If Cooks Could Kill (17 page)

The San Francisco District Attorney's office was located on the third floor of the Hall of Justice, right below Homicide. The DA had a walnut-furnished office to the right of the reception area, and the assistant DAs—the ones who handled ninety-nine percent of the casework—were in a cubicle-lined room to the left.

The Zakarian robbery and Janet Clark murder case had been assigned to Assistant DA Hanover Judd.

Paavo had worked with Judd on many occasions and knew him to be a hard-nosed by-the-book guy. File folders, message slips, briefs, and a half-eaten bagel with cream cheese cluttered his desktop. After shared greetings, Paavo said, “I'm here to talk to you about Connie Rogers.”

Judd offered a chair. He didn't answer right away. Handsome, ambitious, and in his early thirties, a few years out of Hastings Law School, he was cautious to a fault, seeing the DA's office as his most promising route to a political career. “We'll be pressing charges for the Zakarian robbery. I assume you'd like to add in the murder of the young courier as well. You weren't
thinking special circumstances, were you? To go after a woman with the death penalty—”

“I'm asking that you take a little time before you indict her on anything,” Paavo said. Judd put his pen down on the desk and regarded Paavo as if he'd lost his mind. “I know Connie Rogers. I have no idea, yet, what's going on here, but there's no way she could have been involved.”

Judd tapped his fingers and Paavo noted his suspicious look. “Sounds like some guy took part as well,” Judd offered. “Maybe he masterminded it and she just went along. An accessory to murder, though, is equally guilty.”

“Did Robbery find any diamonds in her apartment?” Paavo asked.

Judd's face closed, but meeting Paavo's direct look, he relented. “No. But she could easily have stashed them somewhere else. Or the guy got to them before we did.”

“The jeweler's identification was weak,” Paavo added. He was only guessing, but based on past experience, it was true in about two-thirds of the cases. “He ‘thought' she looked a lot like the robber, but he couldn't say positively, right?” When Judd didn't protest, he added, “Something about her face bothered him.”

Judd didn't deny it. They were both old hands at this, and there was little need for subterfuge or mind games. “What do you expect? Zakarian has a slight concussion from where she clobbered him. Plus he was under stress. And his vision isn't great.”

The identification sounded even weaker than Paavo had imagined. He pressed his point. “Connie Rogers is as clean as they come. She's never been involved in any crime. Probably not even a traffic ticket. I'll bet she
doesn't even fudge on her tax return. You're saying that someone like that committed murder and robbery?” Since Judd didn't stop him, he pulled out the big gun. “Someone whose own sister was murdered, by the way. Tiffany Rogers. You remember the case. It involved our very own former district attorney, Lloyd Fletcher.” Paavo watched the ADA's face turn gray.

“She's that sister?” Judd's voice cracked. He remembered the case. He should. It had rocked City Hall and San Francisco politics for months.

“That's right. It has no bearing on this case one way or the other, except for me to tell you that Connie is a law-abiding citizen. She certainly wouldn't stand around and let some boyfriend kill an innocent woman.”

“There's the phone call—”

“Called in anonymously. How much can you rely on it? A good lawyer could say it'd been called in to throw off a bunch of cops too eager to close a case.”

“But if so, he'd have to answer why Connie Rogers?” Judd mused. “There's got to be something going on there. Her name wouldn't have come out of a hat.”

“She looks like the real robber, obviously.”

“Hmm. Next thing I know you'll tell me the robber is a third sister. Or maybe Tiffany, come back from the dead. Look, Robbery had enough on her to bring her in.”

“I don't know what the connection is,” Paavo said. “I'm working on it. The courier's death is my case. I'll find out who killed her, but I don't want my investigation stalled or the whole case going off on the wrong track if you indict Rogers and only later learn it was a mistake. I'm here to stop you from ending up with egg on your face.”

Judd smirked. “Nice guy, aren't you?”

“We're on the same side in this.”

“I know. Hell. Let me think about it.”

