Something's Cooking (8 page)

Paavo reread the
lab report on the champagne: a quality bubbly with a lethal dose of arsenic.

He ran his fingers through his hair. It didn't make any sense. The more he got to know Angie, the more he saw that her life revolved around her family and a few friends. She didn't seem to know anything that could make a person particularly angry at her, let alone want to kill her. She was slowly driving him crazy.

She was friendly and warm, devoted to her family, and fearless in protecting her loved ones.

On the other hand, she knew how to bat her eyes and get a man to jump through hoops for her.

She was trusting; she was mouthy.

She was thoughtful; she was stubborn.

Most of all, thoughts of her kept him awake at night.

He wished he had never heard of her. Yet, around her, he felt more alive than he had in years.

Paavo stood up from his desk, slipped his fingers into his back pockets, and walked to the window that overlooked the gray, concrete freeway. He'd find out who wanted to harm her, arrest him, and then close the file and go back to his life, just as it had been before Ms. Society Belle made it all into a big muddle. Go back to the world he belonged in, where he faced no temptation of anything so far beyond his reach. Such temptation was the true road to Hell.

He'd thoroughly checked out her family. If he were the IRS, he might see a problem, but as a cop, he didn't.

He'd checked out her job. The
Shopper
's sole purpose was to serve as an excuse to publish advertisements. Jon Preston was a name-dropping snob who seemed to think being a small-time publisher made him important. George Meyers looked as if he was just this side of a nervous breakdown. There were a couple of other columnists, one who did travel and one for finances. They worked the way Angie did: they faxed in their columns, showed up at the paper once in a while, and held the jobs strictly for the pleasure of seeing their words and names in print, not for the tiny remuneration received. The other employees were typists or telephone salespeople who seemed to know Angie by sight, but no more. He saw nothing crooked in the operation.

Angie's last three magazine articles had all con
sisted of complimentary reviews of restaurants in San Francisco. And she hadn't started her next one yet.

Her historical research? So far, original research was nonexistent.

This case was slowly driving him as batty as George Meyers.

“You must be thinking about her again, Paavo,” Matt said with a wink as he walked to his desk and dropped a load of papers on it.

Paavo looked up. “Who?”

Matt folded his arms and sat on the corner of his desk facing Paavo. “Who, he asks! Who you think you're kidding? I know lovesick when I see it.”

Paavo began to leaf through a memo. “I don't know what the hell you're yapping about now, Kowalski.”

Matt chuckled. “What else? I'm talking about the girl of Ptomaine Tommy's dreams. The queen of the greasy spoon. Your girlfriend, the one, the only—”

“Stuff it!”

Matt lifted an eyebrow. “You care about her that much, do you?”

Paavo frowned. “Hell, I'm not even sure I
like
her.”

Matt gave him a long look. “We should talk, pal. This sounds serious.”

Paavo shook his head, a wry smile on his lips. Matt could always read him like a book.

“Come over Wednesday night. Katie's going out with the girls, and you can help me with
Micky. That'll let you know what you're in for if this gets
really
serious.”

The phone on Paavo's desk buzzed, and he lunged for it, glad for the distraction. “Come in to my office, please. And bring Inspector Kowalski with you.”

Paavo and Matt looked at each other with raised eyebrows. It
sounded
like Chief Hollins, but it couldn't have been. That man was never so polite to his own mother.

Paavo and Matt put on their jackets and went into Hollins's office.

“Ralph Sanchez and Don Klee, Treasury. Inspectors Smith and Kowalski,” Hollins said. The four shook hands.

“These gentlemen,” Hollins told Paavo and Matt, “work for Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. They've been watching a man called Samuel Greenberg, but Mr. Greenberg disappeared. A week ago, they ran a routine fingerprint search and learned their suspect had been murdered. His name is Samuel Jerome Kinsley. You know him as Sammy Blade.”

“What were you watching him for?” Matt asked.

“Gun smuggling,” Klee said. “Automatics.”

