Something's Cooking (20 page)

“Of course I understand. I'm really quite grateful, Angie. The last thing in the world I want is that editor's job hanging over my head one more day! Believe me, I'll make it up to you.”

He called for the check and then whisked her out of the restaurant.

The night was quite dark. The fog had rolled in early from the ocean, masking the stars and moonlight and blanketing the streets with a fine mist.

Preston put an arm around her shoulders. Angie found this offensive and stepped away from him. He flashed her a look—no, it couldn't have been as hostile as it had appeared. The fog surrounding the street lights must have created shadows on his face that made it look menacing. She shook away the start he had given her.

The man reeked with charm, money, and good looks. There was no reason she should feel uneasy around him. She gave him a bright smile as she climbed into his car.

“
Why are we
stopping here?” Angie asked.

Preston had pulled into the driveway of a Victorian mansion in Pacific Heights, high atop Jackson Street.

“This is my home.”

Angie stiffened. “I'm sorry, Mr. Preston, but—”

“Relax, Angie. I'll just take a minute. I want to give you the spare keys to the
Shopper
offices. Now that you're my editor, I can get away for a couple of days on my yacht. I plan to start first thing in the morning, as a matter of fact. That is, if you'll allow me to give you the keys.”

“Surely, others have keys.”

“Who's in charge, Angie? You are.”

His voice was smooth and reasonable. She felt quite foolish arguing with him.

His eyes widened. “Oh, dear! You aren't thinking I intend any untoward behavior, I hope.”

Embarrassed at those exact thoughts, her face reddened as she shook her head.

“My dear, I hadn't thought…I mean, I never condone any fraternizing…I thought you knew. Well, I'd hoped to show off my antiques to someone who could appreciate them, but if you'd like, you can stay here in the car while I run inside. I didn't mean to discomfort you, Angie.”

She felt like a first-class ninny. “It's all right. I'd love to come in.”

“You trust me, then?”

“Of course.”

“I'm gratified.” He got out of the car, hurried to her side, and opened the door for her.

The house looked like a large, brown shingle-home from the outside, but the inside was breathtaking, filled with American antiques of a quality usually found only in museums, bright Oriental carpets, glistening hardwood floors, and primitive American artwork. Everything was perfectly placed and shining, as if on display. Angie stood in the doorway of what Preston called his parlor, hesitant to disturb the quiet ambience.

“Please, enter,” he said.

“It's beautiful.” She walked into the room and sat on a high-backed, thinly padded chesterfield. “I have a few antiques, too, but mine are English,” she added. She thought of Paavo trying to sit in her little Hepplewhite armchair, and a feeling of disquiet filled her. She had to get away soon.

Preston talked about the pieces he owned,
clearly proud of them, as he poured them each a drink. He handed a Benedictine and brandy to Angie.

“My most treasured piece,” he said, “is an eighteenth-century desk from Bavaria. It's absolutely exquisite.”

Her curiosity was piqued.

“Would you like to see it?”

She nodded.

He smiled. “This way.” He took her hand and led her to a narrow staircase.

“Up there?” Her gaze went to the dark upper hall.

“Two flights.”

Angie bit her bottom lip and then followed him up the stairs. There's no reason to be afraid of Jon Preston, she told herself. Look at this house. He's obviously a paragon of civility.

At the top of the second landing was a long hallway with only two doors. He walked to the far one, opened it, then switched on the light. True to his word, in the center of the room, facing the grilled windows with a spectacular view of the bay and the Golden Gate Bridge, stood the massive desk.

Angie forgot her fears as she hurried to it and ran her fingers over the smooth, hand-rubbed wood. It was warm to the touch, with a dark patina of age. The top of the desk was slightly rippled near the front, where centuries of elbows and forearms had worn away the wood. Angie sat in the straight-backed chair and placed her own
forearms on the desk top, smiling at the way they fit in the bowed areas.

“It's marvelous,” she said, smiling at her boss. “Thank you for showing me.”

“Thank you for your enjoyment,” he replied. Then, as she moved to get up, he added, “Stay there. It's a good place to talk about work. You're a writer, after all.” He walked to the leather sofa against the wall and sat down.

