If Cooks Could Kill (14 page)

“I know,” he said, his voice filled with pain. “I know.”

She stamped her foot. “You make me so
angry
!”

A hint of a smile touched his mouth. “Hit me, why don't you? A slap in the face or a good hard sock in the stomach—your choice. It's what I deserve, and it'll make you feel a hell of a lot better.”

She smacked her arms against her sides. “I can't hit you! I'm mad enough at you, that's for sure, but I can't.”

Gently, he touched her cheek. “I'm so sorry, about everything.” With that, he turned away.

She watched him walk toward the door. Under his beaten-down, trying-to-be-jaded, trying-to-be-tough exterior, she saw a good man, a lonely, sensitive man, someone who had been damaged badly. She moved toward him. She wasn't sure why; she was never impulsive. “Constant Connie,” as Angie had said. Angie was the impulsive one. Not her; never her.

“Max, wait!” she cried. He turned.

She stopped, unsure what to say. How could she forgive him? But somehow she had. “What would you say to a bowl of Campbell's vegetable soup and a couple of hamburgers for dinner? Chef Connie's cooking might not be exciting, but it's filling.”

He blinked as if not sure he'd heard her correctly. “It would be better if I just left.”

“No,” she said, despite herself. “It wouldn't.”

 

With the engine running, Veronica sat parked in a loading zone and watched Max enter Everyone's Fancy. She couldn't imagine why he'd taken a taxi across town to go to a cheap little gift shop. She hadn't
intended on following him, but merely to check up on him: to keep him in her sights, so to speak.

But curiosity had gotten the best of her.

This morning, Dennis had called her cell phone sounding agitated. He'd just heard that Max had learned she was out of jail and wanted to kill her. She had to be careful, Dennis said, to get out of town. He also suggested she stay away from him, his house, even Wings, because Max could find her there.

She didn't know what to make of the phone call. Although she didn't trust Dennis, something about his words, the fear in them, rattled her. And strangely, she had felt watched; as if someone, something, was moving ever closer to her. Something dark and deathlike. Perhaps death itself.

She hated such thoughts, didn't believe in them. They meant nothing. Shoving them aside, she concentrated on Max.

By following him after he'd left Wings, she discovered he was living in a homeless shelter. She was shocked.

He used to be a Hugo Boss suit man, his casual wear nothing less than Armani or Polo, with three-hundred-dollar loafers and fifty-dollar haircuts. He liked imported red wine, gourmet meals, classical music, and Broadway shows—and treated her to the same, when he wasn't working. Too much work had been Max Squire's biggest problem. He had spent so much time involved in his business, expanding it and finding new clients, that to say it made Max a dull boy was an understatement.

At first, he'd considered himself far above her. Eventually, he swore undying love for her, but when it came to a choice between his money and reputation or her, he'd chosen the former.

He could have let her get away. He was smart enough to make back the money she'd taken and no one would have been the wiser. Instead, he turned her over to the police. That wasn't love; it was betrayal.

She'd gone to jail, and instead of working, he'd obviously spent the last three years wallowing in self-pity, a loser.

Now, she was stuck in this city with another loser—Dennis. As soon as she got her hands on the money,
her
money, she'd be out of here. No one was going to get in her way.

She sat a little higher in the seat when the “
OPEN
” sign in the door of the shop flipped to “
CLOSED
.” A moment later, the door opened, and a blond woman, a bit too heavy in the waist and hips, stepped out of the shop, Max right behind her. Veronica had seen the woman before—with Dennis.

She locked the door and took Max's arm as they walked down the street. Who was this two-timing broad?

Max always was a sucker for blondes. She touched her hair, the long strands brushing her shoulders, as she studied the woman.

Her hair had been short, just like
hers
, when she and Max had their affair. He liked it; used to rifle his fingers through it. She wondered if he pretended the blonde was her when they kissed, when they made love. Max had sworn his love to her, and now was proving himself to be as fickle as all men. It was good the only lust she ever felt around him was for his clients' money.

