by Joanne Pence
Given all that, having the know-how, let alone the chutzpah, to switch evidence meant it had to be an inside job.
“Paavo.”
Startled out of his thoughts, Paavo looked up to see Luis Calderon standing in the doorway. His eyes were bloodshot, and his unruly black hair, usually heavily pomaded, was all askew. Paavo figured he must have been working all night.
“Hello to you, too,” Homicide Inspector Rebecca Mayfield called from her desk.
“Yeah, right,” Calderon grumbled. “Can you join me, Paav? Me and Benson got to talk to you about a case.”
“Sure.” Paavo tossed aside his pencil and followed Calderon past the inspectors’ desks overflowing with papers and folders, into the hallway to the bank of elevators.
“What’s up?” Paavo asked.
“I’ll explain,” Calderon replied. “Let’s get some coffee first.”
They met Bo Benson in the Hall’s cafeteria. He looked every bit as tired as Calderon. His dark skin had taken on an ash gray cast, and lines of weariness across his brow made him look older than his thirty-eight years. He tilted back in his chair, the two front legs lifting off the floor as his gaze darted between Calderon and Paavo.
Paavo knew something strange was going on by the way the two men were acting. They’d worked together too many years for them to put anything over on him. Gone was Bo’s lighthearted banter, and gone too—surprisingly—was Calderon’s excessive grumpiness. Instead, they both looked subdued and troubled.
“Last night,” Calderon began, “Benson and I were called to a homicide out at Ocean Beach, a murder. A big guy, garish dresser. We ID’d him this morning. His name was Patrick Devlin. You know him?”
Paavo was surprised by the question. “No.”
“Ever heard of him?” Benson asked.
“Should I?”
Calderon continued. “He ran a small numbers operation with drop sites in a few bars and restaurants out in the Richmond and Sunset districts.”
“Numbers? I didn’t think we had numbers in this city,” Paavo said.
“According to the guys in Vice, it’s hardly big enough to pay attention to. They hope it stays that way.”
None of this told Paavo why these two were talking to him. “Okay, so how does this involve me? Did you find a connection with one of my cases or something?”
Calderon’s hard black gaze fixed on Paavo. “We found something on the body. A phone number. It’d been stuffed in his mouth, like maybe he was trying to hide it from someone. Maybe he was shot before he had a chance to swallow—who knows? Why he wanted to hide the number, though, we can only guess.”
“A phone number?” Paavo studied them, trying to read what was going on behind their words. “Did you call the number to find out who it belonged to?”
“No need, Paavo. We already knew.” Calderon’s eyes were penetrating, wary. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you. We didn’t want you to feel we’d gone behind your back. Also, we wanted to give you a chance to explain it all to us.”
“Explain? Explain what?”
“He had your home number, Paav,” Calderon said softly. “Not the pager number that the dispatchers and everybody has these days. Your unlisted home number.”
Paavo looked at the two of them as if they were crazy, and then as if they were joking. They weren’t. “Are you sure it was mine?”
Benson pulled out his notebook and flipped through a few pages. “Three seven one five five four six.”
They hadn’t made a mistake. The thought of some dead gambler having his home phone number was chilling. His mind leafed through the gamblers and racketeers who’d crossed his path over the years. There were plenty. “Do you have a mug shot on this guy?” Paavo asked.
“Here you go.” Calderon handed Paavo a four-year-old booking photo, plus four-hour-old morgue shots.
Paavo studied Patrick Devlin’s pictures a long while. “I’ve never seen him before,” he said quietly. When he lifted his gaze to them, though, he felt as if ice water had been poured through his veins. “You two think I have something to hide?”
“No!” Calderon said. “That’s why we’re here with you instead of giving this to the chief. The only problem is that this is coming up right after the court fiasco with Clayton. And everyone knows Clayton’s involved in all kinds of gambling. It doesn’t look good.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Paavo said wearily.
“How many people know your home phone?” Calderon asked.
“How many…What are you getting at?” Paavo didn’t like this one bit. They didn’t need to question him like some suspect. “To hell with your questions!”
“Relax, Paavo,” Benson said, gripping his shoulder. “We’re just trying to help you out here.”
“Give us names, Paavo,” Calderon said. “Your father, your rich girlfriend. Who else?”
Paavo shrugged off Benson’s hand. “Angie’s mother knows it as well.” His voice was clipped and icy. “But she doesn’t make it a habit to consort with numbers runners.”
“Look.” Calderon paused, his gaze locking with Paavo’s before he quietly continued. “We could lose the note we found. No one else knows about it but a couple of patrol cops—and they don’t know what it means. It’s obvious that you’re not the type to get mixed up with this kind of skank.”
“Take it to Lieutenant Hollins,” Paavo said. He didn’t have to think about the choice before him. Although he was touched by the support and solidarity Calderon’s words revealed, it wasn’t the right choice—not the one he would make. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“What if IA gets involved?” Benson asked. “It won’t take Internal Affairs long to learn that this guy worked the Richmond and Sunset, and that you live in the Richmond. After the Clayton mess, they’ll be all over you like locusts.”
“They won’t get involved,” Calderon said. “Paavo hasn’t—”
“I don’t want this buried,” Paavo interrupted.
