If Cooks Could Kill (19 page)

“I need to ask you a few questions about the day of the robbery, Mr. Zakarian,” Paavo said as he stood in the doorway of the jeweler's home.

“Of course. Please come in.”

Paavo walked into a beautiful Presidio Terrace home, in one of the most exclusive parts of the city—the area where U.S. Senators, a chain of former mayors, and other top politicians lived. It was a part of the city that Angie had her eye on.

He couldn't see living in a place like this. He'd probably feel he should wear a powdered wig and brocade jacket just to go to breakfast.

The opulent living room was a riot of gaudy French furniture and oversized gilt-framed paintings and mirrors. Angie's parents also liked this very ornate furniture that cried “money.” Paavo, on the other hand, preferred rustic and comfortable. Right now he liked Angie's taste: refined and not overblown. He could only hope it stayed that way.

Zakarian showed Paavo to a sofa framed in cream-painted wood and upholstered in beige with gold thread embroidered in the pattern of leaves. He was
unsure if he should sit on it, until Zakarian plopped himself into a matching armchair. Between them was a delicately carved coffee table that looked like it might fall over if heavy cups were placed on it. “I want to know if this man is familiar to you,” Paavo asked, placing a mug shot of Max Squire on the table.

After talking with Pagozzi, he'd pulled up Max Squire's arrest records. Around the time Veronica Maple was put in prison, Max had gone on more than one rampage of bad temper. He'd even once threatened to kill her when being questioned by the police. Later, he'd been arrested a couple of times for assault, but both times the charges were dropped.

What had he been doing these three years? Pagozzi's own story had checked out—he'd lost money when Max was caught up in Veronica's scheme, but had recouped most of it. Squire's finances, though, were a different story.

From all Paavo had learned about the situation, he couldn't say that he blamed Squire for being furious. Nonetheless, the arrests had left a trail of violence that had to be accounted for. Coming face-to-face with the woman who had caused him all this trouble might have driven him over the edge.

Zakarian crossed the room to a cream-and-gold-edged sideboard and pulled a pair of reading glasses from the drawer. “I need these, I'm afraid.”

Sitting back down with the wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his bulbous nose, he studied the photo a moment. “Yes. I'm quite sure this is the man I saw. He looked a bit shoddier—his clothes were close to rags, and his hair was long and shaggy. When he and the robber nodded at each other, I was shocked.”

“They nodded?”

“Yes. As if they were expecting each other. She said
he was her boss. That was when I relaxed, and I thought she'd just get out of the car to meet him. Instead, she knocked me out. I never even saw the blow coming.” He complained and touched the bandage still around his head.

“You identified a woman in the lineup as being the robber.”

“Yes,” he said hesitantly.

“I want you to look very carefully at this next picture, and tell me what you think.”

Paavo handed him Veronica's death photo. It was the only one showing her with short, dyed hair. Zakarian stared at it a long moment, then handed it back to Paavo with a shake of his head. “I'm not sure. She looks a lot like the robber, but so did the other one.”

“What are you saying?” Paavo asked. “They can't both be guilty.”

Zakarian regarded Veronica's death pose again, then placed the photo on the table. “There was something about the woman in the lineup that made me unsure. I don't know why. I've been trying to convince myself it was her. And now that I see this one, I don't know anymore.”

“Are you unable to distinguish between them?” Paavo eyed him closely. “This is a murder case, remember, as well as a robbery.”

“I was scared.” Zakarian rubbed his hands as if they were still chilled from all he'd been through. “The woman ordered me not to look at her. She had a gun! I tried not to, but there were flashes. When I saw the young woman in the lineup, she looked scared. The one who robbed me didn't have a frightened bone in her body. So, I don't know. It might not have been her. I need to see this woman in a lineup.”

“That's impossible.”

“Ridiculous! There was a murder, as you said. I need help identifying the right woman. She—”

“Mr. Zakarian, the woman in this picture is dead.”

 

With this latest information, Paavo decided to go back to Wings with Yosh. They had the good cop/bad cop routine down pat. All he knew was that something was going on in this restaurant. He just hoped it wasn't murder.

