Paavo went to the computer center and asked for his printout. The new supervisor told him the job was still running.
“What do you mean, it’s still running?” he asked. “There’s never been this kind of delay before.”
“It’s a big job,” she said huffily.
“Not that big.”
She gazed pointedly at him. “You want us to be complete, don’t you?”
“Where’s Mr. Liu?”
“Myron has gone home.” The supervisor picked up a stack of printouts and loudly rapped their edges against the desk top to straighten them. Also, Paavo figured, to let him know he was being dismissed. “I’ll handle this,” she said curtly.
“Can you get me the printout right now?”
“That’s impossible.”
“I want Liu here in twenty minutes.”
“You can’t order me around like that!”
He stared at her. He didn’t bother to reply. Or to leave.
“All right.” She sniffed. “I’ll phone his house. But I’m not guaranteeing anything.”
A half hour later, Myron Liu contacted Homicide.
“I’m at my computer, Inspector,” he said to Paavo. “Tell me exactly what you need, and I’ll get it for you right now.”
“I want a list of any cases that Judge Lucas St. Clair and DA Lloyd Fletcher worked on together, in any capacity at all. Got it?”
“Yes. Give me ten minutes.”
“I’ll be right down,” Paavo said.
Angie stood with Earl near the entrance to The Wings Of An Angel.
“Now, you sure you ain’t gonna be alone wit’ dis guy?” Earl asked again.
“I promise.” She smiled. It was kind of cute seeing him act the Dutch uncle with her.
“I don’t even like you doin’ business wit’ him.”
“Shhhh! Here he comes.”
Carter walked into the restaurant. A hard look flashed across his face when he saw Earl, but it softened immediately as his gaze met Angie’s. In that instant, as she noted his quick cover-up, all her own misgivings about the man revived. She was glad she was meeting him here and nowhere less public.
This was a business transaction. Nothing more. And she wanted it over with.
They sat at a table, Earl hovering nearby.
“This piece needs to be hidden in the egg,” Carter said, showing her a tiny round piece of metal. “Then you take this monitor”—he patted a black box with colored lights on it—“and it homes in on the pager. It blinks green as you get closer and red as you back away.”
He carried the chip to one end of the restaurant and demonstrated how the monitor worked. Sure enough, the red and green lights blinked as he moved forward and back. She nodded sagely.
“Put the chip in the egg,” Carter went on, “then take the control home and hit this reset button. When—if—the egg starts to move, the control box will blink if it moves closer to or farther away from you.”
“That seems easy enough,” Angie said, deliberately giving a cool, businesslike edge to her voice.
“It is. But how about I come along to make sure it works.”
“That won’t be necessary. I’ve written a check for a hundred dollars. Who should I make it out to?”
“Oh…Carter Westin is the name.”
She wrote out his name. “Here you are.” She gave him the check and picked up the device. “Thank you.”
“Shall we have some wine?” Carter suggested. “A little something to eat?”
“Miss Angie,” Earl said, “Butch is waitin’ for your lesson about da rigatoni.”
“Thanks, Earl. I’m sorry, Carter. Good-bye.” So saying, Angie turned and hurried to the kitchen, Earl bustling along right behind her.
The computer listing had fourteen names on it. They were all dated seven to fifteen years ago—covering the time Fletcher presented cases as an assistant district attorney for the city, up to St. Clair’s retirement. Paavo glanced over the names, then handed the list to Yoshiwara.
“Let’s see,” Yosh said. “Darrin Alonzo, Percy Alexander, Dan Barrett, Peter Callahan, Wesley Carville, Manny Dain…lots of names here, pal. How do you want to handle this?”
Paavo frowned. None of the names meant anything to him. “Do you want the first half of the alphabet, or the last?”
Before pulling the criminal records for his half of the names on the list, Paavo drove over to the hospital and questioned Stan, still heavily medicated, but able to mumble a few words. Paavo could just make them out. Stan hadn’t seen his attacker, but somehow he knew the man was muscular.