The two looked at him curiously.
“I don’t know how this guy Devlin got my number, and I don’t really care,” Paavo said. “But I do want to know what he planned to do with it.”
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning, Angie once again took a cab to the Random Acts of Kindness Mission. She wasn’t quite sure, though, why she felt drawn there, and from the time she’d gotten out of bed she had argued with herself about returning. Even now, standing on the Embarcadero, she was hesitant about going back in. The Reverend Hodge, after all, wasn’t anything like she’d expected him to be. Nor, for that matter, was the mission itself.
She’d have to think about this, and doing so over a cup of coffee seemed like a good plan. She turned on her heel and went to the Senseless Beauty Café and Pâtisserie.
It was small but charming, with five small round tables, two chairs at each, and a large glass display case filled with pastries, croissants, and muffins. A green chalkboard listed the soups and sandwiches of the day, and behind the counter were a variety of coffee-making machines.
She was the only customer at the moment. A woman with straight blond hair, wearing a plum and white Senseless Beauty Café smock, took her order.
“Do you know the people over at the Random Acts of Kindness Mission?” Angie asked as the woman made her a double latte.
“Very well.” The woman’s smile was open and guileless. “Are you a volunteer there?”
“I’m thinking about it,” Angie confessed.
“You couldn’t find a better person than Reverend Hodge,” she said earnestly. “He helped me start this café. My name’s Rainbow—Rainbow Grchek.”
The conservative-looking café owner didn’t appear to be a “Rainbow” at all, but Angie didn’t comment. Anyway, she was sure Rainbow had already heard all the comments that could be made.
“He did? How nice,” Angie murmured. Being helped by a man of the cloth was one means of getting a job she hadn’t considered yet. A source of constant interes
t and wonder for her was that so many people managed to find, and keep, jobs they seemed to enjoy. It was a skill she hadn’t mastered yet. But if her angelinas became a success, she wouldn’t have to worry about it any longer.
Rainbow carried the latte to a table for her.
“I’d love to hear how he helped you,” Angie said, “if you’ve got a moment.”
“Oh, sure.” Rainbow sat at the table. “I think you’ll find it an interesting story. You see, Reverend Hodge found me standing on the Golden Gate Bridge. Actually, he found me sitting on the rail of the bridge, ready to jump.”
“You’re kidding me.” The idea of the woman before her, who had such a pleasant smile and seemed so happy, being suicidal was hard to imagine.
“It’s true,” Rainbow said. “I thought my life was over. The man I loved had left me for someone else. I waited until the middle of the night. No one else was anywhere near. Or so I thought. I sat on the rail and then—this is strange—I thought I had let go of the railing. I even had the sensation that I was falling, but instead I heard a voice saying, ‘He’s not worth it.’ To my surprise, I was still holding the rail. I turned to see where the voice had come from, and there was this little man looking at me with sad brown eyes. ‘I promise you,’ he said, ‘that if you talk to me tonight, when you see the sun rise your pain will be gone. If it isn’t, then you can jump, and I won’t try to stop you.’”
“He was there?” Angie asked. “In the middle of the night?”
“It was like a miracle for me,” Rainbow said, her large gray eyes capturing Angie’s.
“What did you do?”
“Well, first of all, I didn’t believe him one little bit. ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘You’ll be dead for all eternity, so what difference can a few more hours of life make?’”
“That’s chilling.” Angie shuddered.
“It was. Maybe that was why I sat there on the rail and cried and talked to him. I told him about my life, the bad parts, my disappointments, my son-of-a-bitch cheating lover. Then, when I’d gotten through with my tears, he asked me if there had ever been anything at all that went right for me in life. Had there ever been a moment that I had enjoyed? Well, of course there had been. I told him about those, and as I did, I remembered more of them.
“Then the sun cast a golden glow over the city and the bay, over Alcatraz and Angel Island—even over Oakland. I realized that if I jumped, I’d never see that sight again. I thought of all the other things I’d never see—simple things, flowers, raindrops…a rainbow. For the first time, I even understood my name, what my parents had been trying to say to me.
“That was when I realized that his first words to me were true—Bill wasn’t worth it. I got off the rail, followed Reverend Hodge here, and have been with him ever since. I think of him as my angel. My guardian angel. That’s the only way I can explain it.”
“That’s a wonderful story,” Angie said.
“Reverend Hodge is a wonderful guy,” Rainbow added.
“Hello, Reverend Hodge.” The door to his office stood open, and Angie stuck her head in.
Papers were scattered over his desk. He’d been scribbling a note but looked up, startled, when he heard a voice. Behind the oversized glasses, his surprisingly young face spread into a wide grin. “I’ve been waiting for you, Miss Amalfi,” he said.
“You were that certain I’d return?” she asked, stepping into the room. She found herself staring at him. He just didn’t seem to be the guardian angel type, despite Rainbow’s heartfelt words. What was she missing?
“Here, please, let me find you a chair.” He darted to the corner and pulled a chair to the middle of the room near his desk. “Those with a good heart always return to where they’re needed.”
“Fools also return to their folly,” she said, taking the offered seat.