Paavo didn't like the increasingly complicated Squire–Maple connection he was learning about, nor did it make sense that Butch didn't know about Max's background. He surely would have heard if his nephew's finance counselor had lost a bundle of his clients' money due to an embezzling employee. Butch must have known a lot more than he pretended to. This time, Paavo was determined not to take no for an answer.

The lights were out as Paavo and Yosh passed by Wings in Yosh's Ford Galaxy. It was eight o'clock on a Wednesday night. The restaurant was usually more than half filled on a night like this.

Yosh parked in a white zone and put an SFPD placard in the windshield. A
CLOSED
sign hung in the window, and the door was locked. Angie had told Paavo the three owners lived in the flat over the restaurant. No one answered there.

Yosh decided to call it a night. After the last couple of all-nighters on the courier's murder, then Paavo's involvement with Veronica Maple's, Yosh wanted to go home to his wife and kids.

Paavo realized how much he wanted to be with Angie. He knew she was home alone, worrying about Connie, and he hated that she was anything but happy during this special time in their lives.

Right then and there he decided the heck with Lt. Hollins's concerns about her gifts. Hollins would have to deal with his inspectors enjoying the treats Angie sent to them. He wasn't about to stop her. He was proud of her, her generosity, her good heart, her fine taste.

She was the woman he loved; and she'd actually agreed to marry him. He should have been used to it by now, but he wasn't. Each time he looked at her, the wonder of it filled him all over again.

Instead of going to see her, though, he called Hanover Judd. The ADA was still at the Hall of Justice, and he agreed to meet him.

Paavo filled him in on everything he'd turned up since Veronica Maple had entered the picture. Maple was a known thief and felon who had made herself up to look like Rogers. She knew Max Squire, who Zakarian had identified as an accomplice, and knew Sid Fernandez, who could easily have been the fat guy on the security camera tape. And she herself had been murdered. On top of that, Zakarian wasn't sure if the robber had been Rogers or Maple. The evidence made a lot more sense if it pointed to Maple. The case was getting complicated.

Judd agreed. If no new evidence against Rogers showed up, he would let her go in the morning.

Paavo called Connie's attorney and Angie with the news. Then, he drove faster than the law allowed to Angie's place.

“I knew you could do it!” she cried, throwing her arms around him and kissing him.

He held her tight, enjoying the way she felt in his arms. “She's not out yet,” he cautioned.

“She will be.” She stepped back. “Stay right there. Don't move. I'll be back, and we'll talk.”

He sat on her yellow petit-point sofa in shirtsleeves, his jacket, tie, and shoulder holster discarded on the antique Hepplewhite chair, waiting for her to rejoin him. Talking was the furthest thing from his mind at the moment.

She walked into the living room carrying a big, colorfully wrapped present. “For you.” She wore red satin lounging pajamas and matching slippers with high heels. She kicked off the slippers and curled up beside him.

“A present? But why?”

“Just for fun. I ordered it before Connie's troubles began, and it arrived today. Anyway, it's just a little thing until…or, I should say, I'm having a such good time buying you things, in case you hadn't noticed. The French meringue cake is one of my favorites, so I just had to share it. And wasn't that pizza absolutely adorable? I was just joking about making it heart-shaped—and then they did it for me!”

“Adorable,” he mimicked, with a grin. And it was, in an Angie sort of way. He was getting to like heart-shaped things. He even discovered he liked roses. He tore off the fancy gift-wrap.

Inside was a football. He pulled it out and saw it had been autographed. “What does it say? It all looks like consonants.”

“I think it's upside-down.”

He turned the ball over and studied it. “Elvis Grbac?”

“Remember when he was a Forty-Niner quarterback?” Angie said enthusiastically.

“Barely.”

“That's right. It was just a short while. Back-up, I guess. Anyway, that's why this autograph is so rare.”

“I see.”

“That means it's quite valuable. I mean, Montana and Steve Young autographs are a dime a dozen. But how many Elvis Grbac autographs are there?”

“I don't know. But he was a quarterback for the Baltimore Ravens for some time.”

“Oh. Oh well. This is a Forty-Niner football.”

“This wasn't from Dennis, was it?” Paavo asked, carefully inspecting the ball and the signature.

