Free Paper Phoenix: A Mystery of San Francisco in the '70s (A Classic Cozy--with Romance!) by Michaela Thompson

between his hands. “Have you thought about calling the police?”
    “Sure.” I’d thought about it a lot. I explained my fear that if I went to the police, Richard would make me look like a paranoid, if harmless, nuisance. I concluded, “So if I tell them, what’s accomplished? They probably won’t do anything, and we’ve tipped our hand that we’re on to him. For the moment, I’m going to go it alone.”
    “Not
quite
alone.”
    “No. I’m glad about that, too.”
    He breathed deeply, sighed almost, and I thought how his pale skin looked golden, his hair and beard rich brown in the mellow light of the lamp. When he spoke, his voice was soft. “I have to tell you something. I haven’t played completely straight with you, Maggie.”
    The first flutter of disappointment was followed, immediately, by a knifing, heartbreaking sense of betrayal. I
thought you were my friend,
something inside me wanted to scream, while another voice rushed in to say,
Calm down, calm down. You hardly know him.
I managed to ask, “What do you mean?”
    He picked at a worn place on the knee of his jeans, and I noticed again the knobbiness of his wrists. “When you told me you thought maybe Richard Longstreet was mixed up in Larry’s death, you were throwing a lifeline to a drowning man. The waters were deep.” He hesitated, then went on. “Up to that point I had no doubt, no doubt at all, that Larry’s suicide was entirely my fault.”
    It was the last thing I expected to hear, but in a way I was prepared. Andrew’s desperation had been evident when I first met him. Some of his reactions had been odd since. Here was the explanation. “But why?”
    He said, tightly, “Because that afternoon, the afternoon before he died, I pushed him to the wall. He was finished and he knew it.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    He finished his drink and placed the glass carefully on the table in front of him, lining it up with the ashtray. “I’m talking about the fact that Larry Hawkins was a blackmailer. The people’s protector was no better than any of the crooks he exposed. The crusader was carrying the banner with one hand, while the other was in somebody else’s pocket.”
    “Are you sure?” No doubt I sounded as flat-footed as I felt.
    “Of course I’m sure.” His voice was charged with bitterness. “I would hardly sit here and tell you something like this if I weren’t sure.”
    I could only blink and mouth questions, having apparently lost the power of rational cognition. “Who was he blackmailing? How do you know?”
    He settled back, and I sensed that he was ready to tell the story. “You familiar with the name Joseph Corelli?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “That’s not surprising. Corelli doesn’t aspire to be a public figure. But I’ll bet you know Luigi’s Pasta Palazzos, those Italian fast-food places?”
    “Sure.” It was impossible not to know Luigi’s Pasta Palazzos. Their red and white striped awnings graced many San Francisco street corners, always signaling an aroma of garlic and tomato sauce wafting across the sidewalk.
    “Corelli is Luigi’s. He started the original one, on Columbus Avenue, several years ago, and expanded from there. He made a lot of money. He’s the guy Larry was blackmailing.”
    “What did Larry have on him?”
    “I’m still working on that, but I’m positive Larry was taking money from Corelli regularly. It’s all down in the books, if you know what you’re looking for. It’s ironic”— Andrew smiled ruefully— “Larry’s the one who taught me how to sift through numbers, how to analyze a balance sheet, how to read documents. My proficiency is what did him in.”
    Things were moving too fast for me. “How did you find out?”
    “I have a friend who works part-time slinging lasagna at the original Luigi’s on Columbus. That’s where Corelli has his office. Anyway, my friend tipped me off that there were some violations of the health code going on down there.