by Joanne Pence
“I’m sorry, Katie. I had no idea.”
“I know!” She stepped closer to him. “You’re a good man.” She cocked her head, her smile wry. “Obtuse as all get-out, but a good man.”
“What will Micky think if I just stop seeing him?”
“He loves you,” Katie said. “You’ll see him again, and spend time with him again in a few months. But not now.” Her tears flowed freely. “Can you understand what I’m saying? Can you forgive me for being so selfish?”
“I understand, Katie.”
He turned to leave.
“Paavo.” She put her hand on his shoulder, and when he turned around she put her arms around him. She held him tight, as he did her. She cried, and his heart broke for what had been in the past, and would never be again. He held her a long moment, then stepped back.
“Good luck to you, Katie. I hope it works out and you find happiness.” He put his hand on her cheek, brushed aside her tears, and then left.
o0o
Paavo sat in his car. His hands gripped the wheel, but he didn’t start the engine. He should see Angie tonight, but Katie’s words were too fresh, too painful. He had no idea that she ever considered such feelings towards him. Obtuse, she had called him. Maybe so.
Now, as much as hearing she wanted to start fresh and find someone else to love heartened him, another part of him cried that it was wrong, that she was Matt’s wife and always would be. Matt had been a six-foot-five, two hundred fifty pound lug with a laid-back competence and professionalism that Paavo admired, and a sense of humor that made him a fun guy to be around. How could anyone ever supplant his best friend in her life?
At the same time, he understood completely what she was saying. His visits to her and Micky had kept Matt alive in his mind as well. He had never really gotten over Matt’s death. They had been best friends as well as partners, and Paavo had made sure that he never grew that close to his current partner, or to anyone else in Homicide. In a sense, he feared ever again going through the sadness, bitterness, and even guilt that had plagued him after Matt’s death. Matt had been alone when he died, and Paavo always felt he should have been with him, been there to protect him, to save him.
Now, he held himself back from others in Homicide. He was a colleague, but little more.
He called Angie and told her something had come up, that he couldn’t make it tonight. She sounded disappointed and troubled. She tried to question him, but he had no answers, and soon ended the conversation. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her, but tonight he needed time alone; needed time to think.
Chapter 2
NOT MUCH REMAINED to identify.
The next morning, Paavo and his partner, Toshiro Yoshiwara, stood in an alley in the Financial District, surrounded by high rise offices with restaurants, delis, bars, and a myriad of shops filling the ground floors. The alley mainly existed for garbage pick-up.
They had seen many dead bodies in their time, but none as mangled as the poor sap before them. The brightness of the morning sun, the beauty of a new day, seemed bizarrely at odds with watching the medical examiner’s team pull body parts, piece by piece, from a garbage truck. Even hardened crime scene investigators struggled to keep their breakfasts down.
Earlier, one of the scavengers on the route had been wheeling a dumpster back into place when his partner operating the garbage truck told him to climb up to see why it seemed to be straining. The scavenger saw the human legs and feet—jeans and a man’s soft leather slip-ons—slowly being sucked into the trash compactor. He screamed for his partner to cut the power, but it was too late. Only one foot had been saved.
Blood dampened the ground in front of the dumpster as well as the metal inside, making it appear as if an altercation had taken place right there, and the victim had been tossed into the dumpster to die.
“We won’t be able to tell anything until the medical examiner’s team sorts all this out,” Paavo said, although from the color, hardness and lividity of the foot that hadn’t been smashed, the death had occurred a few days earlier. He tried to find jacket or pants pockets to look for a wallet or other identifying papers, but the material had been badly shredded. At the moment, neither pockets nor their contents were identifiable. Finally, he peered with dismay at the mess that was their crime scene.
Things had been quiet in Homicide before this call came in. Almost too quiet. It had given Paavo time to confirm the decision he had made last night after listening to Katie Kowalski—that Katie had been right. She did need to move on with her life, and so did Micky. And so did he. If she met a good man, one who would be a good husband to her and a father to Micky—a full-time dad, not someone who visited once a month—so much the better for both of them. Paavo would find some way, in time, to continue to be a part of Micky’s life, and to be there to make sure the boy was well-treated, safe, and happy. He was good with that.
But now, he turned his full attention to what he knew best, dealing with a murder and the crime scene. It was located in the center of the busiest section of San Francisco during the week, and one of the quietest areas on weekends. The job of canvassing the Financial District and talking to anyone who might have seen or heard something, would be a nightmare.
“The poor bastard’s teeth were crushed when his head went through the compactor,” Yosh said. “Dental records won’t do it.”
Paavo nodded. “Let’s hope we have some fingerprints on file.”
“Yeah,” Yosh said, “once we find his fingers.”
o0o
Angie and her sister, Caterina Amalfi Swenson, spent five hours going to houses throughout the northern section of San Francisco, Angie’s favorite part of the city. Cat, as she liked to call herself, had been an interior designer for many years, and had recently moved to real estate. She was the second oldest of Angie's four sisters, born after Bianca, and before Maria, Francesca, and Angelina, the baby of the family.
