Cooking Most Deadly (20 page)

“Is that her Ferrari, Inspector?”

Paavo, standing by Angie's car in the dark parking lot, had been asked that question at least three times already—by each patrol car that cruised by. “Yes. Now find her!” The car, with a slight dent by the headlight, had been found up against a bench with the engine running.

Another officer walked up to him. “I don't see any sign of her.”

“Of course not. She's not hanging around the tower. I can see that. She's got to be hiding somewhere on that hill. Look for her. Go through the bushes.”

“What I'm saying, sir, is that she might not be anywhere around here. You said there was another car.”

Paavo didn't want to think about that—about that bastard taking Angie to some place in his car. He wanted her hiding in the brush here, waiting for him to find her. He wanted her safe.

The policeman part of him, though, knew from bitter experience that if she was here, she was probably dead. He couldn't face finding her himself, but he couldn't bear to leave her out here in the cold, foggy night. He
had nowhere else to search for her. No other leads to follow.

“Look a little longer, please,” he whispered.

His car phone rang. He ran to it. “Smith.”

“Officer Manning, Central. We found the Honda, Inspector. It's got a cheap coat of black paint, but the license matches.”

His breath caught. “Yes?”

“It's been in a wreck. On Kearney near Chestnut.”

His world tilted. “The occupants?” He could barely get out the words.

“The car's empty.”

 

She saw a light in the upstairs window of a small house. Breathless, she stumbled toward the front door, but with her hands tied behind her, she could only kick it. Her arms and her wrists ached, her mouth burned where the tight gag pressed into her skin. She waited a moment, then kicked again, harder.

The light switched off. No! She wanted to cry out, but couldn't. Why was there no one to help her? From the corner of her eye she saw the black-and-white of an SFPD patrol car go by. She chased after it, but it had already disappeared into the fog.

She couldn't yell, couldn't wave her arms. Instead of coming to her aid, people seemed to shy away, to lock their doors instead of opening them. When had we come to this? Tears of frustration and fear filled her eyes. This was a big city, filled with people. But she felt completely alone.

A movement in the fog caught her attention. She stared at it, waiting, praying that it was someone who'd give her help. She took a step toward the person, then stopped, staring, not believing. He stumbled, his hand to his knee, but still he came forward, toward her, a figure in the mist. But she knew it was him.
Him
.

She turned and ran, praying that the fog had somehow shielded her. But since she saw him…

He could reach her easily. Grab her again. She ran.

Ss. Peter and Paul's was nearby. Maybe there…

Running down the steep Filbert Street hill, without the aid of her arms to steady herself and help keep her balance, she was forced to slow down, slipping and sliding, never actually falling, but coming perilously close. She expected Carter to catch up to her any moment.

Her lungs were ready to burst as she reached the ten-foot-high doors of the church. Locked. She fell against them, her cheek pressed against the ancient oak as choking, gasping sobs broke from her.

She forced herself to stop, to listen for the sound of Carter's running footsteps reverberating through the empty night.

She listened.

 

“Where is she, dammit?” Paavo pounded his fist onto the roof of the Honda, fear for her gnawing at him as he looked up at the rows and rows of flats and apartments surrounding them. Yoshiwara had shown up. Paavo wasn't sure from where, and now Yosh stood in the middle of the street directing the investigation. Yosh grabbed his arm. “Take it easy, partner,” Yosh said. “We'll find her.”

Paavo pushed himself away.

He peered into the fog, up and down the empty, silent street. He didn't know which way to turn, where to begin. He'd never felt so helpless.

The brick facades of some of the garages brought back memories of the Oakland police report of the way they'd found Heather.

“We've got to find her,” he whispered. He alone heard his words.

 

The street was silent. Maybe it wasn't Carter that she'd seen in the fog after all? Or, maybe she'd lost him? Angie kicked at the church doors, but they were so large and
solid, they didn't even rattle. She forced herself away from them, to go on, back down the broad church steps to the sidewalk, onward, expecting Carter to appear before her any second.

At the corner, she felt a burst of hope.

 

“Shhh! I t'ought I hoid somet'in'.”

“I didn't hear nothin.'”

“I swear I did. Like a poundin'.”

“You musta heard your brains poundin' in protest—from you tryin' to use 'em.”

“Shut up, you two! We ain't got all night.”

“Maybe it's da cops. You want I should go check?”

“Forget it, I said. Or I'll give you a real poundin'. Who's first?”

“Not me. I hate being foist.”

“You never been first for nothin' in your whole life.”

“Go on.”

“No, you go on.”

“No, you.”

 

Angie kicked at the door to The Wings Of An Angel as loud as she could, but no one came to answer it. She was sure Earl, Butch, and Vinnie were down in their basement apartment fast asleep. They'd help her, if she could just reach them.

