by Joanne Pence
She really shouldn’t peek, but what if the briefcase contained information that had to do with Chick’s murder? or Karl’s? Mightn’t it give her, an insider almost, a clue to the murderer that an outsider like Paavo wouldn’t be aware of?
But wouldn’t he have told her everything he knew about Chick’s murder, considering that she knew all these people? Who was she kidding; he was the most close-mouthed person she knew. So maybe she should look, and that way, if there was something about Chick’s murder, she could be helpful to Paavo without his having to ask. In fact, wasn’t it her civic duty to look inside Paavo’s briefcase to help him out? Of course it was.
She opened the briefcase. A few notes scribbled on small tablets were in it, plus a thick envelope and two reels of film.
She looked at the films with interest. Old eight-millimeter jobs. They had serial numbers on them—911,974 and 911,221—rentals, perhaps? Nine-one-one. Almost like an emergency hotline. Why would Paavo have rented old movies?
She lifted the manila envelope out of the briefcase and turned it over. A yellow Post-it note caught her eye.
P—
These’ll take your mind off your little Italian friend!
Ha-ha!
Yosh
Little Italian friend? What was this all about? Opening the envelope, she peeked inside, stared, then shrieked with fury.
She dumped the contents of the envelope on the coffee table and grew angrier with each photo that passed under her nose. Naked women!
Spreading the photos before her, she took in the full disgusting display. So Yosh thought Paavo had to forget about her, did he? And with pictures like this? She could hardly wait to give him a piece of her mind. Paavo should have just thrown them away! In fact, she’d do it for him.
She scooped up the photos, stuffed them back into the envelope, and stormed over to her garbage chute. “Mrs. Calamatti! Hello!”
No answer.
“Mrs. Calamatti, are you down there?” she called again.
“God damn it!” A deep male voice echoed up from the chute. “Can’t you women use the phone like everybody else?”
“You can go stuff it!” What nerve, when she was just trying to be polite and not plaster the old lady with porn. She dropped the photos down the chute.
A loud rap on the door woke her. She knew that knock. Her heart bounded, but then she forced back the feeling. Last night he’d told her they were finished. She put the pillow over her head, trying to block out the world and Paavo Smith and all he’d ever meant to her.
She sat up. What if he regretted his words and behavior? What if he wanted to apologize?
He knocked again. Tossing back the covers, she put on her robe while running to the door, then skidded to a halt. After all, she didn’t want to make things too easy for him. Not after the hell she’d gone through last night after his good-bye.
“Who is it?” she called sweetly.
“It’s me.”
She folded her arms and leaned against the door. “Who?”
She could all but hear his teeth gnashing. “Paavo.”
She grinned. “Back so soon?” She glanced at her fingernails. Time for a manicure. “I thought you didn’t want to see me.”
Silence. Good, she thought. He was steamed. “I left my briefcase,” he said finally.
Her smile vanished. “What?”
“I need my briefcase.”
Crestfallen, she stared at the door. “That’s why you’re here?”
“Just give it to me, and I’ll be on my way.”
She grabbed the briefcase, yanked the door open, and shoved the damn case hard against his stomach. “Good riddance!” Her voice was shrill. “You and your smut can keep away from me.”
“My what?”
She slammed the door in his face, then cursed herself for being twenty kinds of a fool over this man.
A minute later, she heard another knock on the door. “Angie?”
“Leave me alone!”
“Angie, open the door so I can explain.”
“No!”
“Angie!”
“No!”
Stan’s voice came from the apartment across the hall. “Angie, open the door. I’m trying to sleep!”
She pulled open the door. Paavo stood in front of her, and a sleepy-looking Stan stood in his doorway. “You should be at work,” she told Stan.
“I’m sick today.”
“Again?” She glared at Stan, who quickly backed into his apartment and shut the door. “All right,” she said to Paavo, “come in before my father ends up evicting me for disturbing his tenants.”
He walked in and put the briefcase on the coffee table. “It’s not what you think, Angie.”
She folded her arms. “Oh? Now you’re going to tell me what I think and that I’m wrong, right? A little arrogant of you, isn’t it, Inspector?”
“Let’s start over. Where are the photographs?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking about them! Why should you care? There are a zillion shops down the Tenderloin where your buddies can buy a whole new set.”
“They’re part of a case.”
“You work in Homicide, not Vice, remember?” Her voice softened to a pained whisper. “Besides, I read Yoshiwara’s note.”
“He was just joking.”
How much of a fool did he think she was? “Joking? Sure! Since when do cops have a sense of humor?”
He looked heavenward as if for guidance. “Believe me, he didn’t mean anything by it. It was tasteless, I agree. But he didn’t mean to hurt you or insult you.”
Something about his tone told her everything he’d been saying was true. She bit her bottom lip. “Those photos weren’t needed for anything important, were they?”
He spoke very, very slowly. “The photos are from Karl Wielund’s house. Now, what did you do with them?”
She felt as if an earthquake had struck, an 8.2 on the Richter. “Karl Wielund? Karl had those photos?”
“That’s right.”
