To Catch a Cook: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (14 page)

“Partridge? The big name in computers?” Angie glanced at Paavo, not sure she heard right, but Paavo, too, was staring with surprise at the name Okko had just spoken.

“See, we didn’t have personal computers then,” Heikkila said. “But Partridge had already started with his business. Before anyone knew what hit it, he swallowed up Omega and all the mainframe programmers switched to PC operating systems. But I’m getting ahead of my story.”

Thinking of the pictures she’d seen of the diminutive, bespectacled titan of Silicon Valley and famed philanthropist and collector, Angie said, “It’s hard to imagine Harold Partridge being caught up in anything like this.”

“He was different then,” Heikkila explained. “Young, ambitious, and greedy. Now he lives in Silicon Valley with so much money he doesn’t know what to do, other than to worry that someone somewhere might steal it. He came from a wealthy family and spent years traveling around the world looking for something to interest him.”

“Did he find it?” Angie asked.

“He found two things—computers and Russian art. Computers because he had enough financial savvy and vision to know they were going to be huge, and Russian art because it was the one thing he couldn’t go to a store and buy. He could only get
it through devious means. And being devious was what he did best.”

At the words
Russian art
, Angie and Paavo caught each other’s eyes.

As they continued with the meal, Heikkila explained. “When Sam learned that Partridge was willing to pay good money for Russian art, he realized that if he could get his hands on Russian artwork, statues, and jewelry, he could sell them to Partridge for big bucks and buy whatever the dissidents needed. Maybe even buy from Omega at a discount. He went to his contacts about ‘exporting’ some artwork to Partridge, keeping Partridge’s name a secret from everyone. I only found out by accident, overhearing something. Before long, a man named Gregor Rosinsky showed up.”

“Rosinsky?” Paavo couldn’t hide his shock, while Angie let out a small gasp. “The jeweler?”

“Yes…the dead jeweler.” Okko’s eyes bored into Paavo. “He was a smuggler! One of those guys who moved goods into and out of Russia for the dissidents. He learned all about Russian artwork and jewelry doing that job, and could tell a genuine piece from a fake at fifty paces. Why not go into business?” Heikkila chuckled wryly.

Angie couldn’t believe the stooped, soft-spoken jeweler had once been a smuggler.

Suddenly Heikkila asked, “Do you know who killed him?”

“Not yet,” Paavo said. “Nothing was stolen, except perhaps a Russian brooch that belonged to my mother. Angie took it to him for repairs, and it’s missing.”

The Finn’s blue gaze went from Paavo to Angie and back. He put down his chopsticks. “That’s disturbing news.”

“Another Russian connected with jewelry was recently killed,” Paavo added. “This one was a forger.”

Heikkila nodded. “I know. Jakob Platnikov. He was also one of the smugglers. We mostly dealt with five of them. Rosinsky, Platnikov, Nikolai Drach, Artur Masaryk, and Leonid Boldin.”

“How did you know they were dead?” Angie asked.

Heikkila’s gaze shifted from her to Paavo. “It was in the newspapers,” he replied innocently.

“Joonas thought the smugglers were part of what became the Russian Mafia. Do you agree?” Paavo asked after a pause. Angie’s attention was glued on Okko.

“Absolutely. The
mafiya
, emphasis on the ‘ya’ as they say it, is the reason I live where I do. I don’t want to be anywhere near them. I don’t want them to even imagine I can be trouble for them. They’re the scariest people I’ve ever seen. I know a story of someone in the Middle East who captured a Russian businessman and held him for ransom, threatening to kill him if their demands weren’t met. They didn’t know that the businessman belonged to the
mafiya
. The
mafiya
found out who the kidnappers were and captured some of their relatives. They cut off a finger from one, an ear from another, and mailed them to the kidnappers. They said that for each day the businessman was not released, a package with another body part would be delivered. The Russian was released immediately. That’s how the Russian
mafiya
plays.”

Angie felt a cold chill.

“Why did they kill Sam and Mika?” Paavo asked.

A weariness came onto Heikkila’s lined face, and he said, “The Soviet government rounded up a group of dissidents and smugglers and sent them to
the Gulag. The
mafiya
thought we gave the Soviets the names. We swore we didn’t, but they said they had proof. Next thing I knew, they killed Sam and Mika. And I ran to the Sierras.”

“No one told the police any of this,” Paavo said.

Heikkila gazed flatly at him. “Do you think we’re crazy?”

“The missing brooch was a cameo of the Tsarina Alexandra,” Angie said. “Rosinsky said it was museum quality.”

“It sounds like the type of thing we smuggled.” Heikkila shook his head with disgust. “But that was thirty years ago! No one could possibly still care about all that old history, no one but me, at any rate. It haunted my dreams for years, but in time, even I began to forget. Only once in a while, like when I saw Aulis in the hospital, does it all come back, and I replay the ideas of revenge I used to have.”

“Revenge on the
mafiya
?” Paavo asked.

“Who else? Anyway, it’s over now. I stay in the mountains because I’ve come to love them. There’s no more to it than that.”

Paavo reread his notes on Jakob Platnikov’s case and now turned again to Rosinsky’s murder investigation. Rebecca had worked on telephone records and one annotation jumped out at him. Three days before Rosinsky was killed, he had phoned Harold Partridge’s residence. Three days…the same day his office was broken into, the same day Angie had brought him her brooch.

Rosinsky would have known of Partridge’s interest in Russian jewelry. If Partridge were willing to pay enough to convince Angie to sell, Rosinsky easily could have received a generous finder’s fee. That would have been a legitimate reason for the phone record.

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.”

Partridge’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!