If Cooks Could Kill (18 page)

He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I'll tell you da trut'. Dere's a problem.”

“Do tell!”

“We got a couple cockroaches, and Butch put powder all around to kill 'em. He don't want nobody to see what's going on. Not even you. I'm sorry.”

She put her hand to her throat. “Cockroaches? In the kitchen?”

“Shhh! He just saw a couple, so he's acting real fast. He's standin' dere wit' a can of Raid, and if he sees one, he shoots it. Bam! We don't want 'em to tell deir buddies to come over. An' you don't wanna see dem layin' on deir backs, wigglin' deir little legs in da air, an' strugglin' with deir last breaths.”

Her mouth curled in disgust. “This is the truth?”

“Miss Angie, would I lie?”

“Then ask Butch to come out here and talk to me. It's about Connie. She's been arrested, and I've got to help get her out.”

“Miss Connie? Arrested? Wait here.”

He was back in a minute. “Butch is gone. He put all da pots on simmer and took off.”

Paavo lived in a bungalow in San Francisco's Richmond district, a neighborhood of small middle-class homes, not too far from Ocean Beach, but without the ocean view that would have raised the prices of the homes even higher than inflation and lack of expansion space in San Francisco had already done.

Paavo had bought his house some years earlier, when the economy took a slight dip, and he could afford it. It was also affordable because it consisted of only three rooms and one bathroom, needed work—much of which he did on his own—and didn't have a garage, which wasn't too bad, since neither rain nor snow nor sleet nor hail could do any more damage to his Austin Healey than old age had already done to it. Nevertheless, he loved the house. So did Angie.

To an extent.

Angie's biggest concern about their marriage was where they were going to live. She wouldn't be able to fit her clothes into Paavo's place, let alone anything else she owned.

They had time; they'd work it out…somehow. He had a good-sized backyard. The house could always
be expanded into it. Or, have an entire second floor added. Or possibly raise it to fit in a garage and basement room or two. Or do all three.

Angie sat and watched while he chopped and stirred and seasoned. She offered suggestions when he wasn't sure about the instruction in the recipe. It was hard to concentrate on food, though, when Connie was still in jail.

Paavo was cooking a Finnish dish for her called Karelian Hot Pot. It was a simple stew made with equal parts chuck steak, pork shoulder, and stewing lamb, onions, salt, and allspice. Since discovering that he actually was part Finnish, Paavo had been learning all he could about his heritage. Aulis Kokkonen, the man who'd raised him and whom he regarded as his father even though Aulis wasn't a blood relation, told many stories about Finland, Finnish history and legends. Paavo now wished he'd paid more attention to those stories as a boy instead of doing the usual kid's stunt of tuning him out, thinking Aulis was dull and that Finland was “totally uncool.”

Paavo was a good cook in that he could follow a recipe with the diligence of Jonas Salk developing the polio vaccine. Angie didn't tell him that the recipe he struggled with was about as simple as any she'd ever seen. Since he was preparing the main course, she volunteered to make a Caesar salad and a Finnish dessert. After much searching, she found one, a kind of cheesecake that was more spicy than sweet—the manly dessert, according to Connie's ex. The crust was made with dry breadcrumbs and butter, and the custard in the center was a mixture of flour, cottage cheese, and eggs, seasoned with brown sugar, cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, butter, and orange and lemon rind.
She made the cake while Paavo worked on his stew.

As he cooked, he began talking about Connie's situation. Hearing her friend referred to as a “case” infuriated her. Hot tears of anger and frustration that the system she believed in could be making such a horrible mistake sprang to her eyes, and it took all her willpower to compose herself again.

He told her that surveillance cameras had shown the courier being hit by a figure wearing gloves and a black sweatshirt with a hood. It could have been a man or a woman. She was dragged into the van where the police later found her.

A bit later, a woman wearing the courier's uniform—who, in fact, did look a lot like Connie—left the van for the elevator bank. She kept her face averted so that none of the pictures were terribly clear, and none straight on. A minute later, two men, one thin, the other fat, got out of the van. Both wore gloves and hooded sweatshirts and kept their faces down.

Suddenly, the Connie look-alike reappeared, pushing a scared, panting Isaac Zakarian to his car. He drove away in obvious panic.

