by Joanne Pence
Except that Rosinsky was dead…and the brooch was missing…and Jakob Platnikov was also dead. And both men were suspected of being part of a group with ties to the Russian Mafia. And somehow, Mika’s and Sam’s murders had included these same characters, as did the break-ins now.
The answer to what was happening had to be right there in front of him, but he just couldn’t see it.
One thing he did know was that he needed to learn more about computer magnate Harold Partridge.
He didn’t wait for the elevator, but took the stairs up one floor to Room 558, where the Special Investigation Division Gang Task Force was located. Since the infamous Golden Dragon restaurant massacre, most of the task force’s work concerned Chinese gangs. Two gangs, Joe’s Boys and the Wah Ching, had opened fire on each other in a crowded Chinatown restaurant and innocent customers were caught in the murderous cross fire. Even though the Italian Mafia had never been a real factor in San Francisco, the Golden Dragon carnage had announced that the city wasn’t free of crime gangs. To have them in the heart of one of the city’s landmark tourist areas stirred the city’s government into action.
Paavo knew both Joe’s Boys and the Wah Ching had all but ceased to exist, but other gangs had taken their place in Chinatown, and new ethnic gangs were emerging elsewhere in the city. He needed to find out to what extent the Russians were among them, and Partridge’s role, if any, in all of it.
Inspector Fogarty, one of the key members of the Gang Task Force, pulled out a file on Harold Partridge and handed it to Paavo. “We don’t have Partridge down for doing anything illegal,” Fogarty said, “but we have a file on him because his name turned up so many times while investigating the Russian Mafia. Partridge isn’t too particular about the company he keeps. He ain’t no Partridge in a pear tree.”
Paavo groaned. “Bad jokes aside, just how active is the Russian Mafia in the city?” he asked.
“We got some problems. Nothing like the East Coast, luckily. They aren’t like most gangs, those that immigrants formed to give themselves some clout or a way to get money after arriving in this country. Those Russian mafiosi were already hardened criminals when they arrived. Their West Coast leader calls himself Koba—‘protector of the little people.’”
“And Partridge works with them?”
“There’s no doubt in my mind—just no proof he’s done anything illegal. We share what we turn up with the FBI. I haven’t heard back from them, though. Either they think he’s clean or just have other fish to fry.”
Paavo sat down to read Partridge’s file. While Partridge had a long history of association with reputed members of the Russian Mafia, keeping bad company was no crime, even if the unlikely socializing between a Silicon Valley magnate and Russian crime lords reeked with suspicion.
“Thanks for the information,” Paavo said as he handed the file back.
“I just hope you nail the bastard, Paavo. He’s dirty. I know he is.”
Harold Partridge lived in a massive white stucco house on a bluff overlooking the Silicon Valley.
Silicon Valley was not so much a geographical feature as a state of mind, an exciting state of wild competition, startling innovation, cutthroat deals, and fabulous wealth. In size it was a roughly thirty-by-ten-mile strip in Santa Clara County anchored by Stanford University at the northwest corner and the Stanford Research Park on the southeast.
For Harold Partridge’s home to look out over the place that had given him everything he could ever want made sense. The house was quiet as a mausoleum. An elderly butler opened the door and said almost nothing as Paavo showed his badge and asked to speak to Partridge. Silently he led Paavo to the living room, then walked away.
The interior was more of a display center than a home. The floors were a smooth, golden hardwood, the walls bright white, with picture windows facing the hills. In the center of the room were two black leather chairs and a matching sofa. One wall had a display of triptych icons mounted on it; another had shelves filled with collectibles.
Paavo slowly worked his way around the room, first studying the icons with their religious scenes. The shelves displayed candlesticks, cloisonné enamel boxes, miniatures, pen trays, cigarette cases, and a variety of fancy bottles.
When Partridge still didn’t appear, Paavo wandered out of the living room into the hallway.
Across the hall was a plain, almost Shaker-like dining room. The room just past it was lined with display cases.