Veronica abandoned her car and followed them to a corner, then onto Wawona Street. Two blocks later, they entered a building. She crept close and managed
to grab the heavy main door to the apartment building before it locked again.

She waited a moment, then entered. No elevator; the stairs carpeted. A woman's hand glided along the banister near the top, three flights up. Silently, she climbed the stairs, practically running. Those prison workouts had paid off well for her.

On the top floor a door opened and then a light came on. She angled herself to see which apartment they'd entered. Soon, the door closed again and all was quiet.

She paused on the stairs, remembering the many times Max had taken her to his home—an immense, professionally decorated place that he lived in alone. He'd been a good lover, one of the best, in fact. Much better than Dennis, who was more in love with himself than anyone or anything else.
Too bad things went so wrong, Max
.

It was tempting to simply burst into the apartment and have it out with him. To think that while she'd rotted in prison, he'd been out enjoying life. Bad enough that he was rutting, but doing it with women who looked so much like her infuriated her even more.

Her breathing grew heavy as her fingers twisted in her hair and she tugged on it hard. Damn them both! If her hair were short, her eyes blue…

An idea, a wonderfully pleasing idea, struck her. Could she do it? Tomorrow was the big day. But if she hurried, she would have time.

As she faced the apartment door, her plans for the next day's adventure grew a bit more complicated…but far, far more satisfying.

Max sat in Wings of an Angel, the income and spending records in shopping bags all around him. He'd never seen such a mess. All of them, Earl, Butch, and even Vinnie, thought nothing of reaching into the till whenever they needed cash, mixing tips with receipts, credit card payments with cash, even payables with receivables in ways he'd never imagined were possible. He didn't even want to think about what they'd done to state sales tax, let alone liquor and cigarette taxes.

Where to begin puzzled him. He might not have taken the job at all except for Butch's statement about too many from the past showing up, first
her
, then him. Had Butch meant Veronica? In that context, who else could he have meant?

If she'd been to Wings, that meant Dennis was lying to him. Max needed to stick closer than ever to Dennis and Wings both, and this job was one way to do it.

He was trying to decipher scribbles on a receipt when Earl called him to the phone. “For you.”

Assuming it was Dennis, Max answered.

“I'd know that voice anywhere,” a woman said.

His blood turned hot, then cold. He'd know
her
voice anywhere as well. “Veronica.”

“You remember. How sweet. I was sure you'd forget after you sent me away. Three years, Max.”

“It was your doing,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice hushed and steady. Your doing, he wanted to say, and then ask
Why?
Why did she do that to him when he loved her so much? Why had she caused pure love to turn to black, soul-crushing hatred?

“I'm out now,” she said. “It's over.”

His hand gripped the receiver. It wasn't over for him. “I want to see you.” He struggled to keep his voice soft and friendly, but could hear it quiver.

“Why? Do you think I want to share?” She laughed.

“I know you better than that,” he said. “I just…want to see you again.”

“I'm sure you do. Maybe we can pick up where we left off, is that what you're thinking? Except now, I'm the one with the money.”

Every word was another stab to the heart. It was already broken, how could it continue to hurt? “You do have it, then?”

“How could I? I served time. You don't think they let you keep money you've embezzled, do you?”

He knew she was toying with him, the same as always. He'd followed the case as closely as humanly possible. No one knew where most of the money she'd taken from his clients had gone. She claimed it went to gambling and drugs—all eight million. He knew, though, that she didn't gamble and rarely touched the hard stuff.

He knew far too much about her.

The image flashed in his mind of the day she'd first walked into his financial consulting office holding a folded
San Francisco Chronicle
with his help-wanted ad
circled. The business was growing more quickly than he and his secretary, Mrs. Hendricks, could handle. He needed a part-time office aid.