Paavo wanted Connie out of jail. She was separated from the other prisoners, but ASU was no suite. The walls were padded, the toilet a hole in the floor, and the bed a block of concrete with a mattress on it. Instead of bars, the door was heavy steel with a peephole and a slot for food on the bottom. “She's not a threat to run, Judd. Let her go. She's innocent.”

Judd's secretary buzzed him, and he picked up the phone. “It's Robbery with some new information,” he explained to Paavo. “I'd better take it.”

Paavo waited, listening to Judd's “yeses” and “I sees.” Finally Judd hung up and cast a stony glare at Paavo.

“Well, well.” He rocked back in his chair, one foot up on the edge of his desk. “Robbery just got the security tapes from the Sutter Street garage. The tapes that Homicide had taken and were holding in connection with the courier's murder.”

Paavo just stared at him.

He dropped his foot and jumped to his feet. “Damn it, Paavo! How could you come here and plead for Rogers's innocence when you saw those tapes? You know they show Connie Rogers leading the jeweler away at gunpoint.”

 

“Paavo will get you out of here,” Angie said tearfully.

She sat at the visitor's chair on one side of a glass partition with Connie on the other, a small mouthpiece embedded in it for them to converse. This was much worse than the lawyer's meeting room, which had been fairly decent and in which Connie could freely move around. Here, armed guards watched them, and
Connie, her sweet friend who could never hurt anything, had been brought in wearing shackles.

“I hope so,” Connie said. Glassy-eyed, she appeared numb with shock.

“He's at the district attorney's office right now. It should be only a couple of hours.” Angie prayed her words would be prophetic.

Connie nodded glumly. She seemed to have aged ten years overnight. The jumpsuit hung from her shoulders as if she were no heavier than a scarecrow. “He believes I'm innocent, doesn't he? He looks so hard sometimes.”

“He knows you. He gets that stone face when on the job. Don't worry. We're going to find out who's behind this. That's the best way to clear your name.”

“If anyone can, it's you,” Connie whispered.

“Connie, I need you to be honest with me. From the description of the man involved, he sounds like Max Squire,” Angie said sternly. “I want to know what this is about. Who is he and what's going on between you two?”

Connie slumped in the chair, as if she could scarcely hold her head up. “There's nothing going on, not really. I thought he was a nice guy. Troubled. Interesting. What can I say?”

“You can say he's no good for you! You can tell Paavo about him!” Angie waved her arms in frustration. The guard noticed and stepped closer. “It's okay. I'm Italian.” She smiled demurely, then quickly sat on her hands. The guard didn't smile back.

“Do you think he pulled this robbery?” Angie continued.

“I'm sure he didn't,” Connie said.

“Why?”

“I know him, that's why!” Connie cried.

Angie lowered her voice. “Then tell me who he is. Why is he hiding? Why doesn't he have a job?”

Connie thought a moment, then told Angie everything she knew about Max, including the money he took from her and his reaction to the gunshot near Lake Merced just hours after the robbery and murder took place.

Angie couldn't believe what she was hearing. “He stole from you when you tried to help him, and later you saw him, scared and nervous, just hours after someone had been murdered, and you still don't believe he was involved?”

“He's hiding something, yes, but I don't think he committed those crimes,” Connie said, not sounding wholly convinced herself.

Angie sighed in exasperation. “The jeweler who was robbed identified Max as an accomplice of the woman who looked like you,” she repeated, and then firmly stated, “You've
got
to answer Paavo's questions about Max.”

Connie pressed her hands to her temples. “I'm so confused. None of this makes sense. He seemed troubled, as I said, but honest. A good man.”

“You could be wrong about him, Connie,” Angie urged.

Connie nodded, even more dejected. “Okay, I'll tell Paavo whatever he wants to know. But I still think Max is innocent.”

The guard moved closer. Visiting time was over.

 

When Paavo stepped off the elevator on the fourth floor of the Hall of Justice, Angie stood in the hallway waiting for him. She looked worried and scared and terribly sad. “There you are!” she cried. No kiss, no
flowers, no café lattes or French pastry. He almost wished them back.

She rushed toward him. “Where have you been? Can we get Connie out of here yet? I can't bear the thought of her having to spend another minute in that jail! It's so horrible, Paavo! I feel so bad for her.”