The center case held jewelry. Three necklaces with diamonds and emeralds had center stage. There were also a variety of diamond earrings, brooches made with gold and diamonds, with aquamarine, silver and agate, and rubies, and a number of heavily jeweled boxes, many with portraits of Nicholas or Alexandra or both.
The value of the pieces was beyond his ability to comprehend.
“My, my, a policeman with a nose for art.”
Paavo turned at the voice. Partridge was an even smaller man than news photos indicated, with a wiry build, wispy brown hair, and oversized glasses. His left eye twitched nervously.
“I’m Inspector Smith, Homicide, San Francisco,” Paavo said, holding out his hand.
Partridge’s hand felt soft and squishy, almost like cheese.
“Homicide? I take it you’re investigating someone’s death?” Partridge’s voice quavered, and he tried to laugh it off. “I don’t think I know anyone who’s died under unusual circumstances, do I?”
“It has to do with the death of Gregor Rosinsky, owner of Rose Jewelry in San Francisco.”
Partridge gasped. “Yes, I know that store. As you can see, I collect Russian pieces, and the owner of the shop was an excellent craftsman, an expert. He could tell me if the pieces I was interested in were genuine, and I always went to him to have them cleaned and repaired, if necessary. I’m afraid I haven’t spoken to him recently. Not for a couple of years.” He took a breath. “You said he died—a homicide? How horrible! What happened to him?”
“He was shot in his store. We’re looking for any possible leads and are contacting recent customers. His telephone records show that he called this house three days before his death.”
“They do? I never received any such call. I spend a fair amount of time at the Industries complex. If he called me, he didn’t leave a message.”
“Is there anyone else he might have spoken to?”
“My butler should have told me about any phone calls, although he’s getting a little forgetful. Still, after so many years of faithful service, how can I complain? The same is true for my housekeeper. She would definitely have given me a message, unless he didn’t leave his name or anything. That’s probably it. I can ask her if she remembers such a thing. She’s out grocery shopping at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Please do,” Paavo said. “But tell me more about Rosinsky.”
“I have nothing more to tell. I’m sorry.”
“If he found a piece of jewelry that you would be interested in, do you think he’d call?”
“I would imagine so. But my pieces are extremely valuable. I doubt he would come across a piece I’d want. In the early part of this century, when Russia first went under Communism, many people escaped and brought jewels and artwork with them. They had to sell them to live in the West. What a treasure trove that was for collectors like myself! Now that source has dried up. And the few new pieces that emerge are outrageously marked. Everyone’s gotten into the act, I’m afraid.”
“What about the samizdat movement some years ago? I imagine you’ve heard of it.”
“Yes…yes, I have.” Partridge gave a mousy little smile. “I’m afraid I don’t ask the sellers where the art came from originally. They give me assurances I will become the legal owner, and I accept them.”
“I see,” Paavo replied. Something about Partridge annoyed him. He decided not to ask about the brooch at the moment. “Thank you for your time. Let me know if your housekeeper spoke to Rosinsky. For now, I’ll ask your butler.”
Partri
dge’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, Inspector. I’ll ring for him.”
Partridge hovered about as Paavo questioned the butler, but the servant had no memory of a telephone call from Rosinsky.
“They’re all closing in.” Partridge sniveled into the phone. “Paavo Smith was just here! He doesn’t know yet, but it’s just a matter of time.”
“What do you expect?” the voice bellowed. “You try to kill a cop, and you think they’re going to sit back and play tiddledywinks? Keep away from everything and everybody! Too many questions are being asked, too much old shit being stirred up. I’m doing what I can to put a lid on it, but you have to stay clear!”
“None of this would have happened if it weren’t for Rosinsky and Platnikov!” Partridge whined. “You’re taking too long! You’ve got to stop him—and, from what I hear, he’s got a girlfriend who sticks her nose into as much or more than he does.”
“I’ll handle them both. Leave everything to me.” The connection went dead.