Paavo asked about the roses. Stan couldn’t remember anything about them, not who had sent them or why. That was strange—how often did a man get flowers? He’d ask again later.
Back in Homicide, the files waited for him.
Alonzo and Hurley still in jail. Forget them.
Alexander, vehicular manslaughter, out six months.
Barrett, dealing heroin. Out for four years. Seemed to have gone straight.
Callahan, in and out a half dozen times for robbery, drugs, pimping. Latest release last December. Career criminal.
Carville, second-degree murder. Out since late February. Model prisoner, no priors.
Dain, in for rape, skipped out on parole three months earlier. Still not located.
Paavo moved Callahan and Alexander to his highly doubtful stack. Career criminals and drunk drivers rarely turned into sexual psychopathic killers. Barrett—four years straight. A maybe. That left Carville and Dain as probables. Dain would be his sole likely candidate if it wasn’t for the timing of Carville’s release. Carville got out just a short while before the first murder was committed.
Also, Carville was the only murderer on his list.
Paavo looked up at the city map hanging on the wall, on which Calderon had posted the Fabergé egg robberies. From the address in his file, Carville was living in a cheap hotel in the Tenderloin district. He probably didn’t own a car yet.
What was he supposed to have done, ride the Muni to commit murder? Ride a smelly bus with food wrappings, undefinable crud and wads of gum all over the floor…
He jumped up and hurried to the map. Could it be? It was too simple, he thought. But on the other hand, why not?
The first robbery—the one during which Nathan Ellis had been killed—took place one block off the Geary bus line on Post Street. The next, farther west, a block off the bus line on O’Farrell. Number three was west again, this time on Sutter Street. The fourth jumped all the way to the Richmond district’s Clement Street, a block off Geary, and very close to the city’s Russian immigrant community, centered around a large, beautiful Russian Orthodox church…located on Geary Street.
In fact, if the pattern held up, then on Tuesday—today—the next robbery would be somewhere on the Geary bus line to the west of the spot where the last one occurred.
Paavo called the Holy Virgin Cathedral and asked when they held services. Daily, eight in the morning and six at night.
That meant morning service ended about nine. Since it took a city bus nearly an hour to get from Twenty-sixth and Geary through traffic down to the Sans Souci Jewelers, a bus-riding thief would arrive at 10:00 A.M., when the store first opened.
Two robberies had occurred between 10:00 and 11:00 A.M., and two between 4:00 and 5:00 P.M.
The idea of a church-going thief was too crazy. Paavo didn’t know if he believed this idea of his or not.
Quickly, he opened the phone book, looked for gift shops and jewelers near the Orthodox church, and started phoning. One shop, the Volga Jewelers, between Eighteenth and Nineteenth Avenues, carried Fabergé replicas.
He tried to reach O’Rourke in Robbery, but O’Rourke was out on a bank holdup. He glanced at the clock. Three-forty-five. It was a long shot. But in case he was right, he didn’t want to blow it.
He was almost out the door when he hurried back to his desk and made a call to Angie. There’d be no dinner date for him this evening.
“Hi! This is Angie. I can’t answer your call right now…”
He nearly hung up. But then he remembered her irritation at the way he wouldn’t leave her a message whenever he called. He might not have a chance to call back.
“Angie. It’s me. I can’t come by for dinner. Something came up. I want to see you, though. Maybe I can meet you later. Call anytime. I’ll be here most of the night.”
He hung up feeling like a tongue-tied teenager. The message probably made little sense. God, but he hated those machines.
“I can’t do it tonight, Angie,” Connie said.
“But I’ve got the paging device right here.” Angie put her purse on the counter at Everyone’s Fancy and pulled out the black box and the small chip. “I bought the egg from you, remember? In case it got stolen, and we couldn’t retrieve it.”
Connie frowned. “I’d like to help out. But…maybe we should give the police more time. I don’t want to mess them up.”
“This won’t mess them up. It’s between you and me.”
“Well…the other thing is your cousin Buddy called me last night. He came over, and we…we hit it off really well. Tonight we’re going out for dinner. I don’t know what time, or if, well, what time, I’ll get home.”
