October 7, 1943
Ernie the newspaper stand owner of Sutter Street stands in the weak October sun, bracing both hands against his hips. He leans back as far as his rheumatism will allow until something pops satisfyingly along the lower spine.
His bones ache. The autumn chill never did him any good, especially now that he’s hit seventy. “Maybe I’ll start selling roasted peanuts and coffee as an extra service to customers. Give these hands something to keep warm,” he considers wistfully.
“Ahoy, Ernie! What fresh disasters have I missed since yesterday?”
The greeting belongs to Hal, a young buck working as a salesman in the garment district. He deftly weaves through morning traffic to cross the street, wearing a lopsided smile as he draws up.
Ernie grins back, pleased to see him. “Quite a doozy, if you ask me,” he says, handing over a copy of The San Francisco Times.
Hal scans the top headline, shaking his head.
“Ah! The Russians and Canadians have gone to war! No surprise there.”
Ernie remembers his eldest son getting drafted once before. What are the chances, if any, that he’d return home a second time? “Think it’ll come to our shores, Hal?” Ernie asks, scratching his cheek. It’s a nervous habit, one he does unconsciously whenever something worries him. Hal notices and responds accordingly.
“Hah! Fat chance. Can you imagine? After the Great War no one needs a sequel. Can you imagine Germany going to war again?” Hal scoffs, fishing out a nickel for the newspaper. “Besides, there’s no reason for us to get involved. Not this time.” His enthusiasm reassures Ernie and the two trade gossip for an hour, pausing now and again so the newspaper vendor can tend to customers.
As Hal absently thumbs through the headlines, something in the periphery draws his attention. A man walks briskly past the newspaper stand, wine red overcoat flaring out behind him.
“Friend of yours?” Asks Ernie when Hal trails off mid-sentence, watching the retreating figure melt into the flow of pedestrians along the sidewalk. Hal frowns, uncertain.
“Naw, but he looks familiar…where have I seen that mug before?”
“Looks just like me, back in the day,” nods Ernie. “Tall, dark, and handsome. The ladies couldn’t get enough of me. Said I looked like Rudolph Valentino. ”
“Is that right,” Hal says, still racking his brain for a useful memory.
The man stood at least six feet, broad shouldered and barrel chested. Well-built but limber enough to be considered athletic instead of brutish; his black hair neatly trimmed, short bangs framing intelligent eyes, an aquiline nose, and a defined jaw. Even had that exotic amber skin some dames went gaga over.
Looking at him was irritating, somehow.
Eureka.
“Hold the phone!” Hal shouts so abruptly it startles Ernie into dropping a fresh stack of newspapers he’s been restocking.
“Aw gee, I’m sorry Ernie. No, no, come on, remember your back…I’ve got it, just—go to page five in the Times,” Hal urges, gathering up the scattered pile while his friend leans against the wooden paneling of the stall, turning to the requested page.
DISGRACED DETECTIVE! SHOCKING STORY! BEAUTIFUL WOMAN TELLS ALL!
Under the scandalous headline is a crisp picture of detective Gino Rosetti in profile juxtaposed against a grainy portrait of the SFPD’s police chief.
“See? That’s him, ain’t it?” Hal crows with confidence. Ernie isn’t so uncertain. “If you say, so. I didn’t get a good look at his face. Says here he was involved in something real ugly. ‘He was a wild man! I feared for my life,’ recounts Miss Mary Carlyle,” reads Ernie, eyebrows raising.
“And get this,” adds Hal, already nose-deep in another copy of the same article. “She and her husband are trying to sue the entire police department!” Ernie skims the rest of the story, muttering to himself,
“A wild man, is he? Not like me at all when I was young.” Then, remembering the brilliant idea from earlier, he folds the paper shut and asks,
“Say Hal, what if I started selling roasted nuts and coffee in the mornings?”
*
The cable car traveling to detective Gino Rosetti’s residence towards Waller Street on Haight and Ashbury is a familiar route but he’s so lost in thought he almost boards the wrong car, regardless.
There aren’t many passengers but he makes his way towards the back where it’s unoccupied and private. He leans against the cold brass railing as they begin their ascent from the bustling downtown to quieter suburbs.
The compartment rattles, speeding swiftly along while Gino stares at the honeysuckle sky. He wants to appreciate the sight, but thoughts from earlier that morning resurface and suddenly suck him under so he’s back at work, standing in front of police chief, Anna Song.
She’s a serious woman with a regal air, an athletic build, and short cropped hair framing an honest face.
Anna hasn’t said anything for over a minute since he’s been called in. Her fingertips are pressed tightly to her temple as she stares at a glossy sheet of paper sitting on her desk before sliding it towards him. Gino holds himself upright, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for the axe to drop.
“Two months. You’re suspended without pay. I need you to hand in your badge and gun.”
He lays both items down softly on the gleaming oak desk. She doesn’t look up.
“They’ve threatened to sue us, Gino. The couple’s convinced the press to run a hit piece. I need you to lie low for now, understand?” She instructs curtly. The stress adds a rough edge to her voice.
“Yes.”
She finally lifts her head to meet his eyes.