The door was old, with a large, single panel of glass in a wood frame. Probably not safety glass—probably not even up to code. The only way to get in would be to break the glass, reach inside the door, and unlock it. She tried kicking the glass, but she couldn't kick high enough to hit the sweet spot—the middle area—which she knew was the weakest part.

She'd have to use her elbow and shoulder. Even through the leather jacket, it would hurt, but not nearly as much as Carter if he ever caught up to her.

She rammed her elbow into the window, and fell back. Even her teeth vibrated at the blow. But nothing happened.

She tried again, smashing her shoulder into the center of the glass with as much force as she could muster. The glass shattered. Not bad!

Using her elbow again, she knocked away the glass near the doorknob, turned backwards, and reached in with her bound hands, flicked the dead bolt latch, then grabbed the doorknob and turned.

She ran in, slammed the door shut, looked through the shattered glass to the street—and nearly fainted.

Carter stood before her. Blood was smeared across his forehead and down his right cheek. The right lens of his glasses had a spiderweb crack in it. His stare was deathly cold.

He reached through the broken window for the lock. She brought her elbow down on his hand, grinding it into the jagged glass. He shrieked and pulled it free, scraping it across the broken shards and sending rivulets of blood streaming down the door.

She ran to the kitchen. Behind her, she heard his curses and the sound of more glass breaking.

At the back of the kitchen she found some steep stairs, apparently leading to the basement. Her three friends were surely down there sleeping. Once with them, she'd be safe.

She started down, but on the third step her feet slipped out from under her, and she slid all the way to the bottom.

Slightly dazed, she looked around. To her surprise, she wasn't in an apartment at all, but in an unfinished, bare-walled basement furnished with three old army cots.

Scattered about on the ground near the far wall were tools and a lit Coleman lantern. Directly above them was a huge hole in the wall.

And sticking their heads through the hole, staring intently at her, were Earl, Butch, and Vinnie.

“Miss Angie,” Earl said. “What're you doin' here? What's dat t'ing over your mout'?”

She ran to them. Heavy footsteps and banging could now be heard overhead. Angie tried to tell them what had happened, but with the gag her words came out muffled and incoherent.

They asked no more questions. Three pairs of hands reached for her and half carried, half dragged her through the hole.

Earl removed the gag while Vinnie cut the ropes from her wrists.

“It's Carter,” she panted. “He's insane. He wants to kill me.”

“Good God!” Vinnie bellowed. “I'm too old for this stuff.”

“Quick! Let's go up to the jewelry store,” Butch said. “Maybe he won't know where to find us.”

They ran across the basement and up the stairs to the ground floor. The door leading into the store was locked. Using a crowbar, Vinnie easily popped the lock, and they ran in.

The entire front of the store was windows. Outside, streetlights lit the interior for them.

“Let's get out of here,” Angie cried. She ran to the front door of the jeweler's, turned the lock, and opened it, only to be stopped by a heavy metal gate that completely covered the front of the building—both windows and door. All four of them grabbed it and tried to force it open, but it wouldn't. It was padlocked from the outside.

Angie spun around. There was no back door, no back window.

They were trapped.

 

The streets were eerily empty. Through the fog, Paavo hadn't even spotted a
wrong
person to follow, hadn't even been allowed the faintest glimmer of false hope. He'd driven up and down Kearney and Grant. Now he was on Stockton. He turned off Stockton at Filbert to drive by Angie's church. Ss. Peter and Paul's.

The front of the church looked bare and empty. The doors, he was sure, were locked. God had closed up for the night, and only the godless remained here on the streets.

Angie's restaurant “find” was somewhere near here, he recalled. On Columbus. If she were near it—and able to—she might seek it out, a place where she'd been happy with people she'd liked. A sanctuary.

But at this time of night? Nobody would be there. Like the church, it'd be locked up tight. And besides that, he hadn't even bothered to ask her where it was. Why? Why hadn't he taken the time for her? What if—No! He couldn't, wouldn't, think that.

Gripping the steering wheel hard to rein in his rising panic, he gunned the engine and turned onto Columbus.

“Barricade the door,” Angie shouted
.

The three men began pushing anything they could find—a desk, a file cabinet, a chair—in front of the door that led to the basement.

She picked up the phone to call the police. It was dead. She dropped it and backed away. That explained why Carter was taking so long in the basement, why he hadn't run up the stairs immediately and tried to break in. But he was out there now, that was certain.

She ran to the back of the counter near the cash register and threw herself to the floor, searching for some kind of alarm. A loud thud hit the door, and the barricade moved back an inch or so.

The men threw their weight against the furniture, trying to keep the door from opening farther. But Carter was stronger. Angie knew they were four against one—but her friends were small, older men. And Carter didn't seem human.