“Yes! Did I tell you Connie once met his partner, Jonesy, in what Dennis hopes will be a lucrative business? I don't know, though. He knocked off over fifty percent for me. Not a great way to make money, though it still wasn't cheap by any means. Anyway, he said he was quite sure my fiancé would be stunned and amazed by such a gift.”

“He's right about that.”

Remembering Paavo's careful instructions of the night before, Angie raced to City Jail first thing in the morning. Two hours later, Connie's lawyer walked into the waiting room and joyously waved a sheet of paper. “She'll be out any second. I've cleared her record. But she has to stay in town in case they want to talk to her again.”

“Wonderful!” Angie cheered.

As promised, the door opened and Connie stepped into the room, a free woman once again. Angie gave her a crushing hug. Connie thanked her lawyer, holding Angie's arm like a lifeline.

Just then, Paavo entered. Connie's face fell when she saw him.

“Don't worry,” he said. “I just want to explain to you and Mr. Matteo what's happening.”

In a private interview room, Paavo told them about Veronica Maple's murder, and that he was going to keep her death quiet as long as possible. Hanover Judd had agreed to forty-eight hours, but no more. Judd was a man with good law-enforcement instincts, and he trusted Paavo's judgment on this. Unfortunately, he had bosses, and newspapers could get nasty
if they thought the news was being covered up.

He explained Veronica's connection to Max Squire, and her prison term for embezzling from his clients.

“This woman really does look like me?” Connie asked, incredulous.

“She dyed her hair, cut it like yours, was even wearing blue contacts,” Paavo said.

“That's creepy.” Angie shuddered.

“I have a picture of her,” Paavo said to Connie. “It's a mug shot from some years back, but I was hoping you might recognize her and give us some idea why she wanted to look like you.”

Connie nodded and he handed her the photo. “Does she really look like me?” she asked, studying it. “I don't think she does.”

Angie took it from her. “I've seen this woman.” She glanced from one to the other. “She was at dinner with Dennis Pagozzi.”

Without another word, Paavo put the photo back in his breast pocket. They all stood. “Listen carefully, Angie,” he said. “Do
not
go near any of these people. Connie, you stay at Angie's place until this is over. Don't go home.”

Connie gasped. He didn't have to explain.

Paavo walked with them to the parking lot and then took his leave.

The two women got into Angie's car.

“Before we go to your place,” Connie said, “let me just stop at my store a minute. I've got some money in a safe there, some extra checks, and a change of clothes.”

“I'll lend you money,” Angie replied. “Aren't you tired?”

“I'm exhausted, but I need to make sure everything is okay.”

Angie could understand that. Connie was a businesswoman, the store her livelihood. Of course she'd want to check on it, and Angie couldn't deny her that.

Unlocking the shop's door, Connie stepped inside, Angie behind her.

Connie froze. “My God!”

The first thing Angie saw were rows and rows of empty shelves, followed by shattered figurines on the floor. Stuffed toys had been shredded, and the stuffing lay in clumps throughout the room.

“Oh, Connie!” Angie whispered. She grabbed her friend's arm, but Connie shrugged her off and walked directly to the phone. Somehow holding herself together, she called the police first, then her insurance agent. That done, she stared numbly at the mess around her.

Angie chewed her bottom lip, unsure what to say or do. Connie was emotionally and physically exhausted. This was sure to drive her over the edge.

It didn't. By the time the police arrived quickly she was beside herself with fury. The insurance agent soon joined them. Reports were made and pictures taken, the only snag coming when Connie told them she'd been in jail at the time of the robbery. Angie practically dared them to make an issue of it. They didn't, and all but backed away from the two murderous sisters-in-arms as they left the store.

“Why do I
know
this has something to do with Max Squire?” Connie fumed, when she and Angie were alone again. “First he stole my money, then I was thrown in jail because I resemble some floozy he knew, and now the shop I've put years of sweat and blood into has been destroyed. I've had it with him!”

“That's the spirit!” Angie affirmed. “You have two choices: to cry, or to kick ass.”

Connie's eyes narrowed. “Where can I find a pair of combat boots?”

Angie high-fived her. “Watch out, Max Squire. We're coming, and we want answers!”

