Cooking Most Deadly (14 page)

“I'm sorry, he's observing a case in court this afternoon,” the lanky black man said politely.

“Court? Which courtroom?”

He checked his calendar. “Courtroom C.”

“Which floor is that on?”

“This one. On the opposite side of the building.”

Angie and Connie had to walk past the elevators to reach the courtroom. “I don't like this one bit!” Connie whispered fiercely. “I'm sorry, Angie, but I'm leaving.” She turned into the elevator bank and hit the down button.

“You can't leave.” An elevator bell bonged and the up arrow lit. “The elevator is going up. You don't want it anyway.” She took hold of Connie's arm and tried to steer her away.

“I'll wait.” Connie dug in her heels and tried to pull her arm free. “I'm not going to the courtrooms!”

“You've got to,” Angie insisted.

The elevator doors opened as the two battled.

Angie suddenly dropped her arm. There, in the elevator, his mouth open and his eyes bulging, stood Lloyd Fletcher.

Angie gasped.

Connie turned around and stared straight at Fletcher.

The DA stared back. The color leeched from his face. As if taking on a will of their own, his eyes slowly went from the stylish short haircut—cut and dyed exactly as Tiffany's had been, to the makeup exactly as Tiffany had worn it, to the form-hugging pink dress that was Tiffany's, to the pink suede pumps, then his eyes jerked back to Connie's face. For a moment, the two women thought he was going to pass out. He mumbled an apology, and hurried off the elevator.

Angie and Connie jumped onto it. As soon as the doors closed Angie whispered, “That was
him
! Did you see the expression on his face.”

“Oh, my God.” Connie leaned back against the elevator wall, her hand against her heart. “He looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost.”

“He looked like a ghost himself! He's the one. He's got to be. My idea worked!” Angie cried. They looked at each other, shrieked, held hands together, and hopped about in a little victory dance. On six, the elevator doors opened. A group of lawyers peered in at the dancing women and decided to wait for the next one.

Angie pushed the button for four. “We're going to go see Paavo,” she said. “Right now.”

 

Both Paavo and Yosh were staring as if they couldn't believe their eyes. Seconds before they had been in the midst of the tiresome task of going over, once again, the interviews with Judge St. Clair's neighbors when a commotion erupted in the Homicide office. Angie flew in, her face aglow with excitement, made a beeline for Paavo, and grabbed his hands. He barely had time to register how beautiful she looked when his attention was caught by the woman tottering behind her on a pair of pink shoes with heels higher than the San Francisco Yellow Pages. Behind her came the secretary, trying to grab the wavering woman, whether to support her or hold her back, he wasn't sure. Angie let go of him and, for some reason, got involved with the other two.

He stared at the blonde and quickly realized two things. First, that the three women were all talking at once. Second, what Angie had done.

He stood and held his hand up. Miraculously, the talking stopped. The secretary let go of the blonde, Angie stopped trying to free the blonde from the secretary, and the blonde kicked off her high-heeled shoes.

“Hello, Miss Rogers,” he said.

The secretary looked baffled.

“It's okay, Elizabeth,” he told her. She scurried back to the relative sanity of her desk.

“We did it, Paavo!” Angie grabbed his hands again. “I can't believe it, but we did it! We found out—”

“Angie,” he interrupted, placing his hand against her
back and steering her toward an interview room. “Let's not disturb everyone.”

She looked around to see that the four inspectors in the room had stopped work and were staring at her. She smiled hesitantly.

Yosh hurried over to join them.

“Hey there, Angie,” he said. “How ya doin'?”

“Top of the world, Yosh.”

He carefully took in the other woman. “Connie Rogers, right?” he said. “New hair color. New style, too. Very nice.”

Connie's cheeks flamed. “Thank you.”

The four entered a small, soundproof interview room and shut the door. Paavo and Yosh sat on one side of the metal table, Angie and Connie on the other. Angie had the distinct impression she and Connie were on the wrong side of the table here.

“Lloyd Fletcher,” she announced proudly. “He took one look at Connie dressed up this way, and I thought he was going to pass out. He's got to have been Tiffany's boyfriend.”

“Do you know what's going on, Paavo?” Yosh asked.

Paavo folded his arms. He had to do it—the urge to dole out corporal punishment for such a childish stunt was overwhelming. “I'm afraid I've got a good idea. You two didn't parade Connie in front of every man whose name began with an L, did you?”

“Why not?” Angie asked. “Anyway, we only had to check out three of them since you insisted the chief of police couldn't have been involved and the sanitation boss is out of town.”

There was a short silence, then, carefully pronouncing each word, Paavo said, “What do you mean by ‘check out'? You can't just go waltzing up to those men and say you want to see them.”

“Maybe some people can't,” Connie said, then cocked her head toward Angie.

He fought a strong desire to unfold his arms. “Don't explain. I don't want to have to arrest her.”

“It was all perfectly legal,” Angie assured him. “These men are politicians, after all. Anyway, no one batted an eye but Fletcher. He's our man.”

