by Joanne Pence
She pronounced the name MEE-kah HAH-ki-nen.
He waited, holding his breath.
“His name was also Mika. Mika Turunen.” Then she said words that Paavo never imagined he would hear. “I remembered something else. I’m almost certain I was told that Cecily married him.”
At San Francisco’s Hall of Records, Paavo resolutely filled out a form to request a search for a marriage certificate. He would see if there was any actual proof to the professor’s story. Cecily’s FBI files made no mention of any marriage. It might have been another of his mother’s stories—like being a law clerk—one that she told people just to look good.
A bored clerk gestured him to the seats in the hallway with an even more bored assurance that he’d be called. While waiting for the marriage records, he decided to fill out another form. Why not be even more of a fool?
After turning in the second request, he sat back down on the wooden chair to wait.
A Mexican woman with three children stood at the table filling out papers while her children tugged at her arm, pulled the hem of her dress, dangled from the table, and ran along the polished tile hallway, then dropped to their knees and butts to see how far they could slide. An old man stood at another table, his hands shaking as he slowly, carefully checked his application.
Three other people sat nearby, expressions of varying tedium on their faces. All three glanced at the tall, stern-looking detective, then quickly lowered their eyes. Did he look so much the cop? he wondered.
The clerk called one person, after a while another, and then the third. Paavo’s assumptions that they were pretty much on a roll proved wrong when he had a long wait before finally hearing his name.
Prepared to be told simply that no record existed, he was momentarily at a loss when the clerk thrust a sheet with an embossed seal into his hand.
He walked back to his chair before looking at it.
It was a marriage certificate between Cecily Hampton Campbell and Mika Turunen, dated thirty-six years ago. Much to his surprise, he found himself doing a quick mental calculation between his birth date and the date of the marriage. Eleven months. His breathing grew shallow and fast.
As if from far off, he heard his name being called again. He looked up. The clerk was glaring at him as if he’d been saying his name for some time.
In his hand he waved another piece of paper.
Mechanically Paavo retrieved the result of his second request. His ears were ringing, his temples pounding, as he headed straight out of the building and over to the Civic Center plaza in front of City Hall, scarcely looking at anything around him.
He sat on the bench and stared a moment at the pigeons. Earlier, someone must have scattered bread crumbs, because the birds were still bustling and bobbing to find a few morsels here and there. He didn’t think anyone had time for things like feeding birds anymore. When he was a boy, sometimes he’d go to the park with Aulis and toss them tiny bits of dried bread. Other times, Aulis would bring him to the Palace of Fine Arts and he’d feed bread to the ducks.
When did he last take the time to watch ducks or pigeons, let alone feed them?
His hands began to shake from the tight grip he had on the papers he held. The marriage certificate was on top. He moved it aside, exposing the sheet below, and began to read.
Certificate of Live Birth. Full Name of Child: Paavo Hampton Turunen. Maiden Name of Mother: Hampton. Place of Birth: San Francisco, California. Name of Hospital or Institution: Saint Francis Hospital.
His eye skipped down the document, past the address of the hospital, his birth weight, sex, and so on, to the next section, and then stopped.
Father of Child: Mika Turunen, age 26. Occupation: computer programmer.
Mother of Child: Cecily Jean Hampton, age 29. Occupation: housewife.
Pressure built behind his eyes and he quickly folded the papers in half, then in half again so they would fit into his breast pocket. This was what he had spent a lifetime wanting to know. The birth certificate Aulis had given him showed his mother as Mary Smith, his father as “Unknown.”
Paavo Unknown, that was who he had been.
But suddenly he had a name, parents, a history. He stood, his legs strangely rubbery as he started to walk away from the Civic Center, toward the Hall of Justice, toward the life he knew. Yet, even as he walked the familiar streets, his emotions roiled and he couldn’t stop a dark, hollow sense from filling him, a sense that he himself had become a stranger.
