Angie sat at her tiny kitchen table and absentmindedly stirred her morning coffee. The other night, before he left, Paavo had told her he had been working on the well-publicized case of the young typist from City Hall. That was why he and Yosh were putting in such long hours. It was also clear that he was irritated that Nathan Ellis’s murder had been put on the back burner, so to speak.
She read the Chronicle’s account of Tiffany Rogers’s murder and the investigation. She also reread earlier accounts of the jewelry store killing.
Tiffany was just a year younger than Angie. She had been born and raised in the city, and had attended parochial schools here. For all Angie knew, their paths had probably crossed. Paavo had mentioned that Tiffany had a sister named Connie. Connie Rogers…that sounded familiar for some reason. But Connie was four years older that Tiffany—three older than Angie. Angie probably didn’t know her, but maybe one of her sisters did.
No one seemed to have any idea why Tiffany had been killed. What if it had something to do with her family? Something that anyone who knew Connie might figure out? She could easily make a few phone calls. What harm could it do? It might help. And Paavo was so tired lately, working this case, as well as the jewelry store murder.
She picked up the phone and dialed her sister Frannie’s number. Connie and Frannie were just about the same age.
“Never heard of her,” Fran said.
Undaunted, Angie tried her middle sister, Maria. Maria was irritated at such a dumb question. Angie should have known Maria wouldn’t bother to remember anyone who hadn’t gone to morning mass each day before class. Caterina and Bianca were probably too old.
That left her cousins. She started with Loretta, the one who owned Herobics and kept in contact with lots of people, doing all she could to make them feel guilty about not getting enough exercise. But Loretta didn’t know Connie.
Then she tried her cousin Gloria, who was married and sang in a church choir. She didn’t know Connie either.
What about her male cousins? Connie and Tiffany were good-looking women. She knew exactly which cousin to call.
“Buddy, how ya doing?” she said. Buddy Amalfi lived in South City, the natives’ name for South San Francisco. Years would go by without her seeing or talking to Buddy, but when they made contact again, it was as if they’d talked only yesterday.
“Hey, Angelina, long time no see.”
“I’ve been busy. Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask.”
“Ask away.”
“I’m trying to find a woman named Connie Rogers. She’s about your age, went to school here in the city.”
“Connie…Connie…Connie. Sure, I remember her. Come to think of it, I went out with her a couple of times in high school.”
“I’m trying to find her. Do you know where she is?”
“God, I haven’t seen her in nine, ten years.”
“It’s important, Buddy.”
“Well, let me work on it. I still keep in touch with a lot of the old gang.”
“Tell them her sister was just killed, that should get them thinking harder.”
“Her kid sister? Killed? What do you mean killed?”
“Tiffany was stabbed to death. She was a typist. It’s been all over the papers.”
“Holy! I’d heard some woman was stabbed. Good Christ! I didn’t pay any attention to the name. Poor Connie. Okay, I’ll get right on it.”
Angie hung up and looked at the phone with a self-satisfied air. When she took an interest in something, she didn’t fool around.
“I t’ought we’d be outta here by now,” Earl said as he chipped at the cement wall with a hammer and chisel.
“We would be if you two bozos didn’ waste all your time talkin’ to the lowlife that comes in here.” Vinnie sat on an upside-down wastebasket and puffed on his cigar as Earl worked. Butch stood at the top of the stairs listening for customers and keeping an eye on his kitchen.
“I didn’t ask to talk to ’em,” Earl protested. “I don’t even like being a waitpoison.”
“What’s he talkin’ about, wait poison?” Vinnie looked up at Butch.
“One of the customers told him waiter and waitress were sexist,” Butch said. “Now he thinks he’s s’posed to be politically correct.”
Vinnie looked at the ceiling. “Still payin’ me back, ain’t ya, God? Stuck me with these two. I hope you’re havin’ a good laugh.”
He noticed Earl had stopped working to look at him. “So dig, already,” he ordered.
“I t’ink we need a jackhammer,” Earl said.
“God, he’s dumb!” Butch muttered. “How we gonna find a jackhammer?”
“We could steal one,” Earl reasoned.
Butch came down the stairs. “Sure. We’ll go down to the corner store and swipe some cigs, a bottle of whiskey, a jackhammer—”
“Shut up, both of you,” Vinnie said. “I’m thinkin’.”
“That’s a revelation,” Butch grumbled.
“Shut up I said!” Vinnie bellowed. “I got it. We’re gonna get a big drill and use it at night when no one else is around.”
“Except maybe some cops drivin’ by,” Butch sneered.
“I t’ink we should take toins standin’ watch,” Earl added. “Den, if we see a cop car, we can holler down to toin off da drill.”
“Holler? Over the sound of a drill?” Vinnie glared at Earl, then turned to Butch. “What’s he got for brains?”
Butch just shook his head. “I think I hear a customer.”
“You’re sure?” Paavo asked. He stood in the office of Sans Souci Jewelers and faced the clerk who had been working with Nathan Ellis the day someone paid cash for the tennis bracelet.
“Yes, sir. That’s all I can tell you.” Meredith Park’s steady gaze met Paavo’s. “Tall, distinguished, Caucasian, and between fifty and fifty-five, I’d say. Prematurely gray. Sort of okay, I guess.”
“What do you mean, sort of okay?”
“Let’s say, he wasn’t my type. Too slick—like a politician, maybe. In fact…no. I don’t know.” Meredith shrugged.
“Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?” Paavo asked.
“That’s hard to say. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but I’m just not sure.”
Paavo nodded. Distinguished, gray-haired, middle-aged. Given all he’d learned about Tiffany, the description sounded perfect for one of her boyfriends. The question was, who was he? What was his name? “If you think of anything more, let me know.”
“I will.”
Paavo turned to leave.
“Oh, Inspector. One other thing.”
“Yes?”
Meredith Park turned shrewd, intelligent eyes on him. “It’s probably nothing, but a couple days before Nathan was killed something peculiar happened. It’s been on my mind. I didn’t want to bother you because I doubt it means anything, but since you’re here…”
“It’s fine, Mrs. Park. Tell me.”
“A woman came into the store asking about the Fabergé eggs. She was probably in her late thirties, early forties, five-foot-three or -four, with long brown hair, dull and lopped off at the ends as if she’d cut it herself. Anyway, it was only a day or so after we’d put the eggs out for our Easter display.”
“Yes?”
“So, out of the blue she asked if they were from the original Fabergé artisans in Europe. I said as far as I knew there was some connection to the famous studios—that’s how they were allowed to use the name. Then she asked if the quality was at all the same. I said of course not, that original eggs were found only in museums.”
“Go on.”
“She asked if that were true of all Fabergé pieces. And I told her the real eggs were priceless, and even the small Fabergé pieces, these days, would be valued in the hundreds of thousands of dollars, if not more.”
“So I’ve been told,” Paavo said, not seeing why that mattered.
“Well,” Meredith Park leaned closer, “when I told the woman that, she turned so pale I thought she was going to faint.”
Paavo nodded thoughtfully. “If you see this woman again, I’d like you to call me right away.”
“Will do, Inspector.”