Too Many Cooks (25 page)

Paavo had to admit to more
than a little trepidation as he knocked on the door of Angie's apartment. For sure, she'd be angry after the way he'd treated her the day before in Berkeley. Being unable to arrest Axel Klaw put him in no mood to be civil with anyone, and he'd taken his frustration and anger out on her. He'd lost control, badly.

The Berkeley PD put Klaw under twenty-four-hour surveillance and the search warrant for Klaw's studio was finally approved, but the BPD would handle it. They'd look into Sheila Danning's murder as well. Hollins ordered Paavo to let them take the lead if they wanted it, since Klaw's studio was in their jurisdiction. He would. But he'd be looking over their shoulder.

He still wasn't sure how his gun duel would have played out had he and Klaw not been interrupted. A stupid stunt, yet holding that gun on Klaw had felt good. He almost hated to admit to himself just how good, especially since a part of him suspected that if
they hadn't been stopped, they might easily have killed each other. Hell, they might still.

All the more reason, he thought, to apologize to Angie. That was the only reason he'd come here this evening, to apologize. It was only natural to shower and wear clean clothes, along with the cologne she'd bought him. He couldn't apologize properly if he looked scruffy. Same with the box of long-stemmed red roses he held. So what that he could have eaten for two weeks on what they cost him. He couldn't imagine giving her anything less.

Maybe it was stupid to be here. But the guilt he felt had only deepened when Yosh told him why she'd tackled Dustman and how she'd led Yosh to Berkeley. She'd been wonderful. And she deserved to be told. As well as to be told he was fifty kinds of idiot for hurting her—a hardheaded fool who didn't deserve her.

And to ask her to forgive him.

He knocked again, feeling more foolish with each passing minute he stood there.

A door opened across the hallway. A head peeped out. “She's not home,” Stan Bonnette said, with immense satisfaction.

“Do you know when she'll be back?” Paavo asked, much as he hated to ask Stan anything about Angie.

“Maybe never.”

Paavo turned cold. “What do you mean?”

“She packed a couple of suitcases this morning, gave me her key, and said she'd send some movers over to pack up the rest of her things.”

“Where are the movers supposed to deliver her things?”

“She didn't tell me.”

“What's the name of the moving company?”

“I don't know.”

“What about her furniture, her cooking stuff?”

“Listen, Inspector, this isn't one of your cases. I'm just helping out my neighbor, okay?”

“Fine. Good neighbor Stan. That doesn't answer the question.”

Stan sighed. “They'll stay here—I guess until she decides if she wants to come back or not.”

“Did she drive?”

“She didn't leave me the key to her car. But then, she never did let me drive it.”

“Any message for anyone? For me?”

Stan's lips curved into a smug smile. “Not a single word.”

 

Paavo got off the elevator on the third floor, walked to apartment 301, and knocked on the door.

Mrs. Calamatti opened it. “Oh, hello. You're Angie's young man, aren't you? The one who thinks he's Roosevelt.”

“I thought you might like these flowers, Mrs. Calamatti,” he said.

Her eyes lit up with pleasure, and she opened her arms to receive the box of roses. “Why, thank you. What a lovely surprise!”

“You must promise me, though, never to go into a dumpster again.”

“Never?”

He took out his badge and held it before her. “Never.”

She sighed. “I see. Well, in that case, never.”

“Good. Well, good-bye.” He walked back toward the elevator.

“Oh, young man?”

He stopped and turned.

“Could you take a moment to help me, please? My son and daughter-in-law gave me a VCR nearly two years ago. I put it away in the closet and never hooked it up because I didn't have anything to watch. But now, could you hook it up for me?”

“Sure,” he said. “I'd be glad to.”

 

Once home, Paavo fed Hercules and then called the special directory assistance number the force used and found out Sal Amalfi's unlisted phone number in Hillsborough, a tiny exclusive enclave nestled among some hills on the San Francisco peninsula.

The maid answered his call.

“This is Inspector Paavo Smith,” he said, “San Francisco Police Department. I'm calling to speak to Miss Angelina Amalfi.”

“I'm sorry, but she isn't here.”

Damn, he'd been sure she'd gone back to her parents' house. Now what? “Do you know where I can reach her?”

“No, sir. But she's expected back this evening.”

He nearly jumped for joy. “This evening? Thank you.”

He left the house, got into the car, and put the key in the ignition. Instead of turning the key, though, he folded his arms over the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

Why was he planning to rush off to Hillsborough? She'd left without telling him, without leaving him any
kind of message. After all his backing away, telling her it'd never work between the two of them, and her insisting that it would, he'd finally won. He'd told Aulis he was the one in control, and this proved it.