“Calm down.” He put his arm around her and drew her into the elevator. No sense taking her into Homicide with him. Not with the mood Lt. Hollins was in. “I was just talking to the ADA. He's not willing to let her go yet.”

“But he's going to, right?”

“Eventually. Because she's innocent.”

They left City Hall and went to her Mercedes.

“He doesn't believe it's simply mistaken identity? That Connie and the robber look a lot alike?”

“Not yet.”

“What can we do?” Angie stopped walking.

“One thing you can do is tell me who the man is that's supposedly involved. I hope your memory's improved over last night.”

Angie was taken aback by his harshness, then realized he was right. She nodded. “I talked to her. She's ready to answer your questions, but she insists he's as innocent as she is.”

He took her keys to unlock the car, then held open the door. “I'll go see her. I'm doing what I can, Angie. Just go home and don't worry. We'll get her out. I'll call you as soon as there's a break in the case.”

He kissed her hard and walked away.

Angie wasn't about to go home and bake cookies when her friend was in jail. She drove to Wings. Earl stood by the entry stand. “Earl, I've got to find Dennis's friend Max. Do you have any idea—”

Earl pointed toward a far corner. Max sat at a table
with piles of paper around him. “He's doin' our books. Tax time. Butch said he's good at dat stuff.”

“Thanks.” She marched past Earl and got in Squire's face. “All right, mister. You tell me what's going on, and I mean now.”

He stood. “Now? I don't…”

“Connie's been arrested,” she shrieked.

He sank back into the chair. “Arrested? For what?”

“Murder…and robbery.”

He looked dumbfounded. “Is this a joke?”

“I wish! She supposedly killed a female courier and then robbed a jewelry wholesaler, a little old man. She nearly killed him—she hit him on the head so hard she caused a concussion.”

“She…oh, my God!” He said nothing for a moment, then asked, “Why do they think Connie did it?”

Angie told him about the wholesaler's identification.

“Don't they realize there can be other women who look like that?”

“Who?” Angie asked, eying him closely.

“Well…anyone.”

“No,” Angie said. “You're thinking of someone in particular, aren't you?”

“I was just speaking in generalities,” he replied quickly.

“The jeweler said Connie had an accomplice—a man who fits your description exactly. Now, frankly, I don't think you'd be here shuffling papers if you'd just stolen a half million dollars in diamonds, but the police might not be so rational. Tell me what you know, work with me on freeing Connie, or I swear, I'll call them and tell them you're here.”

“An accomplice? Ah…now I see. It makes sense.” He was ashen, his hands shaking as he rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

“See what? What do you mean?” Angie was so frustrated she could have clubbed him with the receivables register.

“Give me time, Angie. I know who did it. I'll get Connie out of there.”

Angie was shocked. “You know? You were involved?”

“No, not me.” He shook his head.

“Why should I believe you?” she cried.

“Good question.” He slammed down his pencil and rushed out the door, leaving Angie gaping.

She spun toward Earl. “Have you ever talked to Butch about his nephew's friend?” Angie asked. “Did Dennis ever tell Butch why Max is so strange?”

“Butch don't talk to me,” Earl answered.

“What about Vinnie?”

“Vinnie had to go down to Chin…I mean, to da bank. Nobody knows nothin'.”

Another stall job, and she wasn't about to put up with it. “Well, Butch will talk to me.” She headed toward the kitchen.

“Stop! Miss Angie, you can't go in dere!” Earl's stubby legs pumped fast as he ran to the swinging double doors that led to the kitchen and hurled himself, arms stretched out wide, in front of them.

“Why?”

“Uh…da Board of Health says we can't let nobody in but da cook and da waiter.”

“I've been in a number of restaurant kitchens. Besides, who taught Butch how to cook half the items on the menu?”

“I know, an' we 'preciate you. But you still can't go in dere. Anyway, you're a customer!”

“Not now. Now I'm a consultant. Dennis has asked for my help, you may recall. I suggest you let me in
there, or I'll help him expand this place to the size of Candlestick Park!”