Something's Cooking (10 page)

Paavo had to lower his head to get past the doorway. The room was small, with a bed in the corner, a wooden table and four chairs around it, a T.V., and a dresser. A small kitchen and bathroom completed the living quarters.

Angie sat at the table while Aulis Kokkonen produced a bottle of wine and Paavo set out three glasses.

“Me and my friends made this,” the old man said to Angie, pointing at the bottle. “Bet you never had homemade wine before.”

“I wouldn't make that bet if I were you. My grandfather made great wine. The only trouble was, he'd be so impatient to ‘test' it, it was never quite ready when he poured it. Great three-week-old stuff.” Angie smiled and relaxed in the warm presence of this frail old man.

Aulis chuckled. “I know the fault. Yes, I know it well.”

He turned to Paavo. “You work too much, boy. I'm glad to see you taking a day off.”

Angie spoke up. “I'm afraid not, Mr. Kokkonen. I'm just another case.”

Aulis looked surprised. “Is that so?” His eyes danced. “Is that a fact, now? Well, I should be glad Paavo turned out so dedicated to the law. There was a time I'd never take up
that
bet either, believe me.”

“Hey, Papa, we don't have to go into that,” Paavo said.

“Of course, we do!” Angie's curiosity bubbled over.

The old man seemed amused at her reaction. Glancing quickly at Paavo, he leaned forward in his chair. “Let me tell you, the main reason Paavo is such a good cop is because he learned all their faults as a teenager. Oh, did he give them a merry chase around this neighborhood, him and his buddies. What a group!” He chuckled. “One wilder than the other. They never did anything seriously wrong, they had better sense than that,
but they surely thought they were big shots. Paavo got escorted home by the police more times than I can count.”

“You're kidding.” Angie looked at Paavo. Well, if the mighty Inspector Smith didn't look uncomfortable, even sheepish!

“How's your rheumatism doing?” Paavo asked, obviously trying to change the subject.

The old man winked at Angie. Soon, the three had settled into warm companionship, Aulis pulling Angie into the conversation with a wealth of anecdotes about old times and old friends. As she sat at the table, she witnessed, in Paavo's every gesture, the gentle love and respect he had for the man he called “Papa.” For the first time, she saw Paavo relaxed, allowing his own dry humor and wit to appear. The change fascinated and charmed her.

Finally, Paavo stood. “I think it's time we get going. I want to get Miss Amalfi home before it's late—and before you tell her so many stories she demands a new detective on the case.”

Angie quickly finished her wine. It did taste a lot like her grandfather's, and it brought back memories of the wonderful times she had had with him as a child. She was sorry to leave the warmth she had found in this tiny apartment.

“Bring her around again, Paavo. This one I like,” the old man said as Paavo gave him a quick hug. “Be careful, son,” Angie heard him add in a whisper as she and Paavo walked towards the street.

“Thank you, Paavo,” she said softly once they
were seated in his car again. “For letting me meet him.” And for letting me know another part of you, she thought but didn't dare say to him.

He smiled. “Where to, m'lady? Home?”

Home. The word weighed heavily. Night was falling, and the lights of the city shone with a promise of excitement that only big cities could offer. “I guess so.”

She looked up and saw that the yearning in his gaze echoed her own.

“Tell you what,” he said. “Let's go to my place so I can change into something better than blue jeans, and I'll take you out to dinner.”

Slowly, she smiled. “Just don't order any champagne…or squab!”

Inspector Paavo Smith's
home was in the northwest corner of the city, facing the Pacific Ocean, bordering the lush greenery of the Presidio. He turned up the driveway of a brown-shingled cottage.

“There's no garage,” he said. “This place was built before cars were even a twinkle in Henry Ford's eyes.”

Angie looked at the trim house lit by the tall streetlamps and the warm, shaded lighting of other homes on the block. “This is quite a change from the hectic pace of the Mission or downtown.”

