A Cook in Time (17 page)

Angie was shocked when she heard the knock on her door. It was only five o'clock. Paavo almost never left work this early. She'd been reading about the HAARP project in Alaska that controlled the weather—another government conspiracy. There were times she wished the government were half as clever as the conspiracy theorists believed it was, and other times she was glad it wasn't. She put down the magazine article and ran to open the door. Cops had a way of knocking in a no-nonsense manner: open up or else. She figured they must learn it at the police academy.

“Paavo.” She gave him a hello kiss. “I'm sorry about Derrick and Stan and Connie here yesterday. If I'd known you were free—”

“Don't be sorry. They're your friends.” They walked into the living room. “I'm not crazy
about a couple of them, but that's my problem, not yours.”

“I can't believe you're already off work. This is wonderful. Do you want to go out to dinner, or can I cook up something here? We can enjoy the tree, Christmas carols … each other.”

“That's tempting, Angie.” He stood in front of the Christmas tree filled with colorfully painted porcelain and old-fashioned wooden ornaments in all kinds of shapes—Santas, elves, reindeer, and toys among them. Below the tree was a hand-painted antique English creche with the three Wise Men bearing gifts. It was homey and warm, yet elegant. Like Angie. “But I'm still working. I'm here on a case.”

“A case?” She sat on the sofa.

He removed his jacket and put it on a chair, then took off his shoulder holster. He joined her on the sofa.

“Is this about those horrible murders?” she asked, her posture stiff.

He nodded. Seeing the way she tensed up, he knew it was impossible for him to question her as if she were some stranger with information. “Come here.” He held out his arm and she slid next to him. “For some reason, your friend Holton was asking me about the numbers on the murder victims' chests—seven, five, four. Do they mean anything to you?”

“Not a thing. Heaven only knows what he's thinking. I'm worried about him, Paavo. He's on edge—maybe over the edge. The other day
he came here convinced aliens are killing the mutilated men you're investigating. He said the men are being mutilated the same way extraterrestrials do to cattle.”

“He believes that?” Paavo sounded worried about Derrick's sanity.

“It's part of the lore. I understand a lot of people—sane people—believe it. Anyway, Stan will let Derrick stay with him until Derrick starts to feel better.”

“Or until Stan drives him completely bonkers.”

“Be nice, Paavo.”

“I'm as nice to Bonnette as he is to me. Back to your little alien-loving buddies. One thing we've just learned, and which we'll keep out of the newspapers, is that all the victims had a similar brochure about Roswell.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Wait a minute.” With that she rushed into the den. When she came back, she handed him one that read
Roswell: The True Story
. “Is this it?”

“This is it.” He looked over the brochure. It was exactly the same as the others. “Where did you get it?”

“From Oliver Hardy.” She sat beside him again. “I only spoke to him a couple of times, as I told Inspector Mayfield. In fact, the last conversation I had with him was about you.”

“Me?”

She took a deep breath. “He asked if I was seeing Derrick, and I said no, I was seeing a homicide inspector. He said you should have
been there with me, and I told him you were busy trying to find the mutilation murderer. But that's not the strange part. When I mentioned Bertram Lambert, Oliver turned ghostly pale.”

“You think he knew Lambert?”

“I asked him that. He said he didn't. Now that I'm talking about it again, I can't help but wonder if he was telling the truth.”

“Did you tell Inspector Mayfield this?” he asked.

Angie's mouth tightened. “Not all of it. She cut me off, so I never did get a chance to mention Lambert to her.”

Paavo shuddered at the image of Mayfield trying to interrogate Angie. He was glad he'd missed it. “All three men who were mutilated had these flyers about Roswell. Now Oliver Hardy is dead and Mosshad has disappeared. It's a strange coincidence.”

And coincidences, Angie knew, were something Paavo didn't believe in.

“The people I've met at NAUTS are strange, but I hate to think any of them are killers.”

“We have to find out why these murders are happening. Then the killer—whoever he or she is—will become evident.”

“I just hope Derrick has nothing to do with it.”

She felt him stiffen. “Why? You still care about him?”

“No. Because Connie does. And I was the one who got the two of them together. If I ever think about matchmaking again, Paavo, will you tell me to keep my nose out of it?”

