If Cooks Could Kill (23 page)

“I guess you're right,” Vinnie said woefully. “Maybe we can raise prices.”

“Maybe you can add a few more items to the menu!” She began removing fireworks from the containers and putting them back into the correct crates. “We might have to pay a lot more attention to Dennis's sports-bar idea, although I don't know how we're going to do that and keep the ambiance.”

“What's ambiance?” Earl looked at Vinnie. “Can we eat it?”

Vinnie gave him a shove. “Dummy. She wants to make sure the place stays pretty.”

Earl harrumphed. “It's already purty. We can't eat purty.”

“We'll figure out a way to increase foot traffic to the restaurant, but it'll be a legal way. Got it?” Angie asked, furiously sorting fireworks.

The two nodded, still just standing there.

“Pack!” she ordered.

“Can't we at least sell the ones we already promised people?” Earl asked. “Dey're comin' to pick 'em up—we don't wanna disappoint 'em.”

“Get them out of here, right now!” Angie shrieked. The last thing she wanted was any more friends in City Jail.

All three of them were stuffing firecrackers back into crates when they heard footsteps coming down the
stairs, and then Paavo's voice calling out. “Hello. I'm looking for—”

Angie launched herself at him, kissing him and spinning him as she did, so that he no longer faced Earl and Vinnie, then she grabbed his hand and hurried up the stairs to the kitchen, where she wrapped her arms around him again.

When she finally broke the kiss, Paavo was in the dining room. He looked a little dazed—pleased, yet confused—at what had just happened.

“You need to stay out of the back,” she cried, leading him to a table. “They're having trouble. Butch is upset and won't cook. Let's sit down. How did you find me?”

He glanced at the swinging doors, then sat across from her. “Connie told me. I came by to let you know—”

Just then, a customer walked in, and up to the stand where Earl usually greeted people. Angie jumped up and stuck her head between the doors. “Earl! Get out here. Quick!” she roared, then faced Paavo with a sweet smile.

Earl plunged through the doors just as the customer began to speak. “The name's Agnos. I'm here for—”

“Yeah, I know,” Earl shouted, cutting him off. “We ain't got no more.”

“Oh? But I was told—”

“You was tol' wrong, buster.”

The customer gaped a moment. “Will you get any more—”

“No! Never. Get lost!”

He looked from Earl to Angie, then Paavo, who regarded him and Earl curiously. “Go? But I was promised—”

“Can't you hear? I said out! We lost our cook. No more nothin' here. Leave. Sayonara!
Capisce?”

“Cook? But I don't need any—”

Earl ran around the stand and grabbed the customer by the lapels. “I said I want you outta here, mister. You got a problem wit' dat?”

The guy raised his hands and backed up. “No, no problem. I'm going. See?” He turned and ran out the door.

Paavo stared at Earl as if he'd just lost his mind.

Angie tugged on his jacket sleeve. “I told you, nerves are a bit frayed.”

He looked at her, his brows crossed. Earl straightened out his suit and waddled over to them. “Some people really like Butch's cookin',” he said.

Vinnie, who'd been peeking out of the swinging doors the whole time, came out when Paavo and Earl sat down. “I'll lock the door,” he said nervously. “We don' want no more disappointed customers. They might decide to torch the place.”

Angie gazed at Paavo, all wide-eyed innocence. “You wanted to talk to me?”

 

Whatever was going on at Wings, Paavo wanted Angie to have no part of it. He walked her back to her car after getting a promise that she would go home and stay there. After yesterday, he'd tolerate no more ugly surprises. “I want you to keep away from Max Squire and Dennis Pagozzi, both.”

“Dennis? Why?” She held his hand as they walked.

“Dennis was married to Veronica Maple.” He quickly told her the story. “They were just kids at the time, but still, it means he's a lot more involved in this than he let on.”

“How did you find out?”

“Maple's parole officer gave it to me. He's in the city trying to find her for a murder down in Fresno. Also, Pagozzi was involved with fake autographed sports memorabilia. A lot of it's been showing up around town. A dealer was arrested—Wallace Jones. The guy Connie met. We've got reason to think Pagozzi was involved there, as well.”