Angie paced from the living room through the dining area to the kitchen and back, sure she was wearing a groove through the plank flooring. With each turn, she checked the time, but the clock scarcely moved.
She didn’t like calling Homicide to ask Paavo where he was, how he was doing, and when he’d be home. His job caused him to work long hours. If he was in pursuit of a murderer, he couldn’t simply drop it because his girlfriend expected him to go home when it got late. She’d vowed not to hassle him about his hours, ever.
That didn’t make it any easier to handle when he didn’t call. He usually did phone her sometime in the afternoon or early evening to check in, make sure everything was okay, give her some idea of his schedule, and to find out about hers.
Tonight he hadn’t done any of that.
After her visit with Donald Porter, she’d gone to the de Young and then to some smaller museums to look at Russian art and curios, trying to develop a sense of its aesthetics—an interesting mixture of Europe and Asia. The museum shops had books that would help, and she’d bought several. She tried concentrating on them, but all she could think about was her brooch and Paavo.
When Paavo told her about his visit with the professor yesterday, she realized she’d made an important mistake in her assessment of what was going on. She had thought of the two Russians, her brooch, and then her, Paavo, and Aulis. She should have thought of the two Russian, Cecily’s brooch, and the three of them. In the past, there had been a clear connection—and political animosity—between Cecily, the Finns, and the Soviets. Why, though, should that be an issue today? The brooch was the key, but the key to what?
The slowly ticking clock brought her back to the moment. She went to the window and looked out. How strange it was to be in the city and not see a busy street with an endless stream of cars. The quiet here was unnerving.
She turned again to a book about Fabergé and other Russian artisans and their work.
Only when she heard the front door open did she realize she’d fallen asleep on the sofa. “Paavo,” she murmured, and sat up.
He paused in the darkness of the doorway. “I lost track of time,” he said, his voice subdued. He took off his sport coat and hooked it on the closet doorknob.
She stretched and got to her feet. “It’s all right.” She approached him, placing her hands on his shoulders, then down along his chest, feeling his warmth through the blue and white striped cotton shirt. “I’m making one of your favorite dishes tonight—pasta with prosciutto and sun-dried tomatoes.” As she lifted her face to his, the bleakness of his expression struck her like a physical force and she reared back. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” He kissed her lightly, then headed for the kitchen. “Is there any Scotch in the house?”
“Cousin Richie stocked this place quite well. Soda, too.” She showed him where the liquor was stored, then twisted an ice tray to pop out a couple of cubes for him. “Did you go see Aulis?”
“Yes. He hasn’t changed at all, and his doctor says there’s still hope for a full recovery.” He reached for the glasses. “Would you like a drink, too?”
She shook her head, and he poured himself one before continuing. “A couple of his friends stopped by, guys he used to work with at the bank, and even a nun was there—she said you asked her to pray for him ‘even though he’s Lutheran.’”
Angie shrugged. “Why not?”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. He sipped his Scotch, and looked even more desolate.
“Tell m
e what happened today,” she said, watching him intently as they moved into the living room. She sat down on the sofa and expected him to join her.
Instead, he went to his coat and pulled some papers out of the pocket. “The lady professor phoned.” He chuckled derisively. “It’s a good thing she watches commercials—some Finnish race car driver helped her remember the name of my father.”
“Oh, my.” She stood again. He’d been shaken enough by yesterday’s conversation with her. Today, to have been given a name…“Oh, Paavo.”
He handed her the papers. As she read the marriage and birth certificates, the full impact of what this meant to him washed over her and tears filled her eyes. She carefully folded them again. “I’m glad you finally know,” she said huskily.
He finished his Scotch, then opened the French doors and stepped onto the deck. The sky was overcast and drizzly. He sat on a chair, leaning forward, arms on thighs, and stared into the blackness.
She stood in the doorway. There were times, like this, when the past he’d tried to bury came through, and she could see the child who grew up an orphan, whose troubled sister met an early death, and who still had an empty, dark place deep inside him because of it.