“He's been involved in the Rogers and St. Clair murders because of City Hall. He's seen photos of Tiffany. You might only have seen him reacting to the fact of the resemblance.”

“No. You and Yosh reacted to the fact of the resemblance. His reaction was much stronger. More…more visceral.”

“It's true,” Connie said, nodding vigorously. “You wouldn't believe the expression on his face, the way he stared at me. It was creepy.”

“They might be onto something,” Yosh said. “You can't say Fletcher's been cooperative, and Benson told me everyone says he's been acting peculiar lately.”

“There you go!” Angie cried. “Now, I've just got to—”

“The man's the district attorney, Angie,” Paavo said firmly. “You've got to do nothing, and
especially
do nothing that might cause him to realize you two set him up.”

“I know, I know. It's police business.”

“That's right. I'll talk to him.”

“Talk? There's got to be a better way,” Angie said. “I mean, what could you say? Seen any dead girlfriends lately?”

Connie winced.

Angie was horror-struck. “Oh, Connie, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to be disrespectful.”

“It's okay, Angie. At least
you're
trying to be helpful.”

Angie saw Paavo's and Yosh's irritation at Connie's slap at the police. At times, even
she
recognized when she'd gone too far. “Let's go, Connie.” She grabbed Connie's arm and hustled her out of there. “See you around, fellas.”

He ducked behind the Volvo
wagon parked on the Jones Street hill as a car drove by, its headlights sweeping the area before it. The nearest parking he could find for his Honda, now with a new coat of black paint, was two blocks away.

He didn't want anyone to see him there, outside the garage to the apartment building where Angelina Amalfi lived. The garage door was locked, but all he needed was for one person to come home. Just one. That person would use a remote control, open the door, and park—and he'd slip in before the garage door shut again.

He'd tried to rig up his remote to open the door, as he had done at the judge's house, but this security system was much more sophisticated. It'd be a chore to break, and why take the time when this way was so easy. Tenants were careless. A good reason to take advantage of them.

He'd already waited there two hours, ever since midnight, for someone to drive into the garage. The fog had come in and the air was damp, but he wasn't cold. His body felt neither warmth nor cold—he was beyond such mundane things.

If no one came home tonight, he'd be back tomorrow. What did a day or two matter?

He ducked again as another car turned onto Jones Street and started up the hill. This one slowed. When it reached the garage, it turned onto the driveway. He scrunched down farther behind the Volvo, waiting. He heard the garage door squeal open. To his surprise, the area became flooded with light as the garage's interior lights came on—a safety precaution. In a moment, he heard the revving of the car's engine as it moved slowly into the garage.

He hurled himself forward, against the outside wall of the building, hoping the shadows would keep him hidden. Crouching as low as he could, he darted through the opening, flattened himself against the inside wall, then scrambled quietly for a dark corner.

He waited. The garage door stayed open for what seemed like an eternity when, finally, he heard it rumble and emit a high-pitched squeak until it shut with a thud. The people who'd driven into the garage, a man and a woman, got out of the car and walked to the elevator. He watched the man insert a key into the elevator, then the two of them got on.

The elevator, too, was secure. No problem. He didn't want to take the elevator anyway—he'd had enough of being trapped in a cage to last a lifetime. He'd take the stairs. She lived on twelve, but he could make it up that high easily. He'd worked out in prison, knowing the day would come when he'd have to rely on his strength, his body, to get him what he wanted. He went in the ultimate nerd—brainy, skinny, and a wimp. He came out buffed-up, handsome, and even more brilliant than before. A laugh bubbled up inside him. He loved irony.

When all was quiet, he took out his key chain flashlight and went to the car that had just driven in, used a jimmy to unlock the door, and lifted the remote control opener off the visor.

That was to make it easier if he ever had to come back. It was cold out there on the street.

Then he searched for the door to the stairs. He found it, just a little ahead. Someone had even stenciled the word “S-T-I-A-R-S” on it. Thoughtful, if illiterate.

Gripping the doorknob, he turned it. It didn't open. He tried again. The door was locked.

He looked around, flashing his small light at the walls, floor, ceiling. These people thought they were so clever, making the garage secure. But that meant all those in the building who used the garage always had to remember their elevator key, or the key to the stairwell. If they didn't, there was a phone so they could get the doorman from upstairs to come down and let them in. How many people, though, would want to call and make themselves feel foolish?

He spotted a tall cigarette tray in front of the elevator, a metal cylinder with a bowl of sand on the top. The elevator was probably a no smoking zone. Now, if some clever resident, knowing that not everyone remembered all their keys all the time…

He tipped the ashtray and flashed his light on the ground underneath it. He didn't see anything at first and was ready to give up, when the glint of metal against the gray concrete floor caught his eye. He bent lower, and, sure enough, there was the key.

He snatched it up. He had his doubts about using the elevator, though. If someone else got on, he couldn't explain his presence, and would have to kill the person. But how many people would be riding the elevator at 2:00
A.M.
?

