If Cooks Could Kill (16 page)

Angie spent a good part of the morning watching for the mail truck. When she saw it, she raced down to the third floor, grabbed her neighbor, a sweet though gawky and timid thirty-year-old, and almost bodily dragged her down to the foyer. The girl needed help.
Angie
kind of help.

Just yesterday she'd been chatting with the mailman and learned the handsome young fellow was not only going to San Francisco State at night, but was also single and unattached. Well, it didn't have to jump up and bite her for Angie to know a match made in heaven.

The elevator doors opened as the mailman finished depositing letters into the bank of boxes.

“Hello, Tim!” Angie cried, tugging her neighbor along beside her. “Wait a sec. I'd like you to meet Samantha McGregor. Samantha, Timothy Collins.” Angie beamed from one to the other. “Timothy is studying landscape design and Samantha is a master gardener. Since you're both single”—she gave a pointed
ahem
—“I thought I should introduce you two.”

As she smiled, they spoke pleasantries to each other,
including a little botanical shoptalk. Almost immediately, though, Timothy caught Angie's eye. “I don't want to mislead anyone here,” he said, “but the fact of the matter is, I'm gay.”

“In that case,” Angie said, not missing a beat, “I should introduce you to Frank up on six. He works for the city's Recreation and Park Department.”

 

Connie kept one eye firmly fixed on the door to her shop, wondering if Max would show up, and then wondering why she cared. She'd scarcely slept last night after his nervousness at Lake Merced and his frightening words about some woman possibly wanting to shoot him. Or her. It was as if she'd found herself part of the cast of some horror movie. Zombies at Lake Merced or something. What was with him?

In the light of day, however, she decided he was just being melodramatic. No one was after her, and if Max was in trouble with a woman, that was
his
problem. The less she heard from him, the better off she'd be.

Still, she had to admit, two nights ago at her house, and even yesterday, during dinner, before it had all catapulted into the Twilight Zone, she'd enjoyed his company more than any man she'd met in a long, long time. He was, of all things, a good listener. Sometimes, just having someone listen with no criticism and no advice was of more benefit than all the well-intentioned suggestions in the world.

Curiosity caused her to call another stockbroker. To her amazement, Geostar Biotechnologies was now selling at six dollars a share, a three-hundred-percent increase over the last report.

If she'd put two hundred dollars into Max's recommendation two days earlier, she'd have six hundred now. As she contemplated how many porcelain fig
urines she'd have to sell to make four hundred dollars, she felt a little queasy.

How could he have known the stock would soar that way?

Helen Melinger stuck her head in the door. “I'm closing up early today. Got a crick in my shoulder, can't get nothing done. If anyone comes by upset, just tell them to keep their shirt on, and I'll be back tomorrow.” She looked from one end of the shop to the other.

“What are you looking for?” Connie asked.

“Want to make sure Angie's not here with any more male friends. The last one should have been pinned like a bug on a display board.”

Connie grinned. “Stan's not really so bad.”

“Not if you like someone with the personality of kitty litter. Anyway, I noticed your sister hanging around,” Helen added. “That must be nice for you.”

Thoughts of Tiffany rocked Connie. “What are you saying? My sister is dead.”

“I'm so sorry!” Helen looked abashed. “She looks so much like you, I'd assumed…a cousin, maybe?”

“I don't have any cousins, either.”

“Hmm. Well, whoever she was, she looks enough like you to have fooled me. Like I said, I'm out of here. Stay cool.”

“So long, Helen.”

The door chimed throughout the day as more customers than she'd seen in ages came in. But Max wasn't one of them.

 

Paavo couldn't take much more of this.

Angie varied the time of what was becoming her daily food contribution to the SFPD Homicide Divi
sion. Today, it was afternoon—around break time.

Now, as he and Yosh returned to Homicide from testifying in court, the bureau was empty. On the desk at the front of the room stood an open pastry box and a cake box.

