Something's Cooking (9 page)

“
Back again, Paav?
I thought this was your day off.”

Paavo glanced at Benson, a first-year inspector who sat on the top of a desk, one foot on the ground, the other dangling in midair. Although he spoke to Paavo, his eyes lingered on Angie's petite body, nicely wrapped in a blousy, cream-colored jacket and matching slacks. Paavo realized he never much liked Benson.

Chief Hollins spared Paavo the trouble of answering. “Smith never takes days off. Didn't you learn that yet, meatball?” The chief was bent double over some reports spread out on a table. The top of his head, his wide nose, and a cigar that rolled from one side of his mouth to the other were all that was visible.

“We may have a break in the Sammy Blade murder,” Paavo said as he situated himself be
tween Angie and Benson's line of ogling. “Where's Matt?”

“Dunno. It's his day off, too, remember? I thought you was going to watch his kid?”

“It's next weekend that he and Katie are going away.”

The gruff-voiced police chief looked up and, spotting Angie, stood upright, still gnawing his cigar as he studied her through squinty eyes. “Kid's got bad taste, wanting to stay with you, Smith, 'stead of going to Vegas. Anyway, what you got?”

Paavo introduced Angie, and Hollins led them into his office. He quickly told Hollins about Waffles, Crane, and the recipes. Hollins's already pained expression grew worse as the story continued. He removed his cigar and looked slowly from one to the other before speaking. “Could be what you say, Smith. Maybe not. Don't make much sense. But remember, looks like you got guns involved. Plenty of money there. Makes men real mean.”

Angie flinched. Paavo shot her a quick glance. “I know. That's why we've got to find Blade's killer.”

Hollins continued, “No reason to expect whoever's behind this to give up, you know.”

Angie looked even paler, and Paavo felt ready to strangle the man, if that's what it would take to shut him up.

Hollins inhaled his cigar again and let the smoke out slowly, forming big O's in the air. “Bet
ter cooperate, little lady. Only way to save your neck.”

“So I've heard.”

Paavo stood and helped her to her feet, cupping her elbow. “Excuse us, Chief. I'm going to have Miss Amalfi look at some mug shots.”

“Fine. Matt said he might stop by later. He's got a lead on the gun angle. I told him don't do nothing until tomorrow, with you. I don't want you guys going off alone on this thing.”

Paavo stopped in the doorway. “A lead? Did he say what it was?”

“Not a word.”

“Interesting. Would you ask him to call me if he shows up?”

“What am I? A goddamned girl Friday or something?”

“I'll leave him a note.”

Paavo brought Angie to a dingy interview room with a wooden table and two chairs. A minute later, Officer Rebecca Mayfield appeared in the doorway, a stack of albums in her arms. She didn't take her eyes off Angie.

“Let me help you.” Paavo reached for the albums.

“No need.” Her tone was icy as she walked to the table and plopped the albums on top of it. Continuing around the table so that she stood behind Angie's back, she gave Paavo a look that could kill. When he narrowed his eyes, she lifted her chin, marched out the door, and slammed it shut behind her.

Angie looked from the door to Paavo and back
again but refrained from making a comment. He didn't look like he'd have much of a sense of humor at the moment.

Paavo placed his palm on top of the albums. “Look at the pictures here carefully, one at a time. Really study them, because I want you to look for two people: Edward Crane and the man that was on the steps. If you see either man, or anyone with a close resemblance, let me know.”

“Crane's no problem, but the other man, I told you, I can't remember.”

“You might. Look at the pictures. Want coffee?”

She shook her head and turned to the mug shots, but Paavo put his hand on them. She looked up at him.

“One more thing.” He sat on the edge of the table and handed her the picture he had kept separate from the rest.

It was a morgue shot of Sammy Blade.

“Oh, my God!” She threw the photo down on the table and jumped back, wiping her hand frantically against her slacks. “That's Sam,” she whispered, every hint of color drained from her face.

