Something's Cooking (2 page)

“Thanks,” he said with a grateful look. It was the first glimmer of humanity she had seen from the Great Stoneface.

She sat on the sofa, her hands clasped, and waited.

He took a sip, then glanced at her as he pulled out his notebook and a pen. His hands weren't particularly large, but she saw power and strength in them. “Good coffee,” he said. “Full name?”

“Angelina Rosaria Maria Amalfi.”

He seemed to take forever to write it down. She smiled, wondering how badly he'd mangled the spelling. “Age?” he asked.

“Twenty-four.”

“Marital status?”

“Single.”

“Engaged?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Which one?”

He glanced up. “Anyone special?”

She shook her head. “Not at the moment.” A slight smile played on her lips as she glanced at the dusty mess around her. “My luck's been bad in a lot of areas lately.”

His eyebrows rose ever so slightly. “Do you live here alone?”

“Of course.”

He pierced her with a harsh blue gaze.

“Occupation?”

“I do free-lance writing for magazines now and then, I'm working on a history of late-Victorian San Francisco, and I have a newspaper column.”

“You're a columnist?”

“Yes. The
Bay Area Shopper
. It's an advertiser, published three times a week. I write a kind of offbeat food column called ‘Eggs and Egg-onomics.'” She smiled. “The name was my idea. Readers send me recipes. The column has a very loyal following.”

His gaze deliberately traveled over the spacious apartment with its lavish furnishings, paintings, sculptures, and million-dollar view that stretched all the way from the Golden Gate Bridge to the Bay Bridge. Her back stiffened at the skeptical expression on his face. “This is a pretty expensive apartment,” he mused, as if to himself.

“Perhaps.”

He swallowed more coffee and then remarked,
“I didn't know magazine articles and food columns paid so well.”

“They don't.”

He leaned back in the chair and stretched his long legs in front of him. “Someone, I assume, helps you out here, so to speak.”

She couldn't believe his audacity. Her temper flared, but she managed to keep her voice low. “I am not a…a ‘kept woman,' Inspector Smith. I don't see that it matters where I get the money for my apartment.”

He gave her a sidelong glance and hooked his thumbs in the side pockets of his slacks. “Maybe where you get the money has something to do with what happened here today.”

He looked so cocksure of himself, she would have liked nothing better than to give the chair a little shove and watch him land on the smuggest part of all. “I pay my own rent. To my father.”

He pulled himself up straight. “Your father owns this building?”

She lifted her chin. “He also owns several shoe stores.”

One dark brow arched. “I see.” His voice was quiet, pensive.

She shrugged. “He helps keep a roof over my head and shoes on my feet. I take care of the in-between.”

He glanced over her “in-between,” but not so quickly that she didn't feel the force of his perusal. Then he directed his gaze at hers again.

Her mouth felt dry. “I have investments.”

While appearing to ponder her words, he fin
ished his coffee and then stood and began to pace. “Now, Miss Amalfi, would you explain to me how you came to have this bomb in your dishwasher?”

She leaned forward and rubbed her forehead, again overwhelmed by the unreality of what had happened. She wanted to scream, but instead she relayed the story in detail. She explained that she had put the package in the dishwasher because the appliance was made of heavy metal, was well sealed, and she thought the water would destroy whatever was ticking. In fact, she told him, she considered it pretty clever to have put the package in there.

“Miss Amalfi, are you aware of any enemies or people who dislike you for any reason whatsoever?”

Faces of people she knew whirled through her mind. She had dozens of acquaintances but few close friends. Her college friends were scattered all over the world, her best girlfriends from high school were married now and had little in common with her, and boyfriends drifted into and out of her life without much impact. For confidences, she turned to her family, especially her oldest sister, Bianca. She knew a lot of people from work and through her parents, and she attended most big social functions in the city, but who, out of everyone, could have reason to hate her? “There's no one,” she finally said.

“Are there any connections you might have reason to worry about? Enemies of close friends, or of your family, perhaps?”

Feeling suddenly tired and frustrated, she leaned forward. She slid her fingers against her scalp, rubbing her head, as if by mere concentration she could make this nonsense go away. She felt the inspector's gaze upon her and raised her eyes to meet his. “It's impossible, Inspector.”

His voice was soft when he said, “I see the impossible every day.” He walked to the window and looked out toward San Francisco Bay and Alcatraz.

Perplexed, she allowed her gaze to follow him. Something about his words, his tone, set off an unnerving resonance within her. What was it about his simple words that made her, for the first time this afternoon, fear seriously that there might be a plan at work here, that she might have actually been targeted by someone? The last thing she wanted was to believe him.