Paavo looked from one man to the other. “Sammy Blade was no gun smuggler.”

“True,” Sanchez replied. “But there are a few groups the FBI's been watching in this area—white supremacists to black brotherhoods and every nut case in between. A lot of Uzis and AK-47's have been showing up lately, and it's got
the FBI real worried. A few of the trails of these groups cross with those of Samuel Greenberg, or Blade. Too many for coincidence. We'd like to see your files on the Blade case.”

 

“Miss Amalfi?” The thin, older woman rapped against the open door of the den.

Angie turned around in her chair. “All finished, Mrs. Clark?”

“Good as new.”

Angie searched for her purse then paid the housekeeper. She thanked her for coming to clean up on such short notice. While Mrs. Clark was putting the apartment back in order, Angie had done the same with her papers and disks. Paavo had been right; it wasn't as difficult to put back together as she had feared. She'd spent the morning concentrating on her disks and papers, without letting any other thoughts intrude upon her work.

Mrs. Clark stepped toward Joey, supine on the sofa. “It was so nice to meet you, too, Mr. Butz. A widow, like myself, quickly learns to recognize quality in a man…. I do hope we meet again.”

Joey opened one eye. “Charmed, I'm sure.”

Mrs. Clark beamed as she turned toward the door. “Such a nice man! Do call me any time, Miss Amalfi. I can always find time for you.”

Angie held open the door as Mrs. Clark left and then fastened the deadbolt once again. She looked at Joey, undershirt tight over bulging stomach, wrinkled brown slacks held up by sus
penders, shoes off. She shook her head in amazement.

“Nice lady,” she said as she sat on the Hepplewhite.

“Reminds me of Olive Oyl,” he mumbled.

She turned her attention to the T.V., but in no time her thoughts wandered to Paavo, and her mind replayed again how good it had felt to be held by him, the gentle touch of his hands, his words of comfort…and the way he had abruptly turned away from her.

She sighed and went into the kitchen to make some
rispedi
for Rico and Joey—a good old Italian recipe from Serefina—but with a new twist. Instead of working for hours making dough, watching the yeast rise, kneading it down, and so on, she had bought frozen bread dough and thawed it. It had grown to about double its original size, so she pulled off a piece, twisted it around a dried red chili pepper, then deep fried the whole thing to a golden, bar-shaped puff. She could see her diet-conscious friends swooning at the mere thought of these little gems.

She'd just brought a plate of fresh-made
rispedi
to Joey and sat down to eat a couple with him when someone knocked on the door.

Angie stood.

Joey went to the door. “Who's there?”

“My name is Bill, sir,” a youthful voice answered. “I need to see Miss Amalfi.”

Angie looked at Joey and shook her head. She knew no one named Bill with that voice.

“What's your business?” Joey asked.

“Messenger, sir,
Bay Area Shopper
. I've come for Miss Amalfi's column.”

“Oh my God!” Angie cried. “‘Eggs and Egg-onomics.' George threatened to send someone after it if he didn't get a column from me. But I still forgot to send it. Let him in, please.”

The young fellow seemed to be nothing but a pair of eyes as he entered the apartment, staring first at Joey and then at Joey's gun, exposed in his shoulder holster.

“What a surprise,” Angie said to Joey. “I didn't think the editor would care if my column never appeared again. Then, to actually send someone to save me the trouble of faxing it! I can hardly believe it!”

She rummaged through her papers. She had an extra column that she had written some time ago, in case of emergency. This qualified. There it was, an ode to squash and sensitivity, plus the interpersonal meaning of asparagus. She needed only to include one of Edward Crane's recipes, as George had asked her to do, and the column would be ready for publication. But where were the recipes?

She had tossed the large manila envelope Crane had given her on her desk top, but with the break-in last night, everything had been moved. She looked all through the desk. The envelope wasn't there.

Tapping her fingertip against her chin, she looked around the room. Where had she put it? She looked on shelves and in the closet. Nothing.