She was gone. It was over.

“All right, Miss Amalfi. Thank you!”

Back in the house, Paavo walked straight through the living room and into his large, thoroughly empty kitchen.

He opened the refrigerator. Yellowing Miracle Whip and Heinz 57 Ketchup with black gunk growing from the cap down into the bottle were the only things still recognizable. In the freezer was the bag of Italian roast that Angie had bought. She said it'd keep a long time in the freezer, since she knew he wasn't home much to use it.

He got out the coffee, then the filters, then the Melitta. It had a glass carafe and a plastic cone. He knew he was supposed to put a coffee filter in the cone, and the coffee in the filter, but then he had no idea how the coffee was supposed to be made. He remembered the old percolators—just put cold water in the pot, put the cone on top, and put the whole thing on the stove to cook. He stacked them up.

No, that didn't seem right.

With the new automatics, it seemed they just poured cold water in them. Maybe he should pour the cold water into the cone? No, that didn't seem right either.

He picked up both, twisting and turning them round and round, trying to find some kind of a switch or a dial or an instruction. Somewhere. Anywhere.

Nowhere.

Finally, he shoved everything back in the cupboard, took out a kettle, and boiled water for a cup of instant, just like always.

Angie's coffee was a lot better.

He sat in the living room. It was absolutely quiet. No Angie to ask him to light the fireplace, to talk to him, to quiz him about his cases or badger him by asking if he'd thought about this or that. Hell, he should be happy she wasn't here. Now he could have a little peace in his life once again. Forget all about her.

He probably never would forget, though, the first time he ever saw her, a pretty little thing trying to act sophisticated and tough even though her dishwasher had exploded and nearly flooded her apartment, or the first time he found out what it was like to kiss her. He'd never forget her overwhelming family and the love of music she gotten from them—everything from heavy operas to fat men singing songs in incoherent Italian.

He'd never forget the way she could brighten his day with a simple smile or tell crazy stories to make him laugh. She could be whimsical or wild, starry-eyed or madly passionate.

He'd never forget Angie.

Hadn't his friends encouraged him to find a woman like Rebecca, though? It'd never work out with someone who didn't understand police work, they'd said. Look at Calderon. Fifteen years with a woman, and then she'd walked out on him.

Fifteen years. He wondered what it'd be like to spend fifteen years with Angie. It wouldn't be dull, that was for sure. Open, joyful, and trusting; she was everything he wasn't.

Everything he needed
.

If they'd had that much time together, they might even have had a kid or two. Despite himself, he found he liked kids. Maybe because he'd never had much of a childhood, he liked seeing kids have fun, liked seeing them enjoy life before all the garbage that comes with adulthood happened to them.

He looked again around his quiet home. Kids could make a place lively. Too lively at times.

His old partner, Matt, had a great kid, a four-year old named Micky. Paavo needed to go over for a visit. It'd been almost a week since he'd been there. He'd always liked spending time with Micky, and after Matt died he'd promised himself he'd be there as much as he could for the boy.

But to have his own kid…?

This was nonsense. He drained the awful coffee he'd made and decided to go to bed. Why not have a long peaceful night's sleep?

But in bed, it was only worse. He lay there, staring at the darkened ceiling and feeling as if what little light there was in his life had gone out of it completely.

 

Paavo and Yosh sat in Chief Hollins's office.

“We just got a confession,” Paavo said. “Dustman explained it to us. His attorney was there. They'll probably try for an insanity plea.”

“What was the reason he killed?” Hollins asked.

“Actually,” Yosh said, “Paavo's friend Angie hit the nail on the head. Wielund planned to start interviewing some high-class master chefs, and when Dustman found out he went off the deep end. They
fought, but Wielund wouldn't relent. Dustman felt betrayed and killed him.”

“Dustman became suspicious when he saw that Wielund had a lot of extra money each month,” Paavo added. “He followed Wielund and eventually figured out it was Lacy LaTour who was being blackmailed. After Wielund's death, when the lawyers shut down the restaurant, Dustman decided to pick up where Wielund left off with Lacy and force her to give him the job as chef at LaTour's. More than money, he wanted prestige. He snuck back into Wielund's house to write down a few recipes from Wielund's notes, when he heard us show up with Greuber. Panicked, he took the whole notebook and hid in the garage. Greuber apparently decided to poke his nose around in the garage and ran right into Dustman.”

