If Cooks Could Kill (24 page)

Connie didn't know what to do. While Angie had delivered the diamonds to the robbery inspector, she'd stayed in the lobby and used a pay phone to check for messages at her home and business.

When she heard Max Squire's voice, she nearly fainted.

She returned his call. He'd gotten himself an inexpensive cell phone and was currently at the Main Library at the Civic Center. He was earning twenty dollars an hour to straighten out the accounting books for the organization that ran the shelter where he'd been staying. It was a bargain for them—a professional CPA could well charge ten times that amount, and it meant money for him.

He wasn't staying there any longer, though, because he knew the police had shown up looking for him. He'd been lying low ever since.

Still, he'd been worried about her, had checked on her apartment and business many times, but she seemed to have vanished. He wanted to see her, to try to explain.

She was angry with him—beyond angry—and
wanted answers. “Meet me,” he said, “and I'll give them to you.”

The Main Library was a busy place. She'd be safe meeting him there, and she wouldn't let him sweet-talk her into going anyplace where they'd be alone. This girl was no fool. She'd seen lots of TV shows and movies about murderers. No way was she going to let herself get into some dangerous situation.

She glanced over at Angie, now driving them back to her apartment.

Not most of the time, at least.

Why should she meet him? What she should do was call the police and have them arrest his ass! He was a sitting duck.

He'd trusted her, though; maybe that was why she couldn't do it.

She told him she just didn't know if she'd be there.

He said he'd wait all evening.

More trust.

God, but she hated it when people she hated decided to be nice. What was with that?

“Angie,” she said as they neared the library, “I need to be alone for a while. Drop me off at the Main Library, okay? I'll take a cab back to your place later.”

“The library? Are you joking?”

“No. I want to think. A lot has happened.”

“You want to think about Kevin, don't you?” Angie said. “There's still an undercurrent between you two, you know.”

She didn't want to hear that. “It's ancient history, nothing more. When I see him, the disappointment comes back all over again.”

“Maybe this time he's straightened himself out,” Angie suggested.

“Sure—like trying to fence diamonds he stole from
my place. If that's straight, I don't know crooked.” Connie turned away, staring out the window. “I'm tired of hoping.”

Angie nodded. “Are you sure you wouldn't rather come back to my place?”

“I need to do this. Let me out at the corner.”

Angie peered quizzically at her, but did as directed.

“Don't worry about me,” Connie said. “I'll see you later.”

“Be careful.”

Connie headed into the building. It was recently built, with lots of glass, very modern. Frankly, she preferred the old Greco-Roman building that had served as the main branch for decades. But, as she was learning, all things must change.

She went into the reading room and almost didn't recognize Max. He'd gotten his hair cut short and was wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Even his clothes were fresh and clean. Hints of the high-powered financial advisor were before her, a man he'd kept well hidden up to now. Had he kept the side of himself who could be a killer hidden as well?

He stood as she approached. “Shall we go outside so we can talk?” he asked.

“No,” she said too quickly. “No one is using the table and chairs in the far corner. Let's go there.”

He nodded, his gaze telling her he understood why she didn't want to be alone with him.

They sat catty-corner on wooden chairs at a wooden table, and Max slid his chair closer to hers, his demeanor sad. “You don't trust me at all, do you?”

“My store was trashed,” she said. But he was right, he seemed like a stranger now.

He shut his eyes. “I'm sorry. I had no idea.”

She didn't want his sympathy. She was barely able
to contain her anger. “Tell me what the hell this is all about. Why am I involved?”

He relayed the story she already knew about Veronica embezzling from him. “So what?” she demanded. “You aren't the first guy who's ever trusted the wrong woman. She embezzled, she went to jail. Case closed. There's got to be more.”

“She still has the money,” Max said. “I thought that if I could get my hands on it, I could pay back my clients, get the lien against future earnings lifted off my back, and have a life again. I kept trying to find her.”

“Why?” She spat the word at him. “Did you think if you asked, she'd just turn it over to you?”

He shook his head. “I thought that if I threatened, she might.”

“Threatened to do what?”

“To kill her.”

Connie stared at him. “And did you?”

“Did I what? I never saw her—except once. The time she used to frame us both. I still don't know where the money is. Or where
she
is.”

She wondered if he was telling the truth. She wanted to believe him, and yet strangely, in cleaning himself up, he was no longer the scraggly, vulnerable man she'd been attracted to. He was more in control, more calculating and self-contained. She was always a beer-and-pretzel kind of gal, and he was suddenly chilled white wine and roasted Brie. An absurd sense of loss surrounded her, and she rubbed her arms.

“If she had those millions,” she continued, “why didn't she just leave the country once out of prison?”