He unlocked the front door, switched on the lights, and stepped aside for her to enter.

The door opened directly into a tiny living room. The sofa and chairs were mismatched, overstuffed, and inviting. Multicolored patch
work cushions were scattered over them, an autumn-toned afghan was draped over the back of a chair, and a red and blue hooked rug lay in front of the fireplace. Books and magazines sat stacked beside an easy chair and on top of the coffee table; cassette tapes and compact disks filled the shelves around a stereo system. One wall had a fireplace with overflowing bookshelves on each side of it, while on other walls hung Impressionist and early Modern prints. It was a comfortable, practical room, Angie thought, except for the surprising touch offered by the prints.

A loud
meow
greeted them. An enormous yellow tabby was curled on a chair. A scar ran from the end of his nose up to his forehead, and he had the most pugnacious face Angie ever saw on a cat.

“That's Hercules.” Paavo grinned at the big tom. “Terror of all dogs in the neighborhood. His morning sport is beating up the German Shepherd down the block.”

Hercules jumped off the chair, stretched, and rubbed his body against Paavo's leg. Paavo bent and scratched the cat behind the ears before heading toward the kitchen. Hercules ran between his feet, mewling loudly.

Angie followed them to the doorway of the kitchen. The aging appliances were all white, and the five-foot-high refrigerator had only one door. She hadn't seen a kitchen like this since her early childhood, when her father's shoe business had needed every cent of profit plowed right back into it.

Paavo opened a can of 9 Lives. “I leave him dry
food all the time. I'm never sure of my hours, but when I'm home, he knows he gets a special treat. Okay, Herk, chow time.”

He put the bowl of cat food on the floor.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked Angie as he opened the refrigerator and peered inside. “I've got…beer.” He held it up. “One can.”

She smiled. “We'll split it. I'm not very thirsty anyway.”

He reached for two glasses from the cupboard and carried them to the living room, placing them side by side on the coffee table.

She sat on the sofa. Hercules leaped onto her lap, and then flopped down. She laughed and stroked his head. Purring loudly, he wriggled onto his back to get his tummy scratched. He was big and tough-looking but also as gentle and affectionate as a kitten. Her gaze lifted to Paavo, who put the one can of beer and a package of Oreo cookies on the coffee table. A warmth tugged at her.

“There.” Paavo popped open the can, half filled their glasses, and tore open the cookie wrapper. He faced Angie, and the easy smile he wore vanished. In its place was an odd expression.

“What?” she asked.

“I…sorry.” He took a sip of his beer.

“It's okay.”

“I'd better change so we can get out of here.”

“But it's really very nice right here,” she said. “I don't mind staying.”

“I promised you dinner.”

“I'll cook. I love to cook.”

“No—”

“My cooking's that bad, huh?” She tried to smile but couldn't help feeling hurt. She dropped her gaze from his and stared instead at the bubbles in her beer glass, absentmindedly petting Hercules. He purred in appreciation, and she glanced down at him. “Well, at least somebody likes my company.”

“Angelina.” Paavo sighed as he settled his long body back against the sofa, his head cocked as he regarded her. “What to do with you?”

Her gaze went first to his eyes, then to his prominent cheekbones, his straight, winged brows, his mouth, which she had come to find so expressive and sensuous, the funny little bend to his nose, and then his lithe, powerful body.

His question was far too tempting. It made her think of things she'd like him to do with her, and she with him. His nearness made her breath quicken and her pulse throb. There was no way she could answer his question.

“You're sorry I came?” she finally asked in a hushed voice.

He dropped a hand to grip his knee. “The problem's the opposite.”

For a moment she couldn't believe what she'd heard. She placed her hand in his and twined their fingers together. Neither spoke. She studied her small, fair hand with long, currently lilac nails, against his large, rough one. She liked the feel of him. She liked everything she had learned about him that day.

“What's wrong, Paavo?”