The door inched open. Carter's fingers reached into the room and gripped the doorframe.

Earl, Butch, and Vinnie backed away, their eyes wide
and fearful. Earl grabbed a heavy ashtray, holding it high. Butch clenched his fists like a boxer, and Vinnie found a fake pearl rope necklace that the jeweler hadn't bothered to lock up for the night. He wrapped it around his fingers like brass knuckles.

Angie was in tears, frantic to find the alarm. She found a button on the floor, near the counter's edge. She pushed it. Nothing. It didn't feel as if it was connected to anything. Desperate, she pushed it again and again.

Carter must have cut those wires, too. He knew electronics, he'd said. Yes, he knew them.

He squeezed through the opening. A red, blood-filled bruise the size of an orange lifted from the center of his forehead, small, jagged cuts radiating from it. Strips of flesh dangled from the bloodied mess that once was his hand. His eyes were wild and staring. He took in the three small men, and then Angie. “Hail, the gang's all here,” he said.

Angie scrambled to her feet and backed away.

“You ran away from me, Heather.” He moved toward her, his voice low and growling. “To other…men. I don't like that.”

“Get out of here, Carter,” she cried. “The police are coming. They'll arrest you.”

He pulled a long combat knife from his back pocket. “I don't think so,” he said.

She cried out and bolted around the counter to her friends. Earl pushed her behind him.

Carter chuckled. “How noble.”

He began to weave forward, making his way closer and closer to them, keeping between them and the door to the basement.

Suddenly, he lunged at Earl with his knife. Earl tried to step aside, out of the way, and at the same time swung the ashtray at Carter's head. The heavy object struck, but too late. The knife went into Earl's side and came out bloody.

“Earl! No!” Angie cried, trying to catch her friend as he fell. At the same time, Butch and Vinnie attacked Carter.
They barely reached his shoulders. Butch grabbed the arm that held the knife and tried to pry it from Carter's fingers. Vinnie, reaching up, pummeled his face with the pearl knuckles.

Angie couldn't get close enough to do anything to Carter, but she saw that the path to the basement door was now clear. She broke for it.

“No!” Carter roared. He threw off Vinnie with ease. Vinnie's head hit the wall, and he dropped, unconscious. Carter whirled and smashed a fist into Butch's face. Angie heard the crack of his nose and saw his blood splatter over the room. The little man went down.

Carter lunged toward her. She skidded to a halt, and spun away from the door just as he crashed against it.

A jeweler's stool had been pushed into a corner. She hurled herself at it and picked it up, holding the seat to her chest, its legs pointed outward.

“Keep away from me!” She screamed. “Keep back!”

“Heather, Heather, Heather.” He shook his head, slowly brandishing the knife, as he stepped nearer. “Put the stool down, Heather.”

She shook her head, perspiration dripping down her face, into her eyes, nearly blinding her.

He paced back and forth. “You're coming home with me. Again.”

He reached for the stool and she swung it so that a leg hit his mangled hand.

“Bitch!” He grabbed the legs of the stool, tore it from her hands, and tossed it aside.

 

Gun drawn, Paavo stepped through the shattered glass of what had once been a door. The dining room was dark and empty. He ran through the swinging door to the equally empty kitchen.

In the back, stairs led down to the basement. Angie! His mind shouted. But what if his hunch about this restaurant was wrong? What if the broken glass was just some
two-bit robbery—a coincidence—and Angie was still out on the street somewhere with Carville?

Could he chance it? Could he chance her life on no more than a guess? Did he believe in coincidence?

He moved swiftly, silently, fearful that if she was here with Carville, the sound of someone approaching might cause him to kill her.

As he descended the steps, he saw a large hole in the basement wall. A hole to the jeweler's next door? It all seemed so bizarre. But something, a vague feeling, told him to crawl through it.

That was when he heard a scuffling sound, a voice.

“Bitch!”

His heart nearly stopped. Silently, he hurried up the stairs.

A scream! Angie!

He burst into the room—in time to see Wesley Carville toss a stool out of the way.

Paavo saw the knife, saw Angie back into a corner, saw Carville slowly, menacingly step toward her.

“Drop it, Carville,” he said.

Carville glanced his way, then smirked. “Forget it, Inspector. You can't stop me. No one can.” He sprang at Angie.

Paavo fired. The force of the bullet caught Carville in mid-leap and knocked him sideways against the wall. The knife clattered to his feet. He slowly sank to the floor. Before he reached it, he was dead.

The room fell silent.

Angie crouched on the ground. Her eyes met Paavo's, and she tried to stand.

He reached her side in an instant and dropped to his knees. Her face crumbled as she looked at him. Gathering her up in his arms, he held her tight against his chest, rocking her, comforting her. Then he buried his face in her hair and didn't try to stop the tears that filled his eyes.