To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery Page 9

  “Have any of them ever mentioned some Finnish people living around here?”

  “Finnish people? What do they look like?”

  Angie was getting desperate. “What about neighbors? Can you at least tell me if any of them are old?”

  “What are you, pimping for AARP or something?” the woman asked.

  Angie tried hard to be nice. “I’m just trying to do my job. San Francisco magazine wants that article.”

  “I don’t know any old neighbors, and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.” She cast a sneering, albeit envious, glare from Angie’s suit to matching high-heeled Ferragamos to the Ferrari parked in front of the house. “I don’t want your old magazine, anyway.”

  Angie stared at the door that had just slammed shut in her face. She could scarcely believe it.

  Maybe she needed a better cover story. She drove around the neighborhood until she found a Valu-Mart.

  Two hours later, she was heading for home with ten of the fifteen boxes of chocolate mint patties she had bought to introduce herself as the neighborhood’s new Avon lady. Most people weren’t home, and of those who were—all young—few would take the candy or even listen to her spiel. You’d have thought they were afraid she wanted to poison them or squirt them with cologne or something.

  The public could be so rude!

  Up ahead, a sign on a building caused her to slam on the brakes.

  Paavo entered the Federal Building at 450 Golden Gate Avenue. It was a plain, boxy-shaped, beige building, the width of the entire block, protected by a concrete barrier and cyclone fence that reached into the street so that no cars—or Ryder trucks—could park nearby. The FBI offices were on the eighth floor. Bond’s secretary motioned him to sit in a well-appointed reception area.

  Within three minutes, he was ushered into a corner office with windows facing a State of California office building across the street, and introduced.

  Tucker Bond had just taken the lid off a small cottage cheese container, and had two packets of soda crackers, four crackers in all, side by side on his desk. He put down the lid, fastidiously wiped his fingertips on a napkin, and stood with his hand outstretched.

  Paavo’s first impression of Bond was that the man didn’t look at all like the FBI agents he usually dealt with. They tended to be broad shouldered and thick chested, with close-cropped hair and the inevitable black or dark gray suit.

  Bond looked like a hawk, gaunt, with prominent cheekbones, a thin, beaklike nose, and wavy gray hair. His navy-blue suit fit like an off-the-rack special offer. A white shirt and a light gray and navy striped tie completed the ensemble. Compared to him, Paavo felt almost fashionable in his gray her-ringbone Nordstrom’s jacket and black slacks.

  Bond’s grip was strong, and as Paavo regarded the steely nature of his eyes, he realized the gauntness was the sort he’d often seen on long-distance runners, practitioners of exercise and dietary asceticism. He seemed to be all sinew and muscle, fastidious restraint and monklike intensity. Just as Paavo studied Bond, the man scrutinized him in return.

  “I took the liberty of finding out which department you worked in, Inspector Smith, after receiving your request to meet.” Bond’s voice was surprisingly mellow. “Homicide. I was quite intrigued.”

  “I’m here about an employee you had many years ago.”

  “Yes, Cecily Campbell.” Bond picked up a white plastic spoon. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m eating my lunch? This was the only time I had free today.”

  “Go right ahead.”

  “I remember Cecily.” Bond stopped talking as he ate two heaping spoonfuls of cottage cheese, then grasped the red cellophane tear strip on the crackers. “I haven’t thought about her in…God, twenty-five years or so. What does she have to do with Homicide now?”

  “Perhaps nothing, although there may be some connection between her and a case I’m working on.”

  Bond’s mouth compressed. “Your superiors weren’t aware of any such connection.”

  Paavo tensed at Bond showing his muscle with the higher-ups so quickly. “My superiors don’t work my cases. I do.”

  Bond gave a slight nod as if to grant him a touché. “So, Inspector, does this mysterious case of yours involve the Bureau?”

  “No.”

  “Given that, I don’t see how I can help you.” He shoveled more cottage cheese into his mouth. At this rate, the container was almost empty.

  “Tell me what you remember about Cecily Campbell.”