“One more thing. I’ve instructed Pierce to close your investigation.”
That gets a rise out of him, as expected.
“What? No, chief, you can’t—“
“I can’t what?” She demands sharply. He holds his silence for a moment. At the risk of insubordination, he insists again.
“Chief. This case isn’t something we should just drop. There’s more to Emilio Rosa’s death. Something sinister is going on and I have evidence that-“
“Conjecture, Gino. Conjecture is what you have. The case is open shut.”
Something sickening twists in his gut as she speaks. He feels the disquieting horror of something important slipping away.
“I won’t have any officer entertaining conspiracies when there are ongoing cases to solve. It’s done. Pierce is filing away the paperwork as we speak,”
She says, rising to her feet. When he doesn’t respond, she adds, more gently,
“I’m sorry. But you’ve left me no other choice. Go home and cool your head. Wait for this whole mess to blow over.” Her heels click as she makes her way toward a filing cabinet at the back of the room, suspension letter in hand.
The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“Close the door on your way out.”
*
A cascade of timidly spoken Italian slingshots Gino back to the present moment.
A small elderly woman wearing purple from tip to toe tugs gently at the detective’s sleeve. She’s heavily perfumed and asking is he’d be a dear and help her disembark the cable car on the upcoming stop.
Gino smiles softly at her, replying in their native tongue even though the words feel awkward in his mouth. He hasn't spoken Italian in over seventeen years. Not since his father died.
She’s thanking him profusely when the detective notices she's leaning heavily on her left leg. He helps steady her on his arm as her stop looms into view. She thanks him again.
"My pleasure, madame."
*
Gino Rosetti carries his new acquaintance, Bianca Allegri, bridal style down the block towards her comfortable little home where a sweet-tempered calico cat and parakeet await her return.
“Take a right at this street?” He asks as they reach the end of the street.
“Ye-yes. Really though, you needn’t trouble yourself, my darling. I can walk just fine,” Bianca replies, flustered.
Why a strapping gentleman has insisted on carrying her home is a mystery as she’s been literally swept off her feet when all she’d requested was a hand.
“You were going to walk all this way? That’s too far, in your condition,” he tells her with a small frown. She blinks in confusion. “My condition?” Really now, he is so handsome.
“Your right foot, madame. I noticed you were resting all your weight on the left side, earlier. Did you injure your ankle? It would have been quite painful to walk these six blocks home in such a state.”
“Oh! To think you noticed that so easily! But I’m sorry to burden you like this,” she marvels in awe.
“Don’t give it another thought. I’m glad our paths crossed.”
“Yes. God looks after all His children. He even sent you to me!”
He smiles again.
“Yes, madame.”
*
After dropping Bianca off and promising to visit for riposo one of these days to enjoy coffee and a homemade meal, Gino embarks on the forty minute walk home, admiring local architecture and working up an appetite as the last of the afternoon sun bleeds into the horizon.
By the time he's made it back, swaths of baby pink clouds float delicately across the sky, softening the burning copper sunset framing a row of austere Victorian homes lining his street.
The enticing aromas of homemade dinners waft through open windows as Gino turns the brass key to his building, ascending the short flight of steps to his rooms on the second floor. There's the sea bream he purchased yesterday at Fisherman’s Wharf waiting in the fridge. Adding some roasted vegetables and chardonnay should fit the bill for tonight.
Once inside, Gino feels the sweet relief of being home again as he affectionately calls out, “Daisy May! I’m home.” He flicks on the amber lights to the living room in time to see a something stir beside a tufted sofa chair.
Daisy May, a beautiful dyspeptic pug rises to greet him, tongue lolling and front paws click-clacking over smooth herringbone wood floors. Her unusable back legs trail behind her.
While it was the untimely death of her previous owner that had brought them together, Daisy May’s temporary stay turned permanent once the detective realized she was unlikely to be adopted and put to sleep due to her condition. And, while her warm and trusting nature made the little creature useless as a guard dog, it made for an excellent companion.
“Hey there, gorgeous. You been a good girl while daddy was away?” Daisy May snuffles in response, eagerly pushing the crown of her head into Gino’s hands. She’s unable to understand the question because she is a dog but Gino pretends she does and gently massages the wrinkles in her crinkled forehead. “Let’s have dinner. How does that sound?” This question she does understand.
*
Preparing dinner is a straightforward affair that’s comforting in it’s familiarity. Once it’s ready, the detective decides to enjoy it in the living room.
While the entire one bedroom apartment is tastefully decorated, it’s the living room that’s most inviting, containing elegant yet comfortable furniture. A plush emerald green couch faces a robust home library containing rare leather-bound novels lining the wall above a beautiful alabaster fireplace, and a collection of potted plants thriving beside floor to wall windows. Instead of a television set there’s a radio and a well maintained gramophone playing Nat King Cole ballads as night settles over suburbia and the city beyond.
After dinner, Gino sighs contentedly, pushing away a half finished glass of wine. It’s his third pour and a vague but comforting fuzziness indicates he’s pressing against the edge of tipsiness. By his feet, Daisy May whines to be picked up and is soon snuggling comfortably on her owner’s chest. She lets out a raspy huff.