Partridge glared at the phone. Like hell I will!
Chapter 25
Angie was glad to stay in the city today. Last night, as she gave Paavo a shortened version of her visit north with cousin Richie, she had visions of him wanting to drive up to Gideon immediately. Luckily, he was too busy with an autopsy and a deposition at the Hall of Justice, plus he’d set up a meeting with a couple of specialists at San Francisco General to discuss Aulis’s treatment.
Shortly after he left for work, Angie received a phone call from Irene Billot, the customer the grocer had mentioned. Angie asked if they could meet to discuss Cecily, and she agreed.
Irene lived on a ground-floor apartment on Diamond Street, several blocks away from Liberty. She appeared to be in her sixties, with large, green eyes and beautifully coiffed coppery brown hair, and wore a pants outfit that looked like a Chanel. And she was in a wheelchair.
“The grocer assured me you seemed like a nice—and safe—person to talk to,” Mrs. Billot said after they’d introduced themselves. “Can’t be too careful anymore! But you’re too young to have known Cecily.”
“I didn’t,” Angie said. “I’m a friend of Aulis Kokkonen’s. I hope you remember him.”
“Mr. Kokkonen? Of course I remember him. He was a quiet man, and so very nice.” The woman continued to look quizzically at Angie. “Please come inside.”
Angie followed her into a living room filled with photos of children and grandchildren. She had set out cookies and a pitcher of iced tea, and poured them each some.
Angie sat on a yellow armchair facing the woman. “Mr. Kokkonen is the reason I was asking questions in the neighborhood. Cecily’s son, you see, is a close friend of mine. Almost a fiancé—once he gets around to asking me.” Angie smiled, and to her thanks, the woman did as well. “His name is Paavo. You might remember him?”
“Paavo? Little Paavo? He’s all grown up now? Oh, of course he is! My, it was long ago, wasn’t it?” Irene smiled from her memories. “Such a cute little boy. He had curly brown hair, so soft and springy I’d love to run my fingers through it, and huge blue eyes. He was always talking and laughing. I used to tell Cecily she was going to have to beat the women off with a stick from that boy.”
“Well…he’s still as handsome as ever,” Angie admitted. “Although his hair isn’t curly anymore. But I still love running my fingers through it.” Then her spirits fell. “He doesn’t laugh much, though, and he isn’t a very talkative person either.”
The woman studied her face. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”
Angie proceeded to tell her a little about Aulis and Paavo. “So I’m trying to find out something about Cecily from someone who knew her. There’s even a question as to whether she’s alive or dead. Do you think she might still be alive?”
Irene dropped her gaze and quietly said, “No. At first I had hoped she’d managed to get away, but when she never came back, when she abandoned her children, I realized she must have died.”
“What was she like, Mrs. Billot?” Angie asked. “What happened to her? Do you know?”
“Well, Cecily and I were as close as…as sisters back then, but in hindsight, I realize there was a side of her that was different from the goody-goody loving wife strangers might have seen her as. She had her secrets.”
Angie sat straighter in her chair. “What do you mean?”
“Cecily’s first marriage wasn’t a happy one.”
“Oh?” Angie’s voice rose. “I’ve never heard anything at all about it.”
Irene took a sip of her tea. “Well, I’m just guessing here, from a few things she said. It seemed her first husband was a lot older. She, like Mika, had lost both her parents, although she had lost hers to illnesses. Her first husband, if you ask me, was the father she had grieved for. She loved him in a quiet way, and he was good to her, and protective. But then he died from a stroke or something. She had a lot of tragedy in her life. A lot of tragedy. Some people, trouble seems to stalk them, no matter what they do. Cecily was one of those people.”
“That’s terrible,” Angie cried, her heart going out to the woman, despite her vow to never forgive Cecily for her treatment of Paavo and his sister.