His heart pounding, he got on and pushed the button for twelve. As the door clanged shut, his body broke out in a sudden, cold sweat. He kept his finger on the Close Door button, in hopes that would trigger the mechanism to keep the doors shut and travel nonstop to twelve. The elevator lurched, then started climbing.

He reached under his jacket, and his hand closed around the handle of the combat knife as the elevator neared the lobby. This would be the most likely spot for someone else to get on.

He kept his eyes, unblinking, on the floor indicator. The lobby light was lit…would it stop?…then the 2 light came on. He breathed easier.

3…4…5…

No one would be going between floors this time of night. He was home free.

6…7…8…

The elevator lurched to a stop. He stared at the floor indicator: 9. What was going on?

The doors opened and a small child, wearing pajamas with little cowboys on ponies, stared up at him.

What the hell? His teeth gritted and his fingers tightened on the knife.

“Tommy!” A woman's voice shrieked. “Tommy, baby, what are you doing out of bed? Don't you dare get on there!”

He tried to make himself small, pressing his shoulder hard against the side, where the woman couldn't see him. His heart raced. If the kid got on and then his mother, he'd do what he had to. He couldn't have witnesses. But then he'd have to be fast with the Amalfi woman, which was too bad. He had planned to take his time with her, to enjoy her first. He scowled as hard as he could at the boy and in a deep, hushed whisper, said “Boo!”

Tommy's eyes widened, and he turned and ran to his mother.

He punched the Close Door button over and over until the doors finally shut. He leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe and get his heart back in his chest.

On twelve, the doors opened.

The hallway was well lit. There were only two doors on the floor—1201 and 1202. He turned toward 1202.

This would be the hardest part of the whole thing. If Angelina had a normal apartment door lock, he'd be able to get inside in about a minute with his MasterCard. If not, he'd have to try to get the door pick to work. He'd had it explained to him time and again in prison, and had practiced a lot, but it took a calm, cool hand. He would have
done fine, except for that damn kid. Now his nerves were shot to hell.

He took out his MasterCard and slid it between the door and the jamb. Holding it almost sideways, he shoved it in farther, so that it bent around the door, then angled it downward until it touched the latch. Carefully, he worked the card until the latch caught, then farther until the card slipped from his fingers—and the door opened.

The apartment was pitch-black. He stood by the door, listening for any noise over the sound of his heartbeat and his own heavy breathing.

He thought again of the woman he'd held in his arms on the dance floor. The inspector's woman.

He'd make her his own, tonight. Before he killed her. He remembered lying atop the old woman as she'd struggled. How he'd reacted to the friction of her body against his. Just the thought of what he'd almost done with her had made him throw up later that day.

With Angelina, though, it'd all be different. She had wanted him. She'd smiled at him—even at the restaurant, she'd smiled and been friendly. He'd saved himself for her, just as he'd once saved himself for Heather.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he could see a few shadows in front of him. He eased forward, expecting to find a chair or table blocking his path. Since the apartment remained quiet, he took out his flashlight and flicked it on, and gave the room a quick perusal.

The sight of his bouquet of roses on her coffee table brought a smile to his lips. He picked one up, gently lifted it to his nose, then, smiling, ripped the petals from the stem.

He tossed the rose aside when he spotted the telephone. Taking hold of the cord, he sliced it in two with his knife.

The kitchen was to the left of the living room, and just beyond it had to be her bedroom. He shut off the flashlight and headed for the room.

The air in Angelina's apartment didn't smell the way
he'd expected. There was a staleness, a masculinity to it. That had to mean she spent even more time than he thought entertaining men.

Now it was his turn to be entertained.

He stood in the bedroom, trying to make out her figure in the darkness. He inched toward the bed. What if she had her fiancé with her?

He hadn't thought of that before. That would change all his plans.

He could see the form of one person only on the bed. He smiled.

As he watched, thinking about her, he felt himself grow hard and reveled in the power it gave him. He knew exactly what he was going to do.

Still holding his knife, he groped around the top of her nightstand and found the telephone he was sure would be there. With a quick flick of the blade, he sliced that cord in two as well.

Feeling for the edge of the covers, he slowly eased them back. She lay on her side, facing away from him. Stretching his hand out, he let just one finger lightly touch her shoulder. He'd expected the feel of a nightgown, some lacy, fancy thing. Instead he felt bare skin. It shocked, yet thrilled him, and he snatched his hand back.

He lowered his zipper slowly, the metal teeth sounding as loud as machine gun fire in the quiet apartment. She didn't stir. Then, clutching the knife tight, he placed one knee on the bed, leaned over her, and then pressed his hand to her face, concentrating in the darkness on finding her mouth, stopping her screams. “Don't move,” he whispered.

But her face was too big…too scratchy…bristly…

He yanked back his hand.

“What the—?” a masculine voice cried.

He slammed the knife down into the man.

The man screeched, arms and legs flailing in a tangle of bedsheets. He stabbed again, and the man gasped, then fell silent.