“It's Sammy Blade, Angie, a two-bit crook way over his head with some guys who deal in guns. Matt and I were trying to find out about Blade and stumbled right into a federal investigation of a lot of automatic weapons that have been illegally hitting these shores. We're not positive Blade was involved, but it's as good an explanation as any for his sudden unpopularity. Men involved in these things never do last long.”

“I can't believe it.”

“By the way, when he was in prison, he usually asked for kitchen duty.”

She sat down stiffly in the chair, her hands shaking. “May I look at these mug shots now?”

 

Two hours later she had gone through not only all the albums in the first pile brought to her but another half dozen as well.

“How are you doing?” Paavo stuck his head in the doorway.

“I don't think I could recognize my own mother.”

“We'll try another time.”

“I didn't see Crane, but the other man I don't remember. I wish I did, but I don't.” She stood and rubbed the back of her neck.

“But you do remember that he looked startled. That means the memory of his face is in that head of yours. We just have to find a way to trigger it.”

“I don't know.”

“I'll take you home now.” He led her through the outer office and past the good-byes and raised eyebrows of his fellow officers.

 

They emerged in the late afternoon sunshine. San Francisco was putting on its usual October display of sunny, warm weather. Winter was rainy, summer was foggy, and spring was windy. Fall was perfect.

Angie stood at the top of the gray granite steps
of the Hall of Justice and looked at the sky. Paavo proceeded two steps ahead of her and then turned and waited.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It's so beautiful out. I hate the idea of going back to the waiting, for I don't even know what. Back to being scared and bored at the same time, I guess.” She tilted her head toward the brilliant blue sky. “I wish I could just fade into the day, to go where I want, when I want, do all the things I'd always taken for granted.”

“You will again.”

She looked into his eyes. “I heard what Chief Hollins said.”

Something about the way she looked at him at that moment made him want to wrestle away the ugliness that had entered her world. Strangely, she made him feel as if he could do it. She made him feel as if he could do anything he set his mind to. He could almost hear Rebecca laughing cynically at his weakness.

But at this moment, he didn't care about Rebecca's warning, or even that of his own conscience, reminding him not to become involved with a woman so completely out of his league. He wanted to be with her a little while longer, to bask in the sunshine with her. Tomorrow, he'd be practical again.

He held out his hand. “Let's go for a ride. We'll look at the city. Forget about all this, for a while, at least.” For a second she didn't move, and then in a move of utter trust, she placed her hand in his. They continued down the steps toward his
car. It was an old sports car, an Austin Healey. In deference to the good weather and Angie's low spirits, he took a minute to wrestle down the canvas top.

“That's heavenly.” She shut her eyes and leaned her head against the head rest, feeling the sun on her face.

His chest constricted as he looked at how vulnerable she was, how readily she had placed herself in his power. “Yes,” he whispered, wanting to warn her not to trust so easily—not to trust anyone, not even him.

She opened one eye to see him watching her rather than the sky. “Yes, Miss Amalfi,” she corrected him pertly.

He grinned as he pulled out of the parking space into the stream of traffic.

“Any place in particular you'd like to go?”

“There is, in fact. You said you grew up in the Mission district. I'm not very familiar with it. What if we went there? You could show me Mission Street, Mission Dolores, Mission High. Even the Paavo Smith ancestral home. How's that?”

“That's easy enough to arrange.” He took a left turn. A shadow fluttered across his sharply delineated features. “Except for the latter. There is no Paavo Smith family. Just me.”

“Oh? And you sprang full-blown from the air? A regular miracle?”

“Maybe so, Miss Amalfi.”

They rode down Mission Street, once the heart of the finest neighborhood in San Francisco. Over the years, though, as the houses grew older,
the area had deteriorated into inner city shabbiness. Now, it was a mostly Latin American neighborhood. Mexican groceries, restaurants, and people filled the street.

“
Se habla español
, Paavo?”

“
Si
. I had to survive.”

“What else did you have to do to survive?”

A slow grin formed on his mouth. “Plenty.”