  “It’s been a long time. One thing, however, I remember well. She died. It was tragic. Very tragic.” Bond ate a cracker in two bites. Paavo’s mouth was feeling dry just watching him.

  “How did she die?”

  Bond scraped the last bites from his cottage cheese container, then tossed it into his wastebasket. “An auto accident.”

  “There’s no death certificate on file.”

  “Impossible. It must be lost—some bureaucratic screwup. Her husband had been a special agent. When he died, she requested a transfer out here.” He ate another cracker, and then threw away the cellophane wrapper. After dropping the unopened packet into a desk drawer, using his napkin, he meticulously brushed the cracker crumbs into his hand, being sure not one escaped his notice. He tossed both the crumbs and napkin into the wastebasket. Desktop tidy once again, he faced Paavo. “She worked as a research clerk. We have a lot of them.”

  “And so,” Paavo said slowly, “she transferred here, worked for you, then died. That’s all you remember?”

  “She didn’t work directly for me. Did you know that?”

  “I understand her direct boss was Eldridge Sawyer,” he said. “I’d like to speak with him as well.”

  “Mr. Sawyer is no longer with the Bureau.” Bond’s voice was clipped. Obviously the SAC did not like how much information Paavo had obtained.

  “Do you know where I can find him?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t. Sawyer quit the Bureau some number of years ago. We lost track of him after that. If you find him, do let me know. I’d like to see him again.”

  “Why did he quit?”

  “Nothing serious—he just became a little…troubled. There’s a lot of stress in this job. It happens.”

  “What about the others?” Paavo asked. “Are there other people still working here who knew her?”

  “A couple, perhaps, although by now most had the good sense to retire, I’m sure. I’ll have the records reviewed, and if I find any employees who worked with her, I’ll have my secretary contact you with their names.”

  “I’d appreciate it.”

  Bond stared off into space a moment, then said, almost gratuitously, “She was an excellent employee.”

  The bland words, the blasé tone, sliced into Paavo like a razor. Here he finally met someone who knew and worked with his mother, and the guy acted as if she was nothing. Perhaps he had expected too much, hoped for too much. After all, it’d been so long, and as Bond said, the Bureau had dozens and dozens of clerks.

  Against his better judgment, he asked, “Do you remember anything at all about Cecily Campbell? Her character? Her personality?”

  Bond stared at him as if trying to decide how to respond. “She was young and impressionable.” He paused a moment. “And a bit on the emotional side.” He stood. “I’m sorry, but I have a meeting to attend now.”

  Paavo handed him his card. “Thank you for your time.”

  From his desk, Paavo faxed a list of clerks and supervisors named in Cecily’s file to Nelson Bradley at FBIHQ. It would take Bradley little time to let him know if Bond was telling the truth about few of them still working for the Bureau.

  While waiting for Bradley’s response, he searched for addresses and phone numbers of any who had retired and still lived nearby.

  Eustacia Florian, who had been Eldridge Sawyer’s secretary, was listed on Noriega Street. A woman with a young-sounding voice answered his phone call. He introduced himself and asked to speak to Mrs. Florian. />
  “The police?” The woman sounded frightened. “What’s wrong? I’m her daughter.”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Paavo said. “I have some questions regarding a case I’m working on.”

  “My mother’s involved in a case?” She sounded incredulous.

  “It concerned her former employment. If you could tell me when I might reach her?”

  “Now I understand. What a relief—for me, anyway. I’m sorry, but I doubt she’ll be able to help you.”

  “Why’s that?” he asked.

  “My mother’s in a nursing home. She has Alzheimer’s.”

  Chapter 15

  Angie followed the matronly woman down the dark hallway to a sunny room at the back of the small house. A man sat by the window, eyes closed, a blue blanket over his shoulders and a green plaid covering his lap. His frame was slight and his hair billowed like tufts of white cotton.

  “Henry!” Mrs. Eschenbach shouted. “Henry, are you awake?”

  The old man’s body jerked from the aural assault. “Huh?”

  “The young woman who phoned is here to talk to you.” The woman bellowed like a foghorn.

  “Okay, okay.” Sharp blue eyes turned toward Angie. “Come over here where I can see you.”