The van had been stolen that very day. It was a maze of fingerprints, but the only ones they could identify belonged to the owner and the dead courier.

Finally, Paavo placed the Karelian casserole in the oven. His work done, he put his arms around Angie, studying her face and the unshed tears he saw there. “Relax, Angel. We'll get her out. She's innocent. There's no way they could prove otherwise.”

She shut her eyes and leaned into him. As much as she wanted to enjoy the comfort he offered, all she could think about was the fear and loneliness Connie was enduring at that same moment.

 

Veronica walked toward Wings of an Angel. She was feeling good. Connie Rogers hadn't shown up at work that day. A little birdie told Veronica why. Now, all she had to do was get the police off their fat asses to arrest Max. If he was at Wings, she'd call them now; if not, she'd watch the homeless shelter where he'd been staying. They could pick him up there.

Footsteps were fast approaching. She turned but saw no one behind her. Odd.

She kept going, suddenly irritated when she thought of the stupid cops who hadn't managed to pick up Fernandez or Julius. Robbers and murderers at the scene of the crime—and they just let them walk away. What idiots!

Now, she had those two losers to worry about. But she could handle them. No problem.

She heard the footsteps again. Stepping into a doorway, she reached into her purse and clutched her gun. The street was empty.

Nerves. That's all it was. Maybe because of El Toro, or one of the others…out there…looking for her.

Or maybe because of the courier. When she'd put the woman's uniform on, it was still warm from her body. She hadn't known Julius would kill her like that. Tying her up should have been enough…

She shook away the image and proceeded down the block. Some cars went by, but no other pedestrians were near. This wasn't a touristy area, but usually someone was out walking.

She concentrated on her situation. Dennis was the one who bothered her. She had to come up with a way to—

From the corner of her eye she saw a hand reach for
her. She spun around fast, and he ended up with only the strap of her shoulder bag.

“You!” she yelled, jerking on it. He didn't let go and the bag flipped over, the clasp opening and the contents falling to the sidewalk.

She fell to her knees and lunged, but he was faster. In one quick movement, he picked up the Smith and Wesson and pointed it at her.

Drawing herself to her feet, she saw the cold, icy fury in his eyes. “You can't be serious,” she said. She glanced from side to side, thinking that he would back off if she could get someone to notice them, but the streets were empty. Even the cars seemed to have vanished. Her heart pounded, and her throat went dry. “Put it down!”

He slowly neared, and she backed up, scared now. “Hey, let's talk about it, okay?” She tried to modulate her voice, make it low and husky, the way he liked it. “I know you're disappointed. In me. Us. We can fix that.”

She looked around, searching for some means of escape. Behind her was an alley and what looked like an open door at the bottom of a flight of stairs. She needed to get down there, shut the door, and lock it. She could do it.

“Talk to me,” she said. “We were always able to talk.” As she began stepping backward, he followed.

He was blinking fast, and tears filled his eyes. A cold certainly descended on her. He was going to kill her. “You wouldn't do this to me. Not to me,” she whispered.

Her hand touched the railing that ran along the steps to the basement door. She grabbed it and spun around, starting to run.

He fired, and fired again, even after she fell.

 

The phone rang in the darkened bedroom. Angie unwrapped her arms from Paavo's chest and rolled to one side as he sat up. “Hello.”

He glanced at Angie. “It's okay, Rebecca. What's up?”

Angie raked her fingers through her hair and fluffed it as she listened. Why was the homicide inspector calling Paavo?

Whatever it was, the shocked look on Paavo's face made Angie's blood run cold. Quietly he hung up the phone.

“What is it?” she asked, imagining the worst.

“Probably just a false alarm, but I've got to go.” He got out of bed and stepped into briefs—Angie once gave him black silk Tommy Hilfigers, but he was a white cotton Hanes man and nothing else—and then his trousers. “If all goes well, I'll be back in an hour. If not, I'll give you a call.”

“You have to go?”

“Yes.” He shrugged on a shirt.

“But what about the dinner you worked so hard to prepare?” Angie protested.

He picked up his shoes and socks, padded out to the kitchen, and faced the stove. “How do you put this thing on pause?”