They reached the car and Angie hit the unlock button on her remote, then turned and faced him. “Did he know Jonesy's goods were fake?”

“Robbery's working on it. Just keep away from both those guys.” He put his hands on her shoulders, wonder striking him as always at how small and delicate she was.

“What do you have on Max?” she persisted.

“It sounds like he was trying to fence the stolen diamonds.” He told her all he'd learned. “If so, he's most likely Veronica's murderer.”

“My God,” Angie whispered.

He drew her close, and tilted her head toward his. “Be careful, Angel. I'll take care of this, all right?”

“I feel so badly for Connie, though,” she whispered.

Not wanting to hear it, he kissed her. As he pulled her closer, his cell phone began to ring.

He answered, and she stepped back with a good-bye wave.

He didn't like the feeling that struck him as he watched her drive away.

 

“Where the hell is everybody?”

Calderon looked up at the gruff-voiced woman and scowled. “Probably working. Ever try it?”

Helen Melinger stomped toward him, hands on
hips. “Listen, you fatheaded bastard, I work harder than most men and all women I know, so watch your mouth.”

Calderon's thick eyebrows nearly reached his pomaded pompadour. “What do you want? Somebody die, or you here to confess to murder? Maybe with an ax?”

“If you must know, I'm trying to find a wimpy little gal named Angie Amalfi. She skedaddled after leaving a shoe to be fixed. She hasn't returned, and her friend's closed up shop, but her fiancé works here, so I thought I'd give it to him.”

Calderon waved his thumb toward the back of the room “That's his desk. On the right.”

He watched as she swiveled her wide hips to fit through the narrow walkway between cabinets, chairs, and drawers left open.

“Is there a charge?” he asked.

“No. Payment enough will be if she keeps her single male friends out of my shop.” Helen grimaced.

“Oh? Such as?”

“Stan something-or-other.”

Calderon, who never laughed, suddenly burst out in a loud guffaw. “Stan Bonnette? She brought Stan Bonnette to meet you?”

“Most sickening experience of my life.” Helen shuddered.

“You should have seen the anorexic blonde she brought to me.” He shook his head.

Helen met his gaze, and then she too laughed. She touched her throat, so unaccustomed was she to the sound.

He liked her laugh. “Since you came all the way down here to deliver a shoe, I don't suppose you have
time for a drink across the street? I was off work five minutes ago.”

Helen eyed him up and down, not finding him hard on the eyes. “I might be, though I'm not one for wine or bubbly stuff.”

“How about a boilermaker?”

She grinned. “You sound like my kind of man.”

“You can't imagine what I just learned.” Angie ran into the den. Connie was lying down, an ice pack on her head. “Thank God you didn't get any more involved with Dennis Pagozzi. The man was married to Veronica Maple!”

“Married? And Butch wanted me to meet him?”

“It was annulled. Still, Dennis lied about her!”

It took a moment for Connie to absorb all this. She struggled to sit up, then lay the ice pack aside. “Does this mean Dennis is now a suspect instead of Max?”

“No, no, that isn't what I'm saying. Paavo is still convinced Max has the diamonds, and that would mean Max murdered Veronica to get them.”

“What makes him think that?” Connie asked.

“Someone tried to fence them.” She told Paavo's story.

“But—”

“Max is the only one involved in this case who fits the tall, blond, and scraggly description,” Angie explained.

“A lot of men fit that description, and Paavo knows it,” Connie said.

“Why are you so ready to defend Max? The guy's scum.”

“You're right. Still, when I think back on what he
was like when I was with him, it's hard to believe I was so fooled by him. Here I thought I was a good judge of character. Boy, was I wrong.”

“Maybe you're just not a good judge of men to get interested in,” Angie said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood and get Connie away from feeling any sympathy toward Squire.

“Isn't that the truth? Look at Kevin, and I was married to him! Come to think of it, he'd fit the fence's description, too, yet he and Max are nothing alike.”

“That reminds me,” Angie said. “Kevin came to my apartment one day. He'd heard about you seeing a Forty-Niner and wanted to know how serious you were about him.”

Connie stilled. “Kevin wanted to know that?”

“He sounded very upset.”

“When was that? He never contacted me.”