  Angie hurried across the room to a chair facing him. “Thank you so much for allowing me to come by, Pastor Eschenbach.”

  “It’s no problem. My days aren’t very busy anymore. I’m glad to hear Pastor Meier remembered me. It’s been years since I was well enough to minister.”

  “He spoke wonderfully of you,” Angie said. It was true, too. When she’d spotted a Lutheran church not far from Liberty Street, she entered and spoke with the current pastor. He’d directed her to Pastor Eschenbach, who led the congregation from the 1950s to the early 1980s. “He thought you could tell me about a Finnish man who used to attend your church, Aulis Kokkonen.” She waited a moment, and when she got no reaction, she added, “He used to live on Liberty—”

  “I remember Aulis,” Eschenbach said. “A nice fellow. I haven’t seen him in many years. I’d complain that he stopped going to church, but then I did, too!” He leaned toward her and whispered, “The fire-breathing dragon who showed you here says I’m too old.”

  Angie thought it prudent not to comment. “Did you…did you know any of Aulis’s friends?”

  “Oh, yes. There were some other Finns, younger than Aulis, I believe, but they were all good friends. Once in a while—not often, in the ways of young men—they would all show up for service. Aulis attended regularly, and he always brought his two children.”

  Angie’s heart leaped. “You knew his children?”

  “But of course! We—”

  “Henry!” Mrs. Eschenbach’s voice was stern. He glanced up at her. Angie hadn’t noticed her hovering in the doorway.

  “What is it?” Angie asked, looking from one to the other.

  “Let me think,” the old man said. “It seems they were his sister’s children. Yes, that’s right. She died, and he raised them. They were very well mannered.”

  Well mannered? There was a lot more than the kids’ manners being remembered here. She was quite sure that wasn’t what he nearly said before his wife interrupted. “So you must have known Cecily?” she asked.

  “Cecily?” He glanced at his wife.

  “Mary, I mean,” Angie said.

  “We didn’t know Mr. Kokkonen’s sister, if that’s what you’re asking.” Mrs. Eschenbach moved into the room. “Why are you asking these questions?”

  More than ever, the sense they were withholding something filled Angie. “I’m asking because Aulis is in the hospital. He’s not doing well, and he seems to want to talk to some of his old friends. I don’t know how to find them, so I’m trying this way.”

  “Why don’t you look in his address book, or at old cards and letters?” Mrs. Eschenbach gazed at her disparagingly.

  “He doesn’t keep them,” Angie replied sweetly.

  “Neither do I,” the pastor said. “My wife takes care of all that.”

  As the couple seemed to communicate wordlessly, Angie hoped they would open up to her.

  “It’s quite sad,” the wife said, “but we don’t have the information you seek.”

  “I will pray for my old friend.” Pastor Eschenbach’s gaze was warm.

  Standing to leave, she took his hand. “Please, if you think of anything at all that might help, call and let me know. I would appreciate it so very much.” She placed her card by his side.

  Mrs. Eschenbach walked her through the house. “Miss Amalfi,” she said, holding the door open for Angie to leave, “my husband is old and sick. You are not welcome here. I suggest you stop asking questions and stay away from us.”

  The good news was that Tucker Bond hadn’t lied. The bad news was that, of the people named in Cecily’s personnel folder, four were dead, two were clerks who merely processed paperwork, one was so high up the clerks used a rubber stamp for his signature, Eustacia Florian was in a nursing home, and he couldn’t find Eldridge Sawyer in any directories, DMV files, or, for that matter, death records. Thinking back on Bond’s strange request, he wondered if the FBI had also tried to find Sawyer and failed.

  Paavo had hoped to use those people as leads to Cecily’s peers—the ones who best knew her and could tell him what was going on in her life that made her run away and change identity. There were two possible scenarios. One, since there was no death record on her, despite how frightened and desperate her note to Aulis had sounded, she had survived the ordeal and chose not to contact her children. Ever. Or, if Bond was right, she was dead. Either way, end of story.

  There was no logical reason for him to pursue this one step further.