Both had been picked clean. Yosh scoured each one, as if hoping a piece of napoleon had been stuck under the lid or in the folds. No such luck.

Paavo looked around for Lt. Hollins and was relieved when he didn't see him. He quickly broke down the boxes, making them as small as he could and stuffing them into a wastebasket. If Hollins hadn't spotted them, maybe no harm done. Or, less harm.

While Yosh made a fresh pot of coffee, Paavo returned to his desk. On it was a thin slice of Italian rum cake. He pushed it aside as he picked up a message from the Robbery detail.

The counterfeit autographed sporting goods they'd found matched items Robbery had gotten complaints about from people who'd been scammed. They'd been able to lift some prints off the boxes and would soon go after whoever was behind it.

“Good news,” Paavo said, giving a quick rundown as Yosh headed for his own desk. He realized that not only was Yosh paying little attention, but that his head had bobbed from his desk to Paavo's at least three times. No Italian rum cake graced his desk.

Yosh, who loved sweets more than anyone he knew—except maybe Angie's neighbor Stan—looked so crestfallen Paavo wouldn't have been surprised to see tears start to roll down the big man's cheeks. “You take it, Yosh,” he said, handing Yosh a plastic fork and the cake, which had been placed on a napkin.

“No, Paav,” Yosh said with forced dignity, raising
his hands so Paavo couldn't hand him the cake. “It's your engagement. She sent the cake to you. Gee, I wonder what else she sent.”

“I'm too full to eat any cake now.” Paavo placed the slice down on Yosh's desk. “It's got cream; it won't keep. Enjoy it.”

“You sure?” Yosh asked, his eyes bright.

“Positive.”

Paavo was relieved of any more argument when a call came in. A young woman had been killed, her partially clad body found in a van in the basement garage of an office building on Sutter Street.

Earlier that day, Zakarian's, a jewelry shop in the building, had been robbed. No one knew yet what the connection was.

 

Connie hurried home from Everyone's Fancy, glad to be there. All afternoon she'd felt a strange nervousness in her stomach, a prickling on her neck, as if just waiting for something terrible to happen. A couple of times she thought someone was watching her. Thank God, no phantom stalker came in search of porcelain figurines or stuffed toys.

She locked the apartment door, checking the deadbolt to make sure it was strong and secure. Damn that Max Squire! He'd done this to her with his creepy ways. Why did she have to get involved with him, anyway?

At least she'd had the good sense not to let it go too far. A couple of times, she'd been tempted. But common sense had prevailed.

For dinner, she dished out a big bowl of Safeway's own cherry-vanilla ice cream. Too much common sense was no fun.

She curled up in front of the TV and watched
Friends
, to which she paid scant attention, while scarfing down the ice cream with Oreo chasers, which she barely tasted.

Her mind wouldn't let go of Max. He was making her crazy. If she didn't watch out, she might become as insane as he was, then what would she do?

On an impulse, she went to the window and looked out. But there was nothing out there in the dark. She sighed and turned back to the couch.

That was when she realized that one of her best dolls, one with a hand-painted porcelain face and that was fairly old, from the 1940s or so, wasn't on the shelf near the front door. What had happened to it?

She remembered showing Max some of the oldest and most intricate of them, but she thought she'd put them all back where they belonged, or close to it. He couldn't possibly have—

A loud knock sounded at her door. That was strange, because normally she had to buzz people in.

Her heart pounded as she stepped slowly toward the door. “Yes?” she called, praying the deadbolt was as secure as she believed.

“Connie? Open up. It's me—Mrs. Rosinsky.”

She recognized her landlady's voice and, relieved, unlocked the door.

Her landlady huddled off to one side, and two uniformed policemen stood in front of her. “Connie Rogers?” one asked, to her surprise.

Surprise immediately turned to fear as thoughts of all the horrible things that could possibly have happened to someone she was close to assailed her. Her mouth dry, she said, “Yes.”

