Cooking Spirits: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (Angie Amalfi Mysteries) (8 page)

“We got a report of a no-show from her place of employment.
After twenty-four hours, we entered the house, found her, and called it in.”

“It’s amazing they noticed she was gone,”
Yosh
said. “There’s nothing here to indicate what kind of a
person she was, what she liked, who she knew.
Nothing.”

“When did the employer last hear from her?” Paavo asked.

“Monday.”

Paavo was surprised by that. “Five days ago. The body
doesn’t look as if she’s been dead five days. If she killed herself, she must
have thought about it for a few days before acting.” He turned to the M.E. “Any
thoughts on time of death, Evelyn?”

“I’m going to have to get back to the lab,” Ramirez said.
“The findings aren’t making much sense, but the bath water could be
complicating it. From the condition of the body, I guess—and it’s only a
guess—she’s been dead a day or two.”

“I wonder what she did all week,” Paavo said.

“Maybe contemplating suicide, she threw away everything
personal,” Ramirez suggested,
then
returned to her
team.

“I’ll be most curious as to what people at her work say
about her,” Paavo said.

“Let’s hope they don’t find her as much a
nobody
as she felt herself to be,”
Yosh
said with a nod to
the suicide note on the coffee table.

Paavo faced to Murphy. “Do you have the name and phone
number of the person who called in the missing person report, and her place of
business?”

“I do.” Murphy flipped through his papers. “A supervisor,
Julio Sanchez, called us. The name of the company where she worked is Zygog
Software in South City.”

Paavo could scarcely believe what heard.

Yosh’s
mumbled comment was more to
the point.
“Holy shit!”

o0o

Paavo and
Yosh
returned to Zygog
in South San Francisco. Now that two of its employees had been found dead, they
spoke to the Chief Executive Officer to explain that their investigation at the
company would be more wide-spread than it had been so far.

Yosh
talked to Gaia
Wyndom’s
supervisor and co-workers. She had chosen to work
ten hours a day Monday through Thursday, with Fridays off. No one knew her
well, and everyone said she seemed perpetually sad and perpetually tired. She
only perked up when Taylor Bedford walked by, although no one had ever seen
them say anything more than “hello” to each other. And now both were gone.

One person remarked on the fact that she had cut and styled
her hair about six months ago, and that the new style looked much more
attractive on her. She hoped that meant Gaia would come out of her shell, but
she didn’t. She never wore make-up, and her clothes were uniformly drab and
matronly.

Paavo went to Taylor Bedford’s office, where he found the
secretary, Otto Link. Link appeared to be in his mid-forties or fifties, with
short Grecian-formula brown hair to match his brown eyes, and a slight build.
Paavo had spoken to him once before, but the man was so broken up over
Bedford’s death, he was scarcely coherent.

Link showed Paavo to Bedford’s office. There, Paavo hunted
through paperwork, datebooks, and e-mails to try to find any kind of connection
with Gaia
Wyndom
.

He also did a more in depth review of Bedford’s schedule,
going back more than a year. He discovered that in the past six months
Bedford’s schedule had become much more stable than previously—two weeks out of
town, and then two weeks in the office. Prior to that time, he varied his
schedule, although about fifty percent of his working hours were spent on the
road.

“Why did Mr. Bedford change from a week or a few days away
here and there, to this very strict schedule of two weeks here and two away?”
Paavo asked Link.

“He said he liked having a more set schedule,” Link replied.
“That way he’d always know if he would be in town or not.”

“His wife said he worked weekends when away, wining and
dining his clients.”

“Oh?” Link smirked. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know about that.”

Link gave Paavo the addresses of every place Bedford visited
over the six months prior to his death, as well as every hotel he stayed in. He
saw that Bedford only charged the company for stays in Healdsburg every fourth
weekend.

“Do you have any idea why Bedford would have been in the
vicinity of Commercial and Kearney streets on Saturday night?” Paavo asked.

“None at all.
It’s close to the
office, but we’re closed on weekends.”

“Any clients near there?
Any
favorite restaurants or bars he might have mentioned?”