He's wrong, she thought. He's insensitive, indifferent, and hateful. She studied his profile as he stood by the window. His brow was wrinkled with concentration, his lips pursed tight, and the corners of his eyes were lined with the weariness of a man who'd seen too much suffering and sorrow.

She looked away a moment. The bomb blast must have made her truly loopy to imagine any compassion in those glacial eyes.

He turned to face her. “Okay, Miss Amalfi.” He tossed his notebook on the coffee table in front of her, then smacked his pen on top of it. “Write down the names of your family and your
employer while I go check on my men. Then we'll get out of here for now.”

She reached for the notebook, then pulled back her hand. “I'm sorry, but this is a waste of time. The more I think about it, the more I know a terrible mistake was made. There's no one after me or my family. The package must have been delivered to the wrong address.”

He stood directly in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep eye contact. “People who send bombs don't make mistakes like that,” he said. “That kind of thinking could be dangerous. Someone doesn't like you, Miss Amalfi. It would be best to keep that in mind.”

She felt a rush of fear, and then doubt. “You're just trying to scare me.”

“If that's what it takes to keep you alive, yes.”

“Maybe it was a random attack by some kind of terrorist group.”

“Going all over San Francisco leaving little packages in doorways?”

She hated his sarcastic tone. “Exactly. A sort of Welcome Wagon in reverse.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you afraid to give me the names of your family?”

She glared right back at him. It was plenty clear, she thought, that Paavo Smith was used to intimidating people by his stern looks and height as well as his profession.

“I can't remember the last time I was afraid of anything, Inspector Smith. For you to investigate all those names would be a waste of time.”

“Look, Miss Amalfi,” he said, his voice a low
growl, “if someone's out there who's interested in blowing people up, it's my job to find him. And I never waste my time on anything. So write those names down. After I check everything out, I'll think about whether it's a waste. Not before.”

He walked out of the room.

Cold, arrogant S.O.B., she thought. Who does he think he is, Dirty Harry?

Early the next
morning, Paavo eyed the thick report waiting for him on his desk. Matt must have been up all night pulling information out of the computer. Paavo took a gulp of coffee then began to go through the printouts.

The murder victim was Samuel Jerome Kinsley, a.k.a. Sammy Blade, so called because of his penchant for carving people just enough to get them to cooperate with his employers. The rap sheet on him was a foot long: burglaries, bookmaking, and plenty of assault charges. Still, Sammy was strictly small time, not the sort of guy who attracted bullets.

By the time Paavo finished looking at the early returns on Sammy Blade, Officer Rebecca Mayfield dropped another file under his nose. She was tall and had fluffy, shoulder-length blond hair and the kind of well-toned and well-developed
body that resulted only from months of workouts at a gym.

“What's this, Rebecca?” Paavo stared at the title, then held up the few pages as if they were contaminated. “A bomb-squad report?”

“It's all about your exploding dishwasher,” Rebecca said, struggling to keep her voice serious.

“Real funny.”

She leaned against the low bookcase beside his desk. “So, what's she like?”

“Who?”

“The Amalfi woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess you don't read the society pages,” she said with a grin.

“Sure I do. Every word.”

“In that case, you know all about the Amalfis. You know they've got money, prestige, and lots of friends in City Hall, among other places. Chief Hollins wants to be sure the attack on the youngest Amalfi daughter gets top-notch attention. That is, your attention.”

She's joking, Paavo thought. Why were the women around him turning into comedians all of a sudden? “My job's Homicide, remember?”

“Sorry, Paavo. You were on the scene, you got her statement. Hollins doesn't want someone else to start over. He says it'd look bad to the Amalfis.”

“I don't believe this.”

Rebecca placed her hand heavily on his shoulder. “Listen, if you get the feeling she's twisting you around her well-manicured pinky—the way
it's said she does with men—you let me know. I'll set her straight, hear?”

He looked from the hand on his shoulder to her eyes. “There's no need, Rebecca.”

“But I've heard—”

“I'll handle it.”

She pulled her hand back and folded her arms. “Fine, then. You're such an expert on women, I'm sure the rest of the men should just sit back and take notes!”

He picked up the bomb-squad report, put it on the top of his stack of papers, and turned to page one.

“Just wait!” She turned and stomped down the corridor.

Trying to ignore her, he gave his full attention to the report. The bomb, he read, was a simple one, fast and easy to assemble, cheap to buy if you knew the right people, but powerful enough to kill a person standing nearby—like a person opening the box that contained it. At the very least, the bomb would maim and probably blind.