Ah-ha! Angie thought. That explained Connie’s languid, off-in-the-clouds demeanor today. She was acting like a woman in the throes of newfound passion. Despite her and Buddy both having had bitter experiences with love, and particularly with marriage in the past, they’d sought each other out and were ready to make a try at a having a good relationship this time. Angie added this bit of news to her marriage survey.
“I’m glad,” Angie said. “Well, we can always try another day.”
Connie looked relieved. “Here,” she said, handing Angie the wooden box with the egg inside. “It’s almost Easter. Why don’t you take it home and enjoy it the way it was meant to be. The police will do okay with this one. Trust them.”
“I do.” Angie took the box. “But sometimes I think they need a little nudge, that’s all.”
Paavo drove down Geary Boulevard. He had just passed Eighteenth Avenue when he saw a small, bearded man slipped into the Volga Jewelers. He double-parked, flashers blinking, drew his gun, and hurried toward the shop.
Two women stepped out of a restaurant in front of Paavo. “Police! Stay back,” he said. They ran back indoors.
He kept his body against the wall and slowly leaned forward to look into the shop from the big storefront window. The jeweler was lifting a Fabergé egg into a paper bag. The robber’s gun was drawn.
Paavo waited until the thief had the paper bag, his gun no longer pointed at the owner, and then he stepped into the shop. “Police!” he shouted. “Drop the gun.”
The thief didn’t move. The jeweler froze.
“Drop it now. Raise your hands and turn around.”
The gunman let go of the gun and it fell to the floor. He turned slowly and, facing Paavo, reached up and removed his beard, then peeled the short, black hair from his head.
When the wig was gone, shoulder-length brown hair, streaked with gray, bushed out around a ravaged, tear-stained face. The thief was a woman.
“It’s not my fault,” she said. The woman was of medium height, with a frail build. She looked in her early to mid-fifties.
Paavo pulled her arms behind her back and slipped handcuffs on her. As he did so, Officer McMahon from the Richmond Station showed up in response to Paavo’s earlier request.
Paavo turned the thief over to the officer to read her her rights.
The jeweler, a thin, wiry little man, walked up to him, his hand extended. “I’m Gregorovitch. Thank you for coming so quickly. When I got your call, I couldn’t believe anyone would really want to steal such a thing. Then, when I saw the gun…” He shook his head.
“You did well,” Paavo said, shaking his hand.
“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” the thief cried. “I wouldn’t have hurt him. I was just trying to help myself. Those eggs aren’t worth much, you know. Just a little. This isn’t even a felony, is it?”
“Armed robbery is a felony,” Paavo replied. “And so is murder.”
“Murder!”
“The murder of Nathan Ellis, the clerk at Sans Souci Jewelers. A young man with a wife, a future.”
“But I didn’t mean to—” She turned her head, her lower lip trembling.
“What’s your name?” Paavo asked.
“Claudia Zelenin.” Her voice was little more than a whisper.
“Address?”
“Ninety-three Presidio Terrace.”
He glanced up at the posh address. “Do you live with anyone?”
“Alone. The house was once my parents’. It’s mine now.”
“Occupation?”
“I don’t do anything,” she replied. “The house is all I have left. It takes every bit of cash I can put my hands on just to pay property taxes.”
“I see. It’s tough.” Paavo managed to keep a straight face. The house was probably worth a million, easy.
“That’s why I needed the Fabergé eggs.” Her hands were clasped, her eyes pleading. “I had a Fabergé once, you see, but it was stolen. It was a family heirloom, taken away from me.”
“You had a real Fabergé egg?” He had read enough about them to know how impossible that was. They were museum pieces.
“Not an egg, but a ring box. It was very small and simple for Fabergé, but incredibly valuable nonetheless.”