“I can’t say for sure.” Otto looked perplexed. “He went to a
lot of places around here. He liked a drink or two or ten, as is typical among
salesmen as I’m sure you know.”

“Do you know if Bedford knew Gaia
Wyndom
?”
Paavo asked.

“I believe he did.” Otto’s mouth scrunched up as if he’d
bitten into a lemon.

“Did they work together on projects or anything else?”

“She worked in the Records division where mail, e-mail, and
telephone orders were maintained. She wasn’t a manager, but a ‘technical
advisor’ to the clerks who filed the company’s paperwork. Mr. Bedford would
only have reason to talk to her if had a problem, such as his clients not
getting something on time or mistakes in billing. Salesmen almost never needed
to go to Records.”

“I see,” Paavo said. That didn’t help much.

Otto swallowed a couple of times before he asked, “Rumor has
it Gaia committed suicide. But that’s hard to believe. Do you think the two
deaths are connected? Could the killer be someone here at work? Everyone’s
talking about it. We’re all scared.”

“We don’t know that Ms.
Wyndom
was
murdered,” Paavo said. “Why is her suicide hard to believe?”

“She was very quiet. Hardly spoke to anyone, just did her
work. When she did talk, her conversation was all about her cats, how being a
vegetarian was morally superior, and the TV shows she watched. I mean, with her
life, what would make her want to commit suicide? Nothing, I’d say.”

“There were no cats in her house,” Paavo said.

“Really?”
Otto looked perplexed.
“Maybe they died. Maybe that’s why she killed herself! She was devoted to
them.”

“If you think of anything at all about either of them, give
me a call.” Paavo handed Otto his card.

Otto cocked his head then raised his eyebrows, and in a low
voice asked, “How about over cocktails some evening?”

Paavo’s eyes narrowed. “Did you and Mr. Bedford go out for
cocktails?”

Otto gave a knowing grin. “We certainly did.”

Paavo nodded.
“Interesting.
If you
have something to discuss, you can find me at Homicide. Just call that number.”
He headed toward and elevator and hit the up button.

“Oh, all right. You can’t get blame a guy for trying. These days,
who knows?” Otto followed him, standing close as Paavo waited for the
elevators. “The executive suites, I suppose.”

“That’s right,” Paavo said.

“You’ve met Greenburg then?” Otto referred to the company’s
founder, Thomas Greenburg.

“He wasn’t in last time I was here.”

Link shrugged.
“Wouldn’t have mattered.
If you expect to find out anything from Mr. Greenburg, you’re going to be a
very, very disappointed boy. Do come back and see me anytime.”

The elevator doors opened, and Paavo got on.
Alone.

Thirty-five year old Thomas Greenburg was a computer genius
who started Zygog Software seven years earlier. It was now worth hundreds of
millions of dollars and remained privately owned. Considering the problems
Facebook and a few other software companies had when they tried to go public,
Greenburg planned to keep it that way. There were other differences between
Zygog and better known software businesses. One, it wasn’t in Silicon Valley,
and two, it made a huge profit based on a physical product, not simply advertising
dollars.

A secretary directed Paavo down a long hall. She told him to
knock on the door, and then as if to acknowledge that she knew that wasn’t the
way things were supposed to be done, she tightened her lips and gave a small
shrug of the shoulders before spinning on her heel and returning to her desk.

Paavo knocked twice more before he heard a mumbled, “Come
in.”

Greenburg didn’t stand or otherwise acknowledge him, but
kept staring at his computer screen and occasionally hitting one key, then
staring some more. He sat on the edge of his chair, elbows on his knees as he
bent forward, eyeglasses just a few inches from the monitor. He wore a
sweatshirt, Levis, and Nikes. The shoes seemed to be the most expensive thing
in his office. His shaggy red hair looked uncombed and he looked unwashed.

Paavo waited a moment then moved closer, badge in hand.
“Paavo Smith, Homicide. I’m here to talk to you about Taylor Bedford and Gaia
Wyndom
.”

Greenburg hit another button, then pushed his glasses up on
his nose and frowned. “I heard they were killed.”