“I'm sorry, but I really don't have time—”

“But I was so curious, you see,” Preston continued, “about your announcement this afternoon—about meeting your best fan.”

Angie felt the room sway. She forced her face to remain immobile. “Yes, my fan, Mr. Crane. Do you know him?”

He laughed. “Not really. Tell me about him.”

She hesitated. It can't be Jon Preston, she assured herself. He's just making conversation. “There's nothing to tell,” she replied cheerily.

“But you will meet him?”

“I thought I would.”

“And when will this ‘date' take place?”

She sipped on her liqueur, buying time while she tried to figure out Preston's interest. “I'm waiting for him to contact me.”

Preston stood. “I'm a patient man, Angie, but after all, you told the whole office you were meeting Crane. The only reason to proclaim it as loudly as you did was so I might hear you. And I did. Now I want to know when and where this meeting will take place.”

“You!” Her voice was hushed, but her heart
pounded. She kept her eye on Preston as he walked around the desk.

He frowned, then shrugged as if throwing off all pretense. “Who else? I need to see Crane, but the man has gone into hiding, it seems. Actually, you've given me an idea, with all your talk about a meeting. I'd like you to write a recipe that will set up a meeting with Crane—one that I'll also attend. I know quite a bit of the code, but not all of it. I want to meet Crane tomorrow night about three
A.M.
in the Broadway tunnel. Lemon.”

“Lemon?”

“Don't play coy! I know Lemon is the Broadway tunnel drop! What I don't know is how to write tomorrow night at three
A.M.
”

“Neither do I!” She looked at him as if he were quite mad.

“Hah!” he snorted. “You expect me to believe that? You have managed to discern a certain relationship among Crane, Sammy Blade, and the mysterious someone who directs the entire operation at the
Shopper
. A neat piece of work, as they say. And you outdo yourself by knowing that the code is encased in some rather dreadful recipes. After all, you are a food columnist, surely competent enough to recognize the woeful deficiencies in a fake recipe when you read it.”

Her face burned with anger and embarrassment. Did he think she had been derelict in her job in allowing these obviously imperfect recipes? But her readers had loved them! Or so, George had always told her.

“Write it!”

“I can't!” She shut her eyes as her mind raced, trying desperately to remember the pieces of the strange code she and Paavo had worked on.

He studied her, his eyes narrowing. “You're not a good liar, Angelina. You figured it out, all right.”

He opened a drawer in the end table beside the sofa and removed a gun. He pointed it at her. “I'm tired of games, Angelina. Write your recipe, now. I've stopped the presses for tomorrow's
Shopper
. Right now, they're waiting for me to give them a last-minute change and the okay to finish tomorrow's paper. That means there's still time to get it printed in tomorrow's
Shopper
, time for Crane to see it and meet us. Do you understand?”

Holding the gun in his right hand, he pulled open a desk drawer and took out pen and paper with his left. “I want a recipe. Three
A.M.
, tomorrow night.”

She looked at the blank sheet with dread. “I don't know if I can.”

“Do it.”

It must have been the barrel of the gun that inspired her, for her mind had never been so quick. Tomorrow was the twenty-third of the month, and dates, Paavo had said, were indicated by quantity of milk. He'd said something odd about fractions…Oh, hell, 23 cups should do it. The location was
lemon
. The only other ingredient with numbers attached was eggs, so that must be the time: three in the morning. Now all she had to figure out was the kind of recipe: waffle, omelet, blintz, or pancake. She had no idea. Her panic
grew. Finally, she hit on one recipe that would at least catch Crane's attention. She wrote:

She handed the paper to Preston. As his gaze swept over the sheet, he lay his hand heavily on her shoulder, keeping her in place.

“Very simple, isn't it?” he said with a smirk. “By the way, you're not leaving.”

She remained motionless as he walked toward the door. “Have a good sleep now,” he said, nodding at her glass, and then left the room, locking the door behind him.

“What?” She looked at the glass and tried to stand. Her legs felt like rubber.

She stumbled toward the door. Numbness worked its way rapidly up her body. The door was locked and very solid. Her head felt light, and her breathing was labored. She slowly crossed the room to the windows. There was a sheer drop of at least four stories, as the house was built on a hill that sloped downward from the front to the back, with the backyard far below street level.