He rubbed his free hand over his eyes and nose, and held it against his mouth for a moment. “This is crazy.”

“What is?”

“This. You. I enjoyed today and yesterday far too much.”

“Is that a crime, Inspector?”

He glanced at her, then looked away. “One of the first things you learn as a rookie is to watch out for damsels in distress.”

“Oh?”

“They cloud your judgment, making it more dangerous for both of you.” His eyes met hers. “For both, do you understand?”

She nodded, knowing, but hating, the truth of what he was saying. She pulled her hand away. “I'm sorry,” she whispered.

He cupped her chin. She didn't breathe as he lightly ran his thumb over her lips, a poor substitute for the kiss she wanted. But he held back. The look he gave her deepened and softened, as if he were memorizing her features. Then he dropped his hand and stood up with a shake of his head. “Let's get out of here before my good intentions go by the wayside.”

At that, he stood quickly and left the room.

It was moments before her breathing returned to normal. Never before had she known a man whose mere touch had such an effect on her.

She tried to distract herself by looking through his magazines and books. She was surprised at his taste in literature—Mann, Proust, Conrad, as
well as murder mysteries and science fiction. The most surprising thing was that the former looked every bit as well worn as the latter.

She heard the shower running as she looked at the books. His words, though, kept sounding in her ears. It was the nicest rejection she had ever received.

A short while later, he came back into the room wearing a black turtleneck sweater and light gray linen slacks, and carrying a darker gray sports jacket. His hair was shining and soft looking.

“Ready,” he announced.

“Very nice,” she said with frankness.

His eyebrows rose a moment. “Thank you.” He stepped toward her. “Ready?”

“Yes.”

As he reached for the knob to the front door, the phone rang. Paavo opened the door.

“Shouldn't you answer?” Angie asked.

“The answering machine will click on soon. Maybe we ought to just get out of here. If it's the force, they can use my beeper, anyway.”

“Well, whatever.” She hated the insistent ringing.

He hesitated, looking at the phone, and then hooked his jacket onto the back of a chair and moved toward the phone.

Suddenly she wanted to tell him to stop, to forget the call, to let them have their evening together. But it was too late. The answering machine had turned on.

“Paavo,” the gruff voice of Hollins boomed
over the recorder, “call the station. Ask for me or Calderon.”

Paavo grabbed the receiver. “Wait, I'm here. What's up?”

Angie felt her stomach knot. Maybe everything would be all right, maybe she just had a twinge of nerves, not anything like a premonition at all.

Her heart pounded as she watched him listening to his boss. Something was wrong, she realized almost immediately. He held the phone, first with one hand, then he lifted the other to grasp the mouthpiece. There was an imperceptible stiffening to his stance, and though she was only twenty feet away from him, he suddenly seemed an ocean away as the coldness surged across the room.

“Yes…yes, I'm still here….” His voice was harsh, strained, filled with a bitter anger that made her cringe inside. “Did you tell Katie?…God….” His gaze lifted to Angie, but although he was staring directly at her, he didn't seem to see her. Then the veil dropped from his eyes, and as his gaze focused on hers, she was shaken by the pain and sorrow she saw. Her throat tightened. She stood, wanting to go to him, to do whatever she could to help, but hesitated, still feeling the force of the wall he'd built around himself. He turned his back to her. His voice was devoid of emotion.

“Where was he?…I see…. Okay, I'm coming down…. No, I'll be there anyway…. I don't care…. All right, all right.” He quietly set the receiver back down.

She waited.

Slowly, he walked to the chair and picked up his jacket. “A change in plans. I've got to go to the station.” His voice was flat. He looked at the far wall and stopped speaking.

“Paavo?” she said gently, walking to his side and lightly touching his back.

He grunted and walked into his bedroom. She waited a while, and then, when he didn't return, followed him to the doorway. Her stomach knotted. He stood on the far side of the room with his back to her, wearing his shoulder holster, his shoulders slumped, his arms at his sides. He seemed to be looking at a wall covered with pictures and scrolls, commendations from the force and the city.