The recipes couldn't have disappeared.

She walked slowly back to the living room, trying to imagine where else she might have put them.

“Is anything wrong, ma'am?” asked Bill.

“No…no, not really. Joey, did you see a large manila envelope laying about?”

“A large what?” His eyes squinted slightly.

“Nothing.”

She looked in the kitchen and bedroom with no luck. Mrs. Clark wouldn't have left it there anyway, but she might have brought it into the den.

She returned to the den for one last search, but to no avail. The envelope was gone. In fact, the only thing that seemed to be missing since the burglary were Edward Crane's recipes.

She had to call Paavo, but first she needed to get rid of Bill.

She started up her computer.

(Yech!)

She picked up the recipe, entitled it “The P.S. Special”
(take that, Inspector Smith!)
, stapled it to her column, and brought them to the patiently waiting messenger, who was standing transfixed in the presence of Joey's gun.

“Here you go, Bill.” Angie handed him the papers.

“Thank you, Miss Amalfi.” He held them tightly in both hands and bolted out the door.

As soon as he had left, Angie ran to the phone and dialed the number Paavo had left her. He was no longer at the station. It was supposed to be his day off, though she couldn't imagine him taking two days off in a row. Being an inspector seemed to be his whole life.

She hung up, sulking and feeling abandoned. How could he take a day off the day after she had been burglarized? She had expected him to be down at the lab, looking for fingerprints or something.

The ring of the telephone made her jump. She picked it up.

“This is Smith,” was his stern answer to her friendly hello.

“I thought you had the day off,” she replied. Two could play at this icicle game.

“What's wrong?”

“You're not busy?”

“I thought you were in trouble.”

Suddenly, she wasn't sure. “Well, yes. I mean, no, not at the moment.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“I don't know.”

“Want to call back when you do?”

“So you are busy. I should have guessed.”

“It's just the laundry.”

“Laundry! Terrific! I'm here worried about my life and instead of going out investigating you're sitting safely in your house washing your Fruit of the Loom!”

She heard him give a slight cough. “All right, Angie, what happened today?”

Suddenly, her irritation disappeared, and her voice was tiny, frightened. “Paavo, they're gone! The recipes!”

“What recipes?”

“The last two.”

“Last two?”

“I told you about them. George insisted I use them, but Preston didn't think I should. I didn't think so either, because I didn't like him.”

“Didn't like who?”

She clutched the receiver more tightly and nearly shouted into it, “Edward Crane—the man with the blue head.”

“Blue head?”

“His head was shaved. He's one of the biggest fans of ‘Eggs and Egg-onomics.'”

“Ah.”

“No, that's not why he's got a blue head. Paavo, I can't find his recipes!”

“Angie, calm down. Start at the beginning.”

He listened carefully as she told him about her failed search for the recipes.

“And all that's missing after the burglary are those recipes?” he asked.

“That's what I've been trying to tell you!”

“I'm having a check run on the name Edward G. Crane, but so far we've turned up nothing. Do you know where I can reach this guy?”

“I have no idea.”

“This whole thing is nuts.”

“No, waffles.”

“I think I'd better come right over.”

Angie wondered what
it meant when a man was willing to leave his clothes in the rinse cycle to come to see you. Now that he was on his way, what would she tell him? She felt like a fool. What if Crane's recipes had been thrown away by mistake?

She turned the apartment upside down looking for them, even checking through the trash. Nothing.

A loud knock sounded on the door. Why did cops always knock as if they've come to arrest you on a morals charge? She hovered near the door as Joey opened it.

“Good afternoon,” Paavo said as he entered the room. Joey greeted him and then returned to football highlights.

Angie stood with her mouth agape. The inspector was dressed in light-blue jeans, desert
boots, and a khaki bush jacket hanging open over a gray wool sweater.

“Your clothes!” She choked out the words.

He looked down. “I'm off duty.”