“I'm surprised I didn't tell you…it was such a startling visit. Oh, I know why—it was the day before you got arrested! When I next saw you, you were in jail. Kevin was the last thing on my mind.”

“The day of the diamond robbery, in other words,” Connie said quietly.

“That's right.” Angie gave it some thought. “You were with Max, dinner and Lake Merced, right? Someone tipped off the police that the diamonds were at your place, but the police never found them. No one would tip off the police unless they were fairly certain the diamonds were there…”

“Unless someone else took them…” Connie murmured.

Connie and Angie looked at each other. “Can Kevin get into your apartment?” Angie asked.

“Well, not that I know of. But I wouldn't put anything past him.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

Connie nodded. “We can be there in ten minutes.”

 

Kevin was home in his upper Mission district apartment when Angie and Connie arrived. The area had once been incredibly cheap, filled with warehouses and shabby apartments, until rents throughout the city grew astronomically, and ugly warehouses became artsy lofts. There was nothing stylish about Kevin's apartment building, however, or the battered door Connie knocked on.

“Who is it?” he called.

“It's me,” Connie answered.

They listened as a series of chains, slide locks, and finally a deadbolt clicked open. When Kevin opened the door, he looked even shabbier than the apartment building—thin and unshaven, wearing a dirty T-shirt and grease-soiled jeans, generally a lot worse than when Angie'd last seen him.

“Were you inside my home last week?” Connie demanded as Kevin stepped backward, and she marched into the apartment nose-to-nose with him. A haze of cigarette smoke overlaid a sour smell coming from the tiny kitchen. Cheap, lumpy furniture reeked of a mixture of tobacco, beer, and sweat.

“Good to see you too, wife.” He stood his ground, and she stopped short of bumping into him.

“Ex-wife, and don't forget it!”

Kevin offered Angie and Connie a seat. They both preferred to stand. He sat in the center of the sofa, leaned over the glass, ring-stained coffee table, and lit a cigarette.

“You got yourself into some deep shit this time, Connie,” he said, his narrow blue eyes giving her a once-over and seeming to, almost despite himself, like
what he saw. “And now, you've dragged me into it as well. What's wrong with you, woman?”

Connie's eyes shot daggers. “I've dragged you in? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Kevin,” Angie said, trying to intervene before the conversation spun into a litany of age-old recriminations, “will you please tell us what happened?”

“You tell me.” He glanced bitterly from one to the other. “Here I was, concerned about Connie being with some rich dude who was going to break her heart. I wanted to warn her, to tell her I'd be there if she needed me. And you will need me, babe. Believe it.”

“You broke into my apartment, didn't you?” Connie screeched. “You prick!”

“I had a key.” He glared defiantly.

“How the hell—”

“Go on…please,” Angie said to Kevin.

Eying Connie warily, he proceeded to tell how he was in the apartment, heading for the kitchen, when he heard a scratching at the front door. Connie wouldn't have to do that to get into her own place. Suddenly uneasy, he hid behind a maroon easy chair in a dark corner of the living room. “Big, ugly sucker,” he said. “Always has been. Nobody ever used it.”

“Screw you,” Connie said with a snort.

Kevin told them about the “chick” who entered. At first, he thought she was Connie. He almost stood up, planning to scare her and get a good laugh, but then he saw that her build wasn't Connie's. Neither was her walk. “You can't have been married to a woman and not recognize her walk or her shape, even in the dark.”

“Cute,” Connie sneered.

“You always thought I was,” he said, catching her eye.

She rolled her eyes and turned away from him.

“Connie,” he said, softly this time, his cocky expression suddenly vanished. “I'm sorry. You know I was just kidding around. I'm working; I've been clean for over a year. I'm trying, babe, but without you…what good is it?”

She pursed her lips and stared resolutely at the wall.

“Shit,” he murmured, “why do I even try?” He gritted his teeth and faced Angie, a determined look in his eyes. “Okay, here's what happened.”

He told of the intruder looking around, sneaking, peering at shelves, in closets, then sticking her hand behind the TV. There was something about her that spelled danger. She poked around a bit more, and as she was going out the door, she grabbed one of Connie's dolls.