  On his desk was a ballistics report on the bullet that killed Jacob Platt. He focused his attention on it, and then compared it to the one removed from Gregor Rosinsky. Both were 9 mm 147-grain hollow-points, but not fired from the same gun.

  He left Homicide for some street work on Platt’s investigation, and ended up within a few blocks of Eustacia Florian’s nursing home. Her daughter had indicated she still had a few lucid moments now and then. If he caught her at such a time…

  Even as he explained to the home’s supervisor who he was and why he wanted to speak with Mrs. Florian, he cautioned himself against getting his hopes up. Not even his caveat prepared him for how bad it would be.

  Eustacia Florian, a Filipina, had a face crisscrossed with wrinkles and hair cut so short her scalp showed in patches. She sat atop the bed, fully dressed in black slacks and a yellow top, wearing green slippers instead of shoes. As he entered the room, black eyes bored into him.

  “Mrs. Florian.” He approached her slowly and showed his badge. “I’m Inspector Smith. Nothing is wrong. I’d just like to talk with you a few minutes if I may?”

  A thin hand reached out and snatched the badge from him, turning it upside down and over before giving it back. “Do I know you?”

  “No, we’ve never met. I spoke with one of your old bosses, Tucker Bond.”

  “Mr. Bond? Do you know Mr. Bond? He’s very smart. Very smart.” Her eyes sparkled. “He’s a little sweet on me, you know. He always gives me the biggest bouquet of flowers on Secretary’s Day.”

  “That’s very nice,” Paavo said, sitting on a chair near the foot of the bed. “I’d like to talk to you about someone who worked for your boss, Eldridge Sawyer, years ago. Her name was Cecily Campbell.”

  “They tried to kill Gerald Ford, you know. President Ford. Right there, under our very noses! Mr. Bond, all of us, were there watching.” She punched the air. “We stopped the bastards, we did!”

  He wondered if he should continue. “Do you remember Eldridge Sawyer? Or Cecily Campbell?”

  She gazed at him. “Do I know you? I met Mr. Hoover once, you know.” She sat up tall. “He came to San Francisco. We had to scrub the office until it shined. He came right up to me and said, ‘Hello, Eustacia. Good job. We’ll make you a sp
ecial agent soon.’” She beamed. “Do you know Mr. Hoover, too?”

  Paavo stood. This was a good idea, but wasn’t working. “Good-bye, Mrs. Florian.”

  “Cecily was just a clerk, you know,” Eustacia said, clasping her hands. “She wasn’t an agent. Mr. Bond liked to give me special jobs.”

  He sat down again. “Do you remember Cecily?”

  “I complained to Mr. Sawyer, but he told me to keep my mouth shut! I hate him!”

  Paavo couldn’t follow her rambling. “Tell me about Mr. Sawyer.”

  “Mr. Sawyer left. He ran away.” She put her finger to her mouth. “Shush!”

  Sawyer seemed to be his best bet to learn about Cecily. Paavo leaned toward her, keeping his voice low and modulated. “Where did Mr. Sawyer run to, Mrs. Florian? Do you know where he is?”

  “He’s with…he’s with…” Her eyes darted down, then to the side, then up, and around again.

  He leaned forward. “With who?”

  “I need my planner. Where’s my planner?” She jumped off the bed, opened a drawer, and began to toss her underwear, piece by piece, onto the floor. “Where’s my planner? WHERE’S MY PLANNER!!!”

  He backed out of the room. “Nurse!”

  Angie met Paavo at San Francisco General. He’d managed to talk the S.F.P.D. into posting a guard outside Aulis’s door for a few days, at least. After sitting with Aulis and meeting with his doctor, they returned to the little cottage, making a slight detour through Chinatown for some food to go. There was no news yet on the break-ins—no fingerprints, no witnesses—and so far, the only hard evidence was the slug that grazed Aulis, another 9 mm, same as the slugs found in the two Russians, although again, the markings showed different guns were used.

  Paavo was putting out plates for their dinner when Angie handed him a glass of Chablis. “First let’s take a minute to relax,” she said, “and you can tell me what you learned from the FBI today.”