Off duty. Maybe he did have a life beyond policing?

He tossed his jacket over the Hepplewhite. The vertical ribbing on the gray sweater skimmed his chest, outlining his broad, firm muscles.

She led him to the wingback chairs. “Coffee or beer?”

“Since I'm off duty, make it a beer.”

She returned from the kitchen and sat across from him, wringing her hands.

He took a swallow. “Tell me what's going on, but slowly.”

“Maybe I'm just acting foolishly. This whole thing has me so crazy I'm seeing skeletons in every closet. I'm afraid I disrupted your day off for no good reason.” Downcast, she continued quietly. “I really have nothing to add to what I said on the phone. Maybe Edward Crane's recipes got thrown away. No one would steal marshmallow and bean sprout blintzes or peanut butter omelet recipes. Even after a week of Slim-Fast they wouldn't look good.”

For a moment he said nothing but simply looked at her. Then he said softly, “Angie, if you ever lost your sense of humor, the world should cry.”

The words traveled straight to her heart. She looked at him quizzically, uncertain that he could have meant anything so sweet.

“Let's start with your blue-headed fan. As I understand it, he now brings you some other man's recipes.”

“Yes, Sam's—who calls himself Waffles—except Crane claims they were always his recipes.”

“So this…Crane…is saying Waffles is a plagiarist?” His serious voice was belied by the sparkle in his eyes.

She sighed, trying to ignore his skepticism. “I guess so.”

“And what does Waffles say about this accusation?”

“I don't know. I was going to meet him, but he didn't show up, and I haven't heard from him since.”

“Where'd he go?”

“Crane said Waffles got a job in Carmel.”

“As a cook?”

“Who knows? Maybe he ran off to a love nest with Julia Child.”

“Take it easy, Angie.” He rubbed his temple while she fretted. “Okay, now, Waffles was supposed to meet you but he didn't show, right?”

She nodded.

“But instead he goes off to a ritzy beach resort.”

“Correct.”

“Do you remember when all this took place?”

“That's easy. It was the day the bomb was delivered. I forgot all about Sam in the aftermath, until Edward Crane showed up and told me what had happened.”

Paavo leaned forward in the chair. The look on
his face stopped her from saying more. “Waffles. You said his name was Sam Martin?”

“That's right.”

He frowned. “Were you going to meet him here?”

“No. I never invite strangers to my home. I was going to meet him at the park two blocks away.”

The only sign that Paavo was stirred was that he began to pace. “Tell me about this Sam Martin.” Angie followed his steps back and forth.

“I don't know much. He said he used to be a cook on a freighter. All I know is he's a really sweet man, late sixties or so, very slight, with dyed-black hair.”

His step faltered. “You planned to meet him on Sunday. What time?”

“We were supposed to meet at noon. I waited until after one o'clock, then came home. Why? You don't think Sam had anything to do with the bomb, do you? I mean, my God, no. He couldn't. I'd never believe that.” She stared at him, waiting.

He ran his hand through his hair, and his piercing blue eyes captured her gaze. She was accustomed to brown eyes. Her whole family had brown eyes. Being studied so intently by such large, pale, blue ones was disconcerting, as if he could see more deeply, learn more about her than she might want to reveal.

He shook his head. “It's too improbable.”

He had all her attention now.

“That Sunday, as you waited, did you pass anyone or see anyone in the park or near it?”

“I didn't pay any attention.”

He sat and reached across the small space that separated them to take her hands in his.

“Think, Angie. Shut your eyes. Really shut them. That's good. Now picture what I say….