He rubbed his chin as he remembered the big, wide-set brown eyes of the Amalfi woman. They had looked like they could melt stone if she set her mind to it. She was little—“petite” he guessed was the right term for her slim, trim figure. Her short, feathery brown hair had some of those glittery “highlights” women seemed to like to put in their hair. Still, he had to admit she was an attractive woman, although his preference leaned toward tall, buxom, and blond—women like Rebecca Mayfield, in fact. But he'd never mix
business and pleasure. Business was important and long lasting, while pleasure tended to be illusory and fleeting.

He glanced back at the report. By all rights, Angelina Amalfi should have opened the package, and it would have blown up in her face. Why didn't she? The women he knew would have torn the wrapping off as soon as they got their hands on it. Maybe that's what comes of being a rich girl and having so much. You don't care about little surprises, little gifts, in life. What's a freebie in the mail to a woman like her?

Angelina Amalfi was obviously pampered, arrogant, and mouthy. Women were supposed to be the salt of the earth, not Stardust. Her tongue was too sharp, her chin too proud, and she wore the damnedest silly pink bedroom slippers he'd ever seen.

A homicide inspector has no business handling a case like this, he decided, suddenly irritated. Maybe that was why he'd treated her the way he had. He felt bad about it, he had to admit. He'd always been easy on victims, tried to comfort and reassure them even while his mind was already analyzing motivation, suspects, even signs of guilt. And she clearly was a victim. She could have made things a lot simpler, by just answering his questions, listening to his advice, and locking her doors. But instead she had kept up this dangerous insistence that the bomb was a mistake, as if such ugliness couldn't possibly enter the charmed, unsullied life she led.

It had, though, and now it was his job to do
something about it. He had no business letting her behavior get to him. He forced his concentration back to the report.

In addition to being rigged to go off when opened, the bomb had a timer on it. Why? To be sure it went off while Angelina Amalfi was in the apartment alone?

Whoever delivered it must have been someone who knew her habits. Or, someone who had been just plain lucky to catch her alone.

No, Paavo thought as he considered how powerful the bomb was. Angelina Amalfi was the one who was lucky. She might not be so lucky next time.

 

Angie clutched the sides of her head. It felt ready to explode, throbbing mercilessly every time the plumber banged on the kitchen pipes. She stared at the words reflected on the screen of her computer, trying to concentrate, but they seemed to jump and grow blurry.

That damn newspaper article about the bomb blast had caused this trouble. Her phone had rung off the hook all morning. All four of her older sisters had come by to see her, but none of them had brought their husbands or kids. She figured they were afraid more mad bombers might be lurking around her apartment. Her sisters' visits were “duty,” but they must have thought it foolhardy to expose their families to danger.

She thanked God her parents were in Palm
Springs. It had been difficult enough to tell them by telephone that some stranger had left a bomb outside her apartment. Face to face, it would have been impossible. Her mother had sounded half hysterical at the news. Eventually, Angie had gotten her parents to see it in the same light as poison placed in an aspirin bottle—a random, one-in-a-million bit of bad luck. Still, it was all she could do to convince them to stay in Palm Springs and not worry about her unnecessarily.

Everyone who called was given the same story, that the bomb was a random attack. The package was sent to Occupant, after all, and she'd never done anything interesting enough to make anyone want to kill her. She really hadn't ever done
anything
, interesting or otherwise. She wasn't even married at age twenty-four, which her family considered a more serious failing with every passing day. Her mother was convinced none of this with the bomb would have happened if Angie were married. Angie had asked if that meant the bomb had been sent by a frustrated wedding caterer, but her mother had found no humor in her words.

The attack was random. It had to have been. No one had meant to harm her.

Still, the night before, she hadn't been able to sleep. At the slightest sound she'd bolt upright in bed, listening, her heart pounding, and when she did doze off, her dreams were bizarre and nightmarish. Never before had she worried about being alone in her apartment. Suddenly, she did.

The plumbing noises, constant callers, and lack
of sleep made her head pound. Finally, she gave up and pushed her chair away from the computer. She was working on her history book, a light but historically accurate study of the bawdy bowery of San Francisco in the 1890s. It was a task she could usually continue for hours, but not today. On top of everything else, the
Shopper
editor, George Meyers, was irritated that she had missed her last column. She promised to give him a headline story for his next issue: “Food Columnist's Kitchen Blows Up—Recipe On Page 7.”

Her apartment made her nervous. Every time someone came to the door, she flashed back to the previous day. Even the ringing of the phone made her jump. She considered going shopping to lift her spirits, but the thought of the downtown crowds made her stomach knot.