She walked across a bedroom that was as warm and cozy as the rest of the house, with Colonial pine furniture and a Paavo-sized bed covered with an old quilted comforter. Tenderly, she placed a hand on his arm. “What is it?”

“There.” He pointed at a photo of a boyishlooking, blond-haired policeman with his arm around Paavo's shoulders. They each were wearing blue patrolman's uniforms with brass buttons and shiny badges. Both looked very young, very happy, and very innocent.

“That's my partner, Matt. Eleven years ago we were both rookies. Hired about a month apart. Him first, then me. He liked to say I was the ‘junior' partner.” He stopped. The room vibrated with the pounding of his heartbeat, the shallow, ragged breathing in his chest. He turned toward
her, his eyes now gray, the color of a rainstorm. He searched her face, as if wishing she could tell him it wasn't true, but she couldn't help him, she couldn't stop his pain. “Matt was killed today.”

Her grip tightened on his arm. One part of her expected to hear something like this, ever since she had seen his reaction to the telephone call, but another part refused to believe it. Refused to believe in this kind of violence, in this kind of death. Despite all the movies and T.V. shows about the police, despite what Crossen had told her yesterday about shoot-outs, she could not accept that such things really happened.

Her heart ached for Paavo, for the agony she had seen in his eyes, the pain in his voice, and the emptiness he was withdrawing into now. She looked again at the photograph on the wall of the young man with his arm around Paavo, the man so happy and so full of life.

Her eyes locked with his. “I'm sorry,” was all she could say, and she knew it wasn't nearly enough.

“Well.” He wrapped the keys in his fist and turned away from the picture, breaking her hold on him. “That's the chance we take. We know it can happen any time. We live with it. Every day. Part of the job.”

He was shutting himself off, repressing the devastation the news had caused within him. It made his words cut through her all the more. Tears stung her eyes. He was trying so hard to not feel, to lock in his grief, but she had learned enough about him this day—his veneer had
cracked just enough—that she knew he was bleeding inside.

“If he was your friend,” she said, her throat tight, “I know he was a good cop.”

Paavo walked to the door of the bedroom and placed one hand on the jamb. He leaned into his arm, as if barely able to support himself, then looked back at Matt's photo. “He was one of the best, Angie.”

He shut the bedroom light and walked into the living room. Angie followed him, feeling helpless and inadequate, wanting to do something but not knowing what.

“I'll take you home,” he said, putting on his jacket. “Sorry about dinner.”

“No.” She stepped toward him, wanting to wrap her arms around him and hold him, but because of his reserve, she didn't dare. Instead she said only, “Take me with you.”

His eyes flickered, and then he shook his head. “I've got to go to the hospital, see what I can learn there and at the station. I'll find who did this, whatever it takes. I'll find who…” His breath came short and fast. “Sometime I'll have to stop at the house. See Katie. That'll be the hardest.”

“Don't go alone, Paavo. Let me go with you. Let me just…just be there.” Her eyes caught his and she felt as if she were sinking, helplessly, into their blue depths.

He pulled his gaze away. “No,” he said brusquely, sounding colder and harder than she had ever heard him sound before.

He drove her home in silence, walked her to
her apartment, made sure Joey was there, and left.

Angie stood in the doorway and watched him until the elevator doors had shut between them. He was stubborn, trying so hard to hide the tremendous capacity for love and pain she had witnessed behind a cold exterior. She didn't ask him to call later, but she had held her door open as a way to convey to him that if he needed her, she'd be there. She only hoped he had understood. Mister Inspector.

She touched her face and felt her cheeks wet with tears.

Before long, she retired for the night, but sleep wouldn't come. As she tossed about for what seemed like hours, all she could think about was Paavo—not Crane or Waffles or bombs or anything else, just Paavo and his friend, Matt, until at last, she fell into a restless slumber.