 

Paavo hurried into the morgue on the bottom floor of the Hall of Justice. He didn't want to tell Angie why he'd been called here until he was certain about the information Rebecca had given him.

He knew Connie's lawyer had been working on getting her bail since receiving the bad news after his talk with Judd. That was why the story might be true. And that was why a part of him believed Rebecca when she called to tell him the victim of a shooting—the dead
woman with no identification on her—was Connie Rogers.

He could have just called the jail, gone through a lengthy rigamarole, and found out if Connie was still there. But he didn't want Angie asking questions. Also, if the victim wasn't Connie, he wanted to see her for himself. Something about a spate of Connie clones in the city just didn't sit well.

If his worst fear was true, however, he'd return to Angie immediately. He didn't want her to hear it on the news or to be alone at such a time.

Rebecca saw him and waved him over. “Thanks for coming by. I hope I'm wrong, but you need to see this.”

He nodded.

“She was still alive but unconscious when the cops found her. The paramedics reached her, but she died on the way to the hospital, so they came here. She'd been shot in the back and shoulder.”

The body lay on a gurney awaiting autopsy, covered by a plastic sheet.

As Rebecca glanced at Paavo, she gripped the edge of the sheet, and slowly, carefully slid it back.

Paavo's heart nearly stopped when he saw the short, blond hair. “Good God!”

The face was slack and colorless in death. “I see I was right in calling you,” Rebecca said. “Is she Angie's friend?”

He looked at the jawline, the shape of the brow, and let out the breath he'd been holding. The victim wasn't Connie, but someone who bore an unsettling resemblance to her. “It's not her.”

“Thank God!” Rebecca answered, also sighing in relief. “We've got her prints. If they're on record, we should have a match soon.”

The woman's clothes were askew, some blood was
on her fingers, and her knees were scraped. “Any evidence?” he asked.

“Nothing much. The CSI has already bagged what they could. The only strange thing was in her hand. It might be a factor, though it could be just trash found on the street, and she clawed at it just by chance.”

“What was it?” Paavo asked.

“A matchbook. It was from a restaurant I've never heard of.”

“Do you remember the name?”

“Sure. A weird name for a restaurant, frankly. Bill Sutter said it reminded him of an old, old song about prisoners wanting to escape. I don't know if you've ever heard it. It went something like, ‘If I had the wings of an angel, over these prison walls I would fly.'”

Paavo nearly choked. “Yes, it is familiar to me.”

When Paavo returned to Homicide in the morning, the fingerprint identification Rebecca had requested on the murder victim had come in. Rebecca placed a photocopy on his desk as well as her preliminary homicide report on the victim and the victim's prior file. Paavo turned to the prior file first.

Veronica Maple. Ex-con.

He studied the mug shot taken three years ago when she was arrested. An attractive woman despite her hard, cynical smirk, with features surprisingly similar to Connie's, except that her hair was longer and darker, and her eyes gray. He quickly read through her record. She'd been sent to prison on a three-year term because of embezzling from her boss, one Max Squire. She'd recently been released, on parole, from the Women's Correctional Facility at Chowchilla.

On parole…he called over to Benson. “Where's Calderon? Your partner has been making himself scarce around here lately.”

Benson grinned. “Last I heard, he was going to lunch with that tall, skinny blonde Angie brought over here. She calls every hour on the hour to talk to him.
He's either fallen for her, or he's going to kill her.”

Paavo cringed. Knowing Calderon, he had an idea which it was. Calderon was divorced. His wife had taken the kids and moved to New Mexico, saying she couldn't handle being married to a cop any longer. He was bitter about life and everything in it, but Paavo couldn't say that that bitterness had come about because of the divorce. He'd been bitter before the divorce; after, he'd turned completely toxic.

Paavo turned back to the reports on his desk and read Rebecca's findings. At times, handling a homicide investigation was like putting together the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. This was one of them.

Maple's eyes were gray, but she wore blue contact lenses. Her natural hair color was a dark shade of blond, yet she'd dyed it light ash. Her resemblance to Connie Rogers, as far as he could tell, was no accident.

A woman who looked like Connie had robbed a jeweler. Was it this woman?

According to the jeweler, a man was also involved in the robbery—a man whose description fit Max Squire.