“Go back to that morning. It was a sunny morning. Indian summer. Think of what you were wearing. Your dress. Did you wear a coat? Which shoes? You were doing a lot of walking. You had to walk up to the top of Vallejo Street, then descend those narrow steps down to the park. They're steep. Very steep. You wouldn't want to have to get off the stairs if someone were going up or down them, now would you? No. If you passed someone, you or he would have to move over. You'd probably look down, at your shoes, to be sure you didn't trip. Can you see it? Can you see yourself stepping aside, waiting for someone to pass you? A man, perhaps, approaching you, and you wondering which of you would yield. Maybe he interrupted your thoughts. Maybe you were thinking about your food column, or the view…the blue sky, Coit Tower—”

“No!” She opened her eyes and looked at him, blinking. “No. You've got it backwards. I remember now. That day, I got ready early. I'm usually never early for anything, but it was such a warm morning I decided to go down to North Beach for some espresso and croissants for breakfast. I walked back to the park from the opposite direction. Well, the opposite way from where I usually come.

“And I was nearly trampled by a man running
down the steps, away from the park. He seemed startled and looked at me as if he'd seen a ghost. His whole reaction amused me. He didn't stop, and I continued on.”

Paavo rubbed his chin. “I wonder if that's it? It must be.” He snapped his fingers. “It's got to be.”

“What?”

“Describe the man to me.”

“Describe him?” She tried to remember. “Dark hair? I'm pretty sure. But the style? I don't know. I didn't pay any attention. He seemed kind of average. Not too tall. I guess he wasn't good-looking or I'd remember.” She tried to smile but didn't succeed.

“Come on.” He pulled her to her feet. “Grab a jacket.”

She jerked her hand free. “Why? Where are we going?” An icy chill came over her.

“The station. Homicide. I want you to look at some pictures.”

“Homicide?” Her voice was a whisper. She felt as if all the blood had drained from her face.

“That's where I work, remember? I told you I was investigating a case when I got a call—twice, in fact—to come over here. Last Sunday afternoon, around the time the bomb went off, a man's body was found in that park.”

“The man I saw?”

“No. It might…” He met her gaze. “The description matches that of your friend Waffles.”

His words made no sense to her. “No, Paavo,” she said firmly. “Waffles is a nice gentleman. He doesn't even have much money. I used to give
him twenty dollars for his recipes. No one would murder him.”

“Maybe that's the missing ingredient.”

“The what?”

“Let's go.”

“No!” She shook her head, backing away from him. “I'm not leaving this apartment.”

“Listen to me.” Paavo stepped toward her, taking her arms. “You can't hide here the rest of your life. Come with me and we'll try to get this solved and over with.”

Her fingers tightened on the sleeves of his sweater. “Paavo, you're saying there's a murderer after me, that's what you're saying! Someone who killed a sweet little man, and now—”

“Yes.” His eyes held her rigid.

“The champagne, the sample you took, you haven't told me if it had been…”

He nodded.

“No!”

His grip tightened. “That's why we've got to act to stop this as soon as we can.”

She pulled back from him. “I can't!”

He moved closer to her and slid his hands up to her shoulders. She bowed her head, feeling her body sway toward him, wanting to lean on him, wanting him to make her feel safe the way he did yesterday. But instead, he dropped his hands and stood very straight. “Miss Amalfi, I'll be with you. The police will be watching you. Believe me, it's safer to cooperate.”

The sudden coldness in his voice, this business of being a detective, was more than she could
bear. “Cooperate! What do you think I've been doing? You think I like this? Living this way? Being afraid, alone? You might want to live this way, but I don't!”

She saw color darken his cheeks. His jaw stiffened. “Miss Amalfi, to cooperate—”

“My friend Sam was killed and someone's after me, and all you can talk about is for me to cooperate? Who do you think you are, Eliot Ness?”

He paused for a moment. “I'm a police inspector, Miss Amalfi.”

“Angie! My name is Angie!” Tears stung her eyes.

“Angie,” he whispered.

He said her name softly, almost like a caress. Her heart lurched. She studied his thin face, the lines of world-weariness at the corners of his eyes, the firm, determined set of his jaw. If she were to see this thing out to its end, whatever that might be, she would have to trust this man with her life. She knew she wasn't brave, but maybe she could try to be.

She nodded and turned to get her coat.