She put her face in her hands as she slipped to the floor. The lethargy coming over her dulled, at least a little bit, the fear of where she was…and what would happen to her…and when….

Angie gasped, squeezed
her eyes shut, and sat up, her hands flinging wildly about as she tried to ward off another drenching of the icy liquid on her face.

“Relax, it's only water.” The arch tones of Jon Preston broke through her haze.

She opened her eyes and saw her publisher standing over her, an empty glass in his hand.

Wiping the water from her face, she tried to stand, but her legs were too weak to support her. She squinted from the throbbing in her head and the lights in the room. “What have you done?” she whispered.

“You'll be all right. Stop being so dramatic. It's time to get up. We've got a date with a bird.”

She stared at him blankly.

“Crane, Angelina, you're going to meet Crane.”

“Crane? That's tomorrow night.”

“This is tomorrow night. Two
A.M.
, in fact. You've been sleeping like a zombie for over twenty-four hours.”

He's mad, she thought, quite mad.

“Look.” He handed her the
Bay Area Shopper
, then flipped it quickly to page eight. There, in print, was her column with her recipe—“Stork Waffles.” Preston wasn't lying. Slowly, she raised herself off the floor and onto the chair by the desk.

He pushed a mug in front of her. “I made you some strong coffee. You'll need to be alert tonight.”

As she drank it, the cloudiness of her mind slowly cleared, and the memory of yesterday's insanity came back to her.

Preston was planning to take her to meet Crane, of that she was sure. Paavo would be following Crane, she hoped, so he, too, would arrive at the rendezvous. If, however, Paavo had tried to reach her and hadn't been able to, he might have left Crane to go looking for her. Then, all would be lost.

She rubbed her hand over her face, trying to wipe away the fogginess.

“Let's go.” Preston stood.

She blinked hard and rose, gripping the edge of the desk. Her legs felt weak and ready to buckle. “Let me freshen up, at least.”

“There's a bathroom on this floor. You've got five minutes.”

No escape, she thought, there was nothing she could do now but go with him—and pray.

 

Steps and banisters, large oil paintings, and antiques flashed before Angie's eyes as Preston dragged her through his house. She stopped, face to face with a massive grandfather clock. It was two forty-five.

She heard the mellow sound of a foghorn on the bay as he led her at gunpoint out of the house to his car. Shivering, she sat quietly as he drove the few blocks to the entrance to the Broadway tunnel, a long cavern traversing Russian Hill from Polk Gulch to North Beach. The streets of the city were empty, and the fog was still heavy in the dark, moonless night. The dull drowsiness which had bothered Angie before was gone now. Every one of her nerves was alive and tense.

As Preston parked at the North Beach side of the tunnel entrance, Angie strained toward the nightclub sector of Broadway, hoping to see someone, anyone, who might help her. Only a couple of cold neon signs still blinked. The rest were darkened, as even Broadway seemed to slumber at this hour.

He got out of the car, hurried around to Angie's side, and pulled her out. “Come this way,” he ordered.

“Where are we going?” She tried to free her arm.

“Inside. We wouldn't want any curious souls to be hurt by mistake, now, would we?”

She followed him to the narrow walkway lining one side of the tunnel. As they went deeper into it, the tunnel curved slightly, and the night sky soon disappeared, leaving no light but a few dingy, yellow bulbs casting a jaundiced pall against the dirty tile walls. It seemed she had been here before, but her head still ached, and she couldn't quite remember….

“Isn't this far enough?” she asked. She felt like they had been walking forever.

Preston smiled, his too-perfect teeth throwing off a skeletal glow in the strange lighting. “I'm going to snare him, harpoon him like Ahab did the white whale. But I will be victorious!”

He held her arm, nearly dragging her as they continued deeper into the tunnel. With every step, her conviction that Paavo and the police would not be able to stop this madness grew.

Finally, Preston patted her arm and chuckled. “Our destination awaits you. The door straight ahead is a service entrance. This tunnel is lined with them. They provide easy access, and escape. We wouldn't want to be trapped here, now would we?”