“Excuse me, Ms. Zelenin,” he interrupted. “You might want to speak with your attorney before you say any more.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s just that all this is so silly. So frustrating. I’m no criminal, to be handcuffed. I’m the victim.” She spoke quickly, growing more impassioned with each word. “My grandfather brought the Fabergé with him when he left Russia, you see. But I was so stupid, I let someone come into my house, into my heart, and take it from me.” Suddenly she began to sob. “I would have done anything for him! Anything! But he just wanted my money and valuables.”
“And that’s what drew you to the fake Fabergés?” Paavo asked.
“They’re not fakes! I know they aren’t worth much yet. But someday they might be. They are from Fabergé artisans, you see. No one thought, in the time of the tsars, that Fabergé pieces would become so valuable. These might be the same. It doesn’t seem fair that I don’t have any at all anymore. All I want is one good one—one to make up for that which love took away from me. Is that too much to ask?”
Paavo nodded to Officer McMahon to take the woman to City Jail and book her.
He had wanted to know why the thief had killed Nathan Ellis, why the eggs were so important that anyone would take a young man’s life for one. It amazed him still, the foolish things people could do when caught up in the throes of newfound passion; and the even more foolish things they did afterward to make up for it.
He took a statement from the owner, then left the store and hurried to his car, which was still blocking traffic.
As he drove away, though, the thought of the foolish things we do for love reverberated in his mind. And suddenly he knew where he was heading.
“Smith! Who the hell do you think you are coming to my house? I told you already you’re taking this thing too far,” Fletcher said. The district attorney stood in the black-and-white marble foyer of his mansion, holding the carved solid oak door only halfway open.
Paavo put his hand against the door and pushed. Fletcher backed off and let him enter. “Where do you want to talk?” Paavo asked. “In the living room? Or, would you rather someplace private…away from your wife, for instance.”
Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “I have nothing to hide. But I don’t want to upset her by any crazy accusations. Let’s go into the den.”
They entered a room that was paneled in rosewood, lined with library shelves. An oversize desk with a leather top stood in the center of the room, a straight-backed chair behind it and two matching leather wing chairs in front.
Paavo dropped his files and mug shots on Fletcher’s desk, then sat in one of the wing chairs. “This isn’t a game, Fletcher. I want some straight answers, and to hell with your political ambition.”
“I don’t have to listen—”
“I’ve got a list of all the trials that involved you and Judge St. Clair. I’m going to go to the judge’s house to see what he can remember. You can join us if you’d like, or we can go over the list right here.”
Fletcher glanced at the printout. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Paavo paced. “I’ve been looking at a connection between two women—one involved with a judge, the other with a DA. What does that sound like to you, Fletcher? It sounds like a trial case, doesn’t it?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’m trying to find out if I’m on the right track with this, or if I’m 180 degrees off base. I need the truth about you and Tiffany Rogers.”
“I’ve already answered that.”
“I need your help, Fletcher. I need to find out who’s behind the killings, especially if I’m right about the motive. Think of it, Fletcher. Who else worked on this case? What other women is this guy after? And then, when he’s done with the women, will he stop there? What if he decides this revenge isn’t enough and goes after you next? To kill you the same way he did Tiffany Rogers.”
Fletcher paled and sat down behind his desk. “You aren’t making any sense.”
“Come on, man. I’ve got to know for sure if you were seeing Tiffany Rogers, because if you weren’t—if you really weren’t—I could be heading down a blind alley that could be fatal to someone. You’ve got to tell me, Fletcher. Is hiding a liaison with Rogers worth the life of another woman? Is it worth your own life?”
“This doesn’t concern me.” His voice was unconvincing.
“It was your woman he got first. You might be the first man to get nailed by this guy,” Paavo said.
Fletcher rubbed his forehead. “I love my wife, Smith.”
“Then you’d better be telling the truth, because if you’re not, and this psycho has something against you and those you love, your wife is in danger.”
He gazed up at Smith, his eyes hooded. “All right. I was involved with Tiffany, but I’d better not hear a word about this anywhere.”
“I can’t guarantee that, Fletcher.”
“Damn it, Smith. This could ruin me, and you know it.”
“Is being mayor so important to you?”
