Cooking Spirits: An Angie Amalfi Mystery (Angie Amalfi Mysteries) (3 page)

But now, he turned his full attention to what he knew best, dealing
with a murder and the crime scene. It was located in the center of the busiest
section of San Francisco during the
week,
and one of
the quietest areas on weekends. The job of canvassing the Financial District
and talking to
anyone
who might have seen or heard
something, would be a nightmare.

“The poor bastard’s teeth were crushed when his head went
through the compactor,”
Yosh
said. “Dental records
won’t do it.”

Paavo nodded. “Let’s hope we have some fingerprints on
file.”

“Yeah,”
Yosh
said, “once we find
his fingers.”

 o0o

Angie and her sister, Caterina Amalfi Swenson, spent five
hours going to houses throughout the northern section of San Francisco, Angie’s
favorite part of the city. Cat, as she liked to call herself, had been an
interior designer for many years, and had recently moved to real estate. She
was the second oldest of Angie's four sisters, born after Bianca, and before
Maria, Francesca, and Angelina, the baby of the family.

Normally, Cat had little to do with her youngest sister, but
recently Angie helped her out of a horrific mess in which she was accused of
murder. If Angie hadn't dropped everything to go with her to Rome, she didn't
know how she would have managed to prove her innocence. Oh, yes…Paavo had
helped a bit, too.

She owed Angie, and now Angie was getting payback.
Big time.
Cat drove with her shoes off because her feet
hurt.
Louboutin
open-toe platform pumps were normally
comfortable, but given how far they'd traveled, she was lucky not to ache in
more places than her feet.

They had started in the northeast part of the city at
Telegraph Hill, and worked their way west through North Beach, Russian Hill,
the Marina, Pacific Heights, and now they were in the Presidio Heights area.

The houses went from very expensive to extremely expensive.
The one moderately expensive home needed a complete remodel, a new roof, and
earthquake retrofitting. A wrecking ball would have been its best solution.

Angie became increasingly depressed. “Let me see what else
is on your list,” she said, reaching for Cat’s realtor listing sheet.

Cat kept hold of the paperwork. “I think you should look for
a place outside the city, Angie. How does Paavo feel about the suburbs?”

“I haven’t talked to Paavo about any of this yet. I want to
see if buying a house is at all feasible for us.” She reached again for the
sheets.

“The idea of becoming a home-owner seems to have hit you
rather suddenly,” Cat said, holding the papers in the air as she eyed Angie
with suspicion. “Don’t you think you should at least talk to Paavo about it
before going any further?”

“Why bother him if there’s no place we can afford? Like I
said, I’d like to see what else is on your list,” she repeated.

With what sounded distinctly like a “harrumph,” Cat handed
Angie the list.

She scanned down the few remaining houses. “Oh, my God!” she
cried. “How did you miss this one? It's $600,000 for a house in the Sea Cliff,
four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths, two-car garage, laundry room, tool shed,
overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Why didn't we start there? You never even
mentioned it! Let’s go, quick!”

Cat didn't even look at the listing. “Don’t bother.”

“What do you mean? It sounds perfect.”

“I’ve heard about that place. It’s been listed forever, and
has gone pending any number of times, but the deal always falls through.”

“How come?”

“I don’t know. People find some excuse not to live there, I
guess. My office manager told us not to get involved with it. It’s a pathway to
frustration and a waste of time.”

“I want to see it.”

“Didn’t you hear what I just said?”

“It’s my time to waste.”

Angie heard a poorly suppressed, “Sheesh.”

Chapter 3

HOMICIDE WAS
LOCATED on the fourth floor of San Francisco’s Hall of Justice building, a
massive gray block structure near freeway crossings in the city’s South of
Market area.

That afternoon, Paavo and
Yosh
returned to their desks to go over what little information they had turned up
so far on the dead body, and to brief the new chief of the Homicide bureau,
Lieutenant James Philip Eastwood. Eastwood, however, was in a meeting with the
mayor.

