Too Many Cooks by Joanne Pence Page A

said.
    â€œWhat’s that?”
    â€œIn the missing persons report Dustman filed, he said he didn’t see Karl or any sign of where he’d gone when he came to his house looking for him. Nobody asked Dustman how he got into the house to search.”
    â€œGuess we’ll ask him.”
    After a short while Yoshiwara called out, “Paavo, you better get down here.”
    When Paavo stepped into the garage he thought he’d entered a sporting goods store: skis, snowshoes, fishing poles and gear, a life raft, and three bowling balls, plus enough tennis rackets and golf clubs to stock a country club. Tin after tin of tennis balls vied with boxes of golf balls for shelf space. Wielund had been more than an enthusiast; this was a tribute to obsessiveness.
    Yoshiwara was kneeling next to a large carton, holding photographs in his hand.
    â€œCheck these out, Paavo,” he said, waving the photos in Paavo’s direction. “Our victim was into indoor sports of a different sort.”
    Paavo looked at the photos—some in color, some in black and white—of women, girls, men, and even animals engaged in activities beyond the imagination of even most Hustler devotees. One woman in particular showed up again and again.
    Paavo shook his head and let the photos drop back into the oversized carton. “The guy was a real sick one.”
    â€œThe photos aren’t all of it.” Yosh pulled reels of film from underneath the photos. “All this was in a boxmarked GOLF BALLS. Nobody has a box this size full of golf balls. Even manufacturers don’t ship in boxes this big. That’s why I opened it.”
    â€œThis stuff isn’t commercial, either. We’re talking originals.” Paavo stood.
    â€œMaybe Wielund made more than one kind of cheesecake?”
    â€œThe question is, was he a special customer, a distributor, or a producer?”
    Yoshiwara hoisted himself to his feet. “Messing around with the people that handle this stuff is a good way to get yourself killed.”
    Paavo began to look around the garage. “Let’s see if there are any more surprises here or upstairs. I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole thing.” The memory of Greuber’s white face came to him once more.

8
    By the time Paavo left the Hall of Justice late that night to go across the street for a quick chiliburger for dinner, it was raining lightly. He turned up his jacket collar. The night ahead loomed long and tedious, to be spent going over the bits and pieces of information he and Yosh had picked up at Wielund’s house, along with the files on Wielund that had been sent over by Immigration.
    It was rare to have a homicide victim who had a file or a history of any kind. Too many of them were kids from small towns who’d come to the big city looking for excitement and found more than they could handle, or old people killed by accident during a mugging for a few dollars of their Social Security, or innocent passersby caught by stray bullets from a gang-related drive-by shooting.
    The city glistened as lamplights cast their glow on streets washed clean and slick by the winter rain. Winter in San Francisco was mild. The rain actuallywarmed up the weather a bit and washed away the fog so that the streets were clear. Having rain but no snow was one of the benefits of life in this town. There weren’t many others anymore.
    As Paavo walked toward Charlie’s Kitchen, a favorite spot for cops to get a fast meal, he glanced over at the phone booth that stood near the front door. Karl Wielund’s address book had been burning a hole in his pocket all day, but he had put off thinking about it. Now though, it refused to be put off any longer.
    A man with original photographs in his house like the ones Paavo had seen also knew Angie, phoned her, talked to her…about what?
    Surely it was about his restaurant, or about food, or about one of her restaurant reviews,