Her mouth felt so dry she could scarcely speak. “And they’re part of your case?”
“Angie, this isn’t funny. Where are they?”
“Karl Wielund,” she whispered, then gasped and placed her fingers against her mouth. “Paavo, when I looked at those pictures, something struck me. I think Karl…” She took a deep breath. “One woman showed up a lot in the photos. Do you know who she was?”
“No. We haven’t been able to find out yet.”
“Oh, God!” Her eyes were wide. “I think I know her.”
“What?”
Her breath came fast. “We’ve got to find those pictures.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!”
“I thought she looked kind of familiar, but then, you know, it wasn’t the face I was looking at. But when you mentioned Karl, suddenly it clicked. She was a cocktail waitress named Sheila Danning, and she was killed.”
Paavo gripped her arm. “Those photos were of Sheila Danning?”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“Unbelievable.” Paavo crossed the room. “Unbelievable! I’d heard she was a sweet kid from Tacoma, young and innocent.”
“I think you were told wrong. Nobody who went out with Karl was innocent—or stayed that way.”
He looked at her as if he couldn’t believe what she’d just said. “She went out with Karl Wielund?”
“Yes.”
“No one told us that!”
“Oh.” She blanched. “Well, maybe they didn’t think it was something to tell the police.”
“Good God!” He switched from pacing to stomping around the room. “Danning, Wielund, Greuber—”
“Who?”
“Karl Wielund’s landlord.”
Angie’s eyebrows rose. “Was he a cook too?”
Paavo stopped and stared at her a moment, then continued. “And now Marcuccio. The only tie between them is Wielund, but is the connection because of his restaurant or because of his pornography
?”
“Chick Marcuccio had nothing to do with porn,” Angie answered indignantly.
“We don’t know that. Just like we don’t know how much Sheila Danning had to do with restaurant ownership.”
“What are you saying?”
“All I’m saying is, I need those pictures. I want to find out where they were taken and what connection Wielund had to the place they were made. Now, would you get them for me?”
“I see.” She felt sick. When he found out what she’d done with the photos he might die of a stroke or kill her. She wasn’t sure which she preferred.
“I have to get dressed.” She hurried toward the bedroom. “Then we’ll go to the basement and get the photos.”
“The basement?” he called.
“I threw them down the garbage chute.” She slammed her bedroom door shut but could still hear his mutter of pure fury.
She put on her Liz Claiborne denims, coordinated white-and-blue striped cotton blouse, and Versace boots and ran into the living room. “Let’s go.”
They rode down on the elevator, each too aware of the nearness of the other. He got in the back and she stayed near the front, keeping her eyes on the floor indicator as they descended. She could feel his gaze on her neck the whole time and was sure he wanted to wring it.
She walked to the dumpster and looked in. It was empty. The Sunset Scavenger Company had just tolled her death knell.
Paavo looked ready to explode. “Damn it, Angie.”
“Wait!” How in the world was she going to retrieve those photos? Pay someone to go through the garbage dump for the whole city and county? More likely, she’d have to hire a small army. Oh, God, why didn’t she think before acting? If she couldn’t get the pictures back, she was sure she’d lose Paavo forever. There was no way he’d forgive this. “Don’t worry,” she said, proud she could still bluster while her knees knocked. “Mrs. Calamatti probably has them.”
“Or the dump.”
“No, really. She gets up early before pickup day and hunts for things. Pictures are a real favorite. She’s always looking for ones of her daughter.”
He stared at her a moment. “No way she’d mix up family photos with porn.”
“Maybe she doesn’t see it as porn,” Angie said. “Maybe she doesn’t remember.”
“Nobody’s that old. Let’s go see her.”
“No! She’s not home.”
He gave her one of his infamous cold stares. “How do you know? You were asleep when I arrived.”
“Today is Wednesday. Her daughter-in-law picks her up Wednesday, very early, right after the garbage-men come, in fact. She’ll spend the whole day with her daughter-in-law. Maybe she’ll even spend the night.”
“Oh?” He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. I know her schedule.” She was lying through her teeth and suspected Paavo knew it.
They walked back to the elevator. Paavo pushed the call button. “Why don’t we go double-check?”
“Oh, no. I don’t want to waste any more of your time. I’ll just go back to my place, you go to work, and I’ll call you when I get your pictures back.”
“You seem pretty sure of all this.”
“I know Mrs. Calamatti.”
The elevator arrived. “That time we found her in the basement,” Paavo said, “we took her to apartment three-oh-one. I think I’ll stop by there.”
“No need to bother.” She pushed him into the back of the elevator. “Let’s go to my place.”
He stepped forward and hit the button with the big 3.
Angie swallowed hard.
He lifted an eyebrow. “Anything wrong?”
“Wrong? No, not at all. I was just wondering if Mrs. Calamatti will see the absence of clothing in those photos as proof that the Depression’s already hit.”
Paavo gave her a strange look.
They knocked on the door, once, then again. No answer. I must be living right, Angie thought. “See?” She raised her forearms, palms up.