Usually so glib, her mind had emptied of words to say. She had never thought she could ache so much for him.
A world of information was at his fingertips at work, and she wondered if he’d made further discoveries today. She was almost afraid to ask, but she had to. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “Did you find out what happened to them?”
After a long silence, he spoke. “I couldn’t, Angie. I thought about it, and typed their names to search the database more than once, but I couldn’t hit the Send command. I wanted to think of them alive, for one night, at least.”
She squeezed her eyes shut a moment, then stepped behind his chair and wrapped her arms around his neck, bending forward to kiss the side of his face, to press her cheek to his. “I know,” she whispered, her throat so thick she had to force the words out. “I know.” He interlaced his fingers with hers, pressing them to his chest. She could have cried aloud, and ranted and raged with fury at the hurt this was causing him. Why had they done it to him—all of them, Aulis, Cecily, Jessica, and maybe even this Mika Turunen? She would blame each one for not telling a small boy who he was, and blame his parents for walking out and leaving him all alone.
“I need to find out what happened to them, Angie. Why did Cecily write to Aulis the way she did? I’ve gone this far. I want the truth.”
“We’ll find out.” She moved around the chair to face him, and crouched at his knee. “Give it time. Give yourself time.”
“I thought I’d put it behind me, and now…” He bowed his head and she reached her arms around his back, just as he clutched her tight. She needed to make this right for him.
Somehow, she would find a way.
The woman shut down her laptop, then stood and paced. Her “security” work served her well now. She was able to find out all about the players—Angelina Amalfi and Paavo Smith in their cute little not-so-well-hidden hideaway. She smirked. Plus a cameo brooch worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
That was a big part of this, certainly, but it wasn’t everything. Not by a long shot.
There was more, and as soon as she found it, all hell would break loose.
Chapter 18
When Serefina Amalfi opened the front door the next morning, Angie threw her arms around her and hugged her hard. Angie’s mother was short and heavy, her black hair pulled straight back into a bun.
“Angelina, che fai?” The startled woman asked.
“Nothing, Mamma,” Angie said. “I’m just happy to see you.”
“Come inside. It’s that burglary, isn’t it?” Serefina asked. Angie followed the dancing red polka dots of her mother’s rayon dress through the house to the family room. “It has you nervous. That’s why you’re never at home when I call.”
Angie still hadn’t told her mother she was staying in one of Cousin Richie’s houses, and definitely not that Paavo was staying with her. Her parents would worry if they knew about the break-ins at Paavo’s and Aulis’s homes, and if they heard Aulis had been shot besides, they’d insist Angie move in with them. “I’m not nervous,” she said. She’d passed nervous days ago and was hurtling toward frantic. “Anyway, a locksmith put great new locks on the door. It’s just that I’ve been busy with my video restaurant reviews.”
Serefina sat down at a new computer. “I’m online. Can you stay for lunch?”
Angie’s eyebrows popped up high to see her old-fashioned, won’t-program-a-VCR mother sitting in front of a high-powered Pentium. “I’ve got a reservation for lunch at a new Basque restaurant for another video review. Bianca’s joining me. Would you like to come, too?”
“You know I don’t like restaurant food,” Serefina said, staring at the screen.
Angie knew it. She also knew her mother would have been insulted to death if she hadn’t invited her. Angie had failed to once, and the fallout, which the family dubbed Restaurant-gate, had had more whispering, hurt feelings, and innuendo than any political scandal. “What is this?” she asked, glad to change the subject. “I didn’t know you owned a computer.”
Serefina pushed a few keys. “Caterina brought it over. You know your sister thinks everyone needs the latest of everything. She says everybody shops this way now. You push the button and things you want show up at your door. No work at all.”
Angie sat down and watched her mother study the screens and navigate her way through a Neiman-Marcus site.