Maybe just a short walk around the block or over to the park? That sounded good. It was just a matter of getting over the initial shock, she decided. That's all. She grabbed a red suede jacket, walked to the front door, and then paused and stared at the door, unable to touch it.

She steeled herself a moment, then swung the door open. No problem. It was just as she'd told the inspector yesterday when he kept trying to frighten her. Her getting the bomb had been a mistake. She pulled the door shut behind her. Just a mistake.

She stepped onto the sidewalk. The day was warm and placid, the October sun bright upon the cars parked bumper to bumper along the quiet residential streets. Sparsely leafed trees
stood in tubs, every fifty feet or so, along the sidewalk. Only one or two vehicles drove past her, and no pedestrians were around.

How could there be any danger here? Still, she found herself looking over her shoulder as she walked, unable to shake the eerie feeling that someone was watching her.

She walked toward the hillside park, two blocks away, where she usually met her friend Sam. It was strange that he hadn't called her about missing their meeting yesterday. In the aftermath of the bomb, she had forgotten all about him.

She loved the view from the top of Russian Hill, of Chinatown to the right and North Beach to the left, of lofty churches and low neighborhood shops, all framing the white column called Coit Tower. Beyond were the blue waters of the bay.

She walked down the steps on Vallejo Street. The top of Russian Hill was so steep that the sidewalk had a cement stairway paved into it.

The park was just ahead of her, across an intersection. It was a place of peace and beauty, a place, she knew, where there couldn't be anything amiss.

As she stepped into the intersection, a large, blue American car pulled out from its parking space down the street. She continued forward across the street.

The engine roared as the car sped up and headed straight toward her. She stopped, shocked, and then ran. The sidewalk seemed im
measurably far away. Each step, each lifting of her leg and meeting of the pavement with her foot, took an eternity as the car gained on her.

She reached the sidewalk, but the car swerved in her direction, bounding up onto the curb. She screamed and then lunged toward the first tree she saw. She clutched the tree and scooted around to the far side of it, hugging the trunk, trying to breathe even though her lungs didn't seem to want to work and her heart was beating so fast she thought she'd faint. The squeal of brakes rent the air.

 

A half-block away, Paavo was methodically going door to door to question people who lived in the vicinity of Sammy Blade's murder. Other than the ID of the victim, he and Matt were having no luck with the investigation.

He had been at it for over an hour when a call came over his car radio that another attempt had been made on Angelina Amalfi's life. He dropped the microphone back onto the hook. He didn't relish facing Saks Fifth Avenue's pinup girl again. Still, after what he had learned about the bomb, he'd half expected to hear about another attempt. He slammed the transmission into drive and left the murder investigation to go to her apartment.

 

Meanwhile, at Angie's apartment, the plumber had finished his work and all was quiet. After her narrow escape, she'd hidden in the park until she
saw a police car drive by. She had chased after it, yelling and waving her arms until the policemen noticed her. They had escorted her to her apartment, then called in the report.

Now, shaking and close to hysteria, she telephoned her father's lawyer, Marty Galquist. She asked him to recommend a bodyguard but made him swear he wouldn't tell her parents. Her father had a heart condition, and she didn't want to cause him any more worry than the bomb blast had already.

The frightening words of the inspector came back to her. “Someone doesn't like you, Miss Amalfi.” She almost laughed at how understated the words seemed now.

She thought about leaving the city. She could buy an airplane ticket for some far-off place, or simply go to her parents' home in Hillsborough. Since they were in Palm Springs, the house was empty. But how long would she have to hide? How long before whoever was after her would find her again?

Her father was friends with the mayor and the police commissioner. The police wouldn't dare let anything happen to her. This was her home, in her father's building. Surely she'd be safe if she just stayed put. She had to believe that.

She heard a knock on the door and froze. “It's me,” her neighbor Stan called. Don't scare me like that, she wanted to shriek, but she admitted him and even managed some enthusiasm. It was one of the few times she was genuinely happy to see him.

Stan was more of a pest than a companion, she had to admit. He was twenty-nine, thin and wiry, with brown hair and eyes. He considered himself an up-and-coming young bank executive. At least he did when he bothered to go to work, which wasn't nearly often enough to suit Angie, or, apparently, his bosses, who hadn't given him a Christmas bonus. He suffered from numerous mysterious ailments—laziness, mostly—and called in sick whenever he thought he could get away with it. On such days, he'd stop by Angie's place for tea and sympathy. She'd give him a cup of the former and a thimbleful of the latter and make it clear that even though she was home, she had work to do. Stan, impervious to subtlety, would stay until Angie kicked him out.