He glanced at his watch. “I have to get to work. Now listen, you call me just as soon as you get your hands on those photos, understand? Not one minute later, and no funny business. Is that clear? Absolutely clear?”
She saluted. “Aye, aye, Inspector.”
After seeing Paavo off, Angie raced back to her apartment, ran into the den, found the telephone book, and began calling every Calamatti in South San Francisco, hoping to find Mrs. Calamatti’s daughter-in-law so she could learn where Mrs. Calamatti had gone today. Also, she wanted to make sure the old lady didn’t have the pictures. Angie dreaded having to go to the city dump. Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack—which reminded her of the kinds of needles that would be lurking in the dump of a city like San Francisco. She wondered if she could rent suits of mail along with that army to search for Paavo’s photos.
She finally located the correct Calamatti family: Mrs. Calamatti had gone to the doctor that morning and would be home around 10 A.M. A second call to the Sunset Scavenger Company told her that her building’s trash was, as she feared, already in the dump.
At 10 A.M. she was standing outside her building, waiting for Mrs. Calamatti to show up. There was just enough time to talk to her before she had to go to KYME to do Henry’s show.
Eventually, a taxi pulled up to the sidewalk and the old lady got out. Angie ran up to her.
Mrs. Calamatti looked startled. “Angelina. Is anything wrong?”
“No, not at all. How was your doctor’s visit?”
“No problems that youth couldn’t cure.”
“That’s good. I’d like to talk to you about something, if you’ve got a minute.”
“Of course, dear. Let’s have a cup of coffee.”
Angie knew it would be the height of insult not to accept. “That sounds very nice.”
She sat on the avocado-colored Sloan’s sofa with its white antimacassar over each arm and waited as Mrs. Calamatti poured coffee into paper-thin china teacups and then placed a small platter of some hard, circular Italian cookies with white icing on the coffee table. The only way to eat the cookies without chipping a tooth was to dunk them into the coffee. Angie did so, just as she’d done with those cookies when she was a little girl.
“I was wondering,” Angie said, after listening to a recital of Mrs. Calamatti’s current ailments, “if you happened to find any pictures in the dumpster this morning.”
“Pictures?”
“Photographs, actually. They were in a manila envelope.”
Mrs. Calamatti’s face flushed red. “I did see something like that.”
Could she be so lucky? “You did? You’re sure?”
“I think I did.”
Angie mentally crossed her fingers. “And did you—uh, pick them up by any chance?”
“Me? Pick up something that belongs to someone else?”
“Oh, they didn’t belong to anyone. I did throw them away—but it was a mistake, you see.”
“What I saw couldn’t possibly have been yours.”
“Actually, they belong to a friend of mine—for his work. I misunderstood, and I shouldn’t have thrown them away.”
“His work? My sister’s boy does work like that too. It breaks her heart. He used to be such a good boy. An altar boy, even. And now?” She shook her head.
“My friend…it’s not like that. Anyway, do you have the photos?”
“Don’t believe him, Angie! Just like my sister’s boy. She thought he was a fashion photographer. Hah! Some fashion. Unfashion, they should call it.”
“My friend needs the pictures back, Mrs. Calamatti.”
“I know why men need pictures like that!”
Angie was ready to writhe on the floor. “Please! Tell me if you have them!”
“Oh, all right.” She got up and got the pictures from a bottom drawer in her bedroom. “I didn’t want them out where anyone could see them. I didn’t want anyone to think I like things like this. I’m surprised you looke
d at them, Angie. What would your mother say?”
Angie nearly dropped to her knees in thanks. She held the pictures tight, swearing she’d never let them go, would never do anything so dumb as to throw away Paavo’s, or anyone’s, belongings ever again. Thank you, Lord!
She looked at Mrs. Calamatti, and suddenly everything the woman had been babbling about her nephew came together. “Mrs. Calamatti, is it easy for your sister to contact her son?”
“Her son the zucchini brain? Sure. He’s not married, so she makes sure she knows where he is. Even though he’s a jerk, she still has to be sure he eats right.”
“Could you call her and ask her to ask him a question? A very important question?”
“I guess so.”
“Ask him if he knew which studio took photos of a woman named Sheila Danning.”
“This Sheila, is she someone he should know?”
“He might. She was murdered. It’s her in most of the pictures here. Someone ought to know who took them. Tell him I won’t say who gave me the information, and I don’t even want to know his name. Okay?”
“All right. Let me write this down, then I’ll call Ma—”
“Stop! Don’t even tell me your sister’s name.”
Mrs. Calamatti nodded conspiratorially and whispered, “Okay, Angie.”
Angie got up to leave. She had just time to drop the photos off in her apartment and go on to work. “Thank you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“All right, Angie. Oh, Angie?”
“Yes.”
“After we solve this problem, maybe we can figure out how to solve the Depression.”
13
Paavo stayed close to his phone most of the day waiting for Angie to call to tell him she had his photos. When evening approached, he grew more and more worried that she couldn’t get hold of them. As angry as he was with Angie for throwing them away, he was angrier with himself for letting her distract him so thoroughly he’d gone off and left his briefcase. Of course, he had thought it’d be safe in her apartment.