“The funny part was,” Yosh said, “Dustman never even knew
why
Wielund was able to blackmail Lacy.”

“Strange case,” Hollins said, holding a match to his cigar and taking a few long drags. “So now he's confessed and you've made an arrest in Lacy LaTour's murder, your work on this case is done. It's up to the DA to get convictions.”

“Arresting Klaw's head sicko, Freddie, for holding a pillow over LaTour's face wasn't hard,” Paavo said. “We've got prints and witnesses who can place him at the hospital. The hard part will be getting a jury not to believe whatever phony alibi Klaw sets up to get Freddie off.”

“We've got an idea how to do that, Chief,” Yosh said.

Paavo leaned forward. “With the information
LaTour gave about Danning's death, we've got the break in that case we needed. We're going to nail Klaw for the murders of Sheila Danning and Lacy LaTour.”

Hollins nodded. “That's good, but we've got a little problem.”

Paavo stiffened. “What do you mean?”

“I got a call from the chief of police over in Berkeley. He began by apologizing that one of his men had doubted the charges one of my men was making—that'd be you, Smith.”

Paavo nodded, anxious about what was to come.

“The chief then went on to tell me that Klaw's porno studio had been cleaned out. Not even a fingerprint left to call our own. And Klaw made the slip from the team they'd had on him.”

Paavo shut his eyes. This news only confirmed what he'd expected—that Klaw had connections, big ones, and the seedy little porno studio was nothing but a front. But he also expected Klaw to turn up again in time. Klaw had too much invested, too many connections in this area, to leave it completely. And I'll be waiting for him, Paavo vowed silently.

He opened his eyes to see the chief and his partner watching him intently.

“Have patience, Smith.” Hollins pointed the cigar at him. “And be careful.”

Back at his desk, as much
as he hated the fact that Klaw had slipped underground for the moment, Paavo had an even more pressing problem to deal with. Using a little judicious telephone work, he tracked down the Bodega Bay realtor Angie had used. After a satisfactory talk, he left Homicide.

Instead of heading across the city toward home, he drove south, toward Hillsborough. He didn't allow himself even to think about what he was doing as he turned onto the brick driveway that made a half-circle in front of the sand-colored mansion that was the Amalfi home. He rang the doorbell and the maid opened the door.

“Paavo Smith. I'm here to see Miss Amalfi.”

“Won't you come in, Mr. Smith?” The maid led him across the marble-floored entry to the library. “I'll see if Miss Amalfi is available.”

Paavo had been to the house only once before, but he hadn't forgotten the vaulted ceilings, the tapestries,
the heavy mahogany furniture that made the house look more like an expensive villa on the Mediterranean than a home in California. He crossed the library with its leather-upholstered furniture and book-lined walls to stand before French doors looking out onto manicured lawns that would have made a golf course gardener jealous.

A man's slightly accented voice said, “Inspector Smith.”

Paavo turned to see Sal Amalfi enter the room. “Mr. Amalfi.” He walked toward Sal and extended his hand. The older man gripped it in a strong, quick handshake.

“I want to talk to you—Paavo.”

“Sure—Sal.”

Sal's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “I know there was some kind of trouble, but Angie won't tell me about it, and not even Commissioner O'Reilly will say.”

“Maybe there's nothing to tell.”

“There was something.” Sal's eyes sharpened. “Now, though, she says she doesn't even want to think about it anymore.”

Paavo realized Angie's father wanted him out of the house, didn't want him seeing or disturbing Angie. “All I want to do is apologize to her about the other day.”

Sal lifted his chin. “I don't think she needs your apology. I think she needs time to forget.”

Although he understood the fatherly concern, Paavo spoke with all the sincerity and conviction he possessed. “I know you want to do what's best for your daughter. And I know it's crazy for me to be
here, to want to see her, and it'd probably be a lot easier if we never met again. But I believe, I think—no, I
feel
—that'd be no good for either one of us.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“All I mean is, if I'm lucky, despite everything I've done, she'll agree to see me.”

“So that you can apologize to her?”

At Sal's question, Paavo realized he wanted that, and much more. He also recognized that Sal had been purposely misunderstanding him, purposely pressing him to explain.

Paavo wasn't one to bare his feelings to anyone, not even the few people he'd ever loved. But he knew he had to let her father know just how special Angie was to him, that what he felt for her was real and deep. Yet when he looked at Sal and tried to explain, all he could say was, “I miss her.”

Sal nodded thoughtfully, his expression penetrating, as if taking in the full measure of the tough close-mouthed policeman. “You care about her a lot, don't you?”