“Sure I will. And I'm sure you'll listen and do exactly as I say.”

“Don't I always?” she asked.

He wasn't about to open that can of worms. “I'd like to talk to Holton. You said he's at Bonnette's?”

“Yes. Let me phone.” She dialed Stan's number and the two had a short conversation. “Derrick isn't there, and he won't be back until late,” she said to Paavo. “NAUTS is having a meeting at eight tonight at Tardis Hall to talk about Oliver's death.”

“Why don't we go pay Holton a visit before the meeting?” Paavo suggested.

“Good idea.”

As Paavo fell into a thoughtful silence, Angie shut off all the lights except those on the Christmas tree, put on a CD of Leonard Bernstein conducting Christmas music, and sat beside him. She put her arms around him and watched his blue eyes widen in surprise. “We have a couple of hours. If you're not hungry, we could stay here, as I suggested earlier. Enjoy the tree, Christmas music …”

He drew her closer. “Did I ever tell you how much I love listening to carols?”

 

Almost immediately after they entered the hall, Paavo found Holton. Paavo excused himself from Angie and went off to talk to Derrick alone. It was clear to her that Paavo didn't think she should listen in on the questioning.

Well, she just might do some questioning of her own. Later, when she and Paavo compared notes, it would be interesting to see which one had picked up the truly “inside” information.

Angie spotted Kronos setting up his projector. After a few words of greeting and condolences about Oliver, she steered the conversation toward Algernon and Kronos's ex-wife. “I'm surprised she liked Algernon enough to stay with the Prometheans,” Angie said. “The man seems to be such a playboy.”

Kronos frowned. For a moment, Angie thought he'd refuse to answer. “She doth believe she is the reincarnation of a goddess of yore, and that the knave is her god.”

How many Promethean women believed such a thing? “Not Isis?” Angie said.

Surprise, then pain, then resignation flickered over Kronos's features. “You have met my lady? Or ex-lady?”

“Yes. Once. She and Algernon are married or living together now, I take it.”

He yanked the old film off the projector and put a new reel on. “Hell, no. He's too ambitious.” Angie noticed that he dropped his phony accent as soon as he had anything emotional to say. “He wouldn't tie himself down with some cheap-ass divorcee. He doesn't care how jealous she is, or how many fits she throws. What he wants is a rich broad who'll help him get to the top of his line. He wants to be the Oprah of the UFO movement. He was having a fling with Triana
Crisswell until her old man found out she'd donated something like eighty thousand dollars to him.”

“What!”

“It's true. For old man Crisswell, it was chump change, but he put Triana on a tight leash after that. Makes her life hell. Algernon's probably looking elsewhere now. Judging from your clothes and jewelry, I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't show up at your place one of these days.”

“He already has. Triana was with him.”

“Instead of killing Oliver and Mosshad—if they were murdered—and people like those poor guys who got themselves all carved up, someone should do in Algernon. Unless, of course, he will be killed. Maybe the others are just to throw the cops off the real victim. You never know.”

Angie was shocked. “This NAUTS/Prometheus Group feud isn't bad enough to lead to murder, is it?”

“There's a lot of money in UFOs these days. Prime pickings for charlatans like Algernon, uh, methinks. It wouldn't bother me a bit if whoever killed the others would finish the job and get rid of him.”

“Who do you think is behind these murders?” Angie asked.

He got close to her and whispered in her ear. “The government.”

Angie marched away. Was there no talking to these people without hitting right up against
their government conspiracy theories? In the distance, she saw the only sane one in the group. “Hi, Elvis,” she said when she reached him. “How are you doing? The news about Oliver must have been a horrible shock. I know you liked him.”

“Not really. In fact, I didn't like him at all,” Elvis said. “Stuffing his brochures in people's faces. No wonder somebody killed him.”

“We don't know that for sure. He might have committed suicide.”

“So they say. It might have been a clever murderer.”

“Who would want to murder Oliver?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“Derrick Holton.” He smiled.

“Derrick?” Maybe Elvis was as crazy as the rest of them. “You can't mean that.”

“But I do. Oliver was a spy for Algernon, and Derrick found out.”

“Even if that were true, Derrick couldn't kill anyone. He's as gentle as they come.”