She looked like a schoolgirl, her hair pulled back into a ponytail, face scrubbed and make-up free, wearing a sweet dress buttoned up to the neck and hemmed below the knees. Her intelligence had shone through, and she quickly learned and understood everything Mrs. Hendricks explained to her.

Even then, behind the innocent smile, there was a knowingness, a sexiness, that Mrs. Hendricks didn't recognize, but his male hormones did.

Before long, Veronica was coming into his office after Mrs. Hendricks had gone home for the day, pointing out to him how incompetent his secretary of the past seven years had been, and how much more efficient she was. During those times, they'd relax, and she would often unbutton the top few buttons of her dress or blouse to breathe more easily, or remove the band from her ponytail so her long blond hair could swing freely.

When confronted, Mrs. Hendricks's protests sounded weak, and the more she complained about Veronica, the more Max found himself defending her. Three weeks after Veronica began working for him, she came into his office after hours and didn't stop with unbuttoning just a few buttons. Their affair began, and almost immediately after that, Mrs. Hendricks quit.

Veronica took over her job. She was amazingly intelligent. He trusted her completely. His little protégée, he'd called her, and promised to teach her all about financial counseling. They had dreams of her bringing in her own clients and having the business grow larger and more prosperous than ever. She made a goal for herself—a goal to hire a secretary for them both.

They say love is blind, and he was more blinded by Veronica than ever a man should be. She cut her hair short and sophisticated—much the way Connie wore hers—threw away her cotton dresses for business suits, and got to know his clients' affairs as well, or better, than he did.

A few times he walked in unexpectedly to hear her talking cheerfully to one of them. He didn't question her, though, and pushed aside his suspicions, especially when she'd tell him how magnificent he was and that the luckiest day of her life was when he hired her.

He wanted to get married, practically begged her, but she refused. He didn't know why. Only much later did he learn she'd had lots of lovers, including several of his clients, like Dennis Pagozzi. Ironically, if she'd married him, he wouldn't have been able to testify against her.

It was his deposition that had caused her to plead guilty and bargain her way down to a three-year prison term, with five additional years of probation. The case never went to trial.

He'd been furious. Three years was a slap on the wrist for what she'd done to him, to his business and reputation. To his heart. He'd loved her with a passion and intensity he'd never felt for anyone before and hadn't felt since. The day he realized she'd betrayed him was the day he'd lost interest in life, along with his faith and self-respect.

Although she was the embezzler, and he wasn't criminally guilty, since she'd been in his employ, civil lawsuits against him were very real. At first, he'd cared about his clients, even though they were so rich their losses wouldn't have mattered that much. Hell, with the tax write-off it gave them, they might have made a profit, for all he knew. But instead of showing
him support or understanding, they sued him. They ruined him. He would have worked hard for them, too, had they not been like sharks at a feeding frenzy, taking all they could, destroying any sense of regret, obligation, or even basic humanity he felt for them.

Everything he'd worked for, everything he owned, went to pay his lawyers and pay off the clients. He'd been insured, but what he owed was far more than the insurance and much more than he had saved, so a lien was placed against his future earnings as well. Since his capital would be taken away from him the minute he amassed any, he soon realized he would never be able to build up his assets. He was, in a word, screwed.

A few of his clients, like Pagozzi, stuck by him for a while, but he was changed. Long before the creditors lined up at his door, long before the last of his clients took their business elsewhere, he'd ceased to care. Some days, he would find oblivion in a liquor bottle so that he didn't have to wonder why she'd done it, and if she'd lied about everything. For months after the betrayal, he would wake up out of a nightmare with her name on his tongue and tears in his eyes. He hated her then as he hated her now. It was the only honest emotion he'd felt for the past three years.

The life he'd known, his business, his love, were gone, all destroyed by the woman on the telephone.

And damn it, as much as he wanted to kill her, he also wanted to see her again.

“If you don't have the money,” he asked, “where is it?”

“I didn't say that, exactly. In fact, that's what I want to talk to you about.”

“I'm ready.”

