doesn’t have a clue. Not a clue!”
“You don’t sound very worried about those break-ins,” Connie said as Angie rolled the camera on her salad and softly spoke into it about crispness and a slightly tinny flavor.
“In the clear light of day, I decided they were nothing,” Angie said, the taping momentarily over. “I’m sure whoever broke in was searching for money, and something scared them away before they realized I don’t keep money at home, and before they took any of my valuables. I’ll bet they saw Paavo’s name and address among my things. Maybe they thought we were together and figured since they’d been scared off from my place, they’d hit his. Who knows?”
“You’re making a lot of assumptions, girlfriend.”
“I’m sure the break-ins are no more than that. But if Paavo wants to worry about me, who am I to argue?” She winked conspiratorially.
Connie smiled back. “I get it.”
“And that’s where my TV restaurant reviews come in.”
“Now I don’t get it.”
“It’s simple. The two of us need a house. My clothes, and cookware, and antiques simply won’t fit into his small place. And there’s no way he’ll live under my father’s roof.” She didn’t have to tell Connie that Paavo and Salvatore Amalfi didn’t exactly see eye to eye about Paavo’s relationship with Angie. “Do you know how much houses cost in San Francisco these days? That’s why I’ve got to get a TV job even if I have to hire a movie crew to film these restaurants!”
“All so you can buy a house?”
“Eventually.”
Connie swallowed a big mouthful of radicchio. “Frankly, I really don’t see how you can think about buying a house with a man when there’s so much you don’t know about him.”
Angie stopped eating. “What do you mean?”
Connie shifted uncomfortably. “Well…you don’t really know him.”
“Don’t know him? How can you say that after all Paavo and I have been through together?”
“That’s what I mean. Things have happened to you both while you’ve been together, but how much of him do you know?”
“You sound like my father,” Angie cried, waving her fork in exasperation.
“Think about it. He keeps so much hidden.”
“Hidden? Nothing’s hidden about Paavo!”
“How much has he told you about his past?”
“Connie, he had a hard life, especially as a kid. I can understand why he doesn’t want to talk about it.”
“Are you sure?”
Angie couldn’t believe her friend was talking this way. “I thought you liked Paavo.”
“I do, but you can’t build a life together with too many unknowns—with hidden pasts. I know what I’m talking about—that’s what killed my marriage. Along with my ex being a slime. But if I had known more about him, I would have known he was a slime before I married him. You’ve got to learn all you can about Paavo.”
“I know about him!”
“Angie, you don’t even know the man’s real name.”
She glared hard at Connie. “What are you talking about?”
“You told me he said his Finnish stepfather gave him the name Paavo.” Connie jabbed the table with her forefinger to make her point. “Well, he didn’t live with Aulis until he was four years old. What was he called before that?”
“Aulis might have given him the name when he was first born,” Angie answered vehemently. “I don’t know when Aulis came up with Paavo, and I don’t care. I like the name!”
“Why didn’t Paavo’s own mother and father name him? Why some neighbor? Unless—” Connie gasped.
Angie felt a chill go through her. “Unless what?”
“Unless Aulis is really his father! Wow!”
“Connie, really!”
The waiter approached the table. Flustered, Angie started her camcorder rolling again, grateful for the interruption. She had no idea why Connie was talking to her this way. So what that she had wondered about some of it herself…
That was unfair. Whenever she asked, Paavo told her about his childhood. Maybe not all the particulars, but then, he didn’t know much about them.
Still, Connie’s questions bothered her.
The waiter smiled as he served Connie grilled Washington State salmon on spinach cream sauce, and scowled fiercely at Angie and the camcorder as he shoved a plate of steamed lobster medallions with saffron, tomatoes, basil, and thyme broth in front of her. Angie smoldered. He was probably afraid the camcorder would pick up some dandruff on his shoulders.
As soon as he left, Connie leaned closer to Angie and in a hushed voice said, “I’ll confess that I never did give much credence to that story that Aulis simply took in Paavo and his older sister. I mean, being neighborly is one thing, but how many people raise their neighbor’s kids? It just isn’t done.”
Connie’s continuous harping moved beyond annoying. “Will you stop, already?”
“Angie, you’re my friend—my best friend—and I think it’s about time you learn exactly what’s going on here,” Connie insisted. “I mean, you’re counting on him for your future, but you’ve got too many unanswered questions for you to do such a thing. It’s foolish, Angie, and you’re not a foolish person.”
“I’m ready to stick a fork in my ear!”
“Damn it, woman, you are a certifiable wack job where Paavo Smith is concerned!” Connie cried.
Angie began to sputter, practically speechless for a moment. “Did you just call me a wack job?”
Connie put her palms on the table. “A short pier away from going over the edge!”
The two glared at each other.
Suddenly Angie grinned. “About to fall into the drink, eh?”
Connie chuckled. “Deep-sea-fishing time.”
Angie laughed, then shook her head helplessly. “I wonder where I can find a diver’s suit.”