“Not where NAUTS is concerned. Oliver would get the names of interested people at NAUTS events by giving them brochures and telling them they might make a hundred dollars in a drawing. Then he'd pass the names to Algernon, who got them to join the Prometheans.”

“Derrick wouldn't kill for a reason like that!” Angie cried.

“Wouldn't he?” Elvis asked. “Odd. I would.”

Chills ran through her. She excused herself and walked around looking for Paavo. He and Derrick still hadn't returned.

Phil walked by. Even though it was December, he wore sandals with no socks. His toes were blue.

“Phil, wait,” Angie said. “I was just talking to Elvis and I'm really troubled.”

“Be cool, sister. You're looking real stressed-out. Elvis is just a kid. You shouldn't let him get to you that way.”

“You're right. And it probably means nothing.”

“What did he say?”

“That Oliver was a spy for Algernon, and when Derrick found out he … he was really upset.”

“That could be. Oliver knew I. M. Neumann. He followed the great man himself. But I think Oliver truly despised what Algernon did to the Prometheus Group. Neumann never cared about pyramids and all that garbage. He was a scientist. I once heard Oliver say Algernon deserved to die for what he did to the group.” Phil smoothed his mustache. “Of course, Elvis might feel that way, too.”

Angie couldn't believe these people. “Elvis? He has no anger about any of this.”

“He keeps it well hidden. He grew up on the streets. In a gang in L.A.—a white supremacist gang to combat all the ethnic gangs around the town. He was badly knifed—nearly died. When he
got healthy, he insisted he'd had a near-death experience. He left his body, saw the light, the whole nine yards. That told him there was more to life than we think we know. He began to search and ended up with NAUTS. He can't stand phonies.”

“The near-death experience makes him sound more like someone who'd join the Prometheus Group than NAUTS,” Angie said.

“Maybe he's your spy. Not Oliver. Excuse me, I've got to go sign up some new members now that Oliver's no longer around to do it.”

She couldn't imagine there being any new members. Especially since Phil didn't walk to the entrance to the building where new members might be, but headed backstage.

Just then, Paavo and Derrick emerged from the same area. The doors opened, a signal that the meeting would begin.

Paavo took Angie's arm and they left.

“I think Angie is right. These mutilations are related to UFOs and aliens,” Paavo said to Yosh as he sat reading Internet reports on alleged animal mutilations by aliens.

“I hate to tell you this, Paav,” Yosh replied with a shake of his head, “but not even the San Francisco PD will let you get away with that one. Nut cults, Satanists? Yeah, sure. But little killers from space? No way.”

“I'm learning quite a bit about these so-called aliens. I need someone with a science background to look at it, though. I think I'll ask a favor of Ray Faldo again.”

“Partner, unless you want Lieutenant Hollins to put you on stress leave, just keep this stuff under your hat. Faldo's a good guy, but what if he opens his mouth where he shouldn't? Make this sound like some wacked-out millennium
stuff and there's no way you'll convince a DA to take it to court.”

“Take what to court?” Rebecca Mayfield asked as she put her purse under her desk and her jacket on the back of her chair. “You two haven't figured out who the mutilation murderer is, have you?”

“You're just the person we need to talk to,” Paavo said. “We have a lead that might give some motive. Even a suspect.”

“That's great,” she said. “How can I help?”

“Tell us how the Oliver Hardy case is coming.”

“Accidental death. We'll be filing the paperwork soon.”

“I've heard he distributed brochures about Roswell. Do you know anything about that?”

“He had so much stuff about Roswell it was almost spooky. The guy was buggy on the subject. He not only had thousands of brochures, but also a card catalogue of names of prospective members of his group. They held drawings and gave away hundred-dollar bills to some new members. It was unreal.”

Paavo caught Yosh's gaze. “Could that be how the vics were contacted?”

“Could that be what?” Rebecca asked, looking from one to the other. “I didn't follow.”

“We're on to something, but we need proof,” Paavo told her. “Do you have a problem if Yosh and I go over to Oliver's house and take a look?”

“Like I said, I'm ready to file a report that his
death was an accident. If you can find something to stop me from being wrong, be my guest.”