“No,” she whispered, a sinking feeling striking her, “no, of course not.”

He pulled out his gun again. “On the other hand, you really need not be concerned with how to leave. You won't, you see.”

She felt cold, hopeless. “You killed George, didn't you?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity killed George Meyers. I just pulled the trigger. He was curious as to
why I took an interest in some putrid little recipes in a rather pitiful food column. Then, after your bomb blast and your telling him that Sam would no longer give you recipes, he began putting bits of information together—and questioning me, of all things! Well, that was that.”

Angie blanched.

Preston unlocked the small door tucked unobtrusively in the side of the tunnel, and Angie peered inside. A metal ladder went straight up to a manhole cover in the street high above. “It's amazing what a few dollars can buy,” Preston said, fingering the key he had just used before dropping it in his jacket pocket. “Face the North Beach entrance. I want Crane to recognize you.”

He stepped into the service area and pulled her arm back, pinning her against the outside of the door. He hid behind the door, out of danger, but still able to see what was happening. She was held securely by him, and his gun wasn't far away. Even though a couple of cars drove by, she knew they could give her no assistance.

“Why am I here?” she pleaded. “Why couldn't you wait for Crane alone?”

“You know too much. I can't have any loose ends. Crane now knows you figured out his code, so he'll be coming to get rid of you. I'll let him. I wouldn't want to have to hurt you myself, Angelina. I've always been quite fond of you, you see. I even tried to save you.

“The gunman I hired knew you saw him in the park when he killed Sammy Blade. When I heard he sent you the bomb, I forced him to stop. I
persuaded him to scare you away with the car chase and dead pigeon. He wasn't satisfied, though. I told him about your cousin's big society wedding so that he'd go to your apartment and remove Edward Crane's recipes, but it seems he also used it as an opportunity to send you some poison champagne. You were lucky, but smart enough to run. Next thing I knew, I was so surprised to get your column from Bodega. I must have mentioned it to him…inadvertently, of course.”

Of course!
The sound of his voice made her flesh clammy.

“Once Crane is through with you,” Preston continued, “he, too, will die. I'll simply walk up the stairs and go home, finally free of him!”

“Free? What do you mean?”

“What I mean is, he's a greedy little bastard! I told him we had to stop, but he refused. No one defies me.”

“Stop what?”

“The automatics, the AK-47's, the Uzis, of course.”

“Guns?”

“What else? At first, it was all so simple, you see. I've got a yacht. In a way, it's too bad you'll never see it, you would have appreciated it. Well, naturally, the Coast Guard wouldn't dream of searching a Preston yacht, so it was child's play to bring the guns into the country. Crane had connections with four groups with unlimited needs and money. A bizarre twist of fate actually made Crane and me a rather perfect team.”

“And then?”

“Well, then I guess you'd say Crane's luck began to run out. You see, I was quite clever. I set this up so Crane and I both had people we could hide behind while I pulled all the strings. Mine was George Meyers and Crane's was Sammy Blade. Blade was just a go-between, to bring you recipes that were codes to announce a ‘sales' meeting with one of Crane's four groups. Unfortunately, Blade had a police record and ties with one of the less savory groups to whom Crane sold the guns. The police started looking at him far too closely, and, even though he didn't know much about the meaning of the packages he delivered, he became increasingly nervous. I could not depend on the arrangement to last forever.”

Preston sighed wearily before continuing. “It all became so very messy I decided to simply rid myself of Blade and Crane. I hired a supposedly reputable assassin to do it.” Preston snorted. “He wasn't very good, as it turned out.”

Angie felt sickened by everything she had heard. The man talked about murder as dispassionately as if he were discussing having his suits dry-cleaned. Still, she needed to know more. “So you wanted Crane dead because you were afraid Blade would lead the police to Crane, and Crane would lead them to you?”

“Exactly. And it almost happened. A homicide detective came across a connection between Blade and Crane in the Tenderloin.”

“You killed Matt!” She spat out the words, anguish filling every one of them.

“The assassin pulled the trigger. At least he didn't botch that job! Ah, it's three o'clock. Crane is always meticulously punctual. Face the entrance. He should be here any moment.”