“You have the right to remain silent…”

Angie raced along beside Paavo as they entered City Jail, Connie's panic-stricken phone call still playing in her mind. The jail shared a parking lot with the Hall of Justice, whose back door was near the jail's front entrance. “I just hope my father's attorney has already been able to bail Connie out,” Angie said, huffing a little as she kept pace with Paavo's long-legged strides. “What in the world is going on?”

“We'll know soon enough.” Paavo showed his ID to get past the night guard, then they rode the elevator up to the jails. He quickly located the clerk for the night magistrate.

“She's here,” the clerk said, checking his logs. “In fact, if you hurry, you'll catch her in a lineup in 7-C.”

“A lineup!” Angie glared at Paavo as if it were his fault. “What are they trying to do to her? Let's get her out of here.”

“I'll run down the arresting officer. We'll know more in a while.” He'd been in the field with Yosh investigating the murder of twenty-four-year-old Janet Clark, who had worked for Couriers Unlimited, when the message had come in that Angie needed to talk to him
immediately. He left Yosh on the scene to help Angie find out exactly why Connie had been arrested. Angie's version from Connie was muddled, to put it mildly.

“I want to see this lineup.” Angie whirled on the clerk. “Which way is 7-C?”

He pointed toward the right, down a long hall.

“Angie, why don't you wait here?” Paavo suggested, ushering her toward one of the benches lining the hallway.

“No!” She dug her heels in. “Connie's my friend and I want to know why the police arrested her. It just doesn't make sense.”

Paavo led her close to the room where the lineup was being held and found her a seat, explaining that she couldn't go inside. He could, and would let her know all about it.

She didn't like it, but there was nothing she could do.

Paavo had turned to enter 7-C when Robbery Inspector Vic Walters stepped out. He looked at Paavo, and a smug expression crossed his face. “Hey, you Homicide boys are fast. Guess you heard we might have solved your case for you.”

That wasn't what Paavo was expecting. “My case? What do you mean?”

“The courier. Hold on a minute.” Walters began to make a call on his cell phone.

A sick feeling gripped Paavo at Walters's words. A thought struck him, but it was impossible. “I'm going into the lineup,” he said.

“It's ended. Just a sec.” Walters quietly said a few words into the phone. As he spoke, they stepped aside as a man in his sixties or so, with a thick gauze bandage on one side of his head, was led out of the lineup room, accompanied by a robbery inspector and a uni
formed cop. As soon as the door opened, Angie was on her feet in search of Connie, trying to see around the men leaving the room.

“That old guy isn't Isaac Zakarian, is he?” Paavo asked.

“He sure is.”

His impossible idea was beginning to look more probable. “And the lineup was for him to identify the woman who stole his diamonds?”

“You Homicide boys sure are smart,” Vic said.

“What makes you think the woman you arrested is the right one?”

Vic pushed back the sides of his jacket and put his hands on his hips, his chest puffed up like a peacock's. “Other than the fact that Zakarian made a positive ID right now, you mean? She killed the courier, dressed up in the courier's clothes, and stole half a million worth of diamonds.”

“Impossible!” came a furious shout behind them. “Connie's no murderer!”

They spun around as Angie stormed toward them. “She's no thief, either! Anyone with half a brain can see that! What's wrong with you?”

Vic raised his eyebrows at the angry woman. “This must be your fiancée,” he said. “I've heard a lot about her.”

“Yes. Angie, this is Vic Walters, Robbery. Vic, meet Angie.” As the two shook hands, Paavo couldn't help but think how incongruous it was to be introducing Angie to a peer as his fiancée, while her best friend was being charged not only with a robbery she didn't commit, but possibly of a murder he was investigating.

“Connie Rogers is my dearest friend,” Angie explained to Walters, visibly trying to calm herself. “This has got to be some horrible mistake!”

“I'm sorry.” Vic's expression said he'd heard that one before. “But if the lineup confirms our case…”

“Angie's right,” Paavo said coldly. “Connie doesn't have it in her to do any of this.”