After waiting a good five minutes to be sure she wasn't coming back, he looked to see what was so interesting behind the TV and found a small velvet sack. Inside were stones that looked like diamonds. He wasn't thinking clearly—only that he held a small fortune in his hand. He stuffed them in his pocket and ran.

“In your pocket? I heard about a hundred diamonds were stolen,” Connie said.

“You're dreaming. There were ten. They were beauties, big and crystal clear. I tried to fence them, but no one will touch them. Somebody real bad wants them. I could see the fear in the fences' eyes.”

“So you still have them,” Angie asked, excited.

“That's why I'm staying locked in here. I don't know who wants them, but if they learn I have them…” He took the black velvet out of his pocket, opened it, and dropped the diamonds into his hand. They were eye-poppingly huge—two or three carats. Much larger than Angie's, to her dismay. But they were white dia
monds, not exotic Siberian blue like hers, she thought smugly, glancing down at her ring once more.

“Give them to me,” Connie said. “They aren't yours, and they're causing me all kinds of trouble.”

“Give them to you?” Kevin looked shocked. “Do you know the trouble they've caused
me
?”

“Do I care?”

He glared at Connie, fuming. “That'd be a big change! Why start now? If you ask me, I deserve some recompense for my time and trouble. What if you had them? You might be dead! These guys are dangerous.”

“I want them!” Connie yelled.

“What are they worth to you?” Kevin hollered right back.

“I'll show you.” With that, she socked him in the stomach hard, and as he bent forward, she shoved him.

He toppled over, and the diamonds went flying.

Connie and Angie picked them up, and the two dashed out of the apartment.

 

Paavo was at work when Angie called on her cell phone to let him know she and Connie were heading for Homicide, and that Kevin was the one who'd taken the diamonds and tried to fence them. It wasn't Max after all. Max was innocent.

“You went
where
?” Paavo felt his blood pressure soar, and caught himself, biting his tongue. How many times could he warn her? “Don't be so sure about Max,” he cautioned, working to keep his voice calm. “You said you have ten diamonds. There are a lot still out there.”

“Everything points toward Dennis now—the dead woman is his wife.”

“Maybe,” Paavo said skeptically. “But why?”

“Maybe he has the rest of the diamond?” Angie of
fered. “Butch didn't like Dennis's idea to expand the restaurant, and if Dennis doesn't play football, he'll need money.”

“It still doesn't fit,” Paavo said. “Go straight home now. I've got a lead on Squire's whereabouts, and Yosh and I are just leaving. I'll come by later to pick up the diamonds.”

“Can I leave them with Lt. Hollins?” she asked.

“Hold on.” He made a quick call and got back to her. “Vic Walters is at his desk; Robbery is down the hall. Room four-eighty. He'll be waiting.”

“Great. Be careful.”

“Promise me you'll go straight home after you drop off the diamonds.”

“Of course,” she said.

Why didn't he believe her?

He was on his feet, putting on his jacket to find Max, when a small man wearing a green jacket, vest, shirt, and trousers, with green face paint, green pointy ears, a green bowler hat, and green suede shoes with upturned pointed toes sprang into Homicide. A good-sized crowd chortled, clapped, and murmured behind him. “Paavo Smith?” he trilled.

Luis Calderon pointed at Paavo.

The green bean suddenly began to cartwheel down the aisle between desks, cabinets, and chairs to land on one knee at Paavo's feet. With his arms outstretched like someone about to propose, he announced, “I'm Larry the Leprechaun from Shamrock Motors. I'm here, Paavo Smith, because this is your lucky day!”

Paavo looked at him as if he were a giant green bug that needed to be stepped on.

“No, it isn't.” Paavo barreled past the guy and marched out of the room daring anyone to say a word.

They didn't.

 

He couldn't believe what he was seeing. Veronica. Alive.

She was leaving the Hall of Justice, getting into a Mercedes.

They'd tricked him. He thought she was dead, but she wasn't. That was why there was nothing in the newspaper, no word of looking for her killer.

Was she working with the cops now? With Homicide? She must be.

The Mercedes pulled out of the parking lot.

He had to follow. He thought he'd killed her once.

He wouldn't miss this time.