Normally, Cat had little to do with her youngest sister, but recently Angie helped her out of a horrific mess in which she was accused of murder. If Angie hadn't dropped everything to go with her to Rome, she didn't know how she would have managed to prove her innocence. Oh, yes…Paavo had helped a bit, too.
She owed Angie, and now Angie was getting payback. Big time. Cat drove with her shoes off because her feet hurt. Louboutin open-toe platform pumps were normally comfortable, but given how far they'd traveled, she was lucky not to ache in more places than her feet.
They had started in the northeast part of the city at Telegraph Hill, and worked their way west through North Beach, Russian Hill, the Marina, Pacific Heights, and now they were in the Presidio Heights area.
The houses went from very expensive to extremely expensive. The one moderately expensive home needed a complete remodel, a new roof, and earthquake retrofitting. A wrecking ball would have been its best solution.
Angie became increasingly depressed. “Let me see what else is on your list,” she said, reaching for Cat’s realtor listing sheet.
Cat kept hold of the paperwork. “I think you should look for a place outside the city, Angie. How does Paavo feel about the suburbs?”
“I haven’t talked to Paavo about any of this yet. I want to see if buying a house is at all feasible for us.” She reached again for the sheets.
“The idea of becoming a home-owner seems to have hit you rather suddenly,” Cat said, holding the papers in the air as she eyed Angie with suspicion. “Don’t you think you should at least talk to Paavo about it before going any further?”
“Why bother him if there’s no place we can afford? Like I said, I’d like to see what else is on your list,” she repeated.
With what sounded distinctly like a “harrumph,” Cat handed Angie the list.
She scanned down the few remaining houses. “Oh, my God!” she cried. “How did you miss this one? It's $600,000 for a house in the Sea Cliff, four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, two-car garage, laundry room, tool shed, overlooking the Pacific Ocean
. Why didn't we start there? You never even mentioned it! Let’s go, quick!”
Cat didn't even look at the listing. “Don’t bother.”
“What do you mean? It sounds perfect.”
“I’ve heard about that place. It’s been listed forever, and has gone pending any number of times, but the deal always falls through.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. People find some excuse not to live there, I guess. My office manager told us not to get involved with it. It’s a pathway to frustration and a waste of time.”
“I want to see it.”
“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”
“It’s my time to waste.”
Angie heard a poorly suppressed, “Sheesh.”
Chapter 3
HOMICIDE WAS LOCATED on the fourth floor of San Francisco’s Hall of Justice building, a massive gray block structure near freeway crossings in the city’s South of Market area.
That afternoon, Paavo and Yosh returned to their desks to go over what little information they had turned up so far on the dead body, and to brief the new chief of the Homicide bureau, Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood. Eastwood, however, was in a meeting with the mayor.
Paavo knew they were going to have to wait for information from the medical examiner before they could do much on the case. Right now, the only thing they could say with certainly was that the victim wasn’t homeless—he wore shoes and socks far too expensive for that possibility.
Uniformed officers were going door to door asking questions, and one of them might come up with some findings to help them get started.
The phone rang. He expected Lt. Eastwood, but to his surprise, found his fiancée on the line. She almost never called him at work, knowing he didn’t like to be disturbed.
“I’m sorry to call,” Angie said, “but I’ve been worried about you. You sounded upset on the phone last night. Is everything all right?”
“Fine.”
She waited a moment, then said, “Oh?”
“Really.”
“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I called because I’ve been thinking about our living arrangements after the wedding. I know you’ve agreed to move into my apartment, but what if we found a house we could afford to buy? What if I went house-hunting?”
Of all the things he believed she might have been thinking about with their upcoming wedding, their living arrangement afterward wasn’t one of them. “House-hunting? Why?”
“I want to make sure that staying in my apartment is right for us,” she said.
He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. He owned a small bungalow in San Francisco’s outer Richmond district. He had gotten it at a decent price because it had no garage, no view, needed work, and was tiny. Angie’s shoes couldn’t fit in it, let alone the rest of her possessions. She had a much larger apartment, but it was in her father’s building. And Salvatore Amalfi didn’t like his baby girl marrying a cop. He wanted her to marry a doctor, a lawyer, or—god-forbid—a political up-and-comer. Anyone but a guy who ran around the streets of San Francisco with a gun and a target on his back.
Sal was even unhappier about their relationship since Angie had a propensity for putting herself in danger because of Paavo’s cases. “What’s this new concern, Angie? Where did it come from?”
“Nowhere,” she said.
He didn’t believe that one bit.
She continued, “I’m open to change, that’s all. This may be a good time to buy. Do you object?”
“Of course not, if that’s what you want to do.” The high price of San Francisco property mixed with Angie's expensive taste flashed before his eyes, making him glad debtor’s prison was a thing of the past. “But we’ve got to be able to afford what you find. Us, Angie, not your father.”
“Good. I'm here with Cat, and we’re going to look at houses. I love you and want you to be happy. You know that don’t you?”
“Of course,” he said, realizing that since she was with Cat, she had already made up her mind about house-hunting. They soon said their goodbyes.