Paavo drew in a deep breath. “Yes. Very much.”

Troubled concern warred with resignation as Sal studied Paavo. Finally, he gave a defeated sigh. “I've heard about you from Serefina as well as from Angelina. Serefina's got a keen eye, and she says you're okay. I have my doubts, as you know. I don't like you seeing Angie.”

He walked over to a world globe and spun it, watching the blue ocean merge with colorful countries as the world spun round and round. He slid his hands into his trouser pockets and faced Paavo once more as the globe slowed down.

“I guess I can't fight all three of you. Angelina's miserable. It's like living with a rain cloud in the house. Do what you have to do. But be sure. And
go slow
.”

Paavo's spirits leaped. “I will.”

“Good, because Angelina won't!” Sal shook his head. “I'll get her,” he said, and left the room.

Despite how good he felt at having overcome the first hurdle, Paavo braced himself to face Angie. There'd probably be tears. He felt the inside pocket of his sports coat for the clean handkerchief he'd tucked away there this morning. The thought of seeing her cry was making him, a hardened police veteran, break out in a sweat.

He waited a full fifteen minutes before he heard the
click-click
of her high heels on the marble entry hall. She appeared in the doorway. He stood up slowly, holding his breath, hoping she wouldn't be too terribly upset.

She didn't look upset at all. Instead, she looked dazzling in a red silk dress with black trim and jet buttons. Her hair didn't have a strand out of place; it was elegantly swept back off her face, with more blond highlights than he remembered. Her makeup was flawless, her eyes clear and sparkling, and her lipstick and long, long fingernails a dazzling cherry that matched her dress.

“Hi, there. How nice to see you.”

She smiled and crossed the room to him, her hand outstretched. He mechanically lifted his, and as their hands clasped, she leaned forward in a quick air kiss, pressing her cheek to his. The tantalizing scent of tea roses wafted up and did crazy things to his heartbeat. Then she dropped her hand and stepped back.

“Won't you sit down?” She gestured toward the sofa and chairs.

Speechless, he sat on a sofa. She took a chair, catty-corner to him.

“You look very nice,” he said, once he'd found his voice. Nice, hell, she looked beautiful. Gorgeous, even.

“Thank you.”

“I wanted to apologize for two days ago. I was so angry with Klaw, he was all I could think about.”

Angie wondered if she'd heard right. Paavo apologizing to her? “I understand perfectly,” she said nonchalantly.

“You do? When you left your apartment so abruptly, I thought I'd upset you.”

She stood up, biting her tongue. Upset her? With such powers of observation, he should become a detective. She walked behind the chair, running her finger along the piping on the headrest. “I wasn't upset, I just needed a change.”

“Do you need
much
of a change, Angie?”

Blue eyes held hers, and her breath caught. She loved looking into his eyes; she could get lost in them. He stood also, ready to move closer.

Abruptly, she turned her back on him, running her finger now along the spines of books in a case. “I came down here to find out,” she said.

“Angie, I miss you. I think I'd like to see you again. Soon.”

A strange buzzing sounded in her ears, in her head. She turned slowly. “You what?”

“I think I'd like to see you again.”

She felt herself turn cold, then hot. She gripped a leather-bound volume as the anger that she'd so far
managed to control began to bubble up in her. “You think?” She hefted the weight of the book. “You
think?
”

“Yes. What—”

She threw the book. He ducked and it sailed over his head, knocking over a clock on the mantel. “You mean you still don't
know?
” She threw another.

“Hey!” It hit him on the arm and bounced to the floor. He opened his mouth to protest, then sidestepped just in time for the next book to graze the side of his head. “Angie, stop!”

“I don't care what you
think
, Paavo Smith! Or what your so-called buddies think!” She threw again, but this one he caught in midair and tossed aside.

“Oh!” she shrieked.

He caught the next book, too, and started walking toward her.

“If you ever decide you
know
how you feel, Paavo Smith, then I just might
think
about changing my mind about you!”

He was close enough that all she could do was take a book and slam it against his chest. He grabbed her wrists, stopping her. “Feel better now?” he asked, grinning.

She was so angry she could have turned inside out. How she would have loved to wipe that smirk off his face. “Don't touch me!” She hated the way she loved it when he touched her.

He let go of her wrists.

“I've had it, Paavo,” she said. “I don't want to see you anymore.”

The finality of her words hung in the air. She saw him pale, and knew she did as well.

“I'm sorry,” she said, her throat aching. “But I
can't stand loving you when you don't love me back. I don't want to feel this hurt anymore. Not ever.”