“Both are dead, yes,” Paavo said.

“Terrible.” Greenburg hit about ten keys in rapid
succession.

“What do you know about them personally? Were they involved
in anything new or unique here at work?”

At Greenburg’s blank look, Paavo added, “Can you tell me
anything about them?”

“Tell you?” Greenburg looked confused. “You can check with
Personnel. Their evaluations are on record. Actually, everything’s online. I
can look them up for you.” He immediately began pressing keys, paying no
attention to Paavo who now stood right in front of him.

“No need,” Paavo said. “They weren’t killed because of their
job performance. Were the two of them involved in anything together that you
can think of?
Any special programs, new products—anything at
all tying them together?”

“No. I handle all new projects. They were Sales and Records,
not the sort who work on R&D.”

“How did they get along with their supervisors?
With other employees?”

Greenburg’s eyes darted from one side to the other,
then
back to his computer monitor. “I don’t know. I never
heard of any problem with them.”

Paavo stared at Greenburg a moment,
then
took a photo of Gaia from his folder. “Do you know this woman?”

Greenburg took the photo and stared at it. “I don’t think
so.”

“What about him?” He handed Greenburg a photo of Bedford.

“Sure. He works here. I’ve seen him around a few times. Oh,
wait…that’s Bedford, isn’t it? And the woman…is she the one killed? What was
her name again?” He looked up at Paavo and didn’t even seem embarrassed.

“Thank you, Mr. Greenburg.” Paavo put the photos back in his
folder. “I’ll be in touch.”

As he left the office, he could only think that Otto was
right.

Chapter 9

ANGIE WAS THRILLED when Paavo called
to invite her to a quick dinner. He had managed to take a look at the record of
the Sea Cliff murders and wanted to fill her in before he went back to
Homicide. He knew he faced a long night there.

They met at an Indian restaurant. Over chicken
vindalu
, shrimp masala, vegetable samosas, and
naan
, he told her all he had learned. Angie took in every
word.

Eric and Natalie Fleming had been married for only eight
months and lived at 51 Clover Lane when they were found shot to death near the
edge of the cliff overlooking China Beach.

The way the bodies were situated, it appeared Natalie had
been running away from Eric when he shot and killed her. Supposedly, he then
turned the gun on himself with a bullet to the temple.

They had been dead two days before their bodies were
discovered. No one had reported hearing the gunshots because no one in that
neighborhood believed that was what they heard—most assumed they had heard a
car backfiring.

A trace of gunpowder residue had been found on Eric’s
clothes, but it wasn’t enough to decide he had fired the gun, just that the gun
had been near him when fired. They found no gunpowder on his hands, but a light
rain had fallen and could have washed it away.

Everyone who knew them said they were a devoted couple with
no hint of a rocky marriage. Natalie was beautiful, glamorous, and an heiress.
Eric had made money moving from one Silicon Valley start-up to another, just as
many young computer nerds did back in those halcyon days, and he stopped
working altogether after his marriage to enjoy life with his rich wife. Eric
was described as a lover, not a fighter. No one could believe he even owned a
gun, let alone would use it on his wife. Also, no one believed anyone would
want to kill them.

The gun found at the scene, the murder weapon, was
unregistered. The investigating detectives, now both retired, had refused to
state that Eric Fleming had murdered his wife. Instead, they put everything in
the cold case files, meaning the murder remained unresolved to this day.

Angie shook her head. “Two young people, in love, newly
married,
no money worries, no employment issues, no known
problems…and then they were dead. How horrible! I wonder what really happened
to them.”

“I can’t tell you. The investigators could find no motive.”

“There’s got to be a reason. Even if it was a random
shooting, there’s got to be some sign—other similar deaths, a madman in the
area, something.”

“Their car’s disappearance adds to the mystery,” Paavo said.
“Eric owned a two-seater Mercedes sports car. It didn’t turn up until a year
later, half-in and half-out of the Russian River. Some kids were hiking in a
rugged part of Sonoma County and found it. Other than that, no one found
anything to explain what had happened to the couple.”