Chapter One
San Francisco Homicide Inspector Paavo Smith wrenched
himself awake in the dark bedroom. He didn't move, but
listened, searching for sounds that existed only in his
head. When all remained quiet, he slowly collected
himself, calmed his racing pulse, and reassembled himself
into the now of his existence. He was a cop; he'd seen
firsthand the living nightmares men foisted upon one
another. There was no reason his imagination should bother
him this way. For it to do so was unacceptable.
Abruptly he sat up in bed and ran a hand over his eyes,
against his nose. A small ripple of cartilage marked where
it had been broken. Most people assumed the break had come
as a result of police work, but the first time he had
broken it, he'd been wrestling with his older sister. She
had raised her head just as he lowered his own, and the
world exploded. For a couple of months his nose looked
like it was heading leftward, while his eyes and mouth
aimed straight ahead.
That Jessica came to mind now made sense. She'd been in
his nightmare. It was an old dream, but recently he'd
begun having it again'three times in the past few weeks,
each time more vivid than the last.
He stood up, his body slick with sweat. At the foot of the
quilt-covered bed his yellow tabby, Hercules, lifted his
head, twitched an ear, and yowled with annoyance at having
his sleep disturbed. Paavo left the lights off and paced
the room, rubbing his forehead, as if through physical
force he could shove the alarming memories away.
The dream wouldn't bother him half so much if he could
figure out what it meant. The nightmare placed him in a
shoot-out. He had been in a few sincejoining the force,
but had never experienced the stark terror that filled him
in the dream. He was low on ammunition, trapped, with no
way out, and the worst part was that Jessica was with him.
Yet when she died, he'd been only fourteen years old.
Most likely she'd been on his mind because of the brooch
that had belonged to their mother, a cameo of a woman's
profile in a gold setting. Jessica had never liked it and
refused to wear it. She was into grunge before there was
such a style. Brooches weren't "her thing."
At Christmas Paavo thought of the brooch while trying to
come up with a meaningful gift for his girlfriend, Angie,
who had enough money to buy herself anything she wanted
twice over. Although it was only costume jewelry, the
design was beautiful and delicate and elegant. Just like
Angie. Its sentimental value, he knew, was something she
would also appreciate.
Seeing it, holding it, must have stirred up recollections
of his family, what little family he had. They then could
have jumbled together in his head with current thoughts
and blended his life as a police officer with memories of
his sister. That was the only explanation he could think
of. Guns had never entered his life as a child, he didn't
think.
And yet . . .
He wished whatever the hell was causing this nightmare to
surface would stop. Now, with Angie in his life, he was
happier than he had ever been. He didn't want to remember
the past, the days of his childhood; he didn't even want
to talk about them, and didn't.
Still, from the dream, an awful dread hovered over him, as
if an omen of what was to come.
Angie Amalfi thrust a handful of money at the Yellow Cab
driver. "Keep the change." In a waft of Quelques Fleurs
and a mint-green Donna Karan silk suit, she dashed from
the taxi to a small jewelry shop on California Street.
Gold lettering over the shop proclaimed rose jewelry,
ltd., and an open sign dangled on the front door.
Inside, recessed lights shone onto walnut-framed glass
counters set in a U shape along the back and side walls.
Gold- and platinum-set stones and diamonds were tastefully
displayed on black velvet. Atop each long counter was a
rectangular mirror on a lacquered stand, while more
mirrors discreetly hung from the paneled walls.
A white-haired man sat at a wooden desk behind the
farthest counter. "Thank God you're here," Angie cried,
hurrying toward him on dyed-to-match Giacomo Ferre
stilettos.
He raised his head. Slowly pushing himself to his feet, he
unhooked the jeweler's magnifier from his eyeglasses and
placed it on the table. He was quite old, his back curved
so badly that even standing upright, he seemed to be
searching for something at his feet. He peered at her
through bushy gray eyebrows, frowned, and shuffled closer.
"I hope you can help me." Anxiety made her voice
shrill. "Mr. Warner at Tiffany's told me you were the only
one he knew who did this kind of work."
His eyebrows lifted with interest at the name. Ralph
Warner was the senior jeweler at the prestigious store.
Shaking, gnarled hands rested on the glass
countertop. "What kind of work is it?" His voice was deep
and he spoke with an accent, mixing his v's and w's.
"I'll show you." She set down her tiny green Prada handbag
and, from a black leather Coach tote, removed a small
padded jewelry box. The hinged top opened like a
clamshell. "My boyfriend gave me the brooch for Christmas.
I was polishing it'the cameo had gotten some dust and dirt
in it over the years'and the stone fell out of its
setting. You've got to fix it for me!"
His gaze fixed on the brooch. "Oh, my," he murmured.
"It was his mother's," she continued, trying to keep the
dejection and panic from her voice. "I can't tell him I
broke it. This is so upsetting! I could just die!"
She waited for a word, a reaction, but he gave none. She
stopped talking and watched his fascination with the
piece. The cameo was oval, an elegant woman's profile
carved on rose-hued agate against a black background.