They waited in silence. Before long, a car entered the tunnel. The roar of the engine grew louder and louder as it approached. Preston's grip tightened on her arm as she tried to step back into the service area, but he held her in place. The headlights came closer. Her body slumped, and her breathing practically stopped. When the car reached her, she put her hand to her face and cried out. The car sped by, not slowing its pace in the slightest.

She lowered her hands. Her body was quaking so much she could barely stand. Spots danced before her eys.

Another car approached. She was numb, unable to feel or react as she stood, mesmerized by the headlights that neared her. At the last moment, again, she cried out, but that car didn't stop either.

Tears rolled down her face. “Don't do this, Mr. Preston, please.”

She heard her voice as if from a great distance, hysteria close to the surface, her tears falling as she stood there, trapped.

The sound of a car engine caught her attention. It revved high and fast, then slowed. That was when she knew it was Crane. The other cars had come through at an even clip, but this one hesitated and then sped up, as if searching for something, or someone. Her body tensed to a
snapping point, as Preston's grip tightened, holding her in front of him.

The car stopped, the headlights went off, and the car door swung open. Then, slowly, Crane stepped out and began walking toward her. In the yellowed dimness of the tunnel's light she could see his ashen face as he approached. “Miss Amalfi.” His high whining voice pierced the night air. “You called?”

She saw the revolver in his hand.

“Don't!” she screamed, panic overtaking her as she raised her free arm over her face, while trying desperately to break Preston's hold. The roar of another car speeding into the tunnel filled the cavern. Crane's eyes flickered with confusion, and he hesitated, unsure what was happening.

The Austin Healey screeched to a halt beside Crane, and Paavo was out of the car in a moment, his gun pointed. “Drop it, Crane. Police.”

Crane let his gun fall to the ground as soon as he heard the word
police
. “This must be a mistake, Officer, I haven't done a thing,” he said, ready to say more until he recognized Paavo. Then he stopped talking.

Paavo took a step toward him, glancing at Angie. “I hope you know what you're doing,” he said to her. Then his eyes narrowed slightly as he looked again at her pale face and the unnatural way she was standing.

Preston held her so tightly, she couldn't move. Her eyes smarted from the pain. She prayed he'd run up the stairs away from here to escape and leave her and the rest of them alone. She waited,
her every nerve attuned to Preston's slightest move. She was afraid to cry out, afraid any sound might cause Preston to start shooting. Instead, she tried to give Paavo a warning with her eyes.

Paavo was backing up, having recognized that something was very wrong, when Angie felt Preston make his move. As he opened the service door a crack wider, she realized the unarmed Crane was no threat to him, that it was Paavo he would be after.

“Run!” she screamed, wrenching herself free from Preston's grasp and stumbling, falling, as she ran toward Paavo. Preston's shot rang out. Paavo dived to the floor—too late.

Angie screamed as she saw the bullet hit him. She stood, unbelieving, the scream and the gunshot blast reverberated, through the tunnel, over and over.

The force of the bullet spun Paavo so that he lay on his back, his eyes shut and his face deathly white as his shirt and jacket turned blood red.

“No!” The anguished cry tore from her as she ran blindly to his side, dropped to her knees, and flung herself across him, her arms spread wide, desperately trying to shelter his body with her own, expecting, fearing, more shots from Preston's gun.

Behind her, she heard the sound of running footsteps, the revving of a car engine, the squeal of tires, and then more gunshots, shouts, and cries. She turned her head to see Preston shooting at Crane's departing car, and the car swerving wildly as it made its way to the exit.

Paavo's gun was inches away, where it had dropped as he'd fallen. Her eyes darted from Preston to the gun. She crawled to it, picked it up, and then backed up so that her body was between Paavo and Jon Preston. She raised the gun, holding it firmly with both hands straight out in front of her.

As Crane's car disappeared from the tunnel, Preston turned around slowly, his compressed lips thin and white, his eyes red with insane fury. He sneered at her holding the gun, kneeling on the ground beside the fallen policeman. Then a smile spread across his face. “You wouldn't have the nerve.” He smirked as he raised his gun to take careful aim at Angie.