“There's a man involved,” Vic said out of one side of his mouth, angling his shoulder to try to cut Angie out of the conversation. “You know how nutso some dames get around a guy. She might be one of them.”

“No way!” Angie said, once again proving how sharp her hearing was. “Not my friend.” She was so annoyed she was practically hopping.

“Who's the guy?” Paavo asked.

“The jeweler called it. Six-one or-two, a hundred eighty or so, sandy hair, longish, curly, said his eyes seemed ‘dark,' but he was too faraway to see their color. His clothes apparently seemed pretty grubby—jeans and an old black overcoat.”

Paavo turned to Angie. “Does Connie know anyone like that?”

She paled, and then shook her head. More subdued now, she slid closer to Paavo as if for protection. “Let's talk to Connie, see what she says.”

Paavo's eyes narrowed, but he turned back to Vic. “How bad is it?”

“Looks cut and dried to me.”

“You know how unreliable eyewitnesses are. Any evidence?”

“We're sending a team over to search her place right now for the diamonds. Half a mil worth.”

“You have people going through Connie's things?” Angie shrieked. “And she's not even there to watch them? Paavo, you've got to stop them! What if they break something? Or steal it?”

“Angie, they're cops,” Paavo said with a you've-just-gone-too-far warning tone to his voice.

“I don't care who they are! She has rights. Cops can't just go barging into her place and—”

“We got our search warrant approved when Zakarian ID'd her. That was the call I made,” Vic explained.

“You did?” Angie quieted down considerably.

“How did you know to search her place?” Paavo asked.

“A phone tip. Anonymous, from a phone booth downtown, next to Union Square. They gave us the apartment to go to, said we'd find the robber, her lover, and the diamonds there. So far, we haven't found the stones or Casanova.”

“So you've got nothing but some anonymous call and an old man who probably has a concussion,” Paavo said. He didn't need to add what a good defense attorney would do with this.

“He was with the woman,” Walters pointed out.

“And also scared to death.”

“He doesn't seem like the type who'd say a thing and not mean it.”

“You're talking five hundred thousand in diamonds. That can be pretty convincing.”

Walters shrugged. “Maybe we've got something else, besides.” With a Cheshire cat smile, he walked away.

Angie and Paavo went in search of the lawyer Angie had contacted after receiving Connie's desperate phone call. They found him talking with the Robbery inspectors. When he noticed Angie, his expression mirrored the grimness of Connie's situation.

Luciano Matteo had often worked for Angie's father and had known her from the time she was a little girl. He was a meticulous dresser, even at nearly eleven o'-clock at night, and his suit showed no wrinkles, his shoes were glossy, and his shirt fresh and starched. A
fringe of black hair surrounded a bald crown, and he had a narrow Hitleresque mustache. As soon as he finished with the police, he held his arms out to her and they hugged. She introduced him to Paavo. “I'm so sorry this is happening to such a nice young lady as your friend,” Matteo said.

“Can you get her out of here?” Angie asked, worried. She read the answer on his face and her stomach sank.

“There will be an arraignment soon, but until then, there's no bail. I'm frankly out of my league here. I do corporate and family law—civil cases—people suing each other, that kind of thing. She needs a good criminal lawyer. I have some people I can recommend.”

“This case isn't going to be over quickly, then?” Angie asked.

He shook his head sadly. “Not without a break. Let's go see Connie. She'll be happy you're here.”

Angie waited while Matteo and Paavo signed her in with them to the attorney's visiting room. Connie had already been made to change into an oversized prisoner's orange jumpsuit and paper slippers. With no makeup, she looked pale, confused, and frightened. When she saw Angie, she flew into her arms with a sob. Angie's eyes teared up as well.

“I don't understand any of this,” Connie said as they hugged. After a moment, she backed away and turned to Mr. Matteo. “Can I go home yet?”

His gaze was gentle. “The jeweler said you robbed him.”