To Angie’s amazement, Paavo was there when she returned to the hotel room. The day’s court session at which he was to testify had been canceled, the CSU still hadn’t found time to go to his place, and no new murders happened. He left work early to be with her.
The other inspectors must have gawked at him as if he’d sprouted wings.
They ordered room service for dinner. Dessert was memorable…and it wasn’t even on the menu.
Chapter 5
Paavo strode briskly down Post Street, past porn shops and massage parlors, past doorways filled with wide-eyed Vietnamese children. In daylight, kids could be seen in the area, darting about, playing, or huddling in clusters and watching the goings-on. Once the sun went down, they disappeared, and San Francisco’s version of the zombie class took over those streets—hookers, pimps, and addicts, plus a few lost tourists who didn’t realize that edging close to the theater district lay this corner of despair.
Double-parked cop cars, their dome lights revolving, signaled which building the body had been found in. As a homicide inspector, Paavo worked to find out why people’s lives were suddenly taken from them, even
if that life had been lived in a hellhole like this.
A sheet from the afternoon Examiner blew toward him and stuck against his leg. He was careful to step over puddles of urine that stained the sidewalk next to buildings. The city had spent big bucks putting in fancy French-built portable toilets on sidewalks in tourist parts of the city—big enough for wheelchair access. Unfortunately, that meant they were big enough for other uses, too, like quick sex and drug deals. There were no Porta Pottis in this part of town.
A rank smell pervaded the building’s entrance. Pale green paint covered the walls, a color that must have been given away by the barrel to tenements and jails. Lurid graffiti was scrawled over the paint.
“Two floors up, Inspector,” the uniform at the door told him. “Elevator’s not working.”
They never were in places like this, Paavo thought, which was probably for the best because few owners of such buildings would pay for their proper maintenance anyway. Riding one could cause more chills, thrills, and spills than found at Disneyland.
At the top of the stairs more enlightening graffiti about the sexual habits of various residents filled a long, dark hallway. The debris and dirt on the floor crunched as he walked down the linoleum hall. With his partner on vacation this week, he wasn’t supposed to be going to death scenes, but handling paperwork and court dates, and investigating cases he already had. This week’s on-call team, Benson and Calderon, were mired down in a double homicide that involved a doctor and his wife who had been big-time contributors to the city’s mayor. Rebecca Mayfield and her partner, Bill Never-Take-A-Chance Sutter, were the backup team, but they had already gone out on a homicide investigation when this third call came in. Paavo should have looked to see if the moon was full last night. If so, it would have explained a lot.
A patrol officer guarded the crime scene. Paavo signed the logbook, ducked under the yellow police tape, and stepped inside.
Before him was a typical tenement apartment—the walls a dingy yellow, the single window so filthy little sunlight came through. A torn shade covered the top half. The main room held an old sofa, coffee table, chair, and TV, and a kitchenette in one corner. Next to it was the bedroom, and beyond it, the bathroom. Drawers had been pulled from chests and upended. He was growing sick of that sight.
Despite the drawers, he noticed that, unlike most of these tenement apartments, the floor and furniture weren’t covered with empty food containers and other garbage.
A little girl sat on a tattered sofa. She had long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her bangs were thick, and cut straight across, a millimeter above blue eyeglass frames. The frames were the defining feature on her face, which was pale and plain. Her hands were folded on her lap, and brown eyes stared at him through the thick glasses.
“Hello,” he said.
“Hello.” Her voice was firm and no tears showed on her face. With her was a patrol officer Paavo knew, George McNally.
“This is Jane Platt, Inspector,” McNally said. “She was the one who called nine-one-one when she found her grandfather.” McNally pointed toward the open door. “Jacob Platt is in the bedroom.”
Paavo was surprised at the news that the calm-looking little girl had found the body. He’d seen adults fall apart over such discoveries. He didn’t remark on it, but gazed at her and nodded his approval. Her eyes held his a moment, then lowered.
After a quick perusal of the living room, he carefully entered the bedroom. “Did you or anyone else touch anything, McNally?” he asked.
“Didn’t need to,” McNally said.
McNally certainly had no need to question the fact of the man’s death. The floor was covered with blood, and in the middle of it, Jacob Platt lay, shot point-blank in the forehead. The entry hole was small, with powder burns surrounding it. The way Platt had fallen made it possible to see that the entire back of his skull had been blown off. Paavo couldn’t help but think about the young girl finding this.
The bedroom held a twin bed, a small, rickety dresser, the contents of it spilled onto the floor, and two enormous tables, standing side by side. Two high-intensity lamps stood on one table, plus some strange equipment. He recognized the soldering iron, wire cutters, fine-nosed implements, Bunsen burner, and microscope. The RS Mizar tester was a mystery, as was something called a Ceres Secure Moissanite Tester. Things started to make a little sense with the Raytech-Shaw faceter, the Diamond Jem cabbing machine, a centrifugal magnetic finisher, and finally, a magnetic polisher. Jewelry-making equipment.