As the two men stood to put their jackets on, Mayfield propped her chin on her hand and said, “If you're just poking around for some kind of clues or what have you, you might want to check out his mother's house.”

“His mother's? I thought she was dead.”

“She is, but apparently he was still taking care of her home.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

Rebecca leaned back in her chair and regarded the two inspectors. “If you guys come up with anything big based on what looks like a crummy little accidental death, I'll never forgive you. Or myself.”

 

Paavo's hunch only grew stronger as he went through John Oliver Harding's tiny apartment. The man was definitely three cans short of a six-pack. There were boxes of unopened Roswell brochures piled in every corner. Harding also had a stack of completed forms for the hundred-dollar drawing. Among them Paavo found the names Bertram Lambert, Felix Rolfe, Leon Cole … and Angie's neighbor, Stanfield Bonnette. Stan was lucky that he wasn't a winner.

The one thing that was missing was any kind of evidence to link Harding with the deaths of the three men. The strong possibility existed as well that Harding was himself another victim. Could
he have fallen to his death trying to get away from the murderer? If so, that could mean the murderer was one of the four men in the hall with Angie when she called him. Each of the four—former NASA scientist Holton, grubby Kronos, love-beaded Phil, and choirboy Elvis—was, at minimum, eccentric and obsessive. Murderers came in all shapes, sizes, and disorders. Sometimes they even seemed absurdly normal. He wasn't about to discount any of them.

In the apartment, he and Yosh found papers with Harding's mother's address. “Hey, look at this!” Yosh said, holding up a key from a kitchen drawer filled with junk. The key had a chain with a label on it—and on the label was the same address.

They locked up Harding's apartment and drove south of the city along the peninsula. Even though they were crossing into another jurisdiction, since they were looking at the property of a man who had mysteriously died in their jurisdiction, they could do so as long as they weren't about to take any action. The address was located on a narrow road at the top of a hill in San Mateo. The front lawn was overgrown and weed-infested, and the house looked as if it hadn't been cared for in years. They knocked, announced themselves, then unlocked the door. The house was quite small, just four rooms, although the lot it sat on was nearly an acre. Dirty pots and dishes filled the sink. In the refrigerator, the milk had gone sour, and much of the food was moldy.

“Looks like your fridge, pal,” Yosh said with a laugh.

“Everyone's a critic.”

Nothing in the house gave any hint of Harding's obsession with Roswell. Paavo opened the back door. “Good God, look at that!”

Yosh joined him. In a far corner of the property stood a small octagonal building. Jutting from the top of it, clear of the trees, was the tip of a telescope.

“I wonder if he was communicating with the mother planet,” Yosh said as the two of them trooped across the weeds and dirt of the yard to the building.

They opened the door and walked inside. It took a moment for their eyes to adjust from the bright sunlight outside to the dark gloom within. Even after they were able to see again, it took another moment for their brains to register what they were seeing.

“God!” Yosh cried. He couldn't stop himself from gagging, and he spun around, ready to bolt outdoors if need be.

In front of them, lined up on a table against the wall, were glass jars in many sizes, filled with what smelled like formaldehyde. Floating in the jars were the body parts that had been removed from the three dead men.

“Christ, he was one sick bastard,” Paavo said.

“I guess we've got the proof we needed,” Yosh said when he was able to talk again.

“What's that smell, Yosh?”

“The formaldehyde?”

“No. Something else. Something rank.” Paavo walked toward a ladder that went up to the loft on which the telescope stood.

“Up there?” Yosh said. He was still spooked by the find in the glass jars.

Paavo nodded. He tested the ladder to see if it was strong enough to hold his weight, although if the rather obese Harding had used it, he didn't think there would be any problem. He went up. Yosh pulled out his gun as he waited. Something about the strange little building with its grisly contents was making him very nervous.

From the circular opening in the ceiling, sun shone onto the telescope and the floor of the loft around it, but the walls past the telescope were obscured in shadow. Paavo couldn't make out what was there, but the stench was much, much stronger.

He removed his gun from the shoulder holster and with his left hand switched on his penlight. At first, all he could discern were a bunch of blankets. Then a black, nearly lifeless eye opened and looked straight at him.

“Dr. Mosshad?” he whispered.