“Hmm…two months of this, huh?” Gino thinks aloud, staring out the window at a distant moon suspended against an inky black canvas. “Well, I’m sure the time will fly by. I’ve got evidence to review.” He snorts derisively. “With or without the case files, I’m still trying to solve a puzzle where half the pieces won’t fit. Only now I’ve got no resources and no permission to investigate. What do you make of that, girl?”
Daisy may licks his chin and burrows her face deeper into the crook of his neck. Her breathing is warm and moist against his skin. Gino gently scratches the back of her ears.
His thoughts return to the night of the case in question. The tragedy of two weeks ago. And just like that, he’s no longer home anymore. He’s standing in the doorway next to his partner again, heart sinking as he takes in a gruesome sight that’s burned itself into his memory forever.
*
Emilio Rosa lies still in a shallow pool of blood. He’s on his back, only wearing an unbuttoned dress shirt and black high-waisted boxer shorts. The pallor of his skin says he’s been dead for hours.
Rich amber light spills into the room as two detectives stand under the doorframe; their shadows blanketing Emilio’s body in shadow.
Pierce is reciting something in Hebrew. Once she’s finished, he asks her what it means. She dips her head minutely, a subconscious gesture of respect, saying,
“Blessed be the Judge of Truth. Emilio Rosa, may his memory be a blessing.”
Gino lets the words seep into the atmosphere before crossing the threshold to crouch by the deceased.
He takes the man’s hand in his own, scrutinizing it, eyes roving over the rest of him. The stiffness feels familiar in his grasp. Emilio’s features are drawn tight, his arm and the joints of his fingers unyielding but still able to bend with some manipulation. He’s still warm to the touch, but just barely.
“Moderate rigor mortis. Time of death…pushing on six to eight hours,” Gino observes. Pierce hums thoughtfully behind him, maintaining her post at the door. Gino leans in closer, taking in the battered flesh and blood on the left side of the face. The top of Emilio’s skull is caved in, some shards of white bone peeking through the carnage.
There’s so much blood.
“Cause of death appears to be blunt force trauma. No sign of self defense wounds, That would be strange, except-”
He leans in, inhaling a few breaths by Emilio’s open mouth.
“-except there’s a strong scent of alcohol. He may have been intoxicated when the attack occurred. Caught off guard and unable to defend himself,” Gino concludes grimly. He leans back on his heels, lapsing into silence. He doesn’t let go of Emilio’s hand.
Pierce leans against the doorway, arms crossing.
“What do you figure that is?” She finally asks, regarding an unnerving detail on Emilio’s exposed chest. She can hear the uneasiness in her partner’s voice as he responds.
“I’m not sure. But it’s burned into his skin. Some kind of flower…a magnolia?”
It’s impossible to miss the ugly welted flesh on Emilio’s right pectoral. A large flower shape that’s scarred the skin is prominent; close in size to a man’s outstretched palm. Gino feels sick as he tells his partner, “Looks like a branding iron was used. Somebody marked him as if…as if he was livestock.”
If the information repulses Pierce, it doesn’t show. “Either Emilio had some…unconventional hobbies, or he upset the wrong people. My money’s on the latter. We’d better call in,” she says, glancing back down the hallway. It’s quiet. None of the neighbors have stirred yet. “Maybe we can get everything wrapped up without fuss, for once.”
When her partner doesn’t reply or stir she shifts, turning towards him.
“Gino?”
“He married his childhood sweetheart three weeks ago. Her name’s, Evelyn. She’s expecting,” Gino tells her. He’s angled his body so she’s facing his back.
“That so,” Pierce replies, not unkindly. What else is there to say?
She considers approaching to rest a comforting hand on his shoulder. The gesture may be appropriate, considering how much harder he takes tragedies like this.
“I’m going to find whoever did this. I’ll find him if it’s the last thing I do. And when I’ve caught him...”
Her partner’s voice has gone dangerously low and quiet. The only other time she’s heard him speak this way was when a suspect shot her in the side while trying to escape. When they’d finally cornered him, Gino had broken the man’s jaw.
She shudders at his next words.
“I’ll make him answer for the evil he’s done.”
*
Daisy May's little snores mingle with the gramophone's music, her pudgy little body pillowed comfortably between the sofa and her owner’s side. Gino caresses her double chins. His eyelids are sliding shut.
“I need to convince the chief to reopen the investigation. But first—“
A yawn.
“—thirty winks. I am on vacation, after all.”
No sooner have the words left his lips, when a commotion starts outside. The detective’s body instinctively pitches forward into sitting position, startling Daisy May awake.
A crash.
“Get back here, brat!”
A thunk.
“Agh!! He bit me!”
“Why you little-“
Fading footsteps.
Gino’s leaning out the window overlooking the street. The din sounds close but there aren’t any figures running through the neighborhood. It must be behind the building, then, towards the alley.
Daisy May watches watery-eyed as her owner grabs a half-empty wine bottle, takes a breath to steel himself, and runs out; slamming the front door shut behind him.
She sits in uneasy silence before lying back down over to the spot where Gino lay only moments before, drawing comfort from the fading warmth he’s left behind.