“Angie.” His eyes, his voice were hollow. “You don't understand—”

The low roar of a sports car approaching the house filled the room, and Paavo stopped talking as Angie's attention turned to the window. A new green Jaguar XJS came to a stop in the driveway behind Paavo's old Austin. “You must excuse me,” she said, her bottom lip trembling as she smoothed her dress, “but Joey Marcuccio is here. My date.”

Paavo stared at her. The book must have hit his head harder than he thought. Did she say she didn't want to see him and was going out with a man named Joey? She had always been the forgiving one, the generous one. “Who?”

She lifted her chin. “Chick's son. My friend Terry's brother. He's always been after me to go out with him. So has my family. I decided I would. Everyone's quite happy about it.”

“Joey Marcuccio? The kid who used to rub pie in your face? I thought you didn't even like him. How can you go out with him?”

“That was when we were little.” She heard the car engine shut off. “He'll be here any second. Come on.” She looped her arm in Paavo's and led him out of the living room and down the hallway to the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

She opened the back door and pushed him out into the garden. “As soon as Joey and I leave, you can slip out the side gate. 'Bye.”

Before he could get over his shock, she slammed
the door shut. The loud
click
that followed sounded as final as her words back in the house. Paavo Smith found himself gaping at a closed door.

 

“Joey, how nice,” Angie said as she opened the front door.

“Are you having some work done on the house?” he asked. “There's an old battered car in your driveway—”

“Ignore it.” She took hold of his arm and pulled him into the library.

“Angie, what—” He pointed at the books strewn about the floor.

She scowled at him. “Is something wrong?”

“No, not at all,” he mumbled.

She smiled, forcing herself to be gracious. It took about five minutes, though, to realize why she'd never gone out with him before, despite her fondness for his father and his sister.

He didn't resemble them in any way. Not even in looks. While Chick was tall and broad-shouldered, Joey was slight; and while his sister Terry was pleasantly plain, Joey saw himself as the second coming of Clark Gable. Above a long pencil-thin neck, he had slicked-back brown hair, a narrow nose, thin lips, and Serengeti horn-rimmed brown-tinted glasses.

He was also the most self-important person Angie had ever met. Not only did he have his brokerage business to brag about, but now he also owned half of Italian Seasons.

Angie really wasn't interested in hearing how difficult it was to manage not one but two dizzyingly successful endeavors. She wanted to tell him he should
leave her and go back to work. Heaven forbid he miss the chance to make another nickel.

But she didn't. She was all dressed up, and if she went up to her room she knew she'd spend all evening fretting about Paavo and thinking of all the smart things she should have said or done instead of so stupidly throwing him out of the house. He was probably on the phone right now, calling Nona Farraday to help him get over his bruised ego. And Nona would do it, too.

“Ready? I've got reservations at Ernie's. Nothing but the best for my little Angie.”

She cringed. She hated being called “little Angie.” Besides, she knew Ernie's was pricy. For him to say so was nothing short of tacky.

“Sure.” She tossed a jacket over her arm as Joey took her elbow.

As Joey was shutting the front door behind her, she noticed Paavo standing in front of his Austin. He looked mad enough to spit nails through a two-by-four. Their eyes met, and he started toward her.

Uh-oh, she thought. She'd have to hurry, as much as she could in high heels and a narrow skirt, to Joey's car.

“Who's that?” Joey asked, standing stock still and staring at the big man striding toward them. “I wonder if his car broke down.”

She tugged at Joey's hand. “Ignore him. Let's go.”

“Angie!” Paavo called. Joey pulled back his hand.

“Go away!” she shouted at Paavo, then wobbled, alone, down the front steps to the brick driveway.

As she pivoted toward Joey's car, Paavo took hold of her arm and spun her toward him. “I need to talk to you.”

She jerked her arm free. “No, you don't.”

“Excuse me,” Joey said, bouncing around the two of them.

“I'm sorry, Angie.” Paavo leaned toward her. “I
know
I don't want you going out with anyone else.”

“It's a little too late for that, Inspector!”

Paavo looked stunned. Good, she thought, even as her heart contracted painfully at the hurt in his eyes.

“Let's go, Angie,” Joey said, clutching her elbow and hurrying her to his car.

“Listen to me.” Paavo followed. “I do care about you. I want to be with you.”

Her nose went in the air as Joey opened the passenger door for her.

“Wait.” Paavo grabbed the door. “I rented the house in Bodega Bay for the weekend. We can go up tomorrow night. Remember how much you liked it there?”