Paavo knew they were going to have to wait for information
from the medical examiner before they could do much on the case. Right now, the
only thing they could say with certainly was that the victim wasn’t homeless—he
wore shoes and socks far too expensive for that possibility.

Uniformed officers were going door to door asking questions,
and one of them might come up with some findings to help them get started.

The phone rang. He expected Lt. Eastwood, but to his
surprise, found his fiancée on the line. She almost never called him at work,
knowing he didn’t like to be disturbed.

“I’m sorry to call,” Angie said, “but I’ve been worried
about you. You sounded upset on the phone last night. Is everything all right?”

“Fine.”

She waited a moment,
then
said,
“Oh?”

“Really.”

“Okay.” She didn’t sound convinced. “Anyway, I called
because I’ve been thinking about our living arrangements after the wedding. I
know you’ve agreed to move into my apartment, but what if we found a house we
could afford to buy? What if I went house-hunting?”

Of all the things he believed she might have been thinking
about with their upcoming wedding, their living arrangement afterward wasn’t
one of them.
“House-hunting?
Why?”

“I want to make sure that staying in my apartment is right
for us,” she said.

He wasn't sure whether to be relieved or not. He owned a
small bungalow in San Francisco’s outer Richmond district. He had gotten it at
a decent price because it had no garage, no view, needed work, and was tiny.
Angie’s shoes couldn’t fit in it, let alone the rest of her possessions. She
had a much larger apartment, but it was in her father’s building. And Salvatore
Amalfi didn’t like his baby girl marrying a cop. He wanted her to marry a
doctor, a lawyer, or—god-forbid—a political up-and-comer.
Anyone
but a guy who ran around the streets of San Francisco with a gun and a target
on his back.

Sal was even unhappier about their relationship since Angie
had a propensity for putting herself in danger because of Paavo’s cases.
“What’s this new concern, Angie? Where did it come from?”

“Nowhere,” she said.

He didn’t believe that one bit.

She continued, “I’m open to change, that’s all. This may be
a good time to buy. Do you object?”

 “Of course not, if that’s what you want to do.” The
high price of San Francisco property mixed with Angie's expensive taste flashed
before his eyes, making him glad debtor’s prison was a thing of the past. “But
we’ve got to be able to afford what you find.
Us, Angie, not
your father.”

“Good. I'm here with Cat, and we’re going to look at houses.
I love you and want you to be happy. You know that don’t you?”

“Of course,” he said, realizing that since she was with Cat,
she had already made up her mind about house-hunting. They soon said their
goodbyes.

Paavo shuddered at the thought of Angie and her realtor
sister together. They rarely saw eye-to-eye, but when they agreed and put their
heads together, anything could happen—including dashing off to Rome, Italy,
where they went not long ago and caused one of the more harrowing episodes
Paavo had ever experienced.

“What’s going on, Paavo?”
Yosh
asked. “You look worried. Is Angie already spending all your money? You aren’t
even married yet.”
Yosh
, a six-foot tall Japanese-American,
built like a sumo wrestler, had married his first love when in his early
twenties.

“She’s going house-hunting,” Paavo answered.

“I thought your living arrangements were settled.”

“Did you say house-hunting?” Bo Benson spun his chair around
to face Paavo and then leaned back in it.

“I’m afraid so,” Paavo replied.

Bo and Paavo had been the confirmed bachelors of the group.
Bo loved women and loved dating. Date many and often was his way of thinking. In
his early thirties, smart, good looking, African-American, sharp dresser, he
hadn’t been tied down yet, and had no plans to be. He liked to joke that Angie
had worn Paavo down.
Not exactly, but even when Paavo tried
to break it off, Angie kept coming around.
She was convinced he needed
her, and a convinced Angie was a force of nature.

Not that he particularly minded
,
if
truth be told.

 “You had a good deal going, moving into Angie’s fancy
penthouse,” Bo said. “Why blow it?”

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be her kept man,” Luis Calderon
chimed in. One marriage, one divorce, and he had been miserable ever since.
Calderon, in his late 40’s, was sour before the divorce, which many said was
the reason the marriage hadn’t lasted. After it ended, he made pickles seem
sweet. “Moving into her place isn’t the best way to start a marriage.
Gives the woman too much power.
That never works out. You
got to show her who’s in charge, put her in her place right from day one.”