“She left D.C. with her young daughter and eventually moved to the apartment on Liberty Street. I lived next door back then. Since we both had daughters, we got along. I was a manager at PG & E, and Cecily was a researcher at a law library.”
Angie nodded, remembering that was apparently the story Cecily had used as a cover.
“I didn’t know it was a lie at first,” Irene said pointedly, to Angie’s amazement.
“She told you it was a lie?” she asked.
Irene nodded. “I was the only one she confided in. She worked for the FBI and moved into the building to watch a group of Finns mixed up in anti-Soviet activities, and—”
“Wait,” Angie interrupted. “I thought she was a research clerk.”
“That was the job she began with, but they quickly moved her into surveillance—undercover work.”
Angie was too stunned to say a word.
“At first the Finns did amateur stuff like what everyone was doing,” Irene said. “At times Sam or Mika or sometimes one of the others would go off on nightly errands. The last time I saw her, in fact, it was evening. Mika got a call from Sam and left quickly. The next day, he was killed.”
“Oh, my!”
“Sometimes Cecily would go off, too, by herself. She’d ask me to look after Paavo and Jessica. She’d be back in less than half an hour, looking stormy and angry.”
“Did you ask Cecily where she went or what upset her?”
“I asked. She was having a difficult time with her boss. In fact, she was having problems going through with her work because of Mika. She kept it from him.”
Angie wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “He didn’t know she worked for the FBI?”
“How could she admit to spying on him for the government, even though they were both on the same anti-Soviet side? What she was doing bothered her a lot. Deep down, she knew she should have quit her job and told Mika everything. But she didn’t. Her boss apparently talked her into staying. She never went near the FBI office, but used to meet him every few weeks. He convinced her she could actually watch over Mika and the others by staying with the Bureau—that the whole U.S. government would be looking out for them as they got in deeper and deeper with the Russian Mafia.”
“And she believed them?”
“To her eternal regret, I’m sure.”
Angie could scarcely believe it. “Was she an activist?”
“Not at all. Cecily wasn’t a bohemian, a rebel, or even a government critic. Maybe it was because her parents died early and she had to look after herself. She was a survivor; there was an inner toughness to her that not even Mika saw. Oh, that didn’t mean she wasn’t nice or that she wasn’t innocent in some ways. Back then we were all so innocent, believing we could change the world, believing in the good of man. Trusting and na�
�ve—that was all of us, including Cecily.”
Irene’s cynicism was startling.
“I apologize,” Irene said. “But sometimes I get cranky here in this chair. I know you want to ask—it’s muscular dystrophy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t bother.” Irene reached for more tea, and so did Angie.
After a while, Angie drew in her breath, and then said, “I hope you don’t mind my saying, but it sounds like you were more than a little exasperated with Cecily.”
Irene nodded solemnly. “As I said, all this is in hindsight. She was my truest friend, but I see now that she was too ambitious; she wanted to succeed in the Bureau. She saw a chance to get ahead—there was lots of pressure to recruit women agents. Cecily might have been one of the first. She had the mind, talent, and ambition for it, or so she believed. So did I. On the other hand, she also had a family and a good man. Then, in the end, she had nothing.”
“My God,” Angie cried, finally realizing the enormity of Cecily’s deception. “The minute she married Mika, she should have been pulled from the assignment. How could the Bureau have left her in it? How could she have remained? You don’t spy on your own husband!”
“That’s right. We talked about it at length. Her boss wanted her to stay on, and her ambitious part agreed with him.”
“That’s madness. Why would her boss have done that?”
“She gave him information about the Russian smugglers—organized crime, in other words, their activities. The Finns were nothing to them, but an insight to what became the Russian Mafia was important. She didn’t understand that back then. She believed in God and country. Had she lived, I’m sure she would have spent the last thirty years asking herself how she had been such a fool. She misread the signs, and kept her secret from Mika, and her ambitions drove her to trust the wrong man.”
“Her boss?”
Irene’s eyes turned hard as steel. “That’s right. She always said he was the one.”