“One man’s folly is another man’s fortune,” he countered.
“Well, who can argue with that?” she asked with a laugh. “I just met Rainbow Grchek, by the way. She spoke very highly of you.”
His small mouth turned up with delight. “She’s very kind.”
“Have you been a minister long?” she asked.
He pushed aside his many papers and folded his hands on his desk, looking as if he had all the time in the world for her. “Oh, yes. A long time.”
“Where were you before you came to San Francisco?”
“Here and there. Minnesota. Just outside Minneapolis.”
“Really? I spent a month there with a cousin one summer. Where—”
“Your chocolates were extraordinarily delicious, Miss Amalfi. Tell me about your candy-making business.”
She wondered why he didn’t want to talk about Minnesota, but since his change of subject was to one dear to her heart, she went along. “Not so good, I’m afraid. I can’t seem to find the right confection. I want my angelina—which is what I’ll call it—to be something special.”
“Ah!” He nodded sagely, then his brow wrinkled in confusion. “But why?”
“So that people will notice. So that my business will be unique and valued.”
He studied her. “What does the young man in your life think about all this? I’m assuming there is one.”
“There is. He’s a homicide inspector for the city.” She couldn’t say Paavo was bursting with enthusiasm over her idea, but he didn’t criticize it, either. “He said if it’s what I want, I should go for it.”
“A homicide inspector?” His dark eyebrows rose at the news of Paavo’s job, and she doubted he’d heard anything else she said. “I would have thought a business executive or corporate lawyer was more your type.”
“You should meet my father.” She couldn’t stop a grimace as she thought of the arguments she’d had with her father over her relationship with Paavo.
“That explains a lot,” he murmured, then leaned toward her, capturing her gaze in a way that was almost mesmerizing. “When things get tough, Miss Amalfi, you be sure to come and talk to me. It’s not the first time I’ve heard of the incompatibility between being rational and being in love.”
His words, his voice, his demeanor were so filled with empathy and understanding that suddenly she saw another side of Reverend Hodge, a side that people responded to, a side that caused them to give him their money and their time.
“Thank you so much,” she said, a little breathless and yet a little perplexed at that observation.
“Now,” he said, giving her his most impish grin, “let me tell you all about my plans for the auction.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Paavo and Yosh headed for the apartment building in which Peewee Clayton had murdered Sarah Ann Cribbs. Even if the state hadn’t officially declared that to be the case, Paavo knew it was true. Yosh drove, which was good because Paavo’s mind was light-years away from San Francisco traffic conditions.
In fact, for the first time in his career, conducting a homicide investigation wasn’t his primary concern. Instead, it was to find out why a dead numbers runner had his phone number. Even bigger was the second issue: the care and maintenance of courtroom evidence. Specifically, who had handled the two pieces of missing evidence that were causing him and Yosh to reopen the case?
He had learned that Sarah Ann’s blouse had been cut off during the autopsy and sent directly to the crime lab for testing. The beer bottle fragments had been dusted for prints at the scene, then bagged and also sent to the lab for blood and hair identification.
Blood, hair, and prints all matched Peewee Clayton’s, leaving no doubt that the crime lab had had the true evidence at one point and had run tests on it. That meant the blouse and beer bottle must have been switched after the lab tests were made.
Paavo had interviewed crime scene investigators, criminalists, criminologists, other homicide inspectors, secretaries, typists, janitors, air-conditioning repairmen, telephone repairmen, even the people who supplied the jars and labels for specimen maintenance. He wanted to know who had access to the Property
Control Section, who guarded it, and what happened during breaks, lunches, and shift changes. He asked about the procedure for placing new evidence into Property Control, the procedure when old evidence was removed, and whether any of the officers involved had happened to see or hear anything strange over the last three weeks since the crime lab had finished its preliminary study of the blouse.
He had talked to everyone he could find who had worked recently in the vicinity of the Property Control Section. The only ones he had missed were a secretary on maternity leave and an air-conditioning repairman who’d been fired.
But no matter how many people he questioned or how many questions he asked, nothing specific turned up. No one had seen anything out of the ordinary. It came clear, though, that there were times when the onduty person who checked evidence in and out might have left the station for a moment. Since the department was shorthanded, he could have been called away briefly to another task. Or he simply could have taken a bathroom break. No one purposefully left the evidence room unwatched, but since there had never been a problem in connection with the evidence before, security had simply become lax.
Paavo could have gone to the district attorney, Lloyd Fletcher, with his findings, but that might have resulted in some firings and nothing would have been solved. In fact, it only would have made it harder for him to get anyone to talk to him in the future.
Besides, Lloyd Fletcher was far from being one of his favorite people. They’d had problems in the past. Despite years as an assistant DA, once Fletcher had been voted into office on the heels of an unpopular district attorney, he turned into a pure politician.
His main political pitch was that cops should overwhelm criminals with love and tender care in the hope that they might reform. It was a very San Francisco philosophy and, from the police department’s point of view, dead wrong. The latest civil grand jury report showed that of the fifty-five thousand felony arrests by the police last year, the DA’s office had fewer than two thousand cases going to court. It was all but open warfare between the two departments.