“
‘Put her in her place?’
” Rebecca Mayfield echoed, disgust
dripping as she faced Calderon. Rebecca Mayfield, early 30’s, had never
married. She dated occasionally, but hadn’t been serious about anyone as long
as Paavo had known her…except maybe him. She and others in the squad often
hinted that she was much more ‘right’ for him than Angelina Amalfi. Tall,
blonde, buxom, serious, a crack shot, she was an absolute straight arrow when
it came to policy and procedure, and always said exactly what she meant. Quite
the opposite was Angie—short, dark hair, with a slight built, she skirted the
law or anything else that stood in her way and readily skewed, if not skewered,
the truth. All the
Amalfis
were that way. There was
the ‘real’ world, and then the world according to the
Amalfis
.

Given all that, Paavo had to admit his cohorts were right.
And yet, while Rebecca might be more his type than Angie, she didn't stir his
blood, and around her he never did foolish things. He had never met anyone like
Angie before, and he couldn’t stay away even though that would have been the
rational thing to do. But the heart wasn’t rational, and his heart was lost to
one petite Italian-American who had managed to wrap him around her fancy
French-manicured little finger.

Rebecca was still reaming Calderon for his statement. “I’m
amazed your marriage lasted as long as it did!” she said. “Just because Angie
is willing to give Paavo a little corner of her lavish, expensive apartment
which is in a building owned by her father, who has ultimate control over where
the couple lives and how they live, and probably what they do and how they
spend their money, that doesn’t mean Paavo would be 'a kept' anything!”

Paavo looked at Rebecca and winced. He hoped she was joking
because if that’s what she really thought, he was in trouble.

“Angie basically lives rent free.”
Yosh
teetered on his chair’s back legs, hands resting on his protruding stomach. “If
Paavo moves in with her and sells his place, think of all the money he’ll save.
He could invest
it,
maybe buy his own apartment
building in time. In fact, I can’t help but wonder when he’s going to quit
police work to become a real estate magnate. Everyone knows Angie and her
father consider his job way too dangerous. Instead of doing this, he can become
a property mogul, the 'Donald Trump' of the West Coast.”

The others all laughed.

“Can’t wait to see his comb-over,” Bo chortled.

“Paavo is not going bald!” Rebecca said.

“Not yet,” Calderon muttered with a growl. “Just wait until
he’s married and has all the Amalfi women ordering him around.”

The only detective who hadn’t said a word during all this
was Rebecca’s partner, Bill Sutter. He’d been nicknamed ‘Never-Take-A-Chance’
because he was always super cautious on the job. He’d been thinking about
retiring for years and had nightmares that he would be killed a few days before
he started collecting his pension. Maybe that was why he hadn’t turned in his
papers yet.

He looked ready to offer his two cents when, mercifully,
Paavo’s phone began to ring again. Lt. Eastwood called to say he was ready for
the briefing.

Paavo couldn’t remember ever being so happy to hear from his
boss.

Chapter 4

HERE IT IS,” CATERINA said, “51
Clover Lane.”

“I can’t believe this location.” Angie couldn’t stop
swiveling her head as she took in the view. “It overlooks the Pacific Ocean!
This is incredible.”

Clover Lane was just off Sea Cliff Avenue on the western
edge of San Francisco. The lane contained only two houses--number 51, on the
side of the street facing the water, and across from it, number 60,
a
much smaller home. A guard rail stood at the end of the
lane, and beyond it was open space for dog walkers or anyone who might want to
scramble down the cliff to the narrow strip of sandy beach below.

The two gray and white clapboard homes appeared surprisingly
out-of-place among the mansions that made up the bulk of the Sea Cliff, one of
the city’s priciest neighborhoods. They seemed all but forgotten out on the
small strip of land.

“The house looks a bit dated, don’t you think?” Cat stood
with one hand on her hip, eying the property. “And there's nothing else here
but that little cottage. It looks lonely.”