“Good. Let's meet at Ghirardelli Square, under the
clock tower. Be there at three o'clock, and no funny business.”

“That's a great one, coming from you.”

“It's
perfect,
coming from me. And…I suggest you don't tell your new girlfriend anything about this. I'd hate to fill her in on what you're really like. It could ruin a good thing for you, don't you think?”

He hung up the phone, hating her even more than he thought possible.

Was she referring to Connie? How could she possibly know anything about Connie? Maybe it was just a stab in the dark.

He hurried out of Wings and dashed along the city streets to Ghirardelli Square. He'd be early, but that was okay. He wanted to be sure he saw Veronica before she saw him, just to get ready to face her again.

He didn't want her spooked, didn't want her to do anything other than trust him and talk to him about where she'd put his damned money!

He wanted it back for himself. He wanted enough to live somewhere that wasn't squalor. He deserved that. Didn't he? Well, didn't he?

He also wanted to know why Veronica had contacted Pagozzi when she got out of jail. What did they mean to each other?

Suddenly, he staggered as a completely new thought struck him.

Was it mere chance that Veronica had walked into his office when he needed clerical help three years ago, or had something else been going on between her and Pagozzi even then?

 

Paavo tried to bury himself behind his computer and ignore the chaos going on around him as Elizabeth and Bo Benson made lattes and cappuccinos for Hom
icide, Robbery, and any other inspector who wandered into room 450, following their noses and the aroma of good, strong espresso. Angie had rented an espresso machine and sent it over, along with biscotti and cannoli, as afternoon coffee-break treats.

“Inspector Smith.”

Paavo started at the sound of Lt. Hollins's voice. Hollins was the head of Homicide. Age fifty-plus, gray-haired, heavyset, and usually found holding or chewing on an unlit cigar. Right now, his tone was harsh and his expression a severe frown. And he never used his men's title unless there was a problem.

Paavo jumped to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

“Come into my office.” He marched off, and Paavo followed.

The office was no more than a partitioned section in the corner of the bureau. For several years, the lieutenant had been promised a real office, but whenever he'd get one, the mayor would create a new commissioner or department, and the boss—usually a friend—would, of course, need his own office. People would be juggled around to accommodate the political appointee, and Hollins would be booted out of his new office, the supposedly temporary partitions put back in Homicide.

“Have a seat,” Hollins said.

Paavo sat down.

“I don't know quite how to put this.” Hollins didn't sit, but walked around the little space, then stopped in front of the window. “I appreciate that you've just gotten engaged, and that your fiancée is thrilled by it, and she has money…but she's going too far.”

“She is?”

“Nothing's getting done. The inspectors are all hanging around the office waiting for their daily deliv
ery of food rations.” Hollins's face began to redden. “Is this an office or a soup kitchen? The problem is, the food she's sending is great. I can't pass it up either. It's delicious, and fattening. I've gained five pounds just this week!” Each word was more agitated than the last. “I can't keep this up. I won't be able to fit into my clothes. My wife is wondering why I don't eat much dinner anymore. She thinks I'm stepping out on her or something. I can't take it!”

“I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“Stop her!”

Paavo kept silent. He'd have more luck locating Jimmy Hoffa. He wondered grimly what would happen when the lieutenant found out Angie had matchmaking plans for his fellow cops as well.

“You don't understand temptation!” Hollins cried. “That's what's going on. Many of us, er, them, are weak around such temptation. Especially the pizza.” His eyes rolled heavenward. Instead of agony or anger, he almost seemed to be in bliss. “And the Italian deli foods—the coppa, galantina, Gorgonzola, pepperoncini—”

“I understand, sir,” Paavo said, standing. “I'll talk to Angie soon.”

“The caponata, dry olives, bruschetta.” Hollins raised his handkerchief to the corner of his mouth, aware that he was starting to drool. He blinked, forcing himself back to the task at hand. “Good, Smith. I expect you to take care of it.”

Paavo hurried out of the office and back to his desk.