that was divided into four apartments. Such apartments used to be inexpensive places to live. No more, though.
Getting out of her car, she lifted her tote bag to the shoulder of her plum-colored, tweed Ellen Tracy suit, and picked up her camcorder and purse. Nobody would slam the door on a stranger wearing a sophisticated Ellen Tracy.
She knocked on the door to Aulis’s old apartment. A barefoot young woman in jeans and a T-shirt, a toddler on her hip, opened it.
“Hello, there!” Angie said brightly. “My name is Angie Amalfi.” She thrust a business card into thewoman’s hand. One good thing about not having a set business, her cards were generic. “I’m working on a special feature for San Francisco magazine on people who have lived in neighborhoods for many, many years. Like, say, thirty years.”
“Oh?” The woman stuffed the card in her pocket and pushed a strand of brown hair back off her face. The butterfly clip high on the back of her head wasn’t doing its job. “That’s not me.”
“We’re giving away a year of the magazine to everyone who helps us put the article together. Do you happen to know any neighbors who have been here a long time?”
The woman looked blankly at her. “We just moved in last year.” She put her little girl down inside the house and stood blocking the doorway so the child couldn’t get out. “I’ve never heard of that magazine.”
“You haven’t? It’s quite wonderful. Can you tell me about the other people in this building? Have they been here long?”
The woman rolled her eyes upward as if the answer might be printed on the underside of the porch roof. This was no candidate for Mensa. “Well, I live upstairs in back. The guy below has been here a few years, but he’s only twenty-eight. A gay couple lives in front. They’ve been here five years at most. I guess the oldest is Terry, above them. Her and her old man bought the building ten years ago, or something like that.”
“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
Getting out of her car, she lifted her tote bag to the shoulder of her plum-colored, tweed Ellen Tracy suit, and picked up her camcorder and purse. Nobody would slam the door on a stranger wearing a sophisticated Ellen Tracy.
She knocked on the door to Aulis’s old apartment. A barefoot young woman in jeans and a T-shirt, a toddler on her hip, opened it.
“Hello, there!” Angie said brightly. “My name is Angie Amalfi.” She thrust a business card into thewoman’s hand. One good thing about not having a set business, her cards were generic. “I’m working on a special feature for San Francisco magazine on people who have lived in neighborhoods for many, many years. Like, say, thirty years.”
“Oh?” The woman stuffed the card in her pocket and pushed a strand of brown hair back off her face. The butterfly clip high on the back of her head wasn’t doing its job. “That’s not me.”
“We’re giving away a year of the magazine to everyone who helps us put the article together. Do you happen to know any neighbors who have been here a long time?”
The woman looked blankly at her. “We just moved in last year.” She put her little girl down inside the house and stood blocking the doorway so the child couldn’t get out. “I’ve never heard of that magazine.”
“You haven’t? It’s quite wonderful. Can you tell me about the other people in this building? Have they been here long?”
The woman rolled her eyes upward as if the answer might be printed on the underside of the porch roof. This was no candidate for Mensa. “Well, I live upstairs in back. The guy below has been here a few years, but he’s only twenty-eight. A gay couple lives in front. They’ve been here five years at most. I guess the oldest is Terry, above them. Her and her old man bought the building ten years ago, or something like that.”
“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
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