“That's what I can't figure either. It has to do with Dennis. She was hanging around him. He must know, but he pretends he hardly knows her.”

“When they were teenagers, they got married in Mexico. His family helped him get it annulled.”

Max stared at her a long moment, then he laughed bitterly. “Wouldn't you know it? God, what a fool I was.”

“Do you think she gave Dennis the money, and now, he won't give it back? Could that be why she's here?”

“She wouldn't give it to him. I can't imagine her trusting anyone enough to give it to, but then”—another sullen chuckle—“I'm the last person to try to figure her out. I never could.”

“If you had the money, how would you have hidden it?”

He picked up his pencil and tapped it, point, then eraser, then point again. “In offshore banks. That's what I did with a lot of my clients' money. That was the system she broke into.”

“So, she understands offshore accounts. What would have stopped her from setting up one of her own?”

“I expect that's exactly what she did,” he said with a shrug.

“How would she get into it? Could there be someplace in the city that she needs to go to?”

“It's easier than that. Any Internet account would get her in. It's just a string of numbers—a code.”

“Numbers? Like, twelve or so?”

“Even longer. Plus, a couple of passwords.”

Connie remembered the string of numbers she and Angie had found hidden in Veronica's room. It had been torn in a way that some of the numbers might have been removed. “What if she didn't have all the numbers?” Connie mused. “What if someone else had
part of the code? She might have been here trying to get the rest of the code.”

His gaze hardened. “What do you know?”

“Nothing!” she cried. “I'm trying to figure out what's going on. Why I'm involved; why some fiend is trying to ruin my life!”

He stared at her, trying to calm his suspicions. “You're right.” He tossed aside the pencil and rubbed his forehead. “I've allowed myself to be consumed by her for so long, I can't think straight. You know what's the most ridiculous part of all?”

She shook her head.

“I don't really care anymore. Seeing her again, in that quick moment, I realized the woman I loved never really existed. I imagined her as what I wanted her to be, not what she was. The part that makes me the angriest is that I wasted three years of my life over her.

“I could have been working to pay off the liens against me, I could have gone back to court, had changes made in the judgment after the insurance companies paid off my clients, done something more than sit around brooding, lovesick and feeling sorry for myself.” He caught Connie's eye. “I could have tried to find a good woman to love and worked to make myself worthy of winning her love in return.”

“Nothing's stopping you,” she said.

He bowed his head, and again the thought struck her that he might have killed Veronica. Her heart sank.

“You could have been a fine man, Max,” she whispered, “a wonderful friend, and a caring lover.”

“Not the way I was, not before I met Ronnie…and not after.”

Ronnie?
The night they'd first met, when he'd called out a name, she'd thought he was calling to her and
she'd simply misheard. But he wasn't. It was Veronica he'd called. It was always about Veronica.

She folded her hands. “I'm so sorry, Max.”

With great tenderness, he leaned over and lightly kissed her. She stared at him in shock, and he gently brushed a lock back from her cheek, his gaze studying her as if burning her face into his memory. “If I can ever become the kind of man you deserve, and if I'm lucky enough that you haven't found someone else—or if that ex of yours who you still care about despite your denials hasn't straightened himself out—I'd like to see you again, Connie. You've touched me more deeply than you know, with your serious ways and your good heart.”

She wasn't sure how to answer, and the silence grew awkward.

He stood, understanding. “There's something I've got to take care of. When it's over, whenever that might be, I'll come back.”

She nodded, and watched him leave.

Vinnie stood over a kettle of boiling water. After finding a jar of Prego's Alfredo sauce in the grocery, he decided Fettuccini Alfredo would make a nice addition to Wing's menu. Since Butch wasn't interested in cooking these days, he'd do it himself. All he needed was to spoon the sauce over fat fettuccini noodles and add a ten-ninety-five price tag. Voilà.

And if it didn't work, he still had firecrackers in the basement. He'd just have to figure out a different way to get rid of them, since Angie was on a rampage about selling them from the restaurant. He didn't think she'd tell the cop, but he'd learned over the years, you just can't trust women. Not even the ones you liked. Once they opened their mouths, no telling what might come out.

When the water began to boil, he added a pound of fettuccini. The pieces were long and stuck out over the top. He smashed them down, breaking them into small bits.

He peered into the pot. The noodles were at the bottom and there was a whole lot of water to spare.

He added another pound of fettuccini. Since the
parts not covered by water wouldn't cook—he'd learned that from Butch—he broke and scrunched the noodles so water covered them.