Angie was holding her hand, and Connie nearly crushed her fingers at this news. “How can he do that? I was at work!” she searched their faces, bewildered. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

“Let's all sit down,” Matteo said, “and discuss this calmly.”

Except for a wooden table and four chairs, the beige-colored room was bare. Wired glass faced the hallway, allowing the guard to view everything that happened inside.

“Since she's got to spend the night here,” Paavo said, “you need to request that she be put in the ASU.”

Matteo nodded. “Right. I do know about that, at least.”

“ASU?” Angie asked.

“Administrative Segregation Unit. Isolation. It's not great, but it'll keep her away from the general population. It's for her protection.”

Connie and Angie both blanched and scooted closer together.

At the lawyer's tacit consent, Paavo asked Connie, “Do you have proof you were working yesterday afternoon between one and three
P.M
.?”

“Yesterday? Today I had a lot of customers, but yesterday…The store was open. I was in it,” Connie said helplessly.

“Did anyone see you there? Any customers who could testify for you, if necessary.”

“What about later? Around six o'clock, does that help?”

Paavo shook his head.

She thought a moment. “Anyone walking by could have seen the
OPEN
sign on the door.”

“What about Helen Melinger?” Angie asked. “Did you have the door open? Did you talk to her?”

“Actually, the door was shut. The heating system isn't working well, and I was freezing.”

“Connie, how many times have I told you that you need to make your shop inviting for people to walk into?” Angie cried.

Connie looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. “And
find me sitting there blue with my teeth chattering? I don't think so!”

“Now isn't the time for this,” Paavo interrupted. “What about the phone? Did you make any phone calls?”

Connie nervously flexed her fingers. “Between one and three? I doubt it.”

“E-mails?” he asked.

“I don't have a computer in the store.”

“How can you run a business without a computer to help with inventory?” Angie put her hands to her head in frustration.

“People have been doing inventory for centuries without them, and so do I!” Connie was growing more hysterical with each question she couldn't answer. “Anyway, what good would a computerized inventory do now?”

Angie rolled her eyes. Paavo frowned at her to keep quiet.

“What about this fellow who was supposed to be with you in this?” Mr. Matteo asked.

“Why do they keep asking me about—” Connie abruptly shut her mouth.

“About who?” Paavo asked.

Connie faced Angie, her eyes wide. Angie faintly shook her head. “No one,” Connie said.

“Do you know what's going on, Angie?” Paavo asked, his jaw tight.

Angie stared at Connie, desperate for her to say something. She didn't. Angie glanced at Paavo. “How could I know?”

He faced the attorney. “Miss Amalfi seems to have lapses of memory at times.”

“Yes.” Matteo stroked his mustache. “It runs in the family, I'm sorry to say.”

“You need to think twice before protecting anyone, Connie,” Paavo warned, “because in the course of the robbery, the female courier was killed.”

“Killed? You mean I could be up for murder?” Connie's voice rose so high she could have broken the sound barrier. She looked ready to pass out. Angie jumped up and pushed Connie so that she was bending forward, her head between her legs.

“I didn't tell my client that part of the proceedings yet.” Matteo sighed. “She was already so upset, I didn't think it would help matters any if she fainted.”

Paavo was not so sympathetic. Both Connie and Angie were hiding something. They had to know how serious this was. “She had to find out sometime.”

“I suppose she did,” Matteo responded, eying Paavo with new respect.

At this point, Connie was crying harder than ever, and Angie burst into tears with her. The two men escaped.

Once outside, they stood in the hallway in mutual sympathy. The nature of the charges against Connie Rogers meant that if she were convicted, she'd spend the rest of her life in jail. The only thing Paavo was sure of was that she was innocent. Angie wasn't wrong there.

“There's nothing we can do tonight,” Paavo said. “I'll talk to the DA first thing in the morning.”

“Then?” Matteo asked with some professional curiosity.

Paavo looked at the closed door of the waiting room. “Then, I'm going to take apart the case point by point, and find out who really stole the diamonds and killed the courier.”