He stopped the car. “Have you been inside Mission Dolores?”

“Never. Of course, the nuns at school told us how Father Junipero Serra built his missions all along Highway 1 in California. I thought that was awfully considerate. It made it easy for tourists to visit.”

He wrinkled his mouth. “Funny. Want to go in?”

She pulled a scarf out of her jacket pocket. Living in San Francisco, she was always ready for a change for the worse in the weather. She saw his surprise as she put the scarf on her head.

“My mother taught me the old way of being a Roman Catholic. I even say my prayers in Latin:
Pater noster qui es in caelis, Sanctificetur nomen tuum….
”

“You'll like the mission. You can almost hear the first padres still at work.”

They entered the nave. Angie placed two fingers in the holy water and made the sign of the cross. Paavo hung back, but she felt him watching her as she walked along the far side of the pews to a small alcove with a statue of Mary and a rack of candles in front of it. She put a dollar in the box
and lit two candles, then knelt before the statue and bowed her head in prayer. A short while later, she walked toward the altar, genuflected while making the sign of the cross again, and sat in a pew.

She took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of the church and letting its tranquility settle over her. All old Catholic churches had a similar smell, a combination of the wax used to keep the pews and floors glistening, incense, flowers, and burning candles. The familiarity of the scent reminded her of when she was a little girl. She looked at the statues, the peaceful expressions on their faces, and tried to absorb the hope they offered.

She glanced surreptitiously behind her. Paavo leaned against a wall watching her, one foot crossed over the other. Policemen must have enormous patience.

He was an intriguing man. She'd seen flashes of warmth and wondered if there wasn't much more carefully hidden behind that cold, reserved veneer. She had seen a hint of his life today, but his parents and background remained mysteries.

Maybe all she felt toward him was curiosity. But even as she considered this, she knew it wasn't true. She knew that deep within her she felt a strange affinity with Paavo Smith which disturbed her as much as it intrigued her. She glanced up at the statue of the Virgin Mary. There were times when she could swear she could read his mind, even though they barely seemed to speak the same language. Still, whenever she seemed to get at all close to the man,
Inspector Smith appeared, putting a quick stop to it.

She shook her head in disgust for thinking about some man while sitting in church. Sister Mary Ignatius would turn in her grave.

Angie stood and walked to the aisle. Before turning to leave, she gazed once more at the statue of Mary. Her candles burned brightly. “Someday, I'll return, Holy Mother,” she whispered. “I promise.”

 

“Where to now?” she asked as they climbed back into Paavo's battered sports car.

He looked thoughtful. “I don't have a family home, as I said. But there's someone you might enjoy meeting. And I'm overdue for a visit. It's been a few weeks.”

He was soon driving on Mission Street, heading south.

“Who is he?” Angie asked.

“His name is Aulis Kokkonen. He's Finnish—the one responsible for the name Paavo. He raised me and my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Had. She's dead.”

He said the words so quietly Angie hardly heard him. It took a moment for their meaning to hit her. “I'm so sorry,” she said as she thought of how cavalierly she had paraded her own sisters before him.

“It was a long time ago, Angie. She was feisty,
little, kind of like you. In temperament. Not in looks.”

She waited and then broke the silence. “What happened to her?”

He shrugged. “An accident.” His tone didn't invite further questioning.

He turned off Mission, and two blocks later the car stopped in front of a white building, large enough to house three or four apartments. Paavo didn't go up the stairs to the front entry. Instead, he walked along the side, between the garage and the neighboring house. Just past the garage was a door. He knocked.

After a short while the door opened. A frail-looking old man with snowy white hair, a beard, and eyes the color of Indian turquoise peered cautiously from the doorway. When he saw his visitors, his face broke into a huge smile. “Paavo, my boy, good to see you. Come in, come in.”

He reached out and grasped Paavo's arm with a firm grip, despite the pale thinness of his hand. Then he looked in Angie's direction and squinted. “A young lady, too. Good.” He shuffled back into the room after Paavo made the introductions.