Connie had met Max Squire at Wings of an Angel. The victim was found with a Wings of an Angel matchbook in her hand when she died.

A parole officer had shown up in Homicide looking for a woman who'd skipped and allegedly killed a man in Fresno. The woman's name was Veronica Maple.

This puzzle was trickier than most.

Continuing with her file, he turned to her younger years. One of her cohorts back then was Sid Fernandez.

He knew about Fernandez from the Gang Task Force. They'd come to him a couple of years ago, hoping to find a way to pin a homicide on El Toro, since they'd so far failed to tie him to any drug dealings.
Fernandez was smart, though. He covered his tracks well.

Two of his underlings were picked up, one for robbery, another for murder, but there was no solid evidence linking them to Fernandez, and the men wouldn't talk. Paavo figured they both had families to protect.

Paavo also noticed that back in those early days with Fernandez, Maple sometimes stated she was married but separated, and other times said she was single. Nowhere in the file did she give her husband's name, if there ever was a husband.

Maple was her maiden name.

Strange. No one had questioned her on it; no husband had ever shown up.

He had to wonder if Veronica Maple was the true victim, or if someone had wanted to get Connie Rogers out of the way. If word went out that Maple was dead and Connie was the real target, her life would be in danger.

Whoever had shot her had probably run, but might also have hidden and watched as the paramedics picked her up. They would have seen she wasn't dead.

A strange cat-and-mouse game was going on. If the cat knew the mouse was dead, it would go away, but if it didn't and kept hunting…

 

Paavo walked into Wings of an Angel.

“Hello, Inspector,” Earl said. “Can I get you somethin' to drink?”

“No thanks,” Paavo said. “I'm here on business.” He took out a photo, Veronica Maple's mug shot, and handed it to Earl. “Do you know this woman?”

Earl looked at it. “Who is she?” he asked, not meeting Paavo's eyes.

“I was hoping you could tell me something about
her. We were given information that she had some connection with this restaurant.”

“I see.” Earl swallowed hard and studied the photo a little longer. “If you got da case, it don't mean she's dead, does it?”

“Not everyone I investigate is the victim.” Paavo carefully chose his words.

Earl grew increasingly nervous and handed the photo back. “I don't know her.”

“I'd like to go back and talk to Butch and Vinnie,” Paavo said.

“Wait, Inspector. You don't hafta do dat. Dey'll come out an' see you.”

“No need. It's just a couple of questions.”

“You wait right dere!” Earl dashed away. Paavo frowned and sat down to wait for Vinnie and Butch. When he two men arrived, they didn't look pleased to talk to him.

“I'm here about a case,” he began. Although no customers were in the restaurant at the moment, he added “If you'd rather go into the kitchen, or someplace more private, that would be fine.”

Vinnie glanced balefully at the other two. “Right here is okay.” The three eyed each other, then each took a seat. Earl wiped a drop of perspiration from his temple.

“Do you recognize this woman?” Paavo asked, showing them the mug shot. “Her hair may be lighter and shorter.”

Butch was the first to back away, followed by Vinnie, then Earl. “Is she dead?” Vinnie broke the team silence.

“We're investigating her,” was as far as Paavo would go.

“I already tol' him I never seen her,” Earl said quickly.

Vinnie scowled at him, then at Butch. “I've never seen her neither,” he responded.

“Ditto,” Butch added. “Why you askin' us, Inspector?”

“Something was found at a crime scene that might link her to this restaurant. We're trying to find out why.”

“Sounds like a coincidence to me,” Butch said, standing. “We don't serve no criminals here. An' if a dame what looks like her came in here, Earl would remember—right, Earl?”

“Sure,” Earl said, also getting to his feet. “Sounds like one of dem coincidences, don't you t'ink, Vinnie?”

“Sure. It's a big coincidence. Nothin' else.” Finally, Vinnie also stood. “If that's all you want, Inspector…”

He stopped talking as he watched Dennis stride into the restaurant.

“Hey, looks like the gang's all here!” Dennis chuckled and patted his uncle as he traded hellos.

“We ain't got nothin' for you today,” Butch frowned. “You may as well go home.
Now!
”

“Go? I just got here. I'm hungry.” Dennis said, then paid closer attention to the expressions of the three owners and Paavo. “What's wrong? You guys look like you lost your last friend.”