“Answers, hell.” Connie put hands on hips. “I'm going to beat the crap out of him!”

They tore out of the shop, commandos on a mission, and jumped into the Mercedes. “Put your seatbelt on, girlfriend,” Angie said through gritted teeth as she cranked the motor. “This is going to be quite a ride.”

Forty minutes later, they shuffled back toward Angie's car. Max hadn't used the Vallejo Street shelter facilities for several nights.

“Now where?” Angie asked.

“I'm not sure.” Connie sulked, disappointed, while Angie phoned Wings.

“Earl said Max hasn't been there for days,” Angie reported.

“If I find him and kill him, it'll save the taxpayers all kinds of time and money.”

They got into the car. “Someone called the police and said you robbed a jeweler.” Angie ticked off the items on her fingers. “The police searched your apartment looking for the diamonds, but found nothing. Now, someone has gone through your shop. What if whoever did that is looking for the diamonds? That would make sense, wouldn't it?”

Connie glanced at her. “Max? Could he have done that?”

“It goes back to the woman, that Veronica Maple,” Angie said. “And she knew Dennis.”

Connie yawned, and Angie could see that the adrenaline that had kept her going up to now had fizzled. She needed rest, but Angie didn't. It was up to her now to help her friend no matter what it took.

 

“What do I know about cleaning carpets?” Stan whined. He sat in the passenger seat of her Mercedes and pouted. The big coward didn't want to get involved, but Connie needed their help, and Angie wouldn't take no for an answer.

“You don't have to know anything,” Angie said as she drove. “Put water in the tank, cleaning solution in the dispenser, flip on both the brush and suction switches, and then push the machine around the room. Just remember, you have to do the talking. He might recognize my voice.”

Earlier, Angie had taken Connie back to her apartment and given her a bowl of Tuscan bread soup, which she made by laying thick minestrone in a baking dish with sliced day-old Italian bread, topped with thinly sliced red onions. She baked it until it was warm and then served it topped with a drizzle of olive oil and Parmesan cheese. The meal was comforting and heavy, and Connie soon fell asleep on the day bed in the den. Angie removed her shoes and covered her with a warm afghan.

She would probably be asleep for hours, which gave Angie time to act.

The fact that Dennis had known Veronica Maple and lied about it was important. As she dwelled on that, inspiration struck. Luckily, Stan hadn't gone to work today, because she couldn't have managed alone.

“What if he recognizes you?” Stan griped. “Then what?”

“If he does, I may have to shoot myself.” She glanced at herself one more time in the rearview mirror and shuddered. A light blue satin tablecloth wrapped to look like a Muslim chador covered her
head, shoulders, and the bottom half of her face. She pinned it into place so it wouldn't fall off. She then left off her mascara and heavily colored her brows and eyelids with a thick black eyebrow pencil. As a final distraction, she made a big, black beetle-like mark by her left eye.

Under the chador, she wore a long-sleeved white blouse and a full-length baggy black cotton skirt that she borrowed from her neighbor Samantha.

“What if he's not home?” Stan asked hopefully.

“Look, I called a little while ago, and he was. He wouldn't give me any information about him or Max—claimed he knew nothing. He's lying again. This is the only way I can think of to get inside the house and look for evidence of what he knows or doesn't know. You clean the carpet. I'll do the rest.”

“I don't know, Angie…”

She parked down the block from Dennis's house. She didn't think it would be believable for carpet cleaners to drive up in a Mercedes CL600. Besides, veil-wearing women didn't usually drive their men around, but there was no way she'd let Stan behind the wheel of her new car.

“This is heavy!” Stan complained, as he lifted the Bissell out of the trunk and onto the sidewalk.

“Don't put it down! We don't want the wheels and brushes to get dirty.”

“Maybe you don't…”

Angie grabbed a couple of old sheets she'd put in the trunk, and then picked up two handfuls of dirt from beneath a Japanese maple near the sidewalk. “Shut up, Stan, and follow me.”

Dennis answered the doorbell.

“It's Happy Carpet Time!” Stan said, handing Den
nis a business card Angie had run off on her computer. He lifted the carpet cleaner into the house. “We'll be in and out in a jiff, just like we promised.”

Angie stayed hidden behind Stan's back, her head bowed, her arms around the sheets.