“It’s the only thing that’s important”—he shut his eyes—“now that Tiffany’s gone.” He looked up at Paavo. “I did love her, damn it. It doesn’t mean I feel anything less for my wife—Sally and I have had thirty-two years, wonderful years, and three fine sons.” Tears filled his eyes. “But I also loved Tiffany. She made me feel young again. Important. She was the one who helped me decide to run for mayor, dammit!”
Paavo waited for Fletcher to gain control again.
The DA clenched his fist, his head bowed. “You’re on your own from here on out, Smith. Get the hell out of my life.”
Paavo stood. “You should have told me about you and Rogers days ago, Fletcher. For your sake, it had better not be too late.”
Despite the late hour, Julian Bosch agreed to meet Paavo at the Parole Office. Paavo had called several times that day, and every time was told Bosch was out or holding an interview and couldn’t be disturbed. He’d never returned one call. Tonight, Paavo had reached him at home and insisted on a meeting.
Now, Bosch was waiting in his office when Paavo arrived. He was a small man with a florid complexion, heavy glasses, and a nervous tic at the corner of his eye. “I’m sorry I hadn’t returned your calls, Inspector,” he said. “But if it concerns Wesley Carville, I knew it couldn’t be anything urgent.”
Paavo went into the small, sterile office and sat in a high-backed government-issue chair. “Why do you say that?”
“Because Mr. Carville is one of my easiest cases. He’s a well-educated man, Inspector. He’ll do fine on the outside. I’ve already got a number of job interviews lined up. Just waiting for him to give me the word.”
“Why hasn’t he?”
“He’s still got the money he earned while he was in prison. He’s not ready to be tied down to a nine-to-five job yet. We see this all the time. Free at last, you know. But he’ll come around. Why are you interested in him?”
“I’m investigating a murder.”
“And you think Carville might be a witness?”
“I think he might be a suspect.”
“Impossible.”
“That’s what I need to determine. May I see his file?”
“Of course. Here are his records. You’ll see he was a model prisoner. No trouble at all. And he’s the same with me. A joy to work with—and that’s really rare, let me tell you.” Bosch shuffled his papers and smiled proudly, as if to take credit for Carville’s spotless record.
Paavo started at the back of the file. The write-ups were from wardens, for the most part, from the time Carville entered prison for second-degree murder. A twenty-year sentence—ten with good behavior. Paavo read through them. The man had worked hard, rarely spoke to anyone. Spent all his time in the electronics shop. No doubt about it. He was a model prisoner.
“What’s this?” Paavo asked. At the bottom of a page, penciled in small letters, was the annotation, C53794.
“Another case number,” Bosch said. “Probably somebody Carville knew in prison.”
“Did you check it out?”
“Why should I? The page it’s written on is dated eight years ago. I have enough trouble with the here and now.”
Paavo nodded and kept going. He copied down Carville’s current address—a cheap Tenderloin rooming house. “Is there anything at all strange or different, or in any way troubling, about this man?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing,” Bosch stated emphatically. “I wish all my people were like him.”
With a sweep of his arm he cleared the table in his Tenderloin hotel room of cockroaches and set up his tape recorder. Whistling softly to himself, he picked up his phone and tapped into Angie’s answering machine. He hit the code for the machine to play its messages.
The first message was from her mother, asking how her baby daughter was doing. The second was from her sister, Bianca. Bossy bitch. Next came one from some producer, wondering if she’d like to try her audition again.
He shrugged. She wouldn’t be around for it. Too bad.
Then he heard one from the cop. He sat forward in his chair, flipped on the record button of the tape recorder, and hit the replay code for the answering machine. This was even better than he’d hoped for.
Next, he dialed Homicide.
“Inspector Calderon here,” came a gruff voice.
“Inspector Paavo Smith, please,” he said.
“Just a minute.” Calderon must have put his hand over the mouthpiece, but Wesley could hear the muffled conversation. “Paavo around? He’s got a call…Be back soon? No? Not ’til late? Yeah, okay. I got it.”
He didn’t need to hear anything more. He hung up the phone.