Paavo shuddered at the thought of Angie and her realtor sister together. They rarely saw eye-to-eye, but when they agreed and put their heads together, anything could happen—including dashing off to Rome, Italy, where they went not long ago and caused one of the more harrowing episodes Paavo had ever experienced.
“What’s going on, Paavo?” Yosh asked. “You look worried. Is Angie already spending all your money? You aren’t even married yet.” Yosh, a six-foot tall Japanese-American, built like a sumo wrestler, had married his first love when in his early twenties.
“She’s going house-hunting,” Paavo answered.
“I thought your living arrangements were settled.”
“Did you say house-hunting?” Bo Benson spun his chair around to face Paavo and then leaned back in it.
“I’m afraid so,” Paavo replied.
Bo and Paavo had been the confirmed bachelors of the group. Bo loved women and loved dating. Date many and often was his way of thinking. In his early thirties, smart, good looking, African-American, sharp dresser, he hadn’t been tied down yet, and had no plans to be. He liked to joke that Angie had worn Paavo down. Not exactly, but even when Paavo tried to break it off, Angie kept coming around. She was convinced he needed her, and a convinced Angie was a force of nature.
Not that he particularly minded, if truth be told.
“You had a good deal going, moving into Angie’s fancy penthouse,” Bo said. “Why blow it?”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to be her kept man,” Luis Calderon chimed in. One marriage, one divorce, and he had been miserable ever since. Calderon, in his late 40’s, was sour before the divorce, which many said was the reason the marriage hadn’t lasted. After it ended, he made pickles seem sweet. “Moving into her place isn’t the best way to start a marriage. Gives the woman too much power. That never works out. You got to show her who’s in charge, put her in her place right from day one.”
“‘Put her in her place?’” Rebecca Mayfield echoed, disgust dripping as she faced Calderon. Rebecca Mayfield, early 30’s, had never married. She dated occasionally, but hadn’t been serious about anyone as long as Paavo had known her…except maybe him. She and others in the squad often hinted that she was much more ‘right’ for him than Angelina Amalfi. Tall, blonde, buxom, serious, a crack shot, she was an absolute straight arrow when it came to policy and procedure, and always said exactly what she meant. Quite the opposite was Angie—short, dark hair, with a slight built, she skirted the law or anything else that stood in her way and readily skewed, if not skewered, the truth. All the Amalfis were that way. There was the ‘real’ world, and then the world according to the Amalfis.
Given all that, Paavo had to admit his cohorts were right. And yet, while Rebecca might be more his type than Angie, she didn't stir his blood, and around her he never did foolish things. He had never met anyone like Angie before, and he couldn’t stay away even though that would have been the rational thing to do. But the heart wasn’t rational, and his heart was lost to one petite Italian-American who had managed to wrap him around her fancy French-manicured little finger.
Rebecca was still reaming Calderon for his statement. “I’m amazed your marriage lasted as long as it did!” she said. “Just because Angie is willing to give Paavo a little corner of her lavish, expensive apartment which is in a building owned by her father, who has ultimate control over where the couple lives and how they live, and probably what they do and how they spend their money, that doesn’t mean Paavo would be 'a kept' anything!”
Paavo looked at Rebecca and winced. He hoped she was joking because if that’s what she really thought, he was in trouble.
“Angie basically lives rent free.” Yosh teetered on his chair’s back legs, hands resting on his protruding stomach. “If Paavo moves in with her and sells his place, think of all the money he’ll save. He could invest it, maybe buy his own apartment building in tim
e. In fact, I can’t help but wonder when he’s going to quit police work to become a real estate magnate. Everyone knows Angie and her father consider his job way too dangerous. Instead of doing this, he can become a property mogul, the 'Donald Trump' of the West Coast.”
The others all laughed.
“Can’t wait to see his comb-over,” Bo chortled.
“Paavo is not going bald!” Rebecca said.
“Not yet,” Calderon muttered with a growl. “Just wait until he’s married and has all the Amalfi women ordering him around.”
The only detective who hadn’t said a word during all this was Rebecca’s partner, Bill Sutter. He’d been nicknamed ‘Never-Take-A-Chance’ because he was always super cautious on the job. He’d been thinking about retiring for years and had nightmares that he would be killed a few days before he started collecting his pension. Maybe that was why he hadn’t turned in his papers yet.
He looked ready to offer his two cents when, mercifully, Paavo’s phone began to ring again. Lt. Eastwood called to say he was ready for the briefing.
Paavo couldn’t remember ever being so happy to hear from his boss.
Chapter 4
HERE IT IS,” CATERINA said, “51 Clover Lane.”
“I can’t believe this location.” Angie couldn’t stop swiveling her head as she took in the view. “It overlooks the Pacific Ocean! This is incredible.”
Clover Lane was just off Sea Cliff Avenue on the western edge of San Francisco. The lane contained only two houses--number 51, on the side of the street facing the water, and across from it, number 60, a much smaller home. A guard rail stood at the end of the lane, and beyond it was open space for dog walkers or anyone who might want to scramble down the cliff to the narrow strip of sandy beach below.