“Hey, what is this?” Dennis demanded. He was a few inches taller than Stan, but about twice as wide, and a hundred pounds of pure muscle heavier.

As Stan tried to explain that he was there to improve Dennis's life, Angie darted past them and sprinkled dirt over the pure white carpet, then she twisted her engagement ring around on her finger so Dennis wouldn't see the distinctive blue diamond.

“You paid for it, man,” Stan said, finally. “Like, I'm just doing my job.”

“I didn't pay for this.”

“Yeah, you did. It's on our records.” Stan pointed to a folded-up piece of paper sticking out of his pocket. “Anyway, this place is a mess. Look at all the dirt you got in here. You're going to ruin your rugs if you leave it there. Don't worry, we're fast.”

Dennis looked where Stan pointed, then up at the Arab-looking woman standing demurely by the wall, pulling her headpiece down further over her forehead.

“How long did you say this would take?” he asked.

“Just about twenty minutes,” Stan answered.

“You said I already paid for it?”

“That's right.”

“I never noticed all this crap on the carpet before.”

“That's always the way it is. You don't notice until someone else points out the filth you've been living with. It's kind of that way in life, wouldn't you say? In and out. Twenty minutes, that's all.”

Angie cringed at Stan's sudden philosophical pronouncements, and started to spread a sheet out next to
the stairs to the bedroom. Dennis looked at her, and scratched his head. “I guess, since it's paid for…”

“Good.”

As Stan plugged in the machine, Dennis escaped to the den.

Angie continued to spread sheets over the stairs. When her parents had their wall-to-wall carpets cleaned, the place was always covered with sheets so that no one would step on a still-damp carpet. It didn't make sense to put them on top of dirty carpets, but she was pretty sure Dennis wouldn't know that and was definitely sure Stan had no idea what she was doing.

She snuck into Dennis's bedroom and quickly looked around for anything that might tell her about Max. Nothing.

Another bedroom door stood open. Angie crept toward it, not wanting anyone to suddenly appear and find her snooping.

The room didn't have the unused look or musty smell of a guest room. The closet door stood open, one bureau drawer wasn't quite shut, and the bedspread looked mussed. What if this had been Max's room? What if he was staying at Dennis's house? Worse yet, what if the two of them had set up Connie?

The closet was empty. Opening the bureau drawers, she saw they were all empty as well. A bathroom was attached, and she entered.

A hairbrush lay on the washbasin. Twisted in its bristles was blond hair. She saw some clothing tags in the wastebasket and lifted them out. Two Liz Claiborne tags from Nordstrom's, size six, $149.95 and $79.95.

Connie hadn't worn a six since high school, if then. She was a snug eight on a good day. What was wrong
with all these people who said the two women looked alike?

So, Dennis had Veronica Maple staying at his home at the same time as he was making goo-goo eyes at Connie. The two-timing cad! And to think, she'd encouraged them! Why, oh why had she ever gotten involved in anyone else's love life?

A cordless telephone was on the nightstand by the bed, a pen and paper beside it. It had a digital display and several special features. When she hit the “last number redial” button, a number popped onto the display. She jotted it down.

A quick look in what would have been a third bedroom revealed a room filled with football trophies, footballs with dates and special achievements marked on them, photos, and memorabilia from Pop Warner to the Forty-Niners. Dennis Pagozzi, this is your life.

She pulled the door shut and headed for the stairs.

 

Stan wasn't sure how to fill the Bissell tank with water or where to add the cleaning solution, so he simply got a glass of water from the kitchen and poured it on the dirt. He then flipped a switch. The brushes spun and he pushed the carpet cleaner. Water and dirt swirled around and formed mud. More water, Stan thought, and ran to the kitchen for another glass full.

The now diluted mud began to spread, the white carpet taking on a peculiar brown tinge. Back and forth he went adding more water. The mud puddle grew, engulfing even more carpet.

Frantically, Stan rolled the machine furiously back and forth over the carpet. The slop only spread further. He then ran with the cleaner up and down the length of the carpet, pushing down hard, his gaze darting every so often to the stairs Angie had taken
and feeling like Cinderella being watched over by her evil stepmother.