“Hah! Look at that! Dio!” Serefina threw up her arms, then reached under the desk and yanked out the plug. The monitor went black and the computer made a whirring death rattle.
“That’s not how to turn it off.” Angie gasped. “You’ve got to shut it down step by step.”
“Basta! I don’t care.” Serefina stood up and glared at the expensive system. “What nerve! I’m not going to use it again.”
“What happened?”
“I’ve heard how people steal things off these computers, and that once you put some information in, it’s there forever. No way am I going to tell them what size dress I wear! Ma che schifo!” She smoothed her hands over her round waist and hips. “And anyway, I’m on a diet, so I won’t be this size much longer.”
Angie suppressed a smile. Serefina was always on a diet. “I don’t think anyone cares—”
“I care!” As Serefina lumbered toward the kitchen, she called out, “Let’s have some coffee. Your cousin Gina sent some of her biscotti. Buonissimo! Like butter, they are!”
A short while later, Angie sat in the sunrcom across from Serefina, munching cookies and talking the way they had done, time and again, over the years. She couldn’t imagine not having this warmth in her life, not having this security and place to come home to. Thoughts of all Paavo had missed swept over her—the mother’s and father’s hugs never given, tears of joy and pride never shed, hands never clasped doing something as simple as helping a child to cross a street.
“Why are you looking so gloomy all of a sudden, Angelina?” her mother asked.
“I was just thinking of someone who isn’t as lucky as I am.”
“Lucky?”
“To have you and Papá, and to know that you both love me, no matter what I’ve done.”
An eyebrow arched. “How much money do you need?”
Angie was taken aback. “No, really. I was just thinking of my childhood, with all the family around, with Frannie to play with, and our older sisters to look up to. I was very happy.”
“You used to torment Frannie. She was so sweet natured and you were such a little devil!”
“Mamma! I’m trying to tell you how much I love you!”
Serefina studied her a long moment. “Angelina, are you pregnant?”
Paavo waited until the lull after most inspectors headed for home around five-thirty to pull the files out of his drawer and
set them on his desk. They’d been on his mind all day, even as he attended an autopsy for a drowning victim whose death investigation he’d been assigned, even as he testified at a prelim for a murder case he’d investigated.
When he’d first arrived at work that morning, he’d done what he should have done yesterday—he’d looked for records on Mika Turunen and Cecily Campbell Turunen. He’d found death certificates for both of them. Cecily had died in a car accident one week after Mika’s death.
Mika had been murdered. He’d died of gunshot wounds.
So now he knew, and the knowing left him drained and empty.
When he’d requested the homicide book on Mika, he found an annotation on the system to the investigation of Sam Vanse. Sam…Professor White had mentioned someone named Sam. He’d called for that book as well. Several hours passed before Archives contacted him to say the files were ready for pickup.
The casebooks were old and dusty, and the clerk at Records had handed them to Paavo with all the reverence of giving him the Holy Grail. He pulled out Vanse’s file. He wasn’t yet ready to look at a report on his own father’s death.
The reports were, for the most part, in chronological order. Paavo read quickly through the Preliminary Report. Vanse had been found in his car in the parking lot of San Francisco General Hospital, dead from a bullet wound to the back of the head. He had a second, nonlethal wound to his shoulder. The second wound had been inflicted some minutes before the first.
Vanse had been pulled to the driver’s side of his car in an unsuccessful attempt to make it look like he had driven himself to the hospital. His condition and blood on the passenger seat showed this was not the case. Fingerprints found on the steering wheel and elsewhere belonged to Mika Turunen.
Mika Turunen was murdered the day after Vanse’s death. The two men were friends and co-workers at the Omega Computing Corporation.
A number of people were interrogated—Paavo saw an Okko Heikkila, Joonas Mäki, and Aulis Kokkonen among them, but no leads developed, and although there were references made to Vanse’s activism in anti-Soviet groups, no conclusions as to why he was killed were made.