“I'm trying to find out about a woman.”

Dennis froze.

“Here's her picture,” Paavo said.

He looked at it, his face drained of color. “Did…did something happen to her?”

“I'm just asking about her. Do you know her?”

Dennis's smile was sympathetic, but without any warmth or brightness now. “Can't help you, I'm afraid. Well, I, uh…I better be going,” he said, backing up. “I didn't mean to intrude. I was just going to
say hi to my uncle. In the neighborhood and all. Later. You'll be around, Butch?”

“Sure, kid. I'll be here for you.”

Paavo didn't answer. He watched the vanished Dennis with cold speculation, then said good-bye to the three owners huddling nearby.

 

Dennis stood alongside his Jag, lighting a cigarette as Paavo left the restaurant. He walked with Paavo to the old Austin Healey Paavo drove when no city-issue car was available.

“What brought you to Wings looking for information about that woman?” Dennis asked. “My uncle and his friends aren't connected with anything, are they?”

“Just following up,” Paavo said. “You had an interesting expression when you looked at the photo.”

“Not every day I look at a mug shot. She a felon or something?” Dennis asked.

Paavo stared Pagozzi straight in the eye. “If you know anything about her, you should tell me.”

Dennis toyed with his car keys, then grabbed them, as if making a decision. He faced Paavo. “Some years back, a guy I know had a girlfriend. She ended up doing time. Some kind of money scam. Embezzling, I think. I didn't really understand it.”

“And?”

“And…I'm not sure.” He studied Paavo a long moment. “It might be her. But that doesn't mean Max is involved. He's not that kind of guy.”

“Max who?” Paavo asked innocently.

“Max Squire.” Dennis looked at him curiously. “I thought you knew him. Angie and Connie both do.”

“Is that so?” Paavo said, trying not to grit his teeth. “Tell me about this Squire.”

“He's a good guy. Down on his luck right now, so I helped him out, got him some bookkeeping work with my uncle, a few free meals, that kind of thing. In fact, the woman in the picture—I think she was the one who ruined his career. Heck, ruined his whole life. If it's her, she's bad news. Real bad. I don't know why a guy like Max got involved with her.”

“What does he look like?”

“Tall, medium build, I'd say. Dark blond hair, long—needs a cut bad, brown eyes.” The description was getting too familiar.

“How did you know Max Squire?”

Dennis sighed heavily and gave Paavo a you-aren't-going-to-believe-this look. “He was my financial advisor.”

 

Angie spent the day hovering near her telephone waiting for Paavo to tell her Connie was being released. When she heard a knock at her door, even though it was lighter than Paavo's usual hard rapping, she hoped it was him with good news.

Instead, she found Nona standing there with a glass bowl filled with chocolate-orange trifle. Nona was blinking back tears.

“What's wrong?” Angie asked.

Nona shoved the trifle at her. “You and your big ideas!”

They went into the living room, where Angie tried to calm her sometime friend down.

“It's bad enough that I once went to meet Luis for lunch—”

“Inspector Calderon?” Angie asked, stunned.

“That's right, and he showed up reeking of disinfectant and God-only-knows what from an autopsy room; then, when I thought we were going out on a
hot date, we ended up at the morgue because he had to witness someone identifying a body, but today, when I worked so hard to make that dessert, he came by just long enough to say he couldn't stay because he had to go to question some people about an old woman found dead in her bathroom. She'd obviously died of natural causes. I mean, she was
old
!”

“That's the life of a homicide inspector,” Angie said.

“His questions could have waited until after he ate dessert. I told him so—me or a meaningless investigation. And”—she sniffled—“he said, ‘
Hasta la vista,
Toots'? Can you imagine?”

Angie just shook her head.

“How could I have wasted my time with a man old enough to be my father—almost—with creaky knees, overly pomaded hair, a cranky personality…and who uses a word like ‘Toots'? This is just too mortifying.”

Angie got out a couple of bowls and spoons. They drowned Nona's sorrows with layers of chocolate custard, whipped cream, orange slices, and chocolate génoise.

For Angie, though, not even Nona's trifle could take away her constant worry about Connie and the heaviness in her heart.