The addition of the noodles caused the water temporarily to stop boiling. He was able to see into the pot even better now. It wasn't even half full! Two more pounds went in before he had to ladle out some of the excess water so the pot wouldn't overflow. Probably, this meant a trip to the store to buy more Prego.

Finally, the kettle was filled almost to the top with noodles.

The water that was there started bubbling furiously, foaming, and boiling over the edge of the pot. He turned the flame down to get it to stop bubbling.

Eventually, it did.

 

Angie paced around her apartment, her nerves frayed. She tried to reach Paavo, but he wasn't at his desk, and she didn't want to bother him in the field. Connie still hadn't returned.

Angie had watched to make sure she went into the library, then watched longer to make sure she didn't pop right out again, until guilt for spying on her best friend consumed her and she went home.

The phone rang and she pounced on it.

“Miss Angie, Vinnie's tryin' to cook,” Earl cried. “You gotta help.”

“Vinnie? You're joking, right?”

“I wish I was. What am I gonna do?”

“I'll be right there.”

Before she got to the restaurant, Connie called her on her cell phone, saying she had interesting news. They agreed to meet at Wings.

The restaurant was empty once more, Vinnie sitting
at a table with a glass of red wine. Angie went straight to him.

“I heard you were cooking,” she said skeptically. “Haven't we been through this once already?”

“I'm serious this time, Angie,” Vinnie said. “If a bozo like Butch can do it, so can I. In fact, I got something on the stove now. It was a breeze. No funny business this time.”

“It's cooking in the kitchen and you're out here?”

“It's hot in there,” he complained.

“Kitchens often are,” she said. “Where is Butch, by the way?”

“He was wit' his nephew last time I saw him,” Earl replied. “Up in the apartment.”

Just then, Connie walked in. The taxi dropped her off right in front of the restaurant.

“Thank goodness you're safe.” Angie jumped to her feet. “I kept imagining things happening to you, and it being all my fault.”

“Not this time,” Connie said. Not exactly the ringing endorsement Angie had hoped for, but it would have to do.

“I saw Max,” Connie admitted, joining the others at the table.

“My God!” Angie cried. “Where is he? Did you call Paavo?” We've got to catch him.”

“I don't think he did it,” she said. “I think he's innocent. He had no reason to kill”—she almost said “to kill Veronica,” but realized that fact was still a secret—“to
do it
other than hatred, and he's well over that.”

“Sid Fernandez wouldn't have
done anything
before getting the diamonds,” Angie said. “So who did?” It all came back to Dennis, she thought. She didn't want to say it here, though.

Earl and Vinnie must have read her mind, because they caught each other's eyes and looked downcast. She wondered what they might know—what she was overlooking.

“Anyway, Max told me where Veronica may have hidden the money,” Connie said excitedly. “Remember the torn piece of paper we found in her room with all those numbers? Max said offshore accounts use codes—even longer ones than we found. Someone else must have the other half of the code. She must have been here, in the city, trying to get it. Now, we just have to figure out who has the rest of the code, get the money, give it back, and Max's problems will be over.”

Just then, the smell of something burning reached them from the kitchen, followed by a loud thud.

 

Max had been seen at a skid-row hotel on Third Street. When Paavo and Yosh got there, the room he'd been given was empty. It looked like he wouldn't be returning.

They were headed back to Yosh's Ford when the walking split-pea-soup guy appeared. “Larry the Leprechaun at your service, Inspector Smith. I'm here to give you the keys to your dream car.” He pointed at a black Corvette parked across the street.

Paavo stopped and stared at the gorgeous car, then got into the Ford and locked the door.

“I've got to stop her,” he said to Yosh, a tremor in his voice. “I didn't want to. I was hoping she'd get over it on her own.”

“You got to be careful not to hurt her feelings,” Yosh cautioned, salivating over the car. “Remember, your partner gets to ride with you.”

“This is too much.”

Yosh grinned at him. “You must have told her you
used to like
Miami Vice.
Didn't that guy drive a Corvette?”

“He sure did,” Paavo said wistfully as they drove off, leaving Larry the Leprechaun standing slack-jawed in front of the car.

In no time they'd gone three blocks to another hotel, one Squire had stayed at a couple of days before. He might have returned.

When they walked into the shabby and urine-stained lobby, they found themselves in the middle of a drug deal. The dealer burst past them, hitting Paavo hard and knocking him into Yosh, who also toppled over.

They were running down the block after the dealer when Mr. Green Jeans jumped in front of Paavo. “Mister, before I can get paid, I've got to give you the damned car!”

Paavo didn't stop and the wayward elf flipped, head over heels, into a sidewalk trash receptacle.

Paavo and Yosh caught up to the dealer.

A paddy wagon was already on the scene before the little man came to. He stayed hidden until all the cops drove away.