No jewelry, metals, or gems were found, and he wondered if Platt had been killed for them. Judging from the equipment, Platt could have had a lucrative business—and judging from its location, it was probably illegal, or at best questionable.
Officer McNally talked with the girl while Paavo continued to sketch and survey the scene. He had no sooner finished when the CSU arrived. He went over to the young girl and sat down beside her. She wore jeans and a gray zippered sweatshirt over a red T-shirt. “How are you doing, Jane?” he asked.
“I’m all right.” Her voice was soft, and she looked more shy than tearful. Wide-eyed, she watched the crime scene investigators enter the apartment.
“How old are you?”
She lifted blue-eyeglass-framed eyes to his. “Nine.”
He flashed onto his nightmare. Even staying with Angie in that beautiful hotel—an indulgence he would have to give up as he seemed to have exaggerated the danger she was in—the nightmare haunted his sleep.
In the dream, his sister was the age of this girl. Nine. Why had he dreamed of her being only age nine? She’d been nineteen when she died, not nine. He tried to dismiss the memory. “Do you live here?”
“Yes.”
“Just the two of you?”
She nodded.
“When you came home, was there anyone in the apartment besides your grandfather?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I called hello, and when he didn’t answer I looked for him.” She shuddered. “Then I phoned nine-one-one.”
Jane’s eyes grew even rounder when Assistant Coroner Evelyn Ramirez walked into the apartment carrying a medical bag. She waved at Paavo, but one look at the young girl’s face, and instead of making her usual ghoulish comments, she went straight into the bedroom. Two med technicians followed. Paavo noticed that the child’s breathing had grown heavy. She was a good actress, but apparently not nearly as unmoved by her grisly find as she pretended to be.
He placed his hand on her narrow shoulder. “Where can we reach your mother or father?”
“They aren’t here,” she said.
They aren’t here. That was how Jessica used to answer whenever kids at school or teachers or others would ask about their mother or father. Older, and tough, and protective of her little brother, Jessie would never say, “They’ve gone away,” or “They abandoned us,” or what he knew she really wanted to reply to the busybodies who questioned them, to shake her fist and cry out, “We don’t know who the hell our fathers are, and we don’t give a goddamn about our mothers anymore, so what’s it to you, asshole?” Instead, she’d politely reply, “They aren’t here.”
“Do you have any relatives or friends to stay with?”
“I have an aunt,” she said in her matter-of-fact manner.
“I called her already, Inspector,” McNally said. “She’s on her way.”
“Okay, good.” Paavo’s gaze swept over the apartment. There was a limit to how long a kid could sit in a room permeated with the smell of her grandfather’s death, and this little girl had gone way past that point. “Want to go outside to wait for your aunt?”
“Yes.” Her face filled with gratitude and she stood. On the floor was her book bag. She picked it up and hitched it to her shoulders.
As they left the apartment, his gaze caught the equipment-laden table in the bedroom. “Do you know what your grandfather did in there?”
“He made jewelry.” She reached under her collar and pulled out a pendant on a gold
chain.
Paavo stared in disbelief. The necklace was beautiful. It looked like something Angie might have owned—a large ruby with a small diamond on each side.
“It’s just a fake,” the girl said. “It has a flaw in it. That’s why Grandpa gave it to me to play with.”
“I really don’t think this is going to work, Angie,” Connie whispered, crouching behind a row of industrial-size garbage cans.
Angie, also stooping low, said, “Once, just once, I’d like to hear a bit of encouragement from you.”
“Maybe I’d feel more encouraging if my knees weren’t getting so stiff I’m afraid they might never straighten,” Connie whined. “I don’t relish spending my life looking like Groucho Marx.”
Earlier that evening, when Paavo called to say he’d be working late, the idea for the perfect addition to her video restaurant review popped into Angie’s head. She decided to act.
Now, both dressed in black jeans, black turtleneck sweaters, and black boots, she and Connie huddled in the alley behind the Pisces restaurant where they’d eaten the day before.
Angie checked and doubled-checked her new palm-sized video camcorder. “Just relax,” she said to her fidgeting friend. “I’m trying to figure this out. I think that window looks in on the kitchen, but it’s too high off the ground for me to see into. I’m going to have to get up on something.”
“Forget it. Let’s go home.”
Ignoring her suggestion, Angie tugged Connie along in a half crouch, half crawl. “We need to move one of these big garbage cans to a spot under the window.”
They found a can that was fairly empty, though reeking nonetheless. Each took a handle and carried it where Angie indicated.
“That can isn’t very steady.” Connie nudged it and watched it rock.
“You worry more than Little Red Riding Hood facing the wolf!” Angie tried to hoist herself up onto the flat, round lid, but couldn’t do it. The top reached to her armpit. “I need a boost.”
“This is dangerous, Angie,” Connie grumbled, bending over and clasping her hands so Angie could use them as a step.