 

Angie followed Earl and Vinnie as they ran into the kitchen. Black smoke made it hard to see. A strange white glob, like a temple of dough, jutted high over the kettle, listing to one side. The top of the temple had been broken off and lay splattered across the stovetop, part of it being barbecued by the flame from the burner. At the same time, smoke and the sharp smell of burning noodles were billowing up from the inside of the kettle.

“Turn the gas off!” Angie yelled.

Vinnie did so, then he and Earl each grabbed a
potholder and one handle of the kettle. They lifted it off the stove and into the sink.

“What is it?” Angie asked curiously, looking at the peculiar lump.

“It looks like it's alive,” Connie said. “Like brains, squiggly things all mooshed together.”

“We ain't never had not'in' like dat on our menu before,” Earl said.

“What's wrong with you people?” Vinnie cried. “It's fettucini. Why did it stick together?”

“All you have to do to cook pasta is boil it,” Angie said, disgusted. “For eight or nine minutes.”

“Oh. So, maybe I overcooked it a little. Is that a crime?” Vinnie asked.

“What's a crime is your cookin' anyt'ing. We gotta get Butch back to work!” Earl cried. He spun around to open some doors and vent the room, and yelled.

Dennis stepped out from the far wall. He had a gun.

“What're you doing?” Vinnie asked, his eyes wide on Dennis's gun. “Whatsa matter with you?”

“I never wanted to hurt anyone,” he said. “You forced me to do this.”

“You're da one who's made Butch miserable,” Earl scolded. “Why'd you wanna do dat to your own uncle? He was good to you. Didn't even tell da cops what a jerk you are!”

“Will you guys just shut up?” Dennis yelled. Angry tears glistened in his eyes. “I didn't do anything. Don't you get it yet? It was Veronica. She ruined everything. My football career, my plans for a sports bar, my life. All I needed was some of her damned money. My share, plus a little more to borrow, to get me out of debt and back on my feet. Do you know how expensive it is to live like a football star? To live the way everyone expects? And now my contract isn't being re
newed. All my dreams, everything I've ever worked for, it's all finished. Give me the code, Angie.”

“Where's Butch?” Vinnie asked, as the four of them slowly eased backward.

“He's upstairs in the apartment. I came down the back way and was going to cut through the restaurant to leave when I heard you talking. I need that code, then I'll get out of here.” His voice was desperate.

“You have the other half of the paper?” Angie asked from behind Earl. “Why?”

“I…I saw her working in Max's office and we started talking. I knew a bit about the offshore accounts. We set one up for me—just to see if it'd work. I had no idea she'd go so far…

“In the end, I couldn't say anything about her because if word got out that I'd taught her anything, even though I was innocent, my career would be over. But also, if she said anything to the authorities about me, I'd tell where the money was. So she kept quiet, and so did I. Then, she came back here, expecting I'd give her my part of the code. She wanted nearly all the money, saying it was payment for the three years she did. But I needed it! I needed it more than she did!”

“You didn't ask how we got the code,” Angie said quietly. “That must mean you know Veronica's dead.”

He froze, searching Angie's face to see if this was another sick joke. “She's dead?” he whispered.

They said nothing, and the truth hit him hard. His whole body went limp, the hand holding the gun dropped to his side. “She can't be. Not Veronica. How? What happened to her?”

“Someone shot her,” Angie said, studying him.

He shook his head. “Who did it?” His voice was thick with emotion.

“We don't know,” Angie said.

“El Toro,” Dennis whispered. “That bastard! I warned her!” Tears glistened in his eyes.

“He killed his partner, Julius Rodriguez, thinking Julius and Veronica scammed him out of the diamonds,” Connie said. “But he didn't kill her—he wanted the diamonds too much to kill her before retrieving them.”

“Then who?” Dennis demanded. His face drawn, he seemed genuinely heartbroken over Veronica's death.

“You knew Veronica,” Angie cried. “Who else did she con? That's the murderer!”

“But that means it's someone who didn't take the money or the diamonds,” Dennis said. “It doesn't make sense.”

“It does,” Angie said slowly, testing the theory, “if she was killed out of passion. Because of betrayal, not for wealth. Look at the reactions she's caused in you and Max. She knew how to wrap men around her finger—she acted on pure gut emotion, and the reaction she solicited was the same.”

“You're right,” Connie said. “What men did she know? Who was close to her?”

Angie tried to think of every man Paavo had ever mentioned who knew Veronica. Max…Dennis…Fernandez…Julius…Butch…

“Oh, my God!” Angie said. “I know who it